Anticipating a little, I may say here that the Lyceum company, though not affecting to contain any brilliant “stars,” has from the beginning exhibited a true homogeneousness in those sound conscientious actors who have always “discharged” their characters in an effective way, suited to the requirements of the piece. With a certain logical consistency, the manager has ever considered the requirements of his audience and the theatre. The attraction, it was understood, was to be the two leading performers, who were to stand, as it were, before a well-studied, well-composed background. The subsidiary characters, it was felt, should set off the leading characters. The introduction of Mrs. Stirling, an actress of the first rank, in such a part as the Nurse, however welcome as a performance, almost disturbed the dramatic harmony, and made an inferior part too prominent. This may seem hypercritical, but there can be no doubt as to its truth, and it shows what tact is necessary to secure an even performance. Those members of the corps who have been with him almost from the beginning, the manager has thoroughly leavened with his own methods and his own spirit, thus securing a general harmony. Such useful auxiliaries include Johnson (a low comedian of the older school), Tyers, Archer (another low comedian), Haviland (a most useful performer, who improves with every year), and Andrews. Another serviceable player was Wenman, who seemed in physique and method to be exactly suited to Burchell in ‘Olivia.’ During the past seasons, however, this worthy man has been removed from the company by death. On a stranger these players might produce little effect; but the habitués of the theatre have grown familiar with their ways and faces and figures, and would miss them much were they absent from a new play.
In addition to this permanent body, the manager is accustomed occasionally to call to his aid performers of mark, such as Terriss and Forbes Robertson, the former an admirable actor in special characters that are suited to his robustness, though his powers would gain by some refining. Forbes Robertson is a picturesque performer of many resources, who can supply colour and passion at need. He has a fair share of what is called “distinction”; indeed, we wonder that his position has not ere this become more fixed and certain. But this rests on a deeper question, and is connected with the conditions of the stage at this moment, when the only course open to the player is to become a “manager-actor,” and have his own theatre, otherwise he must wander from house to house. Arthur Stirling and Macklin—excellent, well-trained actors both—have been found at the Lyceum, as also Mr. Bishop. Of the ladies there are Miss Genevieve Ward, the excellent Mrs. Pauncefort (of the school of Mrs. Chippendale), Miss Coleridge, occasionally the vivacious Miss Kate Phillips, and Miss Emery, who takes Miss Terry’s place in case of indisposition or fatigue.
The new manager made some decorative alterations in the theatre which, considering the little time at his disposal, did credit to his taste and promptitude. The auditorium was treated in sage green and turquoise blue; the old, familiar “cameos” of Madame Vestris’s day, ivory tint, were still retained, while the hangings were of blue silk, trimmed with amber and gold, with white lace curtains. The ceiling was of pale blue and gold. The stalls were upholstered in blue, “a special blue” it was called; escaloped shells were used to shield the glare of the footlights. The dressing-rooms of the performers, the Royal box, and Lady Burdett-Coutts’ box were all handsomely decorated and re-arranged, the whole being directed by Mr. A. Darbyshire, a Manchester architect. This, however, was but the beginning of a long series of structural alterations, additions, and costly decorations, pursued over a term of a little over a dozen years.
On Monday, December 30, 1878, the theatre was opened with the revived ‘Hamlet.’ This was the first of those glittering nights—premières—which have since become a feature of a London season. From the brilliancy of the company—which usually includes all that is notable in the arts and professions—as well as from the rich dresses, jewels, and flowers, which suggest the old opera nights, the spectacle has become one of extraordinary interest, and invitations are eagerly sought. Here are seen the regular habitués, who from the first have been always invited: for the constancy of the manager to his old friends is well known.
The play was given with new scenery, dresses, music, etc. The aim was to cast over the whole a poetical and dreamy glamour, which was exhibited conspicuously in the treatment of the opening scenes when the Ghost appeared. There were the mysterious battlements seen at a distance, shadowy walls, and the cold blue of breaking day. There were fine halls, with arches and thick pillars of Norman pattern. Irving’s version of the part was in the main the same as before, but it was noted that he had moderated it, as it were; it became more thoughtful.
Of course, much interest and speculation was excited by the new actress, who exhibited all her charming grace and winsomeness, with a tender piteousness, when the occasion called. “Why,” she told an interviewer, “I am so high strung on a first night that if I realized there was an audience in front staring at me, I should fly off and be down at Winchester in two twos!” On this momentous night of trial she thought she had completely failed, and without waiting for the fifth act she flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, “I have failed, I have failed!” She drove up and down the Embankment half a dozen times before she found courage to go home.
This successful inauguration of his venture was to bear fruit in a long series of important pieces, each produced with all the advantages that unsparing labour, good taste, study, and expense could supply. Who could have dreamed, or did he dream on that night? that no fewer than nine of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a liberal education for audiences, were destined to be his contribution to “the public stock of harmless pleasure”? Every one of taste is under a serious obligation to him, having consciously or unconsciously learnt much from this accomplished man.
On this occasion, adopting a custom since always adhered to, the manager had his arrangement of the play printed, with an introduction by a good Shakespearian student, who was destined to be a well-known figure in the entourage of the Lyceum. Albeit a little tête montée, “Frank Marshall,” with his excited, bustling ways, and eccentric exterior, seems now to be missed. He was always bon enfant. He had written one very pleasing comedy, ‘False Shame,’ and was also rated as a high authority on all Shakespearian matters. He published an elaborate Study of Hamlet, and later induced Irving to join him in an ambitious edition of Shakespeare, which has recently been completed. He was also a passionate bibliomaniac, though not a very judicious one, lacking the necessary restraint and judgment. He had somewhat of a troubled course, like so many a London littérateur.
At this time the average theatrical criticism, from lack of suitable stimulant to excite it, was not nearly so discriminating as it is now, when there is a body of well-trained, capable men, who sign their names and carry out their duty with much independence. It is extraordinary what a change has taken place. At the opening of Irving’s management there was certainly a tendency to wholesale and lavish panegyric. Not unnaturally, too, for all were grateful to one who was making such exertion to restore the stage to elegance. Some of the ordinary newspapers, however, overwhelmed him with their rather tedious, indiscriminate praises; it seemed as though too much could not be said. There is no praise where everything is praised; nor is such very acceptable to its object. A really candid discussion on the interpretation of a character, with reasonable objections duly made, and argued out with respect, and suggestions put forward—this becomes of real profit to the performer. Thus in one single short criticism on a character of Garrick’s—he was once playing a gentleman disguised as a valet—Johnson has furnished not only Garrick, but all players too, with an invaluable principle which is the foundation of all acting: “No, sir; he does not let the gentleman break out through the footman.”
A new play at the Lyceum is rarely concluded without a speech being insisted upon. Irving himself has favoured this practice, but reluctantly, yielding only to the irresistible pressure of ardent and clamorous admirers. The system now obtains at every theatre where there is an “actor-manager.” But there can be no question but that it is an abuse, and a perilous one. It encourages a familiarity, and often insolence, which shakes authority. The manager, when he makes his speech, seems to invite the galleries down on to his stage, and it is to be noticed that the denizens of these places are growing bolder, and fancy, not unreasonably, that they are entitled to have their speech, as the manager has his.[23]