In January, 1882, our manager revived a piece in which he had achieved one of his earliest triumphs—‘The Two Roses.’ Miss Terry was at this time busily preparing for what was to be her great effort, in Juliet, and this interruption to her labours was judicious policy on the manager’s part. Much had occurred during the long interval of twelve years since the play had been first performed, but many still recalled with enjoyment Irving’s masterly creation. When he was casting the characters for the piece, he had counted on the original Caleb Decie—Thorne—who held the traditions of the play. Owing to some sudden change—I think to his entering on management—this arrangement had to be given up, and the manager was somewhat perplexed as to who he could find to fill the character. He happened to be in Glasgow at this time, when the local manager said to him, “There is a young fellow here who, I think, would exactly suit you; he is intelligent, hard working, and anxious to get on. His name is Alexander.” Irving accepted the advice, and secured an actor who was of his own school, of well-defined instincts and a certain elegance, and exactly suited to be jeune premier of the Lyceum. It may be conceived with what delight, as he himself has told me, this unexpected opening was received by the then obscure youth; and at a pleasant supper the new engagement was ratified. At this moment the young Glasgow candidate is the prosperous manager of the St. James’s Theatre, a position which a dozen years of conscientious work has placed him in. Far more rough and thorny was the path along which Irving had to toil, during a score of years, before he found himself at the head of a theatre. But in these fin de siècle times, the days and hours have doubled their value.
The piece was well mounted and well played, and there was much interest felt in comparing the new cast with the old. In a pleasant, half-sad meditation, my friend Mr. Clement Scott called up some of the old memories; the tyrant Death, he said, had played sad havoc with the original companies that did so much for this English comedy. “Far away, leagues from home, across the Atlantic sleep both Harry Montague and Amy Fawcitt. We may associate them still with Jack Wyatt and Lottie—who seemed the very boy and girl lovers that such a theme required—so bright and manly and noble, so tender, young, and handsome.” David James, as I have said, had taken the place of the oleaginous Honey, and for those who had not seen the latter, was an admirable representative of the part. The “Roses” were Miss Helen Mathews and Miss Emery.
The manager, in his old part, received universal praise from the entire circle of critics. Some considered it his most perfect creation, and likened it to Got’s ‘Duc Job’ and Regnier’s ‘Annibal.’ It was certainly a most finished and original performance; but it must be confessed that the larger stage and larger house had its effect, and tempted the actor into laying greater emphasis on details of the character. An actor cannot stand still, as it were. Repetition for a hundred nights is one of the vices of the modern stage, and leads to artificiality. Under the old répertoire system, when a piece was given for a few nights, then suspended to be resumed after an interval, the actor came to his part with a certain freshness and feeling of novelty.
At the same time, it should be said that the play itself was accountable for this loss of effect. It was of but an ephemeral sort, and belonged to an old school which had passed away. Other players besides Irving, conscious of this weakness, have felt themselves constrained to supplement it by these broad touchings. The average “play of commerce” is but the inspiration of the moment, and engendered by it—authors, manager, actors, audience all join, as it were, in the composition. Every portion, therefore, reflects the tone of the time. But after a number of years this tone becomes lost or forgotten; the fashions of feeling and emotion, both off as well as on the stage, also pass away.
When closing his season and making the important announcement of the selection of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for the new one, the manager, as we have seen, had promised some alterations and improvements in the theatre. These were duly carried out, and not only added to the comfort of the audience, but also to the profits of the management. The corridor at the back of the dress-circle was taken in and supplied some sixty or seventy new seats; while below, on the pit floor, place was found for some two hundred additional persons, by including the saloon. Further, the arch of the gallery which impeded the view was raised, padded seats were furnished for the pit, and the manager was willing even to supply “backs,” an unusual luxury, to the seats in the gallery; but the Chamberlain interposed, on the ground that in any panic or hurrying down the steep ascent, these might be found an obstruction. Other alterations were made in the exits and entrances—though these were merely in the nature of makeshifts. But the manager was not content until, many years later, he had purchased the adjoining house and thoroughly remodelled the whole.[29]
The manager, in the interval, took his company on a provincial tour to the leading towns. At Glasgow it was announced to be “the greatest engagement ever witnessed in that city.” As he told his audience on the last night, the receipts for the twelve nights amounted to over £4,000—an average of £334 per night. But the extraordinary “drawing” power of our actor was never exhibited more signally than during the engagement at Edinburgh, at Mr. Howard’s Theatre, which produced results that were really unprecedented. On his last appearance Irving told the audience that “this engagement—and you must not take it for egotism—has been the most remarkable one played for any twelve nights in any theatre, I should think, in Great Britain, certainly out of London, and there are some large theatres in London. I may tell you that there has been taken during the engagement here £4,300, which is certainly the largest sum ever had before in any theatre during the space of time, and I believe it is perfectly unprecedented in any city.” This was a tribute to his attraction. On his departure a gold repeater watch was presented to him.
CHAPTER X.
1882.
‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET.
By March 8, 1882, the great revival of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was ready. For this performance the manager drew upon all the resources of his taste, purse, study, and experience. The fascinating play, indeed, offered opportunities for adornment only too tempting. Those glittering, bewitching pictures still linger in the memory of the playgoer, though more than ten years have elapsed since the opening night “Among the restorations will be found that of Romeo’s unrequited love for Rosaline, omitted, among other things, in Garrick’s version.”
Those who came away from the Lyceum on that opening night must have had a sense almost of bewilderment, so rich and dazzling were the scenes of light and colour that had for hours passed before their eyes. According to the true illusive principle in use on this stage, the lights are lowered as every scene is about to change, by which a sense of mystery is produced, and the prosaic mechanism of the movement is shrouded. Hence, a sort of richness of effect and surprise as the gloom passes away and a gorgeous scene steeped in effulgence and colour is revealed. It would take long to detail the beautiful views, streets, palaces, chambers, dresses, groupings, that were set before the audience, all devised with an extraordinary originality and fertility of resource; though this was the third of these Italian revivals. When it is considered that there were twenty-two scenes, and that most of these were “sets,” it is amazing with what rapidity and smoothness the changes were contrived. Not the least pleasurable part of the whole was the romantic music, written in a flowing, tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of a juvenile freedom and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the grace and character of Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde.’ In the exquisite garden, with its depth of silvered trees glistening in the moonlight, viewed from a terrace, the arrangement of the balcony was the only successful solution seen as yet. It has always been forgotten that Juliet has to act—is, as it were, “on the stage”—and should not be perched in a little wobbling cage. Here it was made a sort of solid loggia, as much a part of the stage as that upon which her lover was standing. I fancy this was the scenic triumph of the night.
When it is considered that Romeo and Juliet are characters almost impossible to perform so as to reach the Shakespearian ideal, it becomes easier to “liberate one’s mind” on the subject of the performance of the two leading characters. The chief objection was that they scarcely presented the ideal of superabundant youth—boyish and girlish—required by the play. I have always thought this a point to be but little insisted upon; it is much the same as with strictness of costume, which is overpowered, as it were, by the acting. It is the acting of youth, not the appearance of youth, that is required; and a case is conceivable where all the flush of youth with its physical accompaniments may be present in perfection, and yet from failure of the acting the idea of maturity and age may be conveyed.[30] In the dramatic ballroom scene, when he was moving about arrayed as a pilgrim, the unbecoming dress and rather too swarthy features seemed to convey the presentment of a person in the prime of life. The critics spoke freely in this sense.