CHAPTER XIV.

1888.

‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD.’

The approach of the opening night of ‘Macbeth’ caused more excitement than perhaps any of the Lyceum productions. There was a sort of fever of expectancy; it was known that everything in the way of novelty—striking and sumptuous dress and scenery, elaborate thought and study, and money had been expended in almost reckless fashion. There were legends afloat as to Miss Terry’s marvellous “beetle-green” dress, and the copper-coloured tresses which were to hang down on her shoulders.[47] The scenery was to be vast, solid, and monumental. It was no surprise when it was learned that before the day of performance some £2,000 had been paid for seats at the box-office.

While allowing due praise to the accomplishments and sagacity of our dramatic critics, I confess to looking with some distrust and alarm at a sort of “new criticism” which, like the so-called “new humour,” has developed in these latter days. This amounts to the assumption of an aggressive personality—there is a constant manifestation, not of the play or performers criticised, but of the writer’s own thoughts and opinions. It seems to be the fashion for a critic to devote his article to Mr. ——, an opposing critic, as though the public attached any importance to the opinions these gentlemen held of each other. The vanity thus unconsciously displayed is often ludicrous enough. The instances, however, are fortunately rare.

Produced on December 29, the play caused considerable excitement among Shakespearian students and “constant readers”; and Miss Terry’s reading—or rather the appearance of Miss Terry in the part—produced much vehement controversy. We had “The Real Macbeth” in the _Daily Telegraph_, with the usual “old playgoers” who had seen Mrs. Charles Kean. I fancy there were but three or four persons who were able to compare the performance of Miss Terry with that of Mrs. Siddons—about sixty years before.[48]

Banquo’s ghost has always been a difficulty in every presentation of the play; all the modern apparitions and phantasmagorian effects neutralize or destroy themselves. The powerful light behind exhibits the figure through the gauzes, but to procure this effect the lights in front must be lowered or darkened. This gives notice in clumsy fashion of what is coming, and prepares us for the ghost.

“New and original” readings rarely seem acceptable, and, indeed, are scarcely ever welcomed by the public, who have their old favourite lines to which they are well accustomed. We never hear one of these novelties without an effect being left as of something “purely fantastical,” as Elia has it, and invariably they seem unacceptable and forced, producing surprise rather than pleasure. Irving rarely introduces these changes. A curious one in ‘Macbeth’ was the alteration of a line—

“She should have died hereafter,”

into

“She would have died hereafter.”

That is a sort of careless dismissal of his wife’s death, as something that must have occurred, according to the common lot.

The irresolution and generally dejected tone of the Scottish King, as presented by the actor, was much criticised, and severely too. There was something “craven,” it was said, in this constant faltering and shrinking. This, however, was the actor’s conscientious “reading” of the part: he was not bound by the Kemble or Macready traditions, but irresistibly impelled to adopt the highly-coloured “romantic” view of our day. He made it interesting and picturesque, and, in parts, forcible. Miss Terry’s Lady Macbeth filled everyone with wonder and admiration; as in the case of her Queen Katherine, it seemed a miracle of energy and dramatic inspiration triumphing over physical difficulties and habitual associations. The task was herculean, and even those who objected could not restrain their admiration.[49]

The pictures set forth in this wonderful representation linger in the memory. The gloomy Scottish scenes, the castles and their halls, the fine spreading landscapes, the treatment of the witches, and Banquo’s ghost, were all but perfect in tone, and had a judicious reserve. There was nothing overlaid or overdone. How admirably and exactly, for instance, did the scene correspond to the beautiful lines:

“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself.”

There painting and poetry went together! The banqueting-hall, the arrangement of the tables, at right angles with the audience, had a strange, barbaric effect, the guests being disposed in the most natural fashion.

After the run of ‘Macbeth’ had ceased, the manager proceeded to carry out a plan which had long been in his thoughts, and which many had suggested to him. This was to give “readings,” in conjunction with Miss Terry, of some of his plays. This would offer some respite from the enormous outlay entailed by producing these great pieces at his theatre. One could fancy that nothing could be more attractive than such “readings,” the interest in the personality of the two great performers being so generally diffused. He re-arranged “Macbeth” for this purpose, and set off on a tour in the provinces. But though everywhere well received, I think the plan did not command the full success that was expected. There was a defect somehow in the plan: two characters seemed to rob the performance of that _unity_ which is the charm of a reading. Further, it was illustrated by the fine music, with orchestra, etc., and this again disturbed the natural simplicity of a reading. The actor’s own vividly-coloured imagination and tastes could not, in fact, be content with the bald and _triste_ mechanisms of the ordinary reader: he tried to impart what ornamentation he could. The experiment was not, however, carried out very long.[50]

Some thirty years before, in the old Adelphi days, when “Ben” Webster was ruling, a drama was produced, the work of a hard-working, drudging dramatist, Watts Phillips. It was a pure melodrama, and people had not yet lost their faith in the old devices. There was an honest belief that villainy would be punished ere the end came. By the laws of such pieces, the most painful situations were always contrasted with scenes of broadest farce, which were supposed to relieve the excited feelings. I well recall these humours. On the revival, however, all this was softened away or abolished, and, I fancy, with some injury to the constitution of the old piece.

The production of ‘The Dead Heart’ furnished one more instance of the tact and abilities which have secured the manager of the Lyceum his high position. Here was a piece of an old-fashioned kind, which, had it been “revived” at an ordinary theatre, would have been found not only flat and stale, but unprofitable for all concerned. Our manager, seeing that it had dramatic life and situations, brought the whole into harmony with the times, and, by the skilful _remaniement_ of Mr. Walter Pollock, imparted to it a romantic grace. It is admitted that he himself has rarely been fitted with a part so suited to his genius and capacities, or in which he has roused the sympathies of his audience more thoroughly. It is only the romantic actor that understands what might be called the _key_ of a play.

In this picturesque part of Robert Landry were exhibited no fewer than four contrasted phases of character: the gay, hopeful young artist; the terribly metamorphosed prisoner of nearly twenty years; the recently delivered man, newly restored to the enjoyment of life; and, lastly, the grim revolutionary chief, full of his stem purpose of vengeance. This offered an opening for the display of versatile gifts, which were certainly brought out in the most striking contrast. But it was in the later scenes of the play, when he appears as the revolutionary chief, that our “manager-actor” exhibited all his resources. Nothing was more artistic than the sense of restraint and reserve here shown, which is founded on human nature. A person who has thus suffered, and with so stem a purpose in view, will be disdainful of speech, and oppressed, as it were, with his terrible design. Quiet, condensed purpose, without any “fiendish” emphasis, was never better suggested. Even when the drop-scene is raised, and he is revealed standing by his table, there is the same morose unrelenting air, with an impression that here was one who had just passed through the fire, and had been executing an act of vengeance which had left its mark.

In a drama like ‘The Dead Heart,’ music forms a fitting accompaniment furnishing colour and appropriate illustration. It is almost uninterrupted from beginning to end. M. Jacobi of the Alhambra furnished some effective, richly-coloured strains to ‘The Dead Heart,’ alternately gay and lugubrious. More, however, might have been made of the stirring ‘Marseillaise,’ which could have been treated in various disguises and patterns as a sort of _Leitmotiv_, much as Litolf has done in his symphonic work on the same subject.

A Scotch play—an adaptation of ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’—was now prepared by Mr. Herman Merivale, a dramatist of much poetical feeling, but whose course was marked by piteous and disastrous incidents. Buoyed up by the encouragement and admiration of his friends, and of kindly critics who found merit in all he did, he struggled on in spite of miserable health and a too highly-strung nervous temperament. His work showed refinement and elegance, but it was more for the reader than the playgoer. A gleam of prosperity, however, came when Mr. Toole began to figure in the writers grotesque pieces, ‘The Don,’ and others—to which, indeed, the author’s wife had contributed some share.

The new piece, which was called ‘Ravenswood,’ had lain long in the manager’s cabinet, where at this moment repose a number of other MSS., “commanded” and already purchased, from the pens of Wills, Frank Marshall, and others. The latter had fashioned Robert Emmett into a picturesque figure, the figure and bearing of the manager having no doubt much that suggested the Irish patriot; but the troubled period of Land Leagues and agrarian violence set in at the time of its acceptance with an awkward _à propos_.[51]

There is a character, indeed, in which, as the tradition runs, he formerly made almost as deep an impression as in ‘The Bells.’ This was Bill Sikes, and we can conceive what a savagery he would have imparted to it. It would seem to be exactly suited to his powers and to his special style; though of course here there would be a suggestion of Dubosc. With Miss Terry as Nancy here would be opened a realm of squalid melodrama, and “Raquin-like” horrors.

There are other effective pieces which seem to invite the performance of this accomplished pair. Such, for instance, is the pathetic, heartrending ‘Venice Preserved.’ Though there might be a temptation here for the scenic artist—since Venice, and its costumes, etc, would stifle the simple pathos of the drama. ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ has been often suggested and often thought of, but it has been effectively done at this theatre by another company. ‘The Jealous Wife’—Mr. and Mrs. Oakley—would also suit well. There is ‘The Winter’s Tale,’ and finally ‘Three Weeks after Marriage’—one of the most diverting pieces of farcical comedy that can be conceived.

‘Ravenswood’ was produced on September 20, 1890. While its scenes were being unfolded before us one could not but feel the general weakness of the literary structure, which was unequal to the rich and costly setting; neither did it correspond to the broad and limpid texture of the original story. It was unfortunately cast, as I venture to think. Mackintosh, who performed Caleb, was somewhat artificial; while Ashton père and his lady, rendered by Bishop and Miss Le Thière, could hardly be taken _au sérieux_. Irving infused a deep and gloomy pathos into his part, and Miss Terry was, as ever, interesting, touching, and charming. But the characters, as was the story, were little more than thinly outlined. The scenes, however, unfolded themselves with fine spectacular effect; nothing could be more impressive than the scene of the first act—a mountain gorge where Ravenswood has come for the entombment of his father, and is interrupted by the arrival of his enemy, Ashton. Beside it the Merivale version appeared bald enough. The weird-like last scene, the “Kelpie Sands,” with the cloak lying on the place of disappearance, the retainer gazing in despair, was one of Irving’s finely poetical conceptions, but it was more spectacular than dramatic. The truth is, where there is so fine a theatre, and where all arts are supplied to set off a piece in sumptuous style, these elements require substantial stuff to support them, otherwise the effect becomes trivial in exact proportion to the adornment.

Irving has been often challenged for not drawing on the talent of native dramatists, and for not bringing forward “new and original” pieces. The truth is, at this moment we may look round and seek in vain for a writer capable of supplying a piece large and forcible enough in plot and character to suit the Lyceum. We have Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones, but they are writers of comedies and problem-dramas. Wills, in spite of his faults, had genuine faith in the old methods. He was of the school of Westland Marston. In this dearth of talent, it might be well for Irving to give a commission to a French dramatist to work on whatever subject he fancied, and have the piece adapted.

It was at the Christmas season of 1891 that the manager was enabled to carry out a plan that had for years been before him—a revival of ‘Henry VIII.’ We can quite conceive how, as the fashion always was with him, the play ripened as it were with meditation; how, as he walked or followed the consoling fumes of his cigar in his chamber at Grafton Street, each scene fell into shape or suggested some new and effective arrangement, which again might be discarded as difficulties arose, or as something happier occurred to him. The result of these meditations was unquestionably a “large” and splendid setting of the play, which, to my mind, whatever be the value of the opinion, is certainly one of the finest, most finished, most poetical, and sufficient of the many works that he has set before us.[52] There was a greater Shakespearian propriety, and the adornments, however lavish, might all be fairly justified. Most to be admired was the supreme elegance of touch found in every direction—acting, scenery, dresses, music, all reflected the one cultivated mind. The truth is, long practice and the due measuring of his own exertion have now supplied an ease and boldness in his effects. To appreciate this excellence we have only to turn to similar attempts made by others, whether managers, or manager-actors, or manager-authors—and we find only the conventional exertion of the scene-painter and stage-manager. They have not the same inspiration.

This play, produced on January 5, 1892, was received with great enthusiasm. It became “a common form” of criticism to repeat that it was of doubtful authorship; that it was nothing but a number of scenes strung together; that there was no story; that Buckingham vanished almost at the beginning of the play; and that towards the end, Wolsey vanished also. These, as I venture to say, are but ignorant objections; characters will always supply a dramatic story, or a dramatic interest that amounts to a story, and in the fate of Wolsey and of Katherine, gradually developed and worked out, we had surely a story sufficiently interesting.

I have little doubt that Irving kept steadily in view the object the great author had before him, viz., to present a page of history enriched by all the suitable accompaniments of dress and manners and customs. In this he was perfectly and triumphantly successful. We were taken into the great chambers, and tribunals; shown the ecclesiastical pomp and state, so difficult to conceive now; the processions passing through the streets, and presented in an exceedingly natural and unconventional fashion.[53] The drama was set forth fully, with every adjunct of dress, furniture, scenes, and numbers of auxiliaries.

The scenery, offering wonderful perspectives of Tudor halls and interiors, the arrangements of the courts and various meetings, were original and very striking. Yet here I should be inclined to suggest anew the objections often made to the modern system of large groupings compressed into the small area of a stage, which, as it seems, is opposed to the canons of scenic art.[54] These, too, seemed to acquire new force from the arrangement of the “Trial scene,” as it was called, which displayed a great hall with the daïs, seats for the Cardinal, the King, etc. The result of thus supplying a great area by the system of compression (I am speaking merely of the principle), is that the leading figures become dwindled in scale and overpowered by the surrounding crowd. The contrast with the older system is brought out by Harlow’s well-known picture, where only the leading figures are grouped, and where by consequence they stand out in greater relief. The spectator stands, as it were, close beside them; but by the modern arrangement he appears to be afar off, at the bottom of the hall, obtaining but a distant view of them.[55]

When we consider what are the traditions of the two great characters, how vivid they are, from the deep impressions left by the great brother and sister on their contemporaries—an impression which has really extended to our time—too much praise could hardly be given to the performance of Irving and his gifted companion. Irving’s Wolsey was exactly what those familiar with his other impersonations could anticipate—poetical, elegant, and in many portions powerful. He was the churchman to perfection, carrying his robes admirably; in the face there was a suggestion of the late departed Cardinal Manning. All through the piece there was that picturesque acting which fills the eye, not the ear, at the moment when speech is at rest. It is thus that are confuted those theorists, including Elia, who hold that Shakespeare is to be read, not acted.

It is perhaps the power of suggestion and of stirring our imagination that brings about this air of fulness and richness. Irving, when he was not speaking, _acted_ the pomp and state and consummately depicted the smoothness of the Cardinal. When he was lost to view you felt the application of the oft-quoted line touching the absence of “the well-grac’d” actor from the scene, and it was wonderful to think, as we glanced round the brilliant _salle_—glittering with its vast crowd of well-dressed, even jewelled, women (“Quite an opera pit!” as Ellison would say)—to the fine stage before us, with its showy figures, pictures, and pageants, that all this was _his_ work and of his creation!

There were many diverse criticisms on Irving’s conception of this famous character; some held that it was scarcely “large,” rude, or overbearing enough. His view, however, as carried out, seemed natural and consistent. The actor wished to exhibit the character as completely overwhelmed by adverse fortune; witness Macbeth, Othello, and many other characters. In the last great soliloquy it was urged there was a want of variety. Still, allowing for all traditional defects, it stands beyond contradiction that it was a “romantic” performance, marked by “distinction,” and a fine grace; and we might vainly look around for any performer of our time who could impart so poetical a cast to the character. And we may add a praise which I am specially qualified to give, viz., that he was the perfect ecclesiastic: as he sat witnessing the revels, now disturbed, now careless—there was the Churchman revealed; he was not, as was the case with so many others, a performer robed in clerical garb.

Of Miss Terry’s Queen Katharine, it can be said that it was an _astonishing_ performance, and took even her admirers by surprise. She made the same almost gigantic effort as she did in ‘Macbeth’ to interpret a vast character, one that might have seemed beyond her strength, physical as well as mental. By sheer force of will and genius she contrived to triumph. It was not, of course, the _great_ Queen Katharine of Mrs. Siddons, nor did she awe and command all about her; but such earnestness and reality and dramatic power did she impart to the character that she seemed to supply the absence of greater gifts. Her performance in the Court and other scenes of the persecuted, hunted woman, now irritated, now resigned, was truly pathetic and realistic. There may have been absent the overpowering, queen-like dignity, the state and heroism, but it was impossible to resist her—it was her “way,” and by this way she gained all hearts. It must be confessed that nothing ever supplied such an idea of the talents and “cleverness” of this truly brilliant woman as her victory over the tremendous difficulties of these parts. The performance won her the sympathies of all in an extraordinary degree.

So admirably had our manager been penetrated with the spirit of the scenes, that he was enabled to present them in a natural and convincing way, and seemed to revive the whole historic time and meaning of the situation. This was particularly shown in the scene when Buckingham is led to execution; his address to the crowd was delivered with so natural a fashion, with such judicious and pathetic effect, that it not only gained admiration for the performance, but brought the scene itself within range of every day life. For, instead of the old conventional declamatory speech to a stage crowd, we had some “words” which the sufferer, on entering the boat, stopped for a moment to address to sympathizers who met him on the way.

The music, the work of a young composer, Mr. Edward German, was truly romantic and expressive; stately and richly-coloured. How wonderful, by the way, is the progress made of late years in theatrical music! We have now a group of composers who expend their talents and elegancies in the adornment of the stage. The flowing melodies and stately marches of the Lyceum music still linger in the ear.

It was in January, 1892, when he was performing in ‘Henry VIII.,’ that a very alarming piece of news, much magnified by report, reached him. His son Laurence was playing at Belfast in the Benson Company, and had by some accident shot himself with a revolver; this casualty was exaggerated to an extraordinary degree,—three local doctors issued bulletins; “the lung had been pierced”—until the anxious father at last sent over an experienced surgeon, Mr. Lawson Tait, who was able to report that the wound was trivial, and the weapon a sort of “toy-pistol.” Much sympathy was excited by this casualty. The manager has two sons, Henry and Laurence, the latter named after Mr. Toole, who are now both following their father’s profession.