Owens College, was chartered by the Queen in 1880 and it was afterwards
grouped with the Colleges of Liverpool and Leeds in the Victoria
University. It was not till 1904 that it became a University by itself.
Before the time of visiting Manchester, on his tour of 1894, Irving was
asked to give a lecture to the Owens College Literary Society. To this
he acceded, and chose as his subject “The Character of Macbeth.”
His reason for the choice was that he had wished to make, under
important conditions, a reply to some of the criticisms with which he
had been assailed on his reproduction of Shakespeare’s play in 1888, but
a suitable opportunity had not up to then appeared. Some of these
criticisms had been ridiculous, some puerile, some even infantile. I
remember Irving telling me that one ingenuous gentleman had gone so far
as to suggest that the Messenger who in Act. I. scene 5 announces to
Lady Macbeth the coming of the King, should have a bad cold. His
contention having been that Lady Macbeth says in her soliloquy:
“The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.”
The delay in his answer to the various feeble or foolish things spoken
of his work did not detract from its power. His reasoning on the
character from the text and from a study of the authorities which
Shakespeare had evidently had before him when he wrote, was absolutely
masterly. I venture to say that no student of the play can form any kind
of correct estimate of Macbeth’s character without reading it.
The lecture was given on the afternoon of Tuesday, 11th December, in the
Chemical Theatre, the largest hall then appertaining to the College and
holding some eight hundred persons. That the student element manifested
itself in no uncertain way is shown by the note in my diary:
“H. I. got enormous reception. Cheers were startling! On leaving,
students wanted to take out horses and draw carriage, but wiser
counsels prevailed.”
VI
HARVARD
_a_
Irving gave addresses at Harvard on two separate occasions.
The first was on 30th March 1885, on which occasion he took as his
subject “The Art of Acting.”
We were then playing in New York, but as Irving had promised to come to
Boston for the occasion, we left on Sunday afternoon. Several friends
came with us, amongst whom was William Winter, of the New York
_Tribune_. The train, on which we had a special carriage, was met at
Worcester by a deputation of Harvard students, who travelled back with
us to Boston. The address was given on the Monday evening, 30th, in the
Sanders Theatre, a beautifully proportioned hall of octagon shape, which
though looking not large yet held on that occasion over two thousand
people. The crowd was so great at the doors both inside and outside that
when we arrived at half-past seven we could not get in. Finally we had
to be taken in through the trap-door to the coal cellar, from which by
devious ways we were escorted to the platform. The Address was received
enthusiastically. My note says:
“Went well. H.I. looked very distinguished.”
That was in reality a mild putting of the fact. Distinguished was hardly
an adequate adjective. Even from that sea of fine intellectual heads his
noble face shone out like a star.
We were all to sup with the President of the College, Mr. Elliot; but
when the time of departure came we could not find Winter. We searched
for him high and low, but without avail. As a large party was waiting at
the President’s house we had to make up our minds to go without him. I
had, however, one more last look and found him. He was in the coal
cellar, which was about the only quiet place in the building. He sat on
a heap of coal; on the ground beside him was a lighted candle stuck in
the neck of a bottle which he had somehow requisitioned. When I came
upon him he was writing furiously—if so rude a word may be applied to an
art so gentle. He glanced up, when I spoke, with an appealing look and,
with raised hand, said with passionate entreaty:
“Bram, for God’s sake!”—I understood, and left him, having secured from
a local fireman the promise of unfaltering obedience to my instructions
to wait and take him to the carriage which we left for him. I also left
a telegraph messenger on guard, for I saw that he was writing on
telegraph “flimsy.”
Any one who will take the trouble to look up the file of the New York
_Tribune_ of the following day—March 31, 1885—will read as fine a piece
of descriptive criticism as can well be. I hope that such an one when he
finishes the article will spare time for a glance, from the eye of
imagination, at the silent figure phrasing it in the gloom of the coal
cellar.
_b_
Irving’s second address at Harvard was nine years later. On that
occasion his subject was: “The Value of Individuality,” and the address
was given in the afternoon—the place being the same, the Sanders
Theatre. There was again a great audience and a repetition of the old
enthusiasm.
That night the Tremont Theatre in Boston, where we were playing, saw an
occasion unique to the place, though not to the actor. The University
had proclaimed a “Harvard Night,” and the house was packed with College
men, from President to jib. At the end of the performance—_Nance
Oldfield_ and _The Bells_—the students presented to Irving a gold medal
commemorative of the occasion.
I may perhaps, before leaving the subject of Harvard University, mention
a somewhat startling circumstance. It had become a custom during our
visit to Boston for a lot of Harvard students to act as “supers” in our
plays. There seemed to be a brisk demand for opportunities and the local
super-master grew rich on options. When we played _King Arthur_ in 1895
there were many of these gentlemen who wore armour—the beautiful armour
designed by Burne-Jones. The biggest of the men available were chosen
for this service, and there were certainly some splendidly stalwart
young men amongst them. A few of them got “sky-larking” amongst
themselves on the stage before the curtain went up. Sky-larking in full
armour is a hazardous thing both to oneself and to others, and a blow
struck in fun with the unaccustomed weight of plate armour behind it had
an unexpected result, for the stricken man was knocked head over heels
senseless just as Irving had come on the stage to see that all was
correct for the coming scene—“The Great Hall of Camelot.” He reprimanded
the super shortly and told him that if he undertook duties he should
respect them, and himself, in performing them gravely. Imagine his
surprise when in the morning he received a bellicose cartel from the
offended young man challenging him to mortal combat. Irving, who took
all things as they were meant, understood that the man was a gentleman
who considered himself wronged and wrote him a pleasant letter in which
he explained the necessity of taking gravely the work which others
considered grave. The young man _was_ a gentleman, and wrote a handsome
apology for his misconduct on the stage and explained that he had had no
intention of either breaking rules or hurting any one else.
And so on that occasion no blood was shed.
VII
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Owens College, Manchester, blossoming into Manchester University, had a
parallel in the growth of Columbia University, New York. In 1895 when,
at the request of its President, Seth Low, Irving delivered the address
on “Macbeth,” which he had delivered in Manchester, it was still merely
a College though the matter of its coming development was then at hand.
Before our next visit to America in 1899 the whole new University of
Columbia had been built and equipped.
Irving’s address was given in the Library, the largest hall in the old
building, which had been somewhat dismantled for the purpose. It held
some fifteen hundred persons. The occasion was Irving’s first experience
of the New York College cry, which has a startling effect when
enunciated in unison by a thousand lusty throats. When he entered the
Library with the President, the cheering began and soon formulated
itself into this special concourse of sounds. At the close of the
address, which went extremely well, the enthusiastic cheering was
repeated.
VIII
CHICAGO UNIVERSITY
Irving addressed the University of Chicago twice.
The first was on 17th March 1896, when he repeated his lecture on
“Macbeth.” The second on April 25, 1900, when he repeated the lecture
which he had given in 1895 at the Royal Institution: “Acting: an Art.”
Both addresses were given in the Kent Hall, which was on each occasion
crowded to excess.
The University of Chicago might well be taken as an illustration of the
rapid growth possible in America. In the fall of 1893 the ground on
which it stands was a section of the World’s Fair, what was called “The
Midway Pleasaunce.” In the spring of 1896, less than two years and a
half, the University was built, organised and furnished with students to
its full capacity.
IX
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
The last address which Irving gave in America was at Princeton
University, where on March 19, 1902, he read a paper on the subject of
“Shakespeare and Bacon,” an eloquent and logical defence of Shakespeare
against his detractors.
X
LEARNED BODIES AND INSTITUTIONS
The following is a list of various addresses given by Irving at
Institutions and before learned Bodies other than Universities:
“The Stage.” Perry Bar Institute, near Birmingham, 6th March 1878.
“The Stage as it is.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 8th November
1881.
“Shakespeare and Goethe.” Goethe Society, New York, 15th March 1888.
(_Given at Madison Square Theatre._)
“Hamlet.” Literary and Scientific Institute, Wolverhampton, 18th
February 1890. (_This was given at the Agricultural Hall._)
“The Art of Acting.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 9th November
1891. (_This was given in the Music Hall._)
“Shakespeare as a Playwright.” Twentieth Century Club, Chicago, 2nd
November 1893. (_Given in the private theatre in the house of Mr.
George Pullman._)
“Municipal Theatres.” Literary Institute, Walsall, 26th September,
1894. (_Given in the Grand Theatre._)
“Acting: an Art.” Royal Institution, London, 1st February 1895.
“Macbeth.” Contemporary Club, Philadelphia, 17th April 1886. (_Given
at the New Art Gallery._) Also at the Catholic Social Union, London,
17th May 1898. (_Given at the house of Cardinal Vaughan._)
“Actors and Acting.” Liberal Club, Buffalo, 4th February 1902.
LXXII
ADVENTURES
I
OVER A MINE-BED
On 9th August 1880 Irving and I went for a short holiday together. The
heat in London was very great. We began at Southsea, where we stopped at
the Pier Hotel; that evening after dinner in the afternoon we got a
sail-boat and went over to Ryde, returning by moonlight. The next day we
walked on the Esplanade. Southsea was very full, and along the sea front
a vast crowd of people moved in endless procession. Every one seemed to
know my companion, and he became surrounded with a crowd which, though
the composing individuals changed, never left him. At last he got tired
of shaking hands and answering endless commonplace questions. In a
momentary pause he said to me:
“I can’t stand any more of this. Let’s get a boat and have a sail. We
can get quiet that way anyhow!”
We went down on the beach and picked out a likely looking boat that was
ready launched. The boatman was very deaf, but as he seemed also dumb we
regarded him as a find. He hoisted his sail and we began to steal away
from shore. Behind us was a lot of shouting, and many people ran down on
the beach gesticulating and calling out. We could not distinguish what
they said; but we were both so accustomed to hear people shouting at
Irving that we took it that the present was but another instance of
clamorous goodwill.
We had got away from the shore about half a mile when suddenly there was
a terrific sound close to us, and the boat was thrown about just as a
rat is shaken by a dog. A column of water rose some thirty yards from us
and for quite half a minute the sea round us seemed to boil. The old
boatman seemed very much frightened and found his voice to the extent of
ejaculations of a prayerful kind, mingled with blasphemy. There seemed
some excuse for him, for it was certainly very terrifying. To us, who
did not understand, it seemed like an earthquake or a volcanic eruption
of some kind. Irving, however, was quite calm; he did not seem put out
at all. The only motion he made was to put on his pince-nez which had
been shaken off. I am not as a rule very timorous myself.
As the sea began to resume its normal calm it presented a strange
appearance. All around us were strewn floating fish, mostly belly up,
the white catching the eye everywhere. There were scores—hundreds of
them, all seemingly dead. We lifted a lot of them into the boat. A few
did not move at all, but after a while most of them began to wriggle and
flop about. These had only been stunned.
We had after the first surprise taken it for granted that the shock had
been from some submarine explosion; but we were content to await
developments. When the boatman began to get over his agitation, he
enlightened us:
“’Tis they torpedoes; they’ve fired ’em by wire from Fort Monckton. ’Tis
silly I am not to have thought on ’em an’ kept out of the way!” Then he
explained that the event of the day was to be an attack on Fort
Monckton—the low-lying fort which guards the mouth of the harbour at
Portsmouth—by the _Glatton_, then the most up-to-date of our
scientifically equipped ships. We appeared to have come right over the
mine-bed. The prudent fisherman had by this time put his boat’s head
against such wind as there was and began to gather up the unforeseen
harvest of the sea. He was intent on this, though his hands shook and he
kept looking around him apprehensively. We drifted with the tide.
Presently, a little distance in front of us, another mine went off, and
our friend got agitated afresh. He implored us to come away, and began
to slack the sheet which he had drawn tight. Irving had lit a cigar and
was calmly smoking. He had evidently taken a common-sense view of the
situation.
“Why should we come away? We are, I take it, in about as safe a place as
can be. The mines here have been fired and we don’t know where the
others are. If we go on, no matter in what direction, we shall probably
come across another explosion. Let us stay where we are—and enjoy
ourselves!” And stay we did and enjoyed—to a certain extent—the thunder
of the cannon which later on, when the attack developed, rolled over the
water and was brought to our ears, we being so close to the surface, in
a way to make us feel as if each fresh explosion was close at hand.
I think, however, that we both enjoyed the attack more that night when
the actual sham battle was fought. In those days search-lights were new
and rare. Both the _Glatton_ and Fort Monckton were well equipped with
them, and during the attack the whole sea and sky and shore were
perpetually swept with the powerful rays. It was in its way a noble
fight, and as then most people were ignorant of the practical working of
the new scientific appliances of war, it was instructive as well as
fascinating. We, who had been out in the middle of it during the day,
could perhaps appreciate its possibilities better than ordinary civil
folk unused to the forces and horrors of war!
II
FIRES
_a_
The first fire of which Irving and I were spectators together was in
November 1881. We were playing at Edinburgh and stayed in the old
Edinburgh Hotel opposite the Scott Memorial. The house was pulled down
long since. The hotel was made up of several houses thrown into one, and
was of the ramshackle order. It would have been easily set on fire; and
had it got well alight nothing could have saved it.
Loveday and I supped with Irving in his sitting-room on the second
storey, and after supper were enjoying our smoke. It was then late for
Edinburgh, nearly one o’clock. As we sat we heard a queer kind of
roaring and crackling sound in the passage outside.
“That sounds like a fire!” I said, and ran out to see if I could help.
In the passage a curious scene presented itself. A sort of housemaid’s
closet in the back wall was well alight; the flames were roaring. The
night porter, when collecting the boots, had seen it and was now trying
to put it out. He was in a really dangerous position, and was behaving
very bravely. I ran up to my room just overhead and brought down two
great jugs of water which were on my wash-hand stand. When I got down a
tall man was standing near the closet and talking very angrily to the
porter. He was attired in a long white night-shirt under which his bare
feet and legs displayed themselves. He was not making the least effort
to help, but kept on abusing the man who was working, Considering that
the chances were that in a few minutes the whole hotel would be on fire,
with what awful result none could foresee, it was strange conduct. In
the midst of the hurry, for by this time we were all doing what we
could, I had to laugh at the absurd situation and his out-of-place
blaming:
“This is a pretty nice sort of thing for a gentleman staying in your
damned hotel to have to endure! Do you always do this sort of thing,
sir? Nice thing indeed! A gentleman to be waked up out of his bed by
your infernal stupidity in setting the house on fire. Are we all to be
burned in our beds? Nice sort of conduct indeed! Edinburgh should be
ashamed of itself!” We were all hard at work but were doing little good.
The porter who knew the place was trying to get at the water-tap within.
He succeeded at last, and when a jet of water could be used in that
narrow space the fire was soon held in check. We stood for a while to
admire the angry stranger, still “jawing” away at the porter, who took
not the least notice of him. By this time the other guests were alarmed
and came running out of their rooms in various stages of night gear and
partial dressing, till the passage was thronged with frightened women
and men full of inquiries.
When we went back to the room to finish our smoke we left them all
there. The unclad stranger was in the midst, still in a sublime state of
indifference to decorum, haranguing—at what or whom he did not seem to
know, for the porter had gone. In the room Irving said, as he cut the
end of a fresh cigar:
“I wish I had that fellow’s self-conceit—or even a bit of it. With it I
could do anything!”
_b_
The next fire we were at was on 6th December 1882. We had supped
together in the Lyceum after the play and were leaving tolerably early.
We were going out by the private door in Burleigh Street, when there
came a sudden red glare in front of us a little to the right, or north,
just as Irving was crossing the sidewalk to the cab. In those days he
always used a four-wheeler; he did not have a brougham till twelve or
thirteen years later—and then it was a hired one.
“Hullo!” said Irving, “there is a fire! It seems pretty close too. I
suppose you’re off!” It was a standing joke with him against me that
whenever there was a fire within range I was off to it hot-foot. I was
just putting on heavy shoes when a vehicle stopped hurriedly at the door
and there was a loud rapping. I ran out—Irving was back.
“Come quick,” he said, “don’t wait to change. It’s the Alhambra.” We
jumped into the cab and the man drove for all he was worth. We got into
Leicester Square just as the police were clearing the place and forming
a cordon. All the Bow Street men knew us both and they hurried us into a
doorway just where the Empire Music Hall is now. From there we had a
splendid view, the place all to ourselves.
The fire had made quick headway and as we got to our place the whole
theatre seemed alight within, and the flames burst out of the windows.
The Fire Brigade got to work quick; but when a building of that size and
with so large an interior gets alight there is no checking it. Within a
time which seemed incredibly short the roof began to send up sparks and
flames, and then all at once it seemed to be lifted and to send up a
fiery column of flames and sparks and smoke and burning ashes, which a
few seconds later began to fall round us like rain. There was a terrific
crash, and more leaping and towering flames. And then the roof fell in.
After the fall of the roof, the rest was detail. We waited an hour or so
and then came away.
_c_
At the next fire we were not together. Irving was on the stage of the
Star Theatre, New York, and I happened to be standing at the back of the
parquet near the aisle which in all American theatres runs straight back
from the orchestra rail. The occasion was the first night of Irving’s
playing _Hamlet_ in New York, and the house was crowded to excess in
every part. The play went well, incidentally I may say that it was an
enormous success. All went well till the “play scene.” The light for the
mimic stage was supposed to be given from the attendants ranged on each
side carrying torches. These torches were of spirit, as such give
leaping flames which are picturesque and appear to give good light,
though in truth their illuminating quality is small. Early in the scene
one of these torches got overheated, and the flaming spirit running over
set fire to one of the stage draperies. The super-master, Marion, who
was “on” in the scene, at once ran over and tore down the curtain and
trampled it out.
Through it all Irving never hesitated or faltered for an instant. He
went on with his speech; no one could take it from movement, expression
or intonation that there was any cause for concern.
Still a fire in a theatre has very dreadful possibilities; and at the
first sign of flame a number of people rose hurriedly in their seats as
if preparatory to rushing out. There was all over the house a quick,
quiet whisper:
“Sit down!” As if in obedience, the standers sat.
There was but one exception. A lanky, tallow-faced, herring-shouldered,
young man, with fear in his white face, dashed up the aisle. It is such
persons who cause death in such circumstances. There is a moment when
panic can be averted; but once it starts _nothing_ can stop it. The idea
of “_Sauve qui peut!_” comes from the most selfish as well as the most
weak of human instincts. I feared that this man might cause a panic, and
as he dashed up I stepped out and caught him by the throat and hurled
him back on the ground. At such a time one must not think of
consequences—except one, which is to prevent a holocaust. The rude,
elementary method was effective. No one else stirred. I caught the
fallen man and dragged him to his feet.
“Go back to your seat, sir!” I said sternly. “It is cowards like you who
cause death to helpless women!” He was so stunned or frightened that he
did not make the least remonstrance, but went sheepishly back to his
seat.
On the way he had to pass a man who stood a little in front of me—a
tall, powerful, black-bearded, masterful-looking man. As the other was
passing he put out his hand, and with finger and thumb caught the lappet
of the young man’s coat and drew him close. Then he said in a low voice,
full of personal indignation as at a wrong to himself:
“Do you know that you rushed past me like a flash of lightning!” Then he
suddenly released him and turned his eyes to the stage. I think it was
the most contemptuous action I ever saw. The rest of those present moved
no more.
_d_
Two years after we had at the Lyceum a somewhat similar experience of a
stage fire. This was during _Faust_. A curtain caught fire, and was
promptly put out by the nearest person. Another such fire occurred in
1891 in _The Corsican Brothers_.
_e_