The party remained in the country until the May of the year following. The receipts exceeded every forecast, a quarter of a million dollars having been taken in the first four weeks. But the expenses were enormous. The substantial profit was found in Irving’s securing a new, vast, and prominent audience in the West; in his winning the suffrages of Americans abroad as well as of those at home, who became his most fervent adherents.
The following is an amusing scene. Irving had been invited to the Journalists’ Club, and after the close of the performance of ‘Louis XI.,’ the actor had come round to the club, where he partook of a supper tendered to him by a few members in a private room. He had been in the building three-quarters of an hour before he made known his presence by coming upstairs, escorted by several gentlemen. The guest of the evening then held an informal reception.
“After he had said something pleasant to almost everyone, he volunteered to do his share towards entertaining those present. It had been slightly hinted to him that something of the kind was looked for, and he entered into the spirit of the occasion. Then the great tragedian turned from the serious to the comic. He recited, in a way that provoked roars of laughter, the funny little poem, ‘Tommy’s First Love.’
“When this was over there was a unanimous shout, which lasted several minutes. It was a loud cry for more. Mr. Irving expressed his willingness to give another recitation, and called for a chair. After sitting down he observed that, as all were standing, those in the rear could see but indifferently. ‘Suppose we change the stage management,’ he suggested. ‘Can’t we all sit down?’ This was received with some merriment, as there were few chairs in the room. Someone, however, saw Mr. Irving’s idea that those in the front ranks should sit upon the floor, and in a moment the four foremost lines were kneeling upon the carpet.
“Mr. Irving then recited ‘Eugene Aram’s Dream.’ The splendid elocutionary talents of the actor kept the audience spellbound. Every emotion, every pang of the schoolmaster was vividly depicted by the expressive face of the tragedian. The scene was a remarkable one. Mr. Irving threw himself so earnestly into the character that at one time he tore the white necktie from his throat without realizing what he was doing, and, as his features were wrought up to show the usher’s agony, similar lines seemed to show themselves by sympathy in the faces of those present. At the close of the recitation the motionless figures, some standing, some sitting with crossed legs upon the floor, became moving, enthusiastic men. Those on their feet threw their arms into the air and cheered as if for dear life, while those on the floor bounded up simultaneously and expressed their enthusiasm. It was some time before the excitement subsided.
“I recited that once to a friend of mine,” said Mr. Irving, after quiet had been restored, “and what do you think he said? Why, he seriously exclaimed: ‘There is one point in that story that I’d like to know about. What became of the boy?’” This anecdote produced a chorus of laughter. After shaking hands all round, Mr. Irving went downstairs and out, accompanied by the club’s officers. Before he left the room, “Three cheers for Mr. Irving” were called for and given by throats already hoarse with applauding him.
A second American expedition followed in the September of the same year, during which a visit was paid to Canada.
CHAPTER XII.
1884.
‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS.
On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’ was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course, the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.” But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of the audience.
It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat too much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas, as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly, as it were, that he is only half in earnest.