CHAPTER XV.

1892.

‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET.’

After presenting so many of Shakespeare’s great dramas, it was to be expected that the manager could not well pass by what has been justly styled the Titanic play of ‘King Lear.’ This had, indeed, always been in his thoughts; but he naturally shrank from the tremendous burden it entailed. It was prepared in his usual sumptuous style. There were sixteen changes of scene and twenty-two characters, and the music was furnished by Hamilton Clarke. The scenery was divided between Craven and Harker, the latter a very effective artist of the same school. There were some beautiful romantic effects: the halls, the heath, and notably the Dover scenes, were exquisite. I doubt if their presentation has been excelled by any preceding attempts. The barbaric tone and atmosphere of the piece was conveyed to perfection, without being insisted on or emphasized. It is only when we compare the ambitious attempts of other managers who would indulge in effects equally lavish and sumptuous, that we recognise the ability, ease, reserve, and force of the Lyceum manager.[56] They, too, will have their “archæology” and their built-up temples, designed by painters of repute, and crowds; but there is present only the sense of stage effect and the flavour of the supernumerary. The secret is the perfect subordination of such details to the general effect. They should be, like the figures on a tapestry, indistinct, but effective as a background. Charles Lamb’s well-worn dictum, that ‘Lear’ should never be acted, was trotted forth in every criticism. There is some truth in this exaggerated judgment, because it can never be _adequately_ presented, and the performance must always fall short of the original grandeur. With his remarks on the pettiness of the stage-storm, one would be inclined to agree, even on this occasion, when every art was exhausted to convey the notion of the turmoil of the elements. The truth is, an audience sitting in the stalls and boxes will never be seduced into accepting the rollings and crashings of cannon-balls aloft, and the flashing of lycopodium, as suggesting the awful warring of the elements.

‘Lear’ was brought forward on Thursday, November 10, 1892, and its presentation was a truly romantic one. The figure had little of the usual repulsive aspects of age—the clumsy white beard, etc.—but was picturesque. The entry into his barbaric court, the strange retainers with their head-dresses of cows’ horns, was striking and original. The whole conception was human. The “curse” was delivered naturally. In presenting, however, the senile ravings of the old monarch, the actor unavoidably assumed an indistinctness of utterance, and many sentences were lost. This imperfection was dwelt on in the criticisms with superfluous iteration, and though the actor speedily amended and became almost emphatically distinct, this notion seemed to have settled in the public mind, with some prejudice to the success of the piece. Though he was thus quick to remedy this blemish, distinctness was secured by deliberation, and at some loss of effect. The actor’s extraordinary exertions—for he was at the same time busy with the preparation of a new piece—exhausted him, and obliged him for some nights to entrust the part to another. But the real obstacle to full success could be found in the general lugubrious tone of the character; the uninterrupted sequence of horrors and distresses led to a feeling of monotony difficult for the actor to vanquish. The public never takes very cordially to pieces in which there is this _sustained misery_, though it can relish the alternations of poignant tragedy attended by quick dramatic changes. Cordelia, though a small part, was made prominent by much touching pathos and grace, and the dying recognition by the old King brought tears to many eyes.[57]

An interesting feature in Irving’s career has been his long friendship with Tennyson, poet and dramatist, which lasted for some fifteen or sixteen years. The actor showed his appreciation of the poet’s gifts by the rather hazardous experiment of presenting two of his poetical dramas to the public. We have seen what sumptuous treatment was accorded to ‘The Cup’; and in ‘Queen Mary’ the actor contributed his most powerful dramatic efforts in the realization of the grim Philip.

The poet, however, made little allowance for the exigencies of the stage. During the preparation of ‘The Cup,’ he contended eagerly for the retention of long speeches and scenes, which would have shipwrecked the piece. Yet, undramatic as most of his dramas are, a taste for them was springing up, and not long before his death he had the gratification of knowing that his ‘Foresters’ had met with surprising success in America. No less than six pieces of his have been produced, and though the idea prevails that he has been “a failure” as a dramatist, it will be found that on the whole he has been successful. It may be that by-and-by he will be in higher favour. But he will have owed much to Irving, not merely for presenting his plays with every advantage, but for putting them into fitting shape, with firm, unerring touch removing all that is superfluous.

So far back as the year 1879 the poet had placed in Irving’s hands a drama on the subject of Becket and the Fair Rosamund. It was really a _poem_ of moderate length, though in form a drama, and the actor naturally shrank from the difficulties of dealing with such a piece. The “pruning knife” would here have been of little avail; the axe or “chopper” would have to be used unsparingly. The piece was accordingly laid aside for that long period; the lamented death of the poet probably removed the chief obstacle to its production. It is said, indeed, that almost one-half was cut away before it could be put in shape for performance. On Monday, February 6, 1893, the actor’s birthday, this posthumous piece was brought out with every advantage, and before an assemblage even more brilliant than usual. It revived the memories of the too recent ‘Henry VIII.,’ in which there is much the same struggle between Prince and Bishop. The actor has thus no less than three eminent Catholic ecclesiastics in his _répertoire_—Richelieu, Wolsey, and Becket; but, as he pleasantly said, he could contrast with these an English clergyman, the worthy Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. Yet he admirably and dramatically distinguished their several characters.

There is always a curiosity to have the curtain lifted, so that we may have a glimpse of a play in the throes and troubles of rehearsal. Mr. Burgin, in one of the magazines, gave a very dramatic sketch of how things were conducted during the preparation of ‘Becket’:

“After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps back and looks at the table. ‘We ought to have on it some kind of mace or crozier,’ he says—‘a large crozier. Now for the “make up.” All the barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small beard. All the gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All the priests and bishops are unshaven. The mob can have slight beards, but this is unimportant. Now, take off your hats, gentlemen, please. Some of you must be old, some young. Hair very short;’ and he passes from group to group selecting the different people. ‘Now, I think that is all understood pretty well. Where are the sketches for dresses?’

“The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them. Miss Terry and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of paper. The fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them, and walks back again to Miss Terry’s chair with a slightly cynical look. Then Mr. Irving returns to the groups by the benches. ‘Remember, gentlemen, you must be arguing here, laying down the law in this way,’ suiting the action to the word. ‘Just arrange who is to argue. Don’t do it promiscuously, but three or four of you together. Try to put a little action into it. I want you to show your arms, and not to keep them glued to your sides like trussed fowls. No; that isn’t half enough action. Don’t be frightened. Better make too much noise rather than too little, but don’t stop too suddenly. Start arguing when I ring the first bell. As I ring the second bell, you see me enter, and stop.’ The dog stands one bell, but the second annoys him, and he disappears from the stage altogether, until the people on the benches have finished their discussion.

“Mr. Irving next tries the three-cornered stools which are placed around the table, but prefers square ones. The dog returns, walks over to the orchestra, looks vainly for a rat, and retreats under the table in the centre of the stage as if things were getting really too much for him. But his resting-place is ill-chosen, for presently half-a-dozen angry lords jump on the table, and he is driven forth once more. After a stormy scene with the lords, Mr. Irving walks up the steps again. ‘When I say “I depart,” you must let me get up the steps. All this time your pent-up anger is waiting to burst out suddenly. Don’t go to sleep over it.’ He looks at the table in the centre of the stage, and turns to a carpenter. ‘This table will never do. It has to be jumped on by so many people that it must be very strong. They follow me.’ (To Miss Terry) ‘They’d better catch hold of me, up the steps here.’

“Miss Terry: ‘They must do something. They can’t stand holding you like that.’

“Mr. Irving: ‘No.’ The door opens suddenly at top of steps, and discovers the crowd, who shout, ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.’

“The doors open and the crowd shout, but the effect is not good.

“Miss Terry: ‘It would be better if it were done at the foot of the steps. The people needn’t show their faces as they do it, and the effect will be so much better.’”

‘Becket’ contained thirty characters, and was set off by fine scenery and excellent music, written specially by Professor Stanford, this not being the first time his notes had been associated with the poet. Never have Irving’s efforts been greeted with such overpowering, tumultuous applause. At the end of every act there were as many as five “recalls.” In such pieces, as well as in some of Shakespeare’s, there is always a matter of interesting debate in fixing the era, dresses, architecture, etc.—a matter perhaps of less importance than is supposed. Irving’s conception of ‘Becket’ was truly picturesque and romantic; he imported a pathetic tone, with a sort of gloomy foreboding of the impending martyrdom, conveyed by innumerable touches. The actor has the art of moulding his features and expression to the complexion of the character he is performing nightly. Thus, in ‘Becket,’ it can be seen that he had already assumed the meditative, wary look of the aspiring ecclesiastic.

It is evidence of the interest excited by ‘Becket,’ that a little discussion arose between a Benedictine Father and another ecclesiastic on the hymn, “Telluris ingens Conditor,” which was played in the cathedral scene and through the piece. The Benedictine contended that it must have been some older form of the hymn before the pseudo-classicalization “of the Breviary Hymns in the sixteenth century.” “I do not suppose,” he added, “that Mr. Irving’s well-known attention to detail extends to such _minutiæ_ as these. The famous cathedral scene, in his presentment of ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ was received with a chorus of praise as a marvel of liturgical accuracy. But I am told that to Catholic eyes at least some of its details appeared incorrect.” Thus, to the monastery even, does the fame of our manager’s efforts reach!

One of the most remarkable things connected with ‘Becket’ was the unanimous applause and approbation of the entire press.[58] Even one or two evening papers, which had spoken with a little hesitation, returned to the subject a few nights later to correct their judgment and to admit that they had been hasty. All confessed that they had been captivated by the picturesqueness of the central figure.

Apart from his professional gifts, Irving is assuredly one of those figures which fill the public eye, and of which there are but few. This is owing to a sort of sympathetic attraction, and to an absence of affectation. He plays many parts in the social scheme, and always does so with judiciousness, contributing to the effect of the situation. His utterances on most subjects are thoughtful and well considered, and contribute to the enlightenment of the case. At his examination by the London County Council, when many absurd questions were put to him, he answered with much sagacity. His views on the employment of children in theatres are truly sensible. More remarkable, however, are his opinions on the science of acting, the art of management, and of dealing with audiences and other kindred topics, which show much thought and knowledge. He has, in truth, written a great deal, and his various “discourses,” recently collected in a pretty little volume, do credit to his literary style and power of expression.[59]

Here we must pause. We have seen what our actor has done, what a change he has worked in the condition of the stage: what an elegant education he has furnished during all these years. And though he has been associated with the revival of the stage, and a complete reform in all that concerns its adornment, it will be his greatest glory that he has presented SHAKESPEARE on a grand scale, under the sumptuous and judicious conditions and methods that have made the poet acceptable to English audiences of our day.

There have been many laments over the fleeting, evanescent character of an actor’s efforts. If his success be triumphant, it is like a dream for those who have not seen. Description gives but the faintest idea of his gifts. The writer, as it were, continues to write after his death, and is read, as he was in his lifetime. But the player gone, the play is over. The actor, it is true, if he be a personality, has another audience outside his theatre. As I have shown in these pages, he can attract by force of character the interest and sympathies of the general community. Whatever he does, or wherever he appears, eyes are turned to him as they would be to one on a stage. There is a sort of indulgent partiality in the case of Irving. He is a dramatic figure, much as was Charles Dickens. Eyes are idly bent on him that enters next. And this high position is not likely to be disturbed; and though all popularity is precarious enough, he has the art and tact to adapt his position to the shifty, capricious changes of taste, and in the hackneyed phrase is more “up to date” than any person of his time. The fine lines in ‘Troilus and Cressida’—the most magnificent in Shakespeare, as they seem to me—should ring in every actor’s ear, or indeed in that of everyone that enjoys public favour. Alas! it must be his lot to be ever at the oar. There is no relaxing, no repose; no coy retirement, or yielding to importunate rivalry:

“To have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, Like a rusty mail in monumental mockery.... For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or turn aside from the direct forth-right, Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost;—and there you lie Like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, For pavement to the abject rear, o’er-run And trampled on; then, what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours.”