CHAPTER X.

1882.

‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET.

By March 8, 1882, the great revival of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was ready. For this performance the manager drew upon all the resources of his taste, purse, study, and experience. The fascinating play, indeed, offered opportunities for adornment only too tempting. Those glittering, bewitching pictures still linger in the memory of the playgoer, though more than ten years have elapsed since the opening night “Among the restorations will be found that of Romeo’s unrequited love for Rosaline, omitted, among other things, in Garrick’s version.”

Those who came away from the Lyceum on that opening night must have had a sense almost of bewilderment, so rich and dazzling were the scenes of light and colour that had for hours passed before their eyes. According to the true illusive principle in use on this stage, the lights are lowered as every scene is about to change, by which a sense of mystery is produced, and the prosaic mechanism of the movement is shrouded. Hence, a sort of richness of effect and surprise as the gloom passes away and a gorgeous scene steeped in effulgence and colour is revealed. It would take long to detail the beautiful views, streets, palaces, chambers, dresses, groupings, that were set before the audience, all devised with an extraordinary originality and fertility of resource; though this was the third of these Italian revivals. When it is considered that there were twenty-two scenes, and that most of these were “sets,” it is amazing with what rapidity and smoothness the changes were contrived. Not the least pleasurable part of the whole was the romantic music, written in a flowing, tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of a juvenile freedom and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the grace and character of Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde.’ In the exquisite garden, with its depth of silvered trees glistening in the moonlight, viewed from a terrace, the arrangement of the balcony was the only successful solution seen as yet. It has always been forgotten that Juliet has to act—is, as it were, “on the stage”—and should not be perched in a little wobbling cage. Here it was made a sort of solid loggia, as much a part of the stage as that upon which her lover was standing. I fancy this was the scenic triumph of the night.

When it is considered that Romeo and Juliet are characters almost impossible to perform so as to reach the Shakespearian ideal, it becomes easier to “liberate one’s mind” on the subject of the performance of the two leading characters. The chief objection was that they scarcely presented the ideal of superabundant youth—boyish and girlish—required by the play. I have always thought this a point to be but little insisted upon; it is much the same as with strictness of costume, which is overpowered, as it were, by the acting. It is the _acting_ of youth, not the appearance of youth, that is required; and a case is conceivable where all the flush of youth with its physical accompaniments may be present in perfection, and yet from failure of the acting the idea of maturity and age may be conveyed.[30] In the dramatic ballroom scene, when he was moving about arrayed as a pilgrim, the unbecoming dress and rather too swarthy features seemed to convey the presentment of a person in the prime of life. The critics spoke freely in this sense.

In the latter, more tragic portion of the play, the very intensity of the emotion seemed to add maturity and depth to the character of Romeo. Nothing could better supply the notion of impending destiny, of gathering gloom, than the view of the dismal heart-chilling street, the scene of the visit to the apothecary. Our actor’s picturesque sense was shown in his almost perfect conception of this situation. The forlorn look of the houses, the general desolation, the stormy grandeur in keeping with the surroundings, the properly subdued grotesqueness of the seller of simples (it was the grotesqueness of _misery_ that was conveyed), filled the heart with a sadness that was almost real. In Miss Terry’s case there was a division of opinions, some thinking her performance all but perfect, others noting the absence of “girlishness.” All agreed as to its engaging character and its winning charm. Terriss was the Mercutio, which he gave with his favourite blunt impetuosity. But one of the most perfectly played characters was Mrs. Stirling’s Nurse. This accomplished woman represented all the best traditions—high training, admirable elocution, with the art of giving due weight and breadth to every utterance. And yet—here was a curious phenomenon—the very excellence of the delineation disturbed the balance of the play. The Nurse became almost as important as the leading performers, but not from any fault of the actress. She but followed the due course. This is a blemish which is found in many exhibitions of Shakespearian plays, where the inferior actor works up his Dogberry, or his Gravedigger, or his Jacques to the very fullest extent of which they are capable. But there should be subordination; these are merely humours exhibited _en passant_. With an actress of Mrs. Stirling’s powers and rank, the manager no doubt felt too much delicacy to interfere; nor would perhaps the audience have placidly accepted any effacing of her part. But as it was, the figure of this humble retainer became unduly prominent.[31]

‘Romeo and Juliet’ was witnessed one night by the impetuous Sarah Bernhardt, who afterwards came behind the scenes to congratulate the performers. “How can you act in this way every night?” she exclaimed to Ellen Terry. The latter, in her simple, natural way, explained: “It is the audience—they inspire me!”

Such was this refined, elegant, and truly brilliant spectacle, which, as usual, furnished “talk for the town,” and stirred its interest. The hundredth night of performance was celebrated by a banquet on the stage, on Sunday night, June 25, 1882. Here assembled critics, dramatists, artists, _e tutti quanti_; there were many admirers, friends, and sympathizers present, some of whom have since passed away—Sir W. Hardman, Dr. Cox, Laman Blanchard, Palgrave Simpson, and many more. There is a sadness in thinking of these disappearances.

Among the guests at the banquet was Mr. Abbey, the American manager, well known for his many daring and very successful _coups_ in management. In the course of the night there were some rumours circulated as to the motives of his presence in town; but an allusion in Irving’s speech, when he said pointedly that he hoped next year to have good experience of the cordiality of American audiences, set the matter at rest. This scheme had long been in his thoughts; and, indeed, already many invitations and proposals had been made to him to visit the United States. There was something dazzling and fascinating in this prospect of going forth to conquer a new great kingdom and new audiences. There was the chance, too, of riches “beyond the dreams of avarice.” No wonder, then, that the scheme began to take shape, and was presently to be decided upon.

After one hundred and thirty nights’ performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ the season was brought to a close, the manager taking “a benefit” on his last night. Some ungracious folk object to this old-established form of compliment, but he defended it in a very modest and judicious way.