SIR HENRY IRVING

A RECORD OF OVER TWENTY YEARS AT THE LYCEUM

BY
PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A.
AUTHOR OF
“THE LIFE OF GARRICK,” “THE KEMBLES,” “ART OF THE STAGE,” ETC.

“As in a theatre the eyes of men,

After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,

Are idly bent on him that enters next.”

A NEW EDITION, REVISED
WITH AN ADDITIONAL CHAPTER

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895

PREFACE.

One attraction in the life of an actor who has fought his way, and triumphed over many difficulties, in his struggles to eminence, is found in the spirit of adventure which nearly always marks his course. Such a story must be always gratifying and encouraging to read; and we follow it now with sympathy, now with admiration. Nor is it without gratification for the actor himself, who must look back with complacency to troubles surmounted, and to habits of patience and discipline acquired. In this severe and trying school he may acquire the practical virtues of resignation, courage, perseverance, and the art of confronting difficulties. Even at the present moment, when the stage is presumed to be more flourishing than at any former period, the element of precariousness is more present than ever. Everything seems a lottery—theatres, pieces, actors. A theatre has gained a high reputation with one or two successful pieces: of a sudden the newest play fails—or “falls,” as the French have it—to be succeeded by another, and yet another: each failing or “falling,” and seeming to prove that, if nothing succeeds like success, nothing fails like failure.

There is a spectacle often witnessed in the manufacturing counties, when we may be standing waiting in one of the great stations, which leaves a melancholy impression. A huge theatrical train containing one of the travelling companies comes up and thunders through. Here is the “Pullman Car,” in which the performers are seen playing cards, or chatting, or lunching. They have their pets with them—parrots, dogs, etc. It suggests luxury and prosperity. But this ease is dearly purchased, for we know that the performer has bound himself in a sort of slavery, and has consented to forego all the legitimate methods of learning his profession. He belongs to some peripatetic company, a “travelling” one, or to one of the innumerable bands who take round a single play, for years, it may be; and in it he must play his single character over and over again. Hence, he must learn—nay, is compelled to play—every character in the same fashion, for he knows no other method. His wage is modest, but constant; but he can never rise higher, and if he lose his place it will be difficult for him to find another. It will be interesting to see what a contrast this system offers to the course of our cultured actors, who have endured the iron training and discipline of the old school; and in this view we shall follow the adventurous career of the popular Henry Irving, admittedly the foremost of our performers. In his instance we shall see how the struggle, so manfully sustained, became an invariable discipline, slowly forming the character which has made him an interesting figure on which the eyes of his countrymen rest with pleasure: and developing, as I have said, the heroic qualities of patience, resolution, and perseverance.

At the same time, I do not profess to set forth in these pages what is called “a biography” of the actor. But this seems a fitting moment for presenting a review of his artistic, laborious work at the Lyceum Theatre, during a period of over twenty years. Having known the actor from the very commencement of his career; having seen him in all his characters; having written contemporaneous criticisms of these performances—I may be thought to be at least fairly qualified for undertaking such a task. I possess, moreover, a vast collection of what may be called pièces justificatifs, which includes almost everything that has been written of him. It will be seen that the tone adopted is an independent one, and I have freely and fairly discussed Sir Henry Irving’s merits, both real and imputed. Where praise is undiscriminating, there is no praise. I have also dealt with many interesting “open questions,” as they may be called, connected with theatrical management and the “art of the stage.” I may add that in this new edition I have added many particulars which will be found interesting, and have brought the story down to the present moment.

Athenæum Club,
July, 1895.

CONTENTS.

SIR HENRY IRVING

CHAPTER I.
1838-1856.
SCHOOL-DAYS—EARLY TASTE FOR THE STAGE—FIRST APPEARANCE.

Henry Irving was born at Keinton, near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire, on February 6, 1838. His real name was John Henry Brodribb. “The last place God made” has been the description given of this little town—Keinton-Mandeville—which lies near Glastonbury. The house in which the future actor was born is still pointed out—a small two-storied dwelling, of a poorish sort.

Henry Irving’s mother was Sarah Behenna, a woman of strong, marked character, who early took the child into Cornwall to her sister Penberthy. Thus was he among the miners and mining captains in a district “stern and wild,” where lessons of dogged toil and perseverance were to be learned. The earliest books he read were his Bible, some old English ballads, and “Don Quixote,” a character which he had long had a fancy for performing. In an intimate causerie with his and my friend Joseph Hatton, he was induced to stray back to these early days of childhood, when he called up some striking scenes of those old mining associations. This aunt Penberthy was a resolute, striking woman, firm and even grim of purpose, and the scenes in which she figured have a strong flavour, as Mr. Hatton suggests, of Currer Bell’s stories.

He was early sent to a school then directed by Dr. Pinches, in George Yard, Lombard Street, close by the George and Vulture, which still happily stands, and where Mr. Pickwick always put up when he was in town. At this academy, on some exhibition day, he proposed to recite a rather gruesome piece called “The Uncle,” to which his preceptor strongly objected, when he substituted the more orthodox “Defence of Hamilton Rowan,” by Curran.

More than thirty years later, when the boy had become famous, and was giving a benefit at his own theatre to a veteran player—Mr. Creswick—the latter, coming before the curtain, related to the audience this little anecdote. “I was once,” he said, “invited to hear some schoolboys recite speeches previous to their breaking up for the holidays. The schoolmaster was an old friend of mine, whom I very much respected. The room was filled from wall to wall with the parents and friends of the pupils. I was not much entertained with the first part: I must confess that I was a little bored; but suddenly there came out a lad who at once struck me as being rather uncommon, and he riveted my attention. The performance, I think, was a scene from ‘Ion,’ in which he played Adrastus. I well saw that he left his schoolfellows a long way behind. That schoolboy was Master Henry Irving. Seeing that he had dramatic aptitude, I gave him a word of encouragement, perhaps the first he had ever received, and certainly the first he had received from one in the dramatic profession, to which he is now a distinguished honour.” The late Solicitor-General, Sir Edward Clarke, who was sent to the school after Irving left it, long after made humorous complaint at a Theatrical Fund dinner that, on exhibiting his own powers at the same school, he used to be regularly told, “Very good—very fair; but you should have heard Irving do it.”

On leaving the school, it was determined that the future actor should adopt a commercial career, and he was placed in the offices of Messrs. Thacker, “Indian merchants in Newgate Street.” He was then about fourteen, and remained in the house four years.

But his eyes were even now straying from his desk to the stage. He was constantly reading plays and poetry, and seeking opportunity for practice in the art in which he felt he was destined so to excel.

At this time, about 1853, the late Mr. Phelps’ intelligent efforts, and the admirable style in which he presented classical dramas, excited abundant interest and even enthusiasm among young men. Many now look back with pleasure to their pilgrimages to the far-off Sadler’s Wells Theatre, where such an intellectual entertainment was provided and sustained with admirable taste for many seasons. What was called “The Elocution Class” was one of the results. It was directed by Mr. Henry Thomas with much intelligence; his system was to encourage his pupils to recite pieces of their own selection, on which the criticisms of the listeners were freely given and invited. “On one evening,” says one of Irving’s old class-fellows, “a youth presented himself as a new member. He was rather tall for his age, dressed in a black suit, with what is called a round jacket, and a deep white linen collar turned over it. His face was very handsome, with a mass of black hair, and eyes bright and flashing with intelligence. He was called on for his first recitation, and fairly electrified the audience with an unusual display of elocutionary and dramatic intensity.” The new member was Henry Irving. By-and-by the elocution class was moved to the Sussex Hall, in Leadenhall Street, when something more ambitious was attempted in the shape of regular dramatic performances. The pieces were chiefly farces, such as ‘Boots at the Swan,’ or ‘Little Toddlekins,’ though more serious plays were performed. It was remarked that the young performer was invariably perfect in his “words.” In spite of his youth he gave great effect to such characters as Wilford in ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others of a melodramatic cast. A still more ambitious effort was Tobin’s ‘Honeymoon,’ given at the little Soho Theatre with full accompaniments of scenery, dresses, and decoration; and here the young aspirant won great applause.

It was to be expected that this success and these associations should more and more encourage him in his desire of adopting a profession to which he felt irresistibly drawn. He was, of course, a visitor to the theatres, and still recalls the extraordinary impression left upon him by Mr. Phelps’ performances. In everyone’s experience is found one of these “epoch-making” incidents, which have an influence we are often scarcely conscious of; and every thinking person knows the value of such “turning-points” in music or literature. The young man’s taste was no caprice, or stage-struck fancy; he tried his powers deliberately; and before going to see a play would exercise himself in regular study of its parts, attempting to lay out the action, business, etc., according to his ideas. Many years later in America, he said that when he was a youth he never went to a theatre except to see a Shakespearian play—except, in fact, for instruction.

At Sadler’s Wells there was a painstaking actor called Hoskins, who was attracted by the young fellow’s enthusiasm and conscientious spirit, and who agreed to give him a few lessons in his art. These were fixed for eight o’clock in the morning, so as not to interfere with commercial business. Hoskins introduced him to Phelps, who listened to his efforts with some of that gnarled impassibility which was characteristic of him; then, in his blunt, good-natured way, gave him this advice: “Young man, have nothing to do with the stage; it is a bad profession!”

Such, indeed, is the kindest counsel that could be given to nine-tenths of the postulants of our time. Their wish is to “go on the stage”—a different thing from the wish to become an actor. The manager had nothing before him to show that there were here present the necessary gifts of perseverance, study, and intelligence. Struck, however, by his earnestness, he proposed to give him an engagement of a very trifling kind, which the young man, after deliberation, declined, on the ground that it would not afford him opportunities of thoroughly learning his profession. The good-natured Hoskins, who was himself leaving the theatre to go to Australia, gave him a letter to a manager, with these words: “You will go on the stage; when you want an engagement present that letter, and you will obtain one.” He, indeed, tried to induce him to join him on his tours, but the offer was declined.

His mother, however, could not reconcile herself to his taking so serious a step as “going on the stage.” “I used frequently,” writes his companion at the elocution class, “to visit at her house to rehearse the scenes in which John and I were to act together. I remember her as being rather tall, somewhat stately, and very gentle. On one occasion she begged me very earnestly to dissuade him from thinking of the stage as a profession; and having read much of the vicissitudes of actors’ lives, their hardships, and the precariousness of their work, I did my best to impress this view upon him.” But it is ever idle thus striving to hinder a child’s purpose when it has been deliberately adopted.

Having come to this resolution, he applied earnestly to the task of preparing himself for his profession. He learned a vast number of characters; studied, and practised; even took lessons in fencing, attending twice a week at a school-of-arms in Chancery Lane. This accomplishment, often thought trifling, was once an important branch of an actor’s education; it supplies an elegance of movement and bearing.

“The die being now cast,” according to the accepted expression, John Brodribb, who had now become Henry Irving, bade adieu to his desk, and bethinking him of the Hoskins letter, applied to Mr. Davis, a country manager, who had just completed the building of a new theatre at Sunderland. With a slender stock of money he set off for that town. By an odd coincidence the name of the new house was the Lyceum. The play appointed was ‘Richelieu,’ and the opening night was fixed for September 29, 1856. The young actor was cast for the part of the Duke of Orleans, and had to speak the opening words of the piece.

Mr. Alfred Davis, a well-known provincial actor, and son of the northern manager, used often to recall the circumstances attending Irving’s “first appearance on any stage.” “The new theatre,” he says, “was opened in September, 1856, and on the 29th of that month we started. For months previously a small army of scenic artists had been at work. Carpenters, property-makers, and, of course, costumiers, had been working night and day, and everything was, as far as could be foreseen, ready and perfect. Among the names of a carefully-selected corps dramatique were those of our old friend Sam Johnson (now of the Lyceum Theatre, London); George Orvell (real name, Frederick Kempster); Miss Ely Loveday (sister of H. J. Loveday, the present genial and much-respected stage-manager of the Lyceum), afterwards married to Mr. Kempster; and a youthful novice, just eighteen, called Henry Irving. Making his first appearance, he spoke the first word in the first piece (played for the first time in the town, I believe), on the first or opening night of the new theatre. The words of the speech itself, ‘Here’s to our enterprise!’ had in them almost a prophetic tone of aspiration and success. So busy was I in front and behind the scenes, that I was barely able to reach my place on the stage in time for the rising of the curtain. I kept my back to the audience till my cue to speak was given, all the while buttoning up, tying, and finishing my dressing generally, so that scant attention would be given to others. But even under these circumstances I was compelled to notice, and with perfect appreciation, the great and most minute care which had been bestowed by our aspirant on the completion of his costume. In those days managers provided the mere dress. Accessories, or ‘properties’ as they were called, were found by every actor. Henry Irving was, from his splendid white hat and feathers to the tips of his shoes, a perfect picture; and, no doubt, had borrowed his authority from some historical picture of the Louis XIII. period.”

“The impersonation,” as the neophyte related it long afterwards, “was not a success. I was nervous, and suffered from stage fright. My second appearance as Cleomenes in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ was even more disheartening, as in Act V. I entirely forgot my lines, and abruptly quitted the scene, putting out all the other actors. My manager, however, put down my failure to right causes, and instead of dispensing with my services, gave me some strong and practical advice.”

All which is dramatic enough, and gives us a glimpse of the good old provincial stage life. That touch of encouragement instead of dismissal is significant of the fair, honest system which then obtained in this useful training school.

CHAPTER II.
1857-1859.
EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES.

At the Sunderland Theatre he remained only four months, and though the manager pressed him to stay with him, the young actor felt that here he had not the opportunities he desired. He accordingly accepted an engagement at the Edinburgh Theatre, which began on February 9, 1857.

Among the faces that used to be familiar at any “first night” at the Lyceum were those of Mr. Robert Wyndham and his wife. There is something romantic in the thought that these guests of the London manager and actor in the height of his success and prosperity should have been the early patrons of the unfriended provincial player. Mr. Wyndham was one of the successors of that sagacious Murray to whom the Edinburgh stage owes so much that is respectable. Here our actor remained for two years and a half, enjoying the benefits of that admirable, useful discipline, by which alone a knowledge of acting is to be acquired—viz., a varied practice in a vast round of characters. This experience, though acquired in a hurried and perfunctory fashion, is of enormous value in the way of training. The player is thus introduced to every shade and form of character, and can practise himself in all the methods of expression. Now that provincial theatres are abolished, and have given place to the “travelling companies,” the actor has few opportunities of learning his business, and one result is a “thinness” or meagreness of interpretation. In this Edinburgh school our actor performed “a round,” as it is called, of no fewer than three hundred and fifty characters! This seems amazing. It is, in truth, an extraordinary list, ranging over every sort of minor character.

He here also enjoyed opportunities of performing with famous “stars” who came round the provinces, Miss Ellen Faucit, Mrs. Stirling, Vandenhoff, Charles Dillon, Madame Celeste, “Ben” Webster, Robson, the facetious Wright, the buoyant Charles Mathews, his life-long friend Toole, of “incompressible humour,” and the American, Miss Cushman.[1] This, it is clear, was a period of useful drudgery, but in it he found his account. The company visited various Scotch towns, which the actor has described pleasantly enough in what might seem an extract from one of the old theatrical memoirs. He had always a vein of quiet humour, the more agreeable because it is unpretending and without effort.

It would be difficult to give an idea of the prodigious labour which this earnest, resolute young man underwent while struggling to “learn his profession” in the most thorough way. The iron discipline of the theatre favoured his efforts, and its calls on the exertions of the actor seem, nowadays, truly extraordinary. In another laborious profession, the office of “deviling” for a counsel in full practice, which entails painful gratuitous drudgery, is welcomed as a privilege by any young man who wishes to rise. A few of these Edinburgh bills are now before me, and present nights of singularly hard work for so young a man. We may wonder, too, at the audience which could have stomach for so lengthy a programme. Thus, one night, January 7, 1858, when the pantomime was running, the performances began with the pantomime of ‘Little Bo-Peep,’ in which we find our hero as Scruncher, “the Captain of the Wolves.” After the pantomime came ‘The Middy Ashore,’ in which he was Tonnish, “an exquisite,” concluding with ‘The Wandering Boys,’ in which we again find him as Gregoire, “confidential servant to the Countess Croissey.” We find him nearly always in three pieces of a night, and he seems, in pieces of a light sort, to have been “cast” for the gentlemanly captain of the “walking” sort; in more serious ones, for the melodramatic and dignified characters. In ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ he was the hero; and also Jack Wind, the boatswain, the chief mutineer, in ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ In the course of this season Toole and Miss Louisa Keeley came to the theatre, when Irving opened the night as the Marquis de Cevennes in ‘Plot and Passion,’ next appearing in the “laughable farce” (and it is one, albeit old-fashioned), ‘The Loan of a Lover,’ in which he was Amersfort, and finally playing Leeford, “Brownlow’s nephew,” in ‘Oliver Twist.’

The young man, full of hope and resolution, went cheerfully through these labours, though “my name,” as he himself tells us, “continued to occupy a useful but obscure position in the playbill, and nothing occurred to suggest to the manager the propriety of doubling my salary, though he took care to assure me I was ‘made to rise.’” This salary was the modest one of thirty shillings a week, then the usual one for what was termed “juvenile lead.” The old classification, “walking lady,” “singing chambermaid,” “heavy father,” etc., will have soon altogether disappeared, simply because the round of characters that engendered it has disappeared. Now the manager selects, at his goodwill and pleasure, anybody, in or out of his company, who he thinks will best suit the character.

As Mr. Wyndham informs me: “During the short period he was under our management, both Mrs. Wyndham and myself took a most lively interest in his promotion, for he was always perfect, and any character, however small, he might have been called upon to represent, was in itself a study; and I believe he would have sacrificed a week’s salary—a small affair, by the way—to exactly look like the character he was about to portray.”

Of these old Edinburgh days Irving always thought fondly. At the Scottish capital he is now welcomed with an affectionate sympathy; and the various intellectual societies of the city—Philosophical and others—are ever glad to receive instruction and entertainment from his lips. In November, 1891, when he was visiting the Students’ Union Dramatic Society, he told them that some thirty years before “he was member of a University there—the old Theatre Royal. There he had studied for two years and a half his beautiful art, and there he learnt the lesson that they would all learn, that—

“‘Deep the oak must sink its roots in earth obscure,

That hopes to lift its branches to the sky.’”

In some of his later speeches “of occasion” he has scattered little autobiographical touches that are not without interest. On one occasion he recalled how he was once summoned over to Dublin to supply the place of another actor at the Queen’s Theatre, then under the direction of two “manager-twins,” the Brothers Webb. The Queen’s was but a small house, conducted on old-fashioned principles, and had a rather turbulent audience. When the actor made his appearance he was, to his astonishment, greeted with yells, general anger, and disapprobation. This was to be his reception throughout the whole engagement, which was luckily not a long one. He, however, stuck gallantly to his post, and sustained his part with courage. He described the manager as perpetually making “alarums and excursions” in front of the curtain to expostulate with the audience. These “Brothers Webb, who had found their twinship profitable in playing the ‘Dromios,’ were worthy actors enough, and much respected in their profession; they had that marked individuality of character now so rarely found on the boards. Having discovered, at last, what his offence was, viz., the taking the place of a dismissed actor—an unconscious exercise of a form of ‘land-grabbing’—his placid good-humour gradually made its way, and before the close of the engagement he had, according to the correct theatrical phrase, ‘won golden opinions.’”

At the close of the season—in May, 1859—the Edinburgh company set out on its travels, visiting various Scotch provincial towns. During this peregrination, when at Dundee, the idea occurred to him and a brother-player of venturing “a reading” in the neighbouring town of Linlithgow. This adventure he has himself related in print. Our actor has an agreeable vein of narrative, marked by a quiet, rather placid humour, which is also found in his occasional speeches. The charm and secret of this is the absence of affectation or pretence; a talisman ever certain to win listeners and readers. Taking his friend, who was Mr. Saker, into his confidence, he proceeded to arrange the scheme. But he shall tell the story himself:

“I had been about two years upon the stage, and was fulfilling my first engagement at Edinburgh. Like all young men, I was full of hope. It happened to be vacation time—‘preaching week,’ as it is called in Scotland—and it struck me that I might turn my leisure to account by giving a reading. I imparted this project to another member of the company, who entered into it with enthusiasm. He, too, was young and ambitious. I promised him half the profits.

“Having arranged the financial details, we came to the secondary question—Where was the reading to be given? It would scarcely do in Edinburgh; the public there had too many other matters to think about. Linlithgow was a likely place. My friend accordingly paid several visits to Linlithgow, engaged the town-hall, ordered the posters, and came back every time full of confidence. Meanwhile, I was absorbed in the ‘Lady of Lyons,’ which, being the play that most charmed the fancy of a young actor, I had decided to read; and day after day, perched on Arthur’s Seat, I worked myself into a romantic fever. The day came, and we arrived at Linlithgow in high spirits. I felt a thrill of pride at seeing my name for the first time in big capitals on the posters, which announced that at ‘eight o’clock precisely Mr. Henry Irving would read the “Lady of Lyons.”’ At the hotel we eagerly questioned our waiter as to the probability of there being a great rush. He pondered some time; but we could get no other answer out of him than ‘Nane can tell.’ ‘Did he think there would be fifty people there?’ ‘Nane can tell.’

“Eight o’clock drew near, and we sallied out to survey the scene of operations. The crowd had not yet begun to collect in front of the town-hall, and the man who had undertaken to be there with the key was not visible. As it was getting late, we went in search of the doorkeeper. He was quietly reposing in the bosom of his family, and to our remonstrance replied, ‘Ou, ay, the reading! I forgot all aboot it.’ This was not inspiriting.

“The door was opened, the gas was lighted, and my manager made the most elaborate preparations for taking the money. While he was thus energetically applying himself to business, I was strolling like a casual spectator on the other side of the street, taking some last feverish glances at the play, and anxiously watching for the first symptoms of ‘the rush.’

“The time wore on. The town clock struck eight, and still there was no sign of ‘the rush.’ Half-past eight, and not a soul to be seen—not even a small boy! I could not read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ to an audience consisting of the manager, with a face as long as two tragedies, so there was nothing for it but to beat a retreat. No one came out even to witness our discomfiture. Linlithgow could not have taken the trouble to study the posters, which now seemed such horrid mockeries in our eyes.

“We managed to scrape together enough money to pay the expenses, which operation was a sore trial to my speculative manager, and a pretty severe tax upon the emoluments of the ‘juvenile lead.’ We returned to Edinburgh the same night, and on the journey, by way of showing that I was not at all cast down, I favoured my manager with selections from the play, which he good-humouredly tolerated.

“This incident was vividly revived last year, as I passed through Linlithgow on my way from Edinburgh to Glasgow, in which cities I gave, in conjunction with my friend Toole, two readings on behalf of the sufferers by the bank failure, which produced a large sum of money. My companion in the Linlithgow expedition was Mr. Edward Saker—now one of the most popular managers in the provinces.”

In March, 1859, we find our actor at the old Surrey Theatre, playing under Mr. Shepherd and Mr. Creswick, for a “grand week,” so it was announced, “of Shakespeare, and first-class pieces; supported by Miss Elsworthy and Mr. Creswick, whose immense success during the past week has been rapturously endorsed by crowded and enthusiastic audiences.” “Rapturously endorsed” is good. In ‘Macbeth’ we find Irving fitted with the modest part of Siward, and this only for the first three nights in the week. There was an after-piece, in which he had no part, and ‘Money’ was given on the other nights.

But he had now determined to quit Edinburgh, lured by the prospect of “a London engagement,” an ignis fatuus for many an actor, who is too soon to find out that a London engagement does not mean exactly a London success. In 1859 he made his farewell appearance in ‘Claude Melnotte,’ and was received in very cordial fashion. As he told the people of Glasgow many years later, he ever thought gratefully of the Scotch, as they were the first who gave him encouragement.

Once when engaged at some country theatre in Scotland the company were playing in ‘Cramond Brig,’ a good sound old melodrama—of excellent humour, too. Years later, when the prosperous manager and actor was directing the Lyceum, some of the audience were surprised to find him disinterring this ancient drama, and placing it at the opening of the night’s performance. But I fancy it was the associations of this little adventure that had given it a corner in his memory, and secured for it a sort of vitality. Thus he tells the story:

“When the play was being rehearsed, our jolly manager said, ‘Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper to-night; no paste-board and parsley, but a real sheep’s head, and a little drop of real Scotch.’ A tumult of applause.

“The manager was as good as his word, for at night there was a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the ‘drop of real Scotch.’ The ‘neighbour’s bairn,’ an important character in the scene, came in and took her seat beside the miller’s chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelligent child of some nine years old. In the course of the meal, when Jock Howison was freely passing the whisky, she leaned over to him and said, ‘Please, will you give me a little?’ He looked surprised. She was so earnest in her request, that I whispered to her, ‘To-morrow, perhaps, if you want it very much, you shall have a thimbleful.’

“To-morrow night came, and, as the piece was going on, to my amusement, she produced from the pocket of her little plaid frock a bright piece of brass, and held it out to me. I said, ‘What’s this?’ ‘A thimble, sir.’ ‘But what am I to do with it?’ ‘You said that you would give me a thimbleful of whisky if I wanted it, and I do want it.’

“This was said so naturally, that the audience laughed and applauded. I looked over to the miller, and found him with the butt-end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we were both experienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed effect as a part of the piece. I filled the thimble, and the child took it back carefully to her little ‘creepy’ stool beside the miller. I watched her, and presently saw her turn her back to the audience and pour it into a little halfpenny tin snuff-box. She covered the box with a bit of paper, and screwed on the lid, thus making the box pretty watertight, and put it into her pocket.

“When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the child’s head. ‘Why, my little girl,’ said he, ‘you are quite a genius. Your gag is the best thing in the piece. We must have it in every night. But, my child, you mustn’t drink the whisky. No, no! that would never do.’

“‘Oh, sir, indeed I won’t; I give you my word I won’t!’ she said quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing-room.

“‘Cramond Brig’ had an unprecedented run of six nights, and the little lady always got her thimbleful of whisky, and her round of applause. And each time I noticed that she corked up the former safely in the snuff-box. I was curious as to what she could possibly want with the spirit, and who she was, and where she came from. I asked her, but she seemed so unwilling to tell, and turned so red, that I did not press her; but I found out that it was the old story—no mother, and a drunken father.

“I took a fancy to the little thing, and wished to fathom her secret, for a secret I felt sure there was. After the performance, I saw my little body come out. Poor little child! there was no mother or brother to see her to her home. She hurried up the street, and turning into the poorest quarter of the town, entered the common stair of a tumbledown old house. I followed, feeling my way as best I could. She went up and up, till in the very top flat she entered a little room. A handful of fire glimmering in the grate revealed a sickly boy, some two years her junior, who crawled towards her from where he was lying before the fire.

“‘Cissy, I’m glad you’re home,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d never come.’

“She put her arms round him, laid the poor little head on her thin shoulder, and took him over to the fire again, trying to comfort him as she went.

“The girl leaned over and put her arms round him, and kissed him; she then put her hand into her pocket and took out the snuff-box.

“‘Oh, Willie, I wish we had more, so that it might cure the pain.’

“Having lighted a dip candle, she rubbed the child’s rheumatic shoulder with the few drops of spirit, and then covered up the little thin body, and, sitting before the fire, took the boy’s head on her knee, and began to sing him to sleep.

“I took another look into the room through the half-open door; my foot creaked; the frightened eyes met mine. I put my finger on my lips and crept away.

“But as I began to descend the stair I met a drunken man ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. He slipped and stumbled by me, and entered the room. I followed to the landing unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door.

“A hoarse, brutal voice growled: ‘What are you doing there?—get up!’

“‘I can’t, father; Willie’s head is on my knees.’

“‘Get up!’

“The girl bowed her head lower and lower.

“I could not bear it. I entered the room. The brute was on the bed already in his besotted sleep. The child stole up to me, and in a half-frightened whisper said, ‘Oh, sir, oughtn’t people to keep secrets, if they know them? I think they ought, if they are other people’s.’ This with the dignity of a queen.

“I could not gainsay her, so I said as gravely as I could to the little woman, ‘The secret shall be kept, but you must ask me if you want anything.’ She bent over, suddenly kissed my hand, and I went down the stair.

“The next night she was shy in coming for the whisky, and I took care that she had good measure.

“The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more happy than I had ever seen her. When she came for the whisky she held out the thimble, and whispered to me with her poor, pale lips trembling, ‘You need only pretend to-night.’

“‘Why?’ I whispered.

“‘Because—he doesn’t want it now. He’s dead.’”

The London engagement was offered him by the late Mr. A. Harris, then managing the Princess’s Theatre. It was for three years. But when he arrived he found that the only opening given him was a part of a few lines in a play called ‘Ivy Hall.’ As this meagre employment promised neither improvement nor fame, he went to the manager and begged his release. This he obtained, and courageously quitted London, determined not to return until he could claim a respectable and conspicuous position. Thus we find him, with perhaps a heavy heart, once more returning to the provinces, just as Mrs. Siddons had to return to the same form of drudgery after her failure at Drury Lane. Before leaving London, that wholesome taste for appealing to the appreciation of the judicious and intellectual portion of the community, which has always been “a note” of his character, prompted him to give two readings at the old palace of Crosby Hall. In this he was encouraged by City friends and old companions, who had faith in his powers. It was something to make this exhibition under the roof-tree of that interesting old pile, not yet “restored”; and the locale, we may imagine, was in harmony with his own refined tastes. He read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ on December 19, 1859, and the somewhat artificial ‘Virginius’ on February 1, 1860. These performances were received with favour, and were pronounced by the public critics to show scholarly feeling and correct taste. “His conception was good, his delivery clear and effective, and there was a gentlemanly ease and grace in his manners which is exceedingly pleasing to an audience.” One observer with some prescience detected “the indefinite something which incontestably and instantaneously shows that the fire of genius is present.” Another pronounced “that he was likely to make a name for himself.” At the last scenes between the hero and Pauline, the listeners were much affected, and “in some parts of the room sobs were heard.” Another judge opined that “if he attempted a wider sphere of action,” he would have a most successful career. This “wider sphere of action” he has since “attempted,” but at that moment his eyes were strained, wearily enough, looking for it. It lay before him in the weary round of work in the provinces, to which, as we have seen, he had now to return.

I have before me a curious little criticism of this performance taken from an old and long defunct journal that bore the name of The Players, which will now be read with a curious interest:

“We all know the ‘Dramatic Reading.’ We have all—at least, all who have served their apprenticeship to theatrical amusements—suffered the terrible infliction of the Dramatic Reader; but then with equal certainty we have all answered to the next gentleman’s call of a ‘Night with Shakespeare, with Readings, etc.,’ and have again undergone the insufferable bore of hearing our dear old poet murdered by the aspiring genius. Thinking somewhat as we have above written the other evening, we wended our editorial way towards Crosby Hall, where our informant ‘circular’ assured us Mr. Henry Irving was about to read Bulwer’s ‘Lady of Lyons.’ We asked ourselves, Who is Mr. Henry Irving? and memory, rushing to some hidden cave in our mental structure, answered—Henry Irving, oh! yes, to be sure; how stupid! We at once recollected that Mr. Irving was a gentleman of considerable talent, and a great favourite in the provinces. We have often seen his name honourably figuring in the columns of our provincial contemporaries. Now, we were most agreeably disappointed on this present occasion; for instead of finding the usual conventional respectable-looking ‘mediocrity,’ we were gratified by hearing the poetical ‘Lady of Lyons’ poetically read by a most accomplished elocutionist, who gave us not only words, but that finer indefinite something which proves incontestably and instantaneously that the fire of genius is present in the artist. It would be out of place now to speak of the merits of the piece selected by this gentleman, but the merits appeared as striking and the demerits as little so as on any occasion of the kind in our recollection. Claude’s picture of his imaginary home was given with such poetic feeling as to elicit a loud burst of approval from his hearers, as also many other passages occurring in the play. The characters were well marked, especially Beauseant and Madame Deschappelles, whilst the little part of Glavis was very pleasingly given. Mr. Irving was frequently interrupted by the applause of his numerous and delighted audience, and at the conclusion was unanimously called to receive their marks of approval.” It was at this interesting performance that Mr. Toole, as he tells us, first met his friend.

A very monotonous feature in too many of the dramatic memoirs is found in the record of dates, engagements, and performances, which in many instances are the essence of the whole. They are uninteresting to anyone save perhaps to the hero himself. So in this record we shall summarize such details as much as possible. Our actor went straight to Glasgow, to Glover’s Theatre, whence he passed to the Theatre Royal, Manchester, where he remained for some four years, till June, 1865. Here he met fresh histrionic friends, who “came round” the circuit in succession—such as Edwin Booth, Sothern, Charles Mathews, G.V. Brooke, Miss Heath, and that versatile actor and dramatist and manager, Dion Boucicault. Here he gradually gained a position of respect—respect for his unfailing assiduity and scrupulous conscientiousness, qualities which the public is never slow to note. In many points he offers a suggestion of Dickens, as in his purpose of doing whatever he attempted in the very best way he could. There are other points, too, in which the actor strongly recalls the novelist; the sympathetic interest in all about him, the absence of affectation combined with great talents, the aptitude for practical business, the knowledge of character, the precious art of making friends, and the being unspoiled by good fortune. Years later he recalled with grateful pleasure the encouragement he had received here. And his language is touching and betokens a sympathetic heart:

“I lived here for five years, and wherever I look—to the right or to the left, to the north or the south—I always find some remembrance, some memento of those five years. But there is one association connected with my life here that probably is unknown to but a few in this room. That is an association with a friend, which had much to do, I believe, with the future course of our two lives. When I tell you that for months and years we fought together and worked together to the best of our power, and with the means we had then, to give effect to the art we were practising; when I tell you we dreamt of what might be done, but was not then done, and patted each other on the back and said, ‘Well, old fellow, perhaps the day will come when you may have a little more than sixpence in your pocket;’ when I tell you that that man was well known to you, and that his name was Calvert, you will understand the nature of my associations with Manchester. I have no doubt that you will be able to trace in my own career, and the success I have had, the benefit of the communion I had with him. When I was in Manchester I had very many friends. I needed good advice at that time, for I found it a very difficult thing as an actor to pursue my profession and to do justice to certain things that I always had a deep, and perhaps rather an extravagant, idea of, on the sum of £75 a year. I have been making a calculation within the last few minutes of the amount of money that I did earn in those days, and I found that it was about £75 a year. Perhaps one would be acting out of the fifty-two weeks of the year some thirty-five. The other part of the year one would probably be receiving nothing. Then an actor would be tempted perhaps to take a benefit, by which he generally lost £20 or £30. I have a very fond recollection, I have an affection for your city, for very many reasons. The training I received here was a severe training; I must say at first it was very severe. I found it a difficult thing to make my way at all with the audience; and I believe the audience to a certain extent was right; I think there was no reason that I should make my way with them. I don’t think I had learnt enough; I think I was too raw, too unacceptable. But I am very proud to say that it was not long before, with the firmness of the Manchester friendship which I have always found, they got to like me; and I think before I parted with them they had an affection for me. At all events, I remember when in this city as little less—or little more—than a walking gentleman, I essayed the part of Hamlet the Dane, I was looked upon as a sort of madman who ought to be taken to some asylum and shut up; but I found in acting it before the audience that their opinion was a very different one, and before the play was half gone through I was received with a fervour and a kindness which gave me hope and expectation that in the far and distant future I might perhaps be able to benefit by their kindness. Perhaps they thought that by encouraging me they might help me on in the future. I believe they thought that, I believe that was in the thoughts of many of the audience, for they received me with an enthusiasm and kindness which my merits did not deserve.”

The man that could trace these faithful records of provincial stage life, and speak in this natural heartfelt fashion of memories which many would not perhaps wish to revive, must have a courageous and sympathetic nature.

Many years later, in his prosperity, he came to Bolton to lay the first stone of a new theatre, on which occasion other old memories recurred to him. “I once played here,” he said, “for a week, I am afraid to say how many years ago, and a very good time we had with a little sharing company from Manchester, headed by an actor, Charles Calvert. The piece we acted was called ‘Playing with Fire’; and though we did not play with too much money, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. I always look back to that week with very great pleasure. The theatre then had not certainly every modern appliance, but what the theatre lacked the audience made up for, and a more spontaneous, good-natured public I never played to.”

On another occasion he again indulged in a retrospect; indeed, his eyes seem always to have fondly turned back to Manchester and these early days of struggle: “I came all the way from Greenock with a few shillings in my pocket, and found myself in the splendid theatre now presided over by our friend Captain Bainbridge. The autumn dramatic season of 1860 commenced with a little farce, and a little two-act piece from the French, called ‘The Spy,’ the whole concluding with ‘God Save the Queen,’ in which, and in the little two-act piece from the French, I took prominent parts; so you see, gentlemen, that as a vocalist I even then had some proficiency, although I had not achieved the distinction subsequently attained by my efforts in Mephistopheles. Well, you will admit that the little piece from the French and the one-act farce—‘God Save the Queen’ was left out after the first night, through no fault of mine, I assure you—you will admit that these two pieces did not make up a very sensational bill of fare. I cannot conscientiously say that they crammed the theatre for a fortnight, but what did that matter?—we were at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, the manager was a man of substance, and we were all very happy and comfortable. Besides ‘Faust and Marguerite,’ there was a burlesque of Byron’s, ‘The Maid and the Magpie,’ in which I also played, the part being that of an exceedingly heavy father; and you will forgive me, I am sure, for saying that the very heavy father was considered by some to be anything but a dull performance. But though the houses were poor, we were a merry family. Our wants were few: we were not extravagant. We had a good deal of exercise, and what we did not earn we worked hard to borrow as frequently as possible from one another. Ah! they were very happy days. But do not think that this was our practice always of an afternoon; there was plenty of fine work done in the theatre. The public of Manchester was in those days a critical public, and could not long be satisfied with such meagre fare as I have pictured. During the five years of my sojourn in Manchester there was a succession of brilliant plays performed by first-rate actors, and I must say that I owe much to the valuable experience which I gained in your Theatre Royal under the management of John Knowles.”

In his Manchester recollections, as we see, there are hints of very serious struggles and privations. Such are, as says Boswell, “bark and steel for the mind.” A man is the better for them, though the process is painful; they assuredly teach resource and patience. Years after, the actor, now grown celebrated and prosperous, used to relate, and relate dramatically, this very touching little story of his struggles:

“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever been present was the one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you remember Joe Robins—a nice genial fellow who played small parts in the provinces? Ah, no; that was before your time. Joe Robins was once in the gentleman’s furnishing business in London city. I think he had a wholesale trade, and was doing well. However, he belonged to one of the semi-Bohemian clubs, associated a great deal with actors and journalists, and when an amateur performance was organized for some charitable object, he was cast for the clown in a burlesque called ‘Guy Fawkes.’ He determined to go upon the stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately, Joe was able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which he invested so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the wolf from getting inside his door in case he did not eclipse Garrick, Kean, and Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of his wares, and started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs, stockings, and underclothing to equip him for several years.

“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular stage. He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would entrust him with parts big enough for him to fail in. But he drifted down to general utility, and then out of London, and when I met him he was engaged in a very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester theatre.

“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel undergarments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the actors who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner upon underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which Joe had cherished so long went to the pawnbroker’s or the slop-shop to provide the money for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for nobody else is ever so hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be served at Joe’s lodgings, and before it was placed on the table, Joe beckoned his friend with the gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and pointing to a chair, silently withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of underwear, which had been Joe’s pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet colour; it was thick, warm, and heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if it had been manufactured especially to his measure. He put it on, and as the flaming flannels encased his limbs, he felt his heart glowing within him with gratitude to dear Joe Robins.

“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with the comfort of his under-vest; he appreciated the drawers more than the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe Robins with all his heart. ‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s feelings very sympathetically.’ ‘I have good reason to do so, replied Irving, with his sunshiny smile, ‘for I was that poor actor!’”

This really simple, most affecting, incident he himself related when on his first visit to America.

Most actors have a partiality for what may be called fantastic freaks or “practical jokes,” to be accounted for perhaps by a sort of reaction from their own rather monotonous calling. The late Mr. Sothern delighted in such pastimes, and Mr. Toole is not exactly indifferent to them. The excitement caused by that ingenious pair of mountebanks, the Davenport Brothers, will still be recalled: their appearance at Manchester early in 1865 prompted our actor to a lively method of exposure, which he carried out with much originality. With the aid of another actor, Mr. Philip Day, and a prestidigitator, Mr. Frederic Maccabe, he arranged his scheme, and invited a large number of friends and notables of the city to a performance in the Athenæum. Assuming the dress characteristics of a patron of the Brothers, one Dr. Ferguson, Irving came forward and delivered a grotesque address, and then, in the usual familiar style, proceeded to “tie up” his coadjutors in the cabinet, with the accompaniments of ringing bells, beating tambourines, etc. The whole was, as a matter of course, successful. It was not, however, strictly within the programme of an actor who was “toiling at his oar,” though the vivacity of youth was likely enough to have prompted it.

On the eve of his departure from Manchester he determined on an ambitious attempt, and, as already stated, played ‘Hamlet’ for his own benefit. The company good-naturedly favoured his project, though they fancied it was beyond his strength. It was, as he has told us, an extraordinary success, and the performance was called for on several nights—a high compliment, as it was considered, in the city, where the custom was to require a “new bill” every night. He himself did not put much faith in the prophecies of future eminence that were uttered on this occasion; he felt that, after all, there was no likelihood of his emerging from the depressing monotonous round of provincial histrionics. But rescue was nearer at hand than he fancied. The stage is stored with surprises, and there, at least, it is the unexpected that always, or usually, happens.

Leaving Manchester, he passed to Edinburgh, Bury, Oxford, and even to Douglas, Isle of Man, where the assembly-room used to do duty as a “fit-up” theatre. For six months, from January to July, 1866, he was at Liverpool with Mr. Alexander Henderson.

Thus had he seen many men and many theatres and many audiences, and must have learned many a rude lesson, besides learning his profession. At this moment, as he described it long after, he found himself one day standing on the steps of the theatre looking hopelessly down the street, and in a sort of despair, without an engagement, and no very likely prospect of engagement, not knowing, indeed, which way to turn, unless some “stroke of luck” came. But the “actor’s luck,” as he said, “is really work;” and the lucky actor is, above all, a worker. At this hopeless moment arrived unexpectedly a proposal from Dion Boucicault that he should join him at Manchester and take a leading character in his new piece. He accepted; but with some shrewdness stipulated that should he succeed to the author’s satisfaction, he was to obtain an engagement in London. This was acceded to, and with a light heart he set off.

Mr. Boucicault, indeed, long after in America boasted that it was his good fortune to “discover Irving” in 1866, when he was playing in “the country.” The performance took place on July 30, 1866. “He was cast for a part in ‘Hunted Down,’ and played it so admirably that I invited my friend Mr. Charles Reade to go and see him. He confirmed my opinion so strongly, that when ‘Hunted Down’ was played in London a few months afterwards, I gave it conditionally on Mr. Irving’s engagement. That was his début in London as a leading actor.” He added some judicious criticism, distinguishing Irving as “an eccentric serious actor” from Jefferson, who was “an eccentric comic actor.” “His mannerisms are so very marked that an audience requires a long familiarity with his style before it can appreciate many merits that are undeniable. It is unquestionable that he is the greatest actor as a tragedian that London has seen during the last fifty years.”[2]

In this piece, ‘Mary Leigh and her Three Lives’ (which later became ‘Hunted Down’), the heroine was performed by Miss Kate Terry, at that time the only member of a gifted family who had made a reputation. Irving’s character was Rawdon Scudamore, a polished villain, to which he imparted such force and finesse, that it impressed all who witnessed it with the belief that here was an actor of striking power. It at once gave him “a position,” and an impression of his gifts was of a sudden left upon the profession, upon those even who had not seen him. No fewer than three offers of engagement were made to him. The author of the piece, as we have seen, was particularly struck with his powers; his London engagement was now secure, and he was to receive a tempting offer, through Mr. Tom Taylor, from the management of the St James’s Theatre, about to open with the new season.

CHAPTER III.
1866.
THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE—‘HUNTED DOWN’—THE NEW VAUDEVILLE THEATRE—‘THE TWO ROSES.’

The directress of the new venture at the St. James’s Theatre was Miss Herbert, a graceful, sympathetic person of much beauty, with exquisite golden hair and almost devotional features, which supplied many of the Pre-Raphaelite brethren with angelic faces for their canvases. On the stage her efforts were directed by great intelligence and spirit, and she was now about to essay all the difficulties and perplexities of management. Like so many others, she had before her a very high ideal of her office: the good, vivacious old comedies, with refined, correct acting, were to entice the wayward public, with pieces by Reade, Tom Taylor, and Boucicault. This pleasing actress was destined to have a chequered course of struggle and adventure, a mingled yarn of success and disappointment, and has long since retired from the stage.

At the St. James’s Theatre the company was formed of the manageress herself; of Walter Lacy, an actor of fine polish and grace; of Addison, one of the old school; with that excellent mirth-making pair, the Frank Mathews. The stage-manager was Irving. Here, then, he found himself, to his inexpressible satisfaction, in a respected and respectable position, one very different from that of the actor-of-all-work in the provinces. Not the least comforting reflection was that he had won his way to this station by remarkable talent and conscientious labour. The theatre opened on October 6, 1866. ‘Hunted Down’ was the piece originally fixed upon, but it could not be got ready in time, so a change was made to the lively old comedy of the ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ the name which it had been originally proposed to give to Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer.’

The actor tells us of this interesting occasion: “I was cast for Doricourt, a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me; I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, upon my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience, that I was compelled to reappear upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except upon the operatic stage.”[3] This compliment is nearly always paid to our actor when he performs this part.

In the criticisms of the piece the efforts of the interesting manageress-actress of course received the chief attention. Dramatic criticism, however, at this time was of a somewhat slender kind, and the elaborate study of an individual performer’s merits was not then in fashion. The play itself was then “the thing,” and accordingly we find the new actor’s exertions dealt with in a curt but encouraging style: “Mr. H. Irving was the fine gentleman in Doricourt: but he was more, for his mad scenes were truthfully conceived and most subtly executed.” Thus the Athenæum. And Mr. Oxenford, with his usual reserve, after pronouncing that the comedy was “a compound of English dulness and Italian pantomime,” added that Doricourt “was heavy company till he feigns madness, and the mock insanity represented by Mr. H. Irving is the cause of considerable mirth.” This slight and meagre tribute contrasts oddly with the elaborate fulness of stage criticism in our day.

The piece has always continued in the actor’s répertoire, after being compressed into a few scenes. The rich, old-fashioned dress and powder suits the performer and sets off his intelligent features, which wear a smiling expression, as though consciously enjoying the comedy flavour of the piece.

A little later, on November 5, ‘Hunted Down’ was brought forward, in which the actor, as Rawdon Scudamore, made a deep impression. It was declared that the part “completely served the purpose of displaying the talent of Mr. Henry Irving, whose ability in depicting the most vindictive feelings, merely by dint of facial expression, is very remarkable.” Facial expression is, unhappily, but little used on our English stage, and yet it is one of the most potent agencies—more so than speech or gesture.[4] It was admitted, too, that he displayed another precious gift—reserve—conveying even more than he expressed: a store of secret villainy as yet unrevealed. Many were the compliments paid him on this creation; and friends of Charles Dickens know how much struck he was with the new actor’s impersonation. The novelist was always eager to recognise new talent of this kind. Some years later, “Charles Dickens the younger,” as he was then called, related at a banquet how his celebrated father had once gone to see the ‘Lancashire Lass,’ and on his return home had said: “But there was a young fellow in the play who sits at the table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of art.” A worthy descendant of the Kembles, Mrs. Sartoris, also heartily appreciated his powers.[5] During the season a round of pieces were brought forward, such as ‘The Road to Ruin,’ ‘The School for Scandal’ (in which he played young Dornton and Joseph Surface), ‘Robert Macaire,’ and a new Robertson drama, ‘A Rapid Thaw,’ in which he took the part of a conventional Irishman, O’Hoolagan! It must have been a quaint surprise to see our actor in a Hibernian character. After the season closed, the company went “on tour” to Liverpool, Dublin, and other towns.[6]

Miss Herbert’s venture, like so many other ventures planned on an intellectual basis, did not flourish exceedingly; and in the course of the years that followed we find our actor appearing rather fitfully at various London theatres, which at this time, before the great revival of the stage, were in rather an unsettled state. He went with Sothern to play in Paris, appearing at the Théâtre des Italiens, and in December, 1867, found an engagement at the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre, a sort of “converted” concert-room, where nothing seemed to thrive; and here for the first time he played with Miss Ellen Terry, in ‘Catherine and Petruchio’ (a piece it might be well worth while to revive at the Lyceum); and in that very effective drama, ‘Dearer than Life,’ with Brough and Toole; in ‘The School for Scandal’; also making a striking effect in ‘Bill Sikes.’ I fancy this character, though somewhat discounted by Dubosc, would, if revived, add to his reputation. We find him also performing the lugubrious Falkland in ‘The Rivals.’ He also played Redburn in the highly popular ‘Lancashire Lass,’ which “ran” for many months. At the Queen’s Theatre he remained for over a year, not making any marked advance in his profession, owing to the lack of favourable opportunities. He had a part in Watts Phillips’ drama of ‘Not Guilty.’ Then, in 1869, he came to the Haymarket, and had an engagement at Drury Lane in Boucicault’s ‘Formosa,’ a piece that gave rise to much excited discussion on the ground of the “moralities.” His part was, however, colourless, being little more than a cardboard figure: anything fuller or rounder would have been lost on so huge a stage. It was performed, or “ran,” for over a hundred nights. With his sensitive, impressionable nature the performance of so barren a character must have been positive pain: his dramatic soul lay blank and fallow during the whole of that unhappy time. Not very much ground had been gained beyond the reputation of a sound and useful performer. Relying on my own personal impressions—for I followed him from the beginning of his course—I should say that the first distinct effort that left prominent and distinct impression was his performance at the Gaiety Theatre, in December, 1869, of the cold, pompous Mr. Chenevix, in Byron’s ‘Uncle Dick’s Darling.’ It was felt at once, as I then felt, that here was a rich original creation, a figure that lingered in the memory, and which you followed, as it moved, with interest and pleasure. There was a surprising finish and reserve. It was agreed that we had now an actor of genre, who had the power of creating a character. The impression made was really remarkable, and this specimen of good, pure comedy was set off by the pathetic acting of “friend Toole,” who played ‘Uncle Dick.’ This was a turning-point in his career, and no doubt led to an important advance. But these days of uncertainty were now to close. I can recall my own experience of the curious pleasure and satisfaction left by the performance of this unfamiliar actor, who suggested so much more than the rather meagre character itself conveyed. I found myself drawn to see it several times, and still the feeling was always that of some secret undeveloped power in the clever, yet unpretending, performer.

Irving can tell a story in the pleasantest “high comedy” manner, and without laying emphasis on points. In May last, being entertained by the “Savages,” he made a most agreeable speech, and related this adventure of his early Bohemian days, in illustration of the truth that “it is always well to have a personal acquaintance with a presiding magistrate.” “I had driven one night from the Albion to some rooms I occupied in old Quebec Street, and after bidding the cabman farewell, I was preparing to seek repose, when there came a knock at the door. Upon opening it I found the cabman, who said that I had given him a bad half-crown. Restraining myself, I told him ‘to be—to begone.’ I shut the door, but in a few moments there came another knock, and with the cabman appeared a policeman, who said, with the grave formality of his office, ‘You are charged with passing a bad half-crown, and must come with me to the police-station.’ I explained that I was a respectable, if unknown, citizen, pursuing a noble, though precarious, calling, and that I could be found in the morning at the address I had given. The policeman was not at all impressed by that, so I jumped into the cab and went to the station, where the charge was entered upon the night-sheet, and I was briefly requested to make myself at home. ‘Do you intend me to spend the night here?’ I said to the inspector. ‘Certainly,’ he said; ‘that is the idea.’ So I asked him to oblige me with a pencil and a piece of paper, which he reluctantly gave me. I addressed a few words to Sir Thomas Henry, who was then presiding magistrate at Bow Street, and with whom I had an intimacy, in an unofficial capacity. The inspector looked at me. ‘Do you know Sir Thomas Henry?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have that honour.’ The officer suddenly turned round to the policeman and said, ‘What do you mean by bringing such a charge against this gentleman?’ Then he turned fiercely on the cabman, and nearly kicked him out of the office. I returned home triumphantly in the cab. I cannot give a young ‘Savage’ first starting on his career a sounder piece of advice than this—‘Always know your own mind, and also a magistrate.’” We practised littérateurs might well envy the pleasant facility and point with which this is told.

About this time an attractive actor, who had been much followed on account of his good looks, one Harry Montague, had joined in management with two diverting drolls—as they were then—James and Thorne, who were the pillars of burlesque at the Strand Theatre. All three felt a sort of inspiration that they were capable of something higher and more “legitimate”—an impression which the event has more than justified. The two last, by assiduous study and better opportunities, became admirable comedians. A sort of club that had not prospered was lying unused in the Strand, and a little alteration converted it into a theatre. The three managers were anxiously looking for a piece of modern manners which would exhibit to advantage their several gifts. A young fellow, who had left his desk for playwriting, had brought them a sort of comedy which was in a very crude state, but which, it seemed likely, could be made what they wanted; and by the aid of their experience and suggestions, it was fashioned into shape. Indeed, it proved that never was a piece more admirably suited to the company that played it. The characters fitted them all, as it is called, “like gloves.” They were bright, interesting, natural, and humorous; the story was pleasing and interesting, and the dialogue agreeable and smart. Such was ‘The Two Roses,’ which still holds the stage, though it now seems a little old-fashioned. Irving was one of the performers, and was perhaps the best suited of the group. The perfect success of the piece proved how advantageous is the old system of having a piece “written in the theatre,” when the intelligence of the performers and that of the managers are brought in aid of each other. The little house opened on April 16, 1870, with a piece of Mr. Halliday’s; and it was not until a few weeks later that the piece was brought forward—on June 4. The success was instantaneous.

The unctuous Honey, in his own line an excellent original actor, raised in the good old school of the “low comedian,” which has now disappeared, was the good-natured Bagman—a part taken later by James, who was also excellent. Thorne was efficient, and sufficiently reserved, in the rather unmeaning blind Caleb Decie; while Montague was the gallant and interesting hero, Jack Wyatt. The two girls were represented in pleasing fashion by Miss Amy Fawcitt and Miss Newton. The piece, as I have said, owed much to the actors, though these again owed much to the piece. It is difficult to adjust the balance of obligation in such cases; but good actors can make nothing of a bad play, whereas a good play may make good actors. Irving, as Digby Grant, was the chief attraction, and his extraordinarily finished and varied playing of that insincere and selfish being excited general admiration.

It has not been noticed, in these days of appropriation, that the piece was practically an ingenious variation, or adaptation, of Dickens’ ‘Little Dorrit.’ For here we find old Dorrit, his two daughters, and one of their admirers; also the constant loans, the sudden good fortune, and the equally sudden reverse. It was easy to see that the piece had been formed by the evolution of this one character, the legitimate method, it has always seemed to me, of making a play; whereas the average dramatist adopts a reverse practice of finding a story, and then finding characters for it. Character itself is a story. The character of Digby Grant was the first that gave him firm hold of public favour. It belongs to pure comedy—a fidgety, selfish being, self-deluded by the practice of social hypocrisies, querulous, scheming, wheedling. It is curious that a very good actor, who later filled the part, took the villainy au sérieux, giving the complaint, “You annoy me very much!” repeated so often, as a genuine reproach, and with anger. Irving’s was the true view—a simulated vexation, “You annoy me very much!” The audience sees that he is not “annoyed very much.”

After our actor’s visit to America, his performance was noticed to be more elaborate and laboured, but it had lost some of its spontaneousness—a result which, it has been noted, is too often the result of playing to American audiences, who are pleased with broad effects. This piece continued to be played for about a year—then thought to be a prodigious run, though it is now found common enough—during which time Irving’s reputation steadily increased.[7]

CHAPTER IV.
1871.
‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’

Among those who had taken note of Irving’s efforts was a “long-headed” American manager, whose loudly-expressed criticism was that “he ought to play Richelieu!” This was a far-seeing view. Many years before, this manager had been carrying round the country his two “prodigy” daughters, who had attracted astonishment by their precocious playing in a pretty little piece of courtship, called ‘The Young Couple.’ The elder later won favour by her powerful and intense acting in ‘Leah’; and he was now about taking a theatre with a view of bringing forward his second daughter, Isabel. It seems curious now to think that the handsome, elegantly-designed Lyceum Theatre, built by an accomplished architect on the most approved principles, was then lying derelict, as it were, and at the service of any stray entrepreneur. It could be had on very cheap terms, for at this time the revival of theatrical interest had not yet come; the theatre, not yet in high fashion, was conducted on rude, coarse lines. The attractions of the old correct comedy, as seen at the Haymarket, were waning, and the old companies were beginning to break up. Buckstone and Webster were in their decay, yet still lagged ingloriously on the stage. The pit and galleries were catered for. Theatres were constantly opening, and as constantly closing. Burlesques of the Gaiety pattern were coming into favour. In this state of things the shrewd American saw an opportunity. He had an excellent coadjutor in his wife, a clever, hard working lady, with characteristics that often suggested the good-natured Mrs. Crummles, but without any of her eccentricities. Her husband took the Lyceum, and proceeded to form a company; and one of his first steps was to offer an engagement to Irving.

The new venture started on September 11, 1871, with an unimportant piece, ‘Fanchette,’ founded on George Sand’s ‘Petite Fadette,’ in which our actor had a character quite unsuited to his gifts, a sort of peasant lover.[8] The object was to introduce the manager’s daughter, Isabel, in a fantastical part, but the piece was found “too French,” and rather far-fetched. It failed very disastrously. The young actor, of course, had to bear his share in the failure; but he could not have dreamt at that moment that here he was to find his regular home, and that for twenty long years he was destined never to be away from the shadow of the great portico of the Lyceum.

The prospect for the American manager was now not very encouraging. He had made a serious mistake at starting. In a few weeks he had replaced it by a version of Pickwick, with a view of utilizing his chief comedian’s talent as “Jingle.” The play was but a rude piece of carpentry, without any of the flavour of the novel, hastily put together and acted indifferently; the actors were dressed after the pictures in the story, but did not catch the spirit of their characters. Irving in face and figure and dress was thoroughly Pickwickian, and reproduced Seymour and Hablot Browne’s sketch, very happily catching the recklessness and rattle of the original. Still, it was difficult to avoid the suggestion of ‘Jeremy Diddler,’ or of the hero of ‘A Race for a Dinner.’ The reason, perhaps, was that the adaptation was conceived in a purely farcical spirit. It has always seemed to me that “the Immortal Pickwick” should be treated as comedy rather than farce, and would be more effective on the stage were the Jingle scenes set forth with due seriousness and sincerity. The incidents at the Rochester Ball, for instance, belong to pure comedy, and would be highly effective. Some years later Irving put the work into the not very skilful hands of Albery, who reduced it to the proportions of a farce with some pathetic elements. It was called ‘Jingle.’

At this time there was “hanging loose on” the theatres, as Dr. Johnson once phrased it, one Leopold Lewis, who had been seduced from an office by the enchantments of the stage. He had made a translation of a very striking French play, ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which had been shown to the new actor. This, as is well known, was by the gifted pair Erckmann-Chatrian, whose realistic but picturesque stories, that call up before us the old “Elsass” life, show extraordinary dramatic power. This ‘Juif Polonais’ is more a succession of tableaux than a formal play, but, like ‘L’Ami Fritz’ of the same writers, it has a charm that is irresistible. It is forgotten that a version of this piece had already been brought before the public at one of the minor theatres, which was the work of Mr. F. C. Burnand, at that time a busy caterer for the theatres, chiefly of melodramas, such as the ‘Turn of the Tide’ and ‘Deadman’s Point.’

“Much against the wish of my friends,” says our actor, “I took an engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘The Two Roses,’ which ran three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, I recited the poem of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be successful—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or of ‘Richard III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’ was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. When he persuaded the manager to produce ‘The Bells,’ he was told there was a prejudice against that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered.”

Our actor, thus always earnest and persuasive, pressed his point, and at last extorted consent—and the play, which required scarcely any mounting, was performed on November 25, 1871. At that time I was living in the south of France, in a remote and solitary place, and I recollect the surprise and curiosity with which I heard and read of the powerful piece that had been produced, and of the more extraordinary triumph of the new actor. Everyone, according to the well-worn phrase, seemed to be “electrified.” The story was novel, and likely to excite the profoundest interest.

An extraordinary alteration, due, I believe, to the manager, was the introduction of the vision of the Jew in his sledge, a device unmeaning and illogical. In the original the morbid remorse of the guilty man is roused by the visit of a travelling Jew, which very naturally excites his perturbed spirit. But this vision discounts, as it were, and enfeebles the second vision. The piece would have been presented under far more favourable conditions had it been prepared by or adapted by someone of more skill and delicacy than Mr. Leopold Lewis.

For twenty years and more this remarkable impersonation has kept its hold upon audiences, and whenever it is revived for an occasional performance or for a longer “run,” it never fails to draw full houses; and so it doubtless will do to the end of the actor’s career. It was his introduction to the American audiences; and it is likely enough that it will be the piece in which he will take his farewell.

The new actor was now becoming a “personality.” Everyone of note discovered that he was interesting in many ways, and was eager to know such a man. The accomplished Sir E. Bulwer Lytton wrote that his performance was “too admirable not to be appreciated by every competent judge of art,” and added, “that any author would be fortunate who obtained his assistance in some character that was worthy of his powers.” A little later the actor took this hint, and was glad to do full justice to several pieces of this brilliant and gifted writer.

At this time there was a clever young man “on town” who had furnished Mr. Vezin with a fine and effective play, ‘The Man o’ Airlie,’ from a German original. He was a poet of much grace, his lines were musical, and suited for theatrical delivery; he had been successful as a novelist, and was, moreover, a portrait-painter in the elegant art of pastel, then but little practised. In this latter direction it was predicted that he was likely to win a high position, but the attractions of the stage were too strong for him. Becoming acquainted with the popular actor, a subject for a new creation was suggested by his very physique and dreamy style. This was the story of the unhappy Charles I. Both the manager and the player welcomed the suggestion, and the dramatist set to work. Though possessed of true feeling and a certain inspiration, the author was carried away by his ardour into a neglect of the canons of the stage, writing masses of poetry of inordinate length, which he brought to his friends at the theatre, until they at last began to despair. Many changes had to be made before the poem could be brought into satisfactory shape; and, by aid of the tact and experience of the manager and his actor, the final act was at last completed to the satisfaction of all.[9]

‘Charles I.’ was brought out on September 28, 1872. Having been present on this night, I can recall the tranquil pleasure and satisfaction and absorbing interest which this very legitimate and picturesque performance imparted, while the melodious and poetical lines fell acceptably on the ear. This tranquil tone contrasted effectively with the recent tumult and agitation of ‘The Bells.’ It was a perfect success, and the author shared in the glories.

Only lately we followed the once popular Wills to his grave in the Brompton Cemetery. His somewhat erratic and, I fear, troubled course closed in the month of December, 1891. There was a curious suggestion, or reminiscence, of his countryman Goldsmith in his character and ways. Like that great poet, he had a number of “hangers-on” and admirers who were always welcome to his “bit and sup,” and helped to kill the hours. If there was no bed there was a sofa. There were stories, too, of a “piece purse” on the chimney to which people might apply. He had the same sanguine temperament as Goldsmith, and the slightest opening would present him with a magnificent prospect, on which his ready imagination would lavish all sorts of roseate hues. He was always going to make his fortune, or to make a “great hit.” He had the same heedless way of talking, making warm and even ardent protestations and engagements which he could not help forgetting within an hour. But these were amiable weaknesses. He had a thoroughly good heart, was as sensitive as a woman, or as some women, affectionate and generous. His life, I fear, was to the close one of troubles and anxiety. He certainly did much for the Lyceum, and was our actor’s favourite author. ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene Aram,’ ‘Olivia,’ ‘Iolanthe,’ ‘Faust,’ ‘Vanderdecken’ (in part), ‘Don Quixote’—these were his contributions.

The play was written after the correct and classical French model. The opening scene, as a bit of pictorial effect—the placid garden of Hampton Court, with a startling reproduction of Vandyke’s figure—has always been admired, and furnishes “the note” of the play. All through the actor presented a spectacle of calm and dignified suffering, that disdained to resent or protest; some of his pathetic passages, such as the gentle rebuke to the faithless Huntley and the parting with his children, have always made the handkerchiefs busy.

The leading actor was well supported by Miss Isabel Bateman in the character of the Queen, to which she imparted a good deal of pathetic feeling and much grace. For many years she was destined to figure in all the pieces in which he played. This, it need not be said, was of advantage for the development of her powers. Even a mediocre performer cannot withstand the inspiration that comes of such companionship; while constant playing with a really good actor has often made a good actress. But the manager, who had some odd, native notions of his own, as to delicacy and the refinements generally, must have rather inconvenienced or disturbed—to say the least of it—our actor, by giving him as a coadjutor, in the part of Cromwell, an effective low-comedy actor of genre, in the person of Mr. George Belmore, who did his work with a conscientious earnestness, but with little colouring or picturesque effect. On a later occasion he supplied another performer who was yet more unsuited—viz., the late Mr. John Clayton—who used to open the night’s proceedings in a light rattling touch-and-go farce, such as ‘A Regular Fix.’ Both these actors, excellent in their line, lacked the weight and dignified associations necessary for the high school of tragedy.[10]

One of those vehement and amusing discussions which occasionally arise out of a play, and furnish prodigious excitement for the public, was aroused by the conception taken of Cromwell, which was, in truth, opposed to tradition; for the Protector was exhibited as willing to condone the King’s offences, and to desert his party, for the “consideration” of a marriage between himself and one of the King’s daughters. This ludicrous view, based on some loose gossip, was, reasonably enough, thought to degrade Cromwell’s character, and the point was debated with much fierceness.

During the “run” of ‘Charles I.’ the successful dramatist was busy preparing a new poetical piece on the subject of Eugene Aram. It is not generally known that the author himself dramatized his story. This was produced on April 19, 1873, but the tone seemed to be too lugubrious, the actor passing from one mournful soliloquy to another. There was but little action. The ordinary versions are more effective. But the actor himself produced a deep, poetical impression.

The manager, now in the height of success, adopted a style of “bold advertisement,” that suggested Elliston’s amusing exaggerations.[11] The piece ran for over one hundred and fifty nights, to May 17, 1873, and during a portion of the time the versatile player would finish the night with ‘Jeremy Diddler.’

The new season of 1873 began on September 27, with Lord Lytton’s ‘Richelieu.’ It is a tribute to the prowess of that gifted man that his three pieces—the ever-fresh and fair ‘Lady of Lyons,’ ‘Money,’ and ‘Richelieu’—should be really the only genuine stock-pieces of the modern stage. They never seem out of fashion, and are always welcomed. It might be said, indeed, that there is hardly a night on which the ‘Lady of Lyons’ is not somewhere acted. In ‘Richelieu’ the actor presented a truly picturesque figure—he was aged, tottering, nervous, but rallying to full vigour when the occasion called. The well-known scene, where he invokes “the curse of Rome,” produced extraordinary enthusiasm, cheers, waving of handkerchiefs, and a general uproar from the pit. It was in this piece that those “mannerisms” which have been so often “girded at,” often with much pitilessness, began to attract attention. In this part, as in the first attempt in ‘Macbeth,’ there was noted a lack of restraint, something hysterical at times, when control seemed to be set aside. The truth is, most of his attempts at this period were naturally experiments, and very different from those deliberate, long-prepared, and well-matured representations he offered under the responsibility of serious management.

This piece was succeeded by an original play, ‘Philip,’ by an agreeable writer who had made a name as a novelist, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé—a dramatic story of the average pattern, and founded on jealousy. It was produced on February 7, and enjoyed a fair share of success.

CHAPTER V.
1874.
‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN MARY.’

But now was to be made a serious experiment, on which much was to depend. Hitherto Irving had not travelled out of the regions of conventional drama, or of what might be called romantic melodrama; but he was now to lay hands on the ark, and attempt the most difficult and arduous of Shakespearian characters, Hamlet. Every actor has a dream of performing the character, and fills up his disengaged moments with speculations as to the interpretation. The vitality of this wonderful play is such that it nearly always is a novelty for the audience, because the character is fitfully changeful, and offers innumerable modes of interpretation.

The momentous trial was made on October 31, 1874. It had long and studiously been prepared for: and the actor, in his solitary walks during the days of his provincial servitude, had worked out his formal conception of the character. There was much curiosity and expectation; and it was noted that so early as three o’clock in the afternoon a dense crowd had assembled in the long tunnel that leads from the Strand to the pit door. I was present in the audience, and can testify to the excitement. Nothing I have ever seen on the stage, except perhaps the burst that greeted Sarah Bernhardt’s speech in ‘Phèdre’ on the first night of the French Comedy in London, has approached the tumult of the moment when the actor, after the play scene, flung himself into the King’s chair.

Our actor judiciously took account of all criticisms, and with later performances subdued or toned down what was extravagant. The whole gained in thoughtfulness and in general meditative tone, and it is admitted that the meaning of the intricate soliloquies could not be more distinctly or more intelligibly conveyed to an audience. He played a good deal with his face, as it is called: with smilings of intelligence, as if interested or amused. But, as a whole, his conception of the character may be said to remain the same as it was on that night.

The play was mounted with the favourite economy of the manager, and contrasted with the unsparing lavishness of decoration which characterized its later revival. But the actors were good. The sound, “full-bodied” old Chippendale was Polonius; Swinburne, also of the old school, was the King; and the worthy Mead, long ago a star himself, and one of Mr. Phelps’ corps, “discharged” the Ghost with admirable impression and elocution.[12] He has now passed away, after long service, to “that bourne,” etc. Miss Bateman was interesting, and Mrs. Pauncefort, who was till lately at the Lyceum, was an excellent Queen. Actor and manager expected much success for ‘Hamlet,’ and counted on a run of eighty nights, but it was performed for two hundred! To the present hour it has always continued—though sparingly revived—the most interesting of the actor’s performances, looked for with an intellectual curiosity.

In March the hundredth night of ‘Hamlet’ was celebrated by a banquet, given in the saloon of the Lyceum Theatre, at which all the critics and literary persons connected with the stage were present. This method of festivity has since become familiar enough, owing to the never-flagging hospitality of the later manager of the Lyceum, and offers a striking contrast to the older days, when it was intimated that “chicken and champagne” was a ready method of propitiating the critics. Mr. Pigott, who had recently been appointed the Licenser of Plays, a man of many friends, from his amiability—now, alas! gone from us—proposed the health of the lessee, which was followed by the health of the actor and of the author of the establishment, the latter, as it was rather sarcastically said, “giving the hundred and odd literary men present the oft-repeated illustration of how far apart are authorship and oratory.” The good old Chippendale told how he had played Polonius to the Hamlet of Kemble, Kean, Young, and other famous tragedians; but protested that “the most natural and, to his mind, the most truthful representation he had seen was that of his friend here.” Something must be allowed for post-prandial exuberance, and no one could more shrewdly appreciate their value than the actor himself. We may be certain that in his “heart of heart” he did not agree that he had excelled Kemble, Kean, Young, and the others. It was interesting, however, to meet such histrionic links with the past, which are now broken. Mr. Howe is perhaps the only person now surviving who could supply reminiscences of the kind.

A second Shakespearian piece was now determined on, and on February 14, 1875, ‘Othello’ was brought out. This, it was admitted, was not a very effective performance. It was somewhat hysterical, and in his agitation the actor exhibited movements almost panther-like, with many strange and novel notes. The ascetic face, too, was not in harmony with the dusky lineaments of ‘the Moor.’ Here, again, his notion of the character was immature.

In the full tide of all this prosperity, theatre-goers were startled to learn that the shrewd and capable manager, the energetic “old Colonel,” as he was styled by his friends, was dead. This event occurred, with great suddenness, on Monday, March 22, 1875. On the Sunday he had been at a banquet at a Pall Mall restaurant in company with his leading actor and other friends, but on the next day, complaining of a headache, he lay down. His daughter went as usual to the theatre, to which word was soon brought that he had passed away peacefully. It was thought advisable to let the performance be completed, and the strange coincidence was noted that while his child was bewailing the loss of her theatrical sire, the old Polonius, she was unconscious of the blow which had deprived her of her real parent.

There was much speculation as to what arrangement would follow, and some surprise when it was announced that the widow was ready to step intrepidly into his place, and carry on matters exactly as before. The mainstay of the house was ready to support her, and though bound by his engagement, he would, had he been so inclined, have found it easy to dissolve it, or make it impracticable. He resolved to lend his best efforts to support the undertaking, in which his views would, of course, prevail. It was hardly a prudent arrangement, as the result proved, for the three years that followed were scarcely advantageous to his progress. The management was to be of a thrifty kind, without boldness, and lacking the shrewd, safe instincts of the late manager; while the actor had the burden, without the freedom, of responsibility. It struck some that the excellent Mrs. Bateman was “insisting” somewhat too much upon the family element. The good-hearted, busy, and managing lady was in truth unsuited to bear the burden of a great London theatre, and what woman could be? her views were hardly “large” enough, and too old-fashioned. The public was not slow to find all this out, and the fortunes of the theatre began almost at once to change. Our actor, ambitious, and encouraged by plaudits, was eager to essay new parts; and the manageress, entirely dependent on his talent, was naturally anxious to gratify him. Here it was that the deliberation of the “old Colonel” became valuable. He would debate a question, examine it from all points, feel the public pulse, and this rational conduct influenced his coadjutor. Irving was, in truth, in a false position.

‘Macbeth’ was speedily got ready, and produced on September 18, 1875. Miss Bateman, of Leah fame, was the Lady Macbeth, but the performance scarcely added to her reputation. The actor, as may be conceived, was scarcely then suited, by temperament or physique, to the part, and by a natural instinct made it conform to his own particular qualifications. His conception was that of a dreamy, shrinking being, overwhelmed with terrors and remorse, speaking in whispers, and enfeebled by his own dismal ruminations. There was general clamour and fierce controversy over this reading, for by this time the sympathetic powers of the player had begun to exercise their attraction. He had a large and passionately enthusiastic following; but there were Guelphs and Ghibellines, Irvingites and anti-Irvingites—the latter a scornful and even derisive faction. I could fancy some of the old school, honest “Jack” Ryder, for instance, as they patrolled the Strand at mid-day, expatiating on the folly of the public: “Call him an actor!” Some of them had played with Macready, “and they should think they knew pretty well what acting was!” This resentful tone has been evoked again and again with every new actor.[13]

Objection was taken to the uncertainty in the touches; the figure did not “stand out” so much as it ought. Much of this, however, was owing to the lack of effect in the Lady Macbeth, who, assuming hoarse and “charnel-house” tones, seemed to suggest something of Meg Merrilies. On the later revival, however, his interpretation became bold, firm, and consistent. The play had, however, a good deal of attraction, and was played for some eighty nights.

The King in Tennyson’s play-poem, ‘Queen Mary,’ I have always thought one of the best, most picturesque, of Irving’s impersonations, from the realization it offered of the characters, impressions, feelings, of what he represented: it was complete in every point of view. As regards its length, it might be considered trifling; but it became important because of the largeness of the place it fitted. Profound was the impression made by the actor’s Philip—not by what he had to say, which was little, or by what he had to do, which was less, or by the dress or “make-up,” which was remarkable. He seemed to speak by the expression of his figure and glances; and apart from the meaning of his spoken words, there was another meaning beyond—viz., the character, the almost diseased solitude, the heartless indifference, and other odious historical characteristics of the Prince, with which it was plain the actor had filled himself. Mr. Whistler’s grim, antique portrait conveys this perfectly.

His extraordinary success was now to rouse the jealousy, and even malignity, which followed his course in his earlier days, and was not unaccompanied with coarse ridicule and caricature, directed against the actor’s legs even. “Do you know,” said a personage of Whistlerian principles—“do you know, it seems to me there is a great deal of pathos in Irving’s legs, particularly in the left leg!”

A letter had appeared, in January, 1876, in Fun, the Punch of the middle and lower class, addressed to “The Fashionable Tragedian.” It affected alarm at the report that, “so soon as the present failure can with dignity be withdrawn,” he intended to startle the public and Shakespearian scholars with ‘Othello.’ In the name of that humanity “to which, in spite of your transcendent abilities, you cannot help belonging,” he was entreated to forbear, if only for the sake of order and morality. “With the hireling fashion of the press at your command, you have induced the vulgar and unthinking to consider you a model of histrionic ability.” In the course of the investigation the article was traced to a writer who has since become popular as a dramatist, and who, as might be expected, has furnished a fair proportion of murders and other villainies to the stage. What was behind the attack it would be difficult to say; but there are people to whom sudden unexpected success is a subject of irritation. Just as hypocrisy is the homage paid to vice, so it may be that the attacks of this kind are some of the penalties that have to be paid for success.

When the theatre closed in 1876, the indefatigable manageress organized a tour of the company in the provinces, with the view of introducing the new tragedian to country audiences. There was, as may be conceived, a prodigious curiosity to see him, and the tour was very successful. She brought to the task her usual energy and spirit of organization; though with so certain an attraction, the tour, like a good piece, might be said to “play itself,” on the principle of ma femme et cinq poupées. I can recall the image of the busy lady on one of these nights at Liverpool or Birmingham, seated in her office, surrounded by papers, the play going on close by, the music of a house crowded to overflowing being borne to her ears. There was here the old Nickleby flavour, and a primitive, homely spirit that contrasts oddly with the present brilliant system of “touring,” which must be “up to date,” as it is called, and supported by as much lavishness and magnificence as is expected in the Metropolis. After the piece came the pleasant little supper at the comfortable lodgings.

On this occasion he was to receive the first of those intellectual compliments which have since been paid him by most of the leading Universities. At Dublin he excited much enthusiasm among the professors and students of Trinity College. He was invited to receive an address from both Fellows and students, which was presented by Lord Ashbourne, lately Lord Chancellor of Ireland, then a Queen’s Counsel. This was conceived in the most flattering and complimentary terms.

About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane, then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery, wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.

Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear. The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it were, extorted by the actor’s merit.

The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]

A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may be added that he has a penchant for portraying characters of common life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct, amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’

With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself. The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual, and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc. Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil, innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would listen to the charges made against him.

A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March 9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen of the actor’s talents.

This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year, gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory, especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts; that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.

Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.” Another admirer had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not given.[16]

A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel” entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.

I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid, unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—

“A merrier man,

Within the limits of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour withal.”

‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said, “inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture, on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep impression.

At this time our actor’s position was a singular one. It had occurred to many that there was something strange and abnormal in the spectacle of the most conspicuous performer of his time, the one who “drew” most money of all his contemporaries, being under the direction of a simple, excellent lady, somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas, and in association with a mediocre company and economical appointments. There was here power clearly going to waste. It soon became evident that his talents were heavily fettered, and that he had now attained a position which, to say the least, was inconsistent with such surroundings. His own delicacy of feeling, and a sense of old obligation, which, however, was really slender enough, had long restrained him; but now, on the advice of friends, and for the sake of his own interests, he felt that matters could go on no longer, and that the time had arrived for making some serious change. The balancing of obligations is always a delicate matter, but it may be said that in such cases quite as much is returned as is received. The successful manager may “bring forward” the little-known actor, but the little-known actor in return brings fortune to the manager.

The situation was, in fact, a false one. Where was he to find an opening for those sumptuous plans and artistic developments for which the public was now ripe, and which he felt that he, and he alone, could supply? The breach, however, was only the occasion of the separation which must inevitably have come later. As it was, he had suggested a change in stage companionship: the attraction of the “leading lady,” with whom he had been so long associated, was not, he thought, sufficient to assist or inspire his own. As this arrangement was declined, he felt compelled to dissolve the old partnership.

It presently became known that the popular player was free, and ready to carry out the ambitious and even magnificent designs over which he had so long pondered. The moment was propitious. Except the little Prince of Wales’s, there was no theatre in London that was conducted in liberal or handsome style, and no manager whose taste or system was of a large or even dignified sort. Everything was old-fashioned, meagre, and mercantile. Everything seemed in a state of languor and decay. No one thought of lavish and judicious outlay, the best economy in the end. There was really but one on whom all eyes now instinctively rested as the only person who by temperament and abilities was fitted to restore the drama, and present it worthily, in accordance with the growing luxurious instinct of the time.

It was a rude shock for the manageress when this resolution was communicated to her. The loss of her actor also involved the loss of her theatre. She might have expostulated, with Shylock:

“You take my house, when you do take the prop

That doth sustain my house.”

It followed therefore, almost as a matter of course, that the theatre, without any exertion on his part, would, as it were, drop into his hands. He at once prepared to carry out his venture on the bold and sumptuous lines which have since made his reputation. The poor lady naturally fancied that she had a grievance; but her complaint ought in truth to have been directed against the hard fate which had placed her in a position that was above her strength.[17] With much gallantry and energy she set herself to do battle with fortune in a new and lower sphere. She secured the old theatre at Islington, which she partially rebuilt and beautified, and on the opening night was encouraged by a gathering of her old friends, who cheered her when she appeared, supported by her two faithful daughters. Even this struggle she could not carry on long. She took with her some of her old company, Bentley, the Brothers Lyons, and others, and she furnished melodramas, brought out in a somewhat rude but effective style, suited to the lieges of the district. Later Mr. Charles Warner, greatly daring, gave a whole course of Shakespearian characters, taking us through the great characters seriatim. It was indeed a very astonishing programme. But the truth was, she had fallen behind the times; the old-fashioned country methods would no longer “go down.” In a few years she gave up the weary struggle, and, quite worn-out, passed away to join the “old Colonel.”

CHAPTER VI.
1878.
THE NEW MANAGER OF THE LYCEUM—MISS TERRY—HIS SYSTEM AND ASSISTANTS.

The Lyceum was designed by a true architect at a time when a great theatre was considered to be a building or monument, like a public gallery or museum. In these days little is thought of but the salle or interior, designed to hold vast audiences in galleries or shelves, and laid out much like a dissenting chapel. The Lyceum is really a fine structure, with entrances in four different streets, an imposing portico, abundance of saloons, halls, chambers, and other dependances, which are necessary in all good theatres. There is a special grace in its lobby and saloon, and in the flowing lines of the interior, though they have suffered somewhat from unavoidable alterations.[18] The stage is a truly noble one, and offers the attraction of supplying a dignity and theatrical illusion to the figures or scenes that are exhibited upon it; thus contrasting with the rather mean and prosaic air which the stages of most modern houses offer. This dignified effect is secured at a heavy cost to the manager, for every extra foot multiplies the area of scenery to a costly degree, and requires many figures to fill the void. Beazely, a pleasant humorist and writer of some effective dramas, was the architect of this fine temple, as also of the well-designed Dublin Theatre, since destroyed by fire.[19]

It may be imagined that the financial portion of the transaction could have offered little difficulty. A man of such reputation inspires confidence; and there are always plenty ready to come forward and support him in his venture, his abilities being the security. A story was long industriously circulated that he was indebted to the generosity of a noble lady well known for her wealth and liberality, who had actually “presented him with the lease of the theatre.” The truth, however, was that Irving entirely relied on his own resources. According to a statement which he found it necessary to have circulated, he borrowed a sum of money on business terms, which he was enabled to pay off gradually, partly out of profits, and partly out of a substantial legacy. His first repayments were made out of the gains of his provincial tour.

The new manager’s first effort was to gather round him an efficient and attractive company. It became presently known that Miss Ellen Terry was to be his partner and supporter on the stage, and it was instantly, and almost electrically, felt that triumph had been already secured. People could see in advance, in their mind’s eye, the gifted pair performing together in a series of romantic plays; they could hear the voices blending, and feel the glow of dramatic enjoyment. This important step was heartily and even uproariously acclaimed. No manager ever started on his course cheered by such tokens of goodwill and encouragement, though much of this was owing to a natural and selfish anticipation of coming enjoyment.

The new actress, a member of a gifted family, was endowed with one of those magnetically sympathetic natures, the rarest and most precious quality a performer can have. It may be said to be “twice blessed,” blessing both him that gives and him that takes—actor and audience. She had a winning face, strangely expressive, even to her tip-tilted nose, “the Terry nose,” and piquant, irregular chin; with a nervous, sinuous figure, and a voice charged with melodious, heart-searching accents. She indeed merely transferred to the stage that curious air of fitful enjouement which distinguished her among her friends, which often thus supplied to her performances much that was unfamiliar to the rest of the audience. She had, in short, a most marked personality.

I possess a rare and possibly unique bill of one of Miss Ellen Terry’s earliest child-performances, which it may be interesting to insert here:

LECTURE HALL, CROYDON.

FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!

Tuesday Evening, March 13th, 1860.

MISS KATE TERRY

AND

MISS ELLEN TERRY,

The original representatives of Ariel, Cordelia, Arthur, Puck, etc. (which characters were acted by them upwards of one hundred consecutive nights, and also before her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen), at the Royal Princess’s Theatre, when under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, will present their new and successful

ILLUSTRATIVE AND MUSICAL

DRAWING-ROOM ENTERTAINMENT,

In Two Parts, entitled

‘DISTANT RELATIONS,’ and ‘HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS,’

In which they will sustain several

CHARACTERS IN FULL COSTUME.

N.B.—This entertainment was produced at the Royal Colosseum, and represented by the Misses Kate and Ellen Terry thirty consecutive nights to upwards of 30,000 persons—

and so on.

In ‘Home for the Holidays,’ the burden seems to have been cast on Ellen Terry, who performed ‘Hector Melrose, a slight specimen of the rising generation.’

In her rather fitful course, Ellen Terry[20] had gone on the stage, left it, and had gone on it again. Her performance at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, the little home of comedy, in the piece of ‘Masks and Faces,’ had left a deep impression, and I well recall the sort of passionate intensity she put into the part. It must be said that there was some uncertainty as to how she was likely to acquit herself in the very important round of characters now destined for her; but her friends and admirers were confident that her natural dramatic instincts and quick ability, together with the inspiration furnished by so powerful a coadjutor, would supply all deficiencies. And these previsions were to be amply justified. But it was the sympathetic, passionate, and touching performance of Olivia in Mr. Wills’s version of ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’ that had lately drawn all eyes to her. It was felt that here was an actress possessing “distinction” and original power. A series of these performances at the Court Theatre, under Mr. Hare’s management, had added to her reputation.

For the opening of his theatre, the new manager did not much care to engage actors of mark, relying on a few sound but unpretentious performers, such as the late Mead, Swinburne, and others.[21] On his visits to Dublin, the new manager had met a clever, ardent young man, who had taken share in the flattering honours offered by Trinity College. This was the now well-known Bram Stoker, whose geniality, good-nature, and tact were to be of much service to the enterprise. A short time before he was in one of the public offices in Dublin; he was now offered the post of director of the theatre, or “business-manager,” as it is technically called. Mr. H. Loveday had been stage-manager under the Bateman dynasty, and was continued in his office. This gentleman is really hors ligne in this walk, being quick of resource, firm, even despotic where need requires it, and eke genial and forbearing too. The wonderful and ambitious development at the Lyceum has drawn on all his resources, equipping him with an experience which few stage-managers have opportunities of acquiring. When, as during the performance of ‘Henry VIII.,’ a crowd of over five hundred persons passes through the stage-door of the Lyceum, a stage-manager must needs have gifts of control of a high order to maintain discipline and direct his forces. And who does not know the sagacious and ever-obliging Hurst, who has controlled the box-office for many a year!

This proper selection of officials is all-important in an enterprise of this kind. Where they are well chosen, they help to bind the public to the house. It is well known that our manager is well skilled in reading the book of human character, and has rarely made a mistake in choosing his followers. On their side, they have always shown much devotion to the interests of their chief.

Not the least important of these assistants is an accomplished artist, Mr. Hawes Craven, the painter of the scenery, the deviser of the many elaborate settings and tableaux which have for so long helped to enrich the Lyceum plays. The modern methods of scenery now require an almost architectural knowledge and skill, from the “built-up” structures which are found necessary, the gigantic portals and porticoes of cathedrals, houses, squares, and statues. Monumental constructions of all kinds are contrived, the details, carvings, etc., being modelled or wrought in papier-mâché material. It may be doubted whether this system really helps stage illusion as it affects to do, or whether more sincere dramatic effects would not be gained by simpler and less laboured methods. To Mr. Craven, too, we owe the development of what is the “medium” principle—the introduction of atmosphere, of phantasmagoric lights of different tones, which are more satisfactory than the same tones when produced by ordinary colours. The variety of the effects thus produced has been extraordinary. As might be expected, the artistic instincts of the manager have here come in aid of the painter, who with much readiness and versatility has been ready to seize on the idea and give it practical shape by his craft.[22]

Mr. Craven, years ago, practised his art on the boards of the old Dublin Theatre Royal, under Mr. Harris, where his scenery attracted attention for its brilliancy and originality. His scenes had the breadth and effect of rich water-colour drawings, somewhat of the Prout school. Scenic effect is now seriously interfered with by the abundant effulgence of light in which the stage is bathed, and in which the delicate middle tints are quite submerged. The contrast, too, with moulded work is damaging, and causes the painted details to have a “poorish,” flat air. Another point to which much prominence had been given from the first at the Lyceum is the music. A fine and full orchestra—on an operatic scale almost—with excellent conductors, who were often composers of reputation, was provided. This rich and melodious entertainment sets off the play and adds to its dignity, and may be contrasted with the meagre music ordinarily provided in theatres.

Once, travelling in the North, the manager met at a hotel a young musician who, like himself, “was on tour,” with some concert party it might be, and fell into conversation with him on their respective professions. This young man chatted freely, and imparted his ideas on music in general, and on theatre music in particular. The manager was pleased with the freshness and practical character of these views, and both went their way. Long after, when thinking of a successor to Stöpel—the old-established Lyceum conductor—he recalled this agreeable companion, who was Mr. Hamilton Clarke, and engaged him, at the handsome salary of some six hundred a year, to direct the music. He was, moreover, a composer of great distinction. His fine, picturesque overtures and incidental music to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ and other Lyceum pieces, still linger in the memory. It is to be lamented that this connection was severed. The manager has later applied for aid to such composers as Sir Arthur Sullivan, Sir A. Mackenzie, Sir Julius Benedict, Stanford, Jacobi, and Mr. German.

When he was thus busy with preparations for inaugurating his new ambitious venture, he had engagements to fulfil in the country, and could only rush up to town occasionally to push on the preparations. He tells us how, having secured a new Horatio, a “modern young actor,” as he called him, whom he had never seen perform, he came up to town especially to hear him go through his part. After reading it over for him in the way he desired it to be done, Irving said, “Now you try it; I will be the Ghost.” “So he began, and what a surprise it was! As Horatio he apostrophized me in the most cool, familiar, drawing-room, conventional style possible to imagine. I was aghast, ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘Stop, consider the situation, its thrills of horror, the supernatural!’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘but how am I to do it?’ ‘Can’t you understand it?’ I said; ‘try again.’ He did still the same again and again. There was nothing to be done but engage another performer.”

Anticipating a little, I may say here that the Lyceum company, though not affecting to contain any brilliant “stars,” has from the beginning exhibited a true homogeneousness in those sound conscientious actors who have always “discharged” their characters in an effective way, suited to the requirements of the piece. With a certain logical consistency, the manager has ever considered the requirements of his audience and the theatre. The attraction, it was understood, was to be the two leading performers, who were to stand, as it were, before a well-studied, well-composed background. The subsidiary characters, it was felt, should set off the leading characters. The introduction of Mrs. Stirling, an actress of the first rank, in such a part as the Nurse, however welcome as a performance, almost disturbed the dramatic harmony, and made an inferior part too prominent. This may seem hypercritical, but there can be no doubt as to its truth, and it shows what tact is necessary to secure an even performance. Those members of the corps who have been with him almost from the beginning, the manager has thoroughly leavened with his own methods and his own spirit, thus securing a general harmony. Such useful auxiliaries include Johnson (a low comedian of the older school), Tyers, Archer (another low comedian), Haviland (a most useful performer, who improves with every year), and Andrews. Another serviceable player was Wenman, who seemed in physique and method to be exactly suited to Burchell in ‘Olivia.’ During the past seasons, however, this worthy man has been removed from the company by death. On a stranger these players might produce little effect; but the habitués of the theatre have grown familiar with their ways and faces and figures, and would miss them much were they absent from a new play.

In addition to this permanent body, the manager is accustomed occasionally to call to his aid performers of mark, such as Terriss and Forbes Robertson, the former an admirable actor in special characters that are suited to his robustness, though his powers would gain by some refining. Forbes Robertson is a picturesque performer of many resources, who can supply colour and passion at need. He has a fair share of what is called “distinction”; indeed, we wonder that his position has not ere this become more fixed and certain. But this rests on a deeper question, and is connected with the conditions of the stage at this moment, when the only course open to the player is to become a “manager-actor,” and have his own theatre, otherwise he must wander from house to house. Arthur Stirling and Macklin—excellent, well-trained actors both—have been found at the Lyceum, as also Mr. Bishop. Of the ladies there are Miss Genevieve Ward, the excellent Mrs. Pauncefort (of the school of Mrs. Chippendale), Miss Coleridge, occasionally the vivacious Miss Kate Phillips, and Miss Emery, who takes Miss Terry’s place in case of indisposition or fatigue.

The new manager made some decorative alterations in the theatre which, considering the little time at his disposal, did credit to his taste and promptitude. The auditorium was treated in sage green and turquoise blue; the old, familiar “cameos” of Madame Vestris’s day, ivory tint, were still retained, while the hangings were of blue silk, trimmed with amber and gold, with white lace curtains. The ceiling was of pale blue and gold. The stalls were upholstered in blue, “a special blue” it was called; escaloped shells were used to shield the glare of the footlights. The dressing-rooms of the performers, the Royal box, and Lady Burdett-Coutts’ box were all handsomely decorated and re-arranged, the whole being directed by Mr. A. Darbyshire, a Manchester architect. This, however, was but the beginning of a long series of structural alterations, additions, and costly decorations, pursued over a term of a little over a dozen years.

On Monday, December 30, 1878, the theatre was opened with the revived ‘Hamlet.’ This was the first of those glittering nights—premières—which have since become a feature of a London season. From the brilliancy of the company—which usually includes all that is notable in the arts and professions—as well as from the rich dresses, jewels, and flowers, which suggest the old opera nights, the spectacle has become one of extraordinary interest, and invitations are eagerly sought. Here are seen the regular habitués, who from the first have been always invited: for the constancy of the manager to his old friends is well known.

The play was given with new scenery, dresses, music, etc. The aim was to cast over the whole a poetical and dreamy glamour, which was exhibited conspicuously in the treatment of the opening scenes when the Ghost appeared. There were the mysterious battlements seen at a distance, shadowy walls, and the cold blue of breaking day. There were fine halls, with arches and thick pillars of Norman pattern. Irving’s version of the part was in the main the same as before, but it was noted that he had moderated it, as it were; it became more thoughtful.

Of course, much interest and speculation was excited by the new actress, who exhibited all her charming grace and winsomeness, with a tender piteousness, when the occasion called. “Why,” she told an interviewer, “I am so high strung on a first night that if I realized there was an audience in front staring at me, I should fly off and be down at Winchester in two twos!” On this momentous night of trial she thought she had completely failed, and without waiting for the fifth act she flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, “I have failed, I have failed!” She drove up and down the Embankment half a dozen times before she found courage to go home.

This successful inauguration of his venture was to bear fruit in a long series of important pieces, each produced with all the advantages that unsparing labour, good taste, study, and expense could supply. Who could have dreamed, or did he dream on that night? that no fewer than nine of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a liberal education for audiences, were destined to be his contribution to “the public stock of harmless pleasure”? Every one of taste is under a serious obligation to him, having consciously or unconsciously learnt much from this accomplished man.

On this occasion, adopting a custom since always adhered to, the manager had his arrangement of the play printed, with an introduction by a good Shakespearian student, who was destined to be a well-known figure in the entourage of the Lyceum. Albeit a little tête montée, “Frank Marshall,” with his excited, bustling ways, and eccentric exterior, seems now to be missed. He was always bon enfant. He had written one very pleasing comedy, ‘False Shame,’ and was also rated as a high authority on all Shakespearian matters. He published an elaborate Study of Hamlet, and later induced Irving to join him in an ambitious edition of Shakespeare, which has recently been completed. He was also a passionate bibliomaniac, though not a very judicious one, lacking the necessary restraint and judgment. He had somewhat of a troubled course, like so many a London littérateur.

At this time the average theatrical criticism, from lack of suitable stimulant to excite it, was not nearly so discriminating as it is now, when there is a body of well-trained, capable men, who sign their names and carry out their duty with much independence. It is extraordinary what a change has taken place. At the opening of Irving’s management there was certainly a tendency to wholesale and lavish panegyric. Not unnaturally, too, for all were grateful to one who was making such exertion to restore the stage to elegance. Some of the ordinary newspapers, however, overwhelmed him with their rather tedious, indiscriminate praises; it seemed as though too much could not be said. There is no praise where everything is praised; nor is such very acceptable to its object. A really candid discussion on the interpretation of a character, with reasonable objections duly made, and argued out with respect, and suggestions put forward—this becomes of real profit to the performer. Thus in one single short criticism on a character of Garrick’s—he was once playing a gentleman disguised as a valet—Johnson has furnished not only Garrick, but all players too, with an invaluable principle which is the foundation of all acting: “No, sir; he does not let the gentleman break out through the footman.”

A new play at the Lyceum is rarely concluded without a speech being insisted upon. Irving himself has favoured this practice, but reluctantly, yielding only to the irresistible pressure of ardent and clamorous admirers. The system now obtains at every theatre where there is an “actor-manager.” But there can be no question but that it is an abuse, and a perilous one. It encourages a familiarity, and often insolence, which shakes authority. The manager, when he makes his speech, seems to invite the galleries down on to his stage, and it is to be noticed that the denizens of these places are growing bolder, and fancy, not unreasonably, that they are entitled to have their speech, as the manager has his.[23]

The manager has been always guided by the principle of alternating his greater attempts with others on a more moderate and less pretentious scale. With this view he brought out, on April 17, 1879, the ever-attractive ‘Lady of Lyons’—which would seem naturally suited to him and his companion. He was himself in sympathy with the piece, and prepared it on the most romantic and picturesque lines. It has been usually presented in a stagey, declamatory fashion, as affording opportunity to the two leading performers for exhibiting a robustious or elocutionary passion. It was determined to tone the whole down, as it were, and present it as an interesting love-story, treated with restraint. Nothing could be more pleasing than the series of scenes thus unfolded, set off by the not unpicturesque costumes of the revolutionary era. It is difficult to conceive now of a Pauline otherwise attired. It would seem that a play always presents itself to our manager’s eye as a series of poetical scenes which take shape before him, with all their scenery, dresses, and situations. As he muses over them they fall into their place—the figures move; a happy suitable background suggests itself, with new and striking arrangements; and thus the whole order and tone of the piece furnishes him with inspiration.

Indeed, it must be confessed that there are few plays we should be less inclined to part with than this hackneyed and well-worn drama. The “casual sight” of that familiar title on the red-brick corner wall in some country or manufacturing town, it may be weeks old—the old paper flapping flag-like—always touches a welcome note, and the names of characters have a romantic sound. In the story there is the charm of simple effects and primitive emotion; it is worked out without violence or straining, and all through the ordinary sympathies are firmly struck, and in the most touching way. Tinselly or superficial as many have pronounced the piece, there is depth in it. So artfully is it compounded that it is possible to play the two characters in half-a-dozen different ways; and clever actors have exerted themselves to gloss over the one weak spot in Melnotte’s character—the unworthy deception, which involves loss of respect. Pauline, however, is a most charming character, from the mixture of emotions; if played, that is, in a tender, impulsive way, and not made a vehicle for elocutionary display. The gracious, engaging part of the heroine has been essayed by our most graceful actresses, after being created by the once irresistible Miss Helen Faucit. For over fifty years this drama has held its ground, and is always being performed. The young beginner, just stepping on the boards, turns fondly to the effective “gardener’s son,” and is all but certain that he could deliver the passage ending, “Dost like the picture?”—a burst often smiled at, but never failing to tell. Every one of the characters is good and actable, and, though we may have seen it fifty times, as most playgoers have, there is always a reserve of novelty and attraction left which is certain to interest.

On this occasion, the old, well-worn drama was so picturesquely set forth, that it seemed to offer a new pastoral charm. In Irving’s Claude there was a sincerity and earnestness which went far to neutralize these highly artificial, not to say “high-flown,” passages which have so often excited merriment. Miss Terry, as may be conceived, was perfectly suited in her character—the ever-charming Pauline; and displayed an abundance of spontaneousness, sympathy, and tenderness.

The public was at this time to learn with interest that the actor was to accompany Lady Burdett-Coutts on a voyage to the Mediterranean in her yacht The Walrus, and all was speculation as to the party and their movements. One of her guests was an agreeable young American named Bartlett, now better known as Mr. Burdett-Coutts, since become the husband of the lady. During this pleasant voyage The Walrus directed her course to Venice and various Italian cities—all new and welcome to our actor, who was at the same time taking stock of the manners, customs, dresses, etc., of the country, and acquiring, as it were, the general flavour and couleur locale. His scene-painter had also found his way there, and was filling his sketch-book with rich “bits of colour,” picturesque streets, and buildings. The manager was, in fact, pondering over a fresh Shakespearian venture—an Italian play, which was to be produced with the new season. He was, in fact, about to set on the stage ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ with every aid that money and taste could supply. The moment this selection was known, it was felt almost universally that it was exactly the piece that should have been chosen. Everyone anticipated by a sort of instinct what entertainment was in store for them: for here was the part and here was the actor. Notwithstanding the elaborate character of the preparations, the whole was “got up” in some four weeks, though this period did not comprise the long course of private study and meditation during which the scheme was gradually matured in his mind. When on his yachting expedition he had taken advantage of a hasty visit to Tangier to purchase Moorish costumes to be used in the Shakespearian spectacle he was preparing.

To fill up the interval he got ready Colman’s drama ‘The Iron Chest,’ produced on September 27, 1879. This powerful but lugubrious piece has always had an unaccountable attraction for tragedians. Sir Edward Mortimer belongs, indeed, to the family of Sir Giles Overreach. The character offered temptation to our actor from its long-sustained, mournful, and poetical soliloquies, in which the state of the remorseful soul was laid bare at protracted length; but, though modified and altered, the piece is hopelessly old-fashioned. It is impossible in our day to accept seriously a “band of robbers,” who moreover live in “the forest”; and the “proofs” of Sir Edward’s guilt, a knife and blood-stained cloth, carefully preserved in an old chest which is always in sight, have a burlesque air.

Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, ingenuus puer, and likewise bonæ indolis—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready.

CHAPTER VII.
1879.
‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.’

This great and attractive play was now ready: all was anticipation and eager interest The night of its production—November 1, 1879—was a festive one. The house was most brilliant: and indeed this may be accounted the first regular, official Lyceum première. I recall that among the audience were Tom Taylor and Henry Byron, names that now seem ghost-like, so rapidly do literary shadows depart. Like some rich Eastern dream, steeped in colours and crowded with exquisite figures of enchantment, the gorgeous vision of the pageant seems now to rise in the cold, sober daylight. As a view of Venetian life, manners, and scenery, it has never been matched. The figures seemed to have a grace that belonged not to the beings that pace, and declaim upon, the boards. Add the background, the rich exquisite dresses, the truly noble scenery—a revel of colour, yet mellowed—the elegant theatre itself crammed with an audience that even the Lyceum had not witnessed, and it may be conceived what a night it was. The scenery alone would take an essay to itself, and it is hard to say which of the three artists engaged most excelled. The noble colonnade of the ducal palace was grand and imposing; so was the lovely interior of Portia’s house at Belmont, with its splendid amber hangings and pearl-gray tones, its archings and spacious perspective. But the Court scene, with its ceiling painted in the Verrio style, its portraits of Doges, the crimson walls with gilt carvings, and the admirable arrangements of the throne, etc., surely for taste, contrivance, and effect has never been matched. The whole effect was produced by the painting, not by built-up structures. The dresses too—groupings, servants, and retainers—what sumptuousness! The pictures of Moroni and Titian had been studied for the dove-coloured cloaks and jerkins, the violet merchant’s gown of Antonio, the short hats—like those of our day—and the frills. The general tone was that of one of Paolo Veronese’s pictures—as gorgeous and dazzling as the mélange of dappled colour in the great Louvre picture.

Shylock was not the conventional Hebrew usurer with patriarchal beard and flowing robe, dirty and hook-nosed, but a picturesque and refined Italianized Jew, genteelly dressed: a dealer in money, in the country of Lorenzo de’ Medici, where there is an aristocracy of merchants. His eyes are dark and piercing, his face is sallow, his hair spare and turning gray; he wears a black cap, a brown gaberdine faced with black, and a short robe underneath.

The “Trial scene,” with its shifting passions, would have stamped Irving as a fine actor. See him as he enters, having laid aside his gaberdine and stick, and arrayed in his short-skirted gown, not with flowing but tightened sleeves, so that this spareness seems to lend a general gauntness to his appearance. There he stands, with eyes half furtively, half distrustfully following the Judge as he speaks. When called upon to answer the appeal made to him “from the bench,” how different from the expected conventional declaration of violent hatred! Instead, his explanation is given with an artful adroitness as if drawn from him. Thus, “If you deny it” is a reminder given with true and respectful dignity, not a threat; and when he further declares that it “is his humour,” there is a candour which might commend his case, though he cannot restrain a gloating look at his prey. But as he dwells on the point, and gives instances of other men’s loathing, this malignity seems to carry him away, and, complacent in the logic of his illustration of the “gaping pig” and “harmless necessary cat,” he bows low with a Voltairean smile, and asks, “Are you answered?” How significant, too, his tapping the bag of gold several times with his knife, in rejection of the double sum offered, meant as a calm business-like refusal; and the “I would have my bond!” emphasized with a meaning clutch. Then the conclusion, “Fie upon your law,” delivered with folded arms and a haughty dignity; indeed, a barrister might find profit here, and study the art of putting a case with adroitness and weight. But when Antonio arrives his eyes follow him with a certain uneasy distrust, and on Bellario’s letter being read out he listens with a quiet interest, plucking his beard a little nervously. As, however, he sees the tone the young lawyer takes, he puts on a most deferential and confidential manner, which colours his various compliments: “O wise young Judge,” “A Daniel,” etc., becoming almost wheedling. And when he pleads his oath—

“Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice!”

there is a hypocritical earnestness, as if he were giving his reason privately to the counsel, though there is a strange, indescribable sneer conveyed in that “not for Venice.” Then the compliment to Portia, “How much more elder art thou than thy looks!” which he utters, crouching low, with a smiling, even leering, admiration, but admiration given for what is on his own side. And what follows opens a most natural piece of business, arising out of the sort of confidential intimacy which he would establish between them—

“Ay, his breast,

So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge?

Nearest his heart, those are the very words”;

the latter words pronounced with canine ferocity, his eyes straining over the other’s shoulders, while he points with his knife—secure, too, that the other will agree with him. He fancies that he has brought over the counsel to his side. And it may be added that this knife is not flourished in the butcher’s style we are accustomed to; it is more delicately treated, as though something surgical were contemplated. When bidden to “have by some surgeon,” nothing could be better than the sham curiosity with which he affects to search the bond for such a proviso, letting his knife travel down the lines, and the tone of “I cannot find it,” in a cold, helpless way, as if he had looked out of courtesy to his “young Judge,” who appeared to be on his side. The latter at last declares that there is no alternative, but that Antonio must yield his bosom to the knife; then the Jew’s impatience seems to override his courtesies, his gloating eyes never turn from his victim, and with greedy ferocity he advances suddenly with “Come, prepare!” When, however, Portia makes her “point” about the “drop of blood,” he drops his scales with a start; and, Gratiano taunting him, his eyes turn with a dazed look from one to the other; he says slowly, “Is—that—the—law?” Checked more and more in his reluctant offers, he at last bursts out with a demoniac snarl—“Why, then, the devil give him good of it!” Finally he turns to leave, tottering away bewildered and utterly broken. As may be imagined, the new Shylock excited a vast deal of controversy. The “old school” was scornful; and here again it would have been worth hearing the worthy Jack Ryder—whom we still must take to be the type of the good old past—on the subject.

Nothing was more remarkable than the general effect of this fine and thoughtful representation upon the public. It was a distinct education, too, and set everyone discussing and reading. Admittedly one result was the great increase in the sale of editions of Shakespeare’s works; and the ephemeral literature engendered in the shape of articles, criticisms, and illustrations of all kinds was truly extraordinary. Here again was heard the harsh note of the jealous and the envious. There was plenty of fair and honest dissent as to the interpretation of the play, with some reasonably argued protests against the over-abundant decoration.

The hundredth night of the run of this prodigiously successful revival was celebrated in hospitable fashion by a supper, to which all that was artistic, literary, and fashionable—tout Londres in short—was bidden. The night was Saturday, February 14, 1880, the hour half-past eleven. As soon as the piece was terminated a wonderful tour de force was accomplished. In an incredibly short space of time—some forty minutes, I believe—an enormous marquee, striped red and white, that enclosed the whole of the stage, was set up; the tables were arranged and spread with “all the luxuries of the season” with magic rapidity. An enjoyable night followed. The host’s health was given by that accomplished man, and man of elegant tastes, Lord Houghton, in what was thought a curiously mal à propos speech. After conventional eulogiums, he could not resist some half-sarcastic remarks as to “this new method of adorning Shakespeare.” He condemned the system of long “runs,” which he contrasted with that of his youth, when pieces were given not oftener than once or twice in the week. He then praised the improvement in the manners of the profession, “so that the tradition of good breeding and high conduct was not confined to special families like the Kembles, or to special individuals like Mr. Irving himself, but was spread over the profession, so that families of condition were ready to allow their children to go on the stage. We put our sons and daughters into it.” I recall now the genuine indignation and roughly-expressed sentiments of some leading performers and critics who were sitting near me at this very awkward compliment. He then proceeded to speak of the new impersonation, describing how he had seen a Shylock, formerly considered a ferocious monster, but who had, under their host’s treatment, become a “gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, in voice very like a Rothschild, afflicted with a stupid servant and wilful and pernicious daughter, to be eventually foiled by a very charming woman. But there was one character Mr. Irving would never pervert or misrepresent, and that was his own,” etc.

Never was the power and good-humour—the bonhomie—of the manager more happily displayed than in his reply. As was said at the time, it showed him in quite a new light. Taken wholly unawares—for whatever preparation he might have made was, he said, “rendered useless by the unexpected tone of Lord Houghton’s remarks”-he was thrown on his impromptu resources, and proved that he really possessed what is called debating power. He spoke without hesitation, and with much good sense and playful humour put aside these blended compliments and sarcasms.

Some time before the manager, who was on friendly terms with the gifted Helen Faucit, determined to revive a piece in which she had once made a deep impression, viz., ‘King Réné’s Daughter.’ This poem, translated by her husband, set out the thoughts and feelings of a young girl in the contrasted conditions of blindness and of sight recovered. With a natural enthusiasm for his art, Irving persuaded the actress, who had long since withdrawn from the stage, to emerge from her retirement and play her old character “for one night only.” This news really stirred the hearts of true playgoers, who recalled this actress in her old days of enchantment, when she was in her prime, truly classical and elegant in every pose, playing the pathetic Antigone. But, alas! for the old Antigone dreams; we could have wished that we had stayed away! The actress’s devices seemed to have hung too long a “rusty mail, and seemed quite out of fashion.” Irving did all he could, in an almost chivalrous style, and it was certainly a kindly act of admiration and enthusiasm for his art to think of such a revival. Such homage deserved at least tolerance or recognition.

Miss Terry herself had always fancied the character of Iolanthe, and it was now proposed to give the play as an after-piece to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ a substantial meal for one night. Our heroine made a tender, natural, and highly emotional character of it. A new version or adaptation from the Danish had been made, for obvious reasons, by the trusty Wills: the piece was set off by one really lovely scene, which represented the heart of some deep grove, that seemed almost inaccessible to us, weird and jungle-like. A golden, gorgeous light played on the trees capriciously; there was a rich tangle of huge tropical flowers; while behind, the tall, bare trunks of trees were ranged close together like sentinels. Golden doors opened with a musical chime, or clang; strange, weird music, as of æolian harps, floated up now and again. With this background, knightly figures of the Arthurian pattern and ethereal maidens were seen to float before us. Miss Terry’s conception of the maid was not Miss Faucit’s, which was that of a placid, rather cold and elegant being. She cast over the character a rapture, as though she were all love and impulse, with an inexpressible tenderness and devotional trust, as when she exclaimed, “I go to find the light!” This sort of rapture also tinged Mr. Irving’s character, and the audience were lifted into a region where emotion reigned supreme.

CHAPTER VIII.
1880.
‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP.’

With his usual tact the manager had determined on a change of entertainment which should offer a marked contrast to the classical success just obtained, and was now meditating a revival of the once popular romantic drama, ‘The Corsican Brothers,’ with all its spectral effects—certainly one of the best of many admirably-constructed and effective French pieces. To such a group belong the absorbing ‘Two Orphans,’ ‘Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life,’ ‘Victorine,’ and others. ‘The Lady of Lyons’ is the only one of our répertoire that can be put beside these ingenious efforts. Some thirty years ago, when it was produced at the Princess’s, the horny-voiced Charles Kean performing the Brothers, it took hold of the public with a sort of fascination—the strange music of Stöpel, and the mysterious, gliding progress of the murdered brother across the stage, enthralling everyone. There was a story at the time that the acts, sent over from Paris in separate parcels for translation, had become transposed, the second act being placed first, and this order was retained in the representation with some benefit to the play. This may be a legend; but the fact is that either act could come first without making any serious difference.

Magnificent and attractive as was the mounting of this piece at the time, it was really excelled in sumptuousness on its later revival in 1891. The experience of ten years had made the manager feel a certainty in the results of his own efforts; his touch had become sure; the beautiful and striking effects were developed naturally, without that undue emphasis which often disturbs the onward course of a piece. All his agents had grown skilled in the resources of the scene; and he himself, enjoying this security, and confident as would be a rider on the back of a well-trained horse, could give his undoubted fancy and imagination full range. Hence that fine, unobtrusive harmony which now reigns in all his pictures. Even now the wonderful opera house, the forest glades, the salon in Paris, all rise before us. Nor was there less art shown in the subdued tone of mystery which it was contrived to throw over the scenes. The scenes themselves, even those of reckless gaiety, seemed to strike this “awesome” note. Much as the familiar “ghost tune” was welcomed, more mysterious, as it always seemed to me, was the “creepy variation” on the original theme, devised by Mr. H. Clarke, and which stole in mournfully at some impending crisis all through the piece. There was some criticism on the D’Orsay costumes of the piece; the short-waisted waist-coats, the broad-brimmed opera hats, and the rich cravats—Joinvilles, as they used to be called. These lent a piquancy, and yet were not too remote from the present time. Terriss, it must be said, was lacking in elegance and “distinction.” There always lingers in the memory the image of the smooth grace and courtesies of Alfred Wigan, who really made a dramatic character of the part—sympathetic and exciting interest. It is in these things that we miss the style, the bearing which is itself acting, without utterance of a word, and which now seems to be a lost art. One result of this treatment, as Mr. Clement Scott truly pointed out, was the shifting of sympathies. “Château-Renaud was, no doubt, a villain, but he was one of the first class, and with magnetic power in him. He had won for himself a high place. He was cold as steel, and reserved. For him to deal with Louis was child’s play. And yet all this was reversed: it was Louis that dominated the situation; no one felt the least apprehension for his fate.” This is a judicious criticism.

Familiarity has now somewhat dulled the effect of the gliding entrance of the ghostly Louis, which at first seemed almost supernatural. The art was in making the figure rise as it advanced, and an ingenious contrivance was devised by one of the stage foremen. It was a curious feeling to find oneself in the cavernous regions below the stage, and see the manager rush down and hurriedly place himself on the trap to be worked slowly upwards.[24]

The use of intense light has favoured the introduction of new effects in the shape of transparent scenery; that is, of a scene that looks like any ordinary one, but is painted on a thick gauzy material. Thus, in the first act, the back of the scene in the Corsican Palace is of this material, through which the tableau of the Paris duel is shown, a fierce light being cast upon it. In the original representation the whole wall descended and revealed the scene. The upper half ascending, the other offers something of a magic-lantern or phantasmagorian air. The same material is used in the dream in ‘The Bells,’ when the spectral trial is seen going on, made mysterious and misty by the interposition of this gauze.

In the duel scene one of the swords is broken by an accident; the other combatant breaks his across his knee, that the duel may proceed “on equal terms.” It is not, of course, to be supposed that a sword is broken every night. They are made with a slight rivet and a little solder, the fitting being done every morning, so that the pieces are easily parted. But few note how artfully the performers change their weapons; for in the early stages of the duel the flourishings and passes would have soon caused the fragments to separate. It is done during the intervals of rest, when the combatants lean on the seconds and gather strength for the second “round,” and one gets his new weapon from behind a tree, the other from behind a prostrate log.

But it is in the next act that the series of elaborate set scenes succeeding each other entails the most serious difficulties, only to be overcome in one way—viz., by the employment of an enormous number of persons. Few modern scenes were more striking than that of the Opera House lit à giorno, with its grand chandelier and smaller clusters running round. The blaze of light was prodigious; for this some five thousand feet of gas-tubing had to be laid down, the floor covered with snake-like coils of indiarubber pipes, and the whole to be contrived so as to be controlled from a single centre-pipe. There were rows of boxes with crimson curtains, the spectators filling them—some faces being painted in, others being represented by living persons. Yet nothing could be more simple than the elements of this Opera House. From the audience portion one would fancy that it was an elaborately built and costly structure. It was nothing but two light screens pierced with openings, but most artfully arranged and coloured. At its close, down came the rich tableau curtains, while behind them descended the cloth with the representation of the lobby scene in the Opera House. It used to be customary for the manager’s friends to put on a mask and domino and mingle with the gay throng of roysterers in the Opera House scene, or to take a place in one of the practicable boxes and survey the whole—and a curious scene it was. A cosy supper in the Beef-steak room, and a pleasant causerie through the small hours, concluded a delightful and rather original form of a night’s entertainment. This was followed by the double rooms of the supper party, a very striking scene: two richly-furnished rooms, Aubusson carpets, a pianoforte, nearly twenty chairs, sofas, tables, clocks, and a supper-table covered with delicacies, champagne bottles, flowers, etc. This is succeeded almost instantly by a scene occupying the same space—that of the forest, requiring the minutest treatment, innumerable properties, real trees, etc. This is how it is contrived. The instant the tableau curtains are dropped, the auxiliaries rush on the scene; away to right and left fly the portions of the Parisian drawing-room: tables, chairs, piano, sofa, vanish in an instant. Men appear carrying tall saplings fixed in stands; one lays down the strip of frozen pond, another the prostrate trunk of a tree—everyone from practice knowing the exact place of the particular article he is appointed to carry. Others arrive with bags of sand, which are emptied and strewn on the floor; the circular tree is in position, the limelights ready. The transformation was effected, in what space of time will the reader imagine? In thirty-eight seconds, by the stage-manager’s watch. By that time the tableau had been drawn aside, and Château-Renaud and his friend Maugiron were descending into the gloomy glade after their carriage had broken down.[25]

As we call up the memories of the Lyceum performances, with what a series of picturesque visions is our memory furnished—poetical Shakespearian pageants; romantic melodramatic stories, set forth with elegance and vraisemblance; plays of pathetic or domestic interest; exhilarating comedies; with highly dramatic poems, written by the late Poet Laureate, Wills, and others. Indeed, who could have conceived on the opening night of the Lyceum management, when ‘Hamlet’ was to be brought out, that this was to be the first of a regular series—viz., nine gorgeous and ambitious presentations of Shakespearian pieces, each involving almost stupendous efforts, intellectual and physical, that we were to see in succession ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ ‘Othello,’ ‘Twelfth Night,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Henry VIII.,’ and ‘King Lear’? What a gift to the public in the shape of the attendant associations, in the glimpses of Italian and other scenery, the rich costumes, the archæology!

The late Laureate, not contented with the popularity which his poems have won, always “hankered” after the entrancing publicity and excitement of the theatre. He made many an attempt in this direction, and his list of performed dramas is a fairly long one; few, however, have enjoyed any signal success, save perhaps the last, recently produced in the United States. To one indeed—witness the unlucky ‘Promise of May’—the regular “first-nighter,” as he is called, was indebted for an amusing and enjoyable evening’s entertainment. It must be conceded, however, that there is a dramatic tone or flavour about his pieces which is attractive, in spite of all deficiencies, and anyone who could not see a touching grace and elegance in such a piece as ‘The Falcon,’ weak as it is in treatment, must have little taste or feeling. So with ‘Queen Mary,’ which had a certain grim power, and, above all, local colour. His own striking success in the character of King Philip was an agreeable recollection for Irving; and he now lent himself with much enthusiasm to a project for bringing forward a new drama by the poet. The preparations for this elegant play were of the most lavish and unstinted kind. Nothing, literally, was spared in the outlay of either study, thought, money, or art. The manager usually follows an eclectic system, choosing his aides and assistants as they appear suited to each play. Thus an architect of literary tastes, Mr. Knowles, was called in to design a regular Temple-interior, which was the principal scene, and which was to be treated, secundum artem, in professional style. And so it rose with all its pillars and pediments “behind the scenes.”

“No ponderous axes rung;

Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.”

The name of the new piece was ‘The Cup,’ a fine “barbarian” story, strangely interesting and even fascinating. It was, of course, diffuse and expanded to inordinate length. And there were many pleasant stories afloat of the poet contending “for the dear life” for his “ewe lambs,” and every line of his poetry; the manager, in his pleasant, placid way—but firm withal—quietly insisting on the most abundant compression.

The night of performance was that of January 3, 1881, when the beautiful play-poem was at last set before the audience in all its attraction. It still lingers in the memory with an inexpressible charm, breathing poetry and romance. We shall ever look back fondly to ‘The Cup,’ with its exquisite setting, and lament heartily that others did not so cordially or enthusiastically appreciate it. There was something so fascinating about the play, something so refining, and also so “fantastical,” that though lacking the strong thews and muscles of a regular drama, it satisfied eye and ear. As it floated before us, in airy, evanescent fashion, it seemed to recall the lines that wind up the most charming of Shakespeare’s plays, when the revels now had ended, and all had “melted into air, into thin air.” The noble Temple, with its rich mouldings, was destined too soon, alas! to pass away into the same dark grave of so many noble creations. On the two chief characters, both full of tragic power, the eye rested with an almost entrancing interest. Never did Irving act better—that is, never did he convey by his look and tones the evidence of the barbaric conception within him. There was a fine, pagan, reckless savagery, yet controlled by dignity. Miss Terry’s Camma returns to the memory like the fragment of a dream. The delightful creation was brought before us more by her sympathetic bearing and motion than by speech; what music was there in those tones, pitched in low, melodious key, interpreting the music of Tennyson! Her face and outline of figure, refined and poetical as they were, became more refined still in association with the lovely scenery and its surroundings. She seemed to belong to the mythological past. There was a strange calm towards the close, and all through no undue theatrical emphasis or faulty tone of recitation to disturb that dreamy sense.

It was not a little disheartening to think that this “entire, perfect chrysolite” was received with a rather cold admiration, or at least not with the enthusiasm it richly merited. The apathetic crowd scarcely appreciated the too delicate fare set before it, we scarcely know why. I suppose that it had not sufficient robustness, as it is called. After some weeks the manager found it needful to supplement the attraction of the play by the revived ‘Corsican Brothers.’ It may be conceived what a strain[26] was here on the resources, not merely of the actors, but even of all who were concerned with the scenery and properties. Two important pieces had to be treated and manipulated within an incredibly short space of time.

CHAPTER IX.
1881.
‘OTHELLO’ AND ‘THE TWO ROSES’ REVIVED.

At this time there came to London an American actor whose reputation in his own country was very high, and for whom it was claimed that, as a legitimate performer, he was superior to all rivals. This was Mr. Edwin Booth. He was welcomed with cordiality and much curiosity, and by none was he received with such hearty goodwill as by the manager of the Lyceum. Unluckily, he had made his arrangements injudiciously, having agreed to appear under a management which was quite unsuited to the proper exhibition of his gifts. The Princess’s Theatre was a house devoted to melodrama of the commoner type, and was directed by commercial rather than by æsthetic principles. This mistake proved fatal. The manager, finding that there was no likelihood of success, was not inclined to waste his resources, and, no doubt to the anguish of the actor, brought out the pieces in a meagre fashion that was consistent with the traditions of Oxford Street, but fatal to the American’s chances.

In this disastrous state of things the manager of the Lyceum came to the rescue of his confrère with a suggestion as delicately conceived as it was generous. He offered him his theatre, with its splendid resources and traditions, his company, and—himself. He proposed that a Shakespearian play should be produced on the customary scale of magnificence, and that he and Booth should fill the leading characters. This handsome offer was, of course, accepted with gratitude, and ‘Othello’ was selected as the play.

The arrangements for this “Booth season,” as it might be termed, were of an unusual and certainly laborious kind. The manager, however, was never disposed to spare himself. The programme began on May 2, 1881, when Booth was to appear as Othello, performing on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the manager playing Iago. On the other nights of the week, ‘The Cup,’ with the lively ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ was to be performed. In the following week there was the same arrangement, except that Irving took the part of Othello.[27]

The night of May 2 was an exciting one, even in the list of exciting Lyceum nights. The Americans were, of course, there in great force. Irving—Booth—Ellen Terry: this surely formed, in theatrical phrase, a galaxy of talent, and the cynosure of a crowded, brilliant audience. It was, indeed, a charming performance—intellectual, highly-coloured, and treated in the romantic fashion which the age seems to demand. The old days of lusty-throated, welkin-splitting declamation, emphasized with strides and lunges, are done with.

Of Irving’s Iago it would be difficult to say too much. There have been always the two extremes: one portraying the Ancient as a malignant, scowling, crafty villain, doing much work with his eyes; the other as a kind of dapper, sarcastic, sneering personage, much after the model of Mephistopheles, this tone being emphasized by an airy, fashionable dress, as though he were some cynical Venetian “about town.” In Irving was seen the man of power and capability. There was breadth of treatment—the character was coherent throughout. The keynote to the perplexing character was found in his humour. In “I hate the Moor!”—one of those secret, jealous, morbid broodings which belong to human nature—an admirably delivered soliloquy, he strives to find some reasonable excuse for this suggestion; ‘He has done my office’ is merely accepted as a suitable pretext. The mode in which this was, as it were, chased through the turnings of his soul; the anxious tone of search, “I know not if ’t be true”; the covering up his face, and the motion by which he let his hands glide, revealing an elated expression at having found what would “serve,” was a perfect exhibition of the processes of thought. All this was set off by a dress of singular appropriateness and richness: a crimson and gold jerkin, with a mantle of dull or faded green, sometimes alternated with a short cloak and a red mantle worn on one arm.

In Booth’s Othello there appeared to be a lack of vigour, and the elocutionist was too present. There was a system of “points.” Some critics were rude enough to say that “his make-up suggested at times an Indian juggler, while about the head he seemed a low-cast Bengali.” He was never the “noble Moor.” “He had a tendency at times to gobble like a turkey.” This was rather hard measure. But in the scene with Iago, and, above all, in the scenes with Desdemona, the frantic bursts of jealousy, the command of varied tones, the by-play, the fierce ordering of Emilia and his wife—all this was of a high class, and stirred us. Miss Terry’s Desdemona was pathetic, and her piteous pleadings and remonstrances went straight to the heart.

On the next performance the parts were interchanged. A figure arrayed in a flowing amber robe over a purple brocaded gaberdine; a small, snow-white turban; a face dark, yet not “black”—such was Irving’s conception of Othello, which indeed answered to our ideal of the Moor. His tall figure gave him advantage. His reading of the part, again, was of the romantic, passionate kind, and he leant more on the tender side of the character than on the ferocious or barbaric. In the scene of Desdemona’s death or murder, there was now another and more effective arrangement: the bed was placed in the centre of the stage, and the whole became more important and conspicuous. When it was at the side, as in the Booth arrangement, it was difficult to believe in the continued presence of the lady after her death, and there was an awkwardness in the efforts to keep in sight of the audience during the struggle. There is not space to give details of the points which distinguished this conception—it is virtually a new character; but it will always be played by Irving under a disadvantage, as the play of his expressive face—the meaning, “travelling” eyes—is greatly veiled by the enforced swarthiness and Æthiop tint.

Booth’s Iago had been seen before, and was much praised. It was on the old “Mephistopheles” lines. The dress, indeed, strangely meagre and old-fashioned, scarcely harmonized with the rich costumes about him.

The whole of this transaction, as I have said, did honour to the English actor. Nothing more cordially hospitable could have been imagined. At the time there was a “Booth party,” who gave out that their favourite had not had fair play at the Princess’s, and that on a properly-appointed stage his superiority to all rivals would be apparent. These and other utterances were scattered about freely. Irving might have passed them by with indifference. It was certainly not his duty to share his stage with a stranger and a rival. At the same time we may give him credit for a certain delicate finesse, and he may have later thought, with a smiling, good-humoured complacency, that, owing to his allowing the experiment, the issue had turned out very differently from what “good-natured people” had hoped. The mortification for the American must have been the greater from the disadvantage of the contrast, which brought out in the most forcible way the want of “distinction,” the stock of old, rather faded, devices with which he came provided, and which he tried on his audience with an antique gravity. Audiences have, unfortunately, but little delicacy. In their plain way they show their appreciation of whom they think “the better man” in a business-like manner; and I remember how they insisted that the encouraging applause which they gave to the new actor should be shared by his host.

It should be mentioned that the prices on this engagement were raised to the opera scale—a guinea in the stalls, half-a-guinea for the dress-circle.

When the actor took his benefit at the close of this laborious season, the theatre presented an opera-house appearance, and was filled to overflowing with a miscellany of brave men and fair women, the latter arrayed in special splendour and giving the whole an air of rich luxury and magnificence befitting the handsomest and best-appointed theatre in the kingdom. Bouquets of unusual brilliancy and dimensions were laid in position, clearly not brought for the enjoyment of the owners. The entertainment consisted of the stock piece of ‘The Bells.’ Mr. Toole performed Mr. Hollingshead’s farce, ‘The Birthplace of Podgers,’ a happy subject, which shows that the “germ” of the æsthete “business” existed twenty years ago. The feature of the night was the well-known scene from ‘The Hunchback,’ in which Modus is so pleasantly drawn into making a declaration. Sheridan Knowles is often ridiculed for his sham Elizabethan situations; yet it may be doubted if any living writer could treat this incident with such freshness or so naturally. It is a piece of good, wearing stuff, and will wear even better. When the scene drew up, the handsome curtains, festooned in rich and abundant folds, revealed a new effect, throwing out, by contrast, the pale greenish-tinted scene, and heightening the light so that the two figures were projected on this mellow background with wonderful brilliancy. Miss Terry’s performance was full of animation and piquancy. Most remarkable, indeed, was the new store of unexpected attitudes and graces revealed at every moment—pretty stoopings, windings, sudden half turns, inviting “rallyings”—so that even a Modus more insensible to her advances must have succumbed. But in truth this wonderful creature “adorns all she touches.” It is clear that there is a Jordan-like vein of comedy in her yet to be worked. Irving’s Modus was full of a quaint earnestness, and his air of helplessness in the hands of such a mistress was well maintained. Modus is generally made to hover on the verge of oafishness, so as to make it surprising that there should be any object in gaining such a being. Irving imparted a suitable air to it, and lifted the character into pure comedy.

At the end came the expected speech, delivered with a pleasant familiarity, and dwelling on past successes and future plans. As in the case of another Premier, announcement was made of “improvement for tenants” in the pit and boxes, who were to have more room—to be “rooted,” if not to the soil, in their places at least. It was a pleasant and remarkable season to look back upon: the enchanting ‘Cup,’ which lingers like a dream, or lotus-eating fancy; the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ so sumptuously mounted; the splendid ‘Othello,’ the meeting of the American and the English actor on the same stage, and their strangely opposed readings of the same characters.

The performance of ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’ which supplemented the attraction of ‘Othello,’ was interesting, as it introduced once more to active life that excellent and sound old actor, Henry Howe, who is now perhaps the only link with the generation of the great actors. It was a graceful and thoughtful act of Irving’s to seek out the veteran and attach him to his company. During the decade of years that have since elapsed, he has always treated him with a kindly and courteous consideration. Everyone who knows Mr. Howe—and everyone who does is glad to be counted among his friends—can testify to his kindly and loveable qualities. He has not the least particle of that testy discontent which too often distinguishes the veteran actor, who extols the past and is discontented with the present, because it is discontented with him, or thinks that he lags superfluous on the stage. As we have talked with him of a summer’s afternoon, in his little retreat at Isleworth, the image of many a pleasant hour in the old Haymarket days has risen up with his presence. It is always pleasant to encounter his honest face in the Strand, where he lives, as he is hurrying to his work.[28]

In January, 1882, our manager revived a piece in which he had achieved one of his earliest triumphs—‘The Two Roses.’ Miss Terry was at this time busily preparing for what was to be her great effort, in Juliet, and this interruption to her labours was judicious policy on the manager’s part. Much had occurred during the long interval of twelve years since the play had been first performed, but many still recalled with enjoyment Irving’s masterly creation. When he was casting the characters for the piece, he had counted on the original Caleb Decie—Thorne—who held the traditions of the play. Owing to some sudden change—I think to his entering on management—this arrangement had to be given up, and the manager was somewhat perplexed as to who he could find to fill the character. He happened to be in Glasgow at this time, when the local manager said to him, “There is a young fellow here who, I think, would exactly suit you; he is intelligent, hard working, and anxious to get on. His name is Alexander.” Irving accepted the advice, and secured an actor who was of his own school, of well-defined instincts and a certain elegance, and exactly suited to be jeune premier of the Lyceum. It may be conceived with what delight, as he himself has told me, this unexpected opening was received by the then obscure youth; and at a pleasant supper the new engagement was ratified. At this moment the young Glasgow candidate is the prosperous manager of the St. James’s Theatre, a position which a dozen years of conscientious work has placed him in. Far more rough and thorny was the path along which Irving had to toil, during a score of years, before he found himself at the head of a theatre. But in these fin de siècle times, the days and hours have doubled their value.

The piece was well mounted and well played, and there was much interest felt in comparing the new cast with the old. In a pleasant, half-sad meditation, my friend Mr. Clement Scott called up some of the old memories; the tyrant Death, he said, had played sad havoc with the original companies that did so much for this English comedy. “Far away, leagues from home, across the Atlantic sleep both Harry Montague and Amy Fawcitt. We may associate them still with Jack Wyatt and Lottie—who seemed the very boy and girl lovers that such a theme required—so bright and manly and noble, so tender, young, and handsome.” David James, as I have said, had taken the place of the oleaginous Honey, and for those who had not seen the latter, was an admirable representative of the part. The “Roses” were Miss Helen Mathews and Miss Emery.

The manager, in his old part, received universal praise from the entire circle of critics. Some considered it his most perfect creation, and likened it to Got’s ‘Duc Job’ and Regnier’s ‘Annibal.’ It was certainly a most finished and original performance; but it must be confessed that the larger stage and larger house had its effect, and tempted the actor into laying greater emphasis on details of the character. An actor cannot stand still, as it were. Repetition for a hundred nights is one of the vices of the modern stage, and leads to artificiality. Under the old répertoire system, when a piece was given for a few nights, then suspended to be resumed after an interval, the actor came to his part with a certain freshness and feeling of novelty.

At the same time, it should be said that the play itself was accountable for this loss of effect. It was of but an ephemeral sort, and belonged to an old school which had passed away. Other players besides Irving, conscious of this weakness, have felt themselves constrained to supplement it by these broad touchings. The average “play of commerce” is but the inspiration of the moment, and engendered by it—authors, manager, actors, audience all join, as it were, in the composition. Every portion, therefore, reflects the tone of the time. But after a number of years this tone becomes lost or forgotten; the fashions of feeling and emotion, both off as well as on the stage, also pass away.

When closing his season and making the important announcement of the selection of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for the new one, the manager, as we have seen, had promised some alterations and improvements in the theatre. These were duly carried out, and not only added to the comfort of the audience, but also to the profits of the management. The corridor at the back of the dress-circle was taken in and supplied some sixty or seventy new seats; while below, on the pit floor, place was found for some two hundred additional persons, by including the saloon. Further, the arch of the gallery which impeded the view was raised, padded seats were furnished for the pit, and the manager was willing even to supply “backs,” an unusual luxury, to the seats in the gallery; but the Chamberlain interposed, on the ground that in any panic or hurrying down the steep ascent, these might be found an obstruction. Other alterations were made in the exits and entrances—though these were merely in the nature of makeshifts. But the manager was not content until, many years later, he had purchased the adjoining house and thoroughly remodelled the whole.[29]

The manager, in the interval, took his company on a provincial tour to the leading towns. At Glasgow it was announced to be “the greatest engagement ever witnessed in that city.” As he told his audience on the last night, the receipts for the twelve nights amounted to over £4,000—an average of £334 per night. But the extraordinary “drawing” power of our actor was never exhibited more signally than during the engagement at Edinburgh, at Mr. Howard’s Theatre, which produced results that were really unprecedented. On his last appearance Irving told the audience that “this engagement—and you must not take it for egotism—has been the most remarkable one played for any twelve nights in any theatre, I should think, in Great Britain, certainly out of London, and there are some large theatres in London. I may tell you that there has been taken during the engagement here £4,300, which is certainly the largest sum ever had before in any theatre during the space of time, and I believe it is perfectly unprecedented in any city.” This was a tribute to his attraction. On his departure a gold repeater watch was presented to him.

CHAPTER X.
1882.
‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET.

By March 8, 1882, the great revival of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was ready. For this performance the manager drew upon all the resources of his taste, purse, study, and experience. The fascinating play, indeed, offered opportunities for adornment only too tempting. Those glittering, bewitching pictures still linger in the memory of the playgoer, though more than ten years have elapsed since the opening night “Among the restorations will be found that of Romeo’s unrequited love for Rosaline, omitted, among other things, in Garrick’s version.”

Those who came away from the Lyceum on that opening night must have had a sense almost of bewilderment, so rich and dazzling were the scenes of light and colour that had for hours passed before their eyes. According to the true illusive principle in use on this stage, the lights are lowered as every scene is about to change, by which a sense of mystery is produced, and the prosaic mechanism of the movement is shrouded. Hence, a sort of richness of effect and surprise as the gloom passes away and a gorgeous scene steeped in effulgence and colour is revealed. It would take long to detail the beautiful views, streets, palaces, chambers, dresses, groupings, that were set before the audience, all devised with an extraordinary originality and fertility of resource; though this was the third of these Italian revivals. When it is considered that there were twenty-two scenes, and that most of these were “sets,” it is amazing with what rapidity and smoothness the changes were contrived. Not the least pleasurable part of the whole was the romantic music, written in a flowing, tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of a juvenile freedom and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the grace and character of Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde.’ In the exquisite garden, with its depth of silvered trees glistening in the moonlight, viewed from a terrace, the arrangement of the balcony was the only successful solution seen as yet. It has always been forgotten that Juliet has to act—is, as it were, “on the stage”—and should not be perched in a little wobbling cage. Here it was made a sort of solid loggia, as much a part of the stage as that upon which her lover was standing. I fancy this was the scenic triumph of the night.

When it is considered that Romeo and Juliet are characters almost impossible to perform so as to reach the Shakespearian ideal, it becomes easier to “liberate one’s mind” on the subject of the performance of the two leading characters. The chief objection was that they scarcely presented the ideal of superabundant youth—boyish and girlish—required by the play. I have always thought this a point to be but little insisted upon; it is much the same as with strictness of costume, which is overpowered, as it were, by the acting. It is the acting of youth, not the appearance of youth, that is required; and a case is conceivable where all the flush of youth with its physical accompaniments may be present in perfection, and yet from failure of the acting the idea of maturity and age may be conveyed.[30] In the dramatic ballroom scene, when he was moving about arrayed as a pilgrim, the unbecoming dress and rather too swarthy features seemed to convey the presentment of a person in the prime of life. The critics spoke freely in this sense.

In the latter, more tragic portion of the play, the very intensity of the emotion seemed to add maturity and depth to the character of Romeo. Nothing could better supply the notion of impending destiny, of gathering gloom, than the view of the dismal heart-chilling street, the scene of the visit to the apothecary. Our actor’s picturesque sense was shown in his almost perfect conception of this situation. The forlorn look of the houses, the general desolation, the stormy grandeur in keeping with the surroundings, the properly subdued grotesqueness of the seller of simples (it was the grotesqueness of misery that was conveyed), filled the heart with a sadness that was almost real. In Miss Terry’s case there was a division of opinions, some thinking her performance all but perfect, others noting the absence of “girlishness.” All agreed as to its engaging character and its winning charm. Terriss was the Mercutio, which he gave with his favourite blunt impetuosity. But one of the most perfectly played characters was Mrs. Stirling’s Nurse. This accomplished woman represented all the best traditions—high training, admirable elocution, with the art of giving due weight and breadth to every utterance. And yet—here was a curious phenomenon—the very excellence of the delineation disturbed the balance of the play. The Nurse became almost as important as the leading performers, but not from any fault of the actress. She but followed the due course. This is a blemish which is found in many exhibitions of Shakespearian plays, where the inferior actor works up his Dogberry, or his Gravedigger, or his Jacques to the very fullest extent of which they are capable. But there should be subordination; these are merely humours exhibited en passant. With an actress of Mrs. Stirling’s powers and rank, the manager no doubt felt too much delicacy to interfere; nor would perhaps the audience have placidly accepted any effacing of her part. But as it was, the figure of this humble retainer became unduly prominent.[31]

‘Romeo and Juliet’ was witnessed one night by the impetuous Sarah Bernhardt, who afterwards came behind the scenes to congratulate the performers. “How can you act in this way every night?” she exclaimed to Ellen Terry. The latter, in her simple, natural way, explained: “It is the audience—they inspire me!”

Such was this refined, elegant, and truly brilliant spectacle, which, as usual, furnished “talk for the town,” and stirred its interest. The hundredth night of performance was celebrated by a banquet on the stage, on Sunday night, June 25, 1882. Here assembled critics, dramatists, artists, e tutti quanti; there were many admirers, friends, and sympathizers present, some of whom have since passed away—Sir W. Hardman, Dr. Cox, Laman Blanchard, Palgrave Simpson, and many more. There is a sadness in thinking of these disappearances.

Among the guests at the banquet was Mr. Abbey, the American manager, well known for his many daring and very successful coups in management. In the course of the night there were some rumours circulated as to the motives of his presence in town; but an allusion in Irving’s speech, when he said pointedly that he hoped next year to have good experience of the cordiality of American audiences, set the matter at rest. This scheme had long been in his thoughts; and, indeed, already many invitations and proposals had been made to him to visit the United States. There was something dazzling and fascinating in this prospect of going forth to conquer a new great kingdom and new audiences. There was the chance, too, of riches “beyond the dreams of avarice.” No wonder, then, that the scheme began to take shape, and was presently to be decided upon.

After one hundred and thirty nights’ performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ the season was brought to a close, the manager taking “a benefit” on his last night. Some ungracious folk object to this old-established form of compliment, but he defended it in a very modest and judicious way.

CHAPTER XI.
1882.
‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING’—AMERICAN VISIT ARRANGED.

In his speech at the close of the season, the manager announced the new piece selected for the next season. With that judicious view to contrast or relief which directed all his efforts, he had settled on a true comedy—the effective ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ To this piece many had long since pointed as being exactly adapted to the special gifts of the two performers. Here was the fourth Shakespearian play of an Italian complexion and atmosphere, which entailed accordingly a fresh exhibition of Italian streets, manners, and costumes. A happy impression was produced by the very note of preparation, the air was filled with the breath of the coming piece; all felt, in anticipation, the agreeable humours and fancies of Benedick and his Beatrice. This feeling of comedy, it may be said, is ever a delightful one; it spreads abroad a placid, quiet enjoyment and good-humour with which nothing else can compare.

On Wednesday, October 11, 1882, the delightful piece was brought out. From the excellent acting of the two principal performers, and the beautiful “setting” of the whole, it was destined to become one of the most popular and acceptable of the Lyceum répertoire. By a curious delusion, owing no doubt to the recollection of the lavish splendours of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ some critics pronounced that it had been brought out with but a moderate display of scenic resources. The truth was that the play had been “mounted” with as much state as it would properly bear. Some scenes were equipped in an unusually lavish and superb style. The general effect, however, was harmonious; indeed, the happy tact of the manager was never displayed to such advantage as in seizing on what might be termed the proper key of the piece. When we recall, with a pleasant enjoyment, these various Lyceum spectacles, we find that there is no confusion of one with the other, that each has a special, distinct note, and thus is started a train of impressions, delightful for their variety, which enrich the chambers of the memory.

There was one scene which, for its splendour and originality, was to be talked of for many a day, viz., the beautiful interior of a church at Messina—the “Church Scene,” as it was called. The art displayed here, the combination of “built-up” scenery with “cloths,” the rich harmonious tintings, the ecclesiastical details, the metal-work, altars, etc., made an exquisite picture.[32] The well-known passage of the interrupted bridal was “laid out” with extraordinary picturesqueness, much emphasis being given to the religious rites. It was felt, however, that the genuflections before the altar were introducing rather too awful a suggestion, though the intention was, no doubt, reverent. It must be admitted by all whose memories wander back to that performance, that the vision of this “Church Scene” rises before them with an almost pathetic significance, owing in some part to the touching, sympathetic acting of Miss Millward. By this emphasizing of the state and publicity of the scene, the crowds and rich dresses and ecclesiastical robes, the “distressful” character of such a trial for a young bride was brought out in a very striking way.

All eyes, as it may be conceived, were drawn to the figures of Benedick and Beatrice, as portrayed by Irving and Ellen Terry. Their scenes were followed with a delighted interest, and their gay encounters of wit and flirtation gave unalloyed pleasure. Irving threw a Malvolian gravity over the character, alternated by a certain jocoseness.

These two characters, Benedick and Beatrice, are so much the heritage of all lovers of true comedy, that everyone seems to have fixed a standard for himself, which he will critically apply to every representation. This partiality does not make us particularly exigeant, but we have each our own fancies. There is nothing more interesting, entertaining, or fruitful in speculation than the discussion of how favourite characters in comedy should be represented. It is as though they were figures in real life. For myself, I confess I should have preferred that the actor had taken the character into still higher realms of airy comedy, and had less emphasized the somewhat farcical passages. Benedick was a man of capacity, a soldier, a gentleman, and though he was likely to be so imposed upon, he would not have given his friends the satisfaction of seeing him in this dejected condition, almost inviting laughter and rude “rallying.”[33]

During all this time, preparations for the great American visit were being carefully matured. There is supposed to be a sort of hostility between artistic gifts and business-like habits; but Irving has always shown great capacity where organization and arrangement are in question—he has the clearest vision, and the firmest, most decided purpose. In this he has often suggested a surprising likeness to the departed novelist Dickens, who was also remarkable for his business power and decision of character, and whose motto it was to do every trifle in the best way that it could be done. Anything worth doing at all, he would say, was worth doing well.

Nothing was left undone to ensure success. Everything was “thought out” beforehand with the greatest care and deliberation. The American manager, Abbey, who had undertaken the direction of the venture, and had a vast store of experience and skill at command, planned, of course, the arrangements of the visit; but the purely theatrical details were thrown upon the English actor, who had to equip completely some dozen plays with scenery, dresses, and properties. A following of from seventy to a hundred persons—including actors, actresses, secretaries, scenic and music artists, dressers, supernumeraries—was to be taken out.[34] Further, with a view to making the company thoroughly familiar with the répertoire, for months beforehand a sort of continuous rehearsal went on before the regular Lyceum audiences; that is, all the stock-pieces were revived one after the other, and performed with much care.

The honours and flattering tributes that were now lavished on the departing actor would have turned the head of one less sensible or less unspoiled. The town seemed really to have “run horn-mad” after him, and could talk of nothing but of him and his expedition. As was to be expected, the compliment of a public dinner was the smallest of these tributes. Presents and invitations were lavished upon him. In a caricature he was shown as being profusely anointed, by critics and others, from a tub filled with a composition labelled “butter.” In another the Prince of Wales is obsequiously presenting an invitation, which the actor excuses himself from accepting owing to “my many engagements.” The most famous portrait-painter of the day begged to be allowed to paint his picture, which he wished to offer as a present to the Garrick Club.[35] Rumours were busily circulated—and contradicted—that a knighthood had been offered and declined.

The public dinner at St. James’s Hall was fixed for July 4—a compliment to the American people. The list of stewards was truly extraordinary, comprising almost everyone of mark in the arts and the great professions. The Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, who was himself setting out for a tour in the States, was to take the chair. Mr. Gladstone and some Cabinet Ministers were on the committee. There were three thousand applicants for the five hundred possible seats, all that Mr. Pinches, the secretary—a relation of the actor’s old master—could contrive to supply. Two Bishops excused their attendance in flattering terms; and Mr. Gladstone would gladly have attended, but was compelled by his duties to be absent.[36] At this banquet, besides the Chief Justice and the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, there were five other judges present, together with all that was distinguished in the professions and arts.

The Chairman, in a thoughtful and studied speech, delivered perhaps one of the best apologias for the actor that is ever likely to be offered. The skill and moderation of the accomplished advocate was shown to perfection: he did not adulate, but gave the actor a graduated and judicious measure of praise for all he had done in the improvement in the general tone, morals, and methods of the stage. Irving acknowledged these compliments in grateful and heartfelt terms, addressed not so much to the diners present as to the kingdom in general.

After these metropolitan honours, he passed to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Liverpool. At each city he was greeted with complimentary banquets. At Edinburgh he opened a new theatre, named in compliment to his own, the Lyceum. He was invited to Hawarden by Mr. Gladstone, and also to Knowsley, on a visit to Lord Derby.

On October 10, 1883, the chief members of the company—over forty in number—sailed for New York, under the conduct of Mr. Bram Stoker. Tons of scenery, dresses, properties, etc., had been already shipped. The following day Irving and Miss Terry embarked on board the White Star liner, The Britannic. Up to the last moment telegrams and letters containing good wishes literally by hundreds were being brought in. Even while the vessel was detained at Queenstown, the Mayor and Corporation of Cork seized the opportunity of saluting him with a parting address. The incidents have been all described by my friend Mr. Joseph Hatton, who attended the party as “historiographer”; and I may refer the reader to his interesting volumes.

The visit was to prove one long triumph, and the six months’ progress a strange, wonderful phantasmagoria of receptions, entertainments, hospitalities of all kinds. Novel and original, too, were the humours and fashions that greeted them everywhere, and the eyes of the two players must have often turned back with pleasure to that odd pantomime.

‘The Bells’ was selected for the opening performance which was on October 29, 1883. Though his reception was overpowering and tumultuous, there was some hesitation as to the success of the play itself, and the critics seemed to be a little doubtful as to whether it fairly represented the full measure of his gifts. ‘Charles I.’, however, followed, and the two great artists made the profoundest impression. But when ‘Louis XI.’ and ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ were presented, all doubts vanished. Miss Terry won all hearts; her sympathetic style and winsome ways made conquest of every audience. Nothing struck the Americans with such astonishment as the exquisite arrangement and “stage management” of the Shakespearian comedy, the reserved yet effectively harmonious treatment of all the details being a complete revelation. The actor’s consummate taste was recognised; in fact, the result of the visit was a complete revolution in all the American stage methods. The extraordinary record of lavish hospitalities, tributes of all kinds, with the adventures, is set forth fully in the story of the tour. But it is only by consulting the American journals that we can gather a notion of the odd “humours,” often grotesque, by which the American public displays its enthusiastic approbation.[37] The “interviewers,” as may be imagined, were rampant, and extracted from the genial and courteous actor opinions on everything connected with his profession. One immortal criticism deserves to be recorded here. “He has rung,” said a newspaper, “the knell of gibbering Gosh!”[38]

The party remained in the country until the May of the year following. The receipts exceeded every forecast, a quarter of a million dollars having been taken in the first four weeks. But the expenses were enormous. The substantial profit was found in Irving’s securing a new, vast, and prominent audience in the West; in his winning the suffrages of Americans abroad as well as of those at home, who became his most fervent adherents.

The following is an amusing scene. Irving had been invited to the Journalists’ Club, and after the close of the performance of ‘Louis XI.,’ the actor had come round to the club, where he partook of a supper tendered to him by a few members in a private room. He had been in the building three-quarters of an hour before he made known his presence by coming upstairs, escorted by several gentlemen. The guest of the evening then held an informal reception.

“After he had said something pleasant to almost everyone, he volunteered to do his share towards entertaining those present. It had been slightly hinted to him that something of the kind was looked for, and he entered into the spirit of the occasion. Then the great tragedian turned from the serious to the comic. He recited, in a way that provoked roars of laughter, the funny little poem, ‘Tommy’s First Love.’

“When this was over there was a unanimous shout, which lasted several minutes. It was a loud cry for more. Mr. Irving expressed his willingness to give another recitation, and called for a chair. After sitting down he observed that, as all were standing, those in the rear could see but indifferently. ‘Suppose we change the stage management,’ he suggested. ‘Can’t we all sit down?’ This was received with some merriment, as there were few chairs in the room. Someone, however, saw Mr. Irving’s idea that those in the front ranks should sit upon the floor, and in a moment the four foremost lines were kneeling upon the carpet.

“Mr. Irving then recited ‘Eugene Aram’s Dream.’ The splendid elocutionary talents of the actor kept the audience spellbound. Every emotion, every pang of the schoolmaster was vividly depicted by the expressive face of the tragedian. The scene was a remarkable one. Mr. Irving threw himself so earnestly into the character that at one time he tore the white necktie from his throat without realizing what he was doing, and, as his features were wrought up to show the usher’s agony, similar lines seemed to show themselves by sympathy in the faces of those present. At the close of the recitation the motionless figures, some standing, some sitting with crossed legs upon the floor, became moving, enthusiastic men. Those on their feet threw their arms into the air and cheered as if for dear life, while those on the floor bounded up simultaneously and expressed their enthusiasm. It was some time before the excitement subsided.

“I recited that once to a friend of mine,” said Mr. Irving, after quiet had been restored, “and what do you think he said? Why, he seriously exclaimed: ‘There is one point in that story that I’d like to know about. What became of the boy?’” This anecdote produced a chorus of laughter. After shaking hands all round, Mr. Irving went downstairs and out, accompanied by the club’s officers. Before he left the room, “Three cheers for Mr. Irving” were called for and given by throats already hoarse with applauding him.

A second American expedition followed in the September of the same year, during which a visit was paid to Canada.

CHAPTER XII.
1884.
‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS.

On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’ was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course, the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.” But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of the audience.

It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat too much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas, as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly, as it were, that he is only half in earnest.