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.”