[25] A curious little controversy arose as to the authorship of the Ghost Melody. It was claimed for Mr. Stöpel, who was acting as chef d’orchestre at the Théâtre Historique when the play was originally produced. Another claim was made for Varney, author of the stirring hymn, Mourir pour la patrie. Oddly enough, Stöpel, who was then at the Adelphi, could not be got “to say yes or no.” “He was amused,” he said, “at the importance attached to such a trifle, and could, if he chose, set the matter at rest in a few words.” But he did not. Still, there used to be a pianoforte piece by one Rosellen—a Reverie—which certainly began and went on for many bars in the same fashion. However, a copy of the music of the Ghost Melody, arranged for the pianoforte, and published in 1852, was unearthed, which bore on its title the words: “Composed by M. Varney, of the Théâtre Historique: arranged by R. Stöpel, director of the music at the Princess’s Theatre.” This settled the point, and it explained the ambiguous declaration of the arranger. We must assuredly give the whole credit of this air to Varney.
[26] One agreeable night which was spent behind the scenes enabled me to study the admirable arrangements by which this complicated operation was carried out with smoothness and success.
No sooner has the drop-scene fallen—and a person always “stands by” to see that the huge roller is kept clear of careless spectators—than a busy scene sets in. Instantly men emerge from every side; the hills and banks, the slopes leading down the hill, the steps and massive pedestal that flank the entrance to the Temple on the right, are lifted up and disappear gradually; the distant landscape mounts slowly into the air; the long rows of jets are unfastened and carried off—in three or four minutes the whole is clear. At this moment are seen slowly coming down from aloft what appear to be three long heavy frames or beams—two in the direction of the length, one across the whole breadth of the stage. These make a sort of enclosure open on one side, and form the pediment or upper portion of the Temple meant to rest on the pillars. Soon busy hands have joined these three great joists by bolts and fastenings; the signal is given, and it begins to ascend again. Meanwhile, others have been bringing out from the “scene dock” pillars with their bases, and arranging them; and as the great beams move slowly up to their place, they hoist with them the columns, attached by ropes which pass through. By this time all the columns are swinging in the air; another moment and they have dropped into their places in the pedestal. The place of each pedestal is marked on the floor. In a few moments everything is fitted and falls into its place, with an almost martial exactness. Then are seen slowly descending the other portions of the roof, sky-borders, etc., all falling into their places quietly and with a sort of mysterious growth. We have glimpses in the galleries aloft of men hauling at ropes and pulleys, or turning “drums.” Finally the whole is set and complete, and men bear in the altars and steps and the enormous idol at the back—over twenty feet high. It is worth while looking close even at the sound and effective modelling of the raised classic figures that encircle the lower portions of each column, all in good relief, such as we see in Mr. Alma Tadema’s pictures. The variety and richness of these are surprising, and they fairly bear a close inspection. They are coloured, too, with that ivory tone which the older marbles acquire. All this was wrought in the property-room, and worked in clay; the figures were then plastered over with paper, or papier-mâché, a material invaluable to the scenic artist as furnishing relief and detail so as to catch the lights and shadows, having the merit of being exceedingly light and portable, of bearing rough usage and knocking about, which carved wood would not. The idol, now looming solemnly at the back, is formed of the same material. It is curious to find that the pillars and their capitals are all constructed literally in the lines of perspective, as such would be drawn on a flat surface; they diminish in height as they are farther off, and their top and bottom surfaces are sloped in a converging line. Thus the “building” stood revealed and complete, and round the pillars ran an open space, enclosed as it were by the walls. What with the gloom and the general mystery, the whole would pass, even to those standing by, as a very imposing structure.
[27] One morning, during the preparations, I found myself in the painting-room, where Mr. Craven was busy with one of the interesting little models of scenery by which the effect can be tested. The reader may not know that the scenic artist has his model theatre, a foot or so wide, but made “to scale.” He has also ground-plans of the stage, showing all the exits, etc., also done to scale. By these aids the most complicated scenes can be designed and tried. I was struck with the careful, conscientious fashion in which the manager discussed a little Venetian scene, rudely painted in water-colours, which had just been set. He saw it in connection with the entrances of the actors, and was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He tried various devices, and proposed a gateway, which entailed making a new design. This he suggested to the painter with pleasant persuasion and kindly apologetic courtesy, but was, as always, firm in his purpose. If a second experiment did not satisfy, it must be tried again. Suaviter in modo, etc., is certainly his maxim.
[28] This performer is associated with the best traditions of the good old school; and is linked with many interesting associations. It is curious, too, to think that he belongs, or belonged, to the Society of Friends. We have, and have had, a good many Jews upon the stage, but a Quaker is a rarity. When he was in America, he related the story of his life to an inquirer: “I was attending a public school in Yorkshire. It was a Quaker school at Ackworth, although boys not of Quaker parentage attended it. Somehow I was always selected to recite some piece for the visitors—some of those old pieces, you know, such as The Roman Gladiator, or Paul before Agrippa. In this way I acquired my first liking for the stage. One night I went with my cousin John to the Old Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean, who was then creating a furore by his magnificent acting. In those days, you know, they sold good seats in the gallery for a shilling; so I and my cousin Jack paid our shilling—the usual half-price—and went into the gallery. I shall never forget that night. The playing opened, I think, with the third act. I see Kean as plainly as if it were only yesterday. There he sat, a small man, upon his throne in the middle of the stage. Well, after leaving the theatre, Jack and I had to cross a bridge on our way home. I sat down in the recess of the bridge, almost overcome by my emotion, and said, ‘John, I am going to be an actor.’ He tried to dissuade me, and laughed at the folly of the idea, but my mind was made up.” One of the most striking incidents at a recent production of ‘King Lear’ was the ‘ovation,’ as it is called, which greeted the veteran as he presented himself in a small character.
[29] For a time the house was “on crutches,” as it is called, an operation of considerable architectural delicacy. In the great “cellarage” below the stage, huge storehouses filled with the rubbish of half a century, were discovered masses of decayed peacocks’ feathers, which much perplexed the explorers and everybody else, until it was recalled that these were the antique “properties” used by Madame Vestris in one of her Planché burlesques. The labour was herculean, and the indefatigable Bram Stoker threw himself with heart and soul into the business. We might lament, however, that the beautiful interior suffered somewhat in the later alterations. The elegant contour was disturbed; the double pillars, which recurred periodically in the dress tier, were reduced to a single one. The fine entrance-hall lost its symmetry from being enlarged. But such sacrifices are absolutely necessary, and are not the first that have had to be made under “the form and pressure of the time.” The alterations cost a very large sum indeed, but our manager has always been an improving tenant, and has periodically laid out vast sums on the improvement and decoration of his house.
[30] Mr. Labouchere, a shrewd observer, a friend and admirer of the actor’s abilities, always speaks out his opinions in plain, blunt terms: “An actor must, in order to win popularity, have mannerisms, and the more peculiar they are, the greater will be his popularity. No one can for a moment suppose that Mr. Irving could not speak distinctly, progress about the stage after the fashion of human beings, and stand still without balancing to and fro if he pleased. Yet, had he not done all this, he would—notwithstanding that there is a touch of real genius about his acting sometimes—never have made the mark that he has. He is, indeed, to the stage what Lord Beaconsfield was to politics. That exceedingly able man never could utter the resonant clap-trap in which he so often indulged, and which made men talk about him, without almost showing by his manner that he himself despised the tricks which gave him individuality. Were Mr. Irving at present to abate his peculiarities, his fervent worshippers would complain that their idol was sinking into mere common-place. Therefore, as I sincerely hope that, for his sake, the idolaters will continue to bow down before him and fill his treasury, I trust that he will never change.” There is a cynical flavour in this, and it is not very flattering to the audience, but underlying it there is some truth.
[31] A rapturous article from a Liverpool critic, Mr. Russell, had appeared in Macmillan’s Magazine, which was, indeed, somewhat indiscriminating in its praises of the Lyceum ‘Romeo and Juliet.’
[32] Mr. Forbes Robertson, who is painter as well as actor, depicted this striking scene on canvas, giving portraits of the performers. It has been engraved (or rather “processed”) with very happy result.
[33] It was an unusual tribute to the interest excited in every direction by the actor’s personality, that in the December of this year the lady students at University College should have chosen him for the subject of a formal debate, under the presidency of the clever Miss Fawcett. The thesis set down was, “That Henry Irving has, by his dramatic genius, earned his place as foremost among living actors,” and the discussion was begun with much spirit and fluency by Miss Rees, who proceeded to give an analysis of his Hamlet and other characters, contending that his extraordinary success was a proof of his merit. The opposition was led by Mrs. Brooksbanks, who fairly and unsparingly attacked the actor for his mannerisms and various defects. After a reply from Miss Rees, the original motion was put to the ladies, and was carried by a slender majority. The actor must have read these proceedings, which were flattering enough, with much enjoyment.