CHAPTER IV.

1871.

‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’

Among those who had taken note of Irving’s efforts was a “long-headed” American manager, whose loudly-expressed criticism was that “he ought to play Richelieu!” This was a far-seeing view. Many years before, this manager had been carrying round the country his two “prodigy” daughters, who had attracted astonishment by their precocious playing in a pretty little piece of courtship, called ‘The Young Couple.’ The elder later won favour by her powerful and intense acting in ‘Leah’; and he was now about taking a theatre with a view of bringing forward his second daughter, Isabel. It seems curious now to think that the handsome, elegantly-designed Lyceum Theatre, built by an accomplished architect on the most approved principles, was then lying derelict, as it were, and at the service of any stray _entrepreneur_. It could be had on very cheap terms, for at this time the revival of theatrical interest had not yet come; the theatre, not yet in high fashion, was conducted on rude, coarse lines. The attractions of the old correct comedy, as seen at the Haymarket, were waning, and the old companies were beginning to break up. Buckstone and Webster were in their decay, yet still lagged ingloriously on the stage. The pit and galleries were catered for. Theatres were constantly opening, and as constantly closing. Burlesques of the Gaiety pattern were coming into favour. In this state of things the shrewd American saw an opportunity. He had an excellent coadjutor in his wife, a clever, hard working lady, with characteristics that often suggested the good-natured Mrs. Crummles, but without any of her eccentricities. Her husband took the Lyceum, and proceeded to form a company; and one of his first steps was to offer an engagement to Irving.

The new venture started on September 11, 1871, with an unimportant piece, ‘Fanchette,’ founded on George Sand’s ‘Petite Fadette,’ in which our actor had a character quite unsuited to his gifts, a sort of peasant lover.[8] The object was to introduce the manager’s daughter, Isabel, in a fantastical part, but the piece was found “too French,” and rather far-fetched. It failed very disastrously. The young actor, of course, had to bear his share in the failure; but he could not have dreamt at that moment that here he was to find his regular home, and that for twenty long years he was destined never to be away from the shadow of the great portico of the Lyceum.

The prospect for the American manager was now not very encouraging. He had made a serious mistake at starting. In a few weeks he had replaced it by a version of _Pickwick_, with a view of utilizing his chief comedian’s talent as “Jingle.” The play was but a rude piece of carpentry, without any of the flavour of the novel, hastily put together and acted indifferently; the actors were dressed after the pictures in the story, but did not catch the spirit of their characters. Irving in face and figure and dress was thoroughly Pickwickian, and reproduced Seymour and Hablot Browne’s sketch, very happily catching the recklessness and rattle of the original. Still, it was difficult to avoid the suggestion of ‘Jeremy Diddler,’ or of the hero of ‘A Race for a Dinner.’ The reason, perhaps, was that the adaptation was conceived in a purely farcical spirit. It has always seemed to me that “the Immortal Pickwick” should be treated as comedy rather than farce, and would be more effective on the stage were the Jingle scenes set forth with due seriousness and sincerity. The incidents at the Rochester Ball, for instance, belong to pure comedy, and would be highly effective. Some years later Irving put the work into the not very skilful hands of Albery, who reduced it to the proportions of a farce with some pathetic elements. It was called ‘Jingle.’

At this time there was “hanging loose on” the theatres, as Dr. Johnson once phrased it, one Leopold Lewis, who had been seduced from an office by the enchantments of the stage. He had made a translation of a very striking French play, ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which had been shown to the new actor. This, as is well known, was by the gifted pair Erckmann-Chatrian, whose realistic but picturesque stories, that call up before us the old “Elsass” life, show extraordinary dramatic power. This ‘Juif Polonais’ is more a succession of tableaux than a formal play, but, like ‘L’Ami Fritz’ of the same writers, it has a charm that is irresistible. It is forgotten that a version of this piece had already been brought before the public at one of the minor theatres, which was the work of Mr. F. C. Burnand, at that time a busy caterer for the theatres, chiefly of melodramas, such as the ‘Turn of the Tide’ and ‘Deadman’s Point.’

“Much against the wish of my friends,” says our actor, “I took an engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘The Two Roses,’ which ran three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, I recited the poem of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be successful—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or of ‘Richard III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’ was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. When he persuaded the manager to produce ‘The Bells,’ he was told there was a prejudice against that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered.”

Our actor, thus always earnest and persuasive, pressed his point, and at last extorted consent—and the play, which required scarcely any mounting, was performed on November 25, 1871. At that time I was living in the south of France, in a remote and solitary place, and I recollect the surprise and curiosity with which I heard and read of the powerful piece that had been produced, and of the more extraordinary triumph of the new actor. Everyone, according to the well-worn phrase, seemed to be “electrified.” The story was novel, and likely to excite the profoundest interest.

An extraordinary alteration, due, I believe, to the manager, was the introduction of the vision of the Jew in his sledge, a device unmeaning and illogical. In the original the morbid remorse of the guilty man is roused by the visit of a travelling Jew, which very naturally excites his perturbed spirit. But this vision discounts, as it were, and enfeebles the _second_ vision. The piece would have been presented under far more favourable conditions had it been prepared by or adapted by someone of more skill and delicacy than Mr. Leopold Lewis.

For twenty years and more this remarkable impersonation has kept its hold upon audiences, and whenever it is revived for an occasional performance or for a longer “run,” it never fails to draw full houses; and so it doubtless will do to the end of the actor’s career. It was his introduction to the American audiences; and it is likely enough that it will be the piece in which he will take his farewell.

The new actor was now becoming a “personality.” Everyone of note discovered that he was interesting in many ways, and was eager to know such a man. The accomplished Sir E. Bulwer Lytton wrote that his performance was “too admirable not to be appreciated by every competent judge of art,” and added, “that any author would be fortunate who obtained his assistance in some character that was worthy of his powers.” A little later the actor took this hint, and was glad to do full justice to several pieces of this brilliant and gifted writer.

At this time there was a clever young man “on town” who had furnished Mr. Vezin with a fine and effective play, ‘The Man o’ Airlie,’ from a German original. He was a poet of much grace, his lines were musical, and suited for theatrical delivery; he had been successful as a novelist, and was, moreover, a portrait-painter in the elegant art of pastel, then but little practised. In this latter direction it was predicted that he was likely to win a high position, but the attractions of the stage were too strong for him. Becoming acquainted with the popular actor, a subject for a new creation was suggested by his very physique and dreamy style. This was the story of the unhappy Charles I. Both the manager and the player welcomed the suggestion, and the dramatist set to work. Though possessed of true feeling and a certain inspiration, the author was carried away by his ardour into a neglect of the canons of the stage, writing masses of poetry of inordinate length, which he brought to his friends at the theatre, until they at last began to despair. Many changes had to be made before the poem could be brought into satisfactory shape; and, by aid of the tact and experience of the manager and his actor, the final act was at last completed to the satisfaction of all.[9]

‘Charles I.’ was brought out on September 28, 1872. Having been present on this night, I can recall the tranquil pleasure and satisfaction and absorbing interest which this very legitimate and picturesque performance imparted, while the melodious and poetical lines fell acceptably on the ear. This tranquil tone contrasted effectively with the recent tumult and agitation of ‘The Bells.’ It was a perfect success, and the author shared in the glories.

Only lately we followed the once popular Wills to his grave in the Brompton Cemetery. His somewhat erratic and, I fear, troubled course closed in the month of December, 1891. There was a curious suggestion, or reminiscence, of his countryman Goldsmith in his character and ways. Like that great poet, he had a number of “hangers-on” and admirers who were always welcome to his “bit and sup,” and helped to kill the hours. If there was no bed there was a sofa. There were stories, too, of a “piece purse” on the chimney to which people might apply. He had the same sanguine temperament as Goldsmith, and the slightest opening would present him with a magnificent prospect, on which his ready imagination would lavish all sorts of roseate hues. He was always going to make his fortune, or to make a “great hit.” He had the same heedless way of talking, making warm and even ardent protestations and engagements which he could not help forgetting within an hour. But these were amiable weaknesses. He had a thoroughly good heart, was as sensitive as a woman, or as _some_ women, affectionate and generous. His life, I fear, was to the close one of troubles and anxiety. He certainly did much for the Lyceum, and was our actor’s favourite author. ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene Aram,’ ‘Olivia,’ ‘Iolanthe,’ ‘Faust,’ ‘Vanderdecken’ (in part), ‘Don Quixote’—these were his contributions.

The play was written after the correct and classical French model. The opening scene, as a bit of pictorial effect—the placid garden of Hampton Court, with a startling reproduction of Vandyke’s figure—has always been admired, and furnishes “the note” of the play. All through the actor presented a spectacle of calm and dignified suffering, that disdained to resent or protest; some of his pathetic passages, such as the gentle rebuke to the faithless Huntley and the parting with his children, have always made the handkerchiefs busy.

The leading actor was well supported by Miss Isabel Bateman in the character of the Queen, to which she imparted a good deal of pathetic feeling and much grace. For many years she was destined to figure in all the pieces in which he played. This, it need not be said, was of advantage for the development of her powers. Even a mediocre performer cannot withstand the inspiration that comes of such companionship; while constant playing with a really good actor has often made a good actress. But the manager, who had some odd, native notions of his own, as to delicacy and the refinements generally, must have rather inconvenienced or disturbed—to say the least of it—our actor, by giving him as a coadjutor, in the part of Cromwell, an effective low-comedy actor of _genre_, in the person of Mr. George Belmore, who did his work with a conscientious earnestness, but with little colouring or picturesque effect. On a later occasion he supplied another performer who was yet more unsuited—viz., the late Mr. John Clayton—who used to open the night’s proceedings in a light rattling touch-and-go farce, such as ‘A Regular Fix.’ Both these actors, excellent in their line, lacked the weight and dignified associations necessary for the high school of tragedy.[10]

One of those vehement and amusing discussions which occasionally arise out of a play, and furnish prodigious excitement for the public, was aroused by the conception taken of Cromwell, which was, in truth, opposed to tradition; for the Protector was exhibited as willing to condone the King’s offences, and to desert his party, for the “consideration” of a marriage between himself and one of the King’s daughters. This ludicrous view, based on some loose gossip, was, reasonably enough, thought to degrade Cromwell’s character, and the point was debated with much fierceness.

During the “run” of ‘Charles I.’ the successful dramatist was busy preparing a new poetical piece on the subject of Eugene Aram. It is not generally known that the author himself dramatized his story. This was produced on April 19, 1873, but the tone seemed to be too lugubrious, the actor passing from one mournful soliloquy to another. There was but little action. The ordinary versions are more effective. But the actor himself produced a deep, poetical impression.

The manager, now in the height of success, adopted a style of “bold advertisement,” that suggested Elliston’s amusing exaggerations.[11] The piece ran for over one hundred and fifty nights, to May 17, 1873, and during a portion of the time the versatile player would finish the night with ‘Jeremy Diddler.’

The new season of 1873 began on September 27, with Lord Lytton’s ‘Richelieu.’ It is a tribute to the prowess of that gifted man that his three pieces—the ever-fresh and fair ‘Lady of Lyons,’ ‘Money,’ and ‘Richelieu’—should be really the only genuine stock-pieces of the modern stage. They never seem out of fashion, and are always welcomed. It might be said, indeed, that there is hardly a night on which the ‘Lady of Lyons’ is not _somewhere_ acted. In ‘Richelieu’ the actor presented a truly picturesque figure—he was aged, tottering, nervous, but rallying to full vigour when the occasion called. The well-known scene, where he invokes “the curse of Rome,” produced extraordinary enthusiasm, cheers, waving of handkerchiefs, and a general uproar from the pit. It was in this piece that those “mannerisms” which have been so often “girded at,” often with much pitilessness, began to attract attention. In this part, as in the first attempt in ‘Macbeth,’ there was noted a lack of restraint, something hysterical at times, when control seemed to be set aside. The truth is, most of his attempts at this period were naturally _experiments_, and very different from those deliberate, long-prepared, and well-matured representations he offered under the responsibility of serious management.

This piece was succeeded by an original play, ‘Philip,’ by an agreeable writer who had made a name as a novelist, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé—a dramatic story of the average pattern, and founded on jealousy. It was produced on February 7, and enjoyed a fair share of success.