The scene was of the market-place of Verona with side streets and at back a narrow stone bridge over a walled-in stream. The “Several Persons,” mostly apprentices of the Capulet faction, entered, at first slowly, but coming quicker and quicker till quite a mass had gathered on the hither side of the bridge. The strangers were being easily worsted. Then over the bridge came a rush of the Montagues armed like their foes with sticks or swords according to their degree. They used to pour in on the scene down the slope of the bridge like a released torrent, and for a few minutes such a scene of fighting was enacted as I have never elsewhere seen on the stage. The result of the mighty fight was that during the whole time of the run of the play there was never a day when there was not at least one of the young men in hospital. We tried to make them keep to the business set down for them, for on the stage even a fight between supers is so carefully arranged that no harm can come if they keep to their instructions. But one side or the other would grow so ardent that a mighty trouble of some kind had to be counted upon.
When I look back upon other presentations of Romeo and Juliet I can see the exceeding value of all the picturesque realism of Irving’s production. I have in my mind’s eye two others in London, one of which I saw and the other of which I heard, for we were then in America, where tragedy was lost in the mirth of the audience.
The former was held in the old Gaiety Theatre, then under the management of the late John Hollingshead. It was at a matinée given by a lady who was ambitious of beginning her theatrical career as Juliet. Of course on such an occasion one has to be contented with the local scenery; either such as is used in the running play or can be easily taken from and to the storage. The play went fairly well until the third act; William Terriss was the Romeo, and his performance, if not subtle, was full of life and go. But when the scene went up on Juliet’s chamber there was a sudden and wild burst of laughter from every part of the house. The stage management had used a picturesque scene without any idea of suitability. Juliet’s bed was set right in the open, on a wide marble terrace with steps leading to the garden!
The other occasion was when the property master, with a better idea of customary utility than of picturesque accuracy, had set out for Juliet’s bed one of double width—a matrimonial couch with two pillows!
II
Much Ado About Nothing followed close after Romeo and Juliet, the theatre being closed for three nights to allow of full-dress rehearsals. It began on October 11, 1882, and had an unbroken run of two hundred and twelve nights, being only taken off because the other plays of the répertoire for the coming American tour had to be made ready and rehearsed by playing them. This was not only the longest run the play had ever had, but probably the only real run it had ever had at all. It was always one of those plays known as “ventilators” which are put up occasionally with hope on the part of the management that they may do something this time, and a moral conviction that they can’t in any case do worse than the plays that have already been tried. But Irving had faith in it, and in his own mind saw a way of doing it which would help it immensely. It was beautifully produced and carefully rehearsed. The first act was all brightness and beauty. The cathedral was such as was never before seen on the stage. Even the cathedral servants were new, their brown dresses giving picturesque sombre richness to the scene. Irving had seen such dresses in the cathedral of Seville or Burgos—I forget which—and had noted and remembered. Ellen Terry was born for the part of Beatrice. It was almost as though Shakespeare had a premonition of her coming.
Don Pedro. “Out of question, you were born in a merry hour.”
Beatrice. “No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.”
Surely such a buoyant, winsome, merry, enchanting personality was never seen on the stage—or off it. She was literally compact of merriment, until when her anger with Claudio blazed forth in a brief tragic moment, half passion and whole pathos, that carried everything before it. And as for tragic strength, none who have ever seen or may ever see it can forget her futile helpless anger—the surging, choking passion in her voice, as striding to and fro with long paces, her whirling words won Benedick to her as in answer to his query “Is Claudio thine enemy,” she broke out:
“Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?—O, that I were a man!—what? bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour—O God, that I were a man! I’d—I’d—I’d eat his heart in the market-place!”