chap on one occasion asked to be allowed to go to bed at the children’s
tea time, a circumstance so unique as to puzzle the domestic
authorities. The mother refused, but the child whimpered and persevered—
and succeeded. The father was presently in his study at the back of the
house looking out on the garden when he saw the child in his little
night-shirt come secretly down the steps and steal to a corner of the
garden behind some shrubs. He had a garden fork in his hand. After a
lapse of some minutes he came out again and stole quietly upstairs. The
father’s curiosity was aroused, and he too went behind the shrubs to see
what had happened. He found some freshly turned earth, and began to
investigate. Some few inches down was a closed envelope which the child
had buried. On opening it he found a lucifer match and a slip of paper
on which was written in pencil in a sprawling hand:
“DEAR DEVIL,—Please take away Aunt Julia.”
IV
Another story related to a little baby child, the first in the
household. There was a dinner party, and the child, curious as to what
was going on, lay awake with torturing thoughts. At last, when a
favourable opportunity came through the nurse’s absence, she got quietly
from her cot and stole downstairs just as she was. The dining-room door
was ajar, and before the agonised nurse could effect a capture she had
slipped into the room. There she was, of course, made much of. She was
taken in turn on each one’s knees and kissed. Mother frowned, of course,
but father gave her a grape and a wee drop of wine and water. Then she
was kissed again and taken to the waiting nurse. Safe in the nursery her
guardian berated her:
“Oh, Miss Angy, this is very dreadful. Going down to the dining-room!—
And in your nighty!—And before strangers!—_Before Gentlemen!_ You must
never let any gentleman see you in your nighty!—Never! Never! Never!
That is Wicked!—Awful!” And so on!
A few nights afterwards the father, when going from his dressing-room
for dinner, went into the nursery to say another “good-night” to baby.
When he went in she was saying her prayers at nurse’s knees, in long
night-robe and with folded hands like the picture of the Infant Samuel.
Hearing the footstep she turned her head round, and on catching sight of
her father jumped up crying: “Nau’ty—nau’ty—nau’ty!” and ran behind a
screen. The father looked at the nurse puzzled:
“What is it, nurse?”
“I don’t know, sir! I haven’t the faintest idea!” she answered, equally
puzzled.
“I’ll wait a few minutes and see,” he said, as he sat down. Half a
minute later the little tot ran from behind the screen, quite naked, and
running over to him threw herself on his knee. She snuggled in close to
him with her arms round his neck, and putting her little rosebud of a
mouth close to his ear whispered wooingly:
“Pap-pa, me dood girl now!”
LII
EDWIN A. ABBEY, R.A.
I
When Irving was having the enforced rest consequent to the accident to
his knee in December 1896, he made up his mind that his next
Shakespearean production should be _Richard II._ For a long time he had
had it in view and already formed his opinion as to what the leading
features of such a production as was necessary should be. He knew that
it could not in any case be made into a strong play, for the
indeterminate character of Richard would not allow of such. The strong
thing that is in the play is, of course, his suffering; but such, when
the outcome of one’s own nature, is not the same as when it is effected
by Fate, or external oppression. He knew therefore that the play would
want all the help he could give it. Now he set himself to work out the
text to acting shape, as he considered it would be best. Despite what
any one may say to the contrary—and it is only faddists that say it—
there is not a play of Shakespeare’s which does not need arranging or
cutting for the stage. So much can now be expressed by pictorial effect—
by costume, by lighting and properties and music—which in Shakespeare’s
time had to be expressed in words, that compression is at least
advisable. Then again, the existence of varied scenery and dresses
requires time for changes, which can sometimes be effected only by the
transposition of parts of the play. In his spare time, therefore, of
1897 he began the arrangement with a definite idea of production in
1899. When he had the general scheme prepared—for later on there are
always changes in readings and minor details—he approached the man who
in his mind would be the best to design and advise concerning the
artistic side: Edwin A. Abbey, R.A.
II
Irving and Abbey were close friends; and I am proud to say I can say the
same of myself and Abbey for the last twenty-five years. Irving had a
great admiration for his work, especially with regard to Shakespeare’s
plays, many of which he illustrated for _Harper’s Magazine_. The two men
had been often thrown together as members of “The Kinsmen,” a little
dining club of literary and artistic men of British and American
nationality. Abbey and George Boughton and John Sargent represented in
London the American painters of the group. Naturally in the intimate
companionship which such a club affords, men understand more of the
wishes and aims and ambitions of their friends. Irving had instinctive
belief that the painter who thought out his work so carefully and
produced effects at once so picturesque and so illuminative of character
would or might care for stage work where everything has to seem real and
regarding which there must be an intelligent purpose somewhere. Irving,
having already produced _Richard III._ with the limited resources of the
Bateman days, knew the difficulties of the play and the effects which he
wished to produce. When afterwards Abbey painted his great picture of
the funeral of Henry VI., Irving recognised a master-hand of scenic
purpose. Years afterwards when he reproduced the play he availed
himself, to the best of his own ability and the possibilities of the
stage, of the painter’s original work. It was not possible to realise on
the stage Abbey’s great conception. It is possible to use in the
illusion of a picture a perspective forbidden on the stage by limited
space and the non-compressible actuality of human bodies.
When he came to think over _Richard II._, he at once began to rely on
Abbey’s imagination and genius for the historical aspect of the play. He
approached him; and the work was undertaken.
III
Abbey has since told me of the delight he had in co-operating with
Irving. Not only was he proud and glad to work with such a man in such a
position which he had won for himself, but the actual working together
as artists in different media to one common end was pleasure to him.
Irving came to him with every detail of the play ready, so that he could
get into his mind at one time both the broad dominating ideas and the
necessary requirements and limitations of the scenes. The whole play was
charted for him at the start. Irving could defend every position he had
taken; knew the force and guidance of every passage; and had so studied
the period and its history that he could add external illumination to
the poet’s intention.
In addition, the painter found that his own suggestions were so quickly
and so heartily seized that he felt from the first that he himself and
his work were from the very start prime factors in the creation of the
_mise en scène_. In his words:
“Irving made me understand him; and he understood me! We seemed to be
thoroughly at one in everything. My own idea of the centre point of the
play was Richard’s poignant feeling at realising that Bolingbroke’s
power and splendour were taking the place of his own. The speech
beginning:
“‘O God! O God! that ere this tongue of mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment....’
“This seemed to be exactly Irving’s view also—only that he seemed to
have thought out every jot and tittle of it right down to the ‘nth.’ He
had been working out in his own mind the realisation of everything
whilst my own ideas had been scattered, vague, and nebulous. As we grew
to know the play together it all seemed so natural that a lot of my work
seemed to do itself. I had only to put down in form and colour such
things as were requisite. Of course there had to be much consulting of
authorities, much study of a technical kind, and many evasive
experiments before I reached what I wanted. But after I had talked the
play over with Irving I never had to be in doubt.”
To my humble mind this setting out of Abbey’s experience—which is in his
own words as he talked on the subject with me—is about as truthful and
exhaustive an illustration of the purpose and process of artistic
co-operation as we are ever likely to get.
IV
In his designs Abbey brought home to one the _cachet_ of mediæval life.
What he implied as well as what he showed told at a glance the
conditions and restrictions—the dominant forces of that strenuous time:
the fierceness and cruelty; the suspicion and distrust; the horrible
crampedness of fortress life; the contempt of death which came with the
grim uncertainties of daily life. In one of his scenes was pictured by
inference the life of the ladies in such a time and place in the way
which one could never forget. It was a corner in the interior of a
castle, high up and out of reach of arrow or catapult; a quiet nook
where the women could go in safety for a breath of fresh air. Only the
sky above them was open, for danger would come from any side exposed.
The most had been made of the little space available for the cultivation
of a few plants. Every little “coign of vantage” made by the unequal
tiers of the building was seized on for the growth of flowers. The
strictness of the little high-walled bower of peace conveyed forcibly
what must have been the life of which this was the liberty. It was
exceedingly picturesque; a grace to the eye as well as an interest to
the mind. There was a charming effect in a great copper vase in a niche
of rough stonework, wherein blossomed a handful of marigolds.
V
In this play Irving was very decided as to the “attack.” He had often
talked with me about the proper note to strike at the beginning of the
play. To him, it should seem to be stately seriousness. In Richard’s
time the “Justice” of the King was no light matter; not to take it
seriously was to do away with the ultimate power of the Monarch.
Richard, as is afterwards shown, meant to use his kingly power
unscrupulously. He feared both Bolingbroke and Norfolk, and meant to get
rid of them. So meaning, he would of course shroud his unscrupulous
intent in the ermine of Justice. A hypocrite who proclaims himself as
such at the very start is not so dangerous as he might be, for at once
he sounds the note of warning to his victims. This, _pace_ the critics,
makes the action of Bolingbroke simple enough. _He_ saw through the
weaker Richard’s intent of treachery, and knew that his only chance lay
in counter-treachery. A King without scruple was a dangerous opponent in
the fourteenth century. It was not until Richard had violated his pledge
regarding the succession and right of Lancaster—thus further intending
to cripple the banished Duke—that the new Lancaster took arms as his
only chance.
In Irving’s reading of the character of Richard this intentional
hypocrisy did not oppose his florid, almost flamboyant, self-torturing
vapouring of his pain and woe. He is a creature of exaggerations of his
greatness, as of his own self-surrender.
As the production of the play progressed Irving began to build greater
and greater hopes on it. Already when he was taken ill at Glasgow in
1898 he had expended on the scenery alone—for the time for costumes and
properties had not arrived—a sum of over sixteen hundred pounds. It was
a bitter grief to him that he had to abandon the idea of playing the
part. But he still cherished the hope that his son Harry might yet play
it on the lines he had so studiously prepared. To this end he wished to
retain the freshness of Abbey’s work, and when during his long illness,
another manager, believing that he intended abandoning the production,
wished to secure Abbey’s co-operation, the painter refused the offer so
that Irving might later use the work for his son. Abbey, though no fee
or reward for all his labour had yet passed, considered the work done as
in some way joint property. This generous view endeared him more than
ever to Irving, who up to the day of his death regarded him as one of
the best and kindest and most thoughtful of his friends.
LIII
J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE
For a good many years Bernard Partridge was a _persona grata_ at the
Lyceum Theatre. He made the drawings of Irving and Ellen Terry for the
souvenirs which we issued for the following plays, _Macbeth_, _The Dead
Heart_, _Ravenswood_, _Henry VIII._, _King Lear_, _Becket_, and _King
Arthur_. He has a wonderful gift of “remembering with his eyes.” This
was particularly useful in working any drawing of Henry Irving, whose
expression altered so much when anything interested him that he became
the despair of most draughtsmen. Partridge used to stand on the stage
and watch him; or sit with him in his dressing-room for a chat. He would
make certain notes with pen and pencil, and then go home and draw him.
In the meantime Hawes Craven, the scene-painter, would make sketches in
monochrome of the scenes chosen for the souvenir, putting in the figures
but leaving the faces vacant. Then would come Bernard Partridge with his
own fine brushes and Hawes Craven’s palette and put in the likeness of
the various actors. These were so admirably done that any one taking up
any of the souvenirs can say who were the actors—if, of course, the
individuality of the latter be known to him. He used to laugh whenever I
spoke of his “putting in the noses.” Of course, the single figures were
his own work entirely. I think in all the years of Irving’s management
Bernard Partridge was the only person outside the _personnel_ of the
Company or staff who was allowed to pass in and out of the stage door
just as he wished. He used to be present at rehearsals from which all
others were forbidden.
Thus he came to have an exceptional knowledge of Irving’s face in pretty
well all its moods and phases. For this reason, too, the coloured
frontispiece of this book is of exceptional interest. It was the last
work of art done from Irving’s sitting before his death. Later on, he
was, of course, photographed; the last sun picture done of him was of
him sitting alongside John Hare, with whom he was staying at his place
in Overstrand two months before he died. But Partridge’s pastel was the
last art study from life. On the evening of 17th July 1905, he was
dining with Mr. and Mrs. Partridge in their pretty house in Church
Street, Chelsea. Sir Francis and Lady Burnand were there and Anstey
Guthrie, and Mr. Plowden, the magistrate. Irving enjoyed the evening
much—one can see it by the happy look in his face. Partridge, in the
fashion customary to him, made his “eye notes” as Irving sat back in his
arm-chair with the front of his shirt bulging out after the manner usual
to such a pose. Early next morning Partridge did the pastel.
To me it is of priceless worth, not only from its pictorial excellence,
but because it is the last artistic record of my dear friend; and
because it shows him in one of the happy moods which, alas! grew rarer
with his failing health. It gives, of course, a true impression of his
age—he was then in his sixty-eighth year; but all the beauty and
intelligence and sweetness of his face is there.
LIV
ROBERT BROWNING
It was quite a treat to hear Irving and Robert Browning talking. Their
conversation, no matter how it began, usually swerved round to
Shakespeare; as they were both excellent scholars of the subject the
talk was on a high plane. It was not of double-endings or rhyming lines,
or of any of the points or objects of that intellectual dissection which
forms the work of a certain order of scholars who seem to always want to
prove to themselves that Shakespeare was Shakespeare and no one else—and
that he was the same man at the end of his life that he had been at the
beginning. These two men took large views. Their ideas were of the
loftiness and truth of his thought; of the magic music of his verse; of
the light which his work threw on human nature. Each could quote
passages to support whatever view he was sustaining. And whenever those
two men talked, a quiet little group grew round them; all were content
to listen when they spoke.
We used to meet Browning at the houses of George Boughton, the Royal
Academician, and of Arthur Lewis, the husband of Kate, the eldest sister
of Ellen Terry. Both lived on Campden Hill, and the houses of both were
famous for hospitality amongst a large circle of friends radiating out
from the artistic classes.
Robert Browning once made Irving a present which he valued very much.
This was the purse, quite void of anything in the shape of money, which
was found, after his death, in the pocket of Edmund Kean. It was of
knitted green silk with steel rings. Charles Kean gave it to John Foster
who gave it to Browning who gave it to Irving. It was sold at Christie’s
at the sale of Irving’s curios, with already an illustrious record of
possessors.
Irving loved everything which had belonged to Edmund Kean, whom he
always held to be the greatest of British actors. He had quite a
collection of things which had been his. In addition to this purse he
had a malacca cane which had come from Garrick, to Kean; the knife which
Kean wore as Shylock; his sword and sandals worn by him as Lucius
Brutus; a gold medal presented to him in 1827; his Richard III. sword
and boots; the Circassian dagger presented to him by Lord Byron.
He had had also two Kean pictures on which he set great store. One of
large size was the scene from _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_, in which
Kean appeared as Sir Giles. The other was the portrait done by George
Clint as the study for Kean in the picture. This latter was the only
picture for which Edmund Kean ever sat, and Irving valued it
accordingly. He gave the large picture to the Garrick Club; but the
portrait he kept for himself. It was sold at the sale of his effects at
Christie’s where I had the good fortune to be able to purchase it. To me
it is of inestimable value, for of all his possessions Irving valued it
most.
LV
WALT WHITMAN
I
In the early afternoon of Thursday, 20th March, 1884, I drove with
Irving to the house of Thomas Donaldson, 326 North 40th Street,
Philadelphia. We went by appointment. Thomas Donaldson it was who had,
at the dinner given to Irving by the Clover Club on December 6, 1883,
presented him with Edwin Forrest’s watch.
When we arrived Donaldson met us in the hall. Irving went into the
“parlour”; Hatton, who was with us, and I talked for a minute or so with
our host. When we went in Irving was looking at a fine picture by Moran
of the Great Valley of the Yellowstone which hung over the fireplace. On
the opposite side of the room sat an old man of leonine appearance. He
was burly, with a large head and high forehead slightly bald. Great
shaggy masses of grey-white hair fell over his collar. His moustache was
large and thick and fell over his mouth so as to mingle with the top of
the mass of the bushy flowing beard. I knew at once who it was, but just
as I looked Donaldson, who had hurried on in front, said:
“Mr. Irving, I want you to know Mr. Walt Whitman.” His anxiety
beforehand and his jubilation in making the introduction satisfied me
that the occasion of Irving’s coming had been made one for the meeting
with the Poet.
When he heard the name Irving strode quickly across the room with
outstretched hand. “I am delighted to meet you!” he said, and the two
shook hands warmly. When my turn came and Donaldson said “Bram Stoker,”
Walt Whitman leaned forward suddenly, and held out his hand eagerly as
he said:
“Bram Stoker—Abraham Stoker is it?” I acquiesced and we shook hands as
old friends—as indeed we were. “Thereby hangs a tale.”
II
In 1868 when William Michael Rossetti brought out his Selected Poems of
Walt Whitman it raised a regular storm in British literary circles. The
bitter-minded critics of the time absolutely flew at the Poet and his
work as watch-dogs do at a ragged beggar. Unfortunately there were
passages in the _Leaves of Grass_ which allowed of attacks, and those
who did not or could not understand the broad spirit of the group of
poems took samples of detail which were at least deterrent. Doubtless
they thought that it was a case for ferocious attack; as from these
excerpts it would seem that the book was as offensive to morals as to
taste. They did not scruple to give the _ipsissima verba_ of the most
repugnant passages.
In my own University the book was received with cynical laughter, and
more than a few of the students sent over to Trübner’s for copies of the
complete _Leaves of Grass_—that being the only place where they could
then be had. Needless to say that amongst young men the objectionable
passages were searched for and more noxious ones expected. For days we
all talked of Walt Whitman and the new poetry with scorn—especially
those of us who had not seen the book. One day I met a man in the Quad
who had a copy, and I asked him to let me look at it. He acquiesced
readily:
“Take the damned thing,” he said; “I’ve had enough of it!”
I took the book with me into the Park and in the shade of an elm-tree
began to read it. Very shortly my own opinion began to form; it was
diametrically opposed to that which I had been hearing. From that hour I
became a lover of Walt Whitman. There were a few of us who, quite
independently of each other, took the same view. We had quite a fight
over it with our companions who used to assail us with shafts of their
humour on all occasions. Somehow, we learned, I think, a good deal in
having perpetually to argue without being able to deny—in so far as
quotation went at all events—the premises of our opponents.
However, we were ourselves satisfied, and that was much. Young men are,
as a rule, very tenacious of such established ideas as they have—perhaps
it is a fortunate thing, for them and others; and we did not expect to
convince our friends all at once. Fortunately also the feeling of
intellectual superiority which comes with the honest acceptance of an
idea which others have refused is an anodyne to the pain of ridicule. We
Walt-Whitmanites had in the main more satisfaction than our opponents.
Edward Dowden was one of the few who in those days took the large and
liberal view of the _Leaves of Grass_, and as he was Professor of
English Literature at the University his opinion carried great weight in
such a matter. He brought the poems before the more cultured of the
students by a paper at the Philosophical Society on May 4, 1871, on
“Walt Whitman and the Poetry of Democracy.” To me was given the honour
of opening the debate on the paper.
For seven years the struggle in our circle went on. Little by little we
got recruits amongst the abler young men till at last a little cult was
established. But the attack still went on. I well remember a militant
evening at the “Fortnightly Club”—a club of Dublin men, meeting
occasionally for free discussions. Occasionally there were meetings for
both sexes. This particular evening—February 14, 1876—was, perhaps
fortunately, not a “Ladies’ Night.” The paper was on “Walt Whitman” and
was by a man of some standing socially; a man who had had a fair
University record and was then a county gentleman of position in his own
county. He was exceedingly able; a good scholar, well versed in both
classic and English literature, and a brilliant humorist. His paper at
the “Fortnightly” was a violent, incisive attack on Walt Whitman; had we
not been accustomed to such for years it would have seemed outrageous. I
am bound to say it was very clever; by confining himself almost entirely
to the group of poems, “Children of Adam,” he made out, in one way, a
strong case. But he went too far. In challenging the existence in the
whole collection of poems for mention of one decent woman—which is in
itself ridiculous, for Walt Whitman honoured women—he drew an
impassioned speech from Edward Dowden, who finished by reading a few
verses from the poem “Faces.” It was the last section of the poem, that
which describes a noble figure of an old Quaker mother. It ends: