with the proud, shy, ambitious young beginner, eight years his junior.
From the first he seemed to believe in Irving, and predicted for him a
great career. To this end he contributed all through his life. When he
toured on his own account he took Irving with him, giving him a star
place in his bill, and an opportunity of exhibiting his own special
tragic power in a recital of _The Dream of Eugene Aram_.
To the last day of Irving’s life the friendship of the two men each for
the other never flagged or faltered. Such a thing as jealousy of the
other never entered into the heart of either. Toole simply venerated his
friend and enjoyed his triumph more than he did his own. He would not
hear without protest any one speak of Irving except in a becoming way;
and there was nothing which Toole possessed which he would not have
shared with Irving. When one entertained, there was always a place for
the other; whoever had the good fortune to become a friend of either
found his friendship doubled at once. The two men seemed to supplement
each other’s natures. Each had, in his own way and of its own kind, a
great sense of humour. Toole’s genial, ebullient, pronounced; Irving’s
saturnine, keen, and suggestive. Both had—each again in his own way—a
very remarkable seriousness. Those who only saw Toole in his inimitable
pranks knew little how keenly the man felt emotion; how unwavering he
was in his sense of duty; how earnest in his work. With Irving the
humour was a fixed quantity, which all through his life kept its
relative proportion to his seriousness; but Toole, being a low comedian,
and perhaps because of it, seemed at times vastly different in his hours
of work and relaxation. For it is a strange thing that the conditions of
emotion are such that what is work in one case is rest in another, and
_vice versa_; the serious man finds ease in relaxation, the humorous man
seeks in quietude his rest from the stress of laughter. In their younger
days and up to middle life the two men had indulged in harmless pranks.
They both loved a joke and would take any pains to compass it. The
tricks they played together would fill a volume. Of course from their
protean powers of expressing themselves and in merging their identities
actors have rare opportunities of consummating jokes. Moreover they are
in the habit of working together, and two or three men who understand
each other’s methods can go far to sway the unwary how they will.
II
One of the practical jokes of Toole and Irving is almost classical. One
Sunday when they both happened to be playing at Liverpool at the same
time they went to dine at an old inn at Wavertree celebrated for the
excellence of its hospitality. They had a good dinner and a good bottle
of port and sat late. When most of the guests in the hotel had gone to
bed and when the time necessary for their own departure was drawing
nigh, they rang and told the waiter to get the bill. When he had gone
for it they took all the silver off the table—they had fine old silver
in the inn—and placed it in the garden on which the room opened. Then
they turned out the gas and got under the table. Hearing no answer to
his repeated knocking the waiter opened the door. When he saw the lights
out, the window opened, and the guests—and the silver—gone he cried out:
“Done! They have bolted with the silver.” Then he ran down the passage
crying out: “Thieves, thieves!”
The instant he was gone the two men came from under the table, closed
the door, lit the gas, and took in the silver which they replaced on the
table. Presently a wild rush of persons came down the passage and burst
into the room: the landlord and his family, servants of the house,
guests _en deshabille_—most of them carrying pokers and other impromptu
weapons. They found the two gentlemen sitting quietly smoking their
cigars. As they stood amazed Irving said in his quiet, well-bred voice:
“Do you always come in like this when gentlemen are having their dinner
here?”
Toole would even play pranks on Irving, these generally taking the form
of some sort of gift. For instance, he once sent Irving on his birthday
what he called in his letter “a miniature which he had picked up!” It
came in a furniture van, an enormous portrait of an actor, painted
nearly a hundred years before; it was so large that it would not fit in
any room of the theatre and had to be put in a high passage. Again, when
he was in Australia he sent to Irving, timed so that it would arrive at
Christmas, a present of two frozen sheep and a live kangaroo. These
arrived at Irving’s rooms in Grafton Street. He had them housed at the
Lyceum for the night, and next day sent the sheep to gladden the hearts—
and anatomies—of the Costermongers’ Club at Chicksand Street, Mile End,
New Town. The kangaroo was sent with a donation to the Zoological
Society as a contribution from “J. L. Toole and Henry Irving.” A brass
plate was fixed over the cage by the Society.
Toole loved to make beautiful presents to Irving. Amongst them was a
splendid gilt silver claret jug; several silver cups and bowls, the
trophy designed by Flaxman which was presented to Macready in 1818—a
magnificent piece of jeweller’s work; a “grangerised” edition of
Forster’s _Life of Charles Dickens_—unique in its richness of material
and its fine workmanship—which he had bought in Paris for £500.
III
When Toole and Irving were separated they were in constant communication
by letter, telegram or cable. No birthday of the other passed without a
visit if near enough, or a letter or telegram if apart, and there was
always a basket of flowers each to each. For a dozen years before
Irving’s death Toole had been in bad health, growing worse and worse as
the years went on. He grew very feeble and very, very sad. But without
fail Irving used to go to see him whenever he had an opportunity. At his
house in Maida Vale, at Margate, or at Brighton, in which latter place
he mainly lived for years past, Irving would go to him and spend all the
hours he could command. Even though the width of the world separated
them, the two men seemed to have, day by day, exact cognisance of the
whereabouts and doings of the other, and not a week but the cables were
flashing between them.
Poor Toole had one by one lost all his immediate family—son, wife,
daughter; and his tie to life was in great part the love to and from his
friend. He used to think of him unceasingly. Wherever he was, Toole’s
wire would come unfailingly making for good luck and remembrance. He
would keep the flowers that Irving sent to him till they faded and
dropped away; even then the baskets and bare stalks were kept in his
room.
No one appreciated more than Toole the finest of Irving’s work. For
instance, when he saw him play _King Lear_ he was touched to his heart’s
core, and his artistic admiration was boundless. I supped with him that
night after the play, and he said to me:
“_King Lear_ is the finest thing of Irving’s life—or of any one else’s.”
When Toole was going to Australia there were many farewell gatherings to
wish him God-speed. Some of them were great and elaborate affairs, but
the last of all was reserved for Irving, when Toole, with some old
friends, supped in the Beefsteak Room. When Irving proposed his old
friend’s health—a rare function indeed in that room—he never spoke more
beautifully in his life. His little speech was packed with pathos, and
so great was his own emotion that at moments he was obliged to pause to
pull himself together.
IV
Toole and I were very close friends ever since I knew him first in the
early seventies. I shared with him many delightful hours. And when
sorrow came to him I was able to give him sympathy and such comfort as
could be from my presence. I was with him at the funeral of his son and
then of his wife. When his daughter died in Edinburgh, where he was then
playing, I went up to him and stayed with him. We brought her body back
to London and I went with him to her grave. With me he was always
affectionate, always sympathetic, always merry when there was no cause
for gloom, always grave and earnest when such were becoming. I have been
with him on endless occasions when his merriment and geniality simply
bubbled over. Unless some sorrow sat heavily on him he was always full
of merriment which evidenced itself in the quaintest and most unexpected
ways.
[Illustration:
THE CAST OF “DEARER THAN LIFE,” 1868
]
One evening, for instance, we were walking together along the western
end of Pall Mall. When we came near Marlborough House, where on either
side of the gateway stood a Guardsman on sentry, he winked at me and
took from his pocket a letter which he had ready for post. Then when we
came up close to the nearest soldier he moved cautiously in a semi-blind
manner and peering out tried to put the letter in the breast of the
scarlet tunic as though mistaking the soldier for a postal pillar-box.
The soldier remained upright and stolid, and did not move a muscle.
Toole was equally surprised and pleased when from the Guardsman’s
moveless lips came the words:
“It’s all right, Mr. Toole! I hope you’re well, sir?”
Another time I was staying with him at the Granville at Ramsgate, and on
the Sunday afternoon we drove out to Kingsgate. Lionel Brough was
another of the party. As we passed a coastguard station we stopped
opposite a very handsome, spruce, and dandified coastguard. The two men
greeted him, but his manner was somewhat haughty. Whereupon the two
actors without leaving their seats proceeded to dance a hornpipe. That
is they seemed, from the waist up, to be dancing that lively measure.
Their arms and hands took motion as though in a real dance and their
bodies swayed with appropriate movement. The little holiday crowd looked
on delighted, and even the haughty sailor found it too much. He unbent
and, smiling, danced also in very graceful fashion.
V
Again at another time we found ourselves in Canterbury, where Toole
amused himself for a whole afternoon by spreading a report that the
Government were going to move the Cathedral from Canterbury to Margate,
giving as a reason that the latter place was so much larger. Strange to
say that there were some who believed it. Toole worked systematically.
He went into barbers’ shops—three of them in turn, and in each got
shaved. As I wore a beard I had to be content with having my hair cut;
it came out pretty short in the end. As he underwent the shaving
operation he brought conversation round to the subject of the moving of
the Cathedral. Then we went into shops without end where he bought all
sorts of things—collars, braces, socks, caps, fruits and spice for
making puddings, children’s toys, arrowroot, ginger wine, little shawls,
sewing cotton, emery paper, hair oil, goloshes, corn plasters—there was
no end to the variety of his purchases, each of which was an opening for
some fresh variant of the coming change.
At one other visit to Canterbury we came across in the ancient Cathedral
an insolent verger. Toole, who was, for all his fun, a man of reverent
nature, was as usual with him grave and composed in the church. The
verger, taking him for some stranger of the _bourgeois_ class, thought
him a fit subject to impress. When Toole spoke of the new Dean who had
been lately appointed the man said in a flippant way:
“We don’t care much for him. We don’t think we’ll keep him!”
This was enough for Toole. He looked over at me in a way I understood
and forthwith began to ask questions:
“Did you, may I ask, sir, preach this morning?”
“No. Not this morning. I don’t preach this week.” We knew then that that
verger was to be “had on toast.” Toole went on:
“Do you preach on next Sunday, sir? I should like to hear you.”
“Well, no! I don’t think I’ll preach on Sunday.”
“Will you preach the Sunday after?”
“Perhaps.”
“May I ask, sir, are you the Dean?”
“No. I am not the Dean!” His manner implied that he was something more.
“Are you the Sub-Dean?”
“Not the Sub-Dean.” His answers were getting short.
“Are you what they call a Canon?”
“No, I should not exactly call myself a Canon.”
“Are you a minor Canon?”
“No!”
“Are you a precentor?”
“Not exactly that.”
“Are you in the choir?”
“No.”
“May I ask you what you are then, sir?”—this was said with great
deference. The man, cornered at last, thought it best to speak the
truth, so he answered:
“I am what they call a ‘verger!’”
“Quite so!” said Toole gravely; “I thought you were only a servant by
the insolent way you spoke of your superiors!”
The remainder of that personal conduction was made in silence.
VI
On one occasion when Toole was taking the waters at Homburg, King Edward
VII., then Prince of Wales, was there. He had a breakfast party to which
he had asked Toole and also Sir George Lewis and Sir Squire Bancroft. In
the course of conversation his Royal Highness asked Bancroft where he
was going after Homburg. The answer was that he was going to Maloya in
Switzerland. Then turning to Toole he asked him:
“Are you going to Maloya also, Mr. Toole?” In reply Toole said, as he
bowed and pointed to the great solicitor:
“No, sir, Ma-loya (my lawyer) is here!”
I remember one Derby day, 1893, when we were both in the party to which
Mr. Knox D’Arcy extended the hospitality of his own stand next to that
of the Jockey Club—a hospitality which I may say was boundless and
complete. When I arrived the racing was just beginning, and the course
was crowded by the moving mass seeking outlets before the cordon of
police with their rope. As I got close to the stand I heard a voice that
I knew coming from the wicket-gate, which was surrounded with a seething
mass of humanity of all kinds pushing and struggling to get close.
“Walk this way, ladies and gentlemen! Walk this way! get tickets here.
Only one shilling, including lunch. Walk this way!”
A somewhat similar joke on his part was on board a steamer on Lake
Lucerne, when he was there with Irving. He went quietly to one end of
the steamer and cried out in a loud voice: “Cook’s tourists, this way.
Sandwich and glass of sherry provided free!” Then, slipping over to the
other end of the boat as the crowd began to rush for the free lunch, he
again made proclamation: “Gaze’s party, this way. Brandy and soda,
hard-boiled eggs, and butterscotch provided free!” Again he disappeared
before the crowd could assemble.
A favourite joke of his when playing Paul Pry was to find out what
friends of his were in the house and then to have their names put upon
the blackboard at the inn with scores against them of gigantic amount.
This was a never-stale source of surprise and delight to the children of
his friends. He loved all children, and next to his own, the children of
his friends. For each of such there was always a box of chocolates. He
kept a supply in his dressing-room, and I never knew the child of a
friend to go away empty-handed. With such a love in his heart was it
strange that in his own bad time, when his sadness was just beginning to
take hold on his very heart’s core, he loved to think much of those old
friends who had loved his own children who had gone?
VII
Somehow his mirth never lessened his pathos. His acting—his whole life—
has been a sort of proof that the two can coexist. His Caleb Plummer was
never a whit less moving because his audience laughed through their
tears. It may be his art became typified in his life.
When Irving died I telegraphed the same night to Frank Arlton, Toole’s
nephew, who during all his long illness had given him the most tender
care. I feared that if I did not send such warning some well-intentioned
blunderer might give him a terrible shock. Arlton acted most prudently,
and broke the sad news himself at a favourable opportunity the next day.
When poor Toole heard it his remark was one of infinite pathos:
“Then let me die too!”
Such a wish is in itself an epitaph of lasting honour.
VIII
Toole’s belief and sympathy and help were of infinite service to the
friend whom he loved. Comfort and confidence and assistance all in one.
And it is hardly too much to say that Irving could never have done what
he did, and in the way he did it, without the countenance and help of
his old friend. Irving always, ever since I knew him, liked to associate
Toole with himself in everything; and to me who know all that was
between them it is but just—as well as the carrying out of my dear
friend’s wishes—that in this book their names shall be associated as
closely as I can achieve by the Dedication. Shortly before his last
illness I went down to Brighton to see him and to ask formally his
permission to this end. He seemed greatly moved by it. Later on I sent
the proof of the page containing it, asking Arlton to show it to him if
he thought it advisable. Toole had then partially recovered from the
attack and occasionally saw friends and was interested in what went on.
Arlton’s letter to me described the effect:
“I gave him your message last night, and I fear I did unwisely, as
nurse says he has been talking all night about Sir Henry and books.”
That visit to Brighton was the last time I saw Toole. He was then very
low in health and spirits. He could hardly move or see; his voice was
very feeble and one had to speak close and clearly that he might hear
well. But his intellect was as clear as ever, and he spoke of many old
friends. I spent the day with him; after lunch I walked by his
bath-chair to the end of the Madeira Walk. There we stayed a while, and
when my time for leaving came, I told him—but not before. In his late
years Toole could not bear the idea of any one whom he loved leaving
him, even for a time. We used therefore to say no word of parting till
the moment came. When he held out his poor, thin, trembling hand to me
he said with an infinite pathos whose memory moves me still:
“Bram, we have often parted—but this time is the last. I shall never see
you again! Won’t you let me kiss you, dear!”
LXVI
ELLEN TERRY
I
The first time I saw Ellen Terry was on the forenoon of Monday, December
23, 1878. The place was the passage-way which led from the stage of the
Lyceum to the office, a somewhat dark passage under the staircase
leading to the two “star” dressing-rooms up the stage on the O.P. side.
But not even the darkness of that December day could shut out the
radiant beauty of the woman to whom Irving, who was walking with her,
introduced me. Her face was full of colour and animation, either of
which would have made her beautiful. In addition was the fine form, the
easy rhythmic swing, the large, graceful, goddess-like way in which she
moved. I knew of her of course—all the world did then though not so well
as afterwards; and she knew of me already, so that we met as friends. I
had for some years known Charles Wardell, the actor playing under the
name of Charles Kelly, to whom she had not long before been married.
Kelly had in his professional visits to Dublin been several times in my
lodgings, and as I had reason to believe that he had a high opinion of
me I felt from Ellen Terry’s gracious and warm manner of recognition
that she accepted me as a friend. That belief has been fully justified
by a close friendship, unshaken to the extent of a hair’s breadth
through all the work and worry—the triumphs and gloom—the sunshine and
showers—storm and trial and stress of twenty-seven years of the
comradeship of work together.
Irving had engaged her entirely on the strength of the reputation which
she had already made in _Olivia_ and the other plays which had gone
before it. He had not seen her play since the days of the Queen’s
Theatre, Long Acre, 1867–8, when they had played together in _The Taming
of the Shrew_, she being the Katherine to his Petruchio. He had not
thought very much of her playing in those days. Long after she had made
many great successes at the Lyceum, in speaking of the early days he
said to me:
“She was always bright and lively, and full of fun. She had a distinct
charm; but as an artist was rather on the hoydenish side!”
From the moment, however, that she began to rehearse at the Lyceum his
admiration for her became unbounded. Many and many a time have I heard
him descant on her power. It was a favourite theme of his. He said that
her pathos was “nature helped by genius,” and that she had a “gift of
pathos.” He knew well the value of her playing both to himself and the
public, and for the early years of his management plays were put on in
which she would have suitable parts. _Iolanthe_ was put on for her,
likewise _The Cup_, _The Belle’s Stratagem_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Much
Ado About Nothing_, _Twelfth Night_ and _Olivia_. Synorix was not a part
for the sake of which Irving would have produced _The Cup_; neither
Romeo nor Benedick is a part such as he would have chosen for himself.
Neither Malvolio nor Dr. Primrose was seemingly a great _rôle_ for a man
who had been accustomed for years to “carry the play on his back.”
II
I think that Ellen Terry fascinated every one who ever met her—men,
women and children, it was all the same. I have heard the evidences of
this fascination in many ways from all sorts of persons in all sorts of
places. One of them in especial lingers in my mind: perhaps this is
because I belong to a nationality to whose children “blarney” is
supposed to be a heritage.
On the afternoon of Sunday, November 25, 1883, we had travelled from New
York to Philadelphia, paying our first visit to the Quaker City. Irving
and I were staying at the Belle Vue Hotel; there, too, Ellen Terry took
up her quarters. I dined with Irving, and we were smoking after dinner
when a card and a message came up. The card was that of the Hon.
Benjamin H. Brewster, then Attorney-General of the United States. The
message was to the effect that he had broken his journey for a few hours
on his way to Washington for the purpose of meeting Mr. Irving, and
begging that he would waive ceremony and see him. Of course, Irving was
very pleased, and the Attorney-General came up. He was a clever-looking,
powerfully built man, but his face was badly scarred. In his boyhood he
had, I believe, fallen into the fire. Until one knew him and came under
the magic of his voice, and tongue, his appearance was apt to concern
one over-much. He was quaint in his dress, wearing frills on shirt-front
and cuffs. He was of an Irish family which had sent very prominent men
to the Bar; a namesake of his was a leading counsel in my own youth.
Irving and I were delighted with him. After an hour or so he asked if it
were possible that he might see Miss Terry. Irving thought she would be
very pleased. In compliance with the Attorney-General’s request she came
down to Irving’s room and was most sweet and gracious to the stranger.
After a while she went away; he prepared to go also, for his train was
nearly due. When Ellen Terry had left the room he turned to us and said,
with all that conviction of truth which makes “blarney” so effective:
“What a creature! what a Queen! She smote me with the sword of her
beauty, and I arose her Knight!”
III