CHAPTER V.

1874.

‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN MARY.’

But now was to be made a serious experiment, on which much was to depend. Hitherto Irving had not travelled out of the regions of conventional drama, or of what might be called romantic melodrama; but he was now to lay hands on the ark, and attempt the most difficult and arduous of Shakespearian characters, Hamlet. Every actor has a dream of performing the character, and fills up his disengaged moments with speculations as to the interpretation. The vitality of this wonderful play is such that it nearly always is a novelty for the audience, because the character is fitfully changeful, and offers innumerable modes of interpretation.

The momentous trial was made on October 31, 1874. It had long and studiously been prepared for: and the actor, in his solitary walks during the days of his provincial servitude, had worked out his formal conception of the character. There was much curiosity and expectation; and it was noted that so early as three o’clock in the afternoon a dense crowd had assembled in the long tunnel that leads from the Strand to the pit door. I was present in the audience, and can testify to the excitement. Nothing I have ever seen on the stage, except perhaps the burst that greeted Sarah Bernhardt’s speech in ‘Phèdre’ on the first night of the French Comedy in London, has approached the tumult of the moment when the actor, after the play scene, flung himself into the King’s chair.

Our actor judiciously took account of all criticisms, and with later performances subdued or toned down what was extravagant. The whole gained in thoughtfulness and in general meditative tone, and it is admitted that the meaning of the intricate soliloquies could not be more distinctly or more intelligibly conveyed to an audience. He played a good deal with his face, as it is called: with smilings of intelligence, as if interested or amused. But, as a whole, his conception of the character may be said to remain the same as it was on that night.

The play was mounted with the favourite economy of the manager, and contrasted with the unsparing lavishness of decoration which characterized its later revival. But the actors were good. The sound, “full-bodied” old Chippendale was Polonius; Swinburne, also of the old school, was the King; and the worthy Mead, long ago a star himself, and one of Mr. Phelps’ corps, “discharged” the Ghost with admirable impression and elocution.[12] He has now passed away, after long service, to “that bourne,” etc. Miss Bateman was interesting, and Mrs. Pauncefort, who was till lately at the Lyceum, was an excellent Queen. Actor and manager expected much success for ‘Hamlet,’ and counted on a run of eighty nights, but it was performed for two hundred! To the present hour it has always continued—though sparingly revived—the most interesting of the actor’s performances, looked for with an intellectual curiosity.

In March the hundredth night of ‘Hamlet’ was celebrated by a banquet, given in the saloon of the Lyceum Theatre, at which all the critics and literary persons connected with the stage were present. This method of festivity has since become familiar enough, owing to the never-flagging hospitality of the later manager of the Lyceum, and offers a striking contrast to the older days, when it was intimated that “_chicken and champagne_” was a ready method of propitiating the critics. Mr. Pigott, who had recently been appointed the Licenser of Plays, a man of many friends, from his amiability—now, alas! gone from us—proposed the health of the lessee, which was followed by the health of the actor and of the author of the establishment, the latter, as it was rather sarcastically said, “giving the hundred and odd literary men present the oft-repeated illustration of how far apart are authorship and oratory.” The good old Chippendale told how he had played Polonius to the Hamlet of Kemble, Kean, Young, and other famous tragedians; but protested that “the most natural and, to his mind, the most truthful representation he had seen was that of his friend here.” Something must be allowed for post-prandial exuberance, and no one could more shrewdly appreciate their value than the actor himself. We may be certain that in his “heart of heart” he did not agree that he had excelled Kemble, Kean, Young, and the others. It was interesting, however, to meet such histrionic links with the past, which are now broken. Mr. Howe is perhaps the only person now surviving who could supply reminiscences of the kind.

A second Shakespearian piece was now determined on, and on February 14, 1875, ‘Othello’ was brought out. This, it was admitted, was not a very effective performance. It was somewhat hysterical, and in his agitation the actor exhibited movements almost panther-like, with many strange and novel notes. The ascetic face, too, was not in harmony with the dusky lineaments of ‘the Moor.’ Here, again, his notion of the character was immature.

In the full tide of all this prosperity, theatre-goers were startled to learn that the shrewd and capable manager, the energetic “old Colonel,” as he was styled by his friends, was dead. This event occurred, with great suddenness, on Monday, March 22, 1875. On the Sunday he had been at a banquet at a Pall Mall restaurant in company with his leading actor and other friends, but on the next day, complaining of a headache, he lay down. His daughter went as usual to the theatre, to which word was soon brought that he had passed away peacefully. It was thought advisable to let the performance be completed, and the strange coincidence was noted that while his child was bewailing the loss of her theatrical sire, the old Polonius, she was unconscious of the blow which had deprived her of her real parent.

There was much speculation as to what arrangement would follow, and some surprise when it was announced that the widow was ready to step intrepidly into his place, and carry on matters exactly as before. The mainstay of the house was ready to support her, and though bound by his engagement, he would, had he been so inclined, have found it easy to dissolve it, or make it impracticable. He resolved to lend his best efforts to support the undertaking, in which his views would, of course, prevail. It was hardly a prudent arrangement, as the result proved, for the three years that followed were scarcely advantageous to his progress. The management was to be of a thrifty kind, without boldness, and lacking the shrewd, safe instincts of the late manager; while the actor had the burden, without the freedom, of responsibility. It struck some that the excellent Mrs. Bateman was “insisting” somewhat too much upon the family element. The good-hearted, busy, and managing lady was in truth unsuited to bear the burden of a great London theatre, and what woman could be? her views were hardly “large” enough, and too old-fashioned. The public was not slow to find all this out, and the fortunes of the theatre began almost at once to change. Our actor, ambitious, and encouraged by plaudits, was eager to essay new parts; and the manageress, entirely dependent on his talent, was naturally anxious to gratify him. Here it was that the deliberation of the “old Colonel” became valuable. He would debate a question, examine it from all points, feel the public pulse, and this rational conduct influenced his coadjutor. Irving was, in truth, in a false position.

‘Macbeth’ was speedily got ready, and produced on September 18, 1875. Miss Bateman, of Leah fame, was the Lady Macbeth, but the performance scarcely added to her reputation. The actor, as may be conceived, was scarcely then suited, by temperament or physique, to the part, and by a natural instinct made it conform to his own particular qualifications. His conception was that of a dreamy, shrinking being, overwhelmed with terrors and remorse, speaking in whispers, and enfeebled by his own dismal ruminations. There was general clamour and fierce controversy over this reading, for by this time the sympathetic powers of the player had begun to exercise their attraction. He had a large and passionately enthusiastic following; but there were Guelphs and Ghibellines, Irvingites and anti-Irvingites—the latter a scornful and even derisive faction. I could fancy some of the old school, honest “Jack” Ryder, for instance, as they patrolled the Strand at mid-day, expatiating on the folly of the public: “Call _him_ an actor!” Some of them had played with Macready, “and _they_ should think they knew pretty well what acting was!” This resentful tone has been evoked again and again with every new actor.[13]

Objection was taken to the uncertainty in the touches; the figure did not “stand out” so much as it ought. Much of this, however, was owing to the lack of effect in the Lady Macbeth, who, assuming hoarse and “charnel-house” tones, seemed to suggest something of Meg Merrilies. On the later revival, however, his interpretation became bold, firm, and consistent. The play had, however, a good deal of attraction, and was played for some eighty nights.

The King in Tennyson’s play-poem, ‘Queen Mary,’ I have always thought one of the best, most picturesque, of Irving’s impersonations, from the realization it offered of the characters, impressions, feelings, of what he represented: it was complete in every point of view. As regards its length, it might be considered trifling; but it became important because of the _largeness_ of the place it fitted. Profound was the impression made by the actor’s Philip—not by what he had to say, which was little, or by what he had to do, which was less, or by the dress or “make-up,” which was remarkable. He seemed to speak by the expression of his figure and glances; and apart from the meaning of his spoken words, there was another meaning beyond—viz., the character, the almost diseased solitude, the heartless indifference, and other odious historical characteristics of the Prince, with which it was plain the actor had filled himself. Mr. Whistler’s grim, antique portrait conveys this perfectly.

His extraordinary success was now to rouse the jealousy, and even malignity, which followed his course in his earlier days, and was not unaccompanied with coarse ridicule and caricature, directed against the actor’s legs even. “Do you know,” said a personage of Whistlerian principles—“do you know, it seems to me there is a great deal of _pathos_ in Irving’s legs, particularly in the _left_ leg!”

A letter had appeared, in January, 1876, in _Fun_, the _Punch_ of the middle and lower class, addressed to “The Fashionable Tragedian.” It affected alarm at the report that, “so soon as the present failure can with dignity be withdrawn,” he intended to startle the public and Shakespearian scholars with ‘Othello.’ In the name of that humanity “to which, in spite of your transcendent abilities, you cannot help belonging,” he was entreated to forbear, if only for the sake of order and morality. “With the hireling fashion of the press at your command, you have induced the vulgar and unthinking to consider you a model of histrionic ability.” In the course of the investigation the article was traced to a writer who has since become popular as a dramatist, and who, as might be expected, has furnished a fair proportion of murders and other villainies to the stage. What was behind the attack it would be difficult to say; but there are people to whom sudden unexpected success is a subject of irritation. Just as hypocrisy is the homage paid to vice, so it may be that the attacks of this kind are some of the penalties that have to be paid for success.

When the theatre closed in 1876, the indefatigable manageress organized a tour of the company in the provinces, with the view of introducing the new tragedian to country audiences. There was, as may be conceived, a prodigious curiosity to see him, and the tour was very successful. She brought to the task her usual energy and spirit of organization; though with so certain an attraction, the tour, like a good piece, might be said to “play itself,” on the principle of _ma femme et cinq poupées_. I can recall the image of the busy lady on one of these nights at Liverpool or Birmingham, seated in her office, surrounded by papers, the play going on close by, the music of a house crowded to overflowing being borne to her ears. There was here the old Nickleby flavour, and a primitive, homely spirit that contrasts oddly with the present brilliant system of “touring,” which must be “up to date,” as it is called, and supported by as much lavishness and magnificence as is expected in the Metropolis. After the piece came the pleasant little supper at the comfortable lodgings.

On this occasion he was to receive the first of those intellectual compliments which have since been paid him by most of the leading Universities. At Dublin he excited much enthusiasm among the professors and students of Trinity College. He was invited to receive an address from both Fellows and students, which was presented by Lord Ashbourne, lately Lord Chancellor of Ireland, then a Queen’s Counsel. This was conceived in the most flattering and complimentary terms.

About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane, then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery, wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.

Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear. The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it were, extorted by the actor’s merit.

The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]

A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may be added that he has a _penchant_ for portraying characters of common life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct, amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’

With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself. The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual, and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc. Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil, innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would listen to the charges made against him.

A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March 9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen of the actor’s talents.

This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year, gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory, especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts; that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.

Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.” Another admirer had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not given.[16]

A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel” entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.

I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid, unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—

“A merrier man, Within the limits of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour withal.”

‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said, “inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture, on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep impression.

At this time our actor’s position was a singular one. It had occurred to many that there was something strange and abnormal in the spectacle of the most conspicuous performer of his time, the one who “drew” most money of all his contemporaries, being under the direction of a simple, excellent lady, somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas, and in association with a mediocre company and economical appointments. There was here power clearly going to waste. It soon became evident that his talents were heavily fettered, and that he had now attained a position which, to say the least, was inconsistent with such surroundings. His own delicacy of feeling, and a sense of old obligation, which, however, was really slender enough, had long restrained him; but now, on the advice of friends, and for the sake of his own interests, he felt that matters could go on no longer, and that the time had arrived for making some serious change. The balancing of obligations is always a delicate matter, but it may be said that in such cases quite as much is returned as is received. The successful manager may “bring forward” the little-known actor, but the little-known actor in return brings fortune to the manager.

The situation was, in fact, a false one. Where was he to find an opening for those sumptuous plans and artistic developments for which the public was now ripe, and which he felt that he, and he alone, could supply? The breach, however, was only the occasion of the separation which must inevitably have come later. As it was, he had suggested a change in stage companionship: the attraction of the “leading lady,” with whom he had been so long associated, was not, he thought, sufficient to assist or inspire his own. As this arrangement was declined, he felt compelled to dissolve the old partnership.

It presently became known that the popular player was free, and ready to carry out the ambitious and even magnificent designs over which he had so long pondered. The moment was propitious. Except the little Prince of Wales’s, there was no theatre in London that was conducted in liberal or handsome style, and no manager whose taste or system was of a large or even dignified sort. Everything was old-fashioned, meagre, and mercantile. Everything seemed in a state of languor and decay. No one thought of lavish and judicious outlay, the best economy in the end. There was really but one on whom all eyes now instinctively rested as the only person who by temperament and abilities was fitted to restore the drama, and present it worthily, in accordance with the growing luxurious instinct of the time.

It was a rude shock for the manageress when this resolution was communicated to her. The loss of her actor also involved the loss of her theatre. She might have expostulated, with Shylock:

“You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house.”

It followed therefore, almost as a matter of course, that the theatre, without any exertion on his part, would, as it were, drop into his hands. He at once prepared to carry out his venture on the bold and sumptuous lines which have since made his reputation. The poor lady naturally fancied that she had a grievance; but her complaint ought in truth to have been directed against the hard fate which had placed her in a position that was above her strength.[17] With much gallantry and energy she set herself to do battle with fortune in a new and lower sphere. She secured the old theatre at Islington, which she partially rebuilt and beautified, and on the opening night was encouraged by a gathering of her old friends, who cheered her when she appeared, supported by her two faithful daughters. Even this struggle she could not carry on long. She took with her some of her old company, Bentley, the Brothers Lyons, and others, and she furnished melodramas, brought out in a somewhat rude but effective style, suited to the lieges of the district. Later Mr. Charles Warner, greatly daring, gave a whole course of Shakespearian characters, taking us through the great characters _seriatim_. It was indeed a very astonishing programme. But the truth was, she had fallen behind the times; the old-fashioned country methods would no longer “go down.” In a few years she gave up the weary struggle, and, quite worn-out, passed away to join the “old Colonel.”