were her devoted servants. Irving was only too glad to let her genius
and her art have full swing; and it was a pleasure to all to carry out
her wishes. As a member of a company she was always simply ideal. She
encouraged the young, helped every one, and was not only a “fair” but a
“generous” actor. These terms imply much on the stage, where it is
possible, without breaking any rule, to gain all the advantage to the
detriment of other players. To Ellen Terry such a thing was impossible;
she not only gave to every one acting with her all the opportunities
that their parts afforded, but made opportunities for them. For
instance, it is always an advantage for an actor to stand in or near the
centre of the stage and well down to the footlights. In old days such a
place was the right of the most important actor; a right which was
always claimed. But Ellen Terry would when occasion served stand up
stage or down as might be suitable to the person speaking. And when her
own words had been spoken she would devote her whole powers to helping
the work of her comrades on the stage. These seemingly little things
count for much in the summing up of years, and it is no wonder that
Ellen Terry as an artist is, and always has been, loved. From the first,
to her as an artist always has been given the supreme respect which she
had justly won. No one ever cavilled, no one ever challenged, no one
ever found fault. All sought her companionship, her advice, her
assistance. She moved through the world of the theatre like embodied
sunshine. Her personal triumphs were a source of joy to all; of envy to
none.
She seems to have the happy faculty of spinning gaiety out of the very
air; and adds always to the sum of human happiness.
IV
Her performance of Ophelia alone would have insured her a record for
greatness; Irving never ceased expatiating on it. I well remember one
night in 1879—it was after a third performance of _Hamlet_—when he took
supper with my wife and me. He talked all the time of Ellen Terry’s
wonderful performance. One thing which he said fixed itself in my mind:
“How Shakespeare must have dreamed when he was able to write a part like
Ophelia, knowing that it would have to be played by a boy! Conceive his
delight and gratitude if he could but have seen Ellen Terry in it!”
Indeed it was a delight to any one even to see her. No one who had seen
it can forget the picture that she made in the Fourth Act when she came
in holding a great bunch—an armful—of flowers; lilies and other gracious
flowers and all those that are given in the text. For my own part, every
Ophelia whom I have seen since then has suffered by the comparison.
Ellen Terry loves flowers, and in her playing likes to have them on the
stage with her when suitable. Irving was always most particular with
regard to her having exactly what she wanted. The Property Master had
strict orders to have the necessary flowers, no matter what the cost.
Other players could, and had to, put up with clever imitations; but
Ellen Terry always had real flowers. I have known when the rule was
carried through under extreme difficulties. This was during the week
after the blizzard at New York in March 1888 when such luxuries were at
famine price. She had as Margaret her bunch of roses every night. I
bought them one day myself for the purpose when the blooms were five
dollars each.
V
Ellen Terry’s art is wonderfully true. She has not only the instinct of
truth but the ability to reproduce it in the different perspective of
the stage. There must always be some grand artistic qualities, quite
apart from personal charm, to render any actress worthy of universal
recognition. To those who have seen Ellen Terry no explanation is
needed. She is artist to her finger-tips. The rules which Taine applies
to Art in general, and to plastic art in particular, apply in especial
degree to an artist of the Stage. That which he calls “selective” power,
a natural force, is ever a ruling factor in the creation of character.
The finer and more evanescent evidences of individuality must to a large
extent be momentary. No true artist ever plays the same part alike on
different repetitions. The occasion; the variation of temperament, even
of temperature; the emotional characteristic of the audience; the
quickening or dulling of the ruling sentiment of the day or hour—each
and all of these insensibly, if not consciously, can regulate the
pressure in the temperamental barometer. When to the gift of logical
power of understanding causes and effects there is added that of
instinctively thinking and doing the right thing, then the great artist
is revealed. It is, perhaps, this instinctive power which is the basis
of creative art; the power of the poet as distinguished from that of the
workman. Then comes a nicely balanced judgment of the selective faculty.
There are always many ways of doing the same thing. One, of course, must
be best; though others may come very close to it in merit.
Ellen Terry has the faculty of reaching the best. When one sees any
other actress essay a part in which she has won applause, the actuality
seems but dull beside the memory. As the object of stage work is
“seeming” not “being,” the effort to appear real transcends reality—with
the art of stage perspective added.
VI
When Ellen Terry has taken hold of a character it becomes, whilst her
thoughts are on it, a part of her own nature. In fact, her own nature
“is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.”
Her intuition—which in a woman is quicker than a man’s reason—not only
avoids error from the very inception of her work, but brings her
unerringly by the quickest road to the best end. In the studying of her
own parts and the arranging of her own business of them she had always
had a free hand with Irving. At the Lyceum she was consulted about
everything; and the dispositions of other persons and things were made
to fit into her arrangements. I can only recall one instance when her
wishes were not exactly carried out. This was at the end of the church
scene of _Much Ado About Nothing_ which in the Lyceum version finished
the Fourth Act—the scene of the Prison which in Shakespeare ends the act
having been transferred to the beginning of the last act. Here Beatrice
has pledged Benedick to kill Claudio. Her newly accepted lover finishes
the scene: “Go, comfort your cousin; I must say, she is dead; and so,
farewell.” Irving thought that the last words should be a little more
operative with regard to the coming portion of the play; and so insisted
in putting in the “gag” which was often in use:
_Beatrice._ “Benedick, kill Claudio!”
_Benedick._ “As sure as I’m alive I will!”
Against this Ellen Terry protested, almost to tears. She thought that
every word of Shakespeare was sacred; to add to them was wrong. Still
Irving was obdurate; and she finally yielded to his wishes.
To my own mind Irving was right. He too held every word of Shakespeare
in reverence; but modern conditions, which require the shortening of
plays, necessitate now and again the concentration of ideas—the emphasis
of purposes. The words of the “tag” which he and Ellen Terry spoke, and
the extraordinary forceful way they spoke them, heightened the effect.
By carrying on the idea of the audience to an immediate and definite
purpose they increased the “tug” of the play.
It may be interesting to note that this introduction was not, so far as
I remember, commented on by any of the critics. It was not printed in
the acting version, but the words were spoken—and there was no
possibility of their not being heard—on every performance of the run of
two hundred nights. Where there are so many Shakespeareans looking
keenly for errors of text, it was odd such an addition should have
passed without comment!
VII
The sincerity of Ellen Terry’s nature finds expression in her art. In
all my long experience of her I never knew her to strike a wrong note.
Doubtless she has her faults. She is a woman; and perfection must not be
expected even in the finishing work of Creation.
But whatever faults she may have are altogether those of the individual
human being, not of the artist. As the latter she had achieved
perfection even when I first saw her in 1878.
The mind which balances truly each item, each evidence of character
submitted to it by nature, experience or the dramatist, is the true
source of art. Without it perfection must be a hazard; when there are
many roads to choose from, the traveller may chance to blunder into the
right one, but the doing so is the work of luck not art. But when day
after day, week after week, year after year one _always_ takes the right
road, chance or fortune cannot be regarded as the dominating cause. The
sincerity of art has many means of expression; but even of these some
are more subtle than others. Such exposition demands mind, and the
exercise of mind; we may, I think, take it that intention requires
intellectual effort both for its conception and execution—the wish and
the attempt to turn desire into force. The carrying out of intention
requires fresh mental effort. And such must be primarily based on a
knowledge of the powers and facts at command. Thus it is that the actor
must understand himself; the task is even more difficult when the actor
is a woman whose nature, therefore, in its manifestations is continually
changing. But this very changeableness has in it the elements of force
and charm. Out of the kaleidoscope come glimpses of new things which
have only to be recorded and remembered in order to become knowledge. In
the variety of emotions is a pauseless attractiveness which does not
admit of weariness. Nature was good to Ellen Terry in the equipment for
her work. Her personality, enriched by the gifts showered upon her, is a
very treasure-house of art. No other woman of her time has shown such
abounding and abiding charm; such matchless mirthfulness; pathos so
deep.
VIII
As to the stage characters which she has made her own it would be
impossible to say enough. Any one of them is worthy of an exhaustive
study. In the early days of her acting, which began when her years were
but few, stage art was in a poor way. The old style of acting, eminently
suitable to the age in which it had been evolved, was still in vogue,
though the conditions of the great world without were changing. “The
Drama’s laws the Drama’s patrons give” is a truth told with poetic
comprehensiveness; what the public wants, the actors must in reason
supply. But that age—when railways were still new, when telegraphs were
hoped for; when such knowledge as that of the influence of worms on the
outer layer of the structure of the world was being investigated, and
when the existence of bacteria was becoming a conclusion rather than a
guess—did not mean to be satisfied with an old-world, unnatural
expression of human feeling seemingly based on a belief that passions
were single and crude and that they swept aside the manifold
complications of life. Ellen Terry belongs to the age of investigation.
She is of those who brought in the new school of natural acting. It is
true that she had learned and benefited by the teaching and experience
of the old school. The lessons which Mrs. Charles Kean had so patiently
taught her gave her boldness and breadth, and made for the realisation
of poetic atmosphere and that perspective of the stage which is so much
stronger than that of real life. But the work which she did in the new
school came from herself. Here it was that her manifold gifts and charms
found means of expression—of working out her purpose in relation to the
characters which she undertook. If I had myself to put into a phrase the
contribution to art-progress which Ellen Terry’s work has been, I should
say that it was the recognition of freedom of effort. She enlarged the
bounds of art from those of convention to those of nature; and in doing
so gave fuller scope to natural power. Since she set the way many
another actress has arrived at the full success possible to the range of
her gifts who otherwise would have been early strangled in the meshes of
convention. The general effect of this has been to raise the art as well
as widening it. The natural style does not allow of falsity or
grossness; in the light which is common to all who understand, either by
instinct or education, these stand out as faults or excrescences. In
this “natural” method also individual force counts for its worth and the
characteristic notes of sex are marked. For instance, I have heard—for
unfortunately I never saw the piece—that when long ago she played _The
Wandering Heir_ her charm of sex was paramount; she played a girl
masquerading as a boy so delightfully because she was so complete a
woman. In her, womanhood is paramount. She has to the full in her nature
whatever quality it is that corresponds to what we call “virility” in a
man.
Her influence on her art has been so marked that one can see in the
younger generation of women players how in their efforts to understand
her methods they have unconsciously held her identity as their
objective. In a number of them this appears as a sort of mild imitation.
It was the same thing with the school of Irving. Trying to follow in his
footsteps they have achieved something of his identity; generally those
little personal traits or habits catching to the eye, which some call
faults, others idiosyncrasies.
The advantages which both Irving and Ellen Terry gave to dramatic art
will be even more marked in the future than it is at the present; though
the credit to them of its doing will be less conspicuous than it is now.
Already the thoughtful work has been done; the principles have been
tested and accepted, and the teaching has reached its synthetic stage.
IX
Naturally the years that went to the doing of this fine art work threw
the two players together in a remarkable way, and made for an artistic
comradeship which, so far as I know, has had no equal in their own
branch of art. It began with Irving’s management at the end of 1878 and
lasted as a working reality for twenty-four years. At the Prince’s
Theatre, Bristol, on the last night of the Provincial Tour of 1902,
December 13, she played for the last time under his management. Some
months later, July 14, 1903, they played again in the same piece _The
Merchant of Venice_ at Drury Lane for the benefit of the Actors’
Association. This occasion has become a memorable one; it was the last
time when they played together.
Their cause of separation was in no wise any form of disagreement. It
was simply effluxion of time. To the last hour of Irving’s life the
brotherly affection between them remained undimmed. Naturally when these
two great powers who had worked together in the public eye for nearly a
quarter of a century separated Curiosity began to search for causes, and
her handmaid Gossip proclaimed what she alleged to be them. Let me tell
the simple truth and so set the matter right:
In the course of their long artistic co-operation Irving had produced
twenty-seven plays in which they had acted together. In nineteen of
these Ellen Terry had played young parts, which naturally in the course
of so many years became unsuitable. Indeed the first person to find
fault with them was Ellen Terry herself, who, with her keen
uncompromising critical faculty always awake to the purposes of her
work, realised the wisdom of abandonment long before the public had ever
such a thought. There remained, therefore, for their mutual use but
eight plays of the _répertoire_—the finished work of so many years. Of
these, two, _Macbeth_ and _Henry VIII._, had been destroyed by fire, and
the expense of reproducing them adequately for only occasional
presentation was prohibitive. Two others, _Coriolanus_ and _Peter the
Great_, were not popular. _Robespierre_ had had its day, a long run to
the full extent of its excellence. There remained, therefore, but three:
_Charles I._, _The Merchant of Venice_ and _Madame Sans-Gêne_. The last
of these had not proved a very great success in England; in America it
had been done to death. For _Charles I._, by its very sadness and its
dramatic scope, the audience could only be drawn from a limited class.
So that there remained for practical purposes of continuous playing only
_The Merchant of Venice_. There was one other play in which, though her
part was a young one, Ellen Terry could always play, _Much Ado About
Nothing_. But then Irving had grown too old for Benedick, and so for his
purposes the play was past.
Ellen Terry did not care—and rightly enough—to play only once or twice a
week as Portia—or in _Nance Oldfield_, given with _The Bells_—whilst
there was so much excellent work, in all ways suitable to her
personality and her years, to be done. Ordinarily one would not allude
to these matters; ladies have by right no date. But when a lady’s
Jubilee on the Stage has been a completed fact, to whose paramount
success the whole world has rung, there is no need for misleading
reticence.
The mere fact of their ceasing to play together did not bring to a close
the long artistic comradeship of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. To the
very last the kindly interest in each other’s work and the affection
between them never ceased or even slackened. Whatever one did the other
followed with eager anxiety. Right up to the hour of his death Irving
was interested in all that she did. On that last sad evening, even
whilst anxiety for the coming changes in his own work was looming over
him, he spoke to me in his dressing-room about her health and her work.
He spoke feelingly and sympathetically, and with confidence and
affection; just as he had always done during the long period of their
working together. He had written to her himself in the same vein. In his
letter he had told her what a delight it would be to him to hear her
Lecture on “The Letters in Shakespeare’s Plays.”
X
For my own part I have no words at command adequate to tell the kindly
feeling which I have always had for the delightful creature—to express
my reverence and regard and love for her enchanting personality. From
the very first she took me into the inner heart of her friendship;
unconsciously I was given the _rôle_ of “big brother.” Nay, she found a
name for me which was all her own and which one would think to be the
least appropriate to a man of my inches. When I would ask her about some
social duty which it was necessary for her to attend to—some important
person to receive, some special entertainment to attend—she would make
what nurses call a “wry face”; then she would ask:
“Bram, is this earnest?”
“Yes!” I would reply. “Honest injun!” She would smile and pout together
as she would reply:
“All right, mama!” Then I knew that she was going to play that part as
nicely as it could be played by any human being. Indeed it was hardly
“playing a part” for she was genuinely glad to meet cordiality with
equal feeling. It was only the beginning and the publicity that she
disliked.
It is hard to believe that half a century has elapsed since Ellen Terry
went timidly through her first part on the stage. The slim child
dragging the odd-looking go-cart, which the early daguerreotype recorded
as Mamilius in Charles Kean’s production of _A Winter’s Tale_, has been
so long a force of womanly charm and radiant beauty—an actress of such
incomparable excellence that in her art as in our memories she almost
stands alone—great amongst the great.
Ellen Terry is a great actress, the greatest of her time; and she will
have her niche in history. She is loved by every one who ever knew her.
Her presence is a charm, her friendship a delight; her memory will be a
national as well as a personal possession.
LXVII
FRESH HONOURS IN DUBLIN
When we visited Dublin in the tour of 1894 there were some memorable
experiences. Ever since 1876 my native city had a warm place in Irving’s
heart. And very justly so, for it had showered upon him love and honour.
This time there were two occasions which should not be forgotten.
The first was a public Reception at the Mansion House given by the then
Lord Mayor, Valentine Dillon, a friend of my own boyhood. This took
place on Thursday, November 29, and was in truth an affair of national
importance. At that time the long-continued feuds between Conservatives
and Liberals, Home Rulers and Unionists, Catholics and Protestants,
which had marked with extra virulence—for they had been long existent—
the past decades, were still operative. Still, improvement was in the
air; only opportunity was wanting to give it expression.
The beneficent occasion came in that Reception. Irving and Ellen Terry
were delightfully popular personalities. They had no politics, and what
religion either professed was not even considered; their artistic
excellence shadowed all else. Lord Mayor Dillon was a man with broad
views of life and of the dignity of the position which he held for, I
think, the third time. He cast very wide the net of his hospitable
intent. He asked every one who was of account in any way; and all came.
Some three thousand persons had been bidden and there was a full tally
of guests. When once they had actually met in a common cause, one and
all seemed to take the opportunity of showing that the hatchet had been
buried. Men who had not spoken for years—who had not looked at each
other save with the eyes of animosity, seemed glad to mingle on
something of the old terms—to renew old friendships and long-severed
acquaintanceship.
Irving and Ellen Terry, with some of us lesser lights supporting them,
stood on the daïs beside the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress; and I can
bear witness that not one who passed went without a handshake from both.
It was a serious physical effort. To shake hands with some thousands of
persons would tax the strongest. Irving went through it with all the
direct simplicity of his nature. Ellen Terry, having to supplement
nature with art, rested at times her right hand and shook with the left
with such cunning dexterity that no one was a whit the wiser. One and
all went away from that hospitable and friendly gathering in a happy
frame of mind. Dublin was a gainer by that wave of beneficent sympathy.
Two days later, on the last night of the engagement, Saturday, December
1, there was another and even more remarkable function. This was the
presentation of a Public Address on the stage after the play. This
Address was no ordinary one. It was signed by all the great public
officials, both of the city and of the country:
The Lord Mayor, the High Sheriff, the Lord Chancellor, the Commander of
the Forces, the Lord Chief Justice, all the Judges, all the City Members
of Parliament, the Provost of Dublin University, the President of the
College of Surgeons, the President of the College of Physicians, all the
Public Officials, and by a host of Leading Citizens.
When the curtain drew up the great body of the Committee, numbering
about sixty, stood behind the Lord Mayor on one side of the stage. On
the other Irving, with close behind him Ellen Terry, whom I had the
honour of escorting, and all the other members of the Company. The Lord
Mayor read the Address, which was conceived in love and honour and born
in noble and touching words. In replying for himself and Miss Terry,
Irving was much touched, and had to make an effort to speak at all.
There was a lofty look in his eyes which spoke for the sincerity of the
words which he used in his reply:
“Now when your great University has accepted me to the brotherhood of
her sons, and when your city and nation have taken me to your hearts, I
feel that the cup of a player’s honour is full to the brim.”
I have not often seen him moved so much as he was that night. His speech
and movement were only controlled by his strong will and the habit of
self-repression.
Within and without the theatre was a scene of wild enthusiasm not to be
forgotten. I have been witness of many scenes of wild generosity but
none to surpass that night.
Irving was always anxious that others should rejoice in some form with
his own rejoicing. Before leaving Dublin he placed in the hands of the
Lord Mayor a cheque for a hundred guineas for his disposal to the use of
the poor.
LXVIII
PERFORMANCES AT SANDRINGHAM AND WINDSOR
I
SANDRINGHAM, 1889.
In April 1889 the Prince of Wales had the honour of entertaining the
Queen at Sandringham. He wished that she should see Irving and Ellen
Terry, neither of whom she had seen play. Accordingly it was arranged
that on April 26 the Lyceum would be closed for the evening and that a
performance should be given in Sandringham in a little theatre specially
built in the great drawing-room. For this theatre Irving had got Walter
Hann to paint an act drop; scenery of a suitable size was prepared by
Hawes Craven—an exceedingly fine piece of miniature stage work. The Bill
fixed was: _The Bells_, and the Trial Scene from _The Merchant of
Venice_, the combination of which pieces would, the Prince thought, show
both the players at their best.
The drawing-room looked very beautiful, the white walls showing up the
many stands of magnificent weapons and armour; greenery and flowers were
everywhere. There was a large gathering in the drawing-room of not only
the house guests but local personages; the big music gallery at the back
was full of tenants and servants. The Queen had kindly expressed her
wish that the audience should do just as they wished as to applauding,
and I must say that I have never seen or heard a more enthusiastic
audience within the bounds of decorum.