London. On the 15th at Manchester, where I then was with the Company, I
got a wire from him asking to see me at once on urgent business. I saw
him next morning. The business was regarding a speculative offer made to
him, against which I strongly advised him. The business did not,
however, require much thought; it came to an end before it was well
started. That day he left for Bournemouth. He was looking well when he
left, though still very weak. He felt much even the going _down_ stairs
from his second floor in Grafton Street. For the remainder of his life
he could never with ease go _up_ stairs.
On Wednesday morning, 21st December, I got a wire asking me to come down
to Bournemouth by the 2.15 train. I arrived at five at the Bath Hotel
where he was staying. The note in my diary says:
“H. I. looking well. Much stronger, self-possessed and evenly
balanced. Arranged to tour at Easter. Lyceum season in September and
October. American tour in autumn.”
This was just what I had already advised. We had arranged for a
rack-rental of the Lyceum for the season. We should have a tour of three
months with small expenses, as we should only take a few plays with
light casts and would only play in places in which he had never
appeared. The satisfactory result was a foregone conclusion.
Then would come a holiday of two months to recuperate and get strong,
and then a season of eight weeks in London. This, too, promised more
than well. He had already arranged with Sardou and Moreau to produce
_Robespierre_ that year (1899); and as he had paid a thousand pounds
advance royalties he would have no fees to pay for five or six weeks. He
had then also an offer of ten thousand pounds for his lease of the
Lyceum to come into operation after October. This offer was still open
in case he should wish to avail himself of it. The American tour
promised a rich reward.
Irving’s judgment was at high tide when with fresh hope and vigour he
accepted this policy. I left him the next morning to join the tour at
Brighton where it was to finish on Saturday, Christmas Eve. We were both
in good spirits, hopeful and happy.
IV
It was an unfortunate thing for his own prosperity that Irving did not
adhere to the arrangement then made. I fear that the chagrin which he
felt at the check to his plans had too operative a force with him. When
the offer made by the parent Lyceum Theatre Company was put before him
he jumped at it; and before he had consulted with me about it, or even
told me of it, he had actually signed a tentative acceptance. It was now
three weeks since he had agreed as to the policy of the immediate
future. Loveday and I had been during that time engaged in working out
the provincial and American tours, so that it was a surprise when he
sent to us both to come down to Bournemouth to see him regarding the new
proposal. We went down on the 12th January and stayed a few days. We
discussed the matter of the Company’s proposition, and I laid before him
some memoranda comparing this with the scheme already in hand. The
advantage was all to the latter. It was easy to see, however, that
Irving’s mind was made up. The new scheme was attractive to him in his
then condition and circumstances. He had been recently very, very ill
and was still physically weak. He had for over two years felt the want
of capital or of such organised association of interests as makes for
helpfulness; and here was something which would share, if it did not
lift, the burden. At any rate, whatever may have been the cause or the
prevailing argument or interest with him, he had in this matter made up
his mind. When a man of his strong nature makes up his mind to a course
of action he generally goes on with it despite reasons or arguments. So
far as facts and deeds go he is like a horse that has taken the bit
between its teeth. He listened, as ever, attentively and courteously and
with seeming thoughtfulness, to all I had to say—and then shifted
conversation to details, as though the main principle had been already
accepted. On the 14th Comyns Carr came down on behalf of the Company as
had been agreed before Irving sent for us. Together we all went over the
scheme. As Irving had accepted the principle and was determined to go
on, we could only discuss details. I tried hard to get a betterment of
the sharing terms; but without avail. The only change of importance I
could effect was that Irving should be put down for the same salary—
almost nominal to an actor of his position—which had always been entered
on our books. Even this was to be only the provincial salary, not the
American which was three times as much. This concession, however, as to
salary was eventually to him an addition of some five thousand pounds. A
few lesser matters, such as the Company sharing the cost of storage,
were to his betterment.
In the original proposition it had been, I believe, suggested that
Irving should be a director of the Company, but when he told me of this
I said such a decided “No” that he acquiesced. I impressed on him that
he must not have his name in any form as a participant in the venture
mentioned. He was selling to the Company and sharing his outside profits
with them; and that such being the measure of his association, he should
not be implicated beyond it.
According to our previous plan of policy I was already in treaty with
Charles Frohman regarding the tour in America, to begin in the autumn of
that year. There was to be no change in this arrangement, as after the
London season with _Robespierre_ was to come this tour. The
correspondence with Frohman had now reached a point when it was
absolutely necessary that one or other of us should cross the Atlantic.
A multitude of details had to be discussed, and as this was our first
business transaction with Frohman, all had to be gone over carefully so
as to insure a full understanding of our mutual and individual interests
and responsibilities. This could not possibly be done by cable, and
there was no time for letters; already we were nearly a year later than
was usual with such arrangements. As we had to settle things face to
face, and as his own affairs would not allow of Frohman’s leaving
America at that time, I had to go to New York. I left London on 31st
January, 1899, and arrived at New York in the _Germanic_ on 11th
February—after coming through the greatest storm in the North Atlantic
ever recorded. I left New York in the _Teutonic_ on 22nd February, and
arrived in London on 1st March. During the time of my absence everything
in which Irving was concerned had been completed. The contract between
him and the Syndicate Company had been finally settled by the
solicitors. The Syndicate Company had sold its rights to the Lyceum
Theatre Company, which had been effectively floated and of which the
whole capital had been subscribed. There was not anything left to me to
do in the matter.
On my return I was surprised to hear that, in addition to the amount of
capital originally mentioned in the provisional contract with Irving as
that of the final Company to which his agreement was to be transferred
on its flotation—namely, £170,000 in £100,000 6 per cent. preference and
£70,000 ordinary shares—there appeared a sum of £120,000 mortgage
debentures given to the original freeholders as a part of the purchase
money. This made the responsibility of the Company up to £290,000.
Later on I learned that Irving’s name had appeared in the prospectus as
“Dramatic Adviser,” a thing against which I had cautioned him. As a
matter of fact he was never called by the directorate of the Company to
fulfil the function. Once, he _offered_ advice as to an engagement—which
advice was happily taken to considerable advantage to the Company. But
so far as I know he was never asked for his advice, nor were the
Company’s prospective arrangements ever made known to him in advance of
the public intimation. I mention this here as it is, I think, advisable
for his sake that it should be known.
With the one exception of Gillette’s engagement, he never had knowledge
of, or act or part in any of the business of the Lyceum Theatre Company
outside those matters dependent on or arising from his own agreement
with them.
As to myself: for right or wrong, when once I had communicated to him my
views on the advisability of his contracting with the Company at all, I
had no part in the matter and no responsibility.
After that illness of 1898 Irving’s health was never the same as it had
been before it. There was always a shortness of breath which, if it did
not limit effort, made him careful how he exerted himself. It may have
been partly this; it may have been partly the wound to a proud nature
which was entailed by the long series of misfortunes with their
consequent losses; but there was a certain shrinkage within himself
during the last seven years of his life which was only too apparent to
the eyes of those who loved him. To the outer world he still bore
himself as ever: quiet, self-contained, masterful in his long purpose.
Perhaps the little note of defiance which was added was the conscious
recognition of the blows of Fate. But outside his own immediate circle
this was not to be seen; he was far too good an actor to betray himself.
The bitterness was all for himself. He did not vent it on any one; he
did not blame any one. He took it as a good fighter takes a hard blow:
he fought all the more valiantly. When he was stricken with pleurisy and
pneumonia he was in his sixty-first year. He had been working hard for
forty-two years; strenuously for twenty-seven of them. Growing age more
or less limits the resilient power; labour so exacting and so prolonged
increases vastly the wear and tear of life. So we may, I think, take it
that he was actually older than his years. Thus every little ailment
told on him with undue force. Things that he used not to mind had now to
be carefully considered. He had when working to give up many of his old
pleasures so as to save himself for his work. Amongst these pleasures
was that of sitting up late. Work had to be considered first, and last,
and between; and whatever would take from his strength had to be
rigorously put aside. Thus life lost part of its charm for him. He felt
it deeply; and, all unknowing, was fostered that bitterness which had
struck root already. It is the nature of strong men to fight harder
through evil hours; and this was indeed a strong man. He would not give
way on any point. Well he knew, with that deep, true instinct of his
which is always the superior to mere logical thought, that to give way
in anything however small is the beginning of the end.
His bearing through the last seven years was truly heroic. Now that it
may be spoken of and known, I may say that I can recall in my own
experience nothing like it. Each day, each hour, had its own tally of
difficulty to be overcome—of pain or hardship to be borne—of some form
of self-denial to be exercised. For a long time before this he had a
complaint which always goes on increasing—a complaint common to actors
and to all men and women who have to speak much; the complaint which is
called “clergyman’s sore throat.” Doctors classify it as _Follicular
Pharyngitis_. It is, as well as an irritating and often painful malady,
a lowering condition from its constant loss of those secretions which
make for perfect health. After his illness this seemed to grow to
alarming proportions. Month by month and year by year the weakening
expectoration increased, till for the last three years he used some
_five hundred_ pocket-handkerchiefs in each week. Such a detail is a
somewhat sickening one even to read—what must it have been to the poor
brave soul who through it all had to so bear himself as to conceal it
from the world. He who lived with the fierce light of publicity on him
had eternally to play his part day and night, bearing his old brave
front so that none might know. Whoso is worthy to wear the crown must
have the courage and the patience to endure. I ask no pity for him. He
would have scorned even with his dying breath to ask for himself pity
from any of the sons of men. But to ask for pity and to deserve it are
different things. It is my duty—my privilege now that in the perspective
of history, recent though it be, I am writing the true inwardness of his
life—to speak the exact truth so that those who loved him, even those
who were content to accept him unquestioned, should learn how
unfalteringly brave he was. It was not till February 1905 when after a
hard night’s work he fell fainting in the hall-way of the hotel at
Wolverhampton that the true cause of his weakness was diagnosed.
Fortunately he fell into the hands of one of the most able doctors in
England, Dr. W. A. Lloyd-Davis of that town—a man to whom grateful
thanks are due for his loving care of my dear friend. He it was who
discovered that for more than six years—ever since his attack of
pleurisy and pneumonia—Irving had been coughing up pus from an unhealed
lung. I ask no pardon for giving these medical details. It was prudent
to be silent all those years; but the time has gone for such reticence.
It is well that the truth should be known.
Many and many a time; day or night; in stillness; in travel; in tropic
heat such as now and again is experienced in early summer in America;
through raging blizzards; in still cold when the thermometer registered
down to figures below zero which would kill us in a breath did we have
it in our moist atmosphere; in dust-storms of rapid travel; in the
abounding dust of many theatres, the man had to toil unendingly. For
others there was rest; for him none. For others there was cessation, or
at worst now and again a lull in the storm of responsibility; for him
none. Others could find occasional seclusion; for him there was no such
thing. His very popularity was an added strain and trial to increasing
weakness and ill-health. But in all, and through all, he never faltered
or thought of faltering. For the well-meaning friend or stranger there
was the same ever-ready hand of friendship, the same old winning smile
of welcome. He might have later to pay for the added strain entailed by
his very kindness of heart, but he went on his way all the same.
Henry Irving had undertaken to play the game of life; and he played it
well. Right up to the very last hour of his life, when he was at work he
_would not_ think of himself. He would play as he had ever played: to
the best of his power; in the fulness of his intention; with the last
ounce of his strength.
If those who make it their business to direct the minds of youth knew
what I know about him they would take this man—this great Englishman—as
a shining light of endeavour; as a living embodiment of that fine
principle, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might.” All his life long Irving worked for others—for his art; never
for himself. If rewards came—and they showered upon him—he took them
meekly without undue pride, without arrogance; never as other than
tributes beyond his worth. He made throughout years a great fortune, but
nearly all of it he spent as it came on his art, and in helping his
poorer brethren. His own needs were small. He lived in a few rooms, ate
sparingly, drank moderately. He had no vices that I know of; he was not
extravagant; did not gamble, was not ostentatious even in his charities.
There are many widows and orphans who mourn his loss; if only for his
comforting sympathy and the helping of his kindly hand. In the sacred
niche of many, many hearts there is a blank space which only a memory—no
longer an image—fills.
_Requiescat in pace!_
V
In those last seven years of his life I was not able to see so much of
him as I had been in the habit of doing throughout the previous twenty.
We had each of us his own work to do, and the only way I could help him
was to take on my own shoulders all the work I could. As he did not come
to his office in the theatre regularly every day as he was accustomed to
do, I used to go to him; to his flat in Stratton Street when in London,
to his hotel when we travelled. He did not often have supper in the old
way. He still entertained to a reasonable amount, but such
entertainments were generally in the shape of dinners on Sunday, the
only day possible to him. When the play was over at night he would dress
slowly, having a chat as he did so; for he loved to talk over his work
past, present and future. When travelling he would often be reluctant to
take his way to his lonely home—if indeed a hotel can be called a home.
When in London he would linger and linger; the loneliness of his home
made it in a degree a prison house. But all that while, night by night
and year by year, he would stick to his purpose of saving himself for
his work—at any cost to himself in the shape of loss of pleasure, of any
form of self-abnegation.
Thus it was that through those last seven years I saw less of his
private life than I had hitherto done. My work became to save him all I
could. Of course each day during working months, each night—except at
holiday times—I would see him for hours; and our relations were always
the same. But the opportunities were different. Seldom now were there
the old long meetings when occasion was full of chances for
self-development, for self-illumination; when idea leads on idea till
presently the secret chambers of the soul are made manifest. Seldom did
one gather the half-formed thoughts and purposes which tell so much of
the inner working of the mind. It was, of course, in part that hopes and
purposes belonged to an earlier age. There is more life and spring in
intentions that have illimitable possibilities than in those that are
manifestly bounded, if not cramped, by existing and adverse facts. But
the effect was the same. The man, wearied by long toil and more or less
deprived by age and health of the spurs of ambition, shrank somewhat
into himself.
This book is no mere panegyric; it is not intended to be. For my own
part, my love and admiration for Irving were such that nothing I could
tell to others—nothing that I can recall to myself—could lessen his
worth. I only wish that, so far as I can achieve it, others now and
hereafter may see him with my eyes. For well I know that if they do, his
memory shall not lack. He was a man with all a man’s weaknesses and
mutabilities as well as a man’s strong qualities. Had he not had in his
own nature all the qualities of natural man how could he have for close
on half a century embodied such forces—general and distinctive—in such a
long series of histrionic characters whose fidelity to natural type
became famous. I have the feeling strong upon me that the more Irving’s
inner life is known, the better he must stand in the minds and hearts of
all to whom his name, his work, and his fame are of interest.
The year 1899 was so overwhelmingly busy a one for him that he had
little time to think. But the next year, despite the extraordinary
success which attended his work, he began to feel the loss of his own
personal sway over the destinies of the Lyceum. There was in truth no
need for worrying. The work of that year made for the time an
extraordinary change in his fortunes. In the short season of fifteen
weeks at the Lyceum the gross receipts exceeded twenty-eight thousand
pounds. Five weeks’ tour in the Provinces realised over eleven thousand
pounds. And the tour in America of twenty-nine weeks reached the amazing
total of over half a million dollars. To be exact $537,154.25. The
exchange value in which all our American tour calculations were made was
$4.84 per £1. So that the receipts become in British money £110,982
4_s._ 9_d._—leaving a net profit of over thirty-two thousand pounds.
But the feeling of disappointment was not to be soothed by material
success. Money, except as a means to an end, never appealed to Irving.
We knew afterwards that the bitterness that then came upon him, and
which lasted in lessening degree for some three years, was due in the
main to his surely fading health. To him any form of lingering
ill-health was a novelty. All his life up till then he had been
amazingly strong. Not till after he was sixty did he know what it was to
have toothache in ever so small a degree. I do not think that he ever
knew at all what a headache was like. To such a man, and specially to
one who has been in the habit of taxing himself to the full of his
strength, restriction of effort from any cause brings a sense of
inferiority. So far as I can estimate it, for he never hinted at it much
less put it in words, Irving’s tinge of bitterness was a sort of protest
against Fate. Certainly he never visited it on any of those around him.
Indeed, in any other man it would hardly have been noticeable; but
Irving’s nature was so sweet, and he was so really thoughtful for his
fellow workers of all classes, that anything which clouded it was a
concern to all.
As his health grew worse the bitterness began to pass away; and for the
last two years of his life his nature, softened however to a new
tenderness, went back to its old dignified calm.
VI
In the spring of 1905 came the beginning of the end. He had since his
illness gone through the rigours of two American winters without
seemingly ill effect. But now he began to lose strength. Still, despite
all he would struggle on, and acted nightly with all his old unsparing
energy and fire. The audiences saw little difference; he alone it was
who suffered. Since the beginning of the new century his great ventures
had not been successful. _Coriolanus_ in 1901 and _Dante_ in 1903 were
costly and unsuccessful. Both plays were out of joint with the time. The
public in London, the Provinces and America would not have them; though
the latter play ran well for a few weeks before the public of London
made up their minds that it was an inferior play. In both pieces Irving
himself made personal success; it was the play in each case that was not
popular. This was shown everywhere by the result of the change of bill;
whenever any other play was put up the house was crowded. But a great
organisation like Irving’s requires perpetual sustenance at fairly high
pressure. The five years of the new century saw a gradual oozing away of
accumulation. The “production account” alone of that time exceeded
twenty-five thousand pounds.
Had he been able to take a prolonged rest, say for a year, he might have
completely recovered from the injury to his lung. But it is the penalty
of public success that he who has achieved it must keep it. The
slightest break is dangerous; to fall back or to lose one’s place in the
running is to be forgotten. He therefore made up his mind to accept the
position of failing health and strength, and to set a time limit for his
further efforts.
VII
The time for his retirement he fixed to be at the conclusion of his
having been fifty years on the stage. He made the announcement at a
supper given to him by the Manchester Art Club on June 1, 1904. This
would give him two years in which to take farewell of the public. The
time, though seeming at the first glance to be a generous one, was in
reality none too long. There were only about forty working weeks in each
year, eighty altogether. Of these the United States and Canada would
absorb thirty. The Provinces would require three tours of some twelve
weeks each. London would have fourteen or fifteen weeks in two
divisions, during which would be given all the available plays in his
_répertoire_.
At the conclusion of the tour we arranged with Mr. Charles Frohman, who
secured for us the American dates for which we asked. We had made out
the tour ourselves, choosing the best towns and taking them in such
sequence that the railway travel should be minimised. All was ready, and
on 19th September we began at Cardiff our series of farewell visits. The
Welsh people are by nature affectionate and emotional. The last night at
Cardiff was a touching farewell. This was repeated at Swansea with a
strange addition: when the play was over and the calls finished the
audience stood still in their places and seemingly with one impulse
began to sing. They are all fine part-singers in those regions, and it
was a strange and touching effect when the strains of Newman’s beautiful
hymn, “Lead, kindly light,” filled the theatre. Then followed their own
national song, “Land of my fathers.”
Irving was much touched. He had come out before the curtain to listen
when the singing began; and when, after the final cheering of the
audience, he went back to his dressing-room the tears were still wet on
his cheeks.