A most delightful sense of pure natural comedy was induced by the likeness between the Terrys, brother and sister, who had a sort of Shakespearian elegance in their bearing. But this did not avail much with the uncultured crowd. It was objected also that the play was set forth somewhat pedantically and too much au grand sérieux, many of the actors, not being comedians—witness Mr. Terriss—imparting a literal tone to all they said and did. This was not without its effect on the audience, who by the very promise of seriousness were beguiled into expecting something serious. Irving himself was not wholly free from this method; and in the strange scene of the imprisonment, so difficult to “carry off,” he was deeply tragic, as if really suffering, and without any underlying grotesqueness. His exit, too, with solemn menaces, had the air of retributive punishment in store.
Now followed a second expedition to the States, as well as to Canada, the details of which I pass over. On the reopening of his theatre on his return a rather disagreeable episode occurred, connected with an alteration he had made in the arrangement of his house. It was announced that places in the pit might be reserved and secured in advance, which gave rise to indignant protest and to cries of “Give us back our Pit.” The question was warmly discussed in the newspapers.
The advantage of the debate was that it clearly established a true theatrical principle—viz., that the pit and galleries are intended for the crowd, and should be free and open to the “man in the street”: that the best seats here must be the prize of the strongest and most patient. The principle of numbering and booking, it was shown, would actually abolish the pit. The judicious manager understood and recognised the public discontent, and made announcement that on May 18 he would restore the old custom.
In accordance with his engagement, the manager now proceeded to get ready Wills’s pleasing and sympathetic drama, ‘Olivia.’ This was no doubt selected with a view to furnishing a fresh opportunity for the display of Miss Terry’s attractions; but it will be seen that she was not to be altogether the cynosure of the whole, and that two other accomplished performers were to share the honours of the piece. It was produced on May 27, 1885, and excited much interest. The creation of Dr. Primrose is one of the most interesting and most original of Irving’s characters. It is elaborated and finished to the very highest point, and yet there is no lack of simplicity or unaffected grace. The character suited him in every way, and seemed to hold completely in check all his little “mannerisms,” as they are called. There was a sort of Meissonnier delicacy in his touches, and scarcely any other of his characters is so filled in and rounded with unspoken acting—that is, by the play of facial expression, gesture, walk, etc. It is, indeed, a delightful performance, and always holds the audience, which attentively follows the Vicar’s successive emotions. These the actor allows unconsciously, as it were, to escape him, as he pursues his little domestic course unconscious of spectators. One reason for this complete success was, of course, that Irving, like so many others, had read, known, and felt this engaging character from his childhood, altogether outside dramatic conditions, though of course it is not every play that enjoys this advantage.
As we look back to the Lyceum, the eye rests with infinite pleasure on the engaging figure of the Vicar, with his powdered wig and rusted suit, and that amiable smile of simplicity which betokened what agreeable fancies were occupying his mind. There he was, the centre of a happy family, content with the happiness of his wife and children. No picture could have been prettier. With an exquisite feeling of propriety, the quaint, antique associations were developed, and no more pleasing scene could have been conceived, or one that lingers more in the memory, than the scene at night, when the family are singing at the spinet, Moses accompanying with his flute,[39] the Vicar in his chair, the cuckoo-clock in the corner. It was a fine instinct that directed these things.
It should be added that the piece had been somewhat altered from its first shape, and no doubt gained from the manager’s suggestions. One of the most astonishing things connected with it is the admirably firm and coherent construction, it being laid out in the most effective way. Its various characters are introduced with singular skill. The last act seemed, indeed, somewhat superfluous and too much drawn out; but the whole design was really admirable. Yet its adapter was admittedly deficient in the arts of construction, and most of his other pieces display singular and even ludicrous incoherencies. It might be that he had received assistance in this individual case, or had been so inspired by the subject as to triumph over his own defects.
Such tales as these—world-wide stories that belong to all countries and to all time—Shakespearian, in short—seem on repetition to have the air of novelty; at least, they always interest. The situations are dramatic, and the characters even more dramatic than the situations. Miss Terry’s Olivia is not only one of her best characters, but is a most touchingly graceful and varied performance. The gifted pair are indeed at their best here. In the excellently-contrived scene at the Dragon, Miss Terry’s transition of horror, astonishment, rage, shame, succeeding each other, were displayed with extraordinary force and variety. Some insisted that the part suffered from her restlessness, but, as it was happily said, “She is for ever flickering about the stage in a series of poses, or rather disturbance of pose, each in itself so charming that one can hardly account for the distrust she herself shows of it by instantly changing it for another.” The other characters were no less excellent in their way. Terriss, as the Squire, was admirably suited, his very defect—an excessively pronounced brusqueness—adding to the effect. I recollect it was said at the time in the theatre that there was only the one performer for Thornhill, and that one Terriss. He—and he only—must be secured. He never performed so well as in this character.
A year later there occurred what must have been one of the most gratifying incidents in the actor’s career, and one of the most pleasant to recall. The Oxford commencements, held on June 26, 1886, were more than usually brilliant. At that time, the late learned and popular Dr. Jowett was Vice-Chancellor, a man, as is well known, of the largest sympathies. Though a divine, he took a deep interest in Irving and his profession. On its being proposed to confer honorary degrees on certain distinguished guests, including Mr. John Bright, the Vice-Chancellor, it is said, suggested the name of the well-known actor. There was something, as I say, dramatic or characteristic in this proposal, coming as it did from so expressive a personality. The University, however, was not prepared to go so far as this, though the proposal was only negatived, it is said, by a narrow majority of two votes. The vigorous purpose of the Vice-Chancellor was not to be thus baffled, and by a brilliant coup he contrived that the very omission of the actor’s name—like the absence of one portrait from a series—should suggest that the chief performer had been “left” out, and thus supplied a fresh element in the brilliancy of his reception. He invited him to deliver a lecture on his art in the very precincts of the University, and under the patronage of its most distinguished professors and “Heads,” and it may be conceived that the figure of the popular player became the cynosure of attraction in the brilliant academic show.
“For when the well-grac’d actor quits the scene,
The eyes of men are idly bent on him that enters next.”