It was in January, 1892, when he was performing in ‘Henry VIII.,’ that a very alarming piece of news, much magnified by report, reached him. His son Laurence was playing at Belfast in the Benson Company, and had by some accident shot himself with a revolver; this casualty was exaggerated to an extraordinary degree,—three local doctors issued bulletins; “the lung had been pierced”—until the anxious father at last sent over an experienced surgeon, Mr. Lawson Tait, who was able to report that the wound was trivial, and the weapon a sort of “toy-pistol.” Much sympathy was excited by this casualty. The manager has two sons, Henry and Laurence, the latter named after Mr. Toole, who are now both following their father’s profession.

CHAPTER XV.
1892.
‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET.’

After presenting so many of Shakespeare’s great dramas, it was to be expected that the manager could not well pass by what has been justly styled the Titanic play of ‘King Lear.’ This had, indeed, always been in his thoughts; but he naturally shrank from the tremendous burden it entailed. It was prepared in his usual sumptuous style. There were sixteen changes of scene and twenty-two characters, and the music was furnished by Hamilton Clarke. The scenery was divided between Craven and Harker, the latter a very effective artist of the same school. There were some beautiful romantic effects: the halls, the heath, and notably the Dover scenes, were exquisite. I doubt if their presentation has been excelled by any preceding attempts. The barbaric tone and atmosphere of the piece was conveyed to perfection, without being insisted on or emphasized. It is only when we compare the ambitious attempts of other managers who would indulge in effects equally lavish and sumptuous, that we recognise the ability, ease, reserve, and force of the Lyceum manager.[56] They, too, will have their “archæology” and their built-up temples, designed by painters of repute, and crowds; but there is present only the sense of stage effect and the flavour of the supernumerary. The secret is the perfect subordination of such details to the general effect. They should be, like the figures on a tapestry, indistinct, but effective as a background. Charles Lamb’s well-worn dictum, that ‘Lear’ should never be acted, was trotted forth in every criticism. There is some truth in this exaggerated judgment, because it can never be adequately presented, and the performance must always fall short of the original grandeur. With his remarks on the pettiness of the stage-storm, one would be inclined to agree, even on this occasion, when every art was exhausted to convey the notion of the turmoil of the elements. The truth is, an audience sitting in the stalls and boxes will never be seduced into accepting the rollings and crashings of cannon-balls aloft, and the flashing of lycopodium, as suggesting the awful warring of the elements.

‘Lear’ was brought forward on Thursday, November 10, 1892, and its presentation was a truly romantic one. The figure had little of the usual repulsive aspects of age—the clumsy white beard, etc.—but was picturesque. The entry into his barbaric court, the strange retainers with their head-dresses of cows’ horns, was striking and original. The whole conception was human. The “curse” was delivered naturally. In presenting, however, the senile ravings of the old monarch, the actor unavoidably assumed an indistinctness of utterance, and many sentences were lost. This imperfection was dwelt on in the criticisms with superfluous iteration, and though the actor speedily amended and became almost emphatically distinct, this notion seemed to have settled in the public mind, with some prejudice to the success of the piece. Though he was thus quick to remedy this blemish, distinctness was secured by deliberation, and at some loss of effect. The actor’s extraordinary exertions—for he was at the same time busy with the preparation of a new piece—exhausted him, and obliged him for some nights to entrust the part to another. But the real obstacle to full success could be found in the general lugubrious tone of the character; the uninterrupted sequence of horrors and distresses led to a feeling of monotony difficult for the actor to vanquish. The public never takes very cordially to pieces in which there is this sustained misery, though it can relish the alternations of poignant tragedy attended by quick dramatic changes. Cordelia, though a small part, was made prominent by much touching pathos and grace, and the dying recognition by the old King brought tears to many eyes.[57]

An interesting feature in Irving’s career has been his long friendship with Tennyson, poet and dramatist, which lasted for some fifteen or sixteen years. The actor showed his appreciation of the poet’s gifts by the rather hazardous experiment of presenting two of his poetical dramas to the public. We have seen what sumptuous treatment was accorded to ‘The Cup’; and in ‘Queen Mary’ the actor contributed his most powerful dramatic efforts in the realization of the grim Philip.

The poet, however, made little allowance for the exigencies of the stage. During the preparation of ‘The Cup,’ he contended eagerly for the retention of long speeches and scenes, which would have shipwrecked the piece. Yet, undramatic as most of his dramas are, a taste for them was springing up, and not long before his death he had the gratification of knowing that his ‘Foresters’ had met with surprising success in America. No less than six pieces of his have been produced, and though the idea prevails that he has been “a failure” as a dramatist, it will be found that on the whole he has been successful. It may be that by-and-by he will be in higher favour. But he will have owed much to Irving, not merely for presenting his plays with every advantage, but for putting them into fitting shape, with firm, unerring touch removing all that is superfluous.

So far back as the year 1879 the poet had placed in Irving’s hands a drama on the subject of Becket and the Fair Rosamund. It was really a poem of moderate length, though in form a drama, and the actor naturally shrank from the difficulties of dealing with such a piece. The “pruning knife” would here have been of little avail; the axe or “chopper” would have to be used unsparingly. The piece was accordingly laid aside for that long period; the lamented death of the poet probably removed the chief obstacle to its production. It is said, indeed, that almost one-half was cut away before it could be put in shape for performance. On Monday, February 6, 1893, the actor’s birthday, this posthumous piece was brought out with every advantage, and before an assemblage even more brilliant than usual. It revived the memories of the too recent ‘Henry VIII.,’ in which there is much the same struggle between Prince and Bishop. The actor has thus no less than three eminent Catholic ecclesiastics in his répertoire—Richelieu, Wolsey, and Becket; but, as he pleasantly said, he could contrast with these an English clergyman, the worthy Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. Yet he admirably and dramatically distinguished their several characters.

There is always a curiosity to have the curtain lifted, so that we may have a glimpse of a play in the throes and troubles of rehearsal. Mr. Burgin, in one of the magazines, gave a very dramatic sketch of how things were conducted during the preparation of ‘Becket’:

“After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps back and looks at the table. ‘We ought to have on it some kind of mace or crozier,’ he says—‘a large crozier. Now for the “make up.” All the barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small beard. All the gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All the priests and bishops are unshaven. The mob can have slight beards, but this is unimportant. Now, take off your hats, gentlemen, please. Some of you must be old, some young. Hair very short;’ and he passes from group to group selecting the different people. ‘Now, I think that is all understood pretty well. Where are the sketches for dresses?’

“The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them. Miss Terry and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of paper. The fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them, and walks back again to Miss Terry’s chair with a slightly cynical look. Then Mr. Irving returns to the groups by the benches. ‘Remember, gentlemen, you must be arguing here, laying down the law in this way,’ suiting the action to the word. ‘Just arrange who is to argue. Don’t do it promiscuously, but three or four of you together. Try to put a little action into it. I want you to show your arms, and not to keep them glued to your sides like trussed fowls. No; that isn’t half enough action. Don’t be frightened. Better make too much noise rather than too little, but don’t stop too suddenly. Start arguing when I ring the first bell. As I ring the second bell, you see me enter, and stop.’ The dog stands one bell, but the second annoys him, and he disappears from the stage altogether, until the people on the benches have finished their discussion.