To him the dramatic centre and pivotal point of the play that would be
most effective was the Bishop. Had the novel been available he would—
Caine being willing to dramatise it or to allow it to be dramatised by
some one else—have played it on those lines.
I think it was a great pity that this could not be, for Irving and Hall
Caine would have made a wonderful team. The latter was compact of
imagination and—then undeveloped—dramatic force. With Irving to learn
from, in the way of acting needs and development, he would surely have
done some dramatic work of wonderful introspection and intensity.—As he
will do yet; though his road has been a rough one.
From that time on, Irving had a strong desire that Caine should write
some play that he could act. Time after time he suggested subjects;
theories that he could deal with; characters good to act. But there
seemed to be always some _impasse_ set by Fate. For instance, Irving had
had for a long time a desire to act the part of Mahomet, and after the
publication in France of the play on the subject by De Bornier it seemed
to be feasible. Herein too came the memory of the promptings and urging
of Sir Richard Burton of some three years before as to the production of
an Eastern play. De Bornier’s play he found would not suit his purpose;
so he suggested to Hall Caine that he should write one on the subject.
Caine jumped at the idea—he too had a desire to deal with an Eastern
theme. He thought the matter out, and had before long evolved a
_scenario_. Well do I remember the time he put it before me. At that
time he was staying with me, and on the afternoon of Sunday, January 26,
1890, he said he would like to give his idea of the play. He had already
had a somewhat trying morning, for he had made an appointment with an
interviewer and had had a long meeting with him. Work, however, was—is—
always a stimulant to Hall Caine. The use of his brain seems to urge and
stimulate it “as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.”
Now in the dim twilight of the late January afternoon, sitting in front
of a good fire of blazing billets of old ship timber, the oak so
impregnated with salt and saltpetre that the flames leaped in rainbow
colours, he told the story as he saw it. Hall Caine always knows his
work so well and has such a fine memory that he never needs to look at a
note. That evening he was all on fire. His image rises now before me. He
sits on a low chair in front of the fire; his face is pale, something
waxen-looking in the changing blues of the flame. His red hair, fine and
long, and pushed back from his high forehead, is so thin that through it
as the flames leap we can see the white line of the head so like to
Shakespeare’s. He is himself all aflame. His hands have a natural
eloquence—something like Irving’s; they foretell and emphasise the
coming thoughts. His large eyes shine like jewels as the firelight
flashes. Only my wife and I are present, sitting like Darby and Joan at
either side of the fireplace. As he goes on he gets more and more afire
till at last he is like a living flame. We sit quite still; we fear to
interrupt him. The end of his story leaves us fired and exalted too....
He was quite done up; the man exhausts himself in narrative as I have
never seen with any one else. Indeed when he had finished a novel he
used to seem as exhausted as a woman after childbirth. At such times he
would be in a terrible state of nerves—trembling and sleepless. At that
very time he had not quite got through the nervous crisis after the
completion of _The Bondman_. At such times everything seemed to worry
him; things that he would shortly after laugh at. This is part of the
penalty that genius pays to great effort.
III
The next day, January 27, 1890, in the office at the Lyceum, Caine told—
not read—to Irving the story of his play on Mahomet. Irving was very
pleased with it, and it was of course understood that Caine was to go on
and carry out the idea. He set to work on it with his usual fiery
energy, and in a few months had evolved a _scenario_ so complete that it
was a volume in itself. By this time it was becoming known that Irving
had in mind the playing of Mahomet. The very fact of approaching De
Bornier regarding his play had somehow leaked out. As often happens in
matters theatrical there came a bolt from the blue. None of us had the
slightest idea that there _could_ be any objection in a professedly
Christian nation to a play on the subject. A letter was received from
the Lord Chamberlain’s department, which controls the licences of
theatres and plays, asking that such a play should not be undertaken.
The reason given was that protest had been made by a large number of our
Mahometan fellow subjects. The Mahometan faith holds it sacrilege to
represent in any form the image of the Prophet. The Lord Chamberlain’s
department does its spiriting very gently; all that those in contact
with it are made aware of is the velvet glove. But the steel hand works
all the same—perhaps better than if stark. It is an understood thing
that the Lord Chamberlain’s request is a command in matters under his
jurisdiction. Britain with her seventy millions of Mahometan subjects
does not wish—and cannot afford—to offend their sensibilities for the
sake of a stage play. Irving submitted gracefully at once, of course.
Caine was more than nice on the matter; he refused to accept fee or
reward of any kind for his work. He simply preserved his work by
privately printing, three years later, the _scenario_ as a story in
dramatic form. He altered it sufficiently to change the _personnel_ of
the time and place of Mahomet, laying the story of _The Mahdi_ in modern
Morocco.
This was not Irving’s first experience of the action on a political
basis of the Lord Chamberlain. I shall have something to say of it when
treating of Frank Marshall’s play, _Robert Emmett_.
IV
During Caine’s visit to me in Edinburgh in 1891 he and Irving saw much
of one another. On the 18th we took supper with Dr. Andrew Wilson, an
old friend of us all, at the Northern Club. That night both Irving and
Caine were in great form and the conversation was decidedly interesting.
It began with a sort of discussion about Shakespeare as a dramatist—on
the working side; his practical execution of his own imaginative
intention. Hall Caine held that Shakespeare would not have put in his
plays certain descriptions if he had had modern stage advantages to
explain without his telling. Irving said that it would be good for
moderns if they would but take Shakespeare’s lesson in this matter.
Later on the conversation tended towards weird subjects. Caine told of
seeing in a mirror a reflection not his own. Irving followed by telling
us of his noticing an accidental effect in a mirror, which he afterwards
used in the _Macbeth_ ghost: that of holding the head up. The evening
was altogether a fascinating one; it was four o’clock when we broke up.
V
On November 19, 1892, Hall Caine supped with Irving in the Beefsteak
Room, bringing his young son Ralph with him. The only other guest was
Sir (then Mr.) Alexander Mackenzie. It was a delightful evening, a long,
pleasant, home-like chat. Irving was very quiet and listened attentively
to all Caine said. The latter told us the story of the novel he had just
then projected. The scene was to be laid in Cracow to which he was
shortly to make his way.
Irving was hugely interested. Any form of oppression was noxious to him;
and certainly the Jewish “Exodus” that was just then going on came under
that heading. I think that he had in his mind the possibilities of a new
and powerful play. As I said, he was most anxious to have a play by Hall
Caine, and after the abortive attempt at Mahomet, he was more set on it
than ever.
He had before this suggested to Caine that he should do a play on the
subject of the “Flying Dutchman.” The play which he had done in 1878,
_Vanderdecken_, was no good as a play, though he played in it admirably.
For my own part I believed in the subject and always wanted him to try
it again—the play, of course, being tinkered into something like good
shape, or a new play altogether written. The character, as Irving
created it, was there fit for any setting; and so long as the play
should be fairly sufficient the result ought to be good. Irving had a
great opinion of Caine’s imagination, and always said that he would
write a great work of weirdness some day. He knew already his ability
and his fire and his zeal. He believed also in the convincing force of
the man.
VI
In 1894 Hall Caine wrote a poem called _The Demon Lover_, in which he
found material for a play. He made a _scenario_, which he told rather
than read to Irving after supper in the Beefsteak Room on St.
Valentine’s day of the next year, 1895. Irving was much impressed by it
but thought that the part would of necessity be too young for him—he was
then fifty-six. He asked Caine again to try the “Flying Dutchman.”
In the June of next year 1896 we were in Manchester in the course of a
tour. Hall Caine came over from the Isle of Man to stay with me,
bringing with him the _scenario_ of a play on the “Flying Dutchman” and
also the _scenario_ of a new play which he had just completed, _Home,
Sweet Home_. He read, or rather told, me the latter with the MS. open
before him. He never, however, turned the pages. The next forenoon we
went by previous arrangement to Irving’s rooms at the Queen’s Hotel.
There he read—or told from his script—the _scenario_ of his play on the
“Flying Dutchman.” We discussed it then, and afterwards during a
carriage drive. Irving asked Caine if he could not make the character of
Vanderdecken more sympathetic and less brutal at the start. Caine having
promised to go into this and see what he could do, then told the story
of _Home, Sweet Home_. Irving feared from the description that the play
would not do for him. In Act I. the character was too young; in Act II.
too rough; and in Act III. too tall. For his objection in the last case
he gave a reason, enlightening in the matter of stagecraft:
“There is no general sympathy on the stage for tall old men!”
Finally Caine told us the story of his coming novel, which was
afterwards called _The Christian_. He knew it in his own mind by the
tentative title which he used, “Glory and John Storm.”
VII
In the afternoon we all went to the Bellevue Gardens to see a wonderful
chimpanzee, “Jock,” a powerful animal and more clever even than “Sally,”
who was then the great public pet at the “Zoo” in Regent’s Park. Ellen
Terry came with us and also Comyns Carr, who had arrived from London.
Jock was certainly an abnormal brute. He rode about the grounds on a
tricycle of his own! He ate his food from a plate with knife and fork
and spoon! He slept in a bed with sheets and blankets! He smoked
cigarettes! And he drank wine—when he could get it! His favourite tipple
was port wine and lemonade, and he was very conservative in his rights
regarding it. Indeed in this case it was very nearly productive of a
grim tragedy.
We went into a little room close to the keeper’s house; a sort of
general refreshment room with wooden benches round it and a table in the
centre. Jock had his cigarette; then his grog was mixed to his great and
anxious interest. The keeper handed him the tumbler, which he held tight
in both paws whilst he went through some hanky-panky pantomime of
thanks—usually, I took it, productive of pennies. Irving said to the
keeper:
“Would he give you some of that, now?” The man shook his head as he
answered:
“He doesn’t like to, but he will if I ask him. I have to be careful
though.” He asked Jock, who very unwillingly let him take the tumbler,
following it with his paws. The arms stretched out as it went farther
from him; but the paws always remained close to the glass. The man just
put the edge of the glass to his mouth and then handed it back quickly.
The monkey had acted with considerable self-restraint, and looked
immensely relieved when he had his drink safe back again. Then Irving
said:
“Let me see if he will let me have some!” The keeper spoke to the
monkey, keeping his eye fixedly on him. Irving took the glass from his
manifestly unwilling paws and raised it to his own lips. Being a better
actor than the keeper he did his part more realistically, actually
letting the liquid rise over his shut lips.
The instant the monkey saw his beloved liquor touch the mouth he became
a savage—a veritable, red-eyed, restrainless demon. With a sudden
hideous screech he dashed out his arms, one paw catching Irving by the
throat, the other seizing the glass. It made us all gasp and grow pale.
The brute was so strong and so savage that it might have torn his
windpipe before a hand could have been raised. Fortunately Irving did
instinctively the only thing that could be done; he yelled suddenly in
the face of the monkey—an appalling yell which seemed to push the brute
back. At the same moment he thrust away from him the glass in the
animal’s other paw. The monkey, loosing his hold on his throat, jumped
back across the wide table with incredible quickness without losing its
seated attitude, and sat clutching the tumbler close to his breast and
showing his teeth whilst he manifested his rage in a hideous trumpeting.
Before that, at our first coming into the room he had nearly frightened
the life out of Ellen Terry. She had sat down on the bench along the
wall. The monkey looked at her and seemed attracted by her golden hair.
He came and sat by her on the bench and, turning over, laid his head in
her lap, looking up at her and at the same time putting up his paw as
big as a man’s hand and as black and shiny as though covered with an
undertaker’s funeral glove. She looked down, saw his eyes, and with a
scream made a jump for the doorway. The monkey laughed. He had a sense
of humour—of his own kind, which was not of a high kind.
A little later he regained his good temper and forgave us all. When we
went round the gardens he got on his tricycle and came with us. In the
monkey house was a great cage as large as an ordinary room, and here
were a large number of monkeys of a mixed kind. Our gorilla—for such he
really was—started to amuse himself with them. He got a great stick and
standing close to the cage hammered furiously at the bars, all the while
trumpeting horribly. In the midst of it he would look at us with a grin,
as much as to say:
“See how I am frightening these inferior creatures!” They were in an
agony of fear, crouching in the farthest corners of the great cage,
moaning and shivering.
VIII
Irving had had an incident with a monkey some years before. On June 16,
1887, we went to Stratford-on-Avon, where he was to open a fountain the
next day. We stayed with Mr. C. E. Flower, at Avonbank, his beautiful
place on the river. In his conservatory was a somewhat untamed monkey;
not a very large one, but with anger enough for a wilderness of monkeys.
Frank Marshall, who was of our party, would irritate the monkey when we
went to smoke in there after dinner. It got so angry with his puffing
his smoke at it that it shook the cage to such an extent that we thought
it would topple over. We persuaded Marshall to come away, and then
Irving, who loved animals, went over to pacify the monkey.
The latter, however, did not discriminate between malice and good
intent, and when Irving bent down to say soothing things to it a long
arm flashed out and catching him by the hair began to drag his head
towards the cage, the other paw coming out towards his eyes. It was an
anxious moment; but this time, as on the later occasion, a sudden
screech of full lung power from the actor frightened the monkey into
releasing him.
IX
Irving loved all animals, and did not, I think, realise the difference
between pets and _feræ naturæ_. I remember once at Baltimore—it was the
1st January 1900—when he and I went to Hagenbach’s menagerie which was
then in winter quarters. The hall was a big one, the shape of one of
those great panorama buildings which used to be so popular in America.
There were some very fine lions; and to one of them he took a great
fancy. It was a fine African, young and in good condition with
magnificent locks and whiskers and eyebrows, and whatsoever beauties on
a hairy basis there are to the lion kind. It was sleeping calmly in its
cage with its head up against the bars. The keeper recognised Irving and
came up to talk and explain things very eagerly. Irving asked him about
the lion; if it was good-tempered and so forth. The man said it was a
very good-tempered animal, and offered to make him stand up and show
himself off. His method of doing so was the most unceremonious thing of
the kind I ever saw; it showed absolutely no consideration whatever for
the lion’s _amour-propre_ or fine feelings. He caught up a broom that
leaned against the cage—a birch broom with the business end not of
resilient twigs but of thin branches cut off with a sharp knife. It was
the sort of scrubbing broom that would take the surface off an ordinary
deal flooring. This he seized and drove it with the utmost violence in
his power right into the animal’s face. I should have thought that no
eye could have escaped from such an attack. He repeated the assault as
often as there was time before the lion had risen and jumped back.
Irving was very indignant, and spoke out his mind very freely. The
keeper answered him very civilly indeed I thought. His manner was
genuinely respectful as he said:
“That’s all very well, Mr. Irving; but it doesn’t work with lions!
There’s only one thing such animals respect; and that’s force. Why, that
treatment that you complain of will save my life some day. It wouldn’t
be worth a week’s purchase without it!”
Irving realised the justice of his words—he was always just; and when we
came away the gratuity was perhaps a little higher than usual, to
compensate for any injured feelings.
LIX
IRVING AND DRAMATISTS
I
Only those who are or have been concerned in theatrical management can
have the least idea of the difficulty of obtaining plays suitable for
acting. There are plenty of plays to be had. When any one goes into
management—indeed from the time the fact of his intention is announced—
plays begin to rain in on him. All those rejected consistently
throughout a generation are tried afresh on the new victim, for the hope
of the unacted dramatist never dies. There is just a sufficient
percentage of ultimate success in the case of long-neglected plays to
obviate despair. Every one who writes a play sends it on and on to
manager after manager. When a player makes some abnormal success every
aspirant to dramatic fame tries his hand at a play for him. It is all
natural enough. The work is congenial, and the rewards—when there are
rewards—are occasionally great. There is, I suppose, no form of literary
work which seems so easy and is so difficult—which while seeming to only
require the common knowledge of life, needs in reality great technical
knowledge and skill. From the experience alone which we had in the
Lyceum one might well have come to the conclusion that to write a play
of some kind is an instinct of human nature. To Irving were sent plays
from every phase and condition of life. Not only from writers whose work
lay in other lines of effort; historians, lyric poets, divines from the
curate to the bishop, but from professional men, merchants,
manufacturers, traders, clerks. He has had them sent by domestic
servants, and from as far down the social scale as a workhouse boy.
But from all these multitudinous and varied sources we had very few
plays indeed which afforded even a hope or promise. Irving was always
anxious for good plays, and spared neither trouble nor expense to get
them. Every play that was sent was read; very many commissions were
given and purchase-money or advance fees paid. In such cases subjects
were often suggested, _scenario_ being the basis. In addition to the
plays in which he or Ellen Terry took part and which he produced during
his own management, he purchased or paid fees and options on
twenty-seven plays. Not one of these, from one cause or another, could
he produce. One of these made success with another man. Some never got
beyond the _scenario_ stage. In one case, though the whole
purchase-money was paid in advance, the play was never delivered; it was
finished—and then sold under a different title to another manager! One
was prohibited—by request—by the Lord Chamberlain’s department. Of this
play, _Robert Emmett_, were some interesting memories.
II
In Ireland or by Irish people it had often been suggested to Irving that
he should present Robert Emmett in a play. He bore a striking
resemblance to the Irish patriot—a glance at any of the portraits would
to any one familiar with Irving’s identity be sufficient; and his story
was full of tragic romance. From the first Irving was taken with the
idea and had the character in his mind for stage use. In the first year
of his management he suggested the theme to Frank A. Marshall, the
dramatist; who afterwards co-operated with him in the editorship of the
“Irving” Shakespeare. He was delighted with the idea, became full of it,
and took the work in hand. In the shape of a _scenario_ it was so far
advanced that at the end of the second season Irving was able to
announce it as one of the forthcoming plays. As we know, the
extraordinary success of _The Merchant of Venice_ postponed the work
then projected for more than a year. Marshall, therefore, took his work
in a more leisurely fashion, and it was not till the autumn of 1881 that
the play appeared in something like its intended shape. But by that time
_Romeo and Juliet_ was in hand and a full year elapsed before _Robert
Emmett_ could be practically considered. But when that time came the
Irish question was acute. Fenianism or certain of its _sequelæ_ became
recrudescent. The government of the day considered that so marked and
romantic a character as Robert Emmett, and with such political views
portrayed so forcibly and so picturesquely as would be the case with
Irving, might have a dangerous effect on a people seething in revolt.
Accordingly a “request” came through the Lord Chamberlain’s department
that Mr. Irving would not proceed with the production which had been
announced. Incidentally I may say that nothing was mentioned in the
“request” regarding the cost incurred. Irving had already paid to Frank
Marshall a sum of £450.