The manager has been always guided by the principle of alternating his greater attempts with others on a more moderate and less pretentious scale. With this view he brought out, on April 17, 1879, the ever-attractive ‘Lady of Lyons’—which would seem naturally suited to him and his companion. He was himself in sympathy with the piece, and prepared it on the most romantic and picturesque lines. It has been usually presented in a stagey, declamatory fashion, as affording opportunity to the two leading performers for exhibiting a robustious or elocutionary passion. It was determined to tone the whole down, as it were, and present it as an interesting love-story, treated with restraint. Nothing could be more pleasing than the series of scenes thus unfolded, set off by the not unpicturesque costumes of the revolutionary era. It is difficult to conceive now of a Pauline otherwise attired. It would seem that a play always presents itself to our manager’s eye as a series of poetical scenes which take shape before him, with all their scenery, dresses, and situations. As he muses over them they fall into their place—the figures move; a happy suitable background suggests itself, with new and striking arrangements; and thus the whole order and tone of the piece furnishes him with inspiration.
Indeed, it must be confessed that there are few plays we should be less inclined to part with than this hackneyed and well-worn drama. The “casual sight” of that familiar title on the red-brick corner wall in some country or manufacturing town, it may be weeks old—the old paper flapping flag-like—always touches a welcome note, and the names of characters have a romantic sound. In the story there is the charm of simple effects and primitive emotion; it is worked out without violence or straining, and all through the ordinary sympathies are firmly struck, and in the most touching way. Tinselly or superficial as many have pronounced the piece, there is depth in it. So artfully is it compounded that it is possible to play the two characters in half-a-dozen different ways; and clever actors have exerted themselves to gloss over the one weak spot in Melnotte’s character—the unworthy deception, which involves loss of respect. Pauline, however, is a most charming character, from the mixture of emotions; if played, that is, in a tender, impulsive way, and not made a vehicle for elocutionary display. The gracious, engaging part of the heroine has been essayed by our most graceful actresses, after being created by the once irresistible Miss Helen Faucit. For over fifty years this drama has held its ground, and is always being performed. The young beginner, just stepping on the boards, turns fondly to the effective “gardener’s son,” and is all but certain that he could deliver the passage ending, “Dost like the picture?”—a burst often smiled at, but never failing to tell. Every one of the characters is good and actable, and, though we may have seen it fifty times, as most playgoers have, there is always a reserve of novelty and attraction left which is certain to interest.
On this occasion, the old, well-worn drama was so picturesquely set forth, that it seemed to offer a new pastoral charm. In Irving’s Claude there was a sincerity and earnestness which went far to neutralize these highly artificial, not to say “high-flown,” passages which have so often excited merriment. Miss Terry, as may be conceived, was perfectly suited in her character—the ever-charming Pauline; and displayed an abundance of spontaneousness, sympathy, and tenderness.
The public was at this time to learn with interest that the actor was to accompany Lady Burdett-Coutts on a voyage to the Mediterranean in her yacht The Walrus, and all was speculation as to the party and their movements. One of her guests was an agreeable young American named Bartlett, now better known as Mr. Burdett-Coutts, since become the husband of the lady. During this pleasant voyage The Walrus directed her course to Venice and various Italian cities—all new and welcome to our actor, who was at the same time taking stock of the manners, customs, dresses, etc., of the country, and acquiring, as it were, the general flavour and couleur locale. His scene-painter had also found his way there, and was filling his sketch-book with rich “bits of colour,” picturesque streets, and buildings. The manager was, in fact, pondering over a fresh Shakespearian venture—an Italian play, which was to be produced with the new season. He was, in fact, about to set on the stage ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ with every aid that money and taste could supply. The moment this selection was known, it was felt almost universally that it was exactly the piece that should have been chosen. Everyone anticipated by a sort of instinct what entertainment was in store for them: for here was the part and here was the actor. Notwithstanding the elaborate character of the preparations, the whole was “got up” in some four weeks, though this period did not comprise the long course of private study and meditation during which the scheme was gradually matured in his mind. When on his yachting expedition he had taken advantage of a hasty visit to Tangier to purchase Moorish costumes to be used in the Shakespearian spectacle he was preparing.
To fill up the interval he got ready Colman’s drama ‘The Iron Chest,’ produced on September 27, 1879. This powerful but lugubrious piece has always had an unaccountable attraction for tragedians. Sir Edward Mortimer belongs, indeed, to the family of Sir Giles Overreach. The character offered temptation to our actor from its long-sustained, mournful, and poetical soliloquies, in which the state of the remorseful soul was laid bare at protracted length; but, though modified and altered, the piece is hopelessly old-fashioned. It is impossible in our day to accept seriously a “band of robbers,” who moreover live in “the forest”; and the “proofs” of Sir Edward’s guilt, a knife and blood-stained cloth, carefully preserved in an old chest which is always in sight, have a burlesque air.
Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, ingenuus puer, and likewise bonæ indolis—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready.
CHAPTER VII.
1879.
‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.’
This great and attractive play was now ready: all was anticipation and eager interest The night of its production—November 1, 1879—was a festive one. The house was most brilliant: and indeed this may be accounted the first regular, official Lyceum première. I recall that among the audience were Tom Taylor and Henry Byron, names that now seem ghost-like, so rapidly do literary shadows depart. Like some rich Eastern dream, steeped in colours and crowded with exquisite figures of enchantment, the gorgeous vision of the pageant seems now to rise in the cold, sober daylight. As a view of Venetian life, manners, and scenery, it has never been matched. The figures seemed to have a grace that belonged not to the beings that pace, and declaim upon, the boards. Add the background, the rich exquisite dresses, the truly noble scenery—a revel of colour, yet mellowed—the elegant theatre itself crammed with an audience that even the Lyceum had not witnessed, and it may be conceived what a night it was. The scenery alone would take an essay to itself, and it is hard to say which of the three artists engaged most excelled. The noble colonnade of the ducal palace was grand and imposing; so was the lovely interior of Portia’s house at Belmont, with its splendid amber hangings and pearl-gray tones, its archings and spacious perspective. But the Court scene, with its ceiling painted in the Verrio style, its portraits of Doges, the crimson walls with gilt carvings, and the admirable arrangements of the throne, etc., surely for taste, contrivance, and effect has never been matched. The whole effect was produced by the painting, not by built-up structures. The dresses too—groupings, servants, and retainers—what sumptuousness! The pictures of Moroni and Titian had been studied for the dove-coloured cloaks and jerkins, the violet merchant’s gown of Antonio, the short hats—like those of our day—and the frills. The general tone was that of one of Paolo Veronese’s pictures—as gorgeous and dazzling as the mélange of dappled colour in the great Louvre picture.
Shylock was not the conventional Hebrew usurer with patriarchal beard and flowing robe, dirty and hook-nosed, but a picturesque and refined Italianized Jew, genteelly dressed: a dealer in money, in the country of Lorenzo de’ Medici, where there is an aristocracy of merchants. His eyes are dark and piercing, his face is sallow, his hair spare and turning gray; he wears a black cap, a brown gaberdine faced with black, and a short robe underneath.
The “Trial scene,” with its shifting passions, would have stamped Irving as a fine actor. See him as he enters, having laid aside his gaberdine and stick, and arrayed in his short-skirted gown, not with flowing but tightened sleeves, so that this spareness seems to lend a general gauntness to his appearance. There he stands, with eyes half furtively, half distrustfully following the Judge as he speaks. When called upon to answer the appeal made to him “from the bench,” how different from the expected conventional declaration of violent hatred! Instead, his explanation is given with an artful adroitness as if drawn from him. Thus, “If you deny it” is a reminder given with true and respectful dignity, not a threat; and when he further declares that it “is his humour,” there is a candour which might commend his case, though he cannot restrain a gloating look at his prey. But as he dwells on the point, and gives instances of other men’s loathing, this malignity seems to carry him away, and, complacent in the logic of his illustration of the “gaping pig” and “harmless necessary cat,” he bows low with a Voltairean smile, and asks, “Are you answered?” How significant, too, his tapping the bag of gold several times with his knife, in rejection of the double sum offered, meant as a calm business-like refusal; and the “I would have my bond!” emphasized with a meaning clutch. Then the conclusion, “Fie upon your law,” delivered with folded arms and a haughty dignity; indeed, a barrister might find profit here, and study the art of putting a case with adroitness and weight. But when Antonio arrives his eyes follow him with a certain uneasy distrust, and on Bellario’s letter being read out he listens with a quiet interest, plucking his beard a little nervously. As, however, he sees the tone the young lawyer takes, he puts on a most deferential and confidential manner, which colours his various compliments: “O wise young Judge,” “A Daniel,” etc., becoming almost wheedling. And when he pleads his oath—