CHAPTER XII.

1884.

‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS.

On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’ was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course, the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.” But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of the audience.

It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat _too_ much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas, as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly, as it were, that he is only half in earnest.

A most delightful sense of pure natural comedy was induced by the likeness between the Terrys, brother and sister, who had a sort of Shakespearian elegance in their bearing. But this did not avail much with the uncultured crowd. It was objected also that the play was set forth somewhat pedantically and too much _au grand sérieux_, many of the actors, not being comedians—witness Mr. Terriss—imparting a literal tone to all they said and did. This was not without its effect on the audience, who by the very promise of seriousness were beguiled into expecting something serious. Irving himself was not wholly free from this method; and in the strange scene of the imprisonment, so difficult to “carry off,” he was deeply tragic, as if really suffering, and without any underlying grotesqueness. His exit, too, with solemn menaces, had the air of retributive punishment in store.

Now followed a second expedition to the States, as well as to Canada, the details of which I pass over. On the reopening of his theatre on his return a rather disagreeable episode occurred, connected with an alteration he had made in the arrangement of his house. It was announced that places in the pit might be reserved and secured in advance, which gave rise to indignant protest and to cries of “_Give us back our Pit_.” The question was warmly discussed in the newspapers.

The advantage of the debate was that it clearly established a true theatrical principle—viz., that the pit and galleries are intended for the crowd, and should be free and open to the “man in the street”: that the best seats here must be the prize of the strongest and most patient. The principle of numbering and booking, it was shown, would actually abolish the pit. The judicious manager understood and recognised the public discontent, and made announcement that on May 18 he would restore the old custom.

In accordance with his engagement, the manager now proceeded to get ready Wills’s pleasing and sympathetic drama, ‘Olivia.’ This was no doubt selected with a view to furnishing a fresh opportunity for the display of Miss Terry’s attractions; but it will be seen that she was not to be altogether the cynosure of the whole, and that two other accomplished performers were to share the honours of the piece. It was produced on May 27, 1885, and excited much interest. The creation of Dr. Primrose is one of the most interesting and most original of Irving’s characters. It is elaborated and finished to the very highest point, and yet there is no lack of simplicity or unaffected grace. The character suited him in every way, and seemed to hold completely in check all his little “mannerisms,” as they are called. There was a sort of Meissonnier delicacy in his touches, and scarcely any other of his characters is so filled in and rounded with unspoken acting—that is, by the play of facial expression, gesture, walk, etc. It is, indeed, a delightful performance, and always holds the audience, which attentively follows the Vicar’s successive emotions. These the actor allows unconsciously, as it were, to escape him, as he pursues his little domestic course unconscious of spectators. One reason for this complete success was, of course, that Irving, like so many others, had read, known, and felt this engaging character from his childhood, altogether outside dramatic conditions, though of course it is not every play that enjoys this advantage.

As we look back to the Lyceum, the eye rests with infinite pleasure on the engaging figure of the Vicar, with his powdered wig and rusted suit, and that amiable smile of simplicity which betokened what agreeable fancies were occupying his mind. There he was, the centre of a happy family, content with the happiness of his wife and children. No picture could have been prettier. With an exquisite feeling of propriety, the quaint, antique associations were developed, and no more pleasing scene could have been conceived, or one that lingers more in the memory, than the scene at night, when the family are singing at the spinet, Moses accompanying with his flute,[39] the Vicar in his chair, the cuckoo-clock in the corner. It was a fine instinct that directed these things.

It should be added that the piece had been somewhat altered from its first shape, and no doubt gained from the manager’s suggestions. One of the most astonishing things connected with it is the admirably firm and coherent construction, it being laid out in the most effective way. Its various characters are introduced with singular skill. The last act seemed, indeed, somewhat superfluous and too much drawn out; but the whole design was really admirable. Yet its adapter was admittedly deficient in the arts of construction, and most of his other pieces display singular and even ludicrous incoherencies. It might be that he had received assistance in this individual case, or had been so inspired by the subject as to triumph over his own defects.

Such tales as these—world-wide stories that belong to all countries and to all time—Shakespearian, in short—seem on repetition to have the air of novelty; at least, they always interest. The situations are dramatic, and the characters even more dramatic than the situations. Miss Terry’s Olivia is not only one of her best characters, but is a most touchingly graceful and varied performance. The gifted pair are indeed at their best here. In the excellently-contrived scene at the Dragon, Miss Terry’s transition of horror, astonishment, rage, shame, succeeding each other, were displayed with extraordinary force and variety. Some insisted that the part suffered from her restlessness, but, as it was happily said, “She is for ever flickering about the stage in a series of _poses_, or rather disturbance of _pose_, each in itself so charming that one can hardly account for the distrust she herself shows of it by instantly changing it for another.” The other characters were no less excellent in their way. Terriss, as the Squire, was admirably suited, his very defect—an excessively pronounced brusqueness—adding to the effect. I recollect it was said at the time in the theatre that there was only the one performer for Thornhill, and that one Terriss. He—and he only—must be secured. He never performed so well as in this character.

A year later there occurred what must have been one of the most gratifying incidents in the actor’s career, and one of the most pleasant to recall. The Oxford commencements, held on June 26, 1886, were more than usually brilliant. At that time, the late learned and popular Dr. Jowett was Vice-Chancellor, a man, as is well known, of the largest sympathies. Though a divine, he took a deep interest in Irving and his profession. On its being proposed to confer honorary degrees on certain distinguished guests, including Mr. John Bright, the Vice-Chancellor, it is said, suggested the name of the well-known actor. There was something, as I say, dramatic or characteristic in this proposal, coming as it did from so expressive a personality. The University, however, was not prepared to go so far as this, though the proposal was only negatived, it is said, by a narrow majority of two votes. The vigorous purpose of the Vice-Chancellor was not to be thus baffled, and by a brilliant _coup_ he contrived that the very omission of the actor’s name—like the absence of one portrait from a series—should suggest that the chief performer had been “left” out, and thus supplied a fresh element in the brilliancy of his reception. He invited him to deliver a lecture on his art in the very precincts of the University, and under the patronage of its most distinguished professors and “Heads,” and it may be conceived that the figure of the popular player became the cynosure of attraction in the brilliant academic show.

“For when the well-grac’d actor quits the scene, The eyes of men are idly bent on him that enters next.”

When it became known that the actor was to give his address, everyone of note and culture and importance in the place rushed to secure seats. Some fourteen hundred persons were present, with most of “the Heads of Houses,” and distinguished professors. Dr. Jowett welcomed him in some warm and well-chosen phrases, telling him how much honoured they felt by his coming to them. A good English actor, he said happily enough, lived in the best company—that of Goethe and Shakespeare; and coming from such, he might seem to convey that he was good enough company for them.

But during the year 1892 the University of Dublin was the first to recognise officially the actor’s position, and at the celebration of its tercentenary conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, in company with many distinguished men. Indeed, Irving’s sympathetic temperament has always been specially acceptable to this University, and the youths of Trinity College from the beginning were eager to exhibit their appreciation and admiration of his talent. They would attend him home from the theatre in uproarious procession, and sing songs in his praise in the galleries. So early as June, 1877, he had given a reading in the University in its great Examination Hall. The Provost, the Dean, and other “dons” all attended. He gave ‘Richard III.,’ a chapter of ‘David Copperfield,’ and ‘Eugene Aram.’ An illuminated address was presented to him, and to make the day truly festive and collegiate, the actor dined in the hall, the guest of the college, and went his way covered with honours.

Later came the turn of Edinburgh, where he was much considered, and in 1881 delivered a lecture before the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute. He gave, also, an interesting lecture on acting at the Royal Institution in London. With pleasure, too, must he look back to his welcome at Harvard University, in the United States. The novelty of the scene, the warm welcome accorded to him in a strange land, must have made a most welcome form of honour. He delivered a lecture on the “Art of Acting”—his favourite topic—in the great Sande’s Theatre, into which over two thousand persons were crowded—the usual audience was sixteen hundred. An enormous crowd blocked the doors, so that the actor on his arrival could not gain admittance, and had to be taken in by a subterranean passage. The president was in a conspicuous place, and all the professors and dons attended. Another American University, that of Cambridge, also invited him to lecture (rather to give instruction) before them, and the newspapers of the country declared that the honours with which he was welcomed were really “unprecedented.” Again he discoursed on the “Art of Acting.” An even more flattering and unusual compliment was the invitation to the Military Academy at West-point, where, with his company, he performed ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in Elizabethan dresses, but without scenery—to the huge enjoyment of professors and students. Here is a round of University distinctions that has never fallen to the lot of any other actor. We may see in it an instinctive recognition of a cultured and artistic feeling that has influenced the community and done excellent educational service.

Irving had long wished to display his sardonic power in Goethe’s great character of Mephistopheles. He had already given proof of his quality in this line in Louis XI. and Richard III.; but there was a piquancy and range in Mephistopheles which naturally offered him an attraction, from the mixture of the comic or grotesque with deep tragic force. It also offered room for a superb and almost unlimited display of scenic magnificence. It was no secret, too, that in this particular display he was resolved to surpass all his previous efforts.

To Wills was entrusted the work of preparing the adaptation, this writer having, as I said, a command of flowing and melodious versification, which, moreover, was fitted to the actor’s delivery. The adapter had completed his task many years before, and the piece had long lain in the manager’s desk. During this period he let his conception of the piece slowly ripen; he discussed it with scholars; thought over it; while the adapter, a German student himself, revised his work at intervals according to the views of his chief. All this was judicious enough. It was, however, destined to be the last work that he was to prepare for his old friend and faithful Lyceum patron. It must be said that the latest adapter was not altogether well fitted for the task, as he was too much given to descriptions and “recitations,” while Mephistopheles might have been made far more of.

The preparations made were of the most thorough kind. For months the manager’s rooms were hung round with a profusion of sketches by artists of all kinds, relics of Nuremberg and the Goethe country, with old engravings of Albert Dürer, and great folios of costumes. To permeate himself with something of the tone and feeling of the piece, he travelled in Germany, accompanied by his scene-painter, Mr. Craven. Both stayed at Nuremberg, where the artist imbued himself with the whole poetry of the old city. Everyone of artistic feeling will recall one truly romantic scene—a simple cloth set very forward on the scene, perhaps to its disadvantage—a view of the old city, with its dull red high roofs and quaintly-peaked spires.

During the preparations, the theatre, now some eighty years old, had been redecorated afresh, but at the complete sacrifice of the old Vestris adornments, the elegant medallions or cameos, and the double-gilt pillars, which were thought to interfere with the view. The outline of the dress-circle was brought forward with some gain of space, and its graceful undulations were abolished. For such changes no one can be brought to account—the irresistible pressure of the time and the laws of convenience bring them about. An entirely new system of decoration was introduced, suggested by that of Raffaelle’s Loggie at the Vatican, which seemed scarcely sober enough for an auditorium. More structural changes were also made in the interests of the galleries, of which the manager has always shown himself careful.

On December 19, 1886, the piece was produced. There was the now invariable excitement of a Lyceum _première_, and there were stories of frantic efforts, grovellings, implorings, etc., to obtain a seat. A peer had actually been seen in the gallery—and was more than content with his place. The Royal Family were in their box, and the Prince, then in mourning, watched the play from behind the scenes. Mephistopheles was destined for many a night to give the keenest enjoyment to vast audiences. It was, indeed, a most original conception. With successive performances he enriched it with innumerable telling and grotesque touches; for, as I have said, the adapter had “laid out” the character on rather conventional lines. In spite of all these defects, he suggested the notion of “uncanniness” and a supernatural _diablerie_. His antic scaring of the women at the church-door will be recalled by many. Miss Terry’s Marguerite was full of pathos and poetry, occasionally suggesting, as in the “Jewel” scene, the operatic heroine. But at the first performance it became plain that a serious mistake had been made in the choice of Conway for the hero, Faust. He seemed scarcely to feel or understand the part; there was a lack of passion and sympathy. It was, indeed, an overwhelming burden for a player whose gifts lay in the direction of light comedy.

But on one Saturday night the audience was somewhat astonished to see before them a new Faust, one who, moreover, came on with a book in his hand, which he continued to read aloud even after Mephisto had paid him his visit through the steam clouds. It proved that Conway was suffering from gout, and Alexander, resigning his own character to Tyars, took the _rôle_ of Faust, which on the following night he assumed permanently, and “discharged” in the regular way. Considering the shortness of the notice, he performed this awkward duty _en vrai artiste_—as, indeed, might be expected.[40] However, the cast was further strengthened by the excellent Mrs. Stirling, whose part was scarcely worthy of her. Placing a strong performer in a part that is inferior in strength, instead of improving or fortifying, only further brings out the poverty of the character.

In this piece numerous scientific devices were introduced to add to the effect, such as the clouds of steam which veiled the apparition of Mephistopheles, a device of French origin. This is scarcely illusive, as it is attended by an unmistakable “hissing” sound, as of a locomotive; it seems what it is—namely, steam. The blue electric light flashed with weird effect as the swords of Valentine and Faust crossed. But here again there was an electric wire and “contact,” and a current “switched on.” It may be paradoxical to say so, but these “advances” in scenic art are really retrograde steps.

Of the regular scenes or structures put on the stage, it would be difficult to say too much. The grandly-built porch of the Church of St. Lorentz Platz at Nuremberg, and the buildings grouped round it, were extraordinary works of construction, the porch being “moulded” in all its details, and of the real or natural size. Another scene that lingers in the memory with a sort of twilight melancholy is the garden scene, which again illustrates the admirable instinct of the manager. Red-brick walls of calm, quiet tones, old trees, and, above all, the sombre towers of the city, were seen in the distance. The dresses of the characters were chosen to harmonize, and the deep sunset cast a melancholy glow or tinge over all. The most striking effects were contrived by changes of the lights and “mediums.”

The Brocken scene, for its vastness and ambitious attempt to suggest space and atmosphere, has never been surpassed. Most people were struck by the bewildering crowd of unearthly spirits, witches, and demons, etc.; but the real marvel was the simulation of the chill mountain atmosphere, the air of dizziness, of mists that hover over vast crevasses and depths, and make one shiver to look at. The designing, direction, and controlling of the elements in this wonderful scene seemed a bewildering and gigantic task.

The vision of Angels in the last act seemed a little conventional. There were many objections, too, taken mostly by Germans, to the treatment of the great story, such as the fixing of the scene at Nuremberg instead of at Leipsic, the placing the drinking bout in the open air, and at the tavern door, instead of in Auerbach’s cellar. These changes could not, of course, be justified, save on the ground of theatrical expediency.

For seven months, though ‘Faust’ continued to attract vast houses, it had really, as the manager said, “only started on its wild career.” On the occasion of Miss Terry’s benefit, he made an interesting, half-jocular speech announcing his plans.

The ninety-ninth night of ‘Faust’ was celebrated in a remarkable and somewhat appropriate fashion. The venerable Abbé Liszt was at this time in London, followed with an eager curiosity, affecting even the “cabbies” with interest, who were heard talking of the “Habby List.” No one who had seen him at this time will forget the striking personality of this interesting and brilliant man. He was induced to visit the theatre, and to witness the performance. After the first act, the orchestra broke into his own “Hungarian March,” and, being presently recognised by the audience, the great virtuoso received a perfect ovation. He followed the piece throughout with singular interest, and applauded with enthusiasm. After the play was over, he was welcomed at a supper in the old Beef-steak dining-room, where there were invited to meet him a few distinguished persons. His favourite dishes—“lentil pudding, lamb cutlets, mushrooms in batter”—were prepared for him by Gunter’s _chef_. He was delighted with this delicate hospitality. This is one of the many pleasant and dignified memories associated with the Lyceum.

It was when ‘Faust’ was being played that the catastrophe of the burning of the French Opéra Comique occurred. This excited general sympathy, and the kindly manager of the Lyceum promised that when the proper time came he would furnish assistance. In due course a performance of ‘Faust’ was announced for the benefit of the sufferers, and a crowded audience assembled. Everyone concerned—and they were to be counted by hundreds—gave their services gratis—the manager behaved in his own liberal style—and, as the result, a sum of £419 was despatched to Paris. This liberality was much appreciated by the French press. The _Figaro_ devoted an article to a review of the various characters played by the English actor, and in flattering terms pointed out that, notwithstanding all his detractors, Mr. Henry Irving was “the most perfect gentleman.”

During the performance of ‘Faust,’ Miss Terry found the fatigue excessive, and, not being very strong at the time, had to resign her part. During these intervals, the character was supported by a clever young actress, bearing an historic name, Miss Winifred Emery, who brought much intelligence and refinement to her task. It was generally agreed that, considering her resources, she had supplied the place of the absent actress very well indeed. The _feu sacré_ was, of course, not to be expected, and cannot be supplied to order.

This appreciation of our manager-actor by the French will naturally suggest the inquiry, What is his reputation generally in that eminently theatrical country, whence we draw our chief supply of dramas and dramatic ideas, and whose school of acting is perhaps the first in Europe? So frequent have been the visits of French companies to London, that nearly all the leading performers have had opportunities of seeing the English actor perform. Their ignorance of the language has, of course, stood in the way of a satisfactory judgment—they cannot follow the play as an average Englishman will follow a French piece; but all have been struck by his fine faculty of imparting colour and romance to a character, and have broken into raptures over the intelligence that directs the scene, and the lavish magnificence of the _spectacle_.

The memorable visit of the French Comedy to London in 1879, and the fine series of performances in which every player of note displayed his talent, curiously coincided with the new departure on the English stage. Few will forget the deep impressions left by that season or the opportunities afforded for a liberal education in dramatic taste. With the company came the _fine fleur_ of French critics, Sarcey, Claretie (since become director of the company he had so often criticized), and others of less note. These judges were glad to seize an opportunity, which under other circumstances they would never have thought of seeking, of visiting the Lyceum and witnessing the performances of the most distinguished of English actors. I recall Sarcey at this time, a coarsely-built man, with not very refined features, lounging night after night into his stall, with an air of something like arrogance. He did not relish his enforced banishment from the Boulevards, and indemnified himself by making rather free criticisms on the French players. He was induced to go and see some of the English performances, but with an amusing hauteur pleaded his ignorance of the language as an excuse for not passing any serious judgment.

“Having weighed the matter well, I have determined to say very little regarding English actors. I have as yet seen but a few, and those only through the medium of a language imperfectly understood. I should be placing myself in a ridiculous position if I had the impertinence to touch upon matters which I am thus incompetent to deal with. I may remark, however, that Mr. Henry Irving appeared to me a remarkable actor, notwithstanding a wilful tendency to exaggeration. Possibly, in this latter respect, he followed rather the taste of his audience, whom his instinct judges, than his own deliberate choice.”

To these brilliant and gifted strangers, however, the new manager did the honours of his craft and extended to them a kindly hospitality. Indeed, since that day, no distinguished artist has visited these shores without being welcomed with rare hospitality.[41]

The most accomplished of French comedians is Coquelin _ainé_, an extraordinary performer, from the versatility and even classical character of his talents. This gifted man, who never appears without imparting intellectual enjoyment of the highest kind, seems to have always been attracted to the English actor, though exhibiting his feelings in an oddly mixed fashion, compounded of admiration and hostility. Analysis of the workings of character is the most entertaining of pastimes, and is, of course, the foundation of theatrical enjoyment; and the public has much relished the controversies between two such eminent personages. In 1886 Coquelin, during a supper at Mrs. Mackay’s, was invited in a very flattering way by the Prince of Wales to play in London under Mr. Mayer. At this time, in obedience to the very natural “force and pressure” of gain which was beginning to dissolve the great company of the French Comedy, he had begun to “star it,” as it is called, in the various capitals of Europe, and having found himself appreciated in London at private houses, as well as on the stage, he seems to have nourished a feeling that he was contending for the suffrages of the public with the English actor! Not that he was conscious of any actual “jealousy,” but something of this impression was left on those who were watching the incident. In matters of art, however, such contentions are healthy, and pardonable enough.

An early token of this curious feeling was offered in an article published in _Harper’s Magazine_ in May, 1887, where the French actor discussed with some acuteness the different systems of acting in England and in France, particularly in the matter of what is called “natural” or materialistic acting. He dwelt on the question how far the gifts of the comedian will enable him to exhibit tragic characters, contending that the practice of minute observation would materially aid him.

What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable _bourgeois_, a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian, well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse; Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears, and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.” The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking for both.

A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said, “would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national theatre.

“‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London. Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.

“What a profound artist this tragedian is! The performance over, I was taken to see him in his dressing-room. I found him surrounded by portraits of Richelieu. He had before him the three studies of Philippe de Champaigne, one representing Richelieu in full face, and the others in profile. There was also a photograph of the same painter’s full-length portrait of the Cardinal. Before playing Louis XI. again, Mr. Irving studied Commines, Victor Hugo, Walter Scott, and all who have written of the _bourgeois_ and avaricious king, who wore out the elbows of his _pourpoint de ratine_ on the tables of his gossips, the skin-dressers and shoemakers. The actor is an adept in the art of face-painting, and attaches great importance to the slightest details of his costume.

“I asked him what other historical personage he would like to represent, what face he, who excelled in what I call stage-resurrection, would wish to revive. He reflected a moment, his countenance assuming a thoughtful expression. ‘Français ou Anglais?’ he at length asked. ‘Français ou Anglais: peu importe,’ I replied. ‘Eh bien!’ he said, after another short pause, ‘je serais heureux de créer un Camille Desmoulins.’

“Mr. Irving’s literary and subtle mind leans to psychological plays—plays which, if I may so express myself, are more tragic than dramatic. He is the true Shakespearian actor. How great was the pleasure which the performance of ‘Hamlet’ afforded me! For a literary man it is a source of real enjoyment. Mr. Irving, as manager of the Lyceum, spends more than £3,000 a month to do things on an adequate scale. His theatre is the first in London. He would like to make it a sort of Comédie Française, as he would like to found a sort of Conservatoire to afford young English artists the instruction they stand so much in need of.

“In Louis XI. Mr. Irving has been adjudged superior to Ligier. Dressed with historical accuracy, he is admirable in the comedy element of the piece and the chief scenes with the Monk and Nemours. The limelight projected like a ray of the moon on his contracted face as he pleads for his life excited nothing less than terror. The hands, lean and crooked as those of a Harpagon—the fine hands whose character is changed with each of his _rôles_—aid his words. And how striking in its realism is the last scene, representing the struggle between the dying king and his fate!”

Another admirable French player, Got, once the glory of the French Comédie, and unquestionably the most powerful and varied performer of his day, used to come a good deal to London between the years 1870 and 1880.

It was a singular tribute to Irving that so great a player, in his day greater even than Coquelin, should have been drawn from his retirement to take up one of his characters. Got, the “Dean of the French stage,” as Irving is “Dean” of the English theatre, by-and-by felt himself irresistibly impelled to give his version of ‘The Bells.’ He induced a Paris manager to draw forth the long-forgotten piece from its obscurity, and presented Mathias very much on the _bourgeois_ lines of Coquelin.