Ellen Terry and Her Sisters

by T. Edgar Pemberton

IN TOTTENHAM STREET

In 1875 Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft decided to make a bold experiment at the old Prince of Wales' Theatre in Tottenham Street. In that little playhouse which, thanks to their taste and admirable management, had become the favourite resort of playgoers far and near; in the birthplace and home of the sweet and memorable series of T. W. Robertson's comedies, they would soar to Shakespeare, and give an elaborate as well as an artistic production of "The Merchant of Venice."

As far as the company was concerned the cast presented few difficulties. Charles F. Coghlan, who was deservedly regarded as one of the finest and most powerful actors of his day, was to have his chance as Shylock, and, since Mrs. Kendal, who was playing with John Hare at the Court Theatre, was not available, all that was wanted was an ideal Portia.

She was found in Ellen Terry, and in some ways the engagement was the most eventful episode in her artistic career. April 17th was the night of the revival, and even those who had illimitable faith in the Bancrofts were amazed at the scenic treat that had been prepared for them. It seemed incredible that such perfect pictures of Venice, exact in every detail, and painted and modelled from drawings specially taken from the beautiful city of the sea, could be displayed on the small stage. They charmed the eye and satisfied the mind. Venice in all its beauty seemed to have transported some of its loveliest spots to dingy Tottenham Street, and a convincing colour was given to the performance such as had not hitherto been seen.

The costumes were equally artistic and appropriate,—the parts had been well and very carefully distributed, the success of the production seemed assured,—but in spite of its undeniable, and in many respects unequalled, excellences, it proved unattractive, and had to be speedily withdrawn.

The disappointment centred itself, where it had been least expected, in Charles Coghlan's Shylock, and "The Merchant of Venice," without a strongly appreciative and audience satisfying Jew of Venice is doomed to collapse. It was in this way that the beautifully painted and firmly built house of cards tumbled down. It was, and is, inexplicable. Charles Coghlan had over and over again proved himself to be the best of actors. Critics, aware of his latent power, had thought him thrown away on the comparatively trivial parts he had been called upon to play, and felt certain that when he could "let himself go," he would electrify. The power was there—in after years it made itself manifest; but, for some strange reason, it lay dormant in his Shylock—or at any rate in his Shylock of 1875. There was no lapse of memory on the actor's part—no physical breakdown. The character had evidently been most carefully studied, and the delivery of Shakespeare's lines left little or nothing to be desired. Apparently the actor had made the fatal mistake of thinking that Shylock was one of those strong parts that would—in theatrical parlance—"play itself." He was utterly wrong. If Shylock does not reveal himself in his distinctly true colours, not even the ideal Portia can prevent his fading from the picture, and leaving Shakespeare's canvas a blank.

David Garrick's contemporary, Charles Macklin, whose name will ever live as the first appreciative impersonator of this superbly drawn character—as full of light as it is of shade—said of his first appearance in it, and when he had from the outset found his audience in sympathy with him:—

"These encomiums warmed but did not overset me. I knew where I should have the pull, which was in the third act, and reserved myself accordingly. At this period I threw out all my fire; and as the contrasted passions of joy for the merchant's losses and grief for the elopement of Jessica, open a fine field for an actor's powers, I had the good fortune to please beyond my wildest expectations.

"The whole house was in an uproar of applause. The trial scene wound up the fulness of my reputation; here I was well listened to; and here I made such a silent yet forcible impression upon the audience that I retired from this great attempt well satisfied.