Some thirty years before, in the old Adelphi days, when “Ben” Webster was ruling, a drama was produced, the work of a hard-working, drudging dramatist, Watts Phillips. It was a pure melodrama, and people had not yet lost their faith in the old devices. There was an honest belief that villainy would be punished ere the end came. By the laws of such pieces, the most painful situations were always contrasted with scenes of broadest farce, which were supposed to relieve the excited feelings. I well recall these humours. On the revival, however, all this was softened away or abolished, and, I fancy, with some injury to the constitution of the old piece.
The production of ‘The Dead Heart’ furnished one more instance of the tact and abilities which have secured the manager of the Lyceum his high position. Here was a piece of an old-fashioned kind, which, had it been “revived” at an ordinary theatre, would have been found not only flat and stale, but unprofitable for all concerned. Our manager, seeing that it had dramatic life and situations, brought the whole into harmony with the times, and, by the skilful remaniement of Mr. Walter Pollock, imparted to it a romantic grace. It is admitted that he himself has rarely been fitted with a part so suited to his genius and capacities, or in which he has roused the sympathies of his audience more thoroughly. It is only the romantic actor that understands what might be called the key of a play.
In this picturesque part of Robert Landry were exhibited no fewer than four contrasted phases of character: the gay, hopeful young artist; the terribly metamorphosed prisoner of nearly twenty years; the recently delivered man, newly restored to the enjoyment of life; and, lastly, the grim revolutionary chief, full of his stem purpose of vengeance. This offered an opening for the display of versatile gifts, which were certainly brought out in the most striking contrast. But it was in the later scenes of the play, when he appears as the revolutionary chief, that our “manager-actor” exhibited all his resources. Nothing was more artistic than the sense of restraint and reserve here shown, which is founded on human nature. A person who has thus suffered, and with so stem a purpose in view, will be disdainful of speech, and oppressed, as it were, with his terrible design. Quiet, condensed purpose, without any “fiendish” emphasis, was never better suggested. Even when the drop-scene is raised, and he is revealed standing by his table, there is the same morose unrelenting air, with an impression that here was one who had just passed through the fire, and had been executing an act of vengeance which had left its mark.
In a drama like ‘The Dead Heart,’ music forms a fitting accompaniment furnishing colour and appropriate illustration. It is almost uninterrupted from beginning to end. M. Jacobi of the Alhambra furnished some effective, richly-coloured strains to ‘The Dead Heart,’ alternately gay and lugubrious. More, however, might have been made of the stirring ‘Marseillaise,’ which could have been treated in various disguises and patterns as a sort of Leitmotiv, much as Litolf has done in his symphonic work on the same subject.
A Scotch play—an adaptation of ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’—was now prepared by Mr. Herman Merivale, a dramatist of much poetical feeling, but whose course was marked by piteous and disastrous incidents. Buoyed up by the encouragement and admiration of his friends, and of kindly critics who found merit in all he did, he struggled on in spite of miserable health and a too highly-strung nervous temperament. His work showed refinement and elegance, but it was more for the reader than the playgoer. A gleam of prosperity, however, came when Mr. Toole began to figure in the writers grotesque pieces, ‘The Don,’ and others—to which, indeed, the author’s wife had contributed some share.
The new piece, which was called ‘Ravenswood,’ had lain long in the manager’s cabinet, where at this moment repose a number of other MSS., “commanded” and already purchased, from the pens of Wills, Frank Marshall, and others. The latter had fashioned Robert Emmett into a picturesque figure, the figure and bearing of the manager having no doubt much that suggested the Irish patriot; but the troubled period of Land Leagues and agrarian violence set in at the time of its acceptance with an awkward à propos.[51]
There is a character, indeed, in which, as the tradition runs, he formerly made almost as deep an impression as in ‘The Bells.’ This was Bill Sikes, and we can conceive what a savagery he would have imparted to it. It would seem to be exactly suited to his powers and to his special style; though of course here there would be a suggestion of Dubosc. With Miss Terry as Nancy here would be opened a realm of squalid melodrama, and “Raquin-like” horrors.
There are other effective pieces which seem to invite the performance of this accomplished pair. Such, for instance, is the pathetic, heartrending ‘Venice Preserved.’ Though there might be a temptation here for the scenic artist—since Venice, and its costumes, etc, would stifle the simple pathos of the drama. ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ has been often suggested and often thought of, but it has been effectively done at this theatre by another company. ‘The Jealous Wife’—Mr. and Mrs. Oakley—would also suit well. There is ‘The Winter’s Tale,’ and finally ‘Three Weeks after Marriage’—one of the most diverting pieces of farcical comedy that can be conceived.
‘Ravenswood’ was produced on September 20, 1890. While its scenes were being unfolded before us one could not but feel the general weakness of the literary structure, which was unequal to the rich and costly setting; neither did it correspond to the broad and limpid texture of the original story. It was unfortunately cast, as I venture to think. Mackintosh, who performed Caleb, was somewhat artificial; while Ashton père and his lady, rendered by Bishop and Miss Le Thière, could hardly be taken au sérieux. Irving infused a deep and gloomy pathos into his part, and Miss Terry was, as ever, interesting, touching, and charming. But the characters, as was the story, were little more than thinly outlined. The scenes, however, unfolded themselves with fine spectacular effect; nothing could be more impressive than the scene of the first act—a mountain gorge where Ravenswood has come for the entombment of his father, and is interrupted by the arrival of his enemy, Ashton. Beside it the Merivale version appeared bald enough. The weird-like last scene, the “Kelpie Sands,” with the cloak lying on the place of disappearance, the retainer gazing in despair, was one of Irving’s finely poetical conceptions, but it was more spectacular than dramatic. The truth is, where there is so fine a theatre, and where all arts are supplied to set off a piece in sumptuous style, these elements require substantial stuff to support them, otherwise the effect becomes trivial in exact proportion to the adornment.
Irving has been often challenged for not drawing on the talent of native dramatists, and for not bringing forward “new and original” pieces. The truth is, at this moment we may look round and seek in vain for a writer capable of supplying a piece large and forcible enough in plot and character to suit the Lyceum. We have Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones, but they are writers of comedies and problem-dramas. Wills, in spite of his faults, had genuine faith in the old methods. He was of the school of Westland Marston. In this dearth of talent, it might be well for Irving to give a commission to a French dramatist to work on whatever subject he fancied, and have the piece adapted.