Sir Henry Irving—A Record of Over Twenty Years at the Lyceum

by Percy Fitzgerald

FOOTNOTES

[1] Long after, in his prosperity, he recalled to American listeners an excellent piece of advice given him by this actress. He was speaking of the invaluable practice of revealing thoughts in the face before giving them utterance, where, he said, it “will be found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental, effects are obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the tongue gives its words. This lesson was enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress, Charlotte Cushman. I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I was cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. It was my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery suggested fabulous wealth. But after the play, Miss Cushman, in the course of some kindly advice, said to me, ‘Instead of giving me that purse, don’t you think it would have been much more natural if you had taken a number of coins from your pocket and given me the smallest? That is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added greatly to the realism of the scene.’ I have never forgotten that lesson.”

[2] It is not surprising that many more should have been found to claim the credit of “discovering” Henry Irving. Mr. W. Reeve writes: “A long talk again with Miss Herbert. As I have two theatres on my hands and a company, decided not to go. She seemed very disappointed; asked me what she should do. Thought of Henry Irving, who followed me in Manchester; advised her to write to Mr. Chambers; promised to do so as well, if engaged, for Mr. Knowles to release him. Wrote to Chambers about Irving.” All which, as I know from the best authority, is somewhat imaginative. The engagement was entirely owing to Boucicault.

[3] Related in one of his conversations with Mr. Joseph Hatton. I have heard Mr. Walter Lacy describe the modest, grateful fashion in which our actor received some hints given him at rehearsal by this old and experienced performer as to the playing of his part.

[4] I may be allowed to refer those who would learn the importance of this agent of “facial expression” to a little treatise of my own, The Art of Acting—lecture at the Royal Institution, where it is fully discussed.

[5] Of this night, my friend Mr. Arthur A’Beckett has recently recalled some memories: “All the dramatic critics were assembled. John Oxenford—kindest of men and ripest of scholars—for the Times, E. L. Blanchard for the Daily Telegraph, John Hollingshead (still amongst us), the predecessor of my good friend Moy Thomas of the Daily News, Leicester Buckingham for the Morning Star, Desmond Ryan (I think) for the Standard, Heraud for the Illustrated London News, Tomlins or Richard Lee for the Advertiser, and Joseph Knight (again one of our veterans) for the Sunday Times. There were others—Clement Scott, W. S. Gilbert, Andrew Halliday, Tom Robertson, Harry Leigh, Jeff Prowse, Tom Hood—all members of the Savage Club in the days before clay-pipes went out of fashion. We were assembled to see a new piece by Dion Boucicault, then one of the most prolific of dramatists. Well, we were waiting for the curtain to draw up on the first act of the new play. It was called ‘Hunted Down,’ and it was buzzed in the stalls that Dion had picked up a very clever young actor in the provinces, who, after a short career in town, had made his mark in Manchester. He was called Henry Irving. Then there was another comparatively new name on the bills—Ada Dyas. The piece had a strong plot, and was fairly successful; but, assisted by the title, I believe it was a fight against long odds. A repentant woman ‘with a past’ was hunted down. I fancy Miss Herbert (one of the most charming actresses that ever trod the boards) was the ‘woman with the past,’ and that it was she who was ‘hunted down.’ But, although my impressions of the play are vague and blurred, I can see Henry Irving as the most admirable villain—cool, calm, and implacable—and Ada Dyas as his suffering wife. They stand before me as I write, two distinct figures. Of the rest of the piece, I repeat, I remember next to nothing.”

[6] At this time I happened to be living in Dublin, and recall with pleasure the comedian’s striking face and figure, and the entertainment that he imparted. Once buying a newspaper in a shop that was close by the fine old Theatre Royal, since destroyed by fire, a “characteristical” pair entered, whom I recognised from having seen them on the stage. I was particularly struck with the pale, well-marked features, the black flowing hair, the dress of correct black, the whole very much suggesting Nicholas Nickleby, or some other of Dickens’ “walking gentlemen.” There was something strangely attractive about him, and a courteous, kindly tone to the owner of the shop as he made his purchase. When the pair had departed the lady’s tongue “grew wanton in his praise.” “Oh, but Mr. Irving,” she said enthusiastically, “he is the one; a perfect gentleman! Every morning he comes in to buy his newspaper, and he do speak so nicely. I do think he is a charming young man,” etc.

[7] The good-looking Montague, following the invariable development, seceded from the management and set up a theatre for himself. This not proving successful, he went to America, where he died early.

[8] It has been stated, I know not with what truth, that he was engaged at a salary of £15 a week, which was raised on the success of ‘The Bells’ to £35.

[9] Originally the piece opened with the second act, and the manager was said to have exclaimed: “Oh, bother politics! give us some domestic business.” This led to the introduction of the tranquil, pastoral scene at Hampton Court. The closing scene, as devised by the author, represented the capture of the king on the field of battle. “Won’t do,” said the “Colonel” bluntly; “must wind up with another domestic act.” Sorely perplexed by this requirement, which they felt was correct, both author and actor tried many expedients without success, until one evening, towards the small hours, the manager, who appeared to be dozing in his chair, suddenly called out: “Look at the last act of ‘Black-eyed Susan,’ with the prayer-book, chain, and all.” All which may be legendary, and I give it for what it is worth.

[10] I recall the manager’s complacent anticipation of the success of his coup. “Clayton,” he said, “was a clever, spirited fellow, and would assuredly make a hit in the part.” He certainly played respectably, and made up by earnestness what he lacked in other points. He was particularly proud of his own “make up.” But his inharmonious voice was against him, and it was impossible to “take him” seriously.

[11] “Lyceum.—Charles I., Mr. Henry Irving. The profound admiration that has been manifested by all classes (for the past four months) in this noble poetic play, and the unqualified approval bestowed by the most illustrious auditors upon Mr. Henry Irving’s great creation of the martyr-king, have marked a new era in public taste. The manager is proud to be able to announce that the immense audiences nightly assembled render any change in the performances impossible.—Miss Isabel Bateman, in her tender and exquisitely pathetic portraiture of Queen Henrietta Maria.—Mr. George Belmore, in his vigorous and masterly assumption of Oliver Cromwell.” Thus the modern Elliston.

[12] I have seen in an old criticism a notice of a leading performer who in similar fashion “condescended”—so it was phrased—to the part of the Ghost, and whose impersonation was declared to be “more than usually gentlemanlike and reputable.”

[13] Old Cibber thus grumbled at Garrick’s rise, and other quidnuncs at Kemble’s; and when Edward Kean came, there was the old prompter, who, when asked his opinion if he were not equal to Kemble, said: “Very clever young man indeed, very clever; but Lord bless you, sir, Mr. Kemble was a different thing altogether.”

[14] I have a vast collection of these things, filling some fourteen great folio volumes—an extraordinary tribute to the actor’s success.

[15] At the close of the performance, Mr. Chippendale presented to him the sword used by Kean when playing Richard. Later a friend gave him “the George,” which the great actor also wore in the part. Lady Burdett-Coutts, always one of his great admirers, added Garrick’s ring, “in recognition of the gratification derived from his Shakespeare representations, uniting to many characteristics of his great predecessors in histrionic art (whom he is too young to remember) the charm of original thought.” I may add that I was the medium of conveying to Irving Macready’s dress as Virginius, at the request of Mrs. John Forster, to whose husband it had been given by the great tragedian, with the accompanying “tinfoil dagger” with which he used to immolate Virginia.

[16] One night, during the performance of ‘Hamlet,’ something was thrown from the gallery on to the stage. It fell into the orchestra, and for a time could not be found. A sad-looking working-woman called at the stage-door to ask about it, and was glad to learn it was found. It was only a cheap, common thing. “I often go to the gallery,” she said, “and I wanted Mr. Irving to have this. I wanted him alone in the world to possess it.” “This,” he added, telling the story, “is the little trinket which I wear on my watch-chain.”

[17] Her valedictory address ran: “Mrs. Bateman begs to announce that her tenancy of the Lyceum Theatre terminates with the present month. For seven years it has been associated with the name she bears. During the three years and a half that the business management has been under her special control, the liberal patronage of the public has enabled her to wind up the affairs of each successive season with a profit. During this period ‘Macbeth’ was produced for the first time in London without interpolation from Middleton’s ‘Witch.’ Tennyson’s first play, ‘Queen Mary,’ was given; and Shakespeare’s ‘King Richard III.,’ for the first time in London from the original text. Mrs. Bateman’s lease has been transferred to Mr. Henry Irving, to whose attraction as an artist the prosperity of the theatre is entirely attributable, and she confidently hopes that under his care it may attain higher artistic distinction and complete prosperity. In conclusion, Mrs. Bateman ventures to express her gratitude for the kindness and generosity extended to her by the public—kindness that has overlooked many shortcomings, and generosity that has enabled her to faithfully carry out all her obligations to the close of her tenancy.—Lyceum, August 31, 1878.”

[18] It was built in 1830, so it is now over sixty-five years of age. The lease, held from Lord Exeter, has not many years to run—some twenty or so, I believe.

[19] He was described by a friend as “always just arrived by the mail in time to see the fish removed, or as going off by the early coach after the last dance at four in the morning.” He wrote his own epitaph—

“Here lies Samuel Beazely,

Who lived hard and died easily.”

[20] The actress is of a genuinely theatrical family. Readers of Scott’s Life will recall the clever, industrious Terry, who was long connected with the Edinburgh stage, and had himself adapted so many of the Scott novels. Miss Terry’s father was also long connected with the Edinburgh stage; her three sisters, her brother, her two children, have all found their way to the “boards.” Even the precocious child performer, Minnie Terry, is different from other prodigy children, and imparts a distinction to what is usually a disagreeable sort of exhibition. I take from the pages of The Theatre the following minute account of Miss Terry’s career:—“Miss Ellen Terry was born at Coventry on February 27, 1848. Her first appearance on the stage was made at the Princess’s Theatre, under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, on April 28, 1856. On October 15 of the same year she appeared as Puck in the revival of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ In Mr. Kean’s production of ‘King John,’ on October 18, 1858, she acted the part of Arthur. She next appeared at the Royalty and Haymarket Theatres, and at the latter house she played in ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ In March, 1863, she acted Gertrude in ‘The Little Treasure,’ at the Haymarket. She then acted at the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre, where, on October 24, 1867, she sustained the character of Rose de Beaurepaire in ‘The Double Marriage,’ also in ‘Still Waters Run Deep’; and, on December 26 of the same year she acted for the first time with Mr. Henry Irving, playing Katherine to his Petruchio in ‘The Taming of the Shrew.’ Miss Terry then retired from the stage for some years, reappearing on February 28, 1874, at the Queen’s Theatre, as Philippa Chester in ‘The Wandering Heir.’ On April 18 of the same year she acted Susan Merton in ‘It’s Never Too Late to Mend,’ at Astley’s Theatre, a performance which the Daily News thought worthy of ‘especial mention.’ Miss Terry’s first ‘hit,’ however, was made in April, 1875, when she acted Portia in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre. At the same theatre, in May following, she acted Clara Douglas in ‘Money’; and on August 7, 1875, she appeared at the Princess’s Theatre, for one night only, as Pauline in ‘The Lady of Lyons.’ In November following she acted Mabel Vane in ‘Masks and Faces’; and in May, 1876, she played Blanche Haye in ‘Ours,’ at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre. Going to the Court Theatre, in the autumn of the same year, she appeared in ‘The House of Darnley,’ and represented Lilian Vavaseur in ‘New Men and Old Acres.’”—Her first appearance was not in 1856, as so many have set down, but in 1854. This was in the part of one of the young princes “murdered in the Tower,” though it has been often stated that the part was the child one of Mamilius in ‘The Winter’s Tale.’ This was ascertained by my late friend Dutton Cook, one of the most painstaking and accurate of men.

Two rival houses in Coventry at this moment claim to be her birthplace. A greengrocer, at No. 5, Market Street, displays a plate or placard, announcing that she was born in his house: while a haberdasher, at No. 26, over the way, protests that “This house is the original birthplace of Miss Ellen Terry, and no other. Observe the name, Terry House.” Two other householders make the same claim. But an “old nurse” declares for No. 5.

[21] Time moves so quickly on that many will have forgotten that the popular writer Pinero, whose dramatic works are now in such demand, was at this time an obscure, painstaking actor, and one of the first to take service in Irving’s corps. By-and-by he brought the manager some slight pieces, such as ‘Daisy’s Escape,’ to serve as levers de rideau. These were neatly written and full of spirit. He thus practised his pen, and, as the stage was of large size, had to aim at broad, bold effects, a treatment which has been of material service in his more formal pieces. To his efforts as an actor we can scarcely extend the admiration we have for his writings; and his performance of Sir Peter Teazle at the Haymarket was a strange, wonderful thing.

[22] Amiable and forbearing as Irving has always shown himself to his subordinates, he can be resolute in seeing that what he wishes or wants is carried out. Schemes of scenery found available on trial have again and again been condemned because they failed to bring about the effect desired. This, however, is the secret of the unity and homogeneousness of his productions. It is admitted that even in the matter of the elaborate orchestral music, which we might fancy he would leave to the professors, he has much to say and alter. It may strike him as not being suited to the situation. Fresh experiments will have to be made, to be also set aside, to the despair of the composer. Then the difficile manager will be heard to attempt, vocally, some rude outline of what he desires, and this rude suggestion the ready musician will grasp and put into shape, and it will be agreed nem. con. that somehow this last attempt suits the situation exactly. This sense of perfect propriety in omnibus is a “note” of our manager’s character.

[23] Once, at Edinburgh, during a performance of ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ the students of the University had been very tumultuous, and scarcely a word was heard of the first scenes. Suddenly the drop-scene descended, and the actor appeared. There was silence when, with perfect good-humour and firmness, he said that, owing to some misunderstanding, the first portion of the piece had not been heard by the audience, and that he was now going to recommence the whole from the beginning. And so it was done.

[24] Arthur Matthison, a quaint, clever American, who had written some successful dramas, was chosen to play “the double” of the leading actor: that is, after passing behind the “practicable” tree, he was to emerge, taking care to keep his back to the audience. Unluckily for stage effect, no known art will help “to dodge Nature” in such points. She has no replicas in her store: makes everything distinct. And it is significant of the strong individuality which belongs to the whole body as well as to the face, that the eye will at once note the difference of expression in the outline of the figure, arms, etc. I believe no two people could be found so alike in their general appearance as to be indistinguishable—thus illustrating the late Mr. Carlyle’s quaint phrase when speaking of someone whose character he had interpreted unfavourably, “I knew it by the twist of the hip of him.”

[25] A curious little controversy arose as to the authorship of the Ghost Melody. It was claimed for Mr. Stöpel, who was acting as chef d’orchestre at the Théâtre Historique when the play was originally produced. Another claim was made for Varney, author of the stirring hymn, Mourir pour la patrie. Oddly enough, Stöpel, who was then at the Adelphi, could not be got “to say yes or no.” “He was amused,” he said, “at the importance attached to such a trifle, and could, if he chose, set the matter at rest in a few words.” But he did not. Still, there used to be a pianoforte piece by one Rosellen—a Reverie—which certainly began and went on for many bars in the same fashion. However, a copy of the music of the Ghost Melody, arranged for the pianoforte, and published in 1852, was unearthed, which bore on its title the words: “Composed by M. Varney, of the Théâtre Historique: arranged by R. Stöpel, director of the music at the Princess’s Theatre.” This settled the point, and it explained the ambiguous declaration of the arranger. We must assuredly give the whole credit of this air to Varney.

[26] One agreeable night which was spent behind the scenes enabled me to study the admirable arrangements by which this complicated operation was carried out with smoothness and success.

No sooner has the drop-scene fallen—and a person always “stands by” to see that the huge roller is kept clear of careless spectators—than a busy scene sets in. Instantly men emerge from every side; the hills and banks, the slopes leading down the hill, the steps and massive pedestal that flank the entrance to the Temple on the right, are lifted up and disappear gradually; the distant landscape mounts slowly into the air; the long rows of jets are unfastened and carried off—in three or four minutes the whole is clear. At this moment are seen slowly coming down from aloft what appear to be three long heavy frames or beams—two in the direction of the length, one across the whole breadth of the stage. These make a sort of enclosure open on one side, and form the pediment or upper portion of the Temple meant to rest on the pillars. Soon busy hands have joined these three great joists by bolts and fastenings; the signal is given, and it begins to ascend again. Meanwhile, others have been bringing out from the “scene dock” pillars with their bases, and arranging them; and as the great beams move slowly up to their place, they hoist with them the columns, attached by ropes which pass through. By this time all the columns are swinging in the air; another moment and they have dropped into their places in the pedestal. The place of each pedestal is marked on the floor. In a few moments everything is fitted and falls into its place, with an almost martial exactness. Then are seen slowly descending the other portions of the roof, sky-borders, etc., all falling into their places quietly and with a sort of mysterious growth. We have glimpses in the galleries aloft of men hauling at ropes and pulleys, or turning “drums.” Finally the whole is set and complete, and men bear in the altars and steps and the enormous idol at the back—over twenty feet high. It is worth while looking close even at the sound and effective modelling of the raised classic figures that encircle the lower portions of each column, all in good relief, such as we see in Mr. Alma Tadema’s pictures. The variety and richness of these are surprising, and they fairly bear a close inspection. They are coloured, too, with that ivory tone which the older marbles acquire. All this was wrought in the property-room, and worked in clay; the figures were then plastered over with paper, or papier-mâché, a material invaluable to the scenic artist as furnishing relief and detail so as to catch the lights and shadows, having the merit of being exceedingly light and portable, of bearing rough usage and knocking about, which carved wood would not. The idol, now looming solemnly at the back, is formed of the same material. It is curious to find that the pillars and their capitals are all constructed literally in the lines of perspective, as such would be drawn on a flat surface; they diminish in height as they are farther off, and their top and bottom surfaces are sloped in a converging line. Thus the “building” stood revealed and complete, and round the pillars ran an open space, enclosed as it were by the walls. What with the gloom and the general mystery, the whole would pass, even to those standing by, as a very imposing structure.

[27] One morning, during the preparations, I found myself in the painting-room, where Mr. Craven was busy with one of the interesting little models of scenery by which the effect can be tested. The reader may not know that the scenic artist has his model theatre, a foot or so wide, but made “to scale.” He has also ground-plans of the stage, showing all the exits, etc., also done to scale. By these aids the most complicated scenes can be designed and tried. I was struck with the careful, conscientious fashion in which the manager discussed a little Venetian scene, rudely painted in water-colours, which had just been set. He saw it in connection with the entrances of the actors, and was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He tried various devices, and proposed a gateway, which entailed making a new design. This he suggested to the painter with pleasant persuasion and kindly apologetic courtesy, but was, as always, firm in his purpose. If a second experiment did not satisfy, it must be tried again. Suaviter in modo, etc., is certainly his maxim.

[28] This performer is associated with the best traditions of the good old school; and is linked with many interesting associations. It is curious, too, to think that he belongs, or belonged, to the Society of Friends. We have, and have had, a good many Jews upon the stage, but a Quaker is a rarity. When he was in America, he related the story of his life to an inquirer: “I was attending a public school in Yorkshire. It was a Quaker school at Ackworth, although boys not of Quaker parentage attended it. Somehow I was always selected to recite some piece for the visitors—some of those old pieces, you know, such as The Roman Gladiator, or Paul before Agrippa. In this way I acquired my first liking for the stage. One night I went with my cousin John to the Old Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean, who was then creating a furore by his magnificent acting. In those days, you know, they sold good seats in the gallery for a shilling; so I and my cousin Jack paid our shilling—the usual half-price—and went into the gallery. I shall never forget that night. The playing opened, I think, with the third act. I see Kean as plainly as if it were only yesterday. There he sat, a small man, upon his throne in the middle of the stage. Well, after leaving the theatre, Jack and I had to cross a bridge on our way home. I sat down in the recess of the bridge, almost overcome by my emotion, and said, ‘John, I am going to be an actor.’ He tried to dissuade me, and laughed at the folly of the idea, but my mind was made up.” One of the most striking incidents at a recent production of ‘King Lear’ was the ‘ovation,’ as it is called, which greeted the veteran as he presented himself in a small character.

[29] For a time the house was “on crutches,” as it is called, an operation of considerable architectural delicacy. In the great “cellarage” below the stage, huge storehouses filled with the rubbish of half a century, were discovered masses of decayed peacocks’ feathers, which much perplexed the explorers and everybody else, until it was recalled that these were the antique “properties” used by Madame Vestris in one of her Planché burlesques. The labour was herculean, and the indefatigable Bram Stoker threw himself with heart and soul into the business. We might lament, however, that the beautiful interior suffered somewhat in the later alterations. The elegant contour was disturbed; the double pillars, which recurred periodically in the dress tier, were reduced to a single one. The fine entrance-hall lost its symmetry from being enlarged. But such sacrifices are absolutely necessary, and are not the first that have had to be made under “the form and pressure of the time.” The alterations cost a very large sum indeed, but our manager has always been an improving tenant, and has periodically laid out vast sums on the improvement and decoration of his house.

[30] Mr. Labouchere, a shrewd observer, a friend and admirer of the actor’s abilities, always speaks out his opinions in plain, blunt terms: “An actor must, in order to win popularity, have mannerisms, and the more peculiar they are, the greater will be his popularity. No one can for a moment suppose that Mr. Irving could not speak distinctly, progress about the stage after the fashion of human beings, and stand still without balancing to and fro if he pleased. Yet, had he not done all this, he would—notwithstanding that there is a touch of real genius about his acting sometimes—never have made the mark that he has. He is, indeed, to the stage what Lord Beaconsfield was to politics. That exceedingly able man never could utter the resonant clap-trap in which he so often indulged, and which made men talk about him, without almost showing by his manner that he himself despised the tricks which gave him individuality. Were Mr. Irving at present to abate his peculiarities, his fervent worshippers would complain that their idol was sinking into mere common-place. Therefore, as I sincerely hope that, for his sake, the idolaters will continue to bow down before him and fill his treasury, I trust that he will never change.” There is a cynical flavour in this, and it is not very flattering to the audience, but underlying it there is some truth.

[31] A rapturous article from a Liverpool critic, Mr. Russell, had appeared in Macmillan’s Magazine, which was, indeed, somewhat indiscriminating in its praises of the Lyceum ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

[32] Mr. Forbes Robertson, who is painter as well as actor, depicted this striking scene on canvas, giving portraits of the performers. It has been engraved (or rather “processed”) with very happy result.

[33] It was an unusual tribute to the interest excited in every direction by the actor’s personality, that in the December of this year the lady students at University College should have chosen him for the subject of a formal debate, under the presidency of the clever Miss Fawcett. The thesis set down was, “That Henry Irving has, by his dramatic genius, earned his place as foremost among living actors,” and the discussion was begun with much spirit and fluency by Miss Rees, who proceeded to give an analysis of his Hamlet and other characters, contending that his extraordinary success was a proof of his merit. The opposition was led by Mrs. Brooksbanks, who fairly and unsparingly attacked the actor for his mannerisms and various defects. After a reply from Miss Rees, the original motion was put to the ladies, and was carried by a slender majority. The actor must have read these proceedings, which were flattering enough, with much enjoyment.

[34] An idea of what a “tremendous” business this was may be gathered from a single detail. A well-known experienced wigmaker from Covent Garden, with two assistants, was engaged to look after the coiffures of the company, and these “artists in hair” had under their charge a collection of wigs, entirely new, no fewer than eleven hundred in number. On a later visit there were fifteen hundred wigs!

[35] Where it now hangs over the chimneypiece in the Guests’ Room. It is not so successful as many others of Millais’ works; it is rather sketchily painted, and lacks force and expression. The late Mr. Long painted the actor as Hamlet and Richard III. These are not very striking performances, but they are refined and interesting portraits. Mr. Whistler produced an extraordinary one of him as Philip II., strangely “shadowy” but powerful, and of preternatural length. A number of artists of less pretension have also essayed to limn the actor; but all have failed to sketch the mobile, delicate expression of the lips. Boldly daring, I myself have fashioned a bust of him in terra-cotta.

[36] It is said that the origin of the acquaintance between Irving and this statesman was an accidental encounter in the street, when the latter, with a sympathetic impulsiveness, stopped Irving and introduced himself. He has since been an assiduous frequenter of the Lyceum, and in his eighty-third year was seen in the stalls or behind the scenes, following the course of ‘Henry VIII.’ with unabated interest.

[37] These newspapers were sent to me without interruption through the whole tour by Irving’s direction.

[38] A description of a “first-night” at the Clement Street Opera House is worth quoting here:

“Ladies took their place in line and waited for hours to get tickets for the opening performance. The face of the tall and genial Bram Stoker, Mr. Irving’s agent, wore a broad smile as, standing in the vestibule, he noticed the swelling crowd passing between the continually swinging doors. The array of regular first-nighters was up to the notch, and all the familiar faces, not only those most looked for with the lorgnettes, but those that vanish between the acts, were there. Tall Tom Donaldson, one of Blaine’s lieutenants, whose wife and daughter were in one of the boxes, was leaning against the wall talking to Judge William Haydon, formerly of Nevada, one of the oldest theatre-goers in the United States, who saw Edmund Kean play Hamlet, and thinks Irving the best actor he has seen since. Joseph F. Tobias, ruddy, genial, and Chesterfieldian as ever, was shaking hands at every turn, and L. Clark Davis, in immaculate evening dress and pearl studs, but with the inevitable Bohemian hat, was the centre of a chatty group. Charles E. Cramp and Horace Warding were talking to Dr. Thomas H. Andrews, who has the largest theatrical practice of any physician in Philadelphia, and has been called to attend half the stars who have appeared here in recent years. Almost every well-known first-nighter was on hand, and the invariable sentiment was that this was the big event of the present year. There were many well-known people who are not often seen at the theatre, notably Daniel M. Fox, Director of the Mint, who sat in the centre aisle, near the stage, with a party of friends, and appeared to enjoy the performance very much. Just back of him was a large party from Bethlehem, Pa. John R. Jones, the Bible publisher, had with him Miss Jones, in a stunning gray imported costume, one of the most artistic in the theatre. Robert W. Downing had quite a party. There were several large theatrical parties. The most noticeable was the one given by Miss K. N. Green, which included many attractive ladies. Ex-Attorney-General Brewster was the centre of quite a large party in the orchestra, including several ladies. A very beautiful bevy was the party given by Miss Hattie Fox, daughter of George S. Fox, which numbered thirty-five. They all had seats in the orchestra circle. Some of the most fashionable people had to be content with seats upstairs, and there was one party of young ladies in the family circle who were in full dress and went direct in carriages, at the close of the performance, to the dancing-class.”

[39] When the piece was first given at the Court Theatre, there was a bit of realism that was almost too conscientious. The little family music was accompanied on a genuine old harpsichord, which, it was gravely announced in the bill, was actually dated 1768, about the period of the novel, and was of course, “kindly lent” by the owner.

[40] It is but fair to add that Mr. Conway was suffering from the approach of a serious illness, which declared itself shortly after.

[41] I recall a Sunday morning during this visit, when a message arrived from the manager asking me to join a festive party to Dorking, to which he had invited some members of the French comedy. At the Garrick Club, the favourite coach, “Old Times,” was waiting, and presently it was “Buzz!—here come the players.” A delightful drive it was, and a truly enjoyable day. There was Mounet Sully, the fervent stage lover—then, it was whispered, the prey of a hopeless attachment to the gifted “Sarah”—the spirituel Delaunay, still a jeune premier in spite of his years; with two or three others of the corps. Of the party were also my friend Mr. Walter Pollock, with his genial, well-cultured father, the late Sir Frederick; Campbell Clarke, French correspondent to the Daily Telegraph, and some other littérateurs. There was the drive down to the inviting little town, with a lunch at the old inn, some wanderings about its leafy lanes, and a return in the evening to the club, where the host gave a banquet, at which speeches in French and English were delivered. The interesting strangers took away with them the lasting impression that he was “truly a sympathetic personage, with a great deal of French grace and bonhomie in his nature.”

[42] This also seemed rather unintelligible to the audience; but its secret was the secret of the creator or originator of the part. Such devices are really significant of something dramatic that has actually prompted them; they become an expression. The revived “business,” therefore, will not serve unless the original spirit attends it. This squeaking snuff-box was a note of diablerie, introduced with strange sudden spasms at unexpected moments, and corresponded to the twitches and spasms of Macaire’s mind. For the manager I collected much of old Lemaître’s business, with those curious chants with which the robber carried off his villainies. Jingle and Job Trotter were certainly modelled on Macaire and his man; for the piece was being played as Pickwick came out.

[43] We may at least admire this writer’s perseverance and intrepidity, who from that time has never relaxed his efforts to win the approbation or secure the attention of the public. One could have wished him better success with his later venture and most ambitious attempt, the management of the Avenue Theatre, where he introduced his own piece illustrative of “modern English Life,” with which his critics—for whom, like the sapper, nothing is sacred—made merry. He is not likely to be daunted by this, and I have little doubt he will “arrive” at last.

[44] The quaint name of this club, “the Kerneuzers,” was suggested by a simple attendant, who actually so described the members; it was his pronunciation of the word “connoisseurs.”

[45] Once, when visiting Stratford-on-Avon with Toole, he saw a rustic sitting on a fence, whom they submitted to an interrogatory. “That’s Shakespeare’s house, isn’t it?” it was asked innocently. “Ees.” “Ever been there?” “Noä.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dunno.” “What did he do?” “Dunno.” “Did he not write?” “Oh yes, he did summat.” “What was it?” “Well, I think he writ Boible.” A pleasantry that both the players once contrived in Scotland, at the expense of an old waiter at a hotel, is of a higher order of merit than such hoaxes usually offer. At this country inn they had noted that the spoons, forks, etc., seemed to be of silver, and with some artfully designed emphasis they questioned the waiter about the property. As soon as he had gone out, they concealed all the plate, and, having rung the bell, jumped out of the window, which was close to the ground, and hid themselves in the shrubbery. The old man re-entered: they heard his cries of rage and astonishment at the robbery, and at the disappearance of the supposed thieves. He then rushed from the room to summon the household. The rest of the story is worth giving in Irving’s words, as reported by Mr. Hatton.

“We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind, relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. In a few minutes we heard evidently the entire household coming pell-mell to the dining-room. Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon us, suddenly paused en masse, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel, weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’

“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door.”

[46] Quite a number of relics of great actors have, as we have already shown, found their way to Irving’s custody; and there is always something pleasant for him to think of when he recalls the presentation. Thus on his visit to Oxford he had spoken of the last days of Edmund Kean, who had died in sore straits. A few days later he received a purse of faded green silk found in the pocket of the great actor just after his death, and found empty. It had been given by Charles Kean to John Forster, and by him to Robert Browning. Edmund and Charles Kean, Forster, Browning, and Irving form a remarkable pedigree. “How can I more worthily place it,” wrote Browning, “than in your hands, if they will do me the honour to take it, with all respect and regard?”

[47] One of these many “snappers-up of trifles” described the nightgown worn by Lady Macbeth in her sleep-walking scene, which was all of wool knitted into a pretty design. Mrs. Comyns Carr designed Miss Terry’s dresses, which certainly did not lack bold originality. There was the curious peacock blue and malachite green dress which contrasted with the locks of copper-coloured hair, from which the half American artist, Mr. Serjeant, formed a striking but not very pleasing portrait.

[48] It was likely that the majority of these persons were incapacitated by age from forming a judgment on this matter; but it was curious that I should have conversed with two persons at least who were capable of making the comparison. One was Mr. Fladgate of the Garrick Club, a most interesting man, well stored with anecdotes of Kemble, Kean, and others, who once, in the library of the club, gave me a vivid delineation of the good John’s methods in ‘The Stranger.’ The other was Mr. Charles Villiers, who is, at the moment I write, in about his ninetieth year. A most characteristic incident was a letter from the veteran Mrs. Keeley, with much generous criticism of Miss Terry’s performance, thus showing none of the old narrow spirit which can only “praise bygone days.” She frankly added that until visiting the Lyceum she had never witnessed a performance of the play from one end to the other, though she had seen many a great performer in it, and had herself performed in it. This recalls Mrs. Pritchard, one of the great Lady Macbeths, who, as Dr. Johnson said, had never seen the fifth act, as it did not fall within her part.

[49] Charles Reade’s strange, odd appreciation of this gifted, mercurial woman is worth preserving:

“Ellen Terry is an enigma. Her eyes are pale, her nose rather long, her mouth nothing particular, complexion a delicate brick-dust, her hair rather like tow. Yet, somehow, she is beautiful. Her expression kills any pretty face you see beside her. Her figure is lean and bony, her hand masculine in size and form. Yet she is a pattern of fawn-like grace. Whether in movement or repose, grace pervades the hussy. In character impulsive, intelligent, weak, hysterical—in short, all that is abominable and charming in woman. Ellen Terry is a very charming actress. I see through and through her. Yet she pleases me all the same. Little Duck!”

This suggests the old rhyme:

“Thou hast so many pleasing, teazing ways about thee,

There’s no living with thee or without thee.”

[50] It was interesting to note, at a St. James’s Hall performance, June 25, the pleasant, eager vivacity of the actress, who, familiar as she was with the play, seemed to be repeating with her lips all the portions in which she was not concerned. In the more dramatic portions, it was plain she was eager to be on the scene once more. As she sat she anxiously waited for the orchestra to come in at their proper places, sometimes giving them the signal. This very natural behaviour interested everyone.

[51] Another play was written for him on the subject of ‘Mahomet,’ which he was inclined to bring out; but here again authority interposed, and “invited him,” as the French so politely have it, to abandon his purpose. It was at the end of the summer season of 1879 that our manager, after naming these pieces, spoke of others which he had in reserve, either revivals or wholly new ones. It is interesting to think that he had thought of the stormy and pathetic ‘Gamester,’ which has ever an absorbing attraction; ‘The Stranger’ also was spoken of; but their treatment would have offered too many points of similarity to Eugene Aram and other characters of “inspissated gloom.” On this occasion, when speaking of “the romantic and pathetic story” of Emmett, he announced a drama on the subject of Rienzi, which his friend Wills had prepared for him, but which has never yet seen the light. Years have rolled by swiftly since that night, and the author has often been heard to bewail the delays and impediments which hindered the production of what he no doubt considered his finest performance. Another great drama long promised and long due is ‘Coriolanus,’ for which Mr. Alma Tadema has designed scenery.

[52] An American lady, a Californian artist, was the first to enter the pit for the opening performance of ‘Henry VIII.’ at the Lyceum. “I and a friend went with our camp-stools and took our places next the door at ten o’clock in the morning. We were provided with a volume of Harper’s Magazine, a sketch-book, writing-paper, and a fountain-pen, caricatures of Henry Irving, and much patience. A newspaper spread under the feet and a Japanese muff warmer, with sandwiches and a bottle of wine, kept us comfortable. Two ladies were the next comers, and shortly a crowd began to collect. Real amusing it was, but not very elegant. After about two hours Mr. Bram Stoker came and had a look at us, and cheered our hearts by telling us that tea would be served from the neighbouring saloon (public-house). At last, at seven o’clock, we were rewarded for our patience by getting seats in the front row. The play was superb, and the audience—well, everyone looked as if he had done something.”

[53] As an instance of the manager’s happy touch in a trifling matter, we might name the State trumpets constantly “blaring” and sounding as the King approached, which offered nothing of the usual “super” arrangement. The men seemed to tramp along the street as though conscious of their own dignity, warning those whom it might concern to make way for their high and puissant lord.

[54] It was publicly stated that the “mounting” of this play had cost £15,000, and that the weekly expenses were some £800. The manager wrote to contradict this, as being altogether beyond the truth; though, he added, with a sigh, as it were, that he heartily wished the second statement were true, and that the expenses could be put at so low a figure.

[55] According to one writer, “an emissary was sent to Rome to acquire a Cardinal’s robe. After some time a friend managed to secure one of the very period, whereupon an exact copy, ‘both of colour and texture,’ was made. A price has to be paid for scenic splendours in the shape of the delays that they necessarily occasion. Thanks to the ingenuity of stage-carpenters and machinists, these delays at the Lyceum are reduced to a minimum time. ‘Henry VIII.’ being not one of the longest of the plays—though it is one-third longer than ‘Macbeth’—the text at the Lyceum has been treated with comparative leniency. ‘Hamlet,’ on the other hand, which comprises nearly four thousand lines, cannot on the modern system of sumptuous mounting possibly be given in anything approaching its entirety.” As a fact, very nearly one-half the play disappears from the modern acting copies. My friend Mr. W. Pollock, in a paper in the National Review, has justly urged in this connection that half a ‘Hamlet’ is better than no ‘Hamlet’ at all.

[56] To illustrate his most recent productions, the manager is accustomed to issue what is called “a souvenir,” an artistic series of pictures of the scenes, groupings, etc. It may be added, as a proof of the pictorial interest of the Lyceum productions, that in little more than a week after the first performance of ‘Becket’ no fewer than five-and-twenty illustrations, some of great pretension, had appeared in the papers. On the first night of ‘Lear’ a marchioness of artistic tastes was seen making sketches, which were published in an evening paper.

[57] One touch, which might escape the superficial, showed the fine, delicate sense of the manager. The scene where Kent is exhibited in the stocks has always suggested something grotesque and prosaic. It was here so dignified in its treatment as to become almost pathetic. I may add here that the deepest strokes of Shakespeare, not being on the surface, are apt to escape us altogether, save when some inspired critic lays his finger on them. The faithful Kent at the close is brought to his master’s notice, who does not recognise him. Here Lamb points out how noble is Kent’s self-sacrifice in not bringing himself to the King’s recollection.

[58] On March 18, 1893, Irving and his whole company were bidden to Windsor Castle to play ‘Becket’ before her Majesty. A theatre was fitted up in the Waterloo Chamber; special scenery was painted; the Lyceum was closed; and the company, 170 strong, was transported to Windsor and brought back on the same night. The performance was given with much effect and to the enjoyment of the Queen. Some three or four years before, a no less interesting entertainment was arranged at Sandringham by the Prince of Wales, who was anxious that her Majesty should see the two favourite performers in their most effective pieces—‘The Bells’ and the “Trial scene” in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ The outlay of time, trouble, and skilful management to provide for all the arrangements within a short space of time can scarcely be imagined. The pecuniary cost, owing to the closing of the theatre, transport, etc., was serious.

[59] An Irving “Bibliography” would fill many columns, and would include a vast quantity of controversial writing—attacks, defences, and discussions. Besides his official discourses, he has written many agreeable papers in the leading “monthlies.” I have already spoken of the “skits” and personalities which followed his early successes, and which he encountered with excellent temper and a patient shrug. These have long since been forgotten. At attempts at “taking him off,” though a favourite pastime, he could afford to smile; though when it was carried beyond legitimate bounds, as in the instance of the late Mr. Leslie, he interposed with quiet firmness, and put it down in the interests of the profession. An American burlesque actor, named Dixie, with execrable taste gave an imitation of him in his presence. More curious is the unconscious imitation of him which is gaining in the ranks of the profession, and which has had some droll results. Thus one Hudson—when playing the Tetrarch in ‘Claudian’ in the States—was so strangely like him in manner and speech, that it was assumed by the American audience that he was maliciously “taking him off.” His own company have caught up most of his “ways” and fashions—notably Haviland, and even Alexander. At the opening of ‘Vanderdecken,’ two at least of the performers were mistaken for him—from their walk—and had a “reception” accordingly.

[60] This “triple bill” is an unmeaning term, for a triple bill means, if anything, three bills in one, and not, as is supposed, a single bill in three parts.

[61] In this connection there is a characteristic story told of our actor. He was driving in a hansom one night to the Lyceum when the ‘Merchant of Venice’ was running. In a fit of absence of mind he tendered a shilling for his fare, whereas it should have been eighteenpence or two shillings. Whereupon the cabby, who had recognised his man, burst out: “If yer plays the Jew inside that theayter as well as yer does outside, darned if I won’t spend this bob on coming to see yer.” It is said he was so delighted with the retort that he promptly gave the man half-a-sovereign.

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