CHAPTER VI.

1878.

THE NEW MANAGER OF THE LYCEUM—MISS TERRY—HIS SYSTEM AND ASSISTANTS.

The Lyceum was designed by a true architect at a time when a great theatre was considered to be a building or monument, like a public gallery or museum. In these days little is thought of but the _salle_ or interior, designed to hold vast audiences in galleries or shelves, and laid out much like a dissenting chapel. The Lyceum is really a fine structure, with entrances in four different streets, an imposing portico, abundance of saloons, halls, chambers, and other _dependances_, which are necessary in all good theatres. There is a special grace in its lobby and saloon, and in the flowing lines of the interior, though they have suffered somewhat from unavoidable alterations.[18] The stage is a truly noble one, and offers the attraction of supplying a dignity and theatrical illusion to the figures or scenes that are exhibited upon it; thus contrasting with the rather mean and prosaic air which the stages of most modern houses offer. This dignified effect is secured at a heavy cost to the manager, for every extra foot multiplies the area of scenery to a costly degree, and requires many figures to fill the void. Beazely, a pleasant humorist and writer of some effective dramas, was the architect of this fine temple, as also of the well-designed Dublin Theatre, since destroyed by fire.[19]

It may be imagined that the financial portion of the transaction could have offered little difficulty. A man of such reputation inspires confidence; and there are always plenty ready to come forward and support him in his venture, his abilities being the security. A story was long industriously circulated that he was indebted to the generosity of a noble lady well known for her wealth and liberality, who had actually “presented him with the lease of the theatre.” The truth, however, was that Irving entirely relied on his own resources. According to a statement which he found it necessary to have circulated, he borrowed a sum of money on business terms, which he was enabled to pay off gradually, partly out of profits, and partly out of a substantial legacy. His first repayments were made out of the gains of his provincial tour.

The new manager’s first effort was to gather round him an efficient and attractive company. It became presently known that Miss Ellen Terry was to be his partner and supporter on the stage, and it was instantly, and almost electrically, felt that triumph had been already secured. People could see in advance, in their mind’s eye, the gifted pair performing together in a series of romantic plays; they could hear the voices blending, and feel the glow of dramatic enjoyment. This important step was heartily and even uproariously acclaimed. No manager ever started on his course cheered by such tokens of goodwill and encouragement, though much of this was owing to a natural and selfish anticipation of coming enjoyment.

The new actress, a member of a gifted family, was endowed with one of those magnetically sympathetic natures, the rarest and most precious quality a performer can have. It may be said to be “twice blessed,” blessing both him that gives and him that takes—actor and audience. She had a winning face, strangely expressive, even to her tip-tilted nose, “the Terry nose,” and piquant, irregular chin; with a nervous, sinuous figure, and a voice charged with melodious, heart-searching accents. She indeed merely transferred to the stage that curious air of fitful _enjouement_ which distinguished her among her friends, which often thus supplied to her performances much that was unfamiliar to the rest of the audience. She had, in short, a most marked _personality_.

I possess a rare and possibly unique bill of one of Miss Ellen Terry’s earliest child-performances, which it may be interesting to insert here:

LECTURE HALL, CROYDON.

FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!

_Tuesday Evening, March 13th, 1860._

MISS KATE TERRY

AND

MISS ELLEN TERRY,

The original representatives of Ariel, Cordelia, Arthur, Puck, etc. (which characters were acted by them upwards of one hundred consecutive nights, and also before her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen), at the Royal Princess’s Theatre, when under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, will present their new and successful

ILLUSTRATIVE AND MUSICAL

DRAWING-ROOM ENTERTAINMENT,

In Two Parts, entitled

‘DISTANT RELATIONS,’ AND ‘HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS,’

In which they will sustain several

CHARACTERS IN FULL COSTUME.

N.B.—This entertainment was produced at the Royal Colosseum, and represented by the Misses Kate and Ellen Terry thirty consecutive nights to upwards of 30,000 persons—

and so on.

In ‘Home for the Holidays,’ the burden seems to have been cast on Ellen Terry, who performed ‘Hector Melrose, a slight specimen of the rising generation.’

In her rather fitful course, Ellen Terry[20] had gone on the stage, left it, and had gone on it again. Her performance at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, the little home of comedy, in the piece of ‘Masks and Faces,’ had left a deep impression, and I well recall the sort of passionate intensity she put into the part. It must be said that there was some uncertainty as to how she was likely to acquit herself in the very important round of characters now destined for her; but her friends and admirers were confident that her natural dramatic instincts and quick ability, together with the inspiration furnished by so powerful a coadjutor, would supply all deficiencies. And these previsions were to be amply justified. But it was the sympathetic, passionate, and touching performance of Olivia in Mr. Wills’s version of ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’ that had lately drawn all eyes to her. It was felt that here was an actress possessing “distinction” and original power. A series of these performances at the Court Theatre, under Mr. Hare’s management, had added to her reputation.

For the opening of his theatre, the new manager did not much care to engage actors of mark, relying on a few sound but unpretentious performers, such as the late Mead, Swinburne, and others.[21] On his visits to Dublin, the new manager had met a clever, ardent young man, who had taken share in the flattering honours offered by Trinity College. This was the now well-known Bram Stoker, whose geniality, good-nature, and tact were to be of much service to the enterprise. A short time before he was in one of the public offices in Dublin; he was now offered the post of director of the theatre, or “business-manager,” as it is technically called. Mr. H. Loveday had been stage-manager under the Bateman dynasty, and was continued in his office. This gentleman is really _hors ligne_ in this walk, being quick of resource, firm, even despotic where need requires it, and eke genial and forbearing too. The wonderful and ambitious development at the Lyceum has drawn on all his resources, equipping him with an experience which few stage-managers have opportunities of acquiring. When, as during the performance of ‘Henry VIII.,’ a crowd of over five hundred persons passes through the stage-door of the Lyceum, a stage-manager must needs have gifts of control of a high order to maintain discipline and direct his forces. And who does not know the sagacious and ever-obliging Hurst, who has controlled the box-office for many a year!

This proper selection of officials is all-important in an enterprise of this kind. Where they are well chosen, they help to bind the public to the house. It is well known that our manager is well skilled in reading the book of human character, and has rarely made a mistake in choosing his followers. On their side, they have always shown much devotion to the interests of their chief.

Not the least important of these assistants is an accomplished artist, Mr. Hawes Craven, the painter of the scenery, the deviser of the many elaborate settings and tableaux which have for so long helped to enrich the Lyceum plays. The modern methods of scenery now require an almost architectural knowledge and skill, from the “built-up” structures which are found necessary, the gigantic portals and porticoes of cathedrals, houses, squares, and statues. Monumental constructions of all kinds are contrived, the details, carvings, etc., being modelled or wrought in _papier-mâché_ material. It may be doubted whether this system really helps stage illusion as it affects to do, or whether more sincere dramatic effects would not be gained by simpler and less laboured methods. To Mr. Craven, too, we owe the development of what is the “medium” principle—the introduction of atmosphere, of phantasmagoric lights of different tones, which are more satisfactory than the same tones when produced by ordinary colours. The variety of the effects thus produced has been extraordinary. As might be expected, the artistic instincts of the manager have here come in aid of the painter, who with much readiness and versatility has been ready to seize on the idea and give it practical shape by his craft.[22]

Mr. Craven, years ago, practised his art on the boards of the old Dublin Theatre Royal, under Mr. Harris, where his scenery attracted attention for its brilliancy and originality. His scenes had the breadth and effect of rich water-colour drawings, somewhat of the Prout school. Scenic effect is now seriously interfered with by the abundant effulgence of light in which the stage is bathed, and in which the delicate middle tints are quite submerged. The contrast, too, with moulded work is damaging, and causes the painted details to have a “poorish,” flat air. Another point to which much prominence had been given from the first at the Lyceum is the music. A fine and full orchestra—on an operatic scale almost—with excellent conductors, who were often composers of reputation, was provided. This rich and melodious entertainment sets off the play and adds to its dignity, and may be contrasted with the meagre music ordinarily provided in theatres.

Once, travelling in the North, the manager met at a hotel a young musician who, like himself, “was on tour,” with some concert party it might be, and fell into conversation with him on their respective professions. This young man chatted freely, and imparted his ideas on music in general, and on theatre music in particular. The manager was pleased with the freshness and practical character of these views, and both went their way. Long after, when thinking of a successor to Stöpel—the old-established Lyceum conductor—he recalled this agreeable companion, who was Mr. Hamilton Clarke, and engaged him, at the handsome salary of some six hundred a year, to direct the music. He was, moreover, a composer of great distinction. His fine, picturesque overtures and incidental music to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ and other Lyceum pieces, still linger in the memory. It is to be lamented that this connection was severed. The manager has later applied for aid to such composers as Sir Arthur Sullivan, Sir A. Mackenzie, Sir Julius Benedict, Stanford, Jacobi, and Mr. German.

When he was thus busy with preparations for inaugurating his new ambitious venture, he had engagements to fulfil in the country, and could only rush up to town occasionally to push on the preparations. He tells us how, having secured a new Horatio, a “modern young actor,” as he called him, whom he had never seen perform, he came up to town especially to hear him go through his part. After reading it over for him in the way he desired it to be done, Irving said, “Now you try it; I will be the Ghost.” “So he began, and what a surprise it was! As Horatio he apostrophized me in the most cool, familiar, drawing-room, conventional style possible to imagine. I was aghast, ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘Stop, consider the situation, its thrills of horror, the supernatural!’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘but how am I to do it?’ ‘Can’t you understand it?’ I said; ‘try again.’ He did still the same again and again. There was nothing to be done but engage another performer.”

Anticipating a little, I may say here that the Lyceum company, though not affecting to contain any brilliant “stars,” has from the beginning exhibited a true homogeneousness in those sound conscientious actors who have always “discharged” their characters in an effective way, suited to the requirements of the piece. With a certain logical consistency, the manager has ever considered the requirements of his audience and the theatre. The attraction, it was understood, was to be the two leading performers, who were to stand, as it were, before a well-studied, well-composed background. The subsidiary characters, it was felt, should set off the leading characters. The introduction of Mrs. Stirling, an actress of the first rank, in such a part as the Nurse, however welcome as a performance, almost disturbed the dramatic harmony, and made an inferior part too prominent. This may seem hypercritical, but there can be no doubt as to its truth, and it shows what tact is necessary to secure an even performance. Those members of the corps who have been with him almost from the beginning, the manager has thoroughly leavened with his own methods and his own spirit, thus securing a general harmony. Such useful auxiliaries include Johnson (a low comedian of the older school), Tyers, Archer (another low comedian), Haviland (a most useful performer, who improves with every year), and Andrews. Another serviceable player was Wenman, who seemed in physique and method to be exactly suited to Burchell in ‘Olivia.’ During the past seasons, however, this worthy man has been removed from the company by death. On a stranger these players might produce little effect; but the _habitués_ of the theatre have grown familiar with their ways and faces and figures, and would miss them much were they absent from a new play.

In addition to this permanent body, the manager is accustomed occasionally to call to his aid performers of mark, such as Terriss and Forbes Robertson, the former an admirable actor in special characters that are suited to his robustness, though his powers would gain by some refining. Forbes Robertson is a picturesque performer of many resources, who can supply colour and passion at need. He has a fair share of what is called “distinction”; indeed, we wonder that his position has not ere this become more fixed and certain. But this rests on a deeper question, and is connected with the conditions of the stage at this moment, when the only course open to the player is to become a “manager-actor,” and have his own theatre, otherwise he must wander from house to house. Arthur Stirling and Macklin—excellent, well-trained actors both—have been found at the Lyceum, as also Mr. Bishop. Of the ladies there are Miss Genevieve Ward, the excellent Mrs. Pauncefort (of the school of Mrs. Chippendale), Miss Coleridge, occasionally the vivacious Miss Kate Phillips, and Miss Emery, who takes Miss Terry’s place in case of indisposition or fatigue.

The new manager made some decorative alterations in the theatre which, considering the little time at his disposal, did credit to his taste and promptitude. The auditorium was treated in sage green and turquoise blue; the old, familiar “cameos” of Madame Vestris’s day, ivory tint, were still retained, while the hangings were of blue silk, trimmed with amber and gold, with white lace curtains. The ceiling was of pale blue and gold. The stalls were upholstered in blue, “a special blue” it was called; escaloped shells were used to shield the glare of the footlights. The dressing-rooms of the performers, the Royal box, and Lady Burdett-Coutts’ box were all handsomely decorated and re-arranged, the whole being directed by Mr. A. Darbyshire, a Manchester architect. This, however, was but the beginning of a long series of structural alterations, additions, and costly decorations, pursued over a term of a little over a dozen years.

On Monday, December 30, 1878, the theatre was opened with the revived ‘Hamlet.’ This was the first of those glittering nights—_premières_—which have since become a feature of a London season. From the brilliancy of the company—which usually includes all that is notable in the arts and professions—as well as from the rich dresses, jewels, and flowers, which suggest the old opera nights, the spectacle has become one of extraordinary interest, and invitations are eagerly sought. Here are seen the regular _habitués_, who from the first have been always invited: for the constancy of the manager to his old friends is well known.

The play was given with new scenery, dresses, music, etc. The aim was to cast over the whole a poetical and dreamy glamour, which was exhibited conspicuously in the treatment of the opening scenes when the Ghost appeared. There were the mysterious battlements seen at a distance, shadowy walls, and the cold blue of breaking day. There were fine halls, with arches and thick pillars of Norman pattern. Irving’s version of the part was in the main the same as before, but it was noted that he had moderated it, as it were; it became more thoughtful.

Of course, much interest and speculation was excited by the new actress, who exhibited all her charming grace and winsomeness, with a tender piteousness, when the occasion called. “Why,” she told an interviewer, “I am so high strung on a first night that if I realized there was an audience in front staring at me, I should fly off and be _down at Winchester in two twos_!” On this momentous night of trial she thought she had completely failed, and without waiting for the fifth act she flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, “I have failed, I have failed!” She drove up and down the Embankment half a dozen times before she found courage to go home.

This successful inauguration of his venture was to bear fruit in a long series of important pieces, each produced with all the advantages that unsparing labour, good taste, study, and expense could supply. Who could have dreamed, or did _he_ dream on that night? that no fewer than nine of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a liberal education for audiences, were destined to be his contribution to “the public stock of harmless pleasure”? Every one of taste is under a serious obligation to him, having consciously or unconsciously learnt much from this accomplished man.

On this occasion, adopting a custom since always adhered to, the manager had his arrangement of the play printed, with an introduction by a good Shakespearian student, who was destined to be a well-known figure in the _entourage_ of the Lyceum. Albeit a little _tête montée_, “Frank Marshall,” with his excited, bustling ways, and eccentric exterior, seems now to be missed. He was always _bon enfant_. He had written one very pleasing comedy, ‘False Shame,’ and was also rated as a high authority on all Shakespearian matters. He published an elaborate _Study of Hamlet_, and later induced Irving to join him in an ambitious edition of Shakespeare, which has recently been completed. He was also a passionate bibliomaniac, though not a very judicious one, lacking the necessary restraint and judgment. He had somewhat of a troubled course, like so many a London _littérateur_.

At this time the average theatrical criticism, from lack of suitable stimulant to excite it, was not nearly so discriminating as it is now, when there is a body of well-trained, capable men, who sign their names and carry out their duty with much independence. It is extraordinary what a change has taken place. At the opening of Irving’s management there was certainly a tendency to wholesale and lavish panegyric. Not unnaturally, too, for all were grateful to one who was making such exertion to restore the stage to elegance. Some of the ordinary newspapers, however, overwhelmed him with their rather tedious, indiscriminate praises; it seemed as though too much could not be said. There is no praise where _everything_ is praised; nor is such very acceptable to its object. A really candid discussion on the interpretation of a character, with reasonable objections duly made, and argued out with respect, and suggestions put forward—this becomes of real profit to the performer. Thus in one single short criticism on a character of Garrick’s—he was once playing a gentleman disguised as a valet—Johnson has furnished not only Garrick, but all players too, with an invaluable principle which is the foundation of all acting: “No, sir; he does not let the gentleman break out through the footman.”

A new play at the Lyceum is rarely concluded without a speech being insisted upon. Irving himself has favoured this practice, but reluctantly, yielding only to the irresistible pressure of ardent and clamorous admirers. The system now obtains at every theatre where there is an “actor-manager.” But there can be no question but that it is an abuse, and a perilous one. It encourages a familiarity, and often insolence, which shakes authority. The manager, when he makes his speech, seems to invite the galleries down on to his stage, and it is to be noticed that the denizens of these places are growing bolder, and fancy, not unreasonably, that they are entitled to have _their_ speech, as the manager has his.[23]

The manager has been always guided by the principle of alternating his greater attempts with others on a more moderate and less pretentious scale. With this view he brought out, on April 17, 1879, the ever-attractive ‘Lady of Lyons’—which would seem naturally suited to him and his companion. He was himself in sympathy with the piece, and prepared it on the most romantic and picturesque lines. It has been usually presented in a stagey, declamatory fashion, as affording opportunity to the two leading performers for exhibiting a robustious or elocutionary passion. It was determined to tone the whole down, as it were, and present it as an interesting love-story, treated with restraint. Nothing could be more pleasing than the series of scenes thus unfolded, set off by the not unpicturesque costumes of the revolutionary era. It is difficult to conceive now of a Pauline otherwise attired. It would seem that a play always presents itself to our manager’s eye as a series of poetical scenes which take shape before him, with all their scenery, dresses, and situations. As he muses over them they fall into their place—the figures move; a happy suitable background suggests itself, with new and striking arrangements; and thus the whole order and tone of the piece furnishes him with inspiration.

Indeed, it must be confessed that there are few plays we should be less inclined to part with than this hackneyed and well-worn drama. The “casual sight” of that familiar title on the red-brick corner wall in some country or manufacturing town, it may be weeks old—the old paper flapping flag-like—always touches a welcome note, and the names of characters have a romantic sound. In the story there is the charm of simple effects and primitive emotion; it is worked out without violence or straining, and all through the ordinary sympathies are firmly struck, and in the most touching way. Tinselly or superficial as many have pronounced the piece, there is depth in it. So artfully is it compounded that it is possible to play the two characters in half-a-dozen different ways; and clever actors have exerted themselves to gloss over the one weak spot in Melnotte’s character—the unworthy deception, which involves loss of respect. Pauline, however, is a most charming character, from the mixture of emotions; if played, that is, in a tender, impulsive way, and not made a vehicle for elocutionary display. The gracious, engaging part of the heroine has been essayed by our most graceful actresses, after being created by the once irresistible Miss Helen Faucit. For over fifty years this drama has held its ground, and is always being performed. The young beginner, just stepping on the boards, turns fondly to the effective “gardener’s son,” and is all but certain that he could deliver the passage ending, “_Dost like the picture?_”—a burst often smiled at, but never failing to tell. Every one of the characters is good and actable, and, though we may have seen it fifty times, as most playgoers have, there is always a reserve of novelty and attraction left which is certain to interest.

On this occasion, the old, well-worn drama was so picturesquely set forth, that it seemed to offer a new pastoral charm. In Irving’s Claude there was a sincerity and earnestness which went far to neutralize these highly artificial, not to say “high-flown,” passages which have so often excited merriment. Miss Terry, as may be conceived, was perfectly suited in her character—the ever-charming Pauline; and displayed an abundance of spontaneousness, sympathy, and tenderness.

The public was at this time to learn with interest that the actor was to accompany Lady Burdett-Coutts on a voyage to the Mediterranean in her yacht _The Walrus_, and all was speculation as to the party and their movements. One of her guests was an agreeable young American named Bartlett, now better known as Mr. Burdett-Coutts, since become the husband of the lady. During this pleasant voyage _The Walrus_ directed her course to Venice and various Italian cities—all new and welcome to our actor, who was at the same time taking stock of the manners, customs, dresses, etc., of the country, and acquiring, as it were, the general flavour and _couleur locale_. His scene-painter had also found his way there, and was filling his sketch-book with rich “bits of colour,” picturesque streets, and buildings. The manager was, in fact, pondering over a fresh Shakespearian venture—an Italian play, which was to be produced with the new season. He was, in fact, about to set on the stage ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ with every aid that money and taste could supply. The moment this selection was known, it was felt almost universally that it was exactly the piece that should have been chosen. Everyone anticipated by a sort of instinct what entertainment was in store for them: for here was the part and here was the actor. Notwithstanding the elaborate character of the preparations, the whole was “got up” in some four weeks, though this period did not comprise the long course of private study and meditation during which the scheme was gradually matured in his mind. When on his yachting expedition he had taken advantage of a hasty visit to Tangier to purchase Moorish costumes to be used in the Shakespearian spectacle he was preparing.

To fill up the interval he got ready Colman’s drama ‘The Iron Chest,’ produced on September 27, 1879. This powerful but lugubrious piece has always had an unaccountable attraction for tragedians. Sir Edward Mortimer belongs, indeed, to the family of Sir Giles Overreach. The character offered temptation to our actor from its long-sustained, mournful, and poetical soliloquies, in which the state of the remorseful soul was laid bare at protracted length; but, though modified and altered, the piece is hopelessly old-fashioned. It is impossible in our day to accept seriously a “band of robbers,” who moreover live in “the forest”; and the “proofs” of Sir Edward’s guilt, a knife and blood-stained cloth, carefully preserved in an old chest which is always in sight, have a burlesque air.

Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, _ingenuus puer_, and likewise _bonæ indolis_—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready.