The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character by inviting none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room. Greatly to my delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but very few survivors. A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up to the supper—Irving, Toole and myself staggering home, arm-in-arm—was among the early successes of Phil May. He made two copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and myself.
In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he wrote:
"I shall wear your gift—and a rare one it is—as I wear you, the giver, in my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is not too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it is a gratification to you—it is to me, old friend—to know that we can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."
"The Dead Heart"
When Irving contemplated a production of The Dead Heart, he flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé Latour he would not carry out the idea. I was then free from management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long talk—neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other, but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street from the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of Grafton Street—he said that I must content him by being specially engaged, on terms which soon were settled.
It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of to govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane. The Dead Heart is a story of the French Revolution, on the lines of A Tale of Two Cities. The best scene in the play was between Irving and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death. A clever drawing of the scene—I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at Christie's—was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have heard said of it, the fight must have been well done—real, brief, and determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a duel in The Corsican Brothers, and boldly attacked his chief by suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of the stage, as Nature was impartial.
A tribute from Irving
One night during the hundred and sixty on which The Dead Heart was acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel, Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never come across those Robertson plays! What a pity, for your own sake; for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the classical drama."
I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said: