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.