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.