About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane, then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery, wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.
Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear. The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it were, extorted by the actor’s merit.
The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]
A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may be added that he has a penchant for portraying characters of common life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct, amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’
With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself. The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual, and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc. Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil, innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would listen to the charges made against him.
A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March 9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen of the actor’s talents.
This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year, gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory, especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts; that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.
Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.” Another admirer had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not given.[16]
A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel” entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.
I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid, unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—