In the opening attraction of the next Lyceum season, which commenced in the January of 1882, Ellen Terry did not appear. This was a revival of "The Two Roses," for by this time playgoers were anxious to resume acquaintance with Henry Irving in his first great original character, that of Digby Grant. In Lyceum history the occasion is noteworthy, for it introduced to its boards—as the blind Caleb Deecie—George Alexander. Alexander had been touring in the country under the management of the younger Robertson, and those who took the trouble to watch him with discriminating eye had predicted for him a brilliant future. So admirable was he in a character part in a humorous piece called "The Guv'nor," that his name, extolled by discerning provincial critics, reached Irving's ears, and thus he won his first engagement in London. His admirable work at the Lyceum Theatre, before he went into management on his own account, and by his tact, taste, and personality once more made the St. James's (a playhouse which since the departure of John Hare and the Kendals had been allowed to droop) the resort of intellectual as well as fashionable London, is well remembered. It is a grand thing for a young and then comparatively unknown actor to reflect that, with infinite credit to himself, and to the great satisfaction of the public, he played such vitally important parts as Faust to the Margaret of Ellen Terry, and Macduff to the Macbeth of Henry Irving.
But the great production of this season was "Romeo and Juliet." Never, probably, was a Shakespearean play so superbly mounted. All the resources of art were lavished upon it, and cost was apparently outside consideration. The result was a series of stage pictures that were absolutely entrancing. If I were writing a history of the Lyceum under the management of Henry Irving I should gladly dwell on these things, and on the work that he, both as manager and actor, put into them, but I must remember that my text is Ellen Terry, and, save for the all-important part which she took in them, pass them briefly by. Other writers have vividly described these matchless representations in their entirety, and I must content myself with a fragment here and there. My canvas is a small one, and my picture must be that of my heroine. If my accounts of the Lyceum revivals are brief it is not from lack of appreciation of them, and happily the memory of them is green. So it is with the later impersonations of Ellen Terry, and they will require no lengthy record at my hands.
Her Juliet did not quite satisfy all the critics, but she played the part for one hundred and thirty nights to crowded and enthusiastic audiences, and surely there could be no better criterion of success? If, when compared with other Juliets, the extremely exacting part did not seem to suit her as well as others she had played, if it was held to be inferior to her Ophelia, and below her Portia, the impersonation won its way to the hearts of the people, and in the public mind it increased rather than lessened her reputation. Sarah Bernhardt, who was loud in her praises of the performance, said to her sister artiste—"How can you act in this way every night?" "It is the audience," said Ellen Terry. "They inspire me!" She might have added that she inspired her audiences.
After the first performance she once more thought, nay, even insisted, that she had failed. She wrote to a friend—"A thousand thanks for your letter. The fact remains that Juliet was a horrid failure. And I meant so well! I am very sad, but I thank you. It is not the critics. I knew it all on Wednesday night."
She knew far more, and had no reason to be sad, when, at the close of the season, after an extraordinary run, "Romeo and Juliet" was withdrawn.
On October 11, 1882, Shakespearean tragedy gave way to Shakespearean comedy, and "Much Ado about Nothing" was staged. We have seen how, at Leeds, Ellen Terry had tried herself as Beatrice. She had proved that the character suited her to perfection, and confidence in herself no doubt helped her to make one of the most striking of her many triumphs.
Clement Scott has such delightful ideas of Ellen Terry in connection with the character of Beatrice, that I must be permitted to quote him:—
"Two passages from 'Much Ado about Nothing,'" he says, "have always seemed to me to convey exactly the idea of Ellen Terry, both in youth and womanhood; they suggest that extraordinary 'charm' that the actress recently in America was unable to define, though I, for one, could have embodied it in two words, 'Ellen Terry.' The passages from Shakespeare to which I allude are these—
"Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady?
"Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days; your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your grace pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
"Don Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of the question, you were born in a merry hour.
"Beatrice. No sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that I was born! Cousins, God give you joy!
"Now, if William Shakespeare had had the model before him, he could not have drawn a more perfect picture of Ellen Terry than this. She was indeed 'born to speak all mirth and no matter.' If ever lovely woman was 'born in a merry hour' it was Ellen Terry, for she can scarcely be serious for an hour together, and is never happier than when she is playing some practical joke on her more serious companions.