It was at the Christmas season of 1891 that the manager was enabled to carry out a plan that had for years been before him—a revival of ‘Henry VIII.’ We can quite conceive how, as the fashion always was with him, the play ripened as it were with meditation; how, as he walked or followed the consoling fumes of his cigar in his chamber at Grafton Street, each scene fell into shape or suggested some new and effective arrangement, which again might be discarded as difficulties arose, or as something happier occurred to him. The result of these meditations was unquestionably a “large” and splendid setting of the play, which, to my mind, whatever be the value of the opinion, is certainly one of the finest, most finished, most poetical, and sufficient of the many works that he has set before us.[52] There was a greater Shakespearian propriety, and the adornments, however lavish, might all be fairly justified. Most to be admired was the supreme elegance of touch found in every direction—acting, scenery, dresses, music, all reflected the one cultivated mind. The truth is, long practice and the due measuring of his own exertion have now supplied an ease and boldness in his effects. To appreciate this excellence we have only to turn to similar attempts made by others, whether managers, or manager-actors, or manager-authors—and we find only the conventional exertion of the scene-painter and stage-manager. They have not the same inspiration.
This play, produced on January 5, 1892, was received with great enthusiasm. It became “a common form” of criticism to repeat that it was of doubtful authorship; that it was nothing but a number of scenes strung together; that there was no story; that Buckingham vanished almost at the beginning of the play; and that towards the end, Wolsey vanished also. These, as I venture to say, are but ignorant objections; characters will always supply a dramatic story, or a dramatic interest that amounts to a story, and in the fate of Wolsey and of Katherine, gradually developed and worked out, we had surely a story sufficiently interesting.
I have little doubt that Irving kept steadily in view the object the great author had before him, viz., to present a page of history enriched by all the suitable accompaniments of dress and manners and customs. In this he was perfectly and triumphantly successful. We were taken into the great chambers, and tribunals; shown the ecclesiastical pomp and state, so difficult to conceive now; the processions passing through the streets, and presented in an exceedingly natural and unconventional fashion.[53] The drama was set forth fully, with every adjunct of dress, furniture, scenes, and numbers of auxiliaries.
The scenery, offering wonderful perspectives of Tudor halls and interiors, the arrangements of the courts and various meetings, were original and very striking. Yet here I should be inclined to suggest anew the objections often made to the modern system of large groupings compressed into the small area of a stage, which, as it seems, is opposed to the canons of scenic art.[54] These, too, seemed to acquire new force from the arrangement of the “Trial scene,” as it was called, which displayed a great hall with the daïs, seats for the Cardinal, the King, etc. The result of thus supplying a great area by the system of compression (I am speaking merely of the principle), is that the leading figures become dwindled in scale and overpowered by the surrounding crowd. The contrast with the older system is brought out by Harlow’s well-known picture, where only the leading figures are grouped, and where by consequence they stand out in greater relief. The spectator stands, as it were, close beside them; but by the modern arrangement he appears to be afar off, at the bottom of the hall, obtaining but a distant view of them.[55]
When we consider what are the traditions of the two great characters, how vivid they are, from the deep impressions left by the great brother and sister on their contemporaries—an impression which has really extended to our time—too much praise could hardly be given to the performance of Irving and his gifted companion. Irving’s Wolsey was exactly what those familiar with his other impersonations could anticipate—poetical, elegant, and in many portions powerful. He was the churchman to perfection, carrying his robes admirably; in the face there was a suggestion of the late departed Cardinal Manning. All through the piece there was that picturesque acting which fills the eye, not the ear, at the moment when speech is at rest. It is thus that are confuted those theorists, including Elia, who hold that Shakespeare is to be read, not acted.
It is perhaps the power of suggestion and of stirring our imagination that brings about this air of fulness and richness. Irving, when he was not speaking, acted the pomp and state and consummately depicted the smoothness of the Cardinal. When he was lost to view you felt the application of the oft-quoted line touching the absence of “the well-grac’d” actor from the scene, and it was wonderful to think, as we glanced round the brilliant salle—glittering with its vast crowd of well-dressed, even jewelled, women (“Quite an opera pit!” as Ellison would say)—to the fine stage before us, with its showy figures, pictures, and pageants, that all this was his work and of his creation!
There were many diverse criticisms on Irving’s conception of this famous character; some held that it was scarcely “large,” rude, or overbearing enough. His view, however, as carried out, seemed natural and consistent. The actor wished to exhibit the character as completely overwhelmed by adverse fortune; witness Macbeth, Othello, and many other characters. In the last great soliloquy it was urged there was a want of variety. Still, allowing for all traditional defects, it stands beyond contradiction that it was a “romantic” performance, marked by “distinction,” and a fine grace; and we might vainly look around for any performer of our time who could impart so poetical a cast to the character. And we may add a praise which I am specially qualified to give, viz., that he was the perfect ecclesiastic: as he sat witnessing the revels, now disturbed, now careless—there was the Churchman revealed; he was not, as was the case with so many others, a performer robed in clerical garb.
Of Miss Terry’s Queen Katharine, it can be said that it was an astonishing performance, and took even her admirers by surprise. She made the same almost gigantic effort as she did in ‘Macbeth’ to interpret a vast character, one that might have seemed beyond her strength, physical as well as mental. By sheer force of will and genius she contrived to triumph. It was not, of course, the great Queen Katharine of Mrs. Siddons, nor did she awe and command all about her; but such earnestness and reality and dramatic power did she impart to the character that she seemed to supply the absence of greater gifts. Her performance in the Court and other scenes of the persecuted, hunted woman, now irritated, now resigned, was truly pathetic and realistic. There may have been absent the overpowering, queen-like dignity, the state and heroism, but it was impossible to resist her—it was her “way,” and by this way she gained all hearts. It must be confessed that nothing ever supplied such an idea of the talents and “cleverness” of this truly brilliant woman as her victory over the tremendous difficulties of these parts. The performance won her the sympathies of all in an extraordinary degree.
So admirably had our manager been penetrated with the spirit of the scenes, that he was enabled to present them in a natural and convincing way, and seemed to revive the whole historic time and meaning of the situation. This was particularly shown in the scene when Buckingham is led to execution; his address to the crowd was delivered with so natural a fashion, with such judicious and pathetic effect, that it not only gained admiration for the performance, but brought the scene itself within range of every day life. For, instead of the old conventional declamatory speech to a stage crowd, we had some “words” which the sufferer, on entering the boat, stopped for a moment to address to sympathizers who met him on the way.
The music, the work of a young composer, Mr. Edward German, was truly romantic and expressive; stately and richly-coloured. How wonderful, by the way, is the progress made of late years in theatrical music! We have now a group of composers who expend their talents and elegancies in the adornment of the stage. The flowing melodies and stately marches of the Lyceum music still linger in the ear.