CHAPTER VII.

1879.

‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.’

This great and attractive play was now ready: all was anticipation and eager interest The night of its production—November 1, 1879—was a festive one. The house was most brilliant: and indeed this may be accounted the first _regular_, official Lyceum _première_. I recall that among the audience were Tom Taylor and Henry Byron, names that now seem ghost-like, so rapidly do literary shadows depart. Like some rich Eastern dream, steeped in colours and crowded with exquisite figures of enchantment, the gorgeous vision of the pageant seems now to rise in the cold, sober daylight. As a view of Venetian life, manners, and scenery, it has never been matched. The figures seemed to have a grace that belonged not to the beings that pace, and declaim upon, the boards. Add the background, the rich exquisite dresses, the truly noble scenery—a revel of colour, yet mellowed—the elegant theatre itself crammed with an audience that even the Lyceum had not witnessed, and it may be conceived what a night it was. The scenery alone would take an essay to itself, and it is hard to say which of the three artists engaged most excelled. The noble colonnade of the ducal palace was grand and imposing; so was the lovely interior of Portia’s house at Belmont, with its splendid amber hangings and pearl-gray tones, its archings and spacious perspective. But the Court scene, with its ceiling painted in the Verrio style, its portraits of Doges, the crimson walls with gilt carvings, and the admirable arrangements of the throne, etc., surely for taste, contrivance, and effect has never been matched. The whole effect was produced by the painting, not by built-up structures. The dresses too—groupings, servants, and retainers—what sumptuousness! The pictures of Moroni and Titian had been studied for the dove-coloured cloaks and jerkins, the violet merchant’s gown of Antonio, the short hats—like those of our day—and the frills. The general tone was that of one of Paolo Veronese’s pictures—as gorgeous and dazzling as the _mélange_ of dappled colour in the great Louvre picture.

Shylock was not the conventional Hebrew usurer with patriarchal beard and flowing robe, dirty and hook-nosed, but a picturesque and refined Italianized Jew, genteelly dressed: a dealer in money, in the country of Lorenzo de’ Medici, where there is an aristocracy of merchants. His eyes are dark and piercing, his face is sallow, his hair spare and turning gray; he wears a black cap, a brown gaberdine faced with black, and a short robe underneath.

The “Trial scene,” with its shifting passions, would have stamped Irving as a fine actor. See him as he enters, having laid aside his gaberdine and stick, and arrayed in his short-skirted gown, not with flowing but tightened sleeves, so that this spareness seems to lend a general gauntness to his appearance. There he stands, with eyes half furtively, half distrustfully following the Judge as he speaks. When called upon to answer the appeal made to him “from the bench,” how different from the expected conventional declaration of violent hatred! Instead, his explanation is given with an artful adroitness as if _drawn_ from him. Thus, “If you deny it” is a reminder given with true and respectful dignity, not a threat; and when he further declares that it “is his humour,” there is a candour which might commend his case, though he cannot restrain a gloating look at his prey. But as he dwells on the point, and gives instances of other men’s loathing, this malignity seems to carry him away, and, complacent in the logic of his illustration of the “gaping pig” and “harmless necessary cat,” he bows low with a Voltairean smile, and asks, “_Are you answered?_” How significant, too, his tapping the bag of gold several times with his knife, in rejection of the double sum offered, meant as a calm business-like refusal; and the “I would have my bond!” emphasized with a meaning clutch. Then the conclusion, “Fie upon your law,” delivered with folded arms and a haughty dignity; indeed, a barrister might find profit here, and study the art of putting a case with adroitness and weight. But when Antonio arrives his eyes follow him with a certain uneasy distrust, and on Bellario’s letter being read out he listens with a quiet interest, plucking his beard a little nervously. As, however, he sees the tone the young lawyer takes, he puts on a most deferential and confidential manner, which colours his various compliments: “O wise young Judge,” “A Daniel,” etc., becoming almost wheedling. And when he pleads his oath—

“Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice!”

there is a hypocritical earnestness, as if he were giving his reason privately to the counsel, though there is a strange, indescribable sneer conveyed in that “not for Venice.” Then the compliment to Portia, “How much more elder art thou than thy looks!” which he utters, crouching low, with a smiling, even leering, admiration, but admiration given for what is on his own side. And what follows opens a most natural piece of business, arising out of the sort of confidential intimacy which he would establish between them—

“Ay, his breast, So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge? _Nearest his heart_, those are the very words”;

the latter words pronounced with canine ferocity, his eyes straining over the other’s shoulders, while he points with his knife—secure, too, that the other will agree with him. He fancies that he has brought over the counsel to his side. And it may be added that this knife is not flourished in the butcher’s style we are accustomed to; it is more delicately treated, as though something surgical were contemplated. When bidden to “have by some surgeon,” nothing could be better than the sham curiosity with which he affects to search the bond for such a proviso, letting his knife travel down the lines, and the tone of “I cannot find it,” in a cold, helpless way, as if he had looked out of courtesy to his “young Judge,” who appeared to be on his side. The latter at last declares that there is no alternative, but that Antonio must yield his bosom to the knife; then the Jew’s impatience seems to override his courtesies, his gloating eyes never turn from his victim, and with greedy ferocity he advances suddenly with “Come, prepare!” When, however, Portia makes her “point” about the “drop of blood,” he drops his scales with a start; and, Gratiano taunting him, his eyes turn with a dazed look from one to the other; he says slowly, “Is—that—the—law?” Checked more and more in his reluctant offers, he at last bursts out with a demoniac snarl—“Why, then, the devil give him good of it!” Finally he turns to leave, tottering away bewildered and utterly broken. As may be imagined, the new Shylock excited a vast deal of controversy. The “old school” was scornful; and here again it would have been worth hearing the worthy Jack Ryder—whom we still must take to be the type of the good old past—on the subject.

Nothing was more remarkable than the general effect of this fine and thoughtful representation upon the public. It was a distinct education, too, and set everyone discussing and reading. Admittedly one result was the great increase in the sale of editions of Shakespeare’s works; and the ephemeral literature engendered in the shape of articles, criticisms, and illustrations of all kinds was truly extraordinary. Here again was heard the harsh note of the jealous and the envious. There was plenty of fair and honest dissent as to the interpretation of the play, with some reasonably argued protests against the over-abundant decoration.

The hundredth night of the run of this prodigiously successful revival was celebrated in hospitable fashion by a supper, to which all that was artistic, literary, and fashionable—_tout Londres_ in short—was bidden. The night was Saturday, February 14, 1880, the hour half-past eleven. As soon as the piece was terminated a wonderful _tour de force_ was accomplished. In an incredibly short space of time—some forty minutes, I believe—an enormous marquee, striped red and white, that enclosed the whole of the stage, was set up; the tables were arranged and spread with “all the luxuries of the season” with magic rapidity. An enjoyable night followed. The host’s health was given by that accomplished man, and man of elegant tastes, Lord Houghton, in what was thought a curiously _mal à propos_ speech. After conventional eulogiums, he could not resist some half-sarcastic remarks as to “this new method of adorning Shakespeare.” He condemned the system of long “runs,” which he contrasted with that of his youth, when pieces were given not oftener than once or twice in the week. He then praised the improvement in the manners of the profession, “so that the tradition of good breeding and high conduct was not confined to special families like the Kembles, or to special individuals like Mr. Irving himself, but was spread over the profession, so that families of condition were ready to allow their children to go on the stage. _We put our sons and daughters into it._” I recall now the genuine indignation and roughly-expressed sentiments of some leading performers and critics who were sitting near me at this very awkward compliment. He then proceeded to speak of the new impersonation, describing how he had seen a Shylock, formerly considered a ferocious monster, but who had, under their host’s treatment, become a “gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, in voice very like a Rothschild, afflicted with a stupid servant and wilful and pernicious daughter, to be eventually foiled by a very charming woman. But there was one character Mr. Irving would never pervert or misrepresent, and that was his own,” etc.

Never was the power and good-humour—the _bonhomie_—of the manager more happily displayed than in his reply. As was said at the time, it showed him in quite a new light. Taken wholly unawares—for whatever preparation he might have made was, he said, “rendered useless by the unexpected tone of Lord Houghton’s remarks”-he was thrown on his impromptu resources, and proved that he really possessed what is called debating power. He spoke without hesitation, and with much good sense and playful humour put aside these blended compliments and sarcasms.

Some time before the manager, who was on friendly terms with the gifted Helen Faucit, determined to revive a piece in which she had once made a deep impression, viz., ‘King Réné’s Daughter.’ This poem, translated by her husband, set out the thoughts and feelings of a young girl in the contrasted conditions of blindness and of sight recovered. With a natural enthusiasm for his art, Irving persuaded the actress, who had long since withdrawn from the stage, to emerge from her retirement and play her old character “for one night only.” This news really stirred the hearts of true playgoers, who recalled this actress in her old days of enchantment, when she was in her prime, truly classical and elegant in every pose, playing the pathetic Antigone. But, alas! for the old Antigone dreams; we could have wished that we had stayed away! The actress’s devices seemed to have hung too long a “rusty mail, and seemed quite out of fashion.” Irving did all he could, in an almost chivalrous style, and it was certainly a kindly act of admiration and enthusiasm for his art to think of such a revival. Such homage deserved at least tolerance or recognition.

Miss Terry herself had always fancied the character of Iolanthe, and it was now proposed to give the play as an after-piece to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ a substantial meal for one night. Our heroine made a tender, natural, and highly emotional character of it. A new version or adaptation from the Danish had been made, for obvious reasons, by the trusty Wills: the piece was set off by one really lovely scene, which represented the heart of some deep grove, that seemed almost inaccessible to us, weird and jungle-like. A golden, gorgeous light played on the trees capriciously; there was a rich tangle of huge tropical flowers; while behind, the tall, bare trunks of trees were ranged close together like sentinels. Golden doors opened with a musical chime, or clang; strange, weird music, as of æolian harps, floated up now and again. With this background, knightly figures of the Arthurian pattern and ethereal maidens were seen to float before us. Miss Terry’s conception of the maid was not Miss Faucit’s, which was that of a placid, rather cold and elegant being. She cast over the character a rapture, as though she were all love and impulse, with an inexpressible tenderness and devotional trust, as when she exclaimed, “I _go_ to find the light!” This sort of rapture also tinged Mr. Irving’s character, and the audience were lifted into a region where emotion reigned supreme.