right and the Princess on her left, and the others of the family beside
them. Next came the guests in their degrees. The doorway was crowded
with the servants—the Queen’s all in black and the Prince’s in Royal
scarlet liveries. Her Majesty seemed greatly pleased. It had been
arranged that Irving and Ellen Terry were to join the Prince and
Princess at supper. The Queen would not wait up, but was to retire at
once. However, just as the players were removing their war-paint, Her
Majesty sent word by Sir Henry Ponsonby that she would like to speak to
Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. Irving was in the act of removing his
“make-up” as Shylock, which was a job requiring some little time. He was
extraordinarily quick both as to dressing and undressing; but the
“priming” of earth on which stage paint is laid, grease, paint, and
lampblack and spirit-gum take some little time to remove, even before
the stage of soap-and-water is reached. Portia, however, is a part which
does not soil, and as to mere dressing, Ellen Terry can simply fly. She
knew that Irving would be at least a few minutes, and it is not good
form to keep a Queen waiting. Within a minute she was tearing down the
passage, with her dresser running close behind her and fastening up the
back of her frock as she went. At the doorway she threw over her
shoulders the scarf which was a part of her dress and sailed into the
room with a grand courtesy. Within a very few minutes Irving in
immaculate evening dress followed.
Irving and Ellen Terry supped with the Royal guests. For the rest of the
Company supper was prepared in the Conservatory. The heads of
departments and workmen were entertained in the Housekeeper’s room or
the Servants’ Hall according to their degrees. Irving had with his usual
wish to save trouble arranged for supper for all the party on the train
home. But the Prince of Wales would not hear of such a thing. He said
that the players were his guests and that they must eat in his house. It
had been understood that there was to be no suggestion of payment of
even expenses. Irving was only too proud and happy to serve his Queen
and future King in all ways of his own art to the best of his power.
This arrangement was held to on every occasion on which he had the
honour to give a special performance before Royalty.
At half-past two o’clock the whole Company and workmen were driven to
Wolferton station where the special train was waiting. It arrived at St.
Pancras a few minutes past six in the morning.
II
WINDSOR, 1893.
The performance at Windsor was in its way quite a remarkable thing. In
the earlier years of her reign Queen Victoria was accustomed to have
from time to time theatrical performances at Windsor Castle. These were
generally held in the Waterloo Chamber, where a movable stage was
erected on each occasion. In old days this stage was so low that once
Mr. Henry Howe, who had to come up through a trap according to the
action of the piece, had to crawl on his stomach under the stage to get
to the appointed place. Howe was nearly eighty years of age when he told
me this incident, but the memory was so strong on him that he laughed
like a boy. When the Prince Consort died in 1861 all such gaieties were
stopped, and for thirty-two years no play was given at Windsor. But
after 1889 when the Queen did begin to resume something like the old
life at Court her first effort in that direction was to command a
performance by those players of the later day whom she had seen at
Sandringham, whose merit was widely recognised and who had already won
official recognition of another kind—the previous year the University of
Dublin had given Irving a degree _Honoris Causa_. Moreover, the Queen
wanted to see _Becket_, the work of her own Poet Laureate, which had
created so much interest and thought.
Sir Henry Ponsonby, the Queen’s Private Secretary, came from Windsor to
see Irving at Her Majesty’s wish. Irving was, of course, delighted to
hold himself at the Queen’s will. The only stipulation which he made was
that he was to be allowed to bear the expenses of all kinds and was not
to be offered fee or pay of any kind, even though such was a usual
formality. For this he had a special reason; not to set himself up as an
individual against the custom of the Court, but to avoid the possibility
of such a _bêtise_ as had in earlier years stopped the Windsor
theatrical performances for a time. The way of it was this: At the
commencement of the system of having such performances the Queen had
left the matter in the hands of Charles Kean, then the manager of the
Princess’s Theatre, and acknowledged head of the theatrical calling. He
and his assistants made all the necessary arrangements, taking care that
the gift of the Court patronage was, as fairly as was possible, divided
amongst actors both in London and throughout the provinces. This worked
excellently; and there were few, if any, jealousies. Kean made all the
financial arrangements and paid salaries on the scale fixed on his
suggestion by the Privy Purse. Matters went along smoothly so long as
Kean had control. Later on, however, this was handed over to Mr.
Mitchell of Bond Street, the agent who acted for the Queen with regard
to her visits to London theatres and other places of amusement. At last
came trouble. The scale of salary fixed was, I believe—for I can only
speak from hearsay—at the rate of twice the actor’s earnings in the
previous year. On one occasion an actor of some repute was through some
incredible stupidity paid at this rate, strictly applied though the case
was exceptional. He had been for years receiving a large salary, but
during nearly the whole of the previous year had been ill and of course
“out of work.” His total earnings therefore when divided by fifty-two
amounted to but a meagre weekly wage. At a nightly standard it was
ridiculous. Kean would of course, as an actor, have understood this and
have carried out the spirit of Her Majesty’s wishes. But the man of
business went “by the card,” and when the comedian received the dole
sent to him he was highly indignant, and determined to taste some form
of satisfaction, if only of revenge for his injured feelings. Of course
the Queen knew nothing of all this, and be sure she was incensed when
she heard of it. The actor’s form of revenge was to send the amount of
salary paid to him to the police court poor-box as a contribution from
himself and Queen Victoria.
I may be wrong in details of the story, for it is one of fifty years
ago, but in the main it is correct. I had it from Irving and I have
often heard it spoken about by old actors of the time. With such a
catastrophe in his memory Irving naturally wished to be careful. He had
to consider not only himself but his whole Company, hundreds of persons
of all degrees. Some of them might look on the affair as an Eldorado
whence should come wealth beyond the dreams of avarice and be
“disgruntled” at any failure to that end. When he was himself the
paymaster and shared as an individual the conditions attaching to his
comrades, there could be no complaint. Henry Irving was a most loyal
subject; he wished at all times to render love and honour to the
Monarch, and as he was in his own way a conspicuous individual it was
necessary to be careful lest his good intentions should stray.
Sir Henry Ponsonby quite understood Irving’s feelings and wishes, and
acceded to them. Train arrangements were to be at the expense of the
Queen, who was particular that this should be the rule with all her
guests. Of course Irving acquiesced. When the day—March 18, which the
Queen wished—had been arranged the matter of accomplishment was left
entirely in his hands. Forthwith the work of preparation began.
New scenery, exactly the same as that in use but on a smaller scale and
better suited to its mechanism to the limited space, was painted; and
with it a beautiful proscenium for the miniature theatre built up in the
Waterloo Chamber. The first contingent which went to Windsor on the
morning of the day of the performance numbered one hundred and
seventy-eight persons.
At nine o’clock the Queen arrived, walking slowly through the long
corridor. She sat, of course, in the centre of the daïs, with the
Empress Frederick of Germany on her right and the Prince of Wales on her
left. The room was exquisitely decorated with plants and flowers, and as
it was filled with ladies and gentlemen in court dress and uniform, the
effect was very fine. The play went well. The Queen had with graceful
and kindly forethought given orders that all present might applaud as
they would—it not having been etiquette to applaud on such occasions
without Royal permission. Another piece of thoughtful kindness of Her
Majesty was to have amongst the guests staying for the week-end at
Windsor Lord and Lady Tennyson. The adaptation of the play to the lesser
space than the Lyceum was so judiciously done that one did not notice
any difference.
At the close of the performance the Queen sent for Irving and Ellen
Terry and complimented them on the perfection and beauty of their
playing. To Irving she said:
“It is a very noble play! What a pity that old Tennyson did not live to
see it. It would have delighted him as it has delighted Us!”
She also received Geneviève Ward and William Terriss.
The Queen always wished that her guests of all degrees should be made
welcome, and Sir Henry Ponsonby said that she had arranged that all the
company, players and workmen of all kinds, should dine and take supper
in the Castle. The dinner was less formal, but the supper was in its way
a function. Four different rooms were arranged for the purpose. In the
first were the acting company and higher officials to the number of
about fifty. The gentlemen of the orchestra and the heads of departments
in the second and third; the workmen, &c., in the fourth. At the end all
drank the Queen’s health loyally.
There was an immense amount of public interest in this performance. So
high it ran that all the great newspapers asked permission to be
represented. This request could not be acceded to as it was a purely
private affair; the utmost that could by usage be allowed was that press
representatives should during the afternoon be allowed to see the
Waterloo Chamber prepared for the performance in the evening.
Late in the afternoon I received a request from a lot of the chief
papers that I should myself ask permission to send a short despatch, say
some five hundred words, at the close of the performance. I took the
message to Sir Henry Ponsonby, who seemed very much struck with it, as
though the public importance of the event had suddenly dawned on him. He
said:
“I must take this to the Queen at once and learn her wishes respecting
it. The matter seems to be of much more importance than I had thought!”
He came back shortly, seemingly very pleased, and said to me, speaking
as he approached:
“The Queen says that she is very pleased to give permission. Mr. Bram
Stoker may write whatever he pleases about the event. But he must say
nothing till after the performance is all over.” Then he added, “The
Queen also told me to explain that she was sending orders to have the
telegraph office in the Castle kept open for your convenience till you
have quite done with it. I had better explain that the telegraph office
here is a private one and that the Queen pays for all telegrams. This
she insists on.”
Altogether the performance was a very memorable one. It marked an epoch
in the life of the great Queen—that in which she broke the long gloom of
more than thirty years and began the restoration to something like the
old happy life of the earlier years of her reign.
III
SANDRINGHAM, 1902
The second visit to Sandringham came thirteen years after the first,
being in 1902, after the King’s accession. The occasion was that of the
Kaiser’s visit. The King wished to have a surprise for him; and at the
time he had his “Command” conveyed to Irving his wish was intimated that
the matter should be kept absolutely secret till the event came off.
This we could see was to be a difficult task; but the promise was given
and kept. At the date fixed—November 14—we would be playing in Belfast,
so that the task to get there and return with the loss of only one night
to the audience was really a stupendous one. It would involve special
arrangements with at least one shipping company and several railways.
This would necessitate the fact of the journey being known to so many
people that really secrecy seemed impossible of achievement. However the
matter was undertaken and had to be done. Not a soul other than the
actively engaged knew of the affair beforehand. Even Ellen Terry was
purposely kept in the dark. As the only play to be given by Irving was
_Waterloo_ the cast was small, there being only four people in it. These
with three others would comprise the party. One man had been sent to
London to bring down the scene specially painted for the occasion and to
see to arrangements. Mr. Ben Webster, who was to play his original part
of Colonel Midwinter, was to come from London, where he was then
playing. Let me say here that not the slightest whisper went forth on
our side; and we were surprised to see an account of what was to be
done, which evidently came from another branch of the entertainment
being made ready for the King’s Imperial guest.
When we began to consider the practicability of the journey my heart
sank. There seemed no way by which the out and return journeys could be
done. I was for a time seriously considering the advisability of asking
for a torpedo boat to run us over from Belfast, to Stranraer, Barrow,
Fleetwood, or Liverpool. After a good deal of consideration, however, a
journey was arranged which could only have been done by placing the
whole resources of shipping and railway companies at our disposal. The
_Magic_, the fastest boat of the Belfast line, was to be taken off her
regular service two days before; loaded up with the best Welsh coal, and
held ready at the wharf with full steam up on the evening of the
journey. The railroading would be arranged from Euston.
_Faust_ was played in Belfast on the night of November 13. As the
members of the little party finished on the stage they got dressed and
were driven down to the wharf. The moment the last call was given at the
end of the play Irving hurried into his travelling clothes, and he and I
were whirled off to the _Magic_. The instant we passed on deck the
gangway plank was drawn and the ship started off full speed. Such was
contrary to law, as ships should only go part speed in the Loch. But no
one made objections; we were on the King’s service.
We got to Liverpool at eight in the morning and found alongside the dock
the special carriage, one of the Royal saloons used on the London and
North-Western Railway; got on board and were whirled off to Crewe, where
we caught the fast express to Rugby. There we took on a dining-car and
went on to Peterborough. Here our carriage was handed over to the Great
Eastern Company, which took us on the fast train to Lynn, and thence on
a special to Wolferton.
At ten o’clock precisely, Sandringham time—which is half an hour ahead
of standard time—the Kaiser and the Queen moved into the great
drawing-room where the stage was fixed. Then followed the King and
family, and guests. There were altogether some three hundred and fifty
in the room.
As the movement to the theatre began there was—to us—an amusing episode.
After our arrival, when things were being put in order for the
performance, it had been discovered that kettle-drums were missing.
Either they had not been sent at all or they had gone astray. At first
we took it for granted that in such a scene of pomp and splendour as was
around us drums and drummers would be easy to find. But it was not so.
Drums were obtainable but no drummer, and there was not time to get one
from the nearest town. Now the military music is necessary for the
performance of _Waterloo_; the quicksteps are not only required for the
Prelude but are in the structure of the piece. For the occasion of the
Imperial visit, there had been brought from Vienna a celebrated string
band, the conductor of high status in his art and all the components of
the band fine players. But there was no drummer; and there could be even
no proper rehearsal of the incidental music of the play without the
drums. We were beginning to despair, when the head constable of the
county who was present said that there was one man in the police of the
division who was the drummer of the Police Band of the district, and
undertook to try and find him. After much telegraphing and telephoning
it was found that he was out on his beat about the farthest point of his
district. However, when he was located a trap with a fresh horse was
sent for him. He arrived tired and foodless just before the time fixed
for beginning. He was a fine performer fortunately, a master of his
work, and with the score before him needed no preparation.
When the signal was given of the movement of the Royalties the Conductor
took his baton, but when he looked at the score of the Prelude, which is
continually changing time with the medley of the various regimental
quicksteps, he said:
“I cannot play it.”
“Go on, man! Go on!” said Belmore, who was acting as stage manager.
“I cannot!” he answered; “I cannot!” and stood unmoving. Things were
serious, for already the procession was formed and the Kaiser and the
Queen were entering the room. It had been arranged that the Prelude was
to play them to their seats. “Give me the stick!” said Belmore suddenly,
and took the fiddle bow with which he conducted from the unresisting
hand of the stranger. Of course all this was behind the scenes and
amongst ourselves only. Then he began to conduct. He had never done so,
but he had some knowledge of music. But the gentlemen of the band did
not hesitate. They were all fine musicians and well accustomed to
playing together. Probably they were not averse from showing that they
could play perfectly without a conductor at all! They certainly did seem
to play with especial verve. Belmore was a sight to behold. He seemed to
know all the tricks of leadership, modifying or increasing tone with one
hand whilst he beat time with the other; pausing dramatically with
uplifted baton or beating with sudden forcefulness; screwing round with
his left hand as though to twist the music into a continued unity.
Anyhow it—or something—told. The music went excellently and without a
hitch.
At one o’clock—half-past one Sandringham time—we drove to Wolferton; and
at a quarter to seven in the morning we got to the dock at Liverpool and
went aboard the _Magic_ which stood ready with steam up. The tide was
low, but as there was much fog in the river Mr. McDowell arranged that
the dock-gates should be opened before the usual hour. We actually
stirred up the mud with the screw as we passed out into the Mersey. The
river was dark with thick fog and we had to find our way, inch by inch,
to beyond New Brighton. We were beginning to despair of arriving at
Belfast in time when we cleared the belt of fog. We came out seemingly
all at once into bright sunshine which lasted all the way home. It was a
delightful day and a delightful run. The sun was bright, the air fresh
and bracing and the water of sapphire blue so calm that passing to the
south’ard of the Isle of Man we ran between the Calf and the Hen and
Chickens—the dangerous cluster of rocks lying just outside it.
We ran full tilt up Belfast Lough and arrived at the wharf at five
o’clock in good time for a wash and dress for the theatre.
When Irving stepped on the stage that night he got a right hearty cheer.
That journey was in many ways a record.
LXIX
PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES
I
Henry Irving had the honour of calling four Presidents of the United
States by the name of friend.
The first was General Chester A. Arthur, who was in his high office in
1884 when Irving first visited Washington. The President sent to him a
most kindly invitation to a Reception through Clayton McMichael, then
Marshal of the district of Columbia. This was on the night of Saturday,
8th March. After the Reception he asked Irving to remain with a very few
intimate friends after the rest had gone. They sat till a late—or rather
an early hour.
II
Irving’s first meeting with Mr. Grover Cleveland was when the latter was
President-Elect. The occasion was the _matinée_ for the benefit of the
Actor’s Fund at the Academy of Music in New York, December 4, 1884. Mr.
Cleveland was in a box, and when Irving had with Ellen Terry played the
fourth act of _The Merchant of Venice_ he sent to ask if he would come
to see him in his box. The occasion seemed rather peculiar as Irving
thus described it to me that evening:
“When I came into the box Mr. Cleveland turned round and, seeing me,
stood up and greeted me warmly. As I was thus facing the stage I could
not help noticing that a man dressed exactly as I dressed Shylock, and
with a wig and make-up counterparts of my own, was playing some droll
antics with a pump and milk cans. The President-Elect saw, I suppose,
the surprise on my face, for he turned to the stage for a moment and
then, turning back to me again, said in a grave way:
“‘That doesn’t seem very good taste, does it!’ Then leaning against the
side of the box with his face to me and his back to the stage, he went
on speaking about Shylock.”
III
Major McKinley was a friend before he was nominated for President. The
first meeting was at New York on November 16, 1893. He came to the play
with Melville Stone, a great friend of Irving’s—who introduced the
Player to him. The following week we all met again at supper with John
Sergeant Wise. This time Joseph Jefferson was of the party. Afterwards
in Cleveland Mark Hanna brought him round to see Irving in his
dressing-room.
In 1899, during our visit to Washington, Irving and I called at the
White House to pay our respects to the President, then in his second
term of office. The officials of course recognised Sir Henry, and said
that they knew the President would wish to see him. A Cabinet meeting
was on, but when word was sent the President graciously sent a message
asking Irving to wait as the Cabinet was nearly over and he wished to
see him. We waited in the “War Room,” with which Irving was immensely
struck. He said it was the most wonderful piece of organisation he had
ever known.
Presently word was brought that the Cabinet Council was over and would
we go in. It was really an impressive sight—all the more as there was no
pomp or parade of any sort. In the middle of the great room with its row
of arched windows stood the President, the baldness of his domed
forehead making more apparent than ever his likeness to Napoleon.
Grouped round him were various chiefs of State departments, amongst them
John Hay, Secretary of State; Elihu Root, Secretary for War; Charles
Emory Smith, Postmaster-General, all of whom were by that time old
friends. We had known them intimately since 1883–4. The President was
sweetly gracious. We thought that he did not seem well in health; there
was a waxen hue in his face which we did not like. The terrible labour
of the Presidency—increased in his time by two wars—was undoubtedly
telling on his strength. We were with him quite half an hour, a long
while for such a place and time, and then came away.
At that visit to the White House we saw President McKinley for the last
time. His assassination was attempted on 6th September 1901; he died on
14th.
On the 18th September Irving gave his Reading of _Becket_ at Winchester
for the King Alfred Millenary. He was called on to speak, and after
speaking of King Alfred and what he had done for the making of England,
he said:
“All that race which looks on King Alfred’s memory as a common
heritage is in bitter grief for one whom to-morrow a mourning nation
is to lay to rest. President McKinley, like his predecessor of a
thousand years ago, worked for all the world; and his memory shall be
green for ever in the hearts of a loyal and expansive race—in the
hearts of all English-speaking people.”
IV
Irving’s first meeting with Theodore Roosevelt was on 27th November
1895. The occasion was a luncheon party given by Seth Low, ex-Mayor of
Brooklyn and then President of Columbia College. At that time Mr.
Roosevelt was Commissioner of Police for the City of New York, with
absolute power over the whole force. He and Irving had a chat together
before lunch and again after it. For myself he was a person of
extraordinary interest. After I had been introduced we had a chat.
Before he left he came to me and said: