tour had been arranged before Irving had made up his mind about
retiring, and it was the intention that the last tour of all, before the
final short season in London, should be amongst the eight greatest
provincial cities.
VIII
In one of the towns then visited and where the visit was to be the final
one, there was a very remarkable occasion. At Sunderland he had made his
first appearance in 1856, and now the city wished to mark the
circumstance of his last appearance in a worthy way. A public banquet
was organised at which he was presented with an Address on behalf of the
authorities and the townspeople. The function took place on the
afternoon of Friday, October 28, 1904. The occasion was of special
interest to Irving. For weeks beforehand his mind was full of it, for it
brought back a host of old memories. He talked often with me of those
old days, and every little detail seemed to come back vividly in that
wonderful memory of his which could always answer to whatever call was
made upon it. Amongst the little matters of those days when all things
were of transcendent importance was one which had its full complement of
chagrin and pain. In the preliminary bill regarding the New Lyceum
Theatre, where the names of all the Company were given, his own name was
wrongly spelled. It was given as “Mr. Irvine.” At that time the name in
reality did not matter much. It was not known in any way; it was not
even his own by birthright, or as later by the Queen’s Patent. But it
was the name he hoped and intended to make famous; and the check at the
very start seemed a cruel blow. Of course the error was corrected, and
on the opening night all was right.
In his early life he was very unfortunate regarding the proper spelling
of his name. I find in the bill of his first appearance in Glasgow at
the Dunlop Street Theatre his name thus given in the case of the great
spectacular play, given on Easter Monday, April 9, 1869, _The Indian
Revolt_:
“Achmet, a Hindoo attached to the Nana, by Mr. Irwig (his first
appearance).”
I do not think that these two mistakes ever quite left his memory—
certainly he was always very particular about his name being put in the
bill exactly as he had arranged it.
The Sunderland function went off splendidly. Everything went so well
that the whole affair was a delight to him and gave the city of his
first appearance a new and sweet claim on his memory.
IX
Another provincial tour was arranged for the spring of 1905. It began at
Portsmouth on the 23rd January and was to go on to 8th April, when it
would conclude at Wigan. But severe and sudden illness checked it in the
middle of the fifth week. The passage through the South and West had
been very trying, for in addition to seven performances a week and many
journeys there were certain public hospitalities to which he had been
pledged. At Plymouth, lunch on Wednesday with the Admiral, Sir Edward
Seymour; and on Thursday with the Mayor, Mr. Wyncotes and others, in the
Plymouth Club. At Exeter, on Wednesday a Public Address and Reception in
the Guildhall. Two days later at Bath a ceremony of unveiling a memorial
to Quin the actor, followed by a civic lunch with the Mayor, Mr. John,
in the Guildhall. On the following Tuesday, 21st February, a Public
Address was to be presented in the Town Hall of Wolverhampton under the
auspices of the Mayor, Mr. Berrington.
But by this time Irving had become so alarmingly ill that we were very
seriously anxious. After the performance of _The Lyons Mail_ at Boscombe
on 3rd February he had been very ill and feeble, though he had so played
that the audience were not aware of his state of health. The note in my
diary for that day is:
“H. I. fearfully done up, could hardly play. At end in collapse. Could
hardly move or breathe.”
His wonderful recuperative power, however, stood to him. Next day he
played _The Merchant of Venice_ in the morning and _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_ at night.
The function at Bath was very trying. The weather was bitterly cold, yet
he stood bareheaded in the street speaking to a vast crowd. This
required a great voice effort. It was a striking sight, for not only was
the street packed solid with people, but every window was full and the
high roofs were like clusters of bees. Our journey on the following
Sunday was from Bath to Wolverhampton. Much snow had fallen and there
was intense frost. So difficult was the railroading that our “special”
was forty-five minutes late in a scheduled journey of three hours and
ten minutes. In that journey Irving got a chill which began to tell at
once on his strength. On Monday night he played _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_. My note is:
“H. I. very weak, but got through all right.”
But that night in going into the hotel he fainted—for the first time in
his life! He did not know he had fainted until I told him the next
morning. When the doctor saw him in the morning he said that he would
not possibly be able to go to the Town Hall in the afternoon and play at
night; that he was really fit for neither, but he might get through
_one_ of them. _Becket_ was fixed for that night, and it was
comparatively light work for him. That night he played all right, but at
the end was done up, and short of breath. The next night he played _The
Merchant of Venice_, and at the end of the play made his speech of
farewell to Wolverhampton. But his condition of illness was such that we
decided that the tour must be abandoned. Dr. Lloyd-Davies was with him
in the theatre all the evening and did him yeoman’s service. The next
day Dr. Foxwell of Birmingham came over for consultation. After their
examination the following bulletin was issued:
“It is imperatively necessary that Sir Henry Irving shall not act for
at least two months from this date.
“ARTHUR FOXWELL, M.D.
“W. ALLAN LLOYD-DAVIES, L.R.C.P., F.R.C.S.”
On 17th March I visited Irving at Wolverhampton. He was looking
infinitely better and we had a drive before luncheon. The two doctors
had another consultation and it was decided that Irving must not go to
America, as arranged for the following autumn. Loveday came down by a
later train, and he and Irving and I consulted as to future
arrangements. We returned to London next day and a few days later Irving
left Wolverhampton for Torquay, where he remained till 19th April.
In the meantime I had seen Charles Frohman and postponed our American
tour for a year.
X
A short season of six weeks had been arranged for Drury Lane. This began
on 29th April. There were three weeks of _Becket_ and two of _The
Merchant of Venice_. In the last week were four nights of _Waterloo_ and
_Becket_, the last performance of this bill being the last night of the
season, and two nights of _Louis XI._ All went well for the six weeks.
He was none the worse for the effort.
The last night of the season, June 10, 1905, was one never to be
forgotten by any one who was present. It almost seemed as if the public
had some precognition that it was the last time they would see Irving
play. The house was crowded in every part—an enormous audience, the
biggest Irving ever played to in London—and full of wild enthusiasm. An
inspiring audience! Irving felt it and played magnificently; he never
played better in his life. The moment of his entrance was the signal for
a roar of welcome, prolonged to an extraordinary degree. Something of
the same kind marked the close of each act. At the end the audience
simply went mad. It was a scene to be present at once in a lifetime. The
calls were innumerable. Time after time the curtain had to be raised to
ever the same wild roar. It was marvellous how the strength of the
audience held out so long.
It had been arranged that on that night at the close of the play the
presentation of a Loving Cup by the workmen of all the theatres
throughout the kingdom should take place on the stage. The
representatives of the various theatres assembled in due course, about a
hundred of them. As there were to be some speeches, a moment of quiet
was necessary; we tried turning down the lights in the theatre, for
still the audience kept cheering. It never ceased—that prolonged
insistent note of perpetual renewals which once heard has a place in
memory. After a while we did a thing I never saw done before: the lights
were turned quite out. But still the audience remained cheering through
the black darkness of the house.
[Illustration:
HENRY IRVING AND JOHN HARE
_The last photograph of Henry Irving taken in John Hare’s garden at
Overstrand by Miss Hare, 1905_
]
Irving with his usual discernment and courtesy recognised the right
thing to do. He ordered the curtain to go up once more; and stepping in
front of the stage said, so soon as the wild roar of renewed strength,
stilled on purpose, would allow him:
“Ladies and gentlemen,—We have a little ceremony of our own to take
place on the stage to-night. I think, however, it will be the mind of
all my friends on the stage that you should join in our little
ceremony. So with your permission we will go on with it.”
Another short sharp cheer and then sudden stillness.
The presentation was made in due form and then—the curtain still
remaining up, for there was to be no more formal barrier that night—the
audience, cheering all the time, melted away.
It was a worthy finish to a lifetime of loving appreciation of the art
work of a great man.
This was Irving’s last regular London performance, and with the
exception of his playing _Waterloo_ for the benefit of his old friend,
Lionel Brough, at His Majesty’s Theatre on 15th June, the last time he
ever appeared in London.
XI
The autumn tour of that year, 1905, was fixed for ten weeks and a half,
to commence at Sheffield on 2nd October. The tour commenced very well.
There were fine houses despite the fact that it was the week of the
Musical Festival. On Tuesday, 3rd, the Lord Mayor, Sir Joseph Jonas,
gave a great luncheon for him in the Town Hall. Irving was in good form
and spoke well. There was nothing noticeable in his playing or regarding
his health all that week. On Saturday night there was a big house and
much enthusiasm. Irving seemed much touched as he said farewell. From
Sheffield we went on to Bradford.
The Monday and Tuesday night at Bradford went all right. Irving did not
seem ill or extremely weak. We had by now been accustomed to certain
physical feebleness—except when he was on the stage. On Wednesday the
Mayor, Mr. Priestley, was giving a big lunch for him in the Town Hall,
at which he was to be presented with a Public Address. I joined him at
his hotel at a little past one o’clock and we went together to the Town
Hall. He seemed very feeble that morning, and as we went slowly up the
steep steps he paused several times to get his breath. He had become an
adept at concealing his physical weakness on such occasions. He would
seize on some point of local or passing interest and make inquiries
about it, so that by the time the answer came he would have been rested.
There was a party of some fifty gentlemen, all friends, all hearty, all
delightful. On the presentation of the Address he spoke well, but looked
sadly feeble.
That night we played _Louis XI._ He got through his work all right, but
was very exhausted after it. The bill of the next night was the one we
dreaded, _The Bells_. I had been with him at his hotel for an hour in
the morning and we had got through our usual work together. He seemed
feeble, but made no complaint. There was a great house that night. When
Irving arrived he seemed exceedingly feeble though not ill. In his
dressing-room I noticed that he did that which I had never known him do
before: sit down in a listless way and delay beginning to dress for his
part. He seemed tired, tired; tired not for an hour but for a lifetime.
He played, however, just as usual. There was no perceptible diminution
of his strength—of his fire. But when the play was over he was
absolutely exhausted. Whilst he was dressing I went in and sat with him,
having previously given instructions to the Master Machinist to send
_The Bells_ back to London. When I told Irving what I had done he
acquiesced in it and seemed relieved. He had played _The Bells_ against
the strong remonstrances of Loveday and myself. Knowing him as I did, I
came to the conclusion that his doing so was to prove himself. He had
felt weak but would not yield to the suspicion; he wanted to _know_.
It may be wondered at or even asked why Henry Irving was allowed to play
at all, being in his then state of weakness.
In the first place, Irving was his own master, and took his own course
entirely. He was of a very masterful nature and took on his own
shoulders the full responsibility of his acts. He would listen to the
advice of those whom he trusted naturally, or had learned to trust; but
he was, within the limits of possibility, the final arbiter of matters
concerning himself in which there was any power of choice. The forces of
a strong nature have to be accepted _en bloc_; these very indomitable
forces of resolution and persistence—of the disregard of pain or
weariness to himself which had given him his great position—ruled him in
weakness as in strength. His will was the controlling power of his later
as of his earlier days.
Moreover, he _could not_ stop. To do so would have been final
extinction. His affairs were such that it was necessary to go on for the
sake of himself in such span of life as might be left to him, and for
the sake of others. The carrying out of his purpose of going through his
farewell tours would mean the realisation of a fortune; without such he
would begin the unproductive period of age in poverty. Accustomed as he
had been now for many years to carry out his wishes in his own way: to
do whatever he had set his heart on and to help his many friends and
comrades, to be powerless in such matters would have been to him a
never-ending pain of chagrin. All this, of course over and above the
ties and duties of his family and his own personal needs. He was a very
proud man, and the inevitable blows to his pride would have been to him
worse than death—especially when such might be obviated by labour,
howsoever arduous or dangerous the same might be. We who knew him well
recognised all this. All that we could do was to keep our own counsel,
and to help him to the best of our respective powers.
XII
The next morning, 13th October, I went to Irving at half-past twelve.
Loveday as had been arranged came at one o’clock. We three discussed
matters ahead of us fully. We decided on the changes to be made in the
bill for the following week when we were to play in Birmingham. Irving
seemed quite calm, and, under the circumstances, cheerful. He endorsed
the decision of the previous evening as to leaving _The Bells_ out of
the _répertoire_ for the remainder of the tour; he seemed pleased at not
having to play the piece for the present. We then decided on such other
arrangements as were consequently necessary. During our conversation
Irving said:
“Of course the American tour is absolutely impossible! It will have to
be abandoned! But time enough for that; we can see to it later.”
That morning he was undoubtedly feeble. He was so unusually amenable in
accepting the changes of his plans that when we were walking back I
commented on it to Loveday, saying:
“He acquiesced too easily; I never knew him so meek before. I don’t like
it!”
When he came down to the theatre that night Irving seemed much better
and stronger, and was more cheerful than he had been for some time. He
played well; and though he was somewhat exhausted, was infinitely less
so than he had been on the previous evening. There was no speech that
night, so that the last words he spoke on the stage were Becket’s last
words in the play:
“Into Thy hands, O Lord! into Thy hands!”
I sat in his room with him while he dressed. He was quite cheerful, and
we chatted freely. I thought that he had turned the corner and was
already, with that marvellous recuperative power of his, on the way to
get strong again. I told him that it was my opinion that now he was rid
of the apprehension of having to play _The Bells_ he would be himself
soon:
“You have been feeling the taking up of your work again after an absence
from it of four months, the longest time of rest in your life. Now you
have got into your stride again, and work will be easy!”
He thought for a moment and then said quietly:
“I really think that is so!” Then he seemed to get quite cheery.
Percy Burton, who arranged our advance matters, had in answer to my
telegram come over from Birmingham, so that he might be fully told of
our prospective changes. He was coming home to supper with me before he
got the train back to Birmingham. I had asked Irving if he wanted to see
him; but he said he did not, as Burton quite knew what to do. Then,
always thoughtful of others, he added:
“But if he is going by the one o’clock train you must not wait here. He
will want time to take his supper.” I stood up to go and he held out his
hand to say good-night. Afterwards, the remembrance of that affectionate
movement came back to me with gratitude, for it was not usual; when men
meet every day and every night, hand-shaking is not a part of the
routine of friendly life. As I went out he said to me:
“Muffle up your throat, old chap. It is bitterly cold to-night and you
have a cold. Take care of yourself! Good-night! God bless you!”
Those were the last words that I heard Henry Irving speak!
Burton and I were at supper when a carriage drove rapidly up to the door
of my lodging. I suspected that it was something for me and opened the
door myself at once. Mr. Sheppard, one of my assistants who always
attended to Irving’s private matters, stepped in, saying quickly:
“I think you had better come down to the Midland Hotel at once. Sir
Henry is ill. He fainted in the hall just as he did at Wolverhampton.
When the doctor came I rushed off for you!” We all jumped into the
carriage and hurried as fast as we could go to the hotel.
In the hall were some twenty men grouped round Irving who lay at full
length on the floor. One of the doctors, there were three of them there
then, told me quietly that he was dead. He had died just two minutes
before. The clock in the hall showed the time then as eight minutes to
twelve. So that he died at ten minutes to twelve.
It was almost impossible to believe, as he lay there with his eyes open,
that he was really dead. I knelt down by him and felt his heart to know
for myself if it was indeed death. But all was sadly still. His body was
quite warm. Walter Collinson, his faithful valet, was sitting on the
floor beside him, crying. He said to me through his sobs:
“He died in my arms!”
His face looked very thin and the features sharp as he lay there with
his chest high and his head fallen back; but there was none of the usual
ungracefulness of death. The long iron-grey hair had fallen back,
showing the great height of his rounded forehead. The bridge of his nose
stood out sharp and high. I closed his eyes myself; but as I had no
experience in such a matter I asked one of the doctors, who kindly with
deft fingers straightened the eyelids. Then we carried him upstairs to
his room and laid him on his bed.
I had to send a host of telegrams at once to inform the various members
of his family and the press. The latter had to go with what speed we
could, for the hour of his death was such that there was no local
information. Loveday arrived at the hotel after we had carried him to
his room. He was indeed greatly distressed and in bitter sorrow.
The actual cause of Irving’s death was physical weakness; he lost a
breath, and had not strength to recover it.
Sheppard told me that when Irving was leaving the theatre he had said to
him that he had better come to the hotel with him, as was sometimes his
duty. When he got into the carriage he had sat with his back to the
horses—this being his usual custom by which he avoided a draught. He was
quite silent during the short journey. When he got out of the carriage
he seemed very feeble, and as he passed through the outer hall of the
hotel seemed uncertain of step. He stumbled slightly and Sheppard held
him up. Then when he got as far as the inner hall he sat down on a bench
for an instant.
That instant was the fatal one. In the previous February at
Wolverhampton, when he had suffered from a similar attack of weakness,
he had fallen down flat. In that attitude Nature asserted herself, and
the lungs being in their easiest position allowed him to breathe
mechanically. Now the seated attitude did not give the opportunity for
automatic effort. The syncope grew worse; he slipped on the ground. But
it was then too late. By the time the doctor arrived, after only a few
minutes in all, he had passed too far into the World of Shadows to be
drawn back by any effort of man or science. The heart beat faintly, and
more faintly still. And then came the end.
Before I left the hotel in the grey of the morning I went into the
bedroom. It wrung my heart to see my dear old friend lie there so cold
and white and still. It was all so desolate and lonely, as so much of
his life had been. So lonely that in the midst of my own sorrow I could
not but rejoice at one thing: for him there was now Peace and Rest.
I was at the hotel again at 7.30, and then went to meet his eldest son,
H. B. Irving, at the Great Northern Station at 9.35. He had received my
telegram in time to start by the newspaper train. His other son,
Laurence, with his wife, arrived later in the day; my telegram to him
had not arrived in time to allow his coming till the morning train. The
undertaker had come in the morning at nine, and the embalming done
before Irving’s sons had arrived.
That afternoon all the Company, including the workmen, came to see him.
It was a very touching and harrowing time for all, for he was much
beloved by every one.
At seven o’clock in the evening the body was laid in the lead coffin. I
was present alone with the undertakers and saw the lead coffin sealed.
This was then placed in the great oak coffin—which an hour later was
taken privately through the yard of the Midland Hotel by a devious way
to the Great Northern Station so as to avoid publicity; for the streets
were thronged with waiting crowds. At Bradford, Saturday is a half-day,
and large numbers of people are abroad. The ex-mayor, Mr. Lupton, who
had entertained Irving in the Town Hall at his previous visit, kindly
arranged with the Chief Constable that all should be in order in the
streets. All day throughout the City the flags had been at half-mast,
and there was everywhere a remarkable silence through which came the
mournful sound of the minute-bells from seemingly all the churches.
At half-past nine we left the hotel to drive to the railway station. The
appearance of the streets and the demeanour of the crowd I shall never
forget; and I never want to. Everywhere was a sea of faces, all the more
marked as all hats were off as we drove slowly along. Street after
street of silent humanity; and in all that crowd nothing but grief and
respect. One hardly realised its completeness till when, now and then, a
sob broke the stillness. To say that it was moving would convey but a
poor idea of that attitude of the crowd; it was poignant—harrowing—
overwhelming. In silence the crowd stood back; in silence, without hurry
or pushing or stress of any kind, closed around us and followed on. It
was the same at the railway station; everywhere the silent crowd,
holding back respectfully, uncovered.
For a quarter of a century I had been accustomed when travelling with
Irving to see the rushing crowd closing in with cheers and waving of
hats and kerchiefs; to watch the moving sea of hands thrust forward for
him to shake, to hear the roar of the cheering crowd kept up till the
train began to move, and then to hear it dying away from our ears not
from cessation but from mere distance. And now this silence! No nobler
or more loving tribute than the silence of that mighty crowd could ever
be paid to the memory of one who has passed away. Were I a Yorkshireman
I should have been proud of Bradford on that day. It moves me strangely
to think of it yet.
XIII