The late Laureate, not contented with the popularity which his poems have won, always “hankered” after the entrancing publicity and excitement of the theatre. He made many an attempt in this direction, and his list of performed dramas is a fairly long one; few, however, have enjoyed any signal success, save perhaps the last, recently produced in the United States. To one indeed—witness the unlucky ‘Promise of May’—the regular “first-nighter,” as he is called, was indebted for an amusing and enjoyable evening’s entertainment. It must be conceded, however, that there is a dramatic tone or flavour about his pieces which is attractive, in spite of all deficiencies, and anyone who could not see a touching grace and elegance in such a piece as ‘The Falcon,’ weak as it is in treatment, must have little taste or feeling. So with ‘Queen Mary,’ which had a certain grim power, and, above all, local colour. His own striking success in the character of King Philip was an agreeable recollection for Irving; and he now lent himself with much enthusiasm to a project for bringing forward a new drama by the poet. The preparations for this elegant play were of the most lavish and unstinted kind. Nothing, literally, was spared in the outlay of either study, thought, money, or art. The manager usually follows an eclectic system, choosing his aides and assistants as they appear suited to each play. Thus an architect of literary tastes, Mr. Knowles, was called in to design a regular Temple-interior, which was the principal scene, and which was to be treated, secundum artem, in professional style. And so it rose with all its pillars and pediments “behind the scenes.”
“No ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.”
The name of the new piece was ‘The Cup,’ a fine “barbarian” story, strangely interesting and even fascinating. It was, of course, diffuse and expanded to inordinate length. And there were many pleasant stories afloat of the poet contending “for the dear life” for his “ewe lambs,” and every line of his poetry; the manager, in his pleasant, placid way—but firm withal—quietly insisting on the most abundant compression.
The night of performance was that of January 3, 1881, when the beautiful play-poem was at last set before the audience in all its attraction. It still lingers in the memory with an inexpressible charm, breathing poetry and romance. We shall ever look back fondly to ‘The Cup,’ with its exquisite setting, and lament heartily that others did not so cordially or enthusiastically appreciate it. There was something so fascinating about the play, something so refining, and also so “fantastical,” that though lacking the strong thews and muscles of a regular drama, it satisfied eye and ear. As it floated before us, in airy, evanescent fashion, it seemed to recall the lines that wind up the most charming of Shakespeare’s plays, when the revels now had ended, and all had “melted into air, into thin air.” The noble Temple, with its rich mouldings, was destined too soon, alas! to pass away into the same dark grave of so many noble creations. On the two chief characters, both full of tragic power, the eye rested with an almost entrancing interest. Never did Irving act better—that is, never did he convey by his look and tones the evidence of the barbaric conception within him. There was a fine, pagan, reckless savagery, yet controlled by dignity. Miss Terry’s Camma returns to the memory like the fragment of a dream. The delightful creation was brought before us more by her sympathetic bearing and motion than by speech; what music was there in those tones, pitched in low, melodious key, interpreting the music of Tennyson! Her face and outline of figure, refined and poetical as they were, became more refined still in association with the lovely scenery and its surroundings. She seemed to belong to the mythological past. There was a strange calm towards the close, and all through no undue theatrical emphasis or faulty tone of recitation to disturb that dreamy sense.
It was not a little disheartening to think that this “entire, perfect chrysolite” was received with a rather cold admiration, or at least not with the enthusiasm it richly merited. The apathetic crowd scarcely appreciated the too delicate fare set before it, we scarcely know why. I suppose that it had not sufficient robustness, as it is called. After some weeks the manager found it needful to supplement the attraction of the play by the revived ‘Corsican Brothers.’ It may be conceived what a strain[26] was here on the resources, not merely of the actors, but even of all who were concerned with the scenery and properties. Two important pieces had to be treated and manipulated within an incredibly short space of time.
CHAPTER IX.
1881.
‘OTHELLO’ AND ‘THE TWO ROSES’ REVIVED.
At this time there came to London an American actor whose reputation in his own country was very high, and for whom it was claimed that, as a legitimate performer, he was superior to all rivals. This was Mr. Edwin Booth. He was welcomed with cordiality and much curiosity, and by none was he received with such hearty goodwill as by the manager of the Lyceum. Unluckily, he had made his arrangements injudiciously, having agreed to appear under a management which was quite unsuited to the proper exhibition of his gifts. The Princess’s Theatre was a house devoted to melodrama of the commoner type, and was directed by commercial rather than by æsthetic principles. This mistake proved fatal. The manager, finding that there was no likelihood of success, was not inclined to waste his resources, and, no doubt to the anguish of the actor, brought out the pieces in a meagre fashion that was consistent with the traditions of Oxford Street, but fatal to the American’s chances.
In this disastrous state of things the manager of the Lyceum came to the rescue of his confrère with a suggestion as delicately conceived as it was generous. He offered him his theatre, with its splendid resources and traditions, his company, and—himself. He proposed that a Shakespearian play should be produced on the customary scale of magnificence, and that he and Booth should fill the leading characters. This handsome offer was, of course, accepted with gratitude, and ‘Othello’ was selected as the play.
The arrangements for this “Booth season,” as it might be termed, were of an unusual and certainly laborious kind. The manager, however, was never disposed to spare himself. The programme began on May 2, 1881, when Booth was to appear as Othello, performing on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the manager playing Iago. On the other nights of the week, ‘The Cup,’ with the lively ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ was to be performed. In the following week there was the same arrangement, except that Irving took the part of Othello.[27]