Personal reminiscences of Henry Irving

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Title: Personal reminiscences of Henry Irving
Author: Stoker, Bram
Language: English
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HENRY IRVING ***

PERSONAL
REMINISCENCES

HENRY IRVING

_THE WORLD’S GREATEST ACTRESS_

MY DOUBLE LIFE

MEMOIRS OF
SARAH BERNHARDT

In One Volume, Demy 8vo, with
Illustrations in Colour and Black
and White. Price 15s. net

These Memoirs, written in an easy flowing style, give the story of the
early life and struggles of this celebrated actress down to the time
when her genius was recognised in every civilised country and she became
her own manageress.

Sarah Bernhardt’s Memoirs are not merely an assembly of the stage
stories of the most successful actress of modern times; they are the
faithful record of a most interesting life—a life full of varied
experiences—the reflections of a supremely intelligent mind, the story
of a woman whose reminiscences alone of the celebrities she came into
contact with, throw a vivid side-light on the history of the past fifty
years.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1907

[Illustration:

THE LAST PICTURE PAINTED OF HENRY IRVING

FROM A PASTEL

BY J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE

(IN THE POSSESSION OF THE AUTHOR)
]

PERSONAL
REMINISCENCES
OF
HENRY IRVING

BRAM STOKER

_ILLUSTRATED_

[Illustration]

LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
MCMVII

_First printed (2 volumes) October 1906
Revised and Cheaper Edition October 1907_

_Copyright, 1906, by Bram Stoker
Copyright in the United States of America, 1906
by the Macmillan Company_

THE MEMORY OF

JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE

LOVING COMRADE AND TRUE FRIEND

HENRY IRVING

PREFACE

Were my book a “life” of Henry Irving instead of a grouping of such
matters as came into my own purview, I should probably feel some
embarrassment in the commencement of a preface. Logically speaking, even
the life of an actor has no preface. He begins, and that is all. And
such beginning is usually obscure; but faintly remembered at the best.
Art is a completion; not merely a history of endeavour. It is only when
completeness has been obtained that the beginnings of endeavour gain
importance, and that the steps by which it has been won assume any shape
of permanent interest. After all, the struggle for supremacy is so
universal that the matters of hope and difficulty of one person are
hardly of general interest. When the individual has won out from the
huddle of strife, the means and steps of his succeeding become of
interest, either historically or in the educational aspect—but not
before. From every life there may be a lesson to some one; but in the
teeming millions of humanity such lessons can but seldom have any
general or exhaustive force. The mere din of strife is too incessant for
any individual sound to carry far. Fame, who rides in higher atmosphere,
can alone make her purpose heard. Well did the framers of picturesque
idea understand their work when in her hand they put a symbolic trumpet.

The fame of an actor is won in minutes and seconds, not in years. The
latter are only helpful in the recurrence of opportunities; in the
possibilities of repetition. It is not feasible, therefore, adequately
to record the progress of his work. Indeed that work in its perfection
cannot be recorded; words are, and can be, but faint suggestions of
awakened emotion. The student of history can, after all, but accept in
matters evanescent the judgment of contemporary experience. Of such, the
weight of evidence can at best incline in one direction; and that
tendency is not susceptible of further proof. So much, then, for the
work of art that is not plastic and permanent. There remains therefore
but the artist. Of him the other arts can make record in so far as
external appearance goes. Nay, more, the genius of sculptor or painter
can suggest—with an understanding as subtle as that of the sun-rays
which on sensitive media can depict what cannot be seen by the eye—the
existence of these inner forces and qualities whence accomplished works
of any kind proceed. It is to such art that we look for the teaching of
our eyes. Modern science can record something of the actualities of
voice and tone. Writers of force and skill and judgment can convey
abstract ideas of controlling forces and purposes; of thwarting
passions; of embarrassing weaknesses; of all the bundle of
inconsistencies which make up an item of concrete humanity. From all
these may be derived some consistent idea of individuality. This
individuality is at once the ideal and the objective of portraiture.

For my own part the work which I have undertaken in this book is to show
future minds something of Henry Irving as he was to me. I have chosen
the form of the book for this purpose. As I cannot give the myriad of
details and impressions which went to the making up of my own
convictions, I have tried to select such instances as were
self-sufficient to the purpose. If here and there I have been able to
lift for a single instant the veil which covers the mystery of
individual nature, I shall have made something known which must help the
lasting memory of my dear dead friend. In the doing of my work, I am
painfully conscious that I have obtruded my own personality, but I trust
that for this I may be forgiven, since it is only by this means that I
can convey at all the ideas which I wish to impress.

As I cannot adequately convey the sense of Irving’s worthiness myself, I
try to do it by other means. By showing him amongst his friends, and
explaining who those friends were; by giving incidents with explanatory
matter of intention; by telling of the pressure of circumstance and his
bearing under it; by affording such glimpses of his inner life and mind
as one man may of another. I have earnestly tried to avoid giving pain
to the living, to respect the sanctity of the dead; and finally to keep
from any breach of trust—either that specifically confided in me, or
implied by the accepted intimacy of our relations. Well I know how easy
it is to err in this respect; to overlook the evil force of
irresponsible chatter. But I have always tried to bear in mind the grim
warning of Tennyson’s bitter words:

“Proclaim the faults he would not show;
Break lock and seal; betray the trust;
Keep nothing sacred; ’tis but just
The many-headed beast should know.”

For nearly thirty years I was an intimate friend of Irving; in certain
ways the most intimate friend of his life. I knew him as well as it is
given to any man to know another. And this knowledge is fully in my
mind, when I say that, so far as I know, there is not in this book a
word of his inner life or his outer circumstances that he would wish
unsaid; no omission that he would have liked filled.

Let any one who will read the book through say whether I have tried to
do him honour—and to do it by worthy means: the honour and respect which
I feel; which in days gone I held for him; which now I hold for his
memory.

BRAM STOKER.

4 DURHAM PLACE,
CHELSEA, LONDON.

CONTENTS

PAGE
I. EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS OF HENRY IRVING 1

Earliest recollection, Dublin, 1867—Captain
Absolute—Impersonation—Distinction—Local
criticism—“Two Roses,” Dublin, 1871—The archetype
of Digby Grant—Chevalier Wikoff.

II. THE OLD SCHOOL AND THE NEW 8

Irving’s early experience in Dublin—A month of
hisses—The old school of acting and the new—
Historical comparison—From Edmund Kean to Irving—
Irving’s work—The thoughtful school.

III. FRIENDSHIP 16

Criticism—My meeting with Irving—A blaze of genius—
The friendship of a life.

IV. HONOURS FROM DUBLIN UNIVERSITY 22

Public Address—University Night—Carriage dragged by
students.

V. CONVERGING STREAMS 27

A reading in Trinity College—James Knowles—Hamlet
the Mystic—Richard III.—The Plantagenet look—“Only
a commercial”—True sportsmen—Coming events.

VI. JOINING FORCES 35

“Vanderdecken”—Visit to Belfast—An Irish bull—I join
Irving—Preparations at the Lyceum—The property
master “getting even.”

VII. LYCEUM PRODUCTIONS 45

VIII. IRVING BEGINS MANAGEMENT 46

The “Lyceum Audience”—“Hamlet”—A lesson in
production—The Chinese Ambassador—Catastrophe
averted—The responsibility of a manager—Not ill
for seven years.

IX. SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—I 53

“The Merchant of Venice”—Preparation—The red
handkerchief—Booth and Irving—“Othello”—A dinner
at Hampton Court—The hat.

X. SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—II 59

“Romeo and Juliet”—Preparation—Music—The way to
carry a corpse—Variants of the bridal chamber—
“Much Ado About Nothing”—John Penberthy—
Hyper-criticism—Respect for feelings.

XI. SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—III 68

“Macbeth”—An amateur scene-painter—Sir Arthur
Sullivan—A lesson in collaboration—“Henry VIII.”—
Lessons in illusion—Stage effects—Reality v.
scenery—A real baby and its consequences.

XII. SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—IV 76

“King Lear”—Illness of Irving—A performance at
sight—“Richard III.”—A splendid first night—A
sudden check.

XIII. IRVING’S METHOD 82

“Eugene Aram”—Sudden change—“Richelieu”—
Impersonation fixed in age—“Louis XI.”—“Up against
it” in Chicago—“The Lyons Mail”—Tom Mead—Stories
of his forgetfulness—“Charles I.”—Dion Boucicault
on politics in the theatre—Irving’s “make-up”—
Cupid as Mephistopheles.

XIV. ART-SENSE 91

“The Bells”—Worn-out scenery—An actor’s judgment of
a part—“Olivia”—“Faust”—A master mind and good
service—A loyal stage manager and staff—Whistler
on business—Twenty-fifth anniversary of “The
Bells”—A presentation—A work of art—“The Bells” a
classic—Visit of illustrious Frenchmen—Sarcey’s
amusement.

XV. STAGE EFFECTS 101

“The Lady of Lyons”—A great stage army—Supers: their
work and pay—“The Corsican Brothers”—Some great
“sets”—A Royal visitor behind scenes—Seizing an
opportunity—A Triton amongst minnows—Gladstone as
an actor—Beaconsfield and coryphées—A double—A
cure for haste.

XVI. THE VALUE OF EXPERIMENT 112

“Robert Macaire”—A great benefit—“Our genial friend
Mr. Edwards”—“Faust”—Application of science—
Division of stage labour—The Emperor Fritz—
Accidental effects—A “top angel”—Educational value
of the stage—“Faust” in America—Irving’s fiftieth
birthday.

XVII. THE PULSE OF THE PUBLIC 120

“Ravenswood”—Delayed presentation—The public pulse—
“Nance Oldfield”—Ellen Terry as a dramatist.

XVIII. TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—I 128

Irving on Tennyson—Frankness—Irving’s knowledge of
character—The “fighting” quality—Tennyson on
Irving’s Hamlet—Tennyson’s alterations of his
work—As a dramatist—“First run”—Experts on Greek
Art.

XIX. TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—II 136

Before “Becket”—Irving’s preparation of the play—
_Re_ “Robin Hood”—Visit to Tennyson at Aldworth—
Tennyson’s humour—His onomatopœia—Scoffing—
Tennyson’s belief—He reads his new poem—Voice and
phonograph—Irving sees his way to playing
“Becket.”

XX. TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—III 146

“Becket” for the stage—My visit to Farringford—“In
the Roar of the Sea”—Tennyson on “interviewers”—
Relic hunters—“God the Virgin”—The hundred best
stories—Message to John Fiske—Walter Map—Last
visit to Tennyson—Tennyson on Homer and
Shakespeare—His own reminiscences—Good-bye.

XXI. TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—IV 156

“Becket” produced—Death of Tennyson—“Irving will do
me justice”—“The Silent Voices”—Production of the
play—Irving reads it at Canterbury Cathedral—And
at the King Alfred Millenary, Winchester.

XXII. “WATERLOO”—“KING ARTHUR”—“DON QUIXOTE” 161

Acquisition and production of “Waterloo”—The one man
in America who saw the play—Played for Indian and
Colonial troops, 1897—“King Arthur” plays—
Burne-Jones and the armour—“Don Quixote” plays—A
rhadamanthine decision.

XXIII. ART AND HAZARD 169

“Madame Sans-Gêne”—Size, proportions and
juxtaposition—Evolution of “business”—“Peter the
Great” “Robespierre”—“Dante”—The hazard of
management.

XXIV. VANDENHOFF 180

XXV. CHARLES MATHEWS 181

In early days—A touch of character—Mathews’
appreciation—Henry Russell—The wolf and the lamb.

XXVI. CHARLES DICKENS AND HENRY IRVING 183

XXVII. MR. J. M. LEVY 185

XXVIII. VISITS TO AMERICA 186

Farewell at the Lyceum—Welcome in New York, 1883—A
journalistic “scoop”—Farewell.

XXIX. WILLIAM WINTER 189

XXX. PERFORMANCE AT WEST POINT 191

A National consent—Difficulties of travel—An
audience of steel—A startling finale—Capture of
West Point by the British.

XXXI. AMERICAN REPORTERS 195

High testimony—Irving’s care in speaking—“Not for
publication”—A diatribe—Moribundity.

XXXII. TOURS-DE-FORCE 200

A “Hamlet” reading—A vast “bill.”

XXXIII. CHRISTMAS 203

Christmas geese—Punch in the green room—A dinner in
the theatre—Gambling without risk—Christmas at
Pittsburg.

XXXIV. IRVING AS A SOCIAL FORCE 204

XXXV. VISITS OF FOREIGN WARSHIPS 208

XXXVI. IRVING’S LAST RECEPTION AT THE LYCEUM 211

The Queen’s Jubilee, 1887—The Diamond Jubilee, 1897—
The King’s Coronation, 1902.

XXXVII. THE VOICE OF ENGLAND 218

XXXVIII. RIVAL TOWNS 220

XXXIX. TWO STORIES 221

XL. SIR RICHARD BURTON 224

A face of steel—Some pleasant suppers—Lord Houghton—
Searching for patriarchs—Edmund Henry Palmer—
Desert law—The “Arabian Nights.”

XLI. SIR HENRY MORTON STANLEY 232

An interesting dinner—“Doubting Thomases”—The lesson
of exploration—“Through the Dark Continent”—
Dinner—Du Chaillu—The price of fame.

XLII. ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY 238

A Defence against torture—How to travel in Central
Asia—An orator.

XLIII. EARLY REMINISCENCE BY C. R. FORD 239

XLIV. IRVING’S PHILOSOPHY OF HIS ART 244

The key-stone—The scientific process—Character—The
Play—Stage Perspective—Dual consciousness—
Individuality—The true realism.

XLV. THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE 260

Visits to the Lyceum—Intellectual stimulus and rest—
An interesting post-card—His memory—“Mr.
Gladstone’s seat”—Speaks of Parnell—Visit to
“Becket”—Special knowledge; its application—Lord
Randolph Churchill on Gladstone—Mrs. Gladstone.

XLVI. THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD 266

His advice to a Court chaplain—Sir George Elliott
and picture-hanging—As a beauty—As a social
fencer—“A striking physiognomy.”

XLVII. SIR WILLIAM PEARCE, BART. 270

A night adventure—The courage of a mother—The Story
of the “Livadia”—Nihilists after her—Her trial
trip—How she saved the Czar’s life.

XLVIII. STEPNIAK 276

A congeries of personalities—The “closed hand”—His
appearance—“Free Russia”—The gentle criticism of a
Nihilist—Prince Nicolas Galitzin—The dangers of
big game.

XLIX. E. ONSLOW FORD, R.A. 280

Fatherly advice—The design—The meeting—Sittings—
Irving’s hands.

L. SIR LAURENCE ALMA-TADEMA, R.A. 284

“Coriolanus”—Union of the Arts—Archæology—The
re-evolution of the toga—Twenty-two years’ delay—
Alma-Tadema’s house—A lesson in care—“Cymbeline.”

LI. SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES, BART. 289

“King Arthur”—The painter’s thought—His illustrative
stories from child life.

LII. EDWIN A. ABBEY, R.A. 293

“Richard II.”—“The Kinsmen”—Artistic collaboration—
Mediæval life—The character of Richard.

LIII. J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE 298

Lyceum souvenirs—Partridge’s method—“Putting in the
noses”—The last picture of Irving.

LIV. ROBERT BROWNING 300

Browning and Irving on Shakespeare—Edmund Kean’s
purse—Kean relics—Clint’s portrait of Kean.

LV. WALT WHITMAN 302

Irving meets Walt Whitman—My own friendship and
correspondence with him—Like Tennyson—Visit to
Walt Whitman, 1886—Again in 1887—Walt Whitman’s
self-judgment—A projected bust—Lincoln’s
life-work—G. W. Childs—A message from the dead.

LVI. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 313

Supper on a car—A sensitive mountaineer—“Good-bye,
Jim.”

LVII. ERNEST RENAN 314

Renan and Haweis—How to converse in a language you
don’t know.

LVIII. HALL CAINE 315

A remarkable criticism—Irving and “The Deemster”—
“Mahomet”—For reasons of State—Weird remembrances—
“The Flying Dutchman”—“Home, Sweet Home”—“Glory
and John Storm”—Irving and the chimpanzee—A
dangerous moment—Unceremonious treatment of a
lion—Irving’s last night at the play.

LIX. IRVING AND DRAMATISTS 325

Difficulty of getting plays—The sources—Actor as
collaborator—A startled dramatist—Plays bought but
not produced—Pinero.

LX. MUSICIANS 331

Boito—Paderewski—Henschel—Richter—Liszt—Gounod—Sir
Alexander C. Mackenzie.

LXI. LUDWIG BARNAY 338

Meeting of Irving and Barnay—“Fluff”—A dinner on the
stage—A discussion on subsidy—An honour from
Saxe-Meiningen—A Grand-Ducal Invasion.

LXII. CONSTANT COQUELIN (AINÉ) 341

First meeting of Coquelin and Irving—Coquelin’s
comments—Irving’s reply—“Cyrano.”

LXIII. SARAH BERNHARDT 343

Irving sees Sarah Bernhardt—First meeting—Supper in
Beefsteak Club—Bastien Lepage—Tradition—Painting a
serpent—Sarah’s appreciation of Irving and Ellen
Terry.

LXIV. GENEVIÈVE WARD 347

When and how I first saw her—Her romantic marriage—
Plays Zillah at Lyceum—“Forget me not”—Plays with
Irving: “Becket”; “King Arthur”; “Cymbeline”;
“Richard III.”—Argument on a “reading”—Eyes that
blazed—A lesson from Regnier.

LXV. JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE 353

Toole and Irving—A life-long friendship—Their jokes—
A seeming robbery—An odd Christmas present—Toole
and a sentry—A hornpipe in a landau—Moving
Canterbury Cathedral—Toole and the verger—A joke
to the King—Other jokes—His grief at Irving’s
death—Our last parting.

LXVI. ELLEN TERRY 362

First meet her—Irving’s early playing with her—His
criticism—How she knighted an Attorney-General—A
generous player—Real flowers—Her art—Discussion on
a “gag”—The New School—Last performance with
Irving—The cause of separation—Their comradeship—A
pet name.

LXVII. FRESH HONOURS IN DUBLIN 373

A public reception—Above politics—A lesson in
hand-shaking—A remarkable address—A generous gift.

LXVIII. PERFORMANCES AT SANDRINGHAM AND WINDSOR 375

Sandringham, 1889—First appearance before the Queen—
A quick change—Souvenirs—Windsor, 1893—A blunder
in old days—Royal hospitality—The Queen and the
Press—Sandringham, 1902—The Kaiser’s visit—A
record journey—An amateur conductor.

LXIX. PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES 384

Chester Arthur—Grover Cleveland—A judgment on taste—
McKinley—The “War Room”—Reception after a Cabinet
Council—McKinley’s memory—Theodore Roosevelt—His
justice as Police Commissioner—Irving at his New
Year Reception.

LXX. KNIGHTHOOD 389

Irving’s intimation of the honour—First State
recognition in any country—A deluge of
congratulations—The Queen’s pleasure—A wonderful
Address—Former suggestion of knighthood.

LXXI. HENRY IRVING AND UNIVERSITIES 393

Dublin—Cambridge—Glasgow—Oxford—Manchester—Harvard—
Columbia—Chicago—Princeton—Learned Bodies and
Institutions.

LXXII. ADVENTURES 405

Over a mine-bed—Fires: Edinburgh Hotel; Alhambra,
London; Star Theatre, New York; Lyceum—How Theatre
fires are put out—Union Square Theatre, New York—
“Fussy” safe—Floods—Bayou Pierre—How to get
supper—On the Pan Handle—Train accidents;
explosions; “Frosted” wheel; A lost driver—Storms
at sea—A reason for laughter—Falling scenery—No
fear of death—Master of himself.

LXXIII. BURNING OF THE LYCEUM STORAGE 423

Difficulty of storing scenery—New storage—A clever
fraud—The fire—Forty-four plays burned—Checkmate
to repertoire.

LXXIV. FINANCE 427

The protection of reticence—Beginning without a
capital—An overdraft—A loan—A legacy—Expenses at
commencement of management—Great running expenses—
Sale to the Lyceum Company—Irving’s position with
them.

LXXV. THE TURN OF THE TIDE 438

High-water mark—A succession of disasters—Pleurisy
and pneumonia—“Like Gregory Brewster”—Future
arrangements decided on—Offer from the Lyceum
Company—Health failing—True heroism—Work and
pressure—His splendid example—The last seven
years—Time of Retirement fixed—Singing at Swansea—
Farewell at Sunderland—Illness at Wolverhampton—
Last performances in London—Last illness—Death—A
city in tears—Lying in state—Public funeral.

INDEX 467

ILLUSTRATIONS

_To face
page_
LAST PORTRAIT OF IRVING, Pastel _Coloured
Frontispiece_

HENRY IRVING BEFORE BECOMING AN ACTOR 2

DIGBY GRANT. _Drawing by Fred Barnard_ 6

SUGGESTION FOR IAGO’S DRESS. _Drawing by Henry Irving_ 58

HENRY IRVING AS CHARLES I. 138

HENRY IRVING BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA. _Drawing by
Fred Barnard_ 186

ELLEN TERRY AS IMOGEN, 1896 260

CAST OF “DEARER THAN LIFE” 356

HENRY IRVING AND JOHN HARE (last photograph taken) 456

I
EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS OF HENRY IRVING

The first time I ever saw Henry Irving was at the Theatre Royal, Dublin,
on the evening of Wednesday, August 28, 1867. Miss Herbert had brought
the St. James’s company on tour, playing some of the old comedies and
Miss Braddon’s new drama founded on her successful novel, _Lady Audley’s
Secret_. The piece chosen for this particular night was _The Rivals_, in
which Irving played Captain Absolute.

Forty years ago provincial playgoers did not have much opportunity of
seeing great acting, except in the star parts. It was the day of the
stock companies, when the chief theatres everywhere had _good_ actors
who played for the whole season, each in his or her established class;
but notable excellence was not to be expected at the salaries then
possible to even the most enterprising management. The “business”—the
term still applied to the minor incidents of acting, as well as to the
disposition of the various characters and the entrances and exits—was,
of necessity, of a formal and traditional kind. There was no time for
the exhaustive rehearsal of minor details to which actors are in these
days accustomed. When the bill was changed five or six times a week it
was only possible, even at the longest rehearsal, to get through the
standard outline of action, and secure perfection in the cues—in fact,
those conditions of the interdependence of the actors and mechanics on
which the structural excellence of the play depends. Moreover, the
system by which great actors appeared as “stars,” supported by only one
or two players of their own bringing, made it necessary that there
should be in the higher order of theatres some kind of standard way of
regulating the action of the plays in vogue. It was a matter of
considerable interest to me to see, when some fourteen years later Edwin
Booth came to play at the Lyceum, that he sent his “dresser” to
represent him at the earlier rehearsals, so as to point out to the stage
management the disposition of the characters and general arrangement of
matured action to which he was accustomed. I only mention this here to
illustrate the conditions of stage work at an earlier period.

This adherence to standard “business” was so strict, though unwritten, a
rule that no one actor could venture to break it. To do so without
preparation would have been to at least endanger the success of the
play; and “preparation” was the prerogative of the management, not of
the individual player. Even Henry Irving, though he had been, as well as
a player, the stage manager of the St. James’s company, and so could
carry out his ideas partially, could not have altered the broad lines of
the play established by nearly a century of usage.

As a matter of fact, _The Rivals_ had not been one of Miss Herbert’s
productions at the St. James’s, and so it did not come within the scope
of his stage management at all.

Irving had played the part of Captain Absolute in the Theatre Royal,
Edinburgh, during three years of his engagement there, 1856–59, where he
had learned the traditional usage. Thus the only possibility open to
him, as to any actor with regard to an established comedy, was to
improve on the traditional method of acting it within the established
lines of movement; in fact, to impersonate the character to better
advantage.

On this particular occasion the play as an entity had an advantage not
always enjoyed in provincial theatres. It was performed by a company of
comedians, several of whom had acted together for a considerable time.
The lines of the play, being absolutely conventional, did not leave any
special impress on the mind; one can only recall the actors and the
acting.

[Illustration:

HENRY IRVING BEFORE BECOMING AN ACTOR

1856
]

To this day I can remember the playing of Henry Irving as Captain
Absolute, which was different from any performance of the same part
which I had seen. What I saw, to my amazement and delight, was a
patrician figure as real as the persons of one’s dreams, and endowed
with the same poetic grace. A young soldier, handsome, distinguished,
self-dependent, compact of grace and slumbrous energy. A man of quality
who stood out from his surroundings on the stage as a being of another
social world. A figure full of dash and fine irony, and whose ridicule
seemed to _bite_; buoyant with the joy of life; self-conscious; an
inoffensive egoist even in his love-making; of supreme and unsurpassable
insolence, veiled and shrouded in his fine quality of manner. Such a
figure as could only be possible in an age when the answer to offence
was a sword-thrust, when only those dare be insolent who could depend to
the last on the heart and brain and arm behind the blade. The scenes
which stand out most vividly are the following: His interview with Mrs.
Malaprop, in which she sets him to read his own intercepted letter to
Lydia wherein he speaks of the old lady herself as “the old
weather-beaten she-dragon.” The manner with which he went back again and
again, with excuses exemplified by action rather than speech, to the
offensive words—losing his place in the letter and going back to find
it—seeming to try to recover the sequence of thought—innocently trying
to fit the words to the subject—was simply a triumph, of well-bred, easy
insolence. Again, when Captain Absolute makes repentant obedience to his
father’s will his negative air of content as to the excellences or
otherwise of his suggested wife was inimitable. And the shocked
appearance, manner and speech of his hypocritical submission: “Not to
please your father, sir?” was as enlightening to the audience as it was
convincing to Sir Anthony. Again, the scene in the Fourth Act, when in
the presence of his father and Mrs. Malaprop he has to make love to
Lydia in his own person, was on the actor’s part a masterpiece of
emotion—the sort of thing to make an author grateful. There was no
mistaking the emotions which came so fast, treading on each other’s
heels: his mental perturbation; his sense of the ludicrous situation in
which he found himself; his hurried, feeble, ill-concealed efforts to
find a way out of the difficulty. And through them all the sincerity of
his real affection for Lydia which actually shone, coming straight and
convincingly to the hearts of the audience.

But these scenes were all of acting a part. The reality of his character
was in the scene of Sir Lucius O’Trigger’s quarrel with him. Here he was
real. Man to man the grace and truth of his character and bearing were
based on no purpose or afterthought. Before a man his manhood was
sincere; before a gallant gentleman his gallantry was without flaw, and,
as the dramatist intended, outshone even the chivalry of that perfect
gentleman Sir Lucius O’Trigger.

The acting of Henry Irving is, after nearly forty years, so vivid in my
memory that I can recall his movements, his expressions, the tones of
his voice.

And yet the manner in which his acting in the new and perfect method was
received in the local press may afford an object-lesson of what the
pioneer of high art has, like any other pioneer, to endure.

During the two weeks’ visit to Dublin the repertoire comprised, as well
as _The Rivals_, _The School for Scandal_, _The Belle’s Stratagem_, _The
Road to Ruin_, _She Stoops to Conquer_, and _Lady Audley’s Secret_.

Of these other plays I can say nothing, for I did not see them. Lately,
however, on looking over the newspapers, I found hardly a word of even
judicious comment; praise there was not. According to the local
journalistic record, his Joseph Surface was “lachrymose, coarse,
pointless, and ineffective. Nothing could be more ludicrously deficient
of dramatic power than his acting in the passage with Lady Teazle in the
screen scene. The want of harmony between the actual words and gesture,
emphasis and expression, was painfully palpable.”

And yet to those who can read between the lines and gather truth where
truth—though not perhaps the same truth—is meant, this very criticism
shows how well he played the hypocrite who meant one thing whilst
conveying the idea of another. Were Joseph’s acts and tones and words
all in perfect harmony he would seem to an audience not a hypocrite but
a reality.

Another critic considered him “stiff and constrained, and occasionally
left the audience under the impression that they were witnessing the
playing of an amateur.”

The only mention of his Young Marlow was in one paper that it was
“carefully represented by Mr. Irving,” and in another that it was
“insipid and pointless.”

Of young Dornton in _The Road to Ruin_ there was one passing word of
praise as an “able impersonation.” But of _The Rivals_ I could find no
criticism whatever in any of the Dublin papers when more than
thirty-eight years after seeing the play I searched them, hoping to find
some confirmation of my vivid recollection of Henry Irving’s brilliant
acting. The following only, in small type, I found in the _Irish Times_
of more than a week after the play had been given:

“Of those who support Miss Herbert, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Matthews are
undoubtedly the best. Mr. Stoyle is full of broad comedy, but now and
then he is not true to nature. Mr. Irving and Mr. Gaston Murray are
painstaking and respectable artists.”

It is good to think that the great player who, as the representative
actor of his nation—of the world—for over a quarter of a century, was
laid to rest in Westminster Abbey to the grief of at least two
Continents, had after eleven years of arduous and self-sacrificing work,
during which he had played over five hundred different characters and
had even then begun quite a new school of acting, been considered by at
least one writer for the press “a painstaking and respectable artist.”

I did not see Henry Irving again till May 1871, when with the Vaudeville
company he played for a fortnight at the Theatre Royal Albery’s comedy
_Two Roses_. Looking back to that time, the best testimony I can bear to
the fact that the performance interested me is that I went to see it
three times. The company was certainly an excellent one. In addition to
Henry Irving, it contained H. J. Montague, George Honey, Louise Claire,
and Amy Fawsitt.

Well do I remember the delight of that performance of Digby Grant, and
how well it foiled the other characters of the play.

Amongst them all it stood out star-like—an inimitable character which
Irving impersonated in a manner so complete that to this day I have been
unable to get it out of my mind as a reality. Indeed, it was a reality,
though at that time I did not know it. Years afterwards I met the
original at the house of the late Mr. James McHenry—a villa in a little
park off Addison Road.

This archetype was the late Chevalier Wikoff, of whom in the course of a
friendship of years I had heard much from McHenry, who well remembered
him in his early days in Philadelphia, in which city Wikoff was born. In
his youth he had been a very big, handsome man, and in the days when men
wore cloaks used to pass down Chestnut Street or Locust Street with a
sublime swagger. He was a great friend of Edwin Forrest the actor, and a
great “ladies’ man.” He had been a friend and lover of the celebrated
dancer Fanny Elsler, who was so big and yet so agile that, as my father
described to me, when she bounded in on the stage, seeming to light from
the wings to the footlights in a single leap, the house seemed to shake.
Wikoff was a pretty hard man, and as cunning as men are made. When I
knew him he was an old man, but he fortified the deficiencies of age
with artfulness. He was then a little hard of hearing, but he simulated
complete deafness, and there was little said within a reasonable
distance that he did not hear. For many years he had lived in Europe,
chiefly in London and Paris. There was one trait in his character which
even his intimate friends did not suspect. Every year right up to the
end of his long life he disappeared from London at a certain date. He
was making his pilgrimage to Paris, where on a given day he laid some
flowers on a little grave long after the child’s mother, the dancer, had
died. Wikoff was a trusted agent of the Bonapartes, and he held strange
secrets of that adventurous family. He it was, so McHenry told me, who
had brought in secret from France to England the last treasures of the
Imperial house after the _débâcle_ following Sedan.

This was the person whom Irving had reproduced in Digby Grant. Long
before, he had met him at McHenry’s. With that “seeing eye” of his he
had marked his personality down for use, and with that marvellous
memory, which in my long experience of him never failed him, was able to
reproduce with the exactness of a “Chinese copy” every jot and tittle
appertaining to the man, without and within. His tall, gaunt, slightly
stooping figure; his scanty hair artfully arranged to cover the ravages
of time; the cunning, inquisitive eyes; the mechanical turning of the
head which becomes the habit of the deaf; the veiled voice which can do
everything but express truth—even under stress of sudden emotion. Years
after _Two Roses_ had had its run at the Vaudeville and elsewhere I went
to see Wikoff when he was ill in a humble lodging. In answer to my
knuckle-tap he opened the door himself. For an instant I was startled
out of my self-possession, for in front of me stood the veritable Digby
Grant. I had met him already a good many times, but always in the
recognised costume of morning or evening. Now I saw him as Irving had
represented him; but I do not think he had ever seen him as I saw him at
that moment. I believe that the costume in which he appeared in that
play was the result of the actor’s inductive ratiocination. He had
studied the individuality so thoroughly, and was so familiar with not
only his apparent characteristics but with those secret manifestations
which are in their very secrecy subtle indicators of individuality
grafted on type, that he had re-created him—just as Cuvier or Owen could
from a single bone reconstruct giant reptiles of the Palæozoic age.
There was the bizarre dressing-jacket, frayed at the edge and cuff, with
ragged frogs and stray buttons. There the three days’ beard, white at
root and raven black at point. There the flamboyant smoking-cap with
yellow tassel, which marks that epoch in the history of ridiculous dress
out of which in sheer revulsion of artistic feeling came the
Pre-Raphaelite movement.

[Illustration:

HENRY IRVING AS DIGBY GRANT IN “TWO ROSES”

_Drawing made in his dressing-room by Fred Barnard_, 1870
]

Irving had asked me to bring with me to Wikoff some grapes and other
creature comforts, for which the poor old man was, I believe, genuinely
grateful; but in the course of our chat he told me that Irving had
“taken him off” for “that fellow in the _Two Roses_.” Wikoff did not
seem displeased at the duplication of his identity, but rather proud of
it.

This wonderful creation in the play “took the town,” as the phrase is,
and for some time the sayings of the characters in it were heard
everywhere. It was truly a “creation”; not merely in the actor’s sense,
where the first player of a character in London is deemed its “creator,”
but in the usual meaning of the word. For it is not enough in acting to
know what to do; it must be done! All possible knowledge of Wikoff, from
his psychical identity to his smoking-cap, could not produce a strong
effect unless the actor through the resources of his art could transform
reality to the appearance of reality—a very different and much more
difficult thing.

When Irving played in _Two Roses_ in Dublin in 1872 there was not a word
in any of the papers of the acting of any of the accomplished players
who took part in it; not even the mention of their names.

What other cities may have said of him in these earlier days I know not,
but I take it that the standard of criticism is generally of the same
average of excellence, according to the assay of the time. In the
provinces the zone of demarcation between bad and good varies less, in
that mediocrity qualifies more easily and superexcellence finds a wider
field for work. Of one thing we may be sure: that success has its own
dangers. Self-interest and jealousy and a host of the lesser and meaner
vices of the intellectual world find their opportunity.

When the floodgates of Comment are opened there comes with the rush of
clean water all the scum and rubbish which has accumulated behind them,
drawn into position by the trickling stream.

II
THE OLD SCHOOL AND THE NEW

More than five years elapsed before I saw Henry Irving again. We were
both busy men, each in his own way, and the Fates did not allow our
orbits to cross. He did not come to Dublin; my work did not allow my
going to London except at times when he was not playing there. Those
five years were to him a triumphant progress in his art and fame. He
rose, and rose, and rose. _The Bells_ in 1871 was followed in 1872 by
_Charles I._, in 1873 by _Eugene Aram_, and _Richelieu_, in 1874 by
_Philip_ and _Hamlet_, in 1875 by _Macbeth_, and in 1876 by _Othello_
and _Queen Mary_.

For my own part, being then in the Civil Service, I could only get away
in the “prime of summer time” as my seniors preferred to take their
holiday in the early summer or the late autumn. I had, when we next met,
been for five years a dramatic critic. In 1871 my growing discontent
with the attention accorded to the stage in the local newspapers had
culminated with the neglect of _Two Roses_. I asked the proprietor of
one of the Dublin newspapers whom I happened to know, Dr. Maunsell, an
old contemporary and friend of Charles Lever, to allow me to write on
the subject in the _Mail_. He told me frankly that the paper could not
afford to pay for such special work, as it was, in accordance with the
local custom of the time, done by the regular staff, who wrote on all
subjects as required. I replied that I would gladly do it without fee or
reward. This he allowed me to carry out.

From my beginning the work in November 1871 I had an absolutely free
hand. I was thus able to direct public attention, so far as my paper
could effect it, where in my mind such was required. In those five years
I think I learned a good deal. “Writing maketh an exact man”; and as I
have always held that in matters critical the critic’s personal honour
is involved in every word he writes, the duty I had undertaken was to me
a grave one. I did not shirk work in any way; indeed, I helped largely
to effect a needed reform as to the time when criticism should appear.
In those days of single printings from slow presses “copy” had to be
handed in very early. The paper went to press not long after midnight,
and there were few men who could see a play and write the criticism in
time for the morning’s issue. It thus happened that the critical article
was usually a full day behind its time. Monday night’s performance was
not generally reviewed till Wednesday at earliest; the instances which I
have already given afford the proof. This was very hard upon the actors
and companies making short visits. The public _en bloc_ is a slow-moving
force, and when possibility of result is cut short by effluxion of time
it is a sad handicap to enterprise and to exceptional work.

I do not wish to be egotistical, and I trust that no reader may take it
that I am so, in that I have spoken of my first experiences of Henry
Irving and how, mainly because of his influence on me, I undertook
critical work with regard to his own art. My purpose in doing so is not
selfish. I merely wish that those who honour me by reading what I have
written should understand something which went before our personal
meeting, and why it was that when we did meet we came together with a
loving and understanding friendship which lasted unbroken till my dear
friend passed away.

Looking back now after an interval of nearly forty years, during which
time I was mainly too busy to look back at all, I can understand
something of those root-forces which had so strange an influence on both
Irving’s life and my own, though at the first I was absolutely
unconscious of even their existence. Neither when I first saw Irving in
1867, nor when I met him in 1876, nor for many years after I had been
his close friend and fellow worker, did I know that his first experience
of Dublin had been painful to the last degree. I thought from the way in
which the press had ignored him and his work that they must have been
bad enough in 1867 and 1871. But long afterwards he told me the story to
this effect:

Quite early in his life as an actor—when he was only twenty-one—in an
off season, when the “resting” actor grasps at any chance of work, he
received from Mr. Harry Webb, then Manager of the Queen’s Theatre,
Dublin, and with whom he had played at the Edinburgh Theatre, an offer
of an engagement for some weeks. This he joyfully accepted; and turned
up in due course. He did not know then, though he learned it with
startling rapidity, that he was wanted to fill the place of a local
favourite who had been, for some cause, summarily dismissed. The public
visited their displeasure on the new-comer, and in no uncertain way.
From the moment of his coming on the stage on the first night of his
engagement until almost its end he was not allowed to say one word
without interruption. Hisses and stamping, cat-calls and the thumping of
sticks were the universal accompaniments of his speech.

Now to an actor nothing is so deadly as to be hissed. Not only does it
bar his artistic effort, but it hurts his self-esteem. Its manifestation
is a negation of himself, his power, his art. It is present death to him
_quâ_ artist, with the added sting of shame. Well did the actors know it
who crowded the court at Bow Street when the vanity-mad fool who
murdered poor William Terriss was arraigned. The murderer was an alleged
actor, and they wanted to punish him. When he was placed in the dock,
with one impulse they _hissed_ him!

In Irving’s case at the Queen’s the audience, with some shameful remnant
of fair play, treated him well the last two nights of his performance,
and cheered him. It was manifestly intended as a proof that it was not
against this particular man that their protest was aimed—though he was
the sufferer by it—but against _any one_ who might have taken the place
of their favourite, whom they considered had been injured.

Of this engagement Irving spoke to an interviewer in 1891 _apropos_ of
an outrage, unique to him, inflicted on Toole shortly before at
Coatbridge—a place of which the saying is, “There is only a sheet of
paper between Hell and Coatbridge.”

“Did you ever have any similar experience in your own career, Mr.
Irving?”

“... I did have rather a nasty time once, and suffered much as Mr.
Toole has done from the misplaced emotions of the house. It was in
this way. When I was a young man—away back about 1859” (should be
1860) “I should say it was—I was once sent for to fulfil an engagement
of six weeks at the Queen’s Theatre, a minor theatre in the Irish
capital. It was soon after I had left here, Edinburgh. I got over all
right, and was ready with my part, but to my amazement, the moment I
appeared on the stage I was greeted with a howl of execration from the
pit and gallery. There was I standing aghast, ignorant of having given
any cause of offence, and in front of me a raging Irish audience,
shouting, gesticulating, swearing probably, and in various forms
indicating their disapproval of my appearance. I was simply
thunderstruck at the warmth of my reception.... I simply went through
my part amid a continual uproar—groans, hoots, hisses, cat-calls, and
all the appliances of concerted opposition. It was a roughish
experience that!”

“But surely it did not last long?”

“That depends,” replied the player grimly, “on what you call long. It
lasted six weeks.... I was as innocent as yourself of all offence, and
could not for the life of me make out what was wrong. I had hurt
nobody; had said nothing insulting; I had played my parts not badly
for me. Yet for the whole of that time I had every night to fight
through my piece in the teeth of a house whose entire energies seemed
to be concentrated in a personal antipathy to myself.”

It was little wonder that the actor who had thus suffered undeservedly
remembered the details, though the time had so long gone by that he made
error as to the year. No wonder that the time of the purgatorial
suffering seemed fifty per cent. longer than its actual duration. Other
things of more moment had long ago passed out of his mind—he had supped
full of success and praise; but the bitter flavour of that month of pain
hung all the same in his cup of memory.

How it hung can hardly be expressed in words. For years he did not speak
of it even to me when telling me of how on March 12, 1860, he played
Laertes to the Hamlet of T. C. King. It was not till after more than a
quarter of a century of unbroken success that he could bear even to
speak of it. Not even the consciousness of his own innocence in the
whole affair could quell the mental disturbance which it caused him
whenever it came back to his thoughts.

When, then, Henry Irving came to Dublin in 1876, though it was after a
series of triumphs in London running into a term of years, he must have
had some strong misgivings as to what his reception might be. It is true
that the early obloquy had lessened into neglect; but no artist whose
stock-in-trade is mainly his own personality could be expected to reason
with the same calmness as that Parliamentary candidate who thus
expressed the grounds of his own belief in his growing popularity:

“I am growing popular!”

“Popular!” said his friend. “Why, last night I saw them pelt you with
rotten eggs!”

“Yes!” he replied with gratification, “that is right! But they used to
throw bricks!”

In London the bricks had been thrown, and in plenty. There are some
persons of such a temperament that they are jealous of any new idea—of
any thing or idea which is outside their own experience or beyond their
own reasoning. The new ideas of thoughtful acting which Irving
introduced won their way, in the main, splendidly. But it was a hard
fight, for there were some violent and malignant writers of the time who
did not hesitate to stoop to any meanness of attack. It is extraordinary
how the sibilation of a single hiss will win through a tempest of
cheers! The battle, however, was being won; when Irving came to Dublin
he brought with him a reputation consolidated by the victorious
conclusions of five years of strife. The new method was already winning
its way.

It so happens that I was myself able through a “fortuitous concourse” of
facts to have some means of comparison between the new and the old.

My father, who was born in 1798 and had been a theatre-goer all his
life, had seen Edmund Kean in all his Dublin performances. He had an
immense admiration for that actor, with whom none of the men within
thirty years of his death were, he said, to be compared. When the late
Barry Sullivan came on tour and played a range of the great plays he had
enormous success. My father, then well over seventy, did not go to the
play as often as he had been used to in earlier days; but I was so much
struck with the force of Barry Sullivan’s acting that I persuaded him to
come with me to see him play Sir Giles Overreach in _A New Way to Pay
Old Debts_—one of his greatest successes, as it had been one of Kean’s.
At first he refused to come, saying that it was no use his going, as he
had seen the greatest of all actors in the part, and did not care to see
a lesser one. However, he let me have my way, and went; and we sat
together in the third row of the pit, which had been his chosen locality
in his youth. He had been all his life in the Civil Service, serving
under four monarchs—George III., George IV., William IV., and Victoria—
and retiring after fifty years of service. In those days, as now, the
home Civil Service was not a very money-making business, and it was just
as well that he preferred the pit. I believed then that I preferred it
also, for I too was then in the Civil Service!

He sat the play out with intense eagerness, and as the curtain fell on
the frenzied usurer driven mad by thwarted ambition and the loss of his
treasure, feebly spitting at the foes he could not master as he sank
feebly into supporting arms, he turned to me and said:

“He is as good as the best of them!”

Barry Sullivan was a purely traditional actor of the old school. All his
movements and gestures, readings, phrasings, and times were in exact
accordance with the accepted style. It was possible, therefore, for my
father to judge fairly. I saw Barry Sullivan in many plays: _Hamlet_,
_Richelieu_, _Macbeth_, _King Lear_, _The Gamester_, _The Wife’s
Secret_, _The Stranger_, _Richard III._, _The Wonder_, _Othello_, _The
School for Scandal_, as well as playing Sir Giles Overreach, and some
more than once; I had a fair opportunity of comparing his acting over a
wide range with the particular play by which my father judged. _Ab uno
disce omnes_ is hardly a working rule in general, but one example is a
world better than none. I can fairly say that the actor’s general
excellence was fairly represented by his characterisation and acting of
Sir Giles. I had also seen Charles Kean, G. V. Brook, T. C. King,
Charles Dillon, and Vandenhoff. I had therefore in my own mind some kind
of a standard by which to judge of the worth of the old school, tracing
it back to its last great exemplar. When, therefore, I came to contrast
it with the new school of Irving, I was building my opinion not on sand
but upon solid ground. Let me say how the change from the old to the new
affected me; it is allowable, I suppose, in matters of reminiscence to
take personal example. Hitherto I had only seen Irving in two
characters, Captain Absolute and Digby Grant. The former of these was a
part in which for at least ten years—for I was a playgoer very early in
life—I had seen other actors all playing the part in a conventional
manner. As I have explained, I had only in Irving’s case been struck by
his rendering of his own part within the conventional lines. The latter
part was of quite a new style—new to the world in its essence as its
method, and we of that time and place had no standard with regard to it,
no means or opportunity of comparison. It was therefore with very great
interest that we regarded in 1876 the playing of this actor who was
accepted in the main as a new giant. To me as a critic, with the
experience of five years of the work, the occasion was of great moment;
and I am free to confess that I was a little jealous lest the new-comer—
even though I admired so much of his work as I had seen—should overthrow
my friend and countryman. For at this time Barry Sullivan was more than
an acquaintance; we had spent a good many hours together talking over
acting and stage history generally. Indeed, I said in my critical
article thus:

“Mr. Irving holds in the minds of all who have seen him a high place
as an artist, and by some he is regarded as the Garrick of his age;
and so we shall judge him by the highest standard which we know.”

At the first glance, after the lapse of time, this seems if not unfair
at least hard upon the actor; but the second thought shows a subtle
though unintentional compliment: Henry Irving had already raised in his
critic, partly by the dignity of his own fame and partly through the
favourable experience of the critic, the standard of criticism. He was
to be himself the standard of excellence! His present boon to us was
that he had taught us to think. Let me give an illustration.

Barry Sullivan was according to accepted ideas a great Macbeth. I for
one thought so. He had great strength, great voice, great physique of
all sorts; a well-knit figure with fine limbs, broad shoulders, and the
perfect back of a prize-fighter. He was master of himself, and
absolutely well versed in the parts which he played. His fighting power
was immense, and in the last act of the play good to see. The last scene
of all, when the “flats” of the penultimate scene were drawn away in
response to the usual carpenter’s whistle of the time, was disclosed as
a bare stage with “wings” of wild rock and heather. At the back was
Macbeth’s Castle of Dunsinane seen in perspective. It was supposed to be
vast, and occupied the whole back of the scene. In the centre was the
gate, double doors in a Gothic archway of massive proportions. In
reality it was quite eight feet high, though of course looking bigger in
the perspective. The stage was empty, but from all round it rose the
blare of trumpets and the roll of drums. Suddenly the Castle gates were
dashed back, and through the archway came Macbeth, sword in hand and
buckler on arm. Dashing with really superb vigour down to the
footlights, he thundered out his speech:

“They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly.”

Now this was to us all very fine, and was vastly exciting. None of us
ever questioned its accuracy to nature. That Castle with the massive
gates thrown back on their hinges by the rush of a single man came back
to me vividly when I saw the play as Irving did it in 1888, though at
the time we had never given it a thought. Indeed, we gave thought to few
such things; we took them with simplicity and as they were, just as we
accepted the conventional scenes of the then theatre, _the Palace
Arches_, _the Oak Chamber_, _the Forest Glade_ with its added _wood
wings_, and all the machinery of tradition. With Irving all was
different. That “easy” progress of Macbeth’s soldiers returning tired
after victorious battle, seen against the low dropping sun across the
vast heather studded with patches of light glinting on water; the
endless procession of soldiers straggling, singly, and by twos and
threes, filling the stage to the conclusion of an endless array,
conveyed an idea of force and power which impressed the spectator with
an invaluable sincerity. In fact, Irving always helped his audience to
think.

III
FRIENDSHIP

That Irving was, in my estimation, worthy of the test I had laid down is
shown by my article on the opening performance of _Hamlet_, and in the
second article written after I had seen him play the part for the third
time running. That he was pleased with the review of his work was proved
by the fact that he asked on reading my criticism on Tuesday morning
that we should be introduced. This was effected by my friend Mr. John
Harris, Manager of the Theatre Royal.

Irving and I met as friends, and it was a great gratification to me when
he praised my work. He asked me to come round to his room again when the
play was over. I went back with him to his hotel, and with three of his
friends supped with him.

We met again on the following Sunday, when he had a few friends to
dinner. It was a pleasant evening and a memorable one for me, for then
began the close friendship between us which only terminated with his
life—if indeed friendship, like any other form of love, can ever
terminate. In the meantime I had written the second notice of his
Hamlet. This had appeared on Saturday, and when we met he was full of
it. Praise was no new thing to him in those days. Two years before,
though I knew nothing of them at that time, two criticisms of his Hamlet
had been published in Liverpool. One admirable pamphlet was by Sir (then
Mr.) Edward Russell, then, as now, the finest critic in England; the
other by Hall Caine—a remarkable review to have been written by a young
man under twenty. Some of the finest and most lofty minds had been
brought to bear on his work. It is, however, a peculiarity of an actor’s
work that it never grows stale; no matter how often the same thing be
repeated, it requires a fresh effort each time. Thus it is that
criticism can never be stale either; it has always power either to
soothe or to hurt. To a great actor the growth of character never stops,
and any new point is a new interest, a new lease of intellectual life.

Before dinner Irving chatted with me about this second article. In it I
had said:

“There is another view of Hamlet, too, which Mr. Irving seems to
realise by a kind of instinct, but which requires to be more fully and
intentionally worked out.... The great, deep, underlying idea of
Hamlet is that of a mystic.... In the high-strung nerves of the man;
in the natural impulse of spiritual susceptibility; in his
concentrated action, spasmodic though it sometimes be, and in the
divine delirium of his perfected passion there is the instinct of the
mystic, which he has but to render a little plainer in order that the
less susceptible senses of his audience may see and understand.”

He was also pleased with another comment of mine. Speaking of the love
shown in his parting with Ophelia I had said:

“To give strong grounds for belief, where the instinct can judge more
truly than the intellect, is the perfection of suggestive acting; and
certainly with regard to this view of Hamlet Mr. Irving deserves not
only the highest praise that can be accorded, but the loving gratitude
of all to whom his art is dear.”

There were plenty of things in my two criticisms which could hardly have
been pleasurable to the actor, so that my review of his work could not
be considered mere adulation. But I never knew in all the years of our
friendship and business relations Irving to take offence or be hurt by
true criticism—that criticism which is philosophical and gives a reason
for every opinion adverse to that on which judgment is held. When any
one could let Irving believe that he had either studied the subject or
felt the result of his own showing, he was prepared to argue to the last
any point suggested on equal terms. I remember at this time Edward
Dowden, the great Shakespearean critic, then, as now, Professor of
English Literature in Dublin University, saying to me in discussing
Irving’s acting:

“After all, an actor’s commentary is his acting!”—a remark of embodied
wisdom. Irving had so thoroughly studied every phase and application and
the relative importance of every word of his part that he was well able
to defend his accepted position. Seldom indeed was any one able to
refute him; but when such occurred no one was more ready to accept the
true view—and to act upon it.

Thus it was that on this particular night my host’s heart was from the
beginning something toward me, as mine had been toward him. He had
learned that I could appreciate high effort; and with the instinct of
his craft liked, I suppose, to prove himself again to his new,
sympathetic and understanding friend. And so after dinner he said he
would like to recite for me Thomas Hood’s poem _The Dream of Eugene
Aram_.

That experience I shall never—can never—forget. The recitation was
different, both in kind and degree, from anything I had ever heard; and
in those days there were some noble experiences of moving speech. It had
been my good fortune to be in Court when Whiteside made his noble appeal
to the jury in the Yelverton Case; a speech which won for him the unique
honour, when next he walked into his place in the House of Commons, of
the whole House standing up and cheering him.

I had heard Lord Brougham speak amid a tempest of cheers in the great
Round Room of the Dublin Mansion House.

I had heard John Bright make his great oration on Ireland in the Dublin
Mechanics’ Institute, and had thrilled to the roar within, and the
echoing roar from the crowded street without, which followed his
splendid utterance. Like all the others I was touched with deep emotion.
To this day I can remember the tones of his organ voice as he swept us
all—heart and brain and memory and hope—with his mighty periods; moving
all who remembered how in the Famine time America took the guns from her
battleships to load them fuller with grain for the starving Irish
peasants.

These experiences and many others had shown me something of the power of
words. In all these and in most of the others there were natural aids to
the words spoken. The occasion had always been great, the theme far
above one’s daily life. The place had always been one of dignity; and
above all, had been the greatest of all aids to effective speech, that
which I heard Dean (then Canon) Farrar call in his great sermon on
Garibaldi “the mysterious sympathy of numbers.” But here in a
dining-room, amid a dozen friends, a man in evening dress stood up to
recite a poem with which we had all been familiar from our schooldays,
which most if not all of us had ourselves recited at some time.

But such was Irving’s commanding force, so great was the magnetism of
his genius, so profound was the sense of his dominance that I sat
spell-bound. Outwardly I was as of stone; nought quick in me but
receptivity and imagination. That I knew the story and was even familiar
with its unalterable words was nothing. The whole thing was new,
re-created by a force of passion which was like a new power. Across the
footlights amid picturesque scenery and suitable dress, with one’s
fellows beside and all around one, though the effect of passion can
convince and sway it cannot move one personally beyond a certain point.
But here was incarnate power, incarnate passion, so close that one could
meet it eye to eye, within touch of the outstretched hand. The
surroundings became non-existent; the dress ceased to be noticeable;
recurring thoughts of self-existence were not at all. Here was indeed
Eugene Aram as he was face to face with his Lord; his very soul aflame
in the light of his abiding horror. Looking back now, I can realise the
perfection of art with which the mind was led and swept and swayed
hither and thither as the actor wished. How a change of tone or time
denoted the personality of the “Blood-avenging Sprite”—and how the
nervous, eloquent hands slowly moving, outspread fanlike, round the
fixed face—set as doom, with eyes as inflexible as Fate—emphasised it
till one instinctively quivered with pity! Then came the awful horror on
the murderer’s face as the ghost in his brain seemed to take external
shape before his eyes, and enforced on him that from his sin there was
no refuge. After this climax of horror the Actor was able by art and
habit to control himself to the narrative mood whilst he spoke the few
concluding lines of the poem.

Then he collapsed half fainting.

III

There are great moments even to the great. That night Irving was
inspired. Many times since then I saw and heard him—for such an effort
eyes as well as ears are required—recite that poem and hold audiences,
big or little, spell-bound till the moment came for the thunderous
outlet of their pent-up feelings; but that particular vein I never met
again. Art can do much; but in all things even in art there is a summit
somewhere. That night for a brief time, in which the rest of the world
seemed to sit still, Irving’s genius floated in blazing triumph above
the summit of art. There is something in the soul which lifts it above
all that has its base in material things. If once only in a lifetime the
soul of a man can take wings and sweep for an instant into mortal gaze,
then that “once” for Irving was on that, to me, ever memorable night.

As to its effect I had no adequate words. I can only say that after a
few seconds of stony silence following his collapse I burst out into
something like a violent fit of hysterics.

Let me say, not in my own vindication, but to bring new tribute to
Irving’s splendid power, that I was no hysterical subject. I was no
green youth; no weak individual, yielding to a superior emotional force.
I was as men go a strong man—strong in many ways. If autobiography is
allowable in a work of reminiscence, let me say here what has to be said
of myself.

In my earlier years I had known much illness. Certainly till I was about
seven years old I never knew what it was to stand upright. This early
weakness, however, passed away in time and I grew into a strong boy.
When I was in my twentieth year I was Athletic Champion of Dublin
University. When I met Irving first I was in my thirtieth year. I had
been for ten years in the Civil Service, and was then engaged on a
dry-as-dust book on _The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions_. I had
edited a newspaper, and had exercised my spare time in many ways—as a
journalist; as a writer; as a teacher. In my College days I had been
Auditor of the Historical Society—a post which corresponds to the
Presidency of the Union in Oxford or Cambridge—and had got medals, or
certificates, for History, Composition, and Oratory. I had been
President of the Philosophical Society; I had got University Honours in
pure Mathematics. I had won numerous silver cups for races of various
kinds—for rowing, weight-throwing, and gymnastics. I had played for
years in the University football team, where I had received the honour
of a “cap!” When, therefore, after his recitation I became hysterical,
it was distinctly a surprise to my friends; for myself surprise had no
part in my then state of mind. Irving seemed much moved by the
occurrence.

On piecing together the causes of his pleasure at finding an
understanding friend, and his further pleasure in realising that that
friend’s capacity for receptive emotion was something akin in
forcefulness to his power of creating it, I can now have some glimpse of
his compelling motive when he went into his bedroom and after a couple
of minutes brought me out his photograph with an inscription on it, the
ink still wet:

“My dear friend Stoker. God bless you! God bless you!! Henry Irving.
Dublin, December 3, 1876.”

In those moments of our mutual emotion he too had found a friend and
knew it. Soul had looked into soul! From that hour began a friendship as
profound, as close, as lasting as can be between two men.

He has gone his road. Now he lies amongst the great dead; his battle
won; the desire of his heart for the advancement of his chosen and
beloved art accomplished: his ambition satisfied; his fame part of the
history and the glory of the nation.

The sight of his picture before me, with those loving words—the record
of a time of deep emotion and full understanding of us both, each for
the other—unmans me once again as I write.

* * * * *

I have ventured to write fully, if not diffusely, about not only my
first meeting with Irving but about matters which preceded it and in
some measure lead to an understanding of its results.

When a man with his full share of ambition is willing to yield it up to
work with a friend whom he loves and honours, it is perhaps as well that
in due season he may set out his reasons for so doing. Such is but just;
and I now place it on record for the sake of Irving as well as of
myself, and for the friends of us both.

For twenty-seven years I worked with Henry Irving, helping him in all
honest ways in which one may aid another—and there were no ways with
Irving other than honourable.

Looking back I cannot honestly find any moment in my life when I failed
him, or when I put myself forward in any way when the most scrupulous
good taste could have enjoined or even suggested a larger measure of
reticence.

By my dealing with him I am quite content to be judged, now and
hereafter. In my own speaking to the dead man I can find an analogue in
the words of heartbreaking sincerity:

“Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
All the gifts required of me!”

IV
HONOURS FROM DUBLIN UNIVERSITY

During that visit to Dublin, 1876, Irving received at the hands of the
University two honours, one of them unique. Both were accorded by all
grades of the College—for Dublin University is the University of the
College.

Both honours were unofficial and yet both entirely representative. Both
were originated by a few of us the morning after his first performance
of _Hamlet_—before I had the honour of knowing him personally. The first
was an Address to be presented in the Dining Hall by the Graduates and
Undergraduates of the University. The movement came from a few
enthusiasts, of whom the late G. F. Shaw and Professor R. Y. Tyrrell,
both Fellows of the University, were included. As I had originated the
idea I was asked by the Committee to write the draft address.

One of the paragraphs, when completed, ran as follows:

“For the delight and instruction that we (in common with our fellow
citizens) have derived from all your impersonations, we tender you our
sincere thanks. But it is something more than gratitude for personal
pleasure or personal improvement that moves us to offer this public
homage to your genius. Acting such as yours ennobles and elevates the
stage, and serves to restore it to its true function as a potent
instrument for intellectual and moral culture.

“Throughout your too brief engagement our stage has been a school of
true art, a purifier of the passions, and a nurse of heroic
sentiments; you have even succeeded in commending it to the favour of
a portion of society, large and justly influential, who usually hold
aloof from the theatre.”

The Address was signed with the names necessary to show its scope and
wide significance.

To this Irving replied suitably. I give some passages of his speech; for
the occasion was a memorable one, with far-reaching consequences to
himself and his art and calling:

“I believe that this is one of the very rare occasions on which public
acknowledgment has been given by an Academic body to the efforts of a
player, and this belief impresses me with the magnitude of the honour
which you have conferred.... I feel not merely the personal pride of
individual success which you thus avow, but that the far nobler work
which I aim at is in truth begun. When I think that you, the upholders
of the classic in every age, have just flung aside the traditions of
three centuries, and have acknowledged the true union of poet and
actor, my heart swells with a great pride that I should be the
recipient of such acknowledgment. I trust with all my soul that the
reform which you suggest may ere long be carried out, and that that
body to whom is justly entrusted our higher moral education may
recognise in the Stage a medium for the accomplishment of such ends.
What you have done to-day is a mighty stride in this direction. In my
profession it will be hailed with joy and gladness—it must elevate,
not only the aims of individual actors, but our calling in the eyes of
the world. Such honour as you have now bestowed enters not into the
actor’s dreams of success. Our hopes, it is true, are dazzling. We
seek our reward in the approval of audiences, and in the tribute of
their tears and smiles; but the calm honour of academic distinction is
and must be to us, as actors, the Unattainable, and therefore the more
dear when given unsought....

“It is only natural in the presence of gentlemen whose _Alma Mater_
holds such state among institutes of learning that I should feel
embarrassed in the choice of words with which to thank you; but I beg
you to believe this. For my Profession, I tender you gratitude; for my
Art, I honour you; for myself, I would that I could speak all that is
in my soul. But I cannot; and so falteringly tender you my most
grateful thanks.”

The second honour given on the same day—December 11, 1876—was a
“University Night.” Trinity had taken all the seats in the theatre, and
these had been allotted in a sort of rough precedence, University
dignitaries coming first, and public men of light and leading—alumni of
the University—next, and so on to the undergraduates who occupied pit
and gallery. An announcement had been made by the Management of the
theatre that only those seats not required by the University would be
available on the evening for the public. What follows is from the
account of the affair written by myself for the Dublin _Mail_:

“The grand reception given to Mr. Irving in Trinity College during the
day had increased the interest of the public, and vast crowds had
assembled to await the opening of the doors. A little before seven the
sound of horns was heard in the College, and from the gate in
Brunswick Street swept a body of five hundred students, who took the
seats reserved for them in the pit of the theatre. Then gradually the
boxes began to fill, and as each Fellow and Professor and well-known
University character made his appearance, he was cheered according to
the measure of his popularity.... All University men, past and
present, wore rosettes. Long before the time appointed for beginning
the play the whole house was crammed from floor to ceiling; the pit
and galleries were seas of heads, and the box lobbies were filled with
those who were content to get an occasional glimpse of the stage
through the door. When Mr. Irving made his appearance the pit rose at
him, and he was received with a cheer which somewhat resembled a May
shower, for it was sudden, fierce, and short, as the burst of welcome
was not allowed to interrupt the play. Mr. Irving’s performance was
magnificent. It seemed as though he were put on his mettle by the
University distinction of the day to do justice to the stateliness of
his mighty theme, and, at the same time, was fired to the utmost
enthusiasm—as it was, indeed, no wonder—at the warmth of his
reception. In the philosophic passage ‘To be or not to be,’ and the
advice to the players, there was a quiet, self-possessed dignity of
thought which no man could maintain if he did not know that he had an
appreciative audience, and that he was not talking over their heads.
In the scene with Ophelia he acted as though inspired, for there was a
depth of passionate emotion which even a great actor can but seldom
feel; and in the play scene he stirred the house to such a state of
feeling that there was a roar of applause. During the performance he
was called before the drop-scene several times; but it was not till
the green curtain fell that the pent-up enthusiasm burst forth. There
was a tremendous applause, and when the actor came forward the whole
house rose simultaneously to their feet, and there was a shout that
made the walls ring again. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved, and
cheer upon cheer swelled louder and louder as the player stood proudly
before his audience, with a light upon his face such as never shone
from the floats. It was a pleasant sight to behold—the sea of upturned
faces in the pit, clear, strong young faces, with broad foreheads and
bright eyes—the glimpse of colour as the crimson rosettes which the
student’s wore flashed with their every movement—the gleaming jewels
of the ladies in the boxes—the moving mass of hats and handkerchiefs,
and above all the unanimity with which everything was done. It was
evident that in the theatre this night was a body moved by a strong
_esprit de corps_, for without any fugleman every movement was
simultaneous. They took their cue from the situation, moved by one
impulse to do the same thing. It was, indeed, a tribute of which any
human being might be proud. For many minutes the tempest continued,
and then, as one man, the house sat down, as Mr. Henry Irving stepped
forward to make his speech, which was as follows:

“‘Ladies and Gentlemen,—Honest steadfast work in any path of life is
almost sure to bring rewards and honours; but they are rewards and
honours so unexpected and so unprecedented that they may well give the
happy recipient a new zest for existence. Such honours you have heaped
upon me. For the welcome you have given me upon these classic boards—
for the proud distinction your grand University has bestowed upon me—
for these honours accept the truest, warmest, and most earnest thanks
that an overflowing heart tries to utter, and you cannot think it
strange that every fibre of my soul throbs and my eyes are dim with
emotion as I look upon your faces and know that I must say “Good-bye.”
Your brilliant attendance on this, my parting performance, sheds a
lustre upon my life.’

“At the close of his speech Mr. Irving seemed much affected, as,
indeed, it was no wonder, for the memory of Saturday night is one
which he will carry to his grave. Not Mr. Irving alone, but the whole
of the profession should be proud of such a tribute to histrionic
genius, for the address in the University and the assemblage at the
theatre not only adds another sprig to the actor’s well-won crown of
laurel, but it marks an era in the history of the stage.”

When the performance was over a vast crowd of young men, nearly all
students, waited outside the stage door to escort the actor to his
hotel, the Shelbourne, in St. Stephen’s Green. This they did in noble
style. They had come prepared with a long, strong rope, and taking the
horses from the carriage harnessed themselves to it. There were over a
thousand of them, and as no more than a couple of hundred of them could
get a hand on the rope the rest surrounded us—for I accompanied my
friend on that exciting progress—on either side a shouting body. The
street was a solid moving mass and the wild uproar was incessant. To us
the street was a sea of faces, for more than half the body were turning
perpetually to have another look at the hero of the hour. Up Grafton
Street we swept, the ordinary passengers in the street falling of
necessity back into doorways and side streets; round into St. Stephen’s
Green, where the shouting crowd stopped before the hotel. Then the
cheering became more organised. The desultory sounds grew into more
exact and recurring volume till the cheers rang out across the great
square and seemed to roll away towards the mountains in the far
distance. Irving was greatly moved, almost overcome; and in the
exuberance of his heart asked me seriously if it would not be possible
to ask all his friends into the hotel to join him at supper. This being
manifestly impossible, as he saw when he turned to lift his hat and say
good-night and his eyes ranged over that seething roaring crowd, he
asked could he not ask them all to drink a health with him. To this the
hotel manager and the array of giant constables—then a feature of the
Dublin administration of law and order, who had by this time arrived,
fearing a possibility of disorder from so large a concourse of students—
answered with smiling headshake a _non possumus_. And so amid endless
cheering and relentless hand-shaking we forced a way into the hotel.

That the occasion was marked by rare orderliness—for in those days town
and gown fights were pretty common—was shown by the official Notice
fixed on the College gate on Monday morning:

“At Roll-call to-night the Junior Dean will express his grateful sense
of the admirable conduct of the Students on Saturday last, at Mr.
Irving’s Reception in Trinity College and subsequently at the
performance in the Theatre Royal.”

After that glorious night Henry Irving, with brave heart and high hopes,
now justified by a new form of success, left Ireland for his own
country, where fresh triumphs awaited him.

V
CONVERGING STREAMS

In June 1877 Henry Irving paid a flying visit to Dublin in order to
redeem his promise of giving a Reading in Trinity College. It must have
been for him an arduous spell of work. Leaving London by the night mail
on Sunday, he arrived at half-past six in the morning of Monday, June
18, at Kingstown, where I met him. He had with him a couple of friends:
Frank A. Marshall, who afterwards edited Shakespeare with him, and Harry
J. Loveday, then and afterwards his stage manager. The Reading was in
the Examination Hall, which was crowded in every corner. It consisted of
part of _Richard III._, part of _Othello_, Calverley’s _Gemini et
Virgo_, Dickens’ _Copperfield and the Waiter_, and _The Dream of Eugene
Aram_.

He was wildly cheered in the Hall; and in the Quadrangle, when he came
out, he was “chaired” on men’s shoulders all round the place. Knowing
how that particular game is best played by the recipient of the honour,
and surmising what the action of the crowd would be, I was able to help
him. I had already coached him when we had breakfasted together at the
hotel as to how to protect himself; and in the rush I managed to keep
close to him to see that the wisdom of my experience was put in force.
Years afterwards, in 1894, I saw Irving saved by this experience from
possibly a very nasty accident when, at his being chaired in the
Quadrangle of the Victoria University of Manchester, the bearers got
pulled in different ways and he would otherwise have fallen head down,
his legs being safe held tight in the clutches of two strong young men.

That night he dined in Hall with the Fellows at the High Table and was
afterwards in the Commination Room where I too was a guest, and where we
remained till it was time for him to leave for London by the night mail.
I saw him off from Kingstown.

His reading that day of _Richard III._ gave me a wonderful glimpse of
his dealing with that great character. There was something about it so
fine—at once so subtle and so masterly—that it made me long to see the
complete work.

Thirteen days afterwards I was in London and saw him at the Lyceum in
_The Lyons Mail_; I sat in his dressing-room between the acts. My visit
to London was to attend the Handel Festival. I saw a good deal of
Irving, meeting him on most days.

I may here give an instance of his thoughtful kindness. Since our first
meeting the year before, he had known of my wish to get to London, where
as a writer I should have a larger scope and better chance of success
than at home. One morning, July 12, I got a letter from him asking me to
call at 17 Albert Mansions, Victoria Street, at half-past one and see
Mr. Knowles. I did so, and on arriving found it was the office of the
_Nineteenth Century_. There I saw the editor and owner, Sir (then Mr.)
James Knowles, who received me most kindly and asked me all sorts of
questions as to work and prospects. Presently while he was speaking he
interrupted himself to say:

“What are you smiling at?” I answered:

“Are you not dissuading me from venturing to come to London as a
writer?”

After a moment’s hesitation he said with a smile:

“Yes! I believe I am.”

“I was smiling to think,” I said, “that if I had not known the accuracy
and wisdom of all you have said I should have been here long ago!”

That seemed to interest him; he was far too clever a man to waste time
on a fool. Presently he said:

“Now, why do you think it better to be in London? Could you not write to
me, for instance, from Dublin?”

“Oh! yes, I could write well enough, but I have known that game for some
time. I know the joy of the waste-paper basket and the manuscript
returned—unread. Now Mr. Knowles,” I went on, “may I ask you something?”

“Certainly!”

“You are, if I mistake not, a Scotchman?” He nodded acquiescence,
keeping his eye on me and smiling as I went on:

“And yet you came to London. You have not done badly either, I
understand? Why did you come?”

“Oh!” he answered quickly, “far be it from me to make little of life in
London or the advantages of it. Now look here, I know exactly what you
feel. Will you send me anything which you may have written, or which you
may write for the purpose, which you think suitable for the _Nineteenth
Century_? I promise you that I shall read it myself; and if I can I will
find a place for it in the magazine!”

I thanked him warmly for his quick understanding and sympathy, and for
his kindly promise. I said at the conclusion:

“And I give you my word that I shall never send you anything which I do
not think worthy of the _Nineteenth Century_!”

From that hour Sir James and I became close friends. I and mine have
received from him and his innumerable kindnesses; and there is for him a
very warm corner in my heart.

Strange to say, the next time we spoke of my writing in the _Nineteenth
Century_ was when in 1881 he asked me to write an article for him on a
matter then of much importance in the world of the theatre. I asked him
if it was to be over my signature. When he said that was the intention,
I said:

“I am sorry I cannot do it. Irving and I have been for now some years so
closely associated that anything I should write on a theatrical subject
might be taken for a reflex of his opinion or desire. Since we have been
associated in business I have never signed any article regarding the
stage unless we shared the same view. And whilst we are so associated I
want to keep to that rule. Otherwise it would not be fair to him, for he
might get odium in some form for an opinion which he did not hold! As a
matter of fact we join issue on this particular subject!”

The first time I had the pleasure of writing for him was when in 1890 I
wrote an article on “Actor-Managers” which appeared in the June number.
Regarding this, Irving’s opinion and my own were at one, and I could
attack the matter with a good heart. I certainly took pains enough, for
I spent many, many hours in the Library of my Inn, the Inner Temple,
reading all the “Sumptuary” laws in the entire collection of British
Statutes. Irving himself followed my own article with a short one on the
subject of the controversy on which we were then engaged.

III

In the autumn of that year, 1877, Irving again visited Dublin, opening
in _Hamlet_ on Monday, November 19. The year’s work had smoothed and
rounded his impersonation, and to my mind, improved even upon its
excellence. I venture to quote again some sentences from my own
criticism upon it as the evidence of an independent and sincere
contemporary opinion. In the year that had passed not the public only
had learned something—much; he too had learned also, even of his own
instinctive ideas—up to then not wholly conscious. We all had learned,
acting and reacting on each other. We had followed him. He, in turn,
encouraged and aided by the thought as well as the sympathy of others
and feeling justified in further advance, had let his own ideas grow,
widening to all the points of the intellectual compass and growing
higher and deeper than had been possible to his unaided efforts. For
original thought must, after all, be in part experimental and tentative.
It is in the consensus of many varying ideas, guesses and experiences—
reachings out of groping intelligences into the presently dark unknown—
that the throbbing heart of true wisdom is to be found. In my criticism
I said:

“Mr. Irving has not slackened in his study of Hamlet, and the
consequence is an advance. All the little fleeting subtleties of
thought and expression which arise from time to time under slightly
different circumstances have been fixed and repeated till they have
formed an additional net of completeness round the whole character. To
the actor, art is as necessary as genius, for it is only when the
flashes of genius evoked by occasion have been studied as facts to be
repeated, that a worthy reproduction of effect is possible.... Hamlet,
as Mr. Irving now acts it, is the wild, fitful, irresolute, mystic,
melancholy prince that we know in the play; but given with a sad,
picturesque gracefulness which is the actor’s special gift.... In his
most passionate moments with Ophelia, even in the violence of his
rage, he never loses that sense of distance—of a gulf fixed—of that
acknowledgment of the unseen which is his unconscious testimony to her
unspotted purity....”

The lesson conveyed to me by his acting of which the above is the
expression was put by him into words in his Preface to the edition of
Diderot’s _Paradox of Acting_, translated by Walter Pollock and
published in 1883, six years after he had been practising the art by
which he taught and illuminated the minds of others.

During this engagement Irving played _Richard III._, and his wonderful
acting satisfied all the hopes aroused by sample given in his Reading at
the University. For myself I can say truly that I sat all the evening in
a positive quiver of intellectual delight. His conception and
impersonation of the part were so “subtle, complete, and masterly”—these
were the terms I used in my criticism written that night—that it seemed
to me the power of acting could go no further; that it had reached the
limit of human power. Most certainly it raised him still higher in
public esteem. Its memory being still with me, I could fully appreciate
the power and fineness of Tennyson’s criticism which I heard long
afterwards. When the poet had seen the piece he said to Irving:

“Where did you get that Plantagenet look?”

In those days a small party of us, of whom Irving and I were always two,
very often had supper in those restaurants which were a famous feature
of men’s social life in Dublin. There were not so many clubs as there
are now, and certain houses made a speciality of suppers—Jude’s, Burton
Bindon’s, Corless’s. The last was famous for “hot lobster” and certain
other toothsome delicacies and had an excellent grill; and so we often
went there. By that time Irving had a great vogue in Dublin, and since
the Address in College and the University night in 1876 his name was in
the public mind associated with the University. All College men were
naturally privileged persons with him, so that any one who chose to pass
himself off as a student could easily make his acquaintance. The waiters
in the restaurant, who held him in great respect, were inclined to
resent this, and one night at Corless’s when a common fellow came up and
introduced himself as a Scholar of Trinity College—he called it
“Thrinity”—Irving, not suspecting, was friendly to him. I looked on
quietly and enjoyed the situation, hoping that it might end in some fun.
The outsider having made good his purpose, wished to show off before his
friends, men of his own style, who were grinning at another table. When
he went over towards them, our waiter, who had been hovering around us
waiting for his chance—his napkin taking as many expressive flickers as
the tail of Whistler’s butterfly in _The Gentle Art of Making Enemies_—
stooped over to Irving and said in a hurried whisper:

“He said he was a College man, sur! He’s a liar! He’s only a
Commercial!”

During his fortnight in Dublin I drove one Sunday with Irving in the
Phœnix Park, the great park near Dublin which measures some seven miles
in circumference. Whilst driving through that section known as the “Nine
Acres” we happened on a scene which took his fancy hugely. In those days
wrestling was an amusement much in vogue in Ireland, chiefly if not
wholly among the labouring class. Bouts used to be held on each Sunday
afternoon in various places, and naturally the best of the wrestlers
wished to prove themselves in the Capital. Each Sunday some young man
who had won victory in Navan, or Cork, or Galway, or wherever
exceptional excellence had been manifested, would come up to town to try
conclusions in the “Phaynix,” generally by aid of a subscription from
his fellows or his club, for they were all poor men to whom a long
railway journey was a grave expense. There was no prize, no betting; it
was Sport, pure and simple; and sport conducted under fairer lines I
have never seen or thought of. We saw the gathering crowd and joined
them. They did not know either of us, but they saw we were gentlemen,
strangers to themselves, and with the universal courtesy of their race
put us in the front when the ring had been formed. This forming of the
ring was a unique experience. There were no police present, there were
no stakes or ropes; not even a whitened mark on the grass. Two or three
men of authority amongst the sportsmen made the ring. It was done after
this fashion: One man, a fine, big, powerful fellow, was given a
drayman’s heavy whip. Then one of those with him took off his cap and
put it before the face of the armed man. Another guided him from behind
in the required direction. Warning was called out lustily, and any one
not getting at once out of the way had to take the consequence of that
fiercely falling whip. It was wonderful how soon and how excellently
that ring was formed. The manner of its doing, though violent
exceedingly, was so conspicuously and unquestionably fair that not even
the most captious or quarrelsome could object.

Then the contestants stepped into the ring and made their little
preparations for strife. Two splendid young men they were—Rafferty of
Dublin and Finlay of Drogheda—as hard as nails and full of pluck. The
style of wrestling was the old-fashioned “collar and elbow” with the
usual test of defeat: both shoulders on the ground at once. It was
certainly a noble game. A single bout sometimes lasted for over a
quarter of an hour; and any one who knows what the fierce and
unrelenting and pauseless struggle can be, and must be in any kind of
equality, can understand the strain. What was most noticeable by us
however was the extraordinary fairness of the crowd. Not a word was
allowed; not a hint of method of defence or attack; not an encouraging
word or sign. The local men could have cheered their own man to the
echo; but the stranger must of necessity be alone or with only a small
backing at best. And so, as encouragement could not be equal for the
combatants, there should be none at all!

It was a lesson in fair play which might have shone out conspicuously in
any part of the civilised world. Irving was immensely delighted with it
and asked to be allowed to give a prize to be divided equally between
the combatants; a division which showed the influence on his mind of the
extraordinary fairness of the conditions of the competition. In this
spirit was the gift received. Several of the men came round me whom they
had by this time recognised as an old athlete of “the College”—now a
“back number” of some ten years’ standing. When I told them who was the
donor they raised a mighty cheer.

The only difficulty we left behind us was that of “breaking” the
bank-note which had been given. We saw them as we moved off producing
what money they had so as to make up his half for the stranger to take
with him to Drogheda.

One evening in that week Irving came up to supper with me in my rooms
after _The Bells_. We were quite alone and talked with the freedom of
understanding friends. He spoke of the future and of what he would try
to do when he should have a theatre all to himself where he would be
sole master. He was then in a sort of informal partnership with Mrs.
Bateman, and had of course the feeling of limitation of expansive ideas
which must ever be when there is a sharing of interests and
responsibilities. He was quite frank as to the present difficulties,
although he put them in the most kindly way possible. I had a sort of
dim idea that events were moving in a direction which within a year
became declared. He had spoken of a matter at which he had hinted
shortly after our first meeting: the possibility of my giving up the
post I then occupied in the Public Service and sharing his fortunes in
case he should have a theatre quite his own. The hope grew in me that a
time might yet come when he and I might work together to one end that we
both believed in and held precious in the secret chamber of our hearts.
In my diary that night, November 22, 1877, I wrote:

“London in view.”

VI
JOINING FORCES

Henry Irving produced Wills’s play _Vanderdecken_ at the Lyceum on June
8, 1878. I had arrived in London the day before and was able to be
present on the occasion. The play was a new version of the legend of the
“Flying Dutchman” and was treated in a very poetical way. Irving was
fine in it, and gave one a wonderful impression of a dead man
fictitiously alive. I think his first appearance was the most striking
and startling thing I ever saw on the stage. The scene was of the
landing-place on the edge of the fiord. Sea and sky were blue with the
cold steely blue of the North. The sun was bright, and across the water
the rugged mountain-line stood out boldly. Deep under the shelving
beach, which led down to the water, was a Norwegian fishing-boat whose
small brown foresail swung in the wind. There was no appearance anywhere
of a man or anything else alive. But suddenly there stood a mariner in
old-time dress of picturesque cut and faded colour of brown and peacock
blue with a touch of red. On his head was a sable cap. He stood there,
silent, still and fixed, more like a vision made solid than a living
man, realising well the description of the phantom sailor of whom Thekla
had told him in the ballad spoken in the first act:

“And the Captain there
In the dismal glare
Stands paler than tongue can tell
With clenchéd hand
As in mute command,
And eyes like a soul’s in Hell!”

It was marvellous that any living man should show such eyes. They really
seemed to shine like cinders of glowing red from out the marble face.
The effect was instantaneous, and boded well for the success of the
play.

But the play itself wanted something. The last act, in which Thekla
sails away with the phantom lover whose soul had been released by her
unselfish love, was impossible of realisation by the resources of stage
art of the time. Nowadays, with calcium lights and coloured “mediums”
and electricity, and all the aids to illusion which Irving had himself
created or brought into use, much could be done. For such acting the
play ought to have been a great one; but it fell short of excellence. It
was a great pity; for Irving’s appearance and acting in it were of
memorable perfection.

On the next day, Sunday, I spent hours with Irving in his rooms in
Grafton Street helping him to cut and alter the play. We did a good deal
of work on it and altered it considerably for the better I thought.

The next morning I breakfasted with him in his rooms; and, after another
long spell of work on the play, I went with him to the Lyceum to attend
rehearsal of the altered business.

That even I attended the Lyceum again and thought the play had been
improved. So had Irving too, so far as was possible to a performance
already so complete. I supped with him at the Devonshire Club, where we
talked over the play and continued the conversation at his own rooms
till after five o’clock in the morning.

The next day I went to Paris, but on my return saw _Vanderdecken_ again
and thought that by practice it had improved. It played “closer,” and
the actors were more at ease—a most important thing in an eerie play!

In August of the same year, 1878, Henry Irving paid another visit
to Ireland. He had promised to give a Reading in the Ulster Hall
for the benefit of the Belfast Samaritan Hospital, and this was in
the fulfilment of it. By previous arrangement the expedition was
enlarged into a holiday. As the Reading was to be on the 16th he
travelled from London on the night mail of the 12th. I met him on
his arrival at Kingstown in the early morning, as he was to stay
with my eldest brother, Sir Thornley Stoker. He was in great
spirits; something like a schoolboy off on a long-expected
holiday. Here he spent three very enjoyable days, a large part of
which were occupied in driving-excursions to Lough Bray and
Leixlip. On the 15th Irving and Loveday and I went to Belfast.
After having a look at the Ulster Hall, a huge hall about as big
as the Manchester Free Trade Hall, we supped with a somewhat
eccentric local philanthropist, Mr. David Cunningham. Mr.
Cunningham was a large man, tall and broad and heavy, and with a
great bald head which rose dome-shaped above a massive frontal
sinus. He was the best of good fellows, the mainstay of the
Samaritan Hospital and a generous helper of all local charities.

The Reading was an immense success. Over three thousand persons were
present, and at the close was a scene of wild enthusiasm. We supped
again with David Cunningham—he was one of the “Christian name” men whose
surname is seldom heard, and never alone. A good many of his friends
were present, and we had an informal and joyous time. There were of
course lots of speeches. Belfast is the very home of fiery and
flamboyant oratory, and all our local friends were red-hot Orangemen.

On this occasion, however, we were spared any contentious matter, though
the harmless periods of the oratory of the “Northern Acropolis,” as some
of them called their native city, were pressed into service. One speaker
made as pretty an “Irish bull” as could be found—though the “bull” is
generally supposed to belong to other provinces than the hard-headed
Ulster. In descanting on the many virtues of the guest of the evening he
mentioned the excellence of his moral nature and rectitude of his
private life in these terms:

“Mr. Irving, sir, is a gentleman what leads a life of unbroken blemish!”

We sometimes kept late hours in the seventies. That night we left our
host’s house at three o’clock A.M. On our return to the hotel Irving and
I sat up talking over the events of the day. The sun was beginning to
herald his arrival when we began, but in spite of that we sat talking
till the clock struck seven.

I well understood even then, though I understand it better now, that
after a hard and exciting day or night—or both—the person most concerned
does not want to go to bed. He feels that sleep is at arm’s-length till
it is summoned. Irving knew that the next day he would have to start at
three o’clock on a continuous journey to London, which would occupy some
fifteen hours; but I did not like to thwart him when he felt that a
friendly chat of no matter how exaggerated dimensions would rest him
better than some sleepless hours in bed.

III

Irving’s visit to Dublin as an actor began in that year, 1878, on
September 23, and lasted a fortnight. During this time I was a great
deal with him, not only in the theatre during rehearsals as well as at
the performances, but we drove almost every day and dined and supped at
the house of my brother and sister-in-law, with whom he was great
friends; at my own lodgings or his hotel; at restaurants or in the
houses of other friends. It was a sort of gala time to us all, and
through every phase of it—and through the working time as well—our
friendship grew and grew.

We had now been close friends for over two years. We understood each
other’s nature, needs and ambitions, and had a mutual confidence, each
towards the other in his own way, rare amongst men. It did not, I think,
surprise any of us when six weeks after his departure I received a
telegram from him from Glasgow, where he was then playing, asking me if
I could go to see him at once on important business.

I was with him the next evening. He told me that he had arranged to take
the management of the Lyceum into his own hands. He asked me if I would
give up the Civil Service and join him; I to take charge of his business
as Acting Manager.

I accepted at once. I had then had some thirteen years in the public
service, a term entitling me to pension in case of retirement from
ill-health (as distinguished from “gratuity” which is the rule for
shorter period of service); but I was content to throw in my lot with
his. In the morning I sent in my resignation and made by telegram
certain domestic and other arrangements of supreme importance to me at
that time—and ever since. We had decided that I was to join him on
December 14 as I should require a few weeks to arrange matters at home.
I knew that as he was to open the Lyceum on December 30 time was
precious, and accordingly did all required with what expedition I could.

I left Glasgow on November 25, and took up my work with Irving at
Birmingham on December 9, having in the meantime altered my whole
business life, arranged for the completion of my book on _The Duties of
Petty Sessions Clerks_, and last, not least, having got married—an event
which had already been arranged for a year later.

Irving was staying at the Plough and Harrow, that delightful little
hotel at Edgbaston, and he was mightily surprised when he found that I
had a wife—_the_ wife—with me.

We finished at Birmingham on Saturday, December 14, and on Sunday he
went on with the company to Bristol whilst we came on to London. The
week at Birmingham had been a heavy time. I had taken over all the
correspondence and the letters were endless. It was the beginning of a
vast experience of correspondence, for from that on till the day of his
death I seldom wrote, in working times, less than fifty letters a day.
Fortunately—for both myself and the readers, for I write an extremely
bad hand—the bulk of them were short. Anyhow I think I shall be very
well within the mark when I say that during my time of working with
Henry Irving I have written in his name nearly half a million letters!

But the week in Birmingham was child’s play compared with the next two
weeks in London. The correspondence alone was greater; but in addition
the theatre which was to be opened was in a state of chaos. The builders
who were making certain structural alterations had not got through their
work; plasterers, paper-hangers, painters, upholsterers were tumbling
over each other. The outside of the building was covered with
scaffolding. The whole of the auditorium was a mass of poles and
platforms. On the stage and in the paint-room and the property-rooms,
the gas-rooms and carpenter’s shop and wardrobe-room, the new production
of _Hamlet_ was being hurried on under high pressure.

On the financial side of things too, there were matters of gravity.
Irving had to begin his management without capital—at least without more
than that produced by his tour and by such accommodation as he could get
from his bankers on the security of his property.

These were matters of much work and anxiety, for before the curtain went
up on the first night of his management he had already paid away nearly
ten thousand pounds, and had incurred liability for at least half as
much more by outlay on the structure and what the lawyers call
“beautifyings” of the Lyceum.

He had taken over the theatre as from the end of August 1878, so that
there was a good deal of extra expense even whilst the theatre was lying
idle; though such is usual in some form in the “running” of a theatre.

In another place I shall deal with Finance. I only mention it here
because at the very start of his personal enterprise he had to encounter
a very great difficulty.

Nearly all the work was new to me, and I was not sorry when on the 19th
my colleague, the stage manager, arrived and took in hand the whole of
the stage matters. When Irving and the company arrived, four days after,
things both on the stage and throughout the house were beginning to look
more presentable. When the heads of departments came back to work,
preparations began to hum.

One of these men, Arnott, the property master and a fine workman, had
had an odd experience during the Bristol week. Something had gone wrong
with the travelling “property” horse used in the vision scene of _The
Bells_, and he had come up to town to bring the real one from the
storage. In touring it was usual to bring a “profile” representation of
the gallant steed. “Profile” has in theatrical parlance a special
meaning other than its dictionary meaning of an “outline.” It is thin
wood covered on both sides with rough canvas carefully glued down. It is
very strong and can be cut in safety to any shape. The profile horse was
of course an outline, but the art of the scene-painter had rounded it
out to seemingly natural dimensions. Now the “real” horse, though a
lifeless “property,” had in fact been originally alive. It was formed of
the skin of a moderately sized pony; and being embellished with
picturesque attachments in the shape of mane and tail was a really
creditable object. But it was expensive to carry as it took up much
space. Arnott and two of his men ran up to fetch this down as there was
not time to make a new profile horse. When they got to Paddington he
found that the authorities refused to carry the article by weight on
account of its bulk, and asked him something like £4 for the journey. He
expressed his feelings freely, as men occasionally do under irritating
circumstances, and said he would go somewhere else. The clerk in the
office smiled and Arnott went away; he was a clever man who did not like
to be beaten, and railways were his natural enemies. He thought the
matter over. Having looked over the time-table and found that the cost
of a horse-box to Bristol was only £1 13_s._, he went to the department
in charge of such matters and ordered one, paying for it at once and
arranging that it should go on the next fast train. By some manœuvring
he so managed that he and his men took Koveski’s horse into the box and
closed the doors.

When the train arrived at Bristol there had to be some shunting to and
fro so as to place the horse-box in the siding arranged for such
matters. The officials in charge threw open the door for the horse to
walk out. But he would yield to no blandishment, nor even to the
violence of chastisement usual at such times. A little time passed and
the officials got anxious, for the siding was required for other
purposes. The station at Bristol is not roomy and more than one line has
to use it. The official in charge told him to take out his damned horse!

“Not me!” said he, for he was now seeing his way to “get back” at the
railway company; “I’ve paid for the carriage of the horse and I want him
delivered out of your premises. The rate I paid includes the services of
the necessary officials.”

The porters tried again, but the horse would not stir. Now it is a
dangerous matter to go into a horse-box in case the horse should prove
restive. One after another the porters declined, till at last one plucky
lad volunteered to go in by the little window close to the horse’s head.
Those on the platform waited in apprehension, till he suddenly ran out
from the box laughing and crying out:

“Why you blamed fools. He ain’t a ’orse at all. He’s a stuffed ’un!”

As I have said, Arnott always got even in some way with those who tried
to best him. I remember once when a group of short lines, now
amalgamated into the Irish Great Northern Railway and worked in quite a
different way, did what we all considered rather too sharp a thing. We
had to have a special train to go from Dublin to Belfast on Sunday. For
this they charged us full fare for every person and a rate for the train
as well. Then when we were starting they took, at the ordinary rate,
other passengers in our train for which we had paid extra. This,
however, was not that which awoke Arnott’s ire. The _causa teterrima
belli_ was that whilst they gave us only open trucks for goods they
charged us extra for the use of tarpaulins, which are necessary in
railway travelling where goods are inflammable and sparks many. Having
made the arrangement I had gone back to London on other business, and
did not go to Belfast, so I did not know, till after the tour had
closed, what had happened later. When I was checking the accounts in my
office at the Lyceum, I found that though the railway company had
charged us what we thought was an exorbitant price, still the cost of
the total journey compared favourably with that of other journeys of
equal length. I could not understand it until I went over the accounts,
comparing item by item with the other journeys. Thus I “focussed” the
difference in the matter of “goods.” Then I found that whereas the other
railways had charged us on somewhere about nineteen tons weight this
particular line had only assessed us at seven. I sent for Arnott and
asked him how could the difference be, as on the first journey I had
verified the weight as I usually did, such saving much trouble
throughout a tour as it made the check easier. He shook his head and
said that he did not know. I pressed him, pointing out that either this
railway had underweighed us or that others had overweighed.

“Oh, the others were all right, sir,” he said. “I saw them weighed at
Euston myself!”

“Then how on earth can there be such a difference?” I asked. “Can’t you
throw any light on it?” He shook his head slowly as though pondering
deeply and then said with a puzzled look on his face:

“I haven’t an idea. It must have been all right, for the lot of them was
there, and the lot of us, too. There couldn’t have been any mistake with
them _all_ looking on. No, sir, I can’t account for it; not for the life
of me!” Then seeing that I turned to my work again he moved away. When
he was half way to the door he turned round, his face brightening as
though a new light had suddenly dawned upon him. He spoke out quite
genially as though proud of his intellectual effort:

“Unless it was, sir, that there was some mistake about the weighin’. You
see, while the weighin’ was goin’ on we was all pretty angry about
things. We because they was bestin’ us, and they because we was tellin’
em so, and rubbin’ in what we thought of ’em in a general way. Most of
us thought that there might have been a fight and we was all ready—the
lot of us—on both sides. We was standin’ close together, for we wouldn’t
stir and they had to come to us.... An’—it might have been that me and
the boys was standin’ before they came to join us on the platform with
the weights! I daresay we wasn’t so quarrelsome when we moved a bit
away, for there was more of them than of us; an’ they stood where we had
been. They didn’t want to follow us. An’—an’—the weighin’ was done by
them!”

VII

One more anecdote of the Property Master.

We were playing in Glasgow at the Theatre Royal, which had just been
bought by Howard and Wyndham. J. B. Howard was a man of stern
countenance and masterful manner. He was a kindly man, but Nature had
framed him in a somewhat fierce mould. His new theatre was a sacred
thing, and he liked to be master in his own house. We were playing an
engagement of two weeks; and on the first Saturday night it was found
that a certain property—a tree trunk required for use in _Hamlet_, which
was to be played on Tuesday night—was not forthcoming. So Arnott was
told to make another at once and have it ready, for it required time to
dry. Accordingly he went down to the theatre on Sunday morning with a
couple of his men. There was no one in the theatre; in accordance with
the strict Sabbath-keeping then in vogue at Glasgow, local people were
all away—even the hall-keeper. Such a small matter as that would never
deter Arnott. He had his work to do, and get in he must. So he took out
a pane of glass, opened a window, and went in. In the property shop he
found all he required; wood, glue, canvas, nails, paint; so the little
band of expert workmen set to work, and having finished their task, came
away. They had restored the window-pane, and came out by the door. On
Monday morning there was a hubbub. Some one had broken into the theatre
and taken store of wood and canvas, glue, nails and paint, and there in
the shop lay a fine property log already “set” and drying fast. Inquiry
showed that none of the local people were to blame. So suspicion
naturally fell on our men, who did not deny the soft impeachment. Howard
was fuming; he sent for the man to have it out with him. Arnott was a
fine, big, well-featured north-countryman, with large limbs and massive
shoulders—such a man as commanded some measure of respect even from an
angry manager.

“I hear that you broke into my theatre yesterday and used up a lot of my
stores?”

“Yes sir! The theatre was shut up and there was no time.”

“Time has nothing to do with it, sir. Why did you do it?”

“Well, Mr. Howard, the governor ordered it, and Mr. Loveday told me not
to lose any time in getting it ready as we had to rehearse to-day.” This
accounted to Mr. Howard, the man, for the breach of decorum; but as the
manager he was not satisfied. He was not willing to relinquish his
grievance all at once; so he said, and he said it in the emphatic manner
customary to him:

“But, sir, if Mr. Loveday was to tell you to take down the flys of my
theatre would you do that, too?”

The answer came in a quiet, grave voice:

“Certainly, sir!”

Howard looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then raising both hands
in front of him said, as he shrugged his shoulders:

“In that case I have nothing more to say! I only wish to God that my men
would work like that!” and so the quasi-burglar went unreproved.

VII
LYCEUM PRODUCTIONS

During Henry Irving’s personal management of the Lyceum he produced over
forty plays, of which eleven were Shakespeare’s: _Hamlet_, _The Merchant
of Venice_, _Othello_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Much Ado About Nothing_,
_Twelfth Night_, _Macbeth_, _Henry VIII._, _King Lear_, _Cymbeline_, and
_Richard III._ _Coriolanus_ was produced during his agreement with the
Lyceum Company. He also reproduced six plays which he had before
presented during his engagement by and partnership with the Batemans:
_Eugene Aram_, _Richelieu_, _Louis XI._, _The Lyons Mail_, _Charles I._,
_The Bells_. He also produced the following old plays, in most of which
he had already appeared at some time: _The Lady of Lyons_, _The Iron
Chest_, _The Corsican Brothers_, _The Belle’s Stratagem_, _Two Roses_,
_Olivia_, _The Dead Heart_, _Robert Macaire_, and a good many
“curtain-raisers” whose excellences were old and tried.

The new plays were in some instances old stories told afresh, and in the
remainder historic subjects treated in a new way or else quite new
themes or translations. In the first category were _Faust_, _Werner_,
_Ravenswood_, _Iolanthe_ (one act). In the second were: _The Cup_, _The
Amber Heart_, _Becket_, _King Arthur_, _Madame Sans-Gêne_, _Peter the
Great_, _The Medicine Man_, _Robespierre_ and the following one-act
plays: _Waterloo_, _Nance Oldfield_, and _Don Quixote_. _Dante_ was
produced after the Lyceum Company had been unable to carry out their
contract with him.

This gives an average of two plays, “by and large” as the sailors say,
for each year from 1878 to 1898, after which time he sold his rights to
the Lyceum Theatre Company, Limited. Regarding some of these plays are
certain matters of interest either in the preparation or the working. I
shall simply try, now and again, to raise a little the veil which hangs
between the great actor and the generations who may be interested in him
and his work.

VIII
IRVING BEGINS MANAGEMENT

The first half-year of Irving’s management was, in accordance with old
usage, broken into two seasons; the first ending on May 31 and the
second beginning on June 1. This was the last time, except in the spring
of 1881, that such an unnatural division of natural periods took place.
After that, during the entire of his management the “season” lasted
until the theatre closed. And as the coming of the hot weather was the
time when, for the reason the theatre-going public left London, the
theatre had to be closed, about the end of July became practically the
time for recess. It had become an unwritten law that Goodwood closed the
London theatre season, just as in Society circles the banquet of the
Royal Academy, on the first Saturday in May, marked the formal opening
of the London “season.” This made things very comfortable for the
actors, who by experience came to count on from forty-six to forty-eight
weeks’ salary in a year. This was certainly so in the Lyceum, and in
some other theatres of recognised position.

The first season made great interest for the public. It was all fairly
new to me, for except when I had been present at the first night of
Wills’s _Medea_ played by Mrs. Crowe (Miss Kate Bateman) in July 1872
and had seen Irving in _The Lyons Mail_ in 1877 and had been at the
performance and rehearsal of _Vanderdecken_ in 1878, I had not been into
the theatre till I came officially. As yet I knew nothing at all of the
audiences, from the management point of view. I soon found an element
which had only anything like a parallel in the enthusiasm of the
University in Dublin. Here was an audience that _believed_ in the actor
whom they had come to see; who took his success as much to heart as
though it had been their own; whose cheers and applause—whose very
presence—was a stimulant and a help to artistic effort.

This was the audience that he had won—had made; and I myself, as a
neophite, was in full sympathy with them. With such an audience an
artist can go far; and in such circumstances there seems nothing that is
not possible on the hither side of life and health. The physicists tell
us that it is a law of nature that there must be two forces to make
impact; that the anvil has to do its work as well as the hammer. And it
is a distinguishing difference between scientific and other laws that
the former has no exceptions. So it is in the world of the theatre.
Without an audience in sympathy no actor can do his best. Nay more, he
should have the assurance of approval, or else sustained effort at high
pitch becomes impossible. Some people often think, and sometimes say,
that an actor’s love of applause is due to a craving vanity. This may be
in part true, and may even be wholly true in many cases; but those who
know the stage and its needs and difficulties, its helps and thwarting
checks, learn to dread a too prolonged stillness. The want of echoing
sympathy embarrasses the player. For my own part, having learned to
understand their motives, to sympathise with their aims, and to
recognise their difficulties, I can understand the basic wisdom of
George Frederick Cook when on the Liverpool stage he stopped in the
middle of a tragic part and coming down to the footlights said to the
audience:

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t applaud I can’t act!”

It was from Irving I heard the story; and he certainly understood and
felt with that actor of the old days. If the members of any audience
understood how much better value they would get for their money—to put
the matter on its lowest basis—when they show appreciation of the
actor’s efforts, they would certainly now and again signify the fullest
recognition of his endeavour.

This “Lyceum audience,” whose qualities endeared them to me from that
first night, December 30, 1878, became for twenty-four years of my own
experience a quantity to be counted on. Nay more, for when the Lyceum
came as a theatre to an end, the audience followed Irving to Drury Lane.
They or their successors in title were present on that last night of his
season, June 10, 1905, that memorable night when he said farewell, not
knowing that it would be the last time, except one benefit performance,
he should ever appear in London as a player.

III

The production with which the season of 1878–9 opened was almost
entirely new. When Irving took over the Lyceum the agreement between him
and Mrs. Bateman entitled him to the use of certain plays and _matériel_
necessary for their representation. But he never contented himself with
the scenery, properties or dresses originally used. The taste of the
public had so improved and their education so progressed, chiefly under
his own influence, that the perfection of the seventies would not do for
later days. For _Hamlet_ new scenery had been painted by Hawes Craven,
and of all the dresses and properties used few if any had been seen
before. What we had seen in the provinces was the old production. I
remember being much struck by the care in doing things, especially with
reference to the action. It was the first time that I had had the
privilege of seeing a play “produced.” I had already seen rehearsals,
but these except of pantomime had generally been to keep the actors,
supers and working staff up to the mark of excellence already arrived
at. But now I began to understand _why_ everything was as it was. With
regard to stagecraft it was a liberal education. Often and often in the
years since then, when I have noticed the thoughtless or careless way in
which things were often done on other stages, I have wondered how it was
that the younger generation of men had not taken example and reasoned
out at least the requirements of those matters incidental to their own
playing. Let me give an example:

“In the last act, the cup from which Gertrude drinks the poison is an
important item inasmuch as it might have a disturbing influence. In one
of the final rehearsals, when grasped by Hamlet in a phrenzy of anxiety
lest Horatio should drink: ‘Give me the cup; let go; by heaven, I’ll
have it!’ the cup, flung down desperately rolled away for some distance,
and then following the shape of the stage rolled down to the footlights.
There is a sort of fascination in the uncertain movement of an inanimate
object, and such an occurrence during the play would infallibly distract
the attention of the audience. Irving at once ordered that the massive
metal goblet used should have some bosses fixed below the rim, so that
it could not roll. At a previous rehearsal he had ordered that as the
wine from the cup splashed the stage, coloured sawdust should be used—
which it did to exactly the same artistic effect.

In another matter of this scene his natural kindness made a sweet little
episode which he never afterwards omitted. When he said to the pretty
little cup-bearer who offered him the poisoned goblet: “Set it by
awhile!” he smiled at the child and passed his hand caressingly over the
golden hair.

Certain other parts of his Hamlet were unforgettable; his whirlwind of
passion at the close of the play scene which, night after night, stirred
the whole audience to frenzied cheers; the extraordinary way in which by
speech and tone, action and time, he conveyed to his auditory the sense
of complex and entangled thought and motive in his wild scene with
Ophelia; his wonderment at the announcement of Horatio:

“I think I saw him yester-night.”

_Hamlet._ “Saw who?”

_Horatio._ “My Lord, the King your Father.”

_Hamlet._ “The King—my father?”

And the effective way in which he conveyed his sense of difference of
the subjective origin of the ghost at its second appearance at which
Shakespeare hinted, following out Belleforest’s remark on the novel:

“In those days, the northe parts of the worlde, living as then under
Sathans lawes, were full of inchanters, so that there was not any
young gentleman whatsoever that knew not something therein sufficient
to serve his turne, if need required.... Hamlet, while his father
lived, had been instructed in that devilish art, whereby the wicked
spirite abuseth mankind, and advertiseth him (as he can) of things
past.”

_Of things past!_ Hamlet could know of things that had been though he
could not read the future. This it was which was the essence of his
patient acquiescence in the ways of time—half pagan fatalism, half
Christian belief—as shown in that pearl amongst philosophical phrases:

“If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now;
if it be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.”

_Hamlet_ was played ninety-eight nights on that first season. Four of
them hang in my mind for very different reasons. The first was that
wonderful opening night when the great audience all aflame with generous
welcome and exalted by ready sympathy lifted us to unwonted heights.

The second was on January 18, the eighteenth night of _Hamlet_. The
Chinese Ambassador, the Marquis Tsêng, came to see the play and with him
came Sir Halliday Macartney.

After the third act the Ambassador and Sir Halliday Macartney came to
see Irving in his dressing-room, where they stayed some time talking. It
was interesting to note—Sir Halliday translated his remarks verbally—how
accurately the Ambassador followed the play, which he had not read nor
heard of. Where he failed was only on some small points of racial or
theological difference. He seemed to be absolutely correct on the human
side.

Presently we all went down on the stage whilst Ellen Terry as Ophelia
was in the midst of her mad scene. Irving and Sir Halliday and I were
talking and, in the interest of the conversation, we all temporarily
overlooked the Ambassador. Presently I looked round instinctively and
was horrified to see that he had moved in on the stage and was then
close to the edge of the arch at the back of the scene where Ophelia had
made her entrance and would make her exit. He was in magnificent robes
of Mandarin yellow, and wore such adornments as are possible to a great
official who holds the high grade and honour of the Peacock’s Feather. I
jumped for him and just succeeded in catching him before he had passed
into the blaze of the limelight. I could fancy the sudden amazement of
the audience and the wild roar of laughter that would follow when in the
midst of this most sad and pathetic of scenes would enter unheralded
this gorgeous anachronism. Under ordinary circumstances I think I should
have allowed the _contretemps_ to occur. Its unique grotesqueness would
have ensured a widespread publicity not to be acquired by ordinary forms
of advertisement. But there was greater force to the contrary. The play
was not yet three weeks old in its run; it was a tragedy, and the holy
of holies to my actor chief to whom full measure of loyalty was due; and
beyond all it was Ellen Terry who would suffer.

The third was a very sad occasion, but one which showed that the manager
of a theatre must have “nerve” to do the work entailed by his high
responsibility. He remained in the wings O.P. (“Opposite Prompt” in
stage parlance) after scene ii of Act I of _Hamlet_. The following scene
(iii) is a front scene ready for the change to the scene where Polonius
gives good advice to his children Laertes and Ophelia. After the few
words between the brother and sister on the cue of Laertes: “here my
father comes,” Polonius enters speaking quickly as one in surprise: “Yet
here Laertes! Aboard, aboard, for shame!”

Irving instinctively turned on hearing the intonation of the voice, and
after one lightning glance signed to the prompter to let down the act
drop, which was done instantly. I was standing beside him at the time
talking to him and was struck by the marvellous rapidity of thought and
action; of the decision which seemed almost automatic. Then, the curtain
having been drawn back sufficiently to let him pass, he stepped to the
footlights and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to have to tell you that something has
happened which I should not like to tell you; and will ask you to bear
in patience a minute. We shall, with your permission, go on from the
beginning of the third scene of Act I.” He stepped back amid
instantaneous and sympathetic applause. Perhaps they knew; some few must
have seen for themselves what had occurred, and many undoubtedly
guessed. But all recognised the mastery and decision which had saved a
very painful and difficult situation. The curtain straightened behind
him as he passed in on the stage.

In an incredibly short time all was ready, for stage workmen as well as
actors are adepts at their trade. Within seven or eight minutes the
curtain went up afresh and the play began anew—with a different
Polonius.

That night a call went up for the whole company and employees—“Everybody
concerned on the stage” at noon next day.

It was a grave and solemn gathering; and all were there except one who
had received a kindly intimation that he need not attend. Irving came on
the stage at the stroke of the hour. Loveday and I were with him. He
stood in front of the footlights with his back to the auditorium. He
spoke for a few minutes only; but that speech must have sunk deeply into
the hearts of every listener. He reminded them of the loyalty which is
due from craftsmen to one another; of the loyalty which is due to a
manager who has to think for all; and finally of the loyalty which is
due—and was on the unhappy occasion to which he referred—due to their
own comrade. “By that want of loyalty,” he said, “in any of the forms,
you have helped to ruin your comrade. Some of you _must_ have noticed;
at least those who dressed in the room with him or saw him in the Green
Room. Had I been told—had the stage manager had a single hint from any
one, we could, and would have saved him. The lesson would perhaps have
been a bitter one, but it would have saved him from worse disaster. As
it is, no other course was open to me to save him from public shame. As
it is, the disaster of last night may injure him for life. And it is
_you_ who have done this. Now, my dear friends and comrades, let this be
a lesson to us all. We must be loyal to each other. That is to be
helpful, and it is to the honour of our art and our calling!”

There he stopped and turned away. No one said a word. For a short space
they stood still and then melted slowly away in silence, like the
multitude of a dream.

The fourth occasion was on the night of March 27 when Irving, having
been taken with a serious cold, was unable to play—the first time he had
been out of the bill for seven years! The note in my diary runs:

“Stage very dismal. Ellen Terry met me in the passage and began to
cry! I felt very like joining her!”

I instance this as a fair illustration of how Irving was loved by all
with whom he came in personal contact.

IX
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—I

Irving did not think of playing _The Merchant of Venice_ until he had
been to the Levant. The season of 1879–80 had been arranged before the
end of the previous season. We were to commence with _The Iron Chest_;
Irving had considerable faith in Coleman’s play and intended to give it
a run. It was to be followed in due course, as announced in his farewell
speech at the end of the second season, by _The Gamester_, _The
Stranger_, _Coriolanus_, and _Robert Emmett_—a new play by Frank
Marshall. It was rather a surprise, therefore, when on October 8, before
the piece had run two weeks, he broached the subject of a new
production. It had been apparent to us since his return from a yachting
trip in the Mediterranean that he was not so much in love with the play
as he usually was with anything which he had immediately in hand. Even
if a play did not seem to possess him, I never saw him show the
slightest sign of indifference to it in any other case.

On that particular evening he asked Loveday and me if we could stay and
have a chop in the Beefsteak Room. He was evidently full of something of
importance; it seemed a relief to him when supper was finished and the
servant who waited had gone. When we had lit our cigars he said quietly:

“I am going to do _The Merchant of Venice_.” We both waited, for there
was nothing to say until we should know a little more. He went on:

“I never contemplated doing the piece, which did not even appeal very
much to me, until when we were down in Morocco and the Levant. You know
the _Walrus_” (that was the fine steamer which the Baroness Burdett
Coutts had chartered for her yachting party) “put into all sorts of
places. When I saw the Jew in what seemed his own land and in his own
dress, Shylock became a different creature. I began to understand him;
and now I want to play the part—as soon as I can. I think I shall do it
on the first of November! Can it be done?”

Loveday answered it would depend on what had to be done.

“That is all right,” said Irving. “I have it in my mind. I have been
thinking it over and I see my way to it. Here is what I shall have in
the ‘Casket’ scene.” He took a sheet of notepaper and made a rough
drawing of the scene, tearing out an arch in the back and propping
another piece of paper in it with a rough suggestion of a Venetian
scene. “I will have an Eastern lamp with red glass—I know where is the
exact thing. It is, or used to be two or three years ago, in that
furniture shop in Oxford Street, near Tottenham Court Road.”

Then he went on to expound his idea of the whole play; and did it in
such a way that he set both Loveday and myself afire with the idea. We
talked it out till early morning. Indeed the Eastern sun was outlining
the beauty of St. Mary’s-le-Strand as the time-roughened stone stood out
like delicate tracery against the blush of the sunrise. Then and often
since have I thought that Sir Christopher Wren must have got his
inspiration regarding St. Mary’s on returning late—or early in the
morning—from a supper in Westminster. The church is ugly enough at other
times, but against sunrise it is a picturesque delight.

As we parted Irving smiled as he said:

“Craven had better get out that red handkerchief, I think.”

Therein lay a little joke amongst us. Hawes Craven who was—as happily he
still is—a great scene painter, could work like a demon when time
pressed. Ordinarily he wore when at work in those days a long coat once
of a dark colour, and an old brown bowler hat, both splashed out of all
recognition with paint. Scene-painting is essentially a splashy
business, the drops of paint from the great brushes, of necessity
vigorously used to cover the acres of canvas, “come not in single spies
but in battalions.” But when matters got desperate, when the pressure of
the time-gauge registered not in hours but in minutes, the head-gear was
changed for a red handkerchief which twisted round the head made a sort
of turban. This became in time a sort of oriflamme. We knew that there
was to be no sleep, and precious little pause even for food, till the
work was all done.

Of course no mortal man could do the whole of the scenery in the three
weeks available. Scenes had to be talked over, entrances and exits fixed
and models made. Four scene-painters bent their shoulders to the task.
Craven did three scenes, Telbin three, Hann three, and Cuthbert one. The
whole theatre became alive with labour. Each night had its own tally of
work with the running play; but from the time the curtain went down at
night till when the doors were opened the following night full pressure
never ceased. Properties, dresses, and “appointments” came in completed
perpetually. Rehearsals went on all day. On Saturday night, November 1—
just over three weeks after he had broached the idea, and less than
three from the time the work was actually begun—the curtain went up on
_The Merchant of Venice_.

It had an unbroken run of two hundred and fifty nights, the longest run
of the play ever known.

It is a noteworthy fact that one of the actors, Mr. Frank Tyars, who
played the Prince of Morocco, after being perfect for two hundred and
forty-nine nights, forgot some of his words on the two hundred and
fiftieth.

For twenty-six years that play remained in the working _répertoire_ of
Henry Irving. He played Shylock over a thousand times.

The occasion of Irving’s producing _Othello_ during his own management
was due to his love and remembrance of Edwin Booth. In 1860, at the
Theatre Royal, Manchester, Irving began a long engagement. In the bill
his name is announced: “His first appearance.” In November of the
following year Booth appeared as a star, playing _Othello_, Irving being
the Cassio; _Hamlet_, Irving being the Laertes; _A New Way to Pay Old
Debts_, he of course taking Sir Giles Overreach, and Irving Wellborn.
For his benefit he gave on Friday night _Romeo and Juliet_, in which
Irving played Benvolio to his Romeo. Often, when we talked of Booth some
twenty years afterwards, he told me of the extraordinary alertness of
the American actor; of his fierce concentration and tempestuous passion;
of the blazing of his remarkable eyes. It will be seen from the
comparison of their respective parts in the plays set out that the
difference between them in the way of status as players was marked. The
theatre had its own etiquette, and stars were supposed to have a
stand-off manner of their own. These things have changed a good deal in
the interval, but in the early sixties it was a real though an
impalpable barrier, as hard to break through as though it were compact
of hardier material than shadowy self-belief. Naturally the men did not
have much opportunity for intimacy, but Irving never forgot the bright
young actor who had won his heart as well as his esteem. Twenty years
afterwards, when the younger man had won his place in the world and when
his theatre was becoming celebrated as a national asset, Booth again
visited England. Whoever had arranged his business did not choose the
best theatre for him. For in those days the Princess’s in Oxford Street
did not have a high dramatic _cachet_. He got a good reception of
course; but the engagement was not a satisfactory one, and Booth was
much chagrined. I was there myself on the night of his opening, November
6, 1880, on which he played _Hamlet_. I was much disappointed in the
_ensemble_; for though Booth was fine, neither the production nor the
support was worthy of his genius and powers. The management was a new
one, and the manager a man who had been used to a different class of
theatre. Also there were certain things which jarred on the senses of
any one accustomed to a finer order. This was none of Booth’s doings;
but he was the sufferer by it. Booth and Irving had met at once after
the former had come to London, and had renewed their old acquaintance—on
a more intimate basis. In those days there was a certain class of
busybodies who tried always to make mischief between Americans and
English; twenty-five years ago the _entente cordiale_ was not so marked
as became noticeable after the breaking out of the war between America
and Spain. There were even some who did not hesitate to say that Booth
had not been fairly received in London. Irving jumped to the difficulty,
went at once to Booth and said to him:

“Why don’t you come and play with me at the Lyceum? I’ll put on anything
you wish; or if there is any piece in which we can play together, let us
do that.”

Booth was greatly delighted, and took the overture in the same good
spirit in which it was meant. He at once told Irving that he would like
to appear in _Othello_. Irving said:

“All right! You decide on the time; and I’ll get the play ready, if you
will tell me how you would like it arranged.”

Booth said he would like to leave all that to his host, as he had not
himself taken a part in the production of plays for years and did not
even attend rehearsals. So Irving took all the task on himself. When he
asked Booth whether he would like to play Othello or Iago—for he played
both—he said he would like to begin with Othello and that it would, he
thought, be well if they changed week about; and so it was arranged. The
performance began on May 2, 1881.

By Booth’s wish _Othello_ was only to be played three times a week, as
he was averse from the strain of such a heavy part every night. The
running bill—_The Cup_ and _The Belle’s Stratagem_—kept its place on the
other three. For the special performances some of the prices were
altered, stalls nominally ten shillings becoming a guinea, the
dress-circle seats being ten shillings instead of six. The prices for
the off nights remained as usual.

The success of _Othello_ was instantaneous and immense. During the seven
weeks the arrangement lasted the houses were packed. And strange to say
the takings of the off nights were not affected in any way.

III

The two months thus occupied made a happy time for Booth. He came down
to rehearsal early in the week before the production, and was so pleased
that he never missed a rehearsal during the remainder of the time. He
said more than once that it had given him a new interest in his work. In
social ways too the time went pleasantly. Several of his distinguished
countrymen were then staying in London, and no matter how strenuous work
might be, time was found for enjoyment though the days had to be
stretched out in the manner suggested in Tommy Moore’s ballad:

“For the best of all ways to lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!”

On Sunday, June 12, John McCullough gave a party at Hampton Court, where
we dined at the Greyhound. We drove down in four-in-hand drags and spent
the late afternoon walking through the beautiful gardens of Hampton
Court. June in that favoured spot is always delightful.

There was an amusing episode on our dilatory journeying among the
flowers. One of the gardeners, a bright-faced old fellow for whom Nature
had been unkind enough to use the mould wrought for the shaping of
Richard III., on being asked some trivial question gave so smart an
answer that we all laughed. Then began a hail of questions; the old man,
smiling gleefully, answered them as quick as lightning. One by one
nearly all the party joined in; but to one and all a cunning answer was
given without slack of speed, till the whole crowd was worsted. One of
the party asked the gardener if he would lend him his hat for a minute.
The old man handed it, remarking in a manifestly intended stage aside:

“It’ll be no use to him. The brains don’t go with it!” The man who
borrowed it, “Billy” Florence, put it on the grass, open side up, and
said:

“Now boys!”

Instantly a rain of money—more of it gold than silver, and some folded
notes—fell into the hat. Then with a handshake all round the clever old
fellow toddled off. The names of that party will show most people of the
great world, even twenty years afterwards, that there was no lack of
“brains” in that crowd, even enough possibly to answer effectually to
the sallies of one old man. Most of them may be seen on the dinner
_menu_ which they signed.

One night at supper in the Beefsteak Room, Irving told me an amusing
occurrence which took place at Manchester when Booth played there. He
said it was “about” 1863, so it may have been that time of which I have
written—1861. _Richard III._ was put up, Charles Calvert, the manager,
playing Richmond, and Booth Gloster. Calvert determined to make a brave
show of his array against the usurper, and being manager was able to
dress his own following to some measure of his wishes. Accordingly he
drained the armoury of the theatre and had the armour furbished up to
look smart. Richard’s army came on in the usual style. They were not
much to look at though they were fairly comfortable for their work of
fighting. But Richmond’s army enthralled the senses of the spectators,
till those who knew the play began to wonder how such an army _could_ be
beaten by the starvelings opposed to them. They were not used to fight,
or even to move in armour, however; and the moment they began to make an
effort they one and all fell down and wriggled all over the stage in
every phase of humiliating but unsuccessful effort to get up; and the
curtain had to be lowered amidst the wild laughter of the audience.

[Illustration:

SUGGESTION FOR IAGO’S DRESS

_Drawn by Henry Irving, 1881_
]

X
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—II

_Romeo and Juliet_ was the first great Shakespearean production which
Irving made under his own management. _Hamlet_ had been done on very
simple lines, the age in which it is set not allowing of splendour. _The
Merchant of Venice_ had been entirely produced and rehearsed within
three weeks. But the story of “Juliet and her Romeo,” perhaps the
greatest and most romantic love-story that ever was written, is one
which not only lends itself to, but demands, picturesque setting. For
its tragic basis the audience must understand the power and antiquity of
the surroundings of each of those unhappy lovers. Under conditions of
humbler life the tragedy would not have been possible; in still loftier
station, though there might have been tragedy, it would have been
wrought by armed force on one of the rival Houses or the other. It is
necessary to give something of the luxury, the hereditary feud of two
dominant factions represented by their chiefs, of the ingrained
bloodthirstiness of the age of the Italian petty States. Irving knew
this well, and with his superlative stage instinct grasped the
picturesque possibilities. The Capulets and the Montagues must be made
not only forces, but typal.

What Irving’s intention was may be seen in the opening words which he
wrote himself in the short preface to the published Acting Version of
the play:

“In producing this tragedy, I have availed myself of every resource at
my command to illustrate without intrusion the Italian warmth, life,
and romance of this enthralling love-story.”

It was produced on May 8, 1882, and ran for one hundred and sixty-one
nights, the summer vacation intervening.

Extraordinary care was taken in the preparation of the play. In the
beginning Irving had asked Mr. Alfred Thompson, known as a popular
designer of dresses for many plays, to design the costumes. This he did;
but as they were not exactly what was wanted, not a single one of them
was used in the piece. Irving himself selected the costumes from old
pictures and prints, and costume books. He chose and arranged the
colours and stuff to be used. Nevertheless, with his characteristic
generosity, he put in the playbill and advertisements Mr. Thompson’s
name as designer. For the scenery also he made initial suggestions, all
in reference to exactness of detail and the needs of the play in the way
of sentiment as well as of action. The scenery was really most beautiful
and poetic and won much κυδος for the painters, Hawes Craven, William
Telbin and Walter Hann.

In another way too a new departure was made. Hitherto it had been a
custom in theatres that the musical director should compose or select
whatever incidental music was necessary. In every great theatre might be
found a really good musician in charge of the orchestra; and on him the
management wholly relied for musical help and setting. But with regard
to _Romeo and Juliet_ Irving thought that the theme was a tempting one
for a composer of note to take in hand. If this could be arranged not
only would the play as a whole benefit enormously, but even its business
aspect be greatly enhanced by the addition of the new strength. He
wished that Sir Julius Benedict should compose special music for the new
production. We were then on a provincial tour; but I ran up to London
and saw Sir Julius, who was delighted to undertake the task. In due time
charming music was completed.

So long before as June 1880, on two different nights, 14th and 16th,
Irving and I supped alone in the Beefsteak Room, and on each occasion
talked of _Romeo and Juliet_. For a long time the play had been in
Irving’s mind as one to be produced when the proper opportunity should
come. In his early days in the “fifties” he had played both Paris and
Tybalt; and we may be sure that in his ambitious soul and restless eager
brain the tragic part of Romeo was shaping itself for future use. More
than twenty years afterwards when the dreams of power to do as he wished
on the stage had grown first to possibilities and then to realities, he
certainly convinced me that his convictions of the phases of character
were quite mature. He had followed Romeo through all his phases, both of
character and emotion. He seemed to have not only the theory of action
and pose and inflection of voice proper for every moment of his
appearance, but the habit of doing it, which is the very stronghold of
an actor’s art. To me his conception was enlightening with a new light.

The words: “Thou canst not teach me to forget” he took to strike a
key-note of the play. He rehearsed them over and over again, not only on
the stage, but on several occasions when we were alone, or when Loveday
was also with us. I well remember one night when we three were alone and
had supped after the running play, _Two Roses_, when he was simply
bubbling over with the new play. Over and over again he practised the
action of leaning on Benvolio, and the tone and manner of the speech. In
it there was a distinct duality of thought—of existence. He managed to
convey that though his mind was to a measure set on love with a definite
object, there was still a sterner possibility of a deeper passion. It
seemed to show the heart of a young man yearning for all-compelling
love, even at the time when the pale phantom of such a love claimed his
errant fancy.

Once he was started on this theme he went on with fiery zeal to other
passages in the play, till at last the pathos of the end touched him to
his heart’s core. I find an entry in my diary:

“H. much touched at tragedy of last act, and in speaking the words
wept.”

That night too we practised carrying the body of Paris into the tomb. In
the first instance he asked me, as one who had been an athlete, to show
him how I would do it. Accordingly Loveday lay on the floor on his back
whilst I lifted him, Irving keenly watching all the time. Standing
astride over the body I took it by the hinches—as the wrestlers call the
upper part of the hips—and bending my legs whilst at the same moment
raising with my hands, keeping my elbows down, and swaying backwards I
easily flung it over my shoulder. Irving thought it was capital, and
asked me to lift him so that he could understand the motion. I did so
several times. Then I lay down and he lifted me, easily enough, in the
same way. It must have required a fair effort of strength on his part;
for he was a thin, spare man whilst I was over twelve stone. He said
that that method would do very well and looked all right, but that it
might prove too much of a strain in the stress of acting. So we put off
other experiments till another evening.

Some ten days after, my brother George, who had been all through the
Russo-Turkish war as a surgeon in the Turkish service, was in the
theatre. He had been Chief of Ambulance of the Red Crescent and had been
in the last convoy into Plevna and had brought to Philippopolis all the
Turkish wounded from the battle at the Schipka Pass, and so had had
about as much experience of dead bodies as any man wants. Irving thought
it might be well to draw on his expert knowledge, and after supper asked
him what was the easiest way of carrying a dead body, emphasising the
“easiest”; accordingly I, who was to enact the part of “body,” lay down
again. George drew my legs apart, and stooping very low with his back to
me, lifted the legs in turn so that the inside of my knees rested on his
shoulders. Then, catching one of my ankles in each hand, he drew my body
up till the portion of my anatomy where the back and legs unite was
pressed against the back of his neck. He then straightened his arms and
rose up, my body, face outward, trailing down his back and my arms
hanging limp. It was just after the manner of a butcher carrying the
carcase of a sheep. It was most certainly the “easiest” way to carry a
body—there was no possible doubt about that; but its picturesque
suitability for stage purpose was another matter. Irving laughed
consumedly, and when next we discussed the matter he had come to the
conclusion that the best way was to _drag_ the body into the entrance of
the monument. He would then appear in the next scene dragging the body
down the stone stair to the crypt. To this end a body was prepared,
adjusted to the weight and size of Paris so that in every way
_vraisemblance_ was secured.

That production was certainly wonderfully perfect. Some of the scenes
were of really entrancing beauty, breathing the Italian atmosphere. Even
the supers took fire with the reality of all around them. No matter how
carefully rehearsed, they would persist in throwing into their work a
martial vigour of their own. The rubric of the scene, as printed from
the original, does not give the slightest indication of the wonderful
stress of the first scene:

“Enter Several Persons of both Houses, who join in the Fray: then
enter Citizens and Peace Officers, with their Clubs and Partisans.”

The scene was of the market-place of Verona with side streets and at
back a narrow stone bridge over a walled-in stream. The “Several
Persons,” mostly apprentices of the Capulet faction, entered, at first
slowly, but coming quicker and quicker till quite a mass had gathered on
the hither side of the bridge. The strangers were being easily worsted.
Then over the bridge came a rush of the Montagues armed like their foes
with sticks or swords according to their degree. They used to pour in on
the scene down the slope of the bridge like a released torrent, and for
a few minutes such a scene of fighting was enacted as I have never
elsewhere seen on the stage. The result of the mighty fight was that
during the whole time of the run of the play there was never a day when
there was not at least one of the young men in hospital. We tried to
make them keep to the business set down for them, for on the stage even
a fight between supers is so carefully arranged that no harm can come if
they keep to their instructions. But one side or the other would grow so
ardent that a mighty trouble of some kind had to be counted upon.

When I look back upon other presentations of _Romeo and Juliet_ I can
see the exceeding value of all the picturesque realism of Irving’s
production. I have in my mind’s eye two others in London, one of which I
saw and the other of which I heard, for we were then in America, where
tragedy was lost in the mirth of the audience.

The former was held in the old Gaiety Theatre, then under the management
of the late John Hollingshead. It was at a _matinée_ given by a lady who
was ambitious of beginning her theatrical career as Juliet. Of course on
such an occasion one has to be contented with the local scenery; either
such as is used in the running play or can be easily taken from and to
the storage. The play went fairly well until the third act; William
Terriss was the Romeo, and his performance, if not subtle, was full of
life and go. But when the scene went up on Juliet’s chamber there was a
sudden and wild burst of laughter from every part of the house. The
stage management had used a picturesque scene without any idea of
suitability. Juliet’s bed was set right in the open, on a wide marble
terrace with steps leading to the garden!

The other occasion was when the property master, with a better idea of
customary utility than of picturesque accuracy, had set out for Juliet’s
bed one of double width—a matrimonial couch with _two_ pillows!

_Much Ado About Nothing_ followed close after _Romeo and Juliet_, the
theatre being closed for three nights to allow of full-dress rehearsals.
It began on October 11, 1882, and had an unbroken run of two hundred and
twelve nights, being only taken off because the other plays of the
_répertoire_ for the coming American tour had to be made ready and
rehearsed by playing them. This was not only the longest run the play
had ever had, but probably the only real run it had ever had at all. It
was always one of those plays known as “ventilators” which are put up
occasionally with hope on the part of the management that they _may_ do
something this time, and a moral conviction that they can’t in any case
do worse than the plays that have already been tried. But Irving had
faith in it, and in his own mind saw a way of doing it which would help
it immensely. It was beautifully produced and carefully rehearsed. The
first act was all brightness and beauty. The cathedral was such as was
never before seen on the stage. Even the cathedral servants were new,
their brown dresses giving picturesque sombre richness to the scene.
Irving had seen such dresses in the cathedral of Seville or Burgos—I
forget which—and had noted and remembered. Ellen Terry was born for the
part of Beatrice. It was almost as though Shakespeare had a premonition
of her coming.

_Don Pedro._ “Out of question, you were born in a merry hour.”

_Beatrice._ “No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a
star danced, and under that was I born.”

Surely such a buoyant, winsome, merry, enchanting personality was never
seen on the stage—or off it. She was literally compact of merriment,
until when her anger with Claudio blazed forth in a brief tragic moment,
half passion and whole pathos, that carried everything before it. And as
for tragic strength, none who have ever seen or may ever see it can
forget her futile helpless anger—the surging, choking passion in her
voice, as striding to and fro with long paces, her whirling words won
Benedick to her as in answer to his query “Is Claudio thine enemy,” she
broke out:

“Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered,
scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?—O, that I were a man!—what? bear
her in hand until they come to take hands; and then with public
accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour—O God, that I were
a man! I’d—I’d—I’d eat his heart in the market-place!”

And then after some combative words with her lover?

“I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.”

It was that last feminine touch that won Benedick to her purpose of
revenge. All the audience felt that he could do no less.

III

By the way, a curious evidence of the truth of its emotional effect came
one night, not very long after the play began its long career. I was in
my office just after the curtain had gone up on the fourth act when I
was sent for to the front of the house to see some one. In the vestibule
I found a tall, powerful, handsome man. He had masterful eyes, a
resonant voice and a mouth that shut like steel. A most interesting
personality I thought. I introduced myself, and as I had been told he
had expressed a wish to see Irving I asked him if he could wait a little
as the curtain had gone up. He was very cheery and friendly, and he said
at once:

“Of course I’ll wait. I’ve just come to London and I came at once to see
my cousin Johnny. I haven’t seen him since we were boys.” I had been
trying to place him. This gave me the clue I wanted.

“Are you John Penberthy?” I asked. This delighted him, and he shook my
hand again. I said that I had often heard of him. From the moment of our
meeting we became friends.

John Penberthy was one of the sons of Sarah Behenna, sister of Irving’s
mother, who had married Captain Isaac Penberthy, a famous mining captain
of his time in Cornwall. Whilst a very young man John had gone to South
America and had soon become, by his courage and forceful character as
well as by his gifts and skill as a miner himself, a great mining
captain. He was mostly in the silver mines; he it was who had developed
and worked the great Huanchaca mine in Bolivia. For some twenty or more
years he had lived in a place and under conditions where a quick eye and
a ready hand were the surest guarantees of long life—especially to a man
who had to control the fierce spirits of a Spanish mine.

I took him round on the stage, thinking what a surprise as well as a
pleasure it would be to Irving to find him there when he came off after
the scene. He at once got deeply interested in the scene going on, and
now and again as I stood beside him I could see his strong hands closed
and hear him grind his teeth. When the scene was over and Irving and
Ellen Terry were bowing in the glare of the footlights amid a storm of
applause, Captain Penberthy turned to me, his face blazing with generous
anger, and said in his native Cornwall accent which he had never lost:

“It was a damned good job for that cur Claudio that I hadn’t my shootin’
irons on me. If I had I’d soon have blasted hell out of him!”

An instance of the interest of the public in a Lyceum production was
shown by a letter received by Irving a few nights after the play had
been produced. For one of the front scenes the scene-painter, Hawes
Craven, had been given a free hand. He chose for the subject a walk
curving away through giant cedars, brown trunks and twisted branches—a
noble spot in which to muse. Irving’s correspondent pointed out, as well
as I remember, that whereas the period is set in the third quarter of
the fifteenth century, the cedar was not introduced into Messina until
the middle of that century and could not possibly have attained the
stature shown in the scene.

Perhaps I may here mention that Irving had some other experiences of the
same kind:

When he reproduced _Charles I._ in June 1879, some critical observer
called attention to the fact that the trees in the Hampton Court scene,
having been planted in the time of Charles, could not possibly have
grown within his reign to the size represented.

Again, whilst in Philadelphia in 1894, where we had played _Becket_, the
secretary of a Natural History Society wrote a letter—a really charming
letter it was too—pointing out that Tennyson had made a mistake in that
passage of the last act of the play where Becket speaks of finding a
duck frozen on her nest of eggs. Such might certainly occur in the case
of certain other wild birds; but not in the case of a duck whose habits
made such a tragedy impossible. Irving replied in an equally courteous
letter, saying, after thanking him for the interest displayed in the
play and for his kindness in calling attention to the alleged error,
that there must have been some misreading of the poet’s words as he did
not mention a duck at all!

“... we came upon
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest....”

It may be well to mention here the way in which Irving cared always and
in every way for the feelings of the public. In religious matters he was
scrupulous against offence. When the church scene of _Much Ado About
Nothing_ was set for the marriage of Claudio and Hero, he got a Catholic
priest to supervise it. He listened carefully whilst the other explained
the emblematic value of the points of ritual. The then Property Master
was a Catholic and had taken some pains to be correct as to details.
When the reverend critic pointed out that the white cloth spread in
front of the Tabernacle on the High Altar meant that the Host was within
Irving at once ordered that a piece of cloth of gold should be spread in
its place. Again, when he was told that the cross on the ends of the
stole of the marrying priest was emblematical of the Sacrament he
ordered a fleur-de-lis to be embroidered instead. In the same way, on
knowing that the red lamp, hung over the altar-rail by his direction for
purely scenic effect, was a sacramental sign he had it altered and
others placed to destroy the significance. But not so when as Becket he
put on the pall to go into the cathedral where the murderous huddle of
knights awaited him. There he wore the real pall. There were no feelings
to be offended then, though the occasion was in itself a sacrament—the
greatest of all sacraments—martyrdom. All sensitiveness regarding ritual
was merged in pity and the grandeur of the noble readiness:

“I go to meet my King.”

XI
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—III

Of all the plays of which Irving talked to me in the days of our
friendship when there was an eager wish for freedom of effort, or in
later times when a new production was a possibility rather than an
intention, I think _Macbeth_ interested me most. When I met him in 1876
he had already played it at the Lyceum; but somehow it was borne in on
me that what had been done was not up to his fullest sense of truth. His
instinctive idea of treatment—that which is the actor’s sixth sense
regarding character—was correct. So much I could tell, for the
conviction which was in him came out from him to others. But I do not
think that at that time his knowledge of the part was complete. In the
consideration of such a play it has to be considered what was
Shakespeare’s knowledge of its origin; for it is by this means that we
can get a guiding light on his intention. That he had studied Wintown
and Holinshed is manifest to any one who has read the “Cronykil” of the
former or the Chronicle of the latter. Now Irving had got hold of the
correct idea of Macbeth’s character, and from his own inner
consciousness of its working out, combined with the enlightenment of the
text, knew that Macbeth had thought of and intended the murder of Duncan
long before the opening of the play, and that he and his wife had talked
it over. But I think that not at first, nor till after he had re-studied
the play, was he aware of the personal relationship between Macbeth and
Duncan: that after the King and his sons Macbeth was the next successor
to the crown of Scotland. This is according to history, and Shakespeare
knew it from Holinshed. But even Shakespeare is somewhat wanting in his
way of setting it forth in the play. I know that I myself had from my
earliest recollection been always puzzled by the passage in Act I, scene
iv, where Macbeth in an aside says:

“The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap,
For in my way it lies.”

Nothing that has gone before in the play can afford to any unlearned
member of an audience any possible clue as to how Macbeth could have
been injured or thwarted by an honour shown to his own son by the King
who had already showered honours and thanks upon his victorious general.
In his Address at Owens College, Manchester, six years after his second
production of the play, Henry Irving set forth this and many other
critical points with admirable lucidity.

To me Irving’s intellectual position with regard to the character was
from the first irrefragable. He added scholarship as the time went on;
but every addition was a help to understanding. Between the time when I
had first heard him talk over the play and the character in 1876 and
when I saw him play it, twelve years elapsed. In all that time it was a
favourite subject to talk between us, and I think it was one evening in
February 1887 on which after he and I, having supped alone in the
Beefsteak Room, talked over the play till the windows began to show
their edges brightening in the coming day, that he made up his mind to
the reproduction.

We were then deep in the run of _Faust_, which had passed its three
hundredth representation at the Lyceum; but in the running of a London
theatre it is necessary to look a long way ahead; a year at least. In
this case there was need of a longer preview, for our plans had already
been made for a considerable time. We were to run _Faust_ through the
season except some weeks at the end to prepare other plays which
together with _Faust_ we were to take to America in the tour already
arranged for 1887–8. As we should not be back till the spring of the
later year the production of a new play, together with the music and
selection of the company, had all to be thought of in time. Irving had—
and justifiably—great hopes of the play, and spared on it neither pains
nor expense. With regard to the scenery he thought that he would get
Keeley Halswelle, A.R S.A., to make the designs. He was very fond of his
work and considered that it would be exactly suitable for his purpose.
The painter consented and made some lovely sketches.

He expressed a wish to paint the scenes himself, and when the sketches
and then the models in turn had to be approved of, we engaged the great
paint-rooms of the Covent Garden Opera House then available, for his
use. The canvas-cloths, framed pieces, borders and wings were got ready
by our own carpenters and “primed” for the painting.

After a while we began to get anxious about the scenery. We kept asking
and asking and asking as to time of completion; but without result.
Finally I paid a visit of inspection to Covent Garden and to my surprise
and horror found the acres of white untouched even to the extent of a
charcoal outline.

The superb painter of pictures, untutored in stage art and perspective,
had found himself powerless before those vast solitudes. He had been
unable even to begin his task!

The work was then undertaken by Hawes Craven, J. Harker, T. W. Hall, W.
Hann, and Perkins and Caney, with magnificent result.

_Macbeth_ is a play that really requires the aid of artistic
completeness. Its diction is so lordly, so poetical, so searching in its
introspective power that it lifts the mind to an altitude which requires
and expects some corresponding elevation of the senses.

Here, by the way, a certain incident comes back to my memory. In the
Queen’s Theatre, Dublin, some forty years ago the tragedy was being
given, and when the actor who played Lennox came to the lines

“The night has been unruly: where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down....”

he spoke them, in the very worst of Dublin accents, as follows:

“The night hath been rumbunctious where we slep,
Our chimbleys was blew down.”

For the music incidental to the play Sir Arthur Sullivan undertook the
composition. He wrote overtures, preludes, incidental music and
choruses, one and all suitable as well as fine. Throughout there is a
barbaric ring which seems to take us back and place us amongst a warlike
and undeveloped age. Wherever required he altered it during the progress
of rehearsal.

It was a lesson in collaboration to see the way in which these two men,
each great in his own craft, worked together. Arthur Sullivan knew that
with Irving lay the responsibility of the _ensemble_, and was quite
willing to subordinate himself to the end which the other had in view.
Small-minded men are unwilling, or perhaps unable, to accept this
position. If their susceptibilities are in any way wounded by even a
non-recognition of the superiority of their work they are apt to sulk;
and when an artist sulks those who have to work with him are apt to
encounter a paralysing dead-weight. In any form _vis inertia_ is
cramping to artistic effort. But both these men were too big for chagrin
or jealousy. As example of the harmony of their working and of the
absolute necessity in such matters for absolute candour let me instance
one scene. Here the music had all been written and rehearsed, and Sir
Arthur sat in the conductor’s chair. In a pause of the rehearsal of
action on the stage he said:

“We are ready now, Irving, if you can listen.”

“All right, old man; go ahead!” When the numbers of that particular
piece of incidental music had been gone through the composer asked:

“Do you like that? Will it do?” Irving replied at once with kindly
seriousness:

“Oh, as music it’s very fine; but for our purpose it is no good at all.
Not in the least like it!”

Sullivan was not offended by the frankness. He was only anxious to get
some idea of what the other wanted. He asked him if he could give any
hint or clue as to what idea he had. Irving, even whilst saying in words
that he did not know himself exactly what he wanted, managed, by sway of
body and movement of arms and hands, by changing times and undulating
tones, and by vowel sounds without words, to convey his inchoate
thought, instinctive rather than of reason. Sullivan grasped the idea
and the anxious puzzlement of his face changed to gladness.

“All right!” he said heartily, “I think I understand. If you will go on
with the rehearsal I shall have something ready by-and-by.” Sitting
where he was, he began scoring, the band waiting. When some of the
scenes had been rehearsed there was some movement in the orchestra—the
crowding of heads together, little chirpy sounds from some of the
instruments and then in a pause of the rehearsal:

“Now, Mr. Ball!”—John Meredith Ball was the Musical Director of the
Lyceum. “If you are ready now, Irving, we can give you an idea. It is
only the theme. If you think it will do I will work it out to-night.”

The band struck up the music and Irving’s face kindled as he heard.

“Splendid!” he said. “Splendid! That is all I could wish for. It is
fine!”

I could not help feeling that such recognition and praise from a fellow
artist was one of the rewards which has real value to the creator of
good work.

It was necessary that _Henry VIII._ should be very carefully done; for
its period is well recorded in architecture, stone-carving, goldsmith
work, tapestry, stuffs, embroideries, costumes and paintings. Indeed
many historical lessons may be taken from this play. Shakespeare, if he
did not actually know or intend this, had an intuition of it. _Henry
VIII._ marks one of the most important epochs in history, and as it was
by the very luxury and extravagance of the nobles of the time that the
power of the old feudalism was lowered, such naturally becomes a pivotal
point of the play. It was a part of the subtle policy of Cardinal Wolsey
to bring the great nobles to London, instead of holding local courts of
their own and surrounding themselves with vast retinues of armed
retainers. Combination amongst a few such might shake even the throne.
When once at the Court of the King they were encouraged and incited to
vie with each other in the splendour of their dress and equipment; and
soon their capacity for revolt was curbed by the quick wasting of their
estates. The wonderful pageant of the Field of the Cloth of Gold had its
political use and bearing which the student of the future will do well
to investigate. In his play Shakespeare bore all this in mind, and took
care to lay down in exact detail the order of his processions and
rituals. It can be, therefore, seen that in this renaissance of art with
a political meaning—and, therefore, a structural part of a historical
play—it was advisable, if not necessary, to be exact in the _décor_ of
the play. To this end the greatest care was taken, with of course the
added managerial intention of making the piece as attractive as
possible. Seymour Lucas (then A.R.A. now R.A.), who undertook to
superintend the production, went to and fro examining the buildings and
picture and art work of the period wherever to be found. For months he
had assistants working in the South Kensington Museum making coloured
drawings of the many stuffs used at that time; reproducing for the
guidance of the weavers, who were to take up their part of the work in
turn, both texture and pattern and colour. Further months were occupied
with the looms before the antique stuffs thus reproduced were ready for
the costumier.

Irving’s own dress—his robe as Cardinal—was, after months of experiment,
exactly reproduced from a genuine robe of the period, kindly lent to him
by Rudolph Lehmann, the painter.

Many lessons in stage values and effects were to be learned from this
magnificent production. Let me give a couple of instances. As the period
was that of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, there was naturally a good
deal of cloth of gold used in the English Court; and such, or the effect
of it, had to be set forth in the play. A day was fixed when Seymour
Lucas was to choose the texture, make and colour of the various patterns
of gold cloth submitted. For this purpose the curtain was taken up and
the footlights were turned on. A row of chairs, back out, were placed
along the front of the stage, and on each was hung a sample of cloth of
gold. Lucas and Irving, with Loveday and myself, sat in the stalls; and
with us the various artists and workpeople employed in the production of
the play—property master, wardrobe mistress, costumiers, &c. Something
like the following took place as the painter’s eye ranged along the
glittering line of fabrics:

“That first one—well, fair. Let it remain! The next, take it away. No
use at all! Third and fourth—put them on one side—We may want them for
variety. Fifth—Oh! that is perfect! Just what we want!”

When the examination was finished we all went on the stage to look at
the specimens accepted and discarded. There we found the second so
peremptorily rejected was real cloth of gold at ten guineas a foot;
whilst the fifth whose excellence for the purpose we had so
enthusiastically accepted was Bolton sheeting stencilled in our own
property-room, and costing as it stood about eighteen pence a yard.

Again, very fine jewellery—stage jewellery—had been prepared to go with
the various dresses. In especial in the procession at the beginning of
the fourth act the collars of the Knights of the Garter were of great
magnificence. One of the actors, however, was anxious to have everything
as real as possible, and not being content with the splendour of the
diamond collars provided, borrowed a real one from one of the Dukes,
whose Collar of the Garter was of a magnificence rare even amongst such
jewels. He expected it to stand out amongst the other jewelled collars
seen in the procession. But strange to say, it was the only one amongst
them all that did not look well. It did not even look real. Stage jewels
are large, and are backed with foil, which throws back the fierce light
of the “floats,” and the “standards,” and the “ground rows,” and all
those aids to illusion which have been perfected by workmen competent to
their purpose.

III

The play ends with the christening of the infant Princess Elizabeth, in
which of course a dummy baby was used. This gave a chance to the voices
clamant for realism on the stage. When the play had run some forty
nights Irving got a letter, from which I quote:

“The complete success of _Henry VIII._ was marred when the King kissed
the china doll. The whole house tittered.... Herewith I offer the hire
of our real baby for the purpose of personating the offspring....” To
this I replied:

“Mr. Irving fears that there might be some difficulty in making the
changes which you suggest with regard to the infant Princess Elizabeth
in the play. If reality is to be achieved it should of necessity be real
reality and not seeming reality; the latter we have already on the
stage. A series of difficulties then arises, any of which you and your
family might find insuperable: If your real baby were provided it might
be difficult, or even impossible, for the actor who impersonates King
Henry VIII. to feel the real feelings of a father towards it. This would
necessitate your playing the part of the King; and further would require
that your wife should play the part of Queen Anne Boleyn. This might not
suit either of you—especially as in reality Henry VIII. had afterwards
his wife’s head cut off. To this your wife might naturally object; but
even if she were willing to accept this form of reality, and you were
willing to accept the responsibility on your own part, Mr. Irving would,
for his own sake, have to object. By law, if you had your wife
decapitated you would be tried for murder; but as Mr. Irving would also
be tried as an accessory before the fact, he too would stand in danger
of his life. To this he distinctly objects, as he considers that the end
aimed at is not worth the risk involved.

“Again, as the play will probably run for a considerable time, your baby
would grow. It might, therefore, be necessary to provide another baby.
To this you and your wife might object—at short notice.

“There are other reasons—many of them—militating against your proposal;
but you will probably deem those given as sufficient.”

_Henry VIII._ was produced on the night of Tuesday, January 5, 1892, and
ran at the Lyceum for two hundred and three performances, ending on
November 5. Its receipts were over sixty-six thousand pounds.

XII
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—IV

In the Edinburgh theatre during his three years’ engagement there,
1856–9, Irving had played the part of Curan in _King Lear_. This was, I
think, the only part which he had ever played in the great tragedy; and
it is certainly not one commending itself to an ambitious young actor.
It is not what actors call a “fat” part; it is only ten lines in all,
and none of those of the slightest importance. But the ambitious young
actor had his eye on the play very early, and had thought out the doing
of it in his own way. The play was not produced till the end of 1892;
but nearly ten years before he had talked it over with me. I find this
note rough in my diary for January 5, 1883:

“Theatre 7 till 2. H. and I supper alone. He told me of intention to
play Lear on return from America. Gave rough idea of play—domestic—
gives away kingdom round a wood fire, &c.”

On the night of the 9th he spoke again of it under similar
circumstances. And on April 10 he returned to the subject.

_King Lear_, in the production of which Ford Madox Brown advised, was
produced on November 10, 1892, and ran in all seventy-six nights. My
diary of November 10 says:

“First night; _King Lear_. Great enthusiasm between acts. Whilst scenes
on, stillness like the grave. An ideal audience. Thunders of applause
and cheers at end.”

On the morning of January 19, after _King Lear_ had run for sixty
nights, I received a hurried note, written with pencil, from Irving,
asking me to call and see him as soon as possible. I hurried to his
rooms and found him ill and speechless with “grippe.” This was one of
the early epidemics of influenza and its manifestations were very
sudden. He could not raise his head from his pillow. He wrote on a slip
of paper:

“Can’t play to-night. Better close the theatre.”

“No!” I said, “I’ll not close unless you order me to. I’ll _never_
close!” He smiled feebly and then wrote:

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said; “I’ll go down to the theatre at once.
Fortunately this is a rehearsal day and everybody will be there.” He
wrote again:

“Try Vezin.”

“All right,” I said. Just then Ellen Terry, to whom he had sent word,
came in. When she knew how bad he was she said to me:

“Of course you’ll close, Bram” (we use Christian names a good deal on
the stage).

“No!” I said again.

“Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll play—unless _you_ won’t consent to!”

“Don’t you know that I’ll do anything!”

“Of course I do! It will be all right.” This was a wild presumption, for
at the time the Stage Manager was away ill.

All the time Irving was hearing every word, and smiled a little through
his pain and illness. He never liked to hear of any one giving up; and I
think it cheered him a little to know that things were going on. I went
to Mr. Vezin’s rooms at once but he was out of town. When I got to the
theatre all the company were there, I asked Terriss if he could play
Lear. He said no, that he had not studied the part at all—adding in
regret: “I only wish to goodness that I had. It will be a lesson to me
in the future.” I then asked the company in general if any of them had
ever played Lear—or could play it; but there was no affirmative reply.

In the company was Mr. W. J. Holloway, who played the part of Kent. He
was an old actor—that is, the _actor_ was old though the _man_ was in
active middle age. He had, I knew, played in what is called “leading
business” with his own company in Australia, where he had made much
success. I asked him if he could read the part that night. If so, I
should before the play ask the favour of the audience in the emergency;
and that he would then play it “without the book” on the next night. He
answered that he would rather wait till the next night, by which time he
would be ready to play. To this I replied that if we closed for the
night we should not re-open until Mr. Irving was able to resume work.
After thinking a moment he said:

“Of course any one can _read_ a part.”

“Then,” said I, “will you read it to-night and play to-morrow?”

He answered that he would. So I said to him:

“Now, Mr. Holloway, consider that from this moment till the curtain goes
up you own the theatre. If there is anything you want for help or
convenience, order it; you have _carte blanche_. Mr. Irving’s dresser
will make you up, and the Wardrobe Mistress will alter any dress to suit
you. We will have a rehearsal if you wish it, now or in the evening
before the play; or all day, if you like.”

“I think,” he said after a pause, “I had better get home and try to get
hold of the words. I know the business pretty well as I have been at all
the rehearsals. I am usually a quick study, and it will be so much
better if I can do without the book—for part of the time at any rate.”

In this he was quite wise; his experience as an old actor stood to him
here. Kent is all through the play close to Lear, either in his own
person or in disguise. The actor, therefore, who played the part, which
in stage parlance is a “feeder,” had been at all the rehearsals of
Lear’s scenes when the “business” of the play is being fixed and when
endless repetitions of speech and movement make all familiar with both
text and action. Also for sixty nights he had gone through the play till
every part of it was burned into his brain. Still, knowledge of a thing
is not doing it; and it was a very considerable responsibility to
undertake to play such a tremendous part as Lear at short notice.

When he came down at night he seemed easier in his mind than I expected;
his wife, who was present—though without his knowing it lest it might
upset him—told me privately that he was “letter perfect” in at least the
two first acts. “I have been going over it with him all day,” she said,
“so I am confident he will be all right.”

And he was all right. From first to last he never needed a word of
prompting. Of course we had prepared for all emergencies. Not only had
the prompter and the call-boy each a prompt-book ready at every wing,
but all his fellow actors were primed and ready to help.

I shall never forget that performance; it really stirred me to look at
it as I did all through from the wings in something of the same state of
mind as a hen who sees her foster ducklings toddling into the ditch. I
had known that good actors were fine workmen of their craft, but I think
I never saw it realised as then. It was like looking at a game of Rugby
football when one is running with the ball for a touch-down behind goal
with all the on-side men of his team close behind him. He _could_ not
fail if he wanted to. They backed him up in every possible way. The cues
came quick and sharp and there was not time to falter or forget. If any
of the younger folk, upset by the gravity of the occasion, forgot or
delayed in their speeches, some one else spoke them for them. The play
went with a rush right through; the only difference from the sixty
previous performances being that though the _entr’actes_ were of the
usual length the play was shorter by some twenty minutes. When the call
came at the end the audience showed their approval of Mr. Holloway’s
plucky effort by hearty applause. When the curtain had finally fallen
the actor received that most dear reward of all. His comrades of all
ranks closed round him and gave him a hearty cheer. Then the audience
beyond the curtain, recognising the rare honour, joined in the cheer
till from wall to wall the whole theatre rang.

It was a moving occasion to us all, and I am right sure that it bore two
lessons to all the actors present, young and old alike: to be ready for
chances that _may_ come; and to accept the responsibility of greatness
in their work when such may present itself.

Of acting in especial, of all crafts the motto might be:

“The readiness is all!”

III

One other incident of the run of _King Lear_ is, I think, worthy of
record, inasmuch as it bears on the character and feeling of that great
Englishman, Mr. Gladstone. In the second week of the run he came to see
the play, occupying his usual seat on the stage on the O.P. corner. He
seemed most interested in all that went on, but not entirely happy. At
the end, after many compliments to Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, he
commented on the unpatriotic conduct of taking aid from the French—from
any foreigner—under any circumstances whatever of domestic stress.

Saturday, December 19, 1896, was an eventful day in Irving’s life. That
evening, in the full tide of his artistic success and with a personal
position such as no actor had ever won, he placed on the stage _Richard
III._, his acting in which just twenty years before had added so much
and so justly to the great reputation which he had even then achieved.

His early fight had long been won. The public, and in especial the
growing generation whose minds were free from the prejudice of ancient
custom, had received his philosophic acting without cavil; the “Irving
school” of acting had become a part of the nation’s glory.

From the early morning of that day crowds were waiting to gain
admission. Many of those in the passage to the pit door, leading in from
the Strand, had camp-stools. One man had brought a regular chair so that
he might sit all day with as little discomfort as possible. At four
o’clock, when a great crowd had assembled, Irving had them all supplied
with tea and bread-and-butter at his own expense. This was a custom
which had grown up under his care and which made for a feeling of great
personal kindness between the actor and his unknown friends. Most of
those who waited at the pit door on first nights were young ladies and
gentlemen, and of course quite able to provide for themselves. But
nothing would induce them to have a cup of tea till it was sent out to
them by the management. That came to be a part of their cherished
remembrance of such occasions, and was not to be foregone.

Many and many a time since then have I met in society persons, both
ladies and gentlemen, who introduced themselves as old friends since the
days when I had spoken to them, whilst waiting, through the iron rail
which kept them from lateral pressure by newcomers and preserved the
_queue_.

That day they were in great force, and even then, long before the house
was, or could be, opened, there was no denying the hope-laden thrill of
expectation with which they regarded the coming of the night’s
endeavour.

They were well justified, for nothing, so far as the Richard was
concerned, could have gone with more marked success. The audience was
simply wild with enthusiasm. That alone helps to make success in a
theatre; the whole place seems charged with some kind of electric force
and every one is lifted or even exalted beyond the common—the actors to
do, the others to be receptive. At the close of the performance there
were endless calls and cheering which made the walls ring.

In his very early youth Irving had found a certain attractiveness in
_Richard III._, though doubtless he did not then know or realise what a
play was. His cousin, John Penberthy, told me in 1890 how when they were
both boys “Johnny” had a book opening out into long series of scenes of
plays and that he used to be fond of saying dramatically? “My horse! my
horse! A kingdom for my horse!” Whether the error lay with the child’s
knowledge or the man’s memory I know not.

Some of the scenes—not merely the painted or built pictures, but that
which took in the persons as well as the setting of the stage—were of
great beauty. In especial was the first scene when the funeral
procession of King Henry VI. came on. Irving had tried to realise some
of the effect of the great picture by Edwin A. Abbey, R.A. Here the tide
of mourners seems to sweep along in resistless mass, with an
extraordinary effect of the spear-poles of royal scarlet amidst the
black draperies.

Whilst the bulk of the audience were taking their reluctant way home
certain invited guests from their body were beginning to fill up again
the great stage which had by now been transposed into a room surrounded
by supper-tables. Irving was receiving his friends after what had by
then grown to be an established custom of first and last nights. From
the buoyancy and joy of the guests it was easy to see how the play had
gone. All were rejoicing as if each one had achieved a personal success.

In his own rooms that night he met with an accident which prevented his
working for ten weeks. And so the run of _Richard III._ at that time was
limited to one triumphant night.

On February 27 it was resumed till the coming of the time, which had
long before been fixed, for the production of _Madame Sans-Gêne_.

XIII
IRVING’S METHOD

The first time I saw _Eugene Aram_, June 6, 1879, I was much struck with
one fact—amongst many—which afforded a real lesson in the art of acting
in all its phases—philosophy, effect, value and method. It is that of
the effect, intellectual as well as emotional, of a lightning-like
change in the actor’s manner. In this play, the Yorkshire schoolmaster,
who under the stress of violent emotion wrought by wrong to the woman he
loved, has avoided the danger of discovery and has for a long time
remained in outward peace in the house of Parson Meadows, the Vicar of
Knaresborough. The evil genius of his early day, Richard Houseman, who
alone knew of his crime, had succeeded in “tracking” him down; and now,
being in desperate straits, tried to blackmail him. Knowing his man,
however, he will not meet him. Such a one as Houseman is a veritable
“daughter of the horseleech”; the giving is each time a firmer ground
for further _chantage_. Houseman, grown desperate, threatens him that he
will expose him to Meadows; and Eugene Aram, who has loved in secret the
Vicar’s daughter Ruth, seeing all his cherished hopes of happiness
shattered, grows more desperate still. All the murderous potentialities
which have already manifested themselves wake to new life in the
“climbing” passion of the moment—the _hysterica passio_ of _King Lear_.
As Irving played it, the hunted man at bay was transformed from his
gentleness to a ravening tiger; he looked the spirit of murder incarnate
as he answered threat by threat. Just at that moment the door opened and
in walked Ruth Meadows, bright and cheery as a ray of spring sunshine.
In a second—less than a second, for the change was like lightning—the
sentence begun in one way went on in another without a quaver or pause.
The mind and powers of the remorse-haunted man who had for weary years
trained himself for just such an emergency worked true. Unfailingly a
sudden and marked burst of applause rewarded on each occasion this
remarkable artistic _tour de force_.

The play of _Richelieu_ had always a particular interest for those who
knew that in it he made his first appearance on the stage in the small
part of Gaston, Duke of Orleans.

Regarding this first appearance three names should be borne in memory as
those who helped the ambitious young clerk to an opening in the art he
had chosen. The names of two of these are already known. One was William
Hoskins, who at considerable self-sacrifice had helped to teach him his
craft, and who had predicted good things for him. The other was E. D.
Davis, an old actor, who was just entering upon the management of the
Lyceum Theatre, Sunderland; and who at Mr. Hoskins’ request gave him an
engagement.

The third friend made his way possible, and gave him opportunity of
appearing to advantage in his parts by supplying him with the sinews of
war. This friend was none other than his uncle, Thomas Brodribb, the
second of the four brothers of whom Irving’s father, Samuel, was fourth.
He was—perhaps fortunately for his nephew—a bachelor. He had but small
means; but also, happily, small wants. Amongst his assets he had a
policy of insurance on which many premiums had been paid; and wishing to
do something for his nephew on his starting on a new life, he made over
to him this policy so that he might realise on it. This his nephew did
to the result of nearly one hundred pounds sterling, all of which was by
degrees laid out carefully with most anxious thought on such wardrobe
and personal properties as are not usually “found” by provincial
managements. This kindly and timely assistance enabled the young actor
to appear during his first years on the stage in many parts with
something of that suitability of presence which his characters demanded.
In those early days the wardrobe of country theatres was limited and the
actors often chose their dresses in the sequence of importance; so that
it was much to a young man to be able to supplement such costume as came
to him. Could the generous, kindly-hearted Uncle Thomas have lived to
see the grand consequences eventually resulting in part from his
thoughtful kindness he might have indeed been proud.

There was this difference in Irving’s Richelieu and the same part as
played by any other actor I have seen. In the great scene of the quarrel
between Baradas and the Cardinal, when the former wants, for his own
purposes, to take, by the King’s authority, Julie from his custody, the
latter hurls at him the magnificently effective speech beginning: “Then
wakes the power which in the Age of Iron....”

This by the players of the old school was thundered out with the same
vigour with which they fought in their sword combats; and certainly the
effect was very telling. It was the act as well as the word of personal
mastery.

Irving kept the full effect; but did it in such a way that he superadded
to the Cardinal’s character the flickering spasmodic power of an infirm
old man. He too began in tones of thunder. To his full height he drew
the tall form that seemed massive in the sacerdotal robes. He was
manifestly inspired and borne up by the divine force of his sacred
office. But at the end he collapsed, almost sinking into a swoon. Thus
the effect was magnified and the sense of both reality and
characterisation enhanced.

III

With Louis XI., a part which in France is called _le grand rôle_, Henry
Irving was fairly familiar in his early years on the stage. He had
played the part of both Coitier and Tristan, and as one or other of
these in most of the scenes he had full experience of the acting value
of the title _rôle_. It would be very unlike the method of study
habitual to him even before he went on to the stage if he had not all
the time, both at rehearsal and performance, grasped the acting
possibilities of both character and situations, and devised new and
subtle means for characterisation. When in 1878 he had run the piece for
some three months he had learned much, both by practice and from the
opinions of his friends. In those days he did not often read criticisms
of an ordinary kind. He found that some of them, written by
irresponsible writers imperfectly equipped for their task, only
disturbed and irritated him. And so he only read such as had filtered
through the judgment of his friends; a habit which George Eliot had
adopted about the same time.

Though I had not seen his performance that year I could tell, in 1879,
from his anxiety about the rehearsal of certain scenes and the care
bestowed on the new or altered scenery and appointments, that his new
work was to be on a slightly different plane from the old.

After a few performances Louis XI. became a sort of holiday part to him.
There is in it but one change of dress: that between the fourth and
fifth acts. This change, though exceptionally heavy, is as nothing to
the exhaustion consequent on the many changes of costume necessary in
most heavy plays. These ordinarily absorb in swift and laborious work
the only breathing times between the periods of action. A series of
small labours may in the long run amount to more than one large one.

The limitation of violent effort in this play made him very “easy” in
it. In one scene only does such occur; that at the end of the fourth act
as originally played. Of late years he played it in four acts
altogether, amalgamating the first and second acts with much benefit to
the play.

Only once have I seen him put out at anything during the playing of
_Louis XI._ It was in Chicago on the night of Saturday, February 13,
1904. For five weeks following the burning of the Iroquois Theatre in
that city no theatre had been allowed to open. The official world, which
had itself been gravely in fault in allowing the theatre to be opened
before it had been tested, tried to show their integrity by imposing
rigid perfection—after the event—on other people. The Illinois Theatre,
where we were to play, was the first theatre opened, and naturally we
had to stand the brunt of official over-zeal. We had been harassed
beyond belief from the moment we entered the theatre.

On the night of _Louis XI._ all went well till the end of the bedroom
scene between the King and Nemours. Here, when the Duke had escaped, the
King calls for aid and his guards rush in with torches, and by their
master’s direction search the room for his enemy. The effectiveness of
the scene depends on the light thus introduced, for the scene is a dark
one, lit only by the King’s chamber-lamp. To Irving’s dismay the cue for
the lights was not answered. True, the guards came on, but in darkness.
The firemen in the wings had seized from the guards the spirit torches—
implements carefully made to obviate any possible danger from fire and
each carried by one of our men practised in the handling of them.

After a night or two matters got a little easier. The fire regulations,
which directed that the men of that department on the stage should make
requisition to the responsible manager who would see them carried out,
began to be more decorously observed.

_The Lyons Mail_ is the especial title of Charles Reade’s version of _Le
Courier de Lyons_. The play has often been done in its older form but in
the newer only by Charles Kean and Henry Irving. Indeed when Irving took
it in hand he got Reade to make some changes, especially in the second
act, where Joseph Lesurques has the interview with his father, who
believes that he is guilty and that he saw him fire the shot by which he
himself was wounded.

Irving has often told me that in playing the double part the real
difficulty was not to make the two men unlike and guilt look like guilt,
but the opposite. He used to adduce instances told him by experienced
judges and counsel of where they had been themselves deceived by
demeanour. It is indeed difficult for any one to discriminate between
the shame, together with the submission to the Divine Law to which he
has been bred, of the innocent, and the fear, whose expression is
modified by hardihood, of the guilty. In Irving’s case the points of
difference were not merely overt; there were subtle differences of tone
and look and bearing—loftiness, for instance, as against supreme and
fearless indifference and brutality.

_The Lyons Mail_ was always one of the most anxious and exhausting of
his plays. In the first place he was always on the stage, either in the
one character of Lesurques or the other of Dubose—except at the end of
the play, where he appeared to be both. All the intervals were taken up
with necessary changes of dress. In the next place the _time_ is
all-important. In any melodrama accuracy as to time is important to
success; but in this one of confused identity it is all-important. There
are occasions when the delay of a single second will mar the best
studied effect, and when to be a second too soon is to spoil the plot.
In certain plays the actors must “overlap” in their speeches; the effect
of their work must be to carry the thought of the audience from point to
point without wavering. Thus they receive the necessary information
without the opportunity of examining it too closely. This is a part of
the high art of the stage. There can be illusions by other means than
light.

Once there was a peculiar _contretemps_ in the acting. Tom Mead was a
fine old actor with a tall thin form and a deep voice that sounded like
an organ. His part was that of Jerome Lesurques, the father of the
unhappy man whose double was the villain Dubose. He had played it for
many years and very effectively. The end of the first act comes when
Dubose, the robber and murderer, is confronted by Jerome Lesurques. The
old man thinks it is his son whom he sees rifling the body of the mail
guard. As he speaks the words: “Good God! my son, my son,” Dubose fires
at him, wounding him on the arm, and escapes as the curtain comes down.

On this particular night—it was one of the last nights in New York,
closing the tour of 1893–4—Mead forgot his words. Dubose stood ready
with his pistol to fire; but no words came. Now, if the audience do not
know that Jerome Lesurques thinks that his son is guilty the heart is
taken out of the play, for it is his unconscious evidence that proves
his son’s guilt. The words had to be spoken at any cost by _some one_.
Irving waited, but the old man’s memory was gone. So he himself called
out in a loud voice: “I’m not your son!” and shot him. And, strange to
say, none of the audience seemed to notice the omission.

Tom Mead was famous in his later years amongst his comrades for making
strange errors, and when he had any new part they always waited to see
what new story he would beget. Once on a voyage to America when we were
arranging the concert for the Seamen’s Orphans, he said he would do a
scene from _Macbeth_ if Mrs. Pauncefort would do it with him. She, a
fine old actress, at once consented and from thence on the members of
the company were waiting to see what the slip would be. They were
certain there would be one; to them there was no “might” or “if” in the
matter. The scene chosen was that of the murder of Duncan, and all went
well till the passage was reached:

“And Pity, like a naked new-born babe
Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless carriers of the air.”

This noble passage he repeated as follows:

“And Pity, like a naked new-born babe
Seated on the horse. No! Horsed on the seat!
No! What is the word?”

Once before, during the first run of _Macbeth_, he played one of the
witches; when circling round the cauldron he had to say: “Cool it with a
baboon’s blood.” This he changed to:

“Cool it with a dragoon’s blood!”

As the words are spoken before Macbeth enters, Irving, standing ready in
the wings, of course heard the error. Later in the evening he sent for
Mead and called his attention to the error, pointing out that as the
audience knew so well the words of the swinging lines they might notice
an error, and that it would be well to read over the part afresh. This
he promised to do. Next night he got very anxious as the time drew near.
He moved about restlessly behind the scenes saying over and over again
to himself, “dragoon, no baboon—baboon!—dragoon!—dragoon!—baboon!” till
he got himself hopelessly mixed. His comrades were in ecstasy. When at
last he came to say the word he said it wrong; and as he had a voice
whose tones he could not modify this is what the audience heard:

“Cool it with dragoon’s blood—No, no, baboon’s. My God! I’ve said it
again! baboon’s blood.”

When we did _Iolanthe_, a version by W. G. Wills of _King René’s
Daughter_, Mead took the part of Ebn Jaira, an Eastern Wizard. At one
part of the piece, where things look very black indeed for the happiness
of the blind girl, he has to say: “All shall be well in that immortal
land where God hath His dwelling.” One night he got shaky in his words
and surprised the audience with:

“In that immortal land where God hath His—Ah—um—His apartments!”

Such mental aberrations used to be fairly common in the old days when
new parts had to be learned every night, and when the prompter, in so
far as the “book” was concerned, was a hard-worked official and not an
anachronism, as now. Macready had an experience of it once when playing
Hamlet. The actor who took the part of the Priest in the graveyard scene
was inadequately prepared and in the passage;

“for charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles shall be thrown on her.”

he said, “shards, flints and beadles.” This almost overcame the star,
who was heard to murmur to himself before he went on: “Beadles!
Beadles!” and at the end of the play one behind him heard him say as he
walked to his dressing-room:

“He said ‘beadles’!”

_Charles I._ is rather too slight and delicate a play for great
popularity; and in addition its politics are too aggressive. Whenever I
think of it in its political aspect I am always reminded of a pregnant
saying of Dion Boucicault—I mean Dion Boucicault the Elder, for the
years have run fast—spoken in the beautiful Irish brogue which was
partly natural and partly cultivated:

“The rayson why historical plays so seldom succeed is because a normal
audience doesn’t go into the thayatre with its politics in its breeches
pockets!”

This is really a philosophical truth, and the man who had then written
or adapted over four hundred plays knew it. A great political situation
may, like any other great existing force, form a _milieu_ for dramatic
action; making or increasing difficulties or abrogating or lessening
them; or bringing unexpected danger or aid to the persons of the drama.
But where the political situation is supposed to be lasting or eternally
analogous, it is apt to create in the minds of an audience varying
conditions of thought and sympathy. And where these all-powerful forces
of an audience are opposed they become mutually destructive, being only
united into that one form which makes for the destruction of the play.

One of the most notable things of Irving’s _Charles I._ was his
extraordinary reproduction of Van Dyck’s pictures. The part in its
scenic aspect might have been called “Van Dyck in action.” Each costume
was an exact reproduction from one of the well-known paintings; and the
reproduction of Charles’s face was a marvel. In this particular case he
had a fine model, for Van Dyck painted the King in almost every possible
way of dignity. To aid him in his work Edwin Long made for him a
triptych of Van Dyck heads, and this used to rest before him on his
dressing-table on those nights when he played Charles.

Irving was a painter of no mean degree with regard to his “make-up” of
parts. He spared no pains on the work, and on nights when he played
parts requiring careful preparations, such as Charles I., Shylock, Louis
XI., Gregory Brewster (in _Waterloo_), King Lear, Richelieu and some few
others he always came to his dressing-room nearly an hour earlier than
at other times. It has often amazed me to see the physiognomy of Shylock
gradually emerge from the actor’s own generous countenance. Though I
have seen it done a hundred times I could never really understand how
the lips thickened, with the red of the lower lip curling out and over
after the manner of the typical Hebraic countenance; how the bridge of
the nose under his painting—for he used no physical building up—rose
into the Jewish aquiline; and, most wonderful of all, how the eyes
became veiled and glassy with introspection—eyes which at times could
and did flash lurid fire.

But there is for an outsider no understanding what strange effects stage
make-up can produce. When my son, who is Irving’s godson, then about
seven years old, came to see _Faust_ I brought him round between the
acts to see Mephistopheles in his dressing-room. The little chap was
exceedingly pretty—like a cupid, and a quaint fancy struck the actor.
Telling the boy to stand still for a moment he took his dark pencil and
with a few rapid touches made him up after the manner of Mephistopheles;
the same high-arched eyebrows; the same sneer at the corners of the
mouth; the same pointed moustache. I think it was the strangest and
prettiest transformation I ever saw. And I think the child thought so
too, for he was simply entranced with delight.

Irving loved children, and I think he was as enchanted over the incident
as was the child himself.

XIV
ART-SENSE

No successful play, perhaps, had ever so little done for it as _The
Bells_ on its production. Colonel Bateman did not believe in it, and it
was only the concatenation of circumstances of his own desperate
financial condition and Irving’s profound belief in the piece that
induced him to try it at all. The occasion was in its effect somewhat
analogous to Edmund Kean’s first appearance at Drury Lane; the actor
came to the front and top of his profession _per saltum_. The production
was meagre; of this I can bear a certain witness myself. When Irving
took over the management of the Lyceum into his own hands the equipment
of _The Bells_ was one of the assets coming to him. When he did play it
he used the old dresses, scenery and properties, and their use was
continued as long as possible. Previous to the American tour of 1883–4,
fifty-five performances in all constituted the entire wear and tear.

On our first expedition to America everything was packed in a very
cumbrous manner, the amount of timber, nails and screws used was
extraordinary. There were hundredweights of extracted screws on the
stage of the Star Theatre of New York whilst the unpacking was in
progress. When I came down to the theatre on the first morning after the
unloading of the stuff, Arnott, who was in charge of the mechanics of
the stage, came to me and said:

“Would you mind coming here a moment, sir, I would like you to see
something!” He brought me to the back of the stage and pointed out a
long heap of rubbish some four feet high. It was just such as you would
see in the waste-heap of a house-wrecker’s yard.

“What on earth is that?” I asked.

“That is the sink-and-rise of the vision in _The Bells_. In effecting a
vision on the stage the old method used to be to draw the back scenes or
“flats” apart, or else to raise the whole scene from above or take it
down through a long trap on the stage. The latter was the method adopted
by the scene-painter of _The Bells_.”

“Did it meet with an accident?” I asked.

“No, sir. It simply shook to bits just as you see it. It was packed up
secure and screwed tight like the rest!”

I examined it carefully. The whole stuff was simply rotten with age and
wear; as thoroughly worn out as the deacon’s wonderful one-horse shay in
Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem. The canvas had been almost held together by
the overlay of paint, and as for the wood it was cut and hacked and
pieced to death; full of old screw-holes and nail-holes. No part of it
had been of new timber or canvas when _The Bells_ was produced eleven
years before. With this experience I examined the whole scenery and
found that almost every piece of it was in a similar condition. It had
been manufactured out of all the odds and ends of old scenery in the
theatre.

Under the modern conditions of Metropolitan theatres it is hard to
imagine what satisfied up to the “seventies.” Nowadays the scenery of
good theatres is made for travel. The flats are framed in light wood,
securely clamped and fortified at the joints; and in folding sections
like screens, each section being not more than six feet wide, so as to
be easily handled and placed in baggage-waggons. The scenes are often
fixed on huge castors with rubber bosses so as to move easily and
silently. But formerly they were made in single panels and of heavy
timber and took a lot of strength to move.

From the time of my joining him in 1878 till his death Irving played
_The Bells_ in all six hundred and twenty-seven times, being one hundred
and sixty-eight in London; two hundred and seventy-three in the British
provinces, and one hundred and eighty-six in America. During its first
run at the Lyceum in 1872–3 it ran one hundred and fifty-one nights, so
that in all he played _The Bells_ seven hundred and seventy-eight times,
besides certain occasions when he gave it in his provincial tours
previous to 1878. Altogether he probably played the piece over eight
hundred times.

Colonel Bateman originally leased the rights of the play from the author
Leopold Lewis. Finally, at a time of stress—sadly frequent in those days
with poor old Lewis—he sold them to Samuel French, from whom Irving
finally purchased them. Notwithstanding this double purchase Irving
used, after the death of Lewis, to allow his widow a weekly sum whenever
he was playing—playing not merely _The Bells_ but anything else—up to
the time of his death.

Mathias was an exceedingly hard and exhausting part on the actor, but as
years rolled on it became in ever greater demand.

III

The original choice of the play by Irving is an object-lesson of the
special art-sense of an actor regarding his own work. Irving _knew_ that
the play would succeed. It was not guessing nor hoping nor any other
manifestation of an optimistic nature. Had Bateman, in the business
crisis of 1872, not allowed him to put it on, he would infallibly have
put it on at some other time.

It would be difficult for an actor to explain in what this art-sense
consists or how it brings conviction to those whose gift it is.
Certainly any one not an actor could not attempt the task at all. In the
course of a quarter of a century of intimate experience of this actor,
when he has confided to me the very beginnings of his intentions and let
me keep in touch with his mind when such intentions became at first
fixed and then clamorous of realisation, I have known him see his way to
personal success with regard to several characters. For instance:

When in 1885 he had arranged to do _Olivia_ and was making up the cast
he put himself down as Dr. Primrose. I had not seen the play in which
Ellen Terry had appeared under John Hare’s management—with enormous
success for a long run—and I had no guiding light, except the text of
the play, as to the excellence of the part as an acting one. But neither
had Irving seen it. He too had nothing but the text to go by, but he was
quite satisfied with what he could do. He knew of course from report
that Ellen Terry would be fine. For myself I could not see in the Vicar
a great part for so great an actor, and tried my best to dissuade him
from acting it. “Get the best man in London, or out of it—at any price,”
I said; “but don’t risk playing a part like that, already played
exhaustively and played well according to accounts!”—Hermann Vezin had
played it in the run. Irving answered me with all his considerate
sweetness of manner:

“My dear fellow, it is all right! I can see my way to it thoroughly. If
I can’t play the Vicar to please I shall think I don’t know my business
as an actor; and that I really think I do!” This was said not in any way
truculently or self-assertively, but with a businesslike quietude which
always convinced. When any man was sincere with Irving, he too was
always both sincere and sympathetic, even to an opposing view to his
own. When one was fearless as well as sincere he gained an added measure
of the actor’s respect.

Again, when in 1885 _Faust_ was being produced I began to have certain
grave doubts as to whether we were justified in the extravagant hopes
which we had all formed of its success. The piece as produced was a vast
and costly undertaking; and as both the _décor_ and the massing and
acting grew, there came that time, perhaps inevitable in all such
undertakings of indeterminate bounds, as to whether reality would
justify imagination. With me that feeling culminated on the night of a
partial rehearsal, when the Brocken scene on which we all relied to a
large extent was played, all the supers and ballet and most of the
characters being in dress. It was then, as ever afterwards, a wonderful
scene of imagination, of grouping, of lighting, of action, and all the
rush and whirl and triumphant cataclysm of unfettered demoniacal
possession. But it all looked cold and unreal—that is, unreal to what it
professed. When the scene was over—it was then in the grey of the
morning—I talked with Irving in his dressing-room before going home. I
expressed my feeling that we ought not to build too much on this one
play. After all it _might_ not catch on with the public as firmly as we
had all along expected—almost taken for granted. Could we not be quietly
getting something else ready, so that in case it did not turn out all
that which our fancy painted we should be able to retrieve ourselves.
Other such arguments of judicious theatrical management I used
earnestly.

Irving listened, gravely weighing all I said; then he answered me
genially:

“That is all true; but in this case I have no doubt. I _know_ the play
will do. To-night I think you have not been able to judge accurately.
You are forming an opinion largely from the effect of the Brocken. As
far as to-night goes you are quite right; but you have not seen my
dress. I do not want to wear it till I get all the rest correct. Then
you will see. I have studiously kept as yet all the colour scheme to
that grey-green. When my dress of flaming scarlet appears amongst it—and
remember that the colour will be intensified by that very light—it will
bring the whole picture together in a way you cannot dream of. Indeed I
can hardly realise it myself yet, though I know it will be right. You
shall see too how Ellen Terry’s white dress, and even that red scar
across her throat, will stand out in the midst of that turmoil of
lightning!”

He had seen in his own inner mind and with his vast effective
imagination all these pictures and these happenings from the very first;
all that had been already done was but leading up to the culmination.

Let me say here that Irving loved sincerity, and most of all in those
around him and those who had to aid him in his work—for no man can do
all for himself. Alfred Gilbert the sculptor once said to me on seeing
from behind the scenes how a great play was pulled through on a first
night, when every soul in the place was alive with desire to aid and
every nerve was instinct with thought:

“I would give anything that the world holds to be served as Irving is!”

He was quite right. There must be a master mind for great things; and
the master of that mind must learn to trust others when the time of
action comes. The time for doubting, for experimenting, for teaching and
weighing and testing is in the antecedent time of preparation. But when
_the_ hour strikes, every doubt is a fetter to one’s own work—a barrier
between effort and success.

In artistic work this is especially so. The artist temperament is
sensitive—almost super-sensitive; and the requirements of its work
necessitate that form of quietude which comes from self-oblivion. It is
not possible to do any work based on individual qualities, when from
extrinsic cause some unrequired phase of that individuality looms large
in the foreground of thought.

This quality is of the essence of every artist, but is emphasised in the
actor; for here his individuality is not merely a help to creative power
but is a medium by which he expresses himself. Thus it will be found as
a working rule of life that the average actor will not, if he can help
it, do anything or take any responsibility which will make for the
possibility of unpopularity. The reason is not to be found in vanity, or
in a merely reckless desire to please; it is that unpopularity is not
only harmful to his aim and detrimental to his well-being, but is a
disturbing element in his work _quâ_ actor. In another place we shall
have to consider the matter of “dual consciousness” which Irving
considered to be of the intellectual mechanism of acting. Here we must
take it that if to a double consciousness required for a work a third—
self-consciousness—is added, they are apt to get mixed; and fine purpose
will be thwarted or overborne.

Thus it is that an actor has to keep himself, in certain ways at least,
for his work. When in addition he has the cares and worries and
responsibilities and labours and distractions of management to encounter
daily and hourly, it is vitally necessary that he has trustworthy, and
to him, sufficing assistance. It is quite sufficient for one man to
originate the scope and ultimate effect of a play; to bring all the
workers of different crafts employed in its production; to select the
various actors each for special qualities, to rehearse them and the less
skilled labourers employed in effect; in fact to bring the whole play
into harmonious completeness. All beyond this is added labour,
exhausting to the individual and ineffective with regard to the work in
hand. When, therefore, an actor-manager has such trusty and efficient
assistance as is here suggested many things become possible to him with
regard to the finesse of his art, which he dared not otherwise attempt.
_Somebody_ must stand the stress of irritating matters; there must be
_some_ barrier to the rush of mordant distractions. Irving could do much
and would have in the long run done at least the bulk of what he
intended; but he never could have done _all_ he did without the
assistance of his friend and trusty stage-lieutenant, who through the
whole of his management stood beside him in all his creative work and
shaped into permanent form his lofty ideas of stage effect. It is not
sufficient in a theatre to see a thing properly done and then leave it
to take care of itself for the future. Stage perfection needs constant
and never-ending vigilance. No matter how perfectly a piece may be
played, from the highest to the least important actor, in a certain time
things will begin to get “sloppy” and fresh rehearsals are required to
bring all up again to the standard of excellence fixed. To Loveday and
the able staff under him, whose devotion and zeal were above all praise,
the continued excellence of the Lyceum plays had to be mainly trusted.

Let it be clearly understood here, however, that I say this not to
belittle Irving, but to add to his honour. In addition to other grand
qualities he had the greatness to trust where trust was due. With him
lay all the great conception and imagination and originality of all his
accomplishments. He was quite content that others should have their
share of honour.

When one considers the amazing labour and expense concerned in the
“production” of a play, he is better able to estimate the value of
devoted and trusted assistance.

Even the thousand and one details of the business of a theatre need
endless work and care—work which would in the long run shatter entirely
the sensitive nervous system of an artist. In fact it may be taken for
granted that no artist can properly attend to his own business. As an
instance I may point to Whistler, who, long after he had made money and
lost it again and had begun to build up his fortune afresh, came to me
for some personal advice before going to America to deliver his “Five
o’clock” discourse. In the course of our conversation he said:

“Bram, I wish I could get some one to take me up and attend to my
business for me—I can’t do it myself; and I really think it would be
worth a good man’s while—some man like yourself,” he courteously added.
“I would give half of all I earned to such a man, and would be grateful
to him also for a life without care!”

I think myself he was quite right. He was before his time—long before
it. He did fine work and created a new public taste ... and he became
bankrupt. His house and all he had were sold; and the whole sum he owed
would, I think, have been covered by the proper sale of a few of the
pictures which were bought almost _en bloc_ by a picture-dealer who sold
them for almost any price offered. He had a mass of them in his gallery
several feet thick as they were piled against the wall. One of them he
sold to Irving for either £20 or £40, I forget which.

This was the great picture of Irving as King Philip in Tennyson’s drama
_Queen Mary_. It was sold at Christie’s amongst Irving’s other effects
after his death and fetched over five thousand pounds sterling.

During the run of _Cymbeline_ a pause of one night was made for a
special occasion. November 25, 1896, was the twenty-fifth anniversary of
the first performance of _The Bells_, and on that memorable birth-night
the performance was repeated to an immense house enthusiastic to the
last degree.

After the curtain had finally fallen the whole of the company and all
the employees of the theatre gathered on the stage for a presentation to
Irving to commemorate the remarkable occasion. One and all without
exception had contributed in proportion to their means. Most of all,
Alfred Gilbert, R.A., who had given his splendid genius and much labour
as his contribution. Of course on this occasion it was only the model
which was formally conveyed. The form of the trophy was a great silver
bell standing some two feet high, exquisite in design and with the grace
and beauty of the work of a Cellini; a form to be remembered in after
centuries. I had the honour of writing the destined legend to be wrought
in a single line in raised letters on a band of crinkly gold on the
curve of the bell. Gilbert had made a point of my writing it, and be
sure I was proud to do so. It ran:

HONOUR TO IRVING THROUGH THE LOVE OF HIS COMRADES I RING THROUGH THE
AGES.

Gilbert was enthusiastic about it, for he said it fulfilled all the
conditions of the legend on a bell. In the first place, according to the
ancient idea, a bell is a person with a soul and a thought and a voice
of its own; it is supposed to speak on its own initiative. In the second
place, the particular inscription was short and easily wrought and would
just go all round the bell. Moreover from its peculiar form the reading
of it could begin anywhere. I felt really proud when he explained all
this to me and I realised that I had so well carried out the idea.

VII

It may perhaps be here noted that according to the tradition of the
Comédie-Française a play becomes a classic work when it has held the
boards for a quarter of a century. The director, M. Jules Claretie,
asked Irving if they might play _The Bells_ in the House of Molière. Of
course he was pleased and sent to Claretie a copy of the prompt-book and
drawings of the scenes and appointments.

Jules Claretie was by now an old friend. In 1879, when the
Comédie-Française came to London and played at the Gaiety Theatre, he
came over as one of the men of letters interested in their success. It
was not till afterwards that he was selected as Director. I remember
well one night when he came to supper with Irving in the Lyceum. This
was before the old Beefsteak Room was reappointed to its old use; and we
supped in the room next to his own dressing-room, occasionally used in
these days for purposes of hospitality. There came also three other
Frenchmen of literary note: Jules Clery, Jacques Normand and the great
critic Francisque Sarcey. There was a marked scarcity of language
between us; none of the Frenchmen spoke in those days a word of English,
and neither Irving nor I knew more than a smattering of French. We got
on well, however, and managed to exchange ideas in the manner usual to
people who _want_ to talk with each other. It was quite late, and we had
all begun to forget that we did not know each other’s language, when we
missed Sarcey. I went out to look for him, fearing lest he might come to
grief through some of the steps or awkward places in the almost dark
theatre. In those days of gas lighting we always kept alight the “pilot”
light in the great chandelier of bronze and glass which hung down into
the very centre of the auditorium—just above the sight-line from the
gallery. This pilot was a matter of safety, and I rather think that we
were compelled, either by the civic authorities or the superior
landlord, to see it attended to. The gas remaining in the pipes of the
theatre was just sufficient to keep it going for four and twenty hours.
If it went out there must be a leak somewhere; and that leak had to be
discovered and attended to without delay.

I could not find Sarcey on the dim stage or in the front of the house.
In a theatre the rule is to take up the curtain when the audience have
passed out so that there may be as much time and opportunity as possible
for ventilating the house. I began to get a little uneasy about the
missing guest; but when I came near the corner of the stage whence the
private staircase led to Irving’s rooms I heard a queer kind of thumping
sound. I followed it out into the passage leading from the private door
in Burleigh Street to the Royal box. This was shut off from the theatre
by an iron door—not locked, but falling gently into the jambs by its own
weight. When I pushed open the door I found Sarcey all by himself,
dancing an odd sort of dance something after the manner of the “Gillie
Callum.” It was positively weird. I never afterwards could think of
Sarcey without there rising before me the vision of that lively, silent,
thick-set, agile figure moving springily in the semi-darkness.

Jules Claretie was many times at the Lyceum after the first visit, and
in his _régime_ the Theâtre-Français was the home of courtesy to
strangers.

XV
STAGE EFFECTS

_The Lady of Lyons_ was produced on April 17, 1879. It kept in the bill
for a portion of each week for the remainder of the first and the whole
of the second season; in all forty-five times—no inconsiderable run of
such an old and hackneyed play.

The production was a very beautiful one. There was a specially
attractive feature in it: the French army. At the end of the fourth act
Claude, all his hopes shattered and he being consumed with remorse,
accepts Colonel Damas’ offer to go with him to the war in that fine
melodramatic outburst:

“Place me wherever a foe is most dreaded—wherever France most needs a
life!”

As Irving stage-managed it the army, already on its way, was tramping
along the road outside. Through window and open door the endless columns
were seen, officers and men in due order and the flags in proper place.
It seemed as if the line would stretch out till the crack of doom! A
very large number of soldiers had been employed as supers, and were of
course especially suitable for the work. In those days the supers of
London theatres were largely supplied from the Brigade of Guards. The
men liked it, for it provided easy beer-money, and the officers liked
them to have the opportunity as it kept them out of mischief. We had
always on our staff as an additional super-master, a Sergeant of Guards
who used to provide the men, and was of course in a position to keep
them in order.

The men entered thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, and it was
really wonderful how, availing themselves of their professional
training, they were able to seemingly multiply their forces. Often have
I admired the dexterity, ease and rapidity with which that moving army
was kept going with a hundred and fifty men. Four abreast they marched
across the stage at the back. The scene cloth of the landscape outside
the cottage was set far up the stage so that there was but a narrow
space left between it and the wall, scarcely room for one person to
pass; and it was interesting to see the perfection of drill which
enabled those soldiers to meet the difficulties of keeping up the
constant stream of the troops. They would march into the wings with set
pace, but the instant they passed out of sight of the audience they
would break into a run; in perfect order they would rush in single file
round the back of the scene and arrive at the other side just in time to
fall into line and step again. And so the endless stream went on. When
Claude ran out with Damas the ranks opened and a cheer rose; he fell
into line with the rest and on the army marched.

That marching army never stopped. No matter how often the curtain went
up on the scene—and sometimes there were seven or eight calls, for the
scene was one specially exciting to the more demonstrative parts of the
house—it always rose on that martial array, always moving on with the
resistless time and energy of an overwhelming force.

It was only fair that Irving should always get good service from supers,
for they never had such a friend. When their standard pay was sixpence
per night he gave a shilling. When that sum became standard he gave one
and sixpence. And when that was reached he paid two shillings—an
increase of 300 per cent. in his own time.

If the smallness of the pay, even now, should strike any reader, let me
remind such that supers are not supposed to live on their pay. There are
a few special people who generally dress with them, but such are in
reality minor actors and get larger pay. The super proper is engaged
during the day as porter, workman, gasman, &c. They simply add to their
living wage by work at night. At the Lyceum, if a man only worked as a
super, we took it for granted that he was in reality a loafer, and did
not keep him.

_The Corsican Brothers_ is one of the pieces which requires picturesque
setting. The story is so weird that it obtains a new credibility from
unfamiliar _entourage_. Corsica has always been accepted as a land of
strange happenings and stormy passions. Things are accepted under such
circumstances which would ordinarily be passed by as bizarre. The
production was certainly a magnificent one. There are two scenes in it
which allow of any amount of artistic effort, although their
juxtaposition in the sequence of the play makes an enormous difficulty.
The first is the scene of the Masked Ball in the Opera House in Paris;
the other the Forest of Fontainebleau, where takes place the duel
between Fabian and de Château-Rénaud. Each of these scenes took up the
whole stage, right away from the footlights to the back wall; thus the
task of changing from one to the other, with only the interval of the
supper at Baron de Montgiron’s to do it in, was one of extraordinary
difficulty. The scene of the Masked Ball represented the interior of the
Opera House, the scenic auditorium being furthest from the footlights.
In fact it was as though the audience sitting in the Lyceum auditorium
saw the scene as though looking in a gigantic mirror placed in the
auditorium arch. The scene was in reality a vast one and of great
brilliance. The Opera House was draped with crimson silk, the boxes were
practical and contained a whole audience, all being in perspective. The
men and women in the boxes near to the footlights were real; those far
back were children dressed like their elders. Promenading and dancing
were hundreds of persons in striking costumes. It must be remembered
that in those days there were no electric lights, and as there were
literally thousands of lights in the scene it was a difficult one to
fit. Thousands of feet of gas-piping—the joining hose being flexible—
were used; and the whole resources of supply were brought into
requisition. We had before that brought the use of gas-supply to the
greatest perfection attainable. There were two sources of supply, each
from a different main, and these were connected with a great “pass” pipe
workable with great rapidity, so that if through any external accident
one of the mains should be disabled we could turn the supply afforded by
the other into all the pipes used throughout the house. This great scene
came to an end by lowering the “cut” cloth which formed the background
of Montgiron’s salon, the door leading into the supper-room being in the
centre at back. Whilst the guests were engaged in their more or less
rapid banquet, the Opera scene was being obliterated and the Forest of
Fontainebleau was coming down from the rigging-loft, ascending from the
cellar and being pushed on right and left from the wings. Montgiron’s
salon was concealed by the descent of great tableau curtains. These
remained down from thirty-five to forty _seconds_ and went up again on a
forest as real as anything can be on the stage. Trees stood out
separately over a large area, so that those entering from side or back
could be seen passing behind or amongst them. All over the stage was a
deep blanket of snow, white and glistening in the winter sunrise—snow
that lay so thick that when the duellists, stripped and armed, stood
face to face, they each secured a firmer foothold by kicking it away. Of
many wonderful effects this snow was perhaps the strongest and most
impressive of reality. The public could never imagine how it was done.
It was _salt_, common coarse salt which was white in the appointed
light, and glistened like real snow. There were tons of it. A crowd of
men stood ready in the wings with little baggage-trucks such as are now
used in the corridors of great hotels; silent with rubber wheels. On
them were great wide-mouthed sacks full of salt. When the signal came
they rushed in on all sides each to his appointed spot and tumbled out
his load, spreading it evenly with great wide-bladed wooden shovels.

III

One night—it was October 18—the Prince of Wales came behind the scenes
as he was interested in the working of the play. It was known he was
coming, and though the stage hands had been told that they were not
supposed to know that he was present they all had their Sunday clothes
on. It was the first time his Royal Highness had been “behind” in
Irving’s management; and he seemed very interested in all he saw. King
Edward VII. has and has always had a wonderful memory. That night he
told Irving how Charles Kean had set the scenes, the rights and lefts
being different from the present setting; how Kean had rested on a log
in a particular place; and so forth. Some of our older stage men who had
been at the Princess’s in Kean’s time bore it out afterwards that he was
correct in each detail.

That night the men worked as never before; they were determined to let
the Prince see what could, under the stimulating influence of his
presence, be done at the Lyceum, of which they were all very proud. That
night the tableau curtains remained down only _thirty seconds_—the
record time.

_The Corsican Brothers_ was produced on September 18, 1880, and ran for
one hundred and ninety performances in that season, _The Cup_ being
played along with it ninety-two times. The special reason for _The
Corsican Brothers_ being played during that season was that Ellen Terry
had long before promised to go on an autumn tour in 1880 with her
husband, Charles Kelly. It was, therefore, necessary that a piece should
be chosen which did not require her services, and there was no part
suitable to her in _The Corsican Brothers_. This was the only time she
had a tour except with Irving, until when during his illness in 1899 she
went out by herself to play _Madame Sans-Gêne_ and certain other plays.
When she returned to the Lyceum at the close of her tour _The Cup_ was
added to the bill.

In the course of the run of _The Corsican Brothers_ there were a good
many incidents, interesting or amusing. Amongst the latter was one
repeated nightly during the run of the piece. In the first scene, which
is the house of the Dei Franchi in Corsica, opportunity had been taken
of the peculiarity of the old Lyceum stage to make the entrance of
Fabian dei Franchi—the one of the twins remaining at home—as effective
as possible. The old stage of the Lyceum had a “scene-dock” at the back
extending for some thirty feet beyond the squaring of the stage. As this
opening was at the centre, the perspective could by its means be
enlarged considerably. At the back of the Dei Franchi “interior” ran a
vine-trellised way to a wicket-gate. As there was no side entrance to
the scene-dock it was necessary, in order to reach the back, to go into
the cellarage and ascend by a stepladder as generously sloped as the
head-room would allow. But when the oncomer did make an appearance he
was some seventy feet back from the footlights and in the very back
centre of the stage, the most effective spot for making entry as it
enabled the entire audience to see him a long way off and to emphasise
his coming should they so desire. In that scene Irving wore a Corsican
dress of light green velvet and was from the moment of his appearance a
conspicuous object. When, therefore, he was seen to ascend the mountain
slope and appear at the wicket the audience used to begin to applaud and
cheer, so that his entrance was very effective.

But in the arrangement the fact had been lost sight of that another
character entered the same way just before the time of his oncoming.
This was Alfred Meynard, Louis’s friend from Paris, a somewhat
insignificant part in the play. Somehow at rehearsal the appearance of
the latter did not seem in any way to clash with that of Fabian, and be
sure that the astute young actor who played Alfred did not call
attention to it by giving himself any undue prominence. The result was
that on the first night—and ever afterwards during the run—when Alfred
Meynard appeared the audience, who expected Irving, burst into wild
applause. The gentleman who played the visitor had not then achieved the
distinction which later on became his and so there was no reason, as
yet, why he should receive such an ovation. From the great stage talent
and finesse which he afterwards displayed I am right sure that he saw at
the time what others had missed—the extraordinary opportunity for a
satisfactory entrance so dear to the heart of an actor. It was a very
legitimate chance in his favour, and nightly he carried his honours
well. That first night a play of his own, his second play, was produced
as the _lever de rideau_. The young actor was A. W. Pinero, and the play
was _Bygones_. Pinero’s first play, _Daisy’s Escape_, had been played at
the Lyceum in 1879.

The Masked Ball was a scene which allowed of any amount of fun, and it
was so vast that it was an added gain to have as many persons as
possible in it. To this end we kept, during the run, a whole rack in the
office full of dominoes, masks and slouched hats, so that any one who
had nothing else to do could in an instant make a suitable appearance on
the scene without being recognised. As the masculine dress of the time,
the forties, was very much the same as now, a simple domino passed
muster. I shall never forget my own appearance in the scene a few nights
after the opening. We had amongst others engaged a whole group of
clowns. There were eight of them, the best in England; the pantomime
season being still far off, they could thus employ their enforced
leisure—they were of course changed as their services were required
elsewhere according to their previously made agreements. These men had a
special dance of their own which was always a feature of the scene, and
in addition they used to play what pranks they would, rushing about,
making fun of others, climbing into boxes and then hauling others in, or
dropping them out—such pranks and _intrigué_ funniments as give life to
a scene of the kind. When I ventured amongst them they recognised me and
made a ring round me, dancing like demons. Then they seized me and spun
me round, and literally played ball with me, throwing me from one to the
other backwards and forwards. Sometimes they would rush me right down to
the footlights and then whirl me back again breathless. But all the time
they never let me fall or gave me away. I could not but admire their
physical power as well as their agility and dexterity in their own
craft.

The second time I went on I rather avoided them and kept up at the back
of the stage. But even here I was, from another cause of mirth, not
safe. I was lurking at the back when Irving, his face as set as flint
with the passion of the insult and the challenge in the play, came
hurriedly up the stage on his way to R.U.E. (right upper entrance). When
he saw me the passion and grimness of his face relaxed in an instant and
his laughter came explosively, fortunately unnoticed by the audience as
his back was towards them. I went after him and asked him what was
wrong, for I couldn’t myself see anything of a mirthful nature.

“My dear fellow!” he said, “it was you!” Then in answer to my look he
explained:

“Don’t you remember how we arranged when the scene was being elaborated
that in order to increase the effect of size we were to dress the
shorter extras and then boys and girls and then little children in
similar clothes to the others and to keep in their own section. You were
up amongst the small children and with your height”—I am six feet two in
my stockings—“with that voluminous domino and that great black feathered
hat and in the painted perspective you look fifty feet high!” And he
laughed again uproariously.

_The Corsican Brothers_ was, so far as my knowledge goes, the first
play—under Irving’s management—which Mr. Gladstone came to see. The
occasion was January 3, 1881—the first night when _The Cup_ was played.
He sat with his family in the box which we called in the familiar slang
of the theatre “The Governor’s Box”—the manager of a theatre is always
the Governor to his colleagues of all kinds and grades. This box was the
stage box on the stall level, next to the proscenium. It was shut off by
a special door which opened with a pass key and thus, as it was
approachable from the stage through the iron door and from the
auditorium by the box door, it was easy of access and quite private.
After _The Cup_ Mr. Gladstone wished to come on the stage and tell
Irving and Ellen Terry how delighted he was with the performance. Irving
fixed as the most convenient time the scene of the masked ball, as
during it he had perhaps the only “wait” of the evening—a double part
does not leave much margin to an actor. Mr. Gladstone was exceedingly
interested in everything and went all round the vast scene. Seeing
during the progress of the scene that people in costume were going in
and out of queer little alcoves at the back of the scene he asked Irving
what these were. He explained that they were the private boxes of the
imitation theatre; he added that if the Premier would care to sit in one
he could see the movement of the scene at close hand, and if he was
careful to keep behind the little silk curtain he could not be seen. The
statesman took his seat and seemed for a while to enjoy the life and
movement going on in front of him. He could hear now and again the
applause of the audience, and by peeping out through the chink behind
the curtain, see them. At last in the excitement of the scene he forgot
his situation and, hearing a more than usually vigorous burst of
applause, leaned out to get a better view of the audience. The instant
he did so he was recognised—there was no mistaking that eagle face—and
then came a quick and sudden roar that seemed to shake the building. We
could hear the “Bravo, Gladstone!” coming through the detonation of
hand-claps.

VII

One night, Wednesday, November 17, 1880, the sixty-first performance of
the play, Lord Beaconsfield came to a box with some friends. I saw him
coming up the stairs to the vestibule of the theatre. This was the only
time I ever saw him, except on the floor of the House of Commons. He was
then a good deal bent and walked feebly, leaning on the arm of his
friend. He stayed to the end of the play and I believe expressed himself
very pleased with it. His friend, “Monty” Corry—afterwards Lord Rowton—
who was with him, told Irving that it seemed to revive old memories. As
an instance, when he was coming away he asked:

“Do you think we could have supper somewhere, and ask some of the
_coryphées_ to join us, as we used to do in Paris in the fifties?”

The poor dear man little imagined how such a suggestion would have
fluttered the theatrical dovecote. These _coryphées_, minor parts of
course in the play, were supposed to be very “fast” young persons, and
the difficulty of getting them properly played seemed for a long time
insurmountable. The young ladies to whom the parts were allotted were
all charming-looking young ladies of naturally bright appearance and
manner. But they would _not_ act as was required of them. One and all
they seemed to set their faces against the histrionic levity demanded of
them. It almost seemed that they felt that their personal characters
were at stake. Did they act with their usual charm and brightness and
nerve somebody _might_ to their detriment mix up the real and the
simulated characters. The result was that never in the history of
choregraphic art was there so fine an example of the natural demureness
of the _corps de ballet_. They would have set an example to a
Confirmation class.

VIII

For the tableau curtain in _The Corsican Brothers_, Irving had had
manufactured perhaps the most magnificent curtains of the kind ever
seen. They were of fine crimson silk-velvet and took more than a
thousand yards of stuff. The width and height of the Lyceum proscenium
were so great that the curtains had to be fastened all over on canvas,
fortified with strong webbing where the drag of movement came. Otherwise
the velvet would with the vast weight have torn like paper. They were
drawn back and up at the same time, so as to leave the full stage
visible, whilst picturesquely draping the opening. Material, colour and
form of these curtains—which were a full fifty per cent. wider than the
opening which they covered—brought both honour and much profit to the
manufacturers, who received many orders for repetitions on a smaller
scale. When John Hollingshead burlesqued _The Corsican Brothers_ at the
Gaiety Theatre this curtain was made a feature. It was represented by an
enormous flimsy patchwork quilt which tumbled down all at once in the
form of a tight-drawn curtain covering the whole proscenium arch.

In this burlesque too there was a notable incident when E. W. Royce—an
actor with the power and skill of an acrobat—who personated Irving,
walked up a staircase in _one step_.

Another feature was the “double.” In a play where one actor plays two
parts there is usually at least one time when the two have to be seen
together. For this a double has to be provided. In _The Corsican
Brothers_, where one of the two _sees the other seeing his brother_,
more than one double is required. At the Lyceum, Irving’s chief double
was the late Arthur Matthison, who though a much smaller man than Irving
resembled him faintly in his facial aspect. He had a firm belief that he
_was_ Irving’s double and that no one could tell them apart. This belief
was a source of endless jokes. There was hardly a person in the theatre
who did not at one time or another take part in one. It was a
never-ending amusement to Irving to watch and even to foment such jokes.
Even Irving’s sons, then little children, having been carefully coached,
used to go up to him and take his hand and call him “Papa.” On the
Gaiety stage they had about twenty doubles of all sizes and conditions—
giants, dwarfs, skinny, fat—of all kinds. At the end of the scene they
took a call—all together. It was certainly very funny.

One more funny matter there was in the doing of the play. The supper
party at Baron Montgiron’s house was supposed to be a very “toney”
affair, the male guests being the _crême de la crême_ of Parisian
society, the ladies being of the _demi-monde_; all of both classes being
persons to whom a “square” meal was no rarity. As, however, the majority
of the guests were “extras” or “supers” it was hard to curb their zeal
in matters of alimentation. When the servants used to throw open the
doors of the supper-room and announce “_Monsieur est servi!_” they would
make one wild rush and surround the table like hyenas. For their
delectation bread and sponge-cake—media which lend themselves to
sculptural efforts—and _gâteaux_ of alluring aspect were provided. The
champagne flowed in profusion—indeed in such profusion and of so
realistic an appearance that all over the house the opera-glasses used
to be levelled and speculations as to the brand and _cuvée_ arose, and a
rumour went round the press that the nightly wine bill was of colossal
dimensions. In reality the champagne provided was lemonade put up
specially in champagne bottles and foiled with exactness. It certainly
_looked_ like champagne and foamed out as the corks popped. The orgy
grew nightly in violence till at the end of a couple of weeks the
noblesse of France manifested a hunger and thirst libellous to the
Faubourg St. Germain. Irving pondered over the matter, and one day gave
orders that special food should be provided, wrought partly of
plaster-o’-Paris and partly of _papier-mâché_. He told the Property
Master to keep the matter secret. There was hardly any need for the
admonition. In a theatre a joke is a very sacred thing, and there is no
one from highest to lowest that will not go out of his way to further
it. That night, when the emaciated noblesse of France dashed at their
quarry, one and all received a sudden check. There were many
unintentional ejaculations of surprise and disappointment from the
guests, and much suppressed laughter from the stage hands who were by
this time all in the secret and watching from the wings.

After that night there was a notable improvement in the table manners of
the guests. One and all they took their food leisurely and examined it
critically. And so the succulent sponge-cake in due time reappeared;
there was no need for a second lesson against greed.

XVI
THE VALUE OF EXPERIMENT

In 1883 the Prince of Wales was very much interested in the creation and
organisation of the new College of Music, and as funds had to be
forthcoming very general efforts were made by the many who loved music
and who loved the Prince. On one occasion the Prince hinted to Irving
that it would show the interest of another and allied branch of art in
the undertaking if the dramatic artists would give a benefit for the new
College. He even suggested that _Robert Macaire_ would do excellently
for the occasion and could have an “all-star” cast. Irving was delighted
and got together a committee of actors to arrange the matter. By a
process of natural selection Irving and Toole were appointed to Macaire
and Jacques Strop.

The Prince and Princess of Wales attended at the performance. The house
was packed from floor to ceiling, and the result to the College of Music
was £1002 8_s._ 6_d._—the entire receipts, Irving himself having paid
all the expenses.

An odd mistake was made by Irving later on with regard to this affair.
In the first year of its working, when the class for dramatic study was
organised, he was asked by the directorate to examine. This he was of
course very pleased to do. In due season he made his examination and
sent in his report. Then in sequence came a letter of thanks for his
services. It was, though quite formal, a most genial and friendly
letter, and to the signature was appended “Chairman.” In acknowledging
it to Sir George Grove, the Director of the College, Irving said what a
pleasure it had been to him to examine and how pleased he would be at
all times to hold his services at the disposal of the College and so
forth. He added by way of postscript:

“By the way, who is our genial friend, Mr. Edward? I do not think I have
met him!”

He got a horrified letter sent by messenger from Sir George explaining
that the signature was that of “Albert Edward”—now His Most Gracious
Majesty Edward VII., R. et I. In his modest estimate of his own worth
Irving had not even thought that the Prince of Wales would himself
write. But the gracious act was like all the kindness and sweet courtesy
which both as Prince and King he always extended to his loyal subject
the player—Henry Irving.

_Faust_ was produced on December 19, 1885. It ran till the end of that
season, the tenth of Irving’s management; the whole of the next season,
except a few odd nights; again the latter part of the short season of
1888; and for a fourth time in the season of 1894. The production was
burned with the other plays in storage in 1898, but the play was
reproduced again in 1902.

Altogether it was performed in London five hundred and seventy-seven
times: in the provinces one hundred and twenty-eight times; and in
America eighty-seven times—in all seven hundred and ninety-two times—to
a total amount of receipts of over a quarter of a million pounds
sterling.

Irving had a profound belief in _Faust_ as a “drawing” play. He was so
sure of it that he would not allow of its being presented until it was
in his estimation ready for the public to see. This scrupulosity was a
trait in his artistic character, and therefore noticeable in his
management. When he had been with Miss Herbert at the St. James’s
Theatre he was cast for the part of Ferment in _The School of Reform_ at
short notice; he insisted on delaying the piece for three days as he
would not play without proper rehearsal. This he told me himself one
night when we were supping together at the theatre, December 7, 1880. As
_Faust_ was an exceedingly heavy production there was much opportunity
for delay. It had been Irving’s intention to produce the play very early
in the season which opened on September 5, but as the new play grew into
shape he found need for more and more care. Many of the effects were
experimental and had to be tested; and all this caused delay. As an
instance of how scientific progress can be marked even on the stage, the
use of electricity might be given. The fight between Faust and
Valentine—with Mephistopheles in his supposed invisible quality
interfering—was the first time when electric flashes were used in a
play. This effect was arranged by Colonel Gouraud, Edison’s partner, who
kindly interested himself in the matter. Twenty years ago electric
energy, in its playful aspect, was in its infancy; and the way in which
the electricity was carried so as to produce the full effects without
the possibility of danger to the combatants was then considered very
ingenious. Two iron plates were screwed upon the stage at a given
distance so that at the time of the fighting each of the swordsmen would
have his right boot on one of the plates, which represented an end of
the interrupted current. A wire was passed up the clothing of each from
the shoe to the outside of the indiarubber glove, in the palm of which
was a piece of steel. Thus when each held his sword a flash came
whenever the swords crossed.

The arrangement of the fire which burst from the table and from the
ground at command of Mephistopheles required very careful arrangement so
as to ensure accuracy at each repetition and be at the same time free
from the possibility of danger. Altogether the effects of light and
flame in _Faust_ are of necessity somewhat startling and require the
greatest care. The stage and the methods of producing flame of such
rapidity of growth and exhaustion as to render it safe to use are well
known to property masters. By powdered resin, properly and carefully
used, or by lycopodium great effects can be achieved.

There was also another difficulty to be overcome. Steam and mist are
elements of the weird and supernatural effects of an eerie play. Steam
can be produced in any quantity, given the proper appliances. But these
need care and attention, and on a stage, and below and above it, space
is so limited that it is necessary to keep the tally of hands as low as
possible. In the years that have elapsed, inspecting authorities have
become extra careful with regard to such appliances; nowadays they
require that even the steam kettle be kept outside the cartilage of the
building.

In addition to all these things—perhaps partly on account of them—the
stage manager became ill and Irving had to superintend much of the doing
of things himself. The piece we were then running, _Olivia_, however,
was comparatively light work for Irving, and as it was doing really fine
business the time could partially be spared. I say “partially,” because
prolonged rehearsals mean a fearful addition to expense, and when
rehearsals come after another play has been given the expense mounts up
in arithmetical progression. For instance, the working day of a stage
hand is eight working hours. If he be employed for longer, the next four
hours is counted as a day, and the two hours beyond that again as a
third day. All this time the real work done by the stage hands is very
little. Whilst actors or supers or ballet or chorus, or some or all of
them, are being rehearsed the men have to stand idle most of the time.
Moreover they are now and again idle _inter se_. Stage work is divided
into departments, and for each division are masters, each controlling
his own set of men. There is the Master Machinist—commonly called Master
Carpenter—the Property Master, the Gas Engineer, the Electric Engineer,
the Limelight Master. In certain ways the work of these departments
impinge on each other in a way to puzzle an outsider. Thus, when a stage
has to be covered it is the work of one set of men or the other, but not
of both. Anything in the nature of a painted cloth, such as tessellated
flooring, is scenery, and therefore the work of the carpenters; but a
carpet is a “property,” and as such to be laid down by the property
staff. A gas light or an electric light is to be arranged by the
engineer of that cult, whilst an oil lamp or a candle belongs to
properties. The traditional laws which govern these things are deep
seated in trade rights and customs, and are grave matters to interfere
with. In the production of _Faust_ much of the scenery was what is
called “built out”; that is, there are many individual pieces—each a
completed and separate item, such as a wall, a house, steps, &c. So that
in this particular play the property department had a great deal to do
with the working of what might be broadly considered scenery.

When Irving was about to do the play he made a trip to Nuremberg to see
for himself what would be most picturesque as well as suitable. When he
had seen Nuremberg and that wonderful old town near it, Rothenburg,
which was even better suited to his purpose, he sent for Hawes Craven.
That the latter benefited by his experience was shown in the wonderful
scenes which he painted for _Faust_. He seemed to give the very essence
of the place.

III

When the Emperor Frederick—then Crown Prince of Germany—came to the
Lyceum to see _Faust_, I was much struck by the way he spoke of the
great city of the Guttenbergs and Hans Sachs. He had come alone, quite
informally, from Windsor, where he was staying with Queen Victoria. As
he modestly put it in his own way when speaking to me? “The Queen was
gracious enough to let me come!” He was delighted and almost fascinated
with the play and its production and acting. I had good opportunity of
hearing his views. It was of course my duty to wait upon him, as
ceremonial custom demanded, between the acts. In each “wait” he went
into the Royal room to smoke his cigarette, and on each occasion was
gracious enough to ask me to join him. Several times he spoke of
Nuremberg with love and delight, and it seemed as if the faithful and
picturesque reproduction of it had warmed his heart. Once he said:

“I love Nuremberg. Indeed I always ask the Emperor to let me have the
autumn manœuvres in such a place that I can stay there during part of
the time they last!”

As a good instance of how on the stage things may change on trial I
think we may take the last scene of _Faust_—that where the scene of
Margaret’s prison fades away—after the exit of Faust in answer to the
imperious summons of Mephistopheles: “Hither to me.” Then comes the
vision of Margaret’s lying dead at the foot of the Cross with a long
line of descending angels. For this tableau a magnificent and elaborate
scene had been prepared by William Telbin—a rainbow scene suggestive of
Hope and Heavenly beauty. In it had been employed the whole resources of
scenic art. Indeed a new idea and mechanism had been used. The edges of
the great rainbow which circled the scene were made of a series of
stuffs so fine as to be actually almost invisible, beginning with linen,
then skrim, and finally ending up with a tissue like gold-beaters’ skin;
all these substances painted or stained with the colours of the prism in
due order. I believe Telbin would have put in the “extra violet ray” if
it had been then common property.

When, however, the scene was set, which was on the night before the
presentation of the play, Irving seemed to be dissatisfied with it. Not
with its beauty or its mechanism; but somehow it seemed to him to lack
simplicity. Still he waited till it was lit in all possible ways before
giving it over. The lighting of scenes was always Irving’s special
province; later on I shall have something to say about it. To do it
properly and create the best effect he spared neither time nor pains.
Many and many and many a night did we sit for four or five hours, when
the play of the night had been put aside and the new scene made ready,
experimenting.

On this occasion Irving said suddenly:

“Strike the scene altogether, leaving only the wings!”

This was done and the “ladder” of Angels was left stark on the empty
stage. For such a vision a capable piece of machinery has to be
provided, for it has to bear the full weight of at least a dozen women
or girls. The backbone of it is a section of steel rail which is hung
from the flies with a steel rope, to this are attached the iron arms
made safe and comfortable for the angels to be strapped each in her own
“iron.” The lower end of the ladder rests on the stage and is fastened
there securely with stage screws. The angels are all fixed in their
places before the scene begins, and when the lights are turned on they
seem to float ethereally. This ladder was of course complete with its
living burden when the lighting was essayed, for as in it the centre
figures are pure white—the strongest colour known on the stage—it would
not be possible to judge of effect without it. Again Irving spoke:

“Now put down a dark blue sky border as a backing; two if necessary to
get height enough.” This was done. He went on:

“Put sapphire mediums on the limelights from both sides so as to make
the whole back cloth a dark night blue. Now turn all the white
limelights on the angels!”

Then we saw the nobly simple effect which the actor had had in his
imagination. Never was seen so complete, so subtle, so divine a vision
on the stage. It was simply perfect, and all who saw it at once began to
applaud impulsively. After a minute Irving, turning to Telbin, who stood
beside him, said:

“I think, Telbin, if you will put in some stars—proper ones you know—in
the back cloth when you have primed it—it had better be of cobalt!”—a
very expensive paint by the way—“it will be all right. They can get a
cloth ready for you by morning.”

The device of the “ladder of angels” was of course an old one; it was
its suitable perfection in this instance that made it remarkable. For
this ladder it is advisable to get the prettiest and daintiest young
women and children possible, the point of honour being the apex. A year
before, during the run of _Henry VIII._, a box was occupied by a friend
of Irving’s whose three little girls were so beautiful that between the
acts the people on the stage kept peeping out at them. Then the Master
Carpenter asked Ellen Terry to look out from the prompt entrance. As she
did so he whispered to her:

“Oh, miss! Wouldn’t that middle one make a lovely ‘top angel’!”

Even children as well as grown-ups have their vanities. It became a
nightly duty of the Wardrobe Mistress to inspect the “ladder” when
arranged. She had to make each of the angels in turn show their hands so
that they should not wear the little rings to which they were prone.

The educational effect of _Faust_ was very great. Every edition of the
play in England was soon sold out. Important heavy volumes, such as
Anster’s, which had grown dusty on the publisher’s shelves were cleared
off in no time. New editions were published and could hardly be printed
quick enough. We knew of more than a hundred thousand copies of Goethe’s
dramatic poem being sold in the first season of its run.

One night early in the run of the play there was a mishap which might
have been very serious indeed. In the scene where Mephistopheles takes
Faust away with him after the latter had signed the contract, the two
ascended a rising slope. On this particular occasion the machinery took
Irving’s clothing and lifted him up a little. He narrowly escaped
falling into the cellar through the open trap—a fall of some fifteen
feet on to a concrete floor.

When we played _Faust_ in America, it was curious to note the different
reception accorded to it undoubtedly arising from traditional belief.

In Boston, where the old puritanical belief of a real devil still holds,
we took in one evening four thousand eight hundred and fifty-two
dollars—more than a thousand pounds—the largest dramatic house up to
then known in America. Strangely the night was that of Irving’s fiftieth
birthday. For the rest the lowest receipts out of thirteen performances
was two thousand and ten dollars. Seven were over three thousand, and
three over four thousand.

In Philadelphia, where are the descendants of the pious Quakers who
followed Penn into the wilderness, the average receipts were even
greater. Indeed at the _matinée_ on Saturday, the crowd was so vast that
the doors were carried by storm. All the seats had been sold, but in
America it was usual to sell admissions to stand at one dollar each. The
crowd of “standees,” almost entirely women, began to assemble whilst the
treasurer, who in an American theatre sells the tickets, was at his
dinner. His assistant, being without definite instructions, went on
selling till the whole seven hundred left with him were exhausted. It
was vain to try to stem the rush of these enthusiastic ladies. They
carried the outer door and the checktaker with it; and broke down by
sheer weight of numbers the great inner doors of heavy mahogany and
glass standing some eight feet high. It was impossible for the
seat-holders to get in till a whole posse of police appeared on the
scene and cleared them all out, only readmitting them when the seats had
been filled.

But in Chicago, which as a city neither fears the devil nor troubles its
head about him or all his works, the receipts were not much more than
half the other places. Not nearly so good as for the other plays of the
_répertoire_ presented.

In New York the business with the play was steady and enormous. New York
was founded by the Bible-loving righteous-living Dutch.

XVII
THE PULSE OF THE PUBLIC

In 1882 Irving purchased from Herman Merivale the entire acting rights
in his play _Edgar and Lucy_, founded on Scott’s novel _The Bride of
Lammermoor_; but it was not till eight years later that he was able to
produce it.

This delay is a fair instance of the difficulties and intricacies of
theatrical management. So many things have to be considered in the high
policy of the undertaking; so many accidental circumstances or
continuations of causes necessitate the deviation of intention; so many
new matters come over the horizon that from a long way ahead to
undertake to produce a play at a given time is almost always attended
with great risk.

_Ravenswood_ is a thoroughly sad, indeed lugubrious play, as any play
must be which adheres fairly to the lines of Scott’s tragic novel. By
the way this novel was written at Rokeby, the home of the Morritt
family, in Yorkshire. The members of that family tell a strange
circumstance relating to it. Sir Walter Scott was a close friend of the
family and often stayed there; he wrote two of his novels whilst a
guest. Whilst at Rokeby on this occasion he was in very bad health; but
all the time he worked hard and wrote the novel. When he had finished he
was laid up for a while; and when he was well he could not remember any
detail at all of his story. He could hardly believe that he had written
it.

For seven years after Irving had possession of Merivale’s play he had
thought it over. He had in his own quiet way made up his mind about it,
arranging length and way of doing the play and excogitating his own part
till he had possession of it in every way. Then one evening—November 25,
1889—he broached the subject of its definite production. The note which
I find in my diary is succinct and explanatory and comprehensive:

“Theatre 7 (P.M.) till 5 (A.M.) H.I. read for Loveday and me _Edgar
and Lucy_, Merivale’s dramatisation to his order of _The Bride of
Lammermoor_. It was delightful. Play very fine. Literature noble. H.I.
had cut quite one-half out.”

I can supplement this brief note from memory. Irving read the play with
quite extraordinary effect. He had quite a gift for this sort of work. I
heard him read through a good many plays in the course of a quarter of a
century of work together and it was always enlightening. He had a way of
conveying the _cachet_ of each character by inflection or trick of voice
or manner; and his face was always, consciously or unconsciously,
expressive. So long before as 1859, when he had read _The Lady of Lyons_
at Crosby Hall, the _Daily Telegraph_ had praised, amongst other
matters, his versatility in this respect. I have heard him read in
public in a large hall both _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, and his
characterisation was so marked that after he had read the entries of the
various characters he did not require to refer to them again by name. On
this occasion he seemed familiar with every character, and, I doubt not,
could have played any of them, so far as his equipment fitted him for
the work, within a short time. Naturally the most effective part was
that of Edgar of Ravenswood. Not only is it the most prominent part in
the cast, but it was that which he was to play himself, and to which he
had given most special attention. In it he brought out all the note of
destiny which rules in both novel and play. Manifestly Edgar is a man
foredoomed, but not till the note of doom is sounded in the weird and
deathly utterances of Ailsie Gourlay could one tell that all must end
awfully. Throughout, the tragic note was paramount. Well Edgar knew it;
the gloom that wrapped him even in the moment of triumphant love was a
birth-gift. As Irving read it that night, and as he acted it afterwards,
there was throughout an infinite and touching pathos. But not this
character alone, but all the rest were given with great and convincing
power. The very excellence of the rendering made each to help the other;
variety and juxtaposition brought the full effect. The prophecies,
because of their multiplication, became of added import on Edgar’s
gloom, and toned the high spirit of Hayston of Bucklaw. Lucy’s sweetness
was intensified by the harsh domination of Lady Ashton. The sufferings
of the faithful Caleb under the lash of Ailsie’s prophecy only increased
its force.

We who listened were delighted. For myself I seemed to see the play a
great success and one to be accomplished at little cost. We had now,
since 1885, produced in succession three great plays, _Faust_,
_Macbeth_, and _The Dead Heart_, and had in contemplation another,
_Henry VIII._, which would exceed them all in possibilities of expense
both of production and of working. These great plays were and always
must be hugely expensive. As I was chancellor of the exchequer I was
greatly delighted to see a chance of great success combined with a
reasonable cost and modest accessories. From the quiet effectiveness of
Irving’s reading I was satisfied that the play would hold good under the
less grand conditions. This opinion I still hold. I must not, however,
be taken as finding fault with Irving’s view, which was quite otherwise.
He looked on the play as one needing all the help it could get; and I am
bound to say that his views were justified by success, for the play as
he did it was an enormous success. The production account was not large
in comparison with that of some other great plays, being a little under
five thousand pounds. There were no author’s fees, as the play had long
ago been bought outright and paid for, so that expense had been incurred
and was chargeable against estate whether the play was produced or not.
But the running expenses were very heavy, between £180 and £200 a
performance. As it was, the play was a heavy one for Ellen Terry; she
could only play in it six times a week. To the management there is
always an added advantage in a _matinée_ or any extra performance.

_Ravenswood_ was presented on September 20, 1890, and altogether was
given during the season one hundred and two times.

During its run we had a strange opportunity of experiencing the
extraordinary way in which a play fluctuates with the public pulse. From
the first night it was a great success, and the booking became so great
that we were obliged to enlarge the time for the advance purchase of
seats. Our usual time was four weeks, and as a working rule it was found
well to keep to this. Where booking is not under great pressure, too
long a time means extra particularity in choice of seats, and a _de
facto_ curtailment of receipts. For _Ravenswood_ we had to advance,
first one week and then a second; so that about the end of the first
month we were booking six weeks ahead. I may say that we were _booked_
that long, for as each day’s advance sheet was opened it became quickly
filled. The agents, too, were hard at work and we were not able to allot
to any of them the full number of seats for which they asked. I have a
special reason for mentioning this, as will appear. Now at the Lyceum
from the time of my taking charge of the business we did not ever
“pencil” to agents—that is, we did not let them have seats after the
customary fashion “on sale or return.” We had, be sure, good reason for
this. Whatever seats they had they took at their own risk by week or
month, in a sort of running agreement terminable at fixed notice. When
we arrived at the fiftieth performance the play was going as strong as
ever, the receipts being on or about two thousand pounds per week.
Towards the end of the year, theatre receipts generally began to drop a
little; Christmas is coming, and many things occupy family attention;
the autumn visitors have all departed; and the fogs of November are bad
for business. We did not, therefore, give it a second thought that the
door receipts got a little less, for all the bookable seats were already
secure. On Thursday, November 20, I had an experience which set me
thinking. During that day I had visits from three of the theatre agents
having businesses in the West End and the City. They came separately and
with an unwonted secrecy. Each wished to see me alone, and being secured
from interruption, stated the reason. Each had the same request and
spoke in almost identical terms, so that the conversation of one will
illustrate all. The first one asked me:

“Will you tell me frankly—if you don’t mind—are you really doing good
business with _Ravenswood_?”

“Certainly,” I answered. “All we can do. Why you know that we can only
let you have for six weeks ahead a part of the seats you have asked for.
After some odd nervousness he said again:

“I suppose I may take it that that applies to every one you deal with? I
know I can trust you, for you always treat me frankly; and this is a
matter I am exceedingly anxious about.” For answer I rang the bell for
the commissionaire in waiting on the office and sent him round to the
box-office to bring me the booking sheets for six weeks ahead. These I
duly placed before the agent—Librarian they called them in those days,
as they were the survivors of the old lending libraries who used to
secure theatre tickets for their customers.

“See for yourself!” I said; and he turned over the sheets, every seat on
which was marked as sold.

“It is very extraordinary!” he said after a pause. By this time my own
curiosity was piqued and I asked him to tell me what it all meant.

“It means this,” he said. “Things can’t go on at this rate. We have not
sold a single ticket this week for any theatre in London!”

I opened a drawer and took out what we called the “Ushers’ Returns” for
each night that week. We used to have, as means of checking the receipts
of the house in addition to the tickets, a set of returns made by the
ushers. Each usher had a sectional chart of the seats under his charge,
and he had to show which was occupied during the evening, and which, if
any, were unoccupied. I had not gone over these as all the seats having
been sold it did not much matter to us whether they were occupied or
not. To my surprise I found that on each night, growing as the week went
on, were quite a number of seats unoccupied. On reference to the full
plan I found that most of these were seats sold to the libraries, but
that a good proportion of them had been booked at our own office.
Neither of us could account for such a thing in any way. When the next,
and then the third agent came there was a strong sense over me that
_something_ was happening in the great world. As a rule when there is
pressure in a theatre the seats belonging to agents remaining unsold can
always be disposed of in the theatre box office.

That night Irving had a little supper party of intimate friends in the
Beefsteak Room; amongst them one man, Major Ricarde-Seaver, well skilled
in the world of _haute finance_. In the course of conversation I asked
him:

“What is up? There is something going to happen! What is it?” He asked
me why I thought so, and I told him.

“That is certainly strange!” was his comment. “Then you don’t know?”

“Know what?” I asked. “What is going to happen?” His answer came after a
pause.

“You will know soon. Possibly to-morrow; certainly the next day!” The
mystery was thickening. Again I asked:

“What is it?” The answer came with a shock:

“Baring’s! They’ve gone under!”

Now any one of a speculative tendency in London, or out of it, could
have that day made a fortune by selling “bears”—and there is no lack of
sportsmen willing to make money on a “sure thing.” And yet for three
days at least there must have been in business circles some uneasiness
of so pronounced a character that it for the time obliterated social
life with many people. Had they knowledge where the public pulse lay,
and how to time its beats, they might have plucked fortune from
disaster.

In the Lyceum we became wide awake to the situation. In a time of panic
and disaster there is no need for mimetic tragedy; the real thing crowds
it out. The very next day we arranged to change the bill on the earliest
day possible. As we were booked for six weeks we arranged to change the
tragic _Ravenswood_ for _Much Ado About Nothing_—the brightest and
cheeriest comedy in our _répertoire_—on Monday, January 3.

This we did with excellent result. From the day of the failure of
Baring’s the receipts began to dwindle. The nightly return dropped from
three hundred pounds odd to two hundred pounds odd, and finally to one
hundred pounds odd. With the change to Comedy they jumped up again at
once to the tune of an extra hundred pounds a performance.

Except for some performances in the provinces in the autumn that was the
last of _Ravenswood_. There was never a chance for its revival, though
from that we might have expected much; it was burned in the fire at our
storage in 1898—of which more anon.

III

_Nance Oldfield_, as Ellen Terry plays it, is the concentration of a
five-act comedy into one act and one scene. It is a play that allows an
adequate opportunity of the gifts of the great actress. For Ellen
Terry’s gifts are of so wide a range that the mere variety of them is in
itself a gift; and the congruity of them in such a play allows them to
help each other and each to shine out all the stronger for the contrast.

Ellen Terry had long had in her mind Reade’s play as one to be given in
a single act. And now that its opportunity came over the horizon she
began to prepare it. This she did herself, I having the honour of
assisting her. That preparation was a fine lesson in dramatic
construction. Ellen Terry has not only a divine instinct for the truth
in stage art, but she is a conscious artist to her finger-tips. No one
on the stage in our time—or at any other time—has seen more clearly the
direct force of sympathy and understanding between the actor and the
audience; but at the same time she was not herself an experienced
dramatist. She knew in a general way what it was that was wanting and
what she aimed at, but she could not always give it words. During
rehearsal or during the play she would in a pause of her own stage work
come dancing into my office to ask for help. Ellen Terry’s movements,
when she was not playing a sad part, always gave one the idea of a
graceful dance. Looking back now to twenty-seven years of artistic
companionship and eternal community of ideas, I cannot realise that she
did not always actually dance. She would point to some mark which she
had made in the altered script and say:

“I want two lines there, please!”

“What kind of lines? What about?” I would ask. She would laugh as she
answered.

“I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea. You must write them!” When she
would dance back again I would read her the lines. She would laugh again
and say:

“All wrong. Absolutely wrong. They are too serious,” or “they are too
light; I should like something to convey the idea of——” and she would in
some subtle way—just as Irving did—convey the sentiment, or purpose, or
emotion which she wished conveyed. She would know without my saying it
when I had got hold of the idea and would rush off to her work quite
satisfied. And so the little play would grow and then be cut again and
grow again; till at last it was nearly complete. This last bit of it
puzzled us both for a long time. At last she conveyed her idea to me
that Alexander must not be left with a serious personal passion for Mrs.
Oldfield and that yet she should not sink in his esteem. Finally I wrote
a line which had the reward of her approbation. The actress was
explaining to Mr. Alworthy how his son did not really love her:

“It was the actress he loved and not the woman!”

In this little play, which is typical of her marvellous range of varied
excellences, she runs the whole gamut of human emotion. The part where
the great actress, wishing to disenchant her boy lover, exemplifies her
art and then turns it into ridicule, could not be adequately played by
any one not great in both tragedy and comedy. Her rendering here of
Juliet’s great speech before taking the potion: “My dismal scene I needs
must act alone,” is given with the full tragic force with which she
played the real part—when she swept the whole audience—and yet, without
the delay of a second she says to the emotional poet: “Now, that’s worth
one and ninepence to me!” It is such moments as these that put an actor
into history. Records are not troubled with mere excellence.

Happy, I say, should be the real dramatist who has the co-operation of
Ellen Terry in a play she is to appear in—of a part she is to act.

XVIII
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—I

Irving had been a friend of Tennyson before I had first met him in 1876.
When during the Bateman rule _Queen Mary_ had been produced, he had
naturally much to do with the author, and the friendship thus begun
lasted during the poet’s life. In my own young days Tennyson was a name
of something more than reverence. Not only was his work on our
tongue-tips, but the extraordinary isolation of his personal life threw
a halo of mystery over him. It is a strange thing how few of the people
of his own time—and all through his long life of such amazing worth and
popularity, had ever seen him. Naturally a man who knew him was envied
if only from this source alone. Whenever we met in early days Irving,
knowing my love and reverence for the poet, used to talk about him—
always with admiration. More than once when speaking of his personality
as distinguished from his work he said:

“Tennyson is like a great Newfoundland dog. He is like an incarnate
truth. A great creature!”

From some persons comparison with a dog might not have seemed flattery,
but to Irving a dog was the embodiment of all the virtues. Often and
often he compared the abstract dog to the abstract man, very much to the
detriment of the latter. And certainly Tennyson had all that noble
simplicity which is hard to find in sophisticated man—that simplicity
which lies in the wide field of demarcation between naked brutal truth
and an unconsciousness of self. That simplicity it is which puts man on
an altitude where lesser as well as greater natures respect him. To him
truth was a simple thing; it was to be exact. Irving told me of an
incident illustrating this. He had heard a story that not long before
Tennyson had been lunching with friends of his in his own neighbourhood
not far from Haslemere. His hostess, who was a most gracious and
charming woman whom later I had the honour to know, said to him as they
went into the dining-room:

“I have made a dish specially for you myself; I hope you will try it and
tell me exactly what you think of it.”

“Of course I shall,” he answered. After lunch she asked him what he
thought of it and he said:

“If you really wish to know, I thought it was like an old shoe!”

When they met, Irving asked him if the story were true.

“No!” he answered at once, “I didn’t say that. I said something; but it
wasn’t that it was like an old shoe!”

“What did you say?”

“I said it was like an old boot!”

With him ethical truth was not enough; exactness was a part of the
whole. I had myself an instance of his mental craving for truth on the
very last day I saw him.

Irving had a wonderful knowledge of character. I have never in my own
experience known him to err in this respect; though many and many a time
has he acted as though he trusted when he knew right well that a basis
was wanting. This was of the generosity of his nature; but be it never
so great, generosity could not obscure his reason. This was shown, even
at the time, by the bounds set to his trust; he never trusted beyond
recall, or to an amount of serious import. He had, in the course of a
lifetime spent in the exercise of his craft, which was to know men from
within, given too much thought to it not to be able from internal
knowledge to fathom the motives of others. In philosophy analysis
precedes synthesis. On one occasion there was a man with whom we had
some business dealings and who, to say the least of it, did not impress
any of us favourably. Irving was very outspoken about him, so much so
that I remonstrated, fearing lest he might let himself in for an action
for libel. I also put it that we had not sufficient data before us to
justify so harsh a view. Irving listened to me patiently and then said:

“My dear fellow, that man is a crook. I _know_ it. I have studied too
many villains not to understand!”

In another matter also Tennyson had the quality of a well-bred dog: he
was a fighter. I do not mean that he was quarrelsome or that he ever
even fought in any form. I simply mean that he had the quality of
fighting—quite a different thing from determination. In a whole group of
men of his own time Tennyson would have, to any physiognomist, stood as
a fighter. A glance at his mouth would at once enlighten any one who had
the “seeing eye.” In the group might be placed a good many men, each
prominent in his own way, and some of whom might not _primâ facie_ be
suspected of the quality. In the group, all of whom I have known or met,
might be placed Archbishop Temple, John Bright, Gladstone, Sir Richard
Burton, Sir Henry Stanley, Lord Beaconsfield, Jules Bastien Lepage,
Henry Ward Beecher, Professor Blackie, Walt Whitman, Edmund Yates. I
have selected a few from the many, leaving out altogether all classes of
warriors in whom the fighting quality might be expected.

Tennyson had at times that lifting of the upper lip which shows the
canine tooth, and which is so marked an indication of militant instinct.
Of all the men I have met the one who had this indication most marked
was Sir Richard Burton. Tennyson’s, though notable, was not nearly so
marked.

Amongst other things which Irving told me of Tennyson in those early
days was regarding the author’s own ideas of casting _Queen Mary_. He
wanted Irving to play Cardinal Pole, a part not in the play at all as
acted. One night years afterwards, January 25, 1893,, at supper in the
Garrick Club with Toole and two others, he told us the same thing. I
think the circumstance was recalled to him by the necessary excision of
another character in _Becket_.

It was my good fortune to meet Tennyson personally soon after my coming
to live in London. On the night of March 20, 1879, he being then in
London for a short stay, he came to the Lyceum to see _Hamlet_. It was
the sixty-ninth night of the run. James Knowles was with him and
introduced me. After the third act they both came round to Irving’s
dressing-room. In the course of our conversation when I saw him again at
the end of the play he said to me:

“I did not think Irving could have improved his Hamlet of five years
ago; but now he has improved it five degrees, and those five degrees
have lifted it to heaven!”

Small wonder that I was proud to hear such an opinion from such a
source.

I remember also another thing he said:

“I am seventy, and yet I don’t feel old—I wonder how it is!” I quoted as
a reason his own lines from the _Golden Year_:

“Unto him that works, and feels he works,
The same grand year is ever at the doors.”

He seemed mightily pleased and said:

“Good!”

After this meeting I had a good many opportunities of seeing Tennyson
again. Whenever he made a trip for a few days to London it was usually
my good fortune to meet him and Lady Tennyson. My wife and I lunched
with them; and their sons, Hallam and Lionel, spent Sunday evenings in
our house in Cheyne Walk. Meeting with Tennyson and his family has given
us many many happy hours in our lives, and I had the pleasure of being
the guest of the great poet both at Farringford and Aldworth. I am proud
to be able to call the present Lord Tennyson my friend. My wife and I
were lunching with the Tennysons during their stay in London when the
first copy arrived from Hubert Herkomer—now Von Herkomer—R.A., of his
fine portrait etching of the Poet Laureate. It is an excellent portrait;
but there is a look in the eye which did not altogether please the
subject.

Just before the end of the season 1879–80, Irving completed with
Tennyson an agreement to play _The Cup_. This play, which he had not
long before finished, he had offered to Irving. It had not yet been seen
by any one, and he was willing that it should not be published till
after it had been played. The play required some small alterations for
stage purposes—little things cut out here and there, and a few
explanatory words inserted at other places. Tennyson assented without
demur to any change suggested. As it has been said that Tennyson was
absolutely set as to not altering a line for the stage, let me say here,
after an experience of his two most successful plays that any such
statement was absurd. Of course he was careful of his rights. Every one
ought to be careful in such a matter, and to him there was special need.
His manuscript was so valuable that it was never safe; and in other ways
he had to be suspicious. Years afterwards he told me that one of his
poems had been sold by a critic in America with errors in it which had
been corrected.

“I hate the creature! He said he was owner of the proof!”

Perhaps it was for this reason he was so careful when a play was being
printed for stage use. He always wished his own copy returned with the
proof.

In his agreements he had a clause that the licensee should not without
his consent make any alteration in the play. This was absolutely right
and wise; it is the protection of the author. The time for arranging
changes is _before_ the agreement; then both parties to the contract
know what they are doing. In no case did Tennyson hesitate to give
Irving permission to make changes. Like the good workman that he was, he
was only too anxious to have his work at its best and highest
suitability.

Tennyson had in him all the elements of a great dramatist; but unhappily
he had little if any technical knowledge of the stage. Each art and each
branch of art has its own technique. Though a play, like any other poem,
has its birth, the means of its expression is different. A poem for
reading conveys thoughts by words alone. A poem for the stage requires
suitable opportunity for action and movement—both of individuals and
numbers. Sound and light and scene; music, colour and form; the
vibration of passion, the winning sweetness of tremulous desire, and the
overwhelming obliteration that follows in the wake of fear have all
their purpose and effect on the stage. Inasmuch as on the one hand there
is only thought, whilst on the other there is a superadded mechanism,
the two fields of poetry may be fairly taken to deal in different media.
In his later years when Tennyson began to realise in his own work the
power of glamour and stress and difficulty of the stage, he was willing
to enlist into his service the skill and experience of others. Had he
begun practical play-writing younger, or had he had any kind of
apprenticeship to or experience of stage use, he would have been a great
dramatist.

In the draft agreement was an interesting clause which Mr. (afterwards
Sir) Arnold White, Tennyson’s solicitor, and I worked out very
carefully, having regard to the rights of both parties. This was
concerning the definition of the “first run” of a play. We were quite at
one in intention and only wished to make the purpose textually correct.
Finally we made it to read as thus:

“... first run of the said play (that is to say) during such time as the
said play shall remain in the Bills of the Theatre where it is first
produced announcing its continuance either nightly or at fixed periods
without a break in such announcements.”

III

Irving was determined to do all in his power to put _The Cup_ worthily
on the stage. Accordingly much study and research in the matter began.
Galatia has ceased to exist on the map, and the period of the play is
semi-mythical. The tragedy stands midway between East and West; at a
period when the belief in the old gods was a vital force. For the work
which Tennyson and Irving undertook, learning and experience lent their
aid. James Knowles reconstructed a Temple of Artemis on the ground plan
of the great Temple of Diana. The late Alexander Murray, then Assistant
Keeper—afterwards Keeper—of the Greek section of the British Museum,
made researches amongst the older Etruscan designs. Capable artists made
drawings from vases, which were reproduced on the great amphoræ used in
the Temple service. The existing base and drum of a column from Ephesus
was remodelled for use, and lent its sculptured beauty to the general
effect. William Telbin painted some scenes worthy of Turner; and Hawes
Craven and Cuthbert made such an interior scene of the Great Temple as
was surely never seen on any stage.

By the way, regarding this there was another experience of
super-criticism. In judging the scene, and with considerable admiration
_The Architect_, I think, found fault with the proportions of the
columns supporting the Temple roof. They should have been of so many
diameters more than were given. The critic quite overlooked the
difficulty—in extremes the impossibility—of adhering to fact in fiction.
For the mechanism of the stage and for purposes of lighting it is
necessary that every stage interior have a roof of some sort. Now in
this case there was a dilemma. If the columns were of exact proportion
they would have looked skimpy in that vast edifice; and the general
architecture would have been blamed instead of the detail. As it was the
stage perspective allowed of the massive columns close to the proscenium
appearing to tower aloft in unimaginable strength, and at once conveyed
the spirit of the scene. Just as the colossal figure of Artemis far up
the stage—an image of fierce majesty wrought in green bronze—was
intended to impress all with the relentless power of the goddess.

But it was to Irving that the scene owed most of its beauty and
grandeur. Hitherto, in all pagan ceremonials on the stage—and, indeed,
in art generally—priestesses and votaries were clothed in white. But he,
not finding that there was any authority for the belief, used colours
and embroideries—Indian, Persian, Greek—all that might add conviction
and picturesque effect. Something like a hundred beautiful young women
were chosen for Vestals; and as the number of persons already employed
in _The Corsican Brothers_ was very great, the stage force available for
scenic display was immense. Irving himself devised the processions and
the ceremonies; in fact he invented a ritual. One of the strange things
about the audience all through the run of the play was the large number
of High Church clergy who attended. The effect of the entry into the
Temple of the gorgeously armoured Roman officers was peculiarly strong.

It is seldom given to man, however, to achieve full perfection. When
_The Cup_ had been running for a considerable time, Dr. Alexander
Murray, whom at first we had in vain tried to persuade, came to see it.
We were all anxious to know how the Greek-Eastern effect impressed him,
and I made it a point to see him at the end of the play. When I asked
him how he liked it he said:

“Oh, I liked it well enough at first; but when the Temple scene came it
was different. At the beginning two girls came on bearing a great
amphora; but you will hardly believe me when I tell you it had red
figures on a black ground, instead of black figures on a red ground. I
need not say that after that I could enjoy nothing!”

Both forms of using the colours were practised in the history of
Etruscan art, and our people, since the time of the play was somewhat
indeterminate, used the older one.

The dress of Ellen Terry as Camma in this scene was a difficult matter.
It had for stage purposes to be one which would stand out distinct and
apart from the rest. Dress after dress was tried, stuff after stuff was
chosen; but all without satisfaction. At length, as the opening night
drew near, she began to get seriously anxious. Finally, as a last
resource, she asked me to try and find her something. I had been
peculiarly lucky in coming across just such stuffs for dresses as she
had seemed to want. Now I went off, hot-foot, and was fortunate enough
to find, through turning over a whole stock of material at Liberty’s, an
Indian tissue of a sort of loosely woven cloth of gold, the _wrong_ side
of which produced the exact effect sought for. I may here say that a
good many of the special effects on the Lyceum stage were got by using
the inside instead of the outside of stuffs. Among them was the basis of
Irving’s dress as Shylock.

_The Cup_ was produced on the evening of January 3, 1881. It was an
immense success, and was played one hundred and twenty-seven times that
season. It was burned in the great scenery fire in 1898.

Tennyson came himself to see it for the first time on February 26, 1881.

XIX
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—II

In their conversations, after _Queen Mary_ and before _The Cup_, Irving
and Tennyson had talked of the possibility of putting on the stage some
other play of the Laureate’s. After the success of _The Cup_ had been
assured Irving was more fixed on the matter; and later on, in 1884, when
_Becket_ had been published, he considered it then and thereafter as a
possibility. He was anxious to do it if he could see his way to it. Like
Tennyson, he had a conviction that there was a play in it; but he could
not see its outline. In fact _Becket_ was not written for the stage;
and, that being so, it was for stage purposes much in the position of a
block of Carrara marble from which the statue has to be patiently hewn.
As it was first given to the world it was entirely too long for the
stage. For instance, _Hamlet_ is a play so long that it must be cut for
acting, but _Becket_ is longer still. For many reasons he was anxious to
do another play of Tennyson’s. The first had added much to his
reputation, and now the second was a huge success. He loved Tennyson—
really loved the man as well as his work—and if for this reason alone
exerted all his power to please him. Moreover as a manager he saw the
wisdom of such a move. Tennyson’s was a great name and there had been a
lot of foolish argument in journals and magazines regarding “literature”
in plays, and also concerning the national need of encouraging
contemporary dramatic literature. Rightly or wrongly the public interest
has to be considered, and Tennyson’s name was one to conjure with.
Moreover he came to depend on the picturesque possibilities of
Tennyson’s work. _The Cup_ had allowed of a splendid setting, and in
_Becket_ its picturesque aspect of the struggle between Court and Church
might be very attractive. Beyond this again there were two episodes of
the period which so belonged to the history of the nation that every
school child had them in memory: the martyrdom of Becket and the
romantic story of Fair Rosamund and her secret bower.

Irving took the main idea of the play into his heart and tried to work
it out. He kept it by him for more than a year. He took it with him to
America in the tour of 1884–5; and in the long hours of loneliness,
consequent on such work as his, made it a part of his mental labour. But
it was all without avail; he could not see his way to a successful
issue. Again he took it in hand when going to America in 1887–8; for the
conviction was still with him that the play he wanted was there, if he
could only unearth it. Again long months of effort; and again failure.
This time he practically gave up hope. He had often tried to get
Tennyson to think of other subjects, but without avail. Tennyson would
not take any subject in hand unless he felt it and could see his way to
it. Now Irving tried to interest him afresh in some of his other themes.
He wished him to undertake a play on the subject of Dante. Tennyson
considered the matter a while and then made a memorable reply:

“A fine subject! But where is the Dante to write it?”

Again Irving asked him to do Enoch Arden; but he said that having
written the poem he would rather not deal with the same subject a second
time in a different way.

Then he tried King Arthur; but again Tennyson applied the same reasoning
with the same result.

At last he suggested as a subject, Robin Hood. Tennyson did not
acquiesce, but he said he would think it over. I remember that Irving,
hoping to interest him further in the matter, got all the books treating
of the subject; all the stories and plays which he could hear of. He had
hopes that the romantic side of the outlaw’s life would touch the poet.
In fact Tennyson did write a play, _The Foresters_, which has been
successful in America.

In the autumn of 1890, in response to a kindly invitation, Irving
visited Aldworth, the lovely home which Tennyson made for himself under
the brow of Blackdown. It was nine years since the two men had had
opportunity for a real talk. Sunday, October 19, was fixed for the
visit. I was invited to lunch also, and needless to say I looked forward
to the visit, for it was to be the first opportunity I should have of
seeing Tennyson in his own home.

On the Sunday morning Irving and I made an early start, leaving Victoria
Station by the train at 8.45 and arriving at Haslemere a little after
half-past ten. Blackdown is just under mountain height—one thousand
feet; but it is high enough and steep enough to test the lungs and
muscles of man or beast. It was a typically fine day in autumn. The air
was dry and cold and bracing, after a slight frost whose traces the
bright sun had not yet obliterated. All was bright and clear around us,
but the hills in the distance were misty.

Aldworth is a wonderful spot. Tennyson chose it himself with a rare
discretion. It is, I suppose, the most naturally isolated place within a
hundred miles of London. Doubtless this was an element in his choice,
for he is said to have had a sickening of publicity at his other home,
“Farringford,” at Freshwater in the Isle of Wight. The house lies just
under the brow of the hill to the east and faces south. This side of the
hill is very steep, and now that the trees which he planted have grown
tall the house cannot be seen from anywhere above. It is necessary to go
miles away to get a glimpse of it from below. When he bought the ground
it was all mountain moorland and he had to make his own roads. The house
is of stone with fine mullioned windows, and the spaces everywhere are
gracious. In front, which faces south, is a small lawn bounded by a
stone parapet with a quickset hedge below and just showing above the top
of the stonework. From here you look over Sussex right away to Goodwood
and the bare Downs above Brighton. A glorious expanse of country
articulated with river and wood and field of seeming toy dimensions. It
would, I think, be impossible to find a more ideal place for quiet work.
From it the howling, pushing, strenuous world is absolutely shut out;
the mind can work untrammelled, fancy free. To the west lies a beautiful
garden fashioned into pleasant nooks and winding alleys, with
flower-starred walks, and bowers of roses, and spreading shrubs. Behind
it rise some fine forest trees. The garden trends some way down the
hillside, opening to seas of bracken and the dim shelter of pine woods.
In the fringes these woods in due season are filled with a natural
growth of purple foxglove, the finest I have ever seen. Just below where
the garden ends is a level nook, a corner between shelving lines of
tree-clad hill where a tiny stream flows from a vigorous bubbling well.
Just such a nook as Old Crome or Nasmyth would have loved to paint.

[Illustration:

_Photo Dickinsons_

HENRY IRVING AS CHARLES I.
]

Hallam Tennyson met us at the door. When we entered the wide hall, one
of the noticeable things was quite a number of the picturesque
wide-brimmed felt hats which Tennyson always wore. I could not but
notice them, for a certain similarity struck me. In the house of Walt
Whitman at Camden, New Jersey, was just such a collection of hats;
except that Walt Whitman’s hats—he being paralysed and not naturally
careful of his appearance at that time of life—were worn out. Walt only
got a new hat when the old one was badly worn. But he did not part with
the old ones even then.

After a short visit to Lady Tennyson in the drawing-room we were brought
upstairs to Tennyson’s study, a great room over the drawing-room, with
mullioned windows facing south and west. We entered from behind a great
eight-fold screen some seven or eight feet high. In the room were many
tall bookcases. The mullioned windows let in a flood of light. Tennyson
was sitting at a table in the western window writing in a book of
copybook size with black cover. His writing was very firm. He had on a
black skull-cap. As we entered he held up his hand saying:

“Just one minute if you don’t mind. I am almost finished!” When he had
done he threw down his pen and rising quickly came towards us with
open-handed welcome.

I went with Hallam to his own study, leaving Irving alone with Tennyson.
Half an hour later we joined them and we all went out for a walk. In the
garden Tennyson pointed out to us some blue flowering pea which had been
reared from seed found in the hand of a mummy. He stooped a little as he
walked; he was then eighty-two, but seemed strong and was very cheerful—
sometimes even merry. With us came his great Russian wolf-hound which
seemed devoted to him. We walked through the grounds and woods for some
three miles altogether, Hallam and Irving walking in front. As I walked
with Tennyson we had much conversation, every word of which comes back
to me. I was so fond of him and admired him so much that I could not, I
think, forget if I tried anything which he said. Amongst other things he
mentioned a little incident at Farringford, when in his own grounds an
effusive lady, a stranger, said at rather than to him, of course
alluding to the berries of the wild rose, then in profusion:

“What beautiful hips!”

“I’m so glad you admire ’em, ma’am!” he had answered, and he laughed
heartily at the memory. I mention this as an instance of his love of
humour. He had intense enjoyment of it.

He also mentioned an error made by the writer of _Tennyson Land_ of a
dog which in Demet Vale saved the child of an old local farmer.

“It’s a lie,” he said, “I invented it all; though there was such a
character when I was a boy. When he was dying he said:

“‘Th’ A’mighty couldn’t be so hard. An’ Squire would be so mad an’ a’!’”
He said it in broad Lincolnshire dialect such as he used in _The
Northern Farmer_. Tennyson was a natural character-actor; when he read
or spoke in dialect he conveyed in voice and manner a distinct
impression of an individual other than himself.

Then he told me some Irish anecdotes generally bearing on that quality
in the Irish nature which renders them unsatisfied. He suggested a
parody of a double row of shillelaghs working automatically on each side
“and then they would be unsatisfied!” At another time he spoke to me in
the same vein.

Then I told him some Irish dialect stories which were new to him and
which really seemed to give him pleasure. I told him also some of the
extravagant Orange toasts of former days whereat he laughed much. Then
turning to me he said:

“When we go in I want to read you something which I have just finished;
but you must not say anything about it yet!”

“All right!” I said, “of course I shall not. But why, may I ask, do you
wish it so?”

“Well, you see,” he said, “I have to be careful. If it is known that I
am writing on a particular subject I get a dozen poems on it the next
day. And then when mine comes out they say I plagiarised them!”

In the course of our conversation something cropped up which suggested a
line of one of his poems, _The Golden Year_, and I quoted it. “Go on!”
said Tennyson, who seemed to like to know that any one quoting him knew
more than the bare quotation. I happened to know that poem and went on
to the end of the lyrical portion. There I stopped:

“Go on!” he said again; so I spoke the narrative bit at the end,
supposed to be spoken by the writer:

“He spoke; and, high above, I heard them blast
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap
And buffet round the hills, from bluff to bluff.”

Tennyson listened attentively. When I spoke the last line he shook his
head and said:

“No!”

“Surely that is correct?” I said.

“No!” There was in this something which I did not understand, for I was
certain that I had given the words correctly. So I ventured to say:

“Of course one must not contradict an author about his own work; but I
am certain those are the words in my edition of the poem.” He answered
quickly:

“Oh, the words are all right—quite correct!”

“Then what is wrong?” For answer he said:

“Have you ever been on a Welsh mountain?”

“Yes! on Snowdon!”

“Did you hear them blast a slate-quarry?”

“Yes. In Wales, and also on Coniston in Lancashire.”

“And did you notice the sound?” I was altogether at fault and said:

“Won’t you tell me—explain to me. I really want to understand?”
Accordingly he spoke the last line; and further explanation was
unnecessary. The whole gist was in his pronunciation of the word “bluff”
twice repeated. He spoke the word with a sort of quick propulsive effort
as though throwing the word from his mouth.

“I thought any one would understand that!” he added.

It was the exact muffled sound which the exploding charge makes in the
curves of the steep valleys.

This is a good instance of Tennyson’s wonderful power of onomatopœia. To
him the sound had a sense of its own. I had another instance of it
before the day was over.

That talk was full of very interesting memories. Perhaps it was apropos
of the peas grown from the seed in the mummy hand, but Lazarus in his
tomb came on the _tapis_. This stanza of _In Memoriam_ had always been a
favourite of mine, and when I told him so, he said:

“Repeat it!” I did so, again feeling as if I were being weighed up. When
I had finished:

“He told it not; or something seal’d
The lips of that Evangelist:”

he turned to me and said:

“Do you know that when that was published they said I was scoffing.
But”—here both face and voice grew very very grave—“I did not mean to
scoff!”

When I told him of my wonder as to how any sane person could have taken
such an idea from such a faithful, tender, understanding poem he went on
to speak of faith and the need of faith. There was, speaking generally,
nothing strange or original to rest in my mind. But his finishing
sentence I shall never forget. Indeed had I forgotten for the time I
should have remembered it from what he said the last interview I had
with him just before his death:

“You know I don’t believe in an eternal hell, with an All-merciful God.
I believe in the All-merciful God! It would be better otherwise that men
should believe they are only ephemera!”

When we returned to the house we lunched, Lady Tennyson and Mrs. Hallam
Tennyson having joined us. Then we went up again to the study, and
Tennyson, taking from the table the book in which he had been writing,
read us the last-written poem, _The Churchwarden and the Curate_. He
read it in the Lincolnshire dialect, which is much simpler when heard
than read. The broadness of the vowels and their rustic prolongation,
rather than drawl, adds force and also humour. I shall never forget the
intense effect of the last lines of the tenth stanza. The shrewd worldly
wisdom—which was plain sincerity of understanding without cynicism:

“But niver not speäk plaain out, if tha wants to git forrards a bit,
But creeäp along the hedge-bottoms, an’ thou’ll be a Bishop yit.”

Tennyson was a strangely good reader. His voice was powerful and
vibrant, and had that quality of individualism which is so convincing.
You could not possibly mistake it for the voice of any one else. It was
a potent part of the man’s identity. In his reading there was a
wonderful sense of time. The lines seem to swing with an elastic step—
like a regiment marching.

In a little time after came his hour for midday rest; so we said
good-bye and left him. Irving and I went for a smoke to Hallam’s study,
where he produced his phonograph and adjusted a cylinder containing a
reading of his father’s. Colonel Gouraud had taken special pains to have
for the reception of Tennyson’s voice the most perfect appliance
possible, and the phonograph was one of peculiar excellence, without any
of that tinny sharpness which so often changes the intentioned sound.

The reading was that of Tennyson’s own poem, _The Charge of the Heavy
Brigade_. It was strange to hear the mechanical repetition whilst the
sound of the real voice, which we had so lately heard, was still ringing
in our ears. It was hard to believe that we were not listening to the
poet once again. The poem of Scarlett’s charge is one of special
excellence for phonographic recital, and also as an illustration of
Tennyson’s remarkable sense of time. One seems to hear the rhythmic
thunder of the horses’ hoofs as they ride to the attack. The ground
seems to shake, and the virile voice of the reader conveys in added
volume the desperate valour of the charge.

With Hallam we sat awhile and talked. Then we came away and drove to
Godalming, there to catch our train for London. The afternoon sun was
bright and warm, though the air was bracing; and even as we drove
through the beautiful scene Irving’s eyes closed and he took his
afternoon doze after his usual fashion.

I think this visit fanned afresh Irving’s wish to play _Becket_. I do
not know what he and Tennyson spoke of—he never happened to mention it
to me; but he began from thence to speak of the play at odd times.

III

That season was a busy one, as we had taken off _Ravenswood_ and played
_répertoire_. That autumn there was a provincial tour. The 1891 season
saw _Henry VIII._ run from the beginning of the year. The long run, with
only six performances a week, gave some leisure for study; and Irving
once more took _Becket_ in hand. I think that again the character he was
playing had its influence on him. He was tuned to sacerdotalism; and the
robes of a churchman sat easy on him. There was a sufficient difference
between Wolsey—the chancellor who happened to be a cleric, and Becket—
who was cleric before all things—to obviate the danger of too exact a
repetition of character and situation. At all events Irving reasoned it
out in his usual quiet way, and did not speak till he was ready. It was
during the customary holiday in Holy Week in 1892 that he finally made
up his mind. I had been spending the vacation in Cornwall, at Boscastle,
a lovely spot which I had hit upon by accident. Incidentally I so fell
in love with the place and gave such a glowing account of it that
Irving, later on, spent two vacations at it. I came up to London on the
night of Good Friday in a blinding snowstorm, the ground white from the
Cornish sea to London. Irving had evidently been waiting, for as soon as
we met in the theatre about noon on Saturday he asked me if I could stop
and take supper in the theatre. I said I could, and he made the same
request to Loveday. After the play we had supper in the Beefsteak Room;
and when we had lit our cigars, he opened a great packet of foolscap and
took out _Becket_ as he had arranged it. He had taken two copies of the
book, and when he had marked the cuts in duplicate he had cut out neatly
all the deleted scenes and passages. He had used two copies as he had to
paste down the leaves on the sheets of foolscap. He had prepared the
play in this way so that any one reading it would not see as he went
along what had been cut out. Thus such a reader would be better able to
follow the action as it had been arranged, unprejudiced by obvious
alteration, and with a mind single of thought—for it would not be
following the deleted matter as well as that remaining. He knew also
that it would be more pleasant to Tennyson to read what he had written
without seeing a great mass cut out. _Becket_ as written is enormously
long; the adapted play is only about five-sevenths of the original
length. Before he began to read he said:

“I think I have got it at last!”

His reading was of its usual fine and enlightening quality; as he read
it the story became a fascination. There was no doubting how the part of
Becket appealed to him. He was greatly moved at some of the passages,
especially in the last act.

Loveday and I were delighted with the play. And when the reading was
finished, we, then and there, agreed that it should be the next play
produced after _King Lear_, which was then in hand, and which had been
arranged to come on in the autumn of that year.

We sat that night until four o’clock, talking over the play and the
music for it. Irving thought that Charles Villiers Stanford would be the
best man to do it. We quite agreed with him. When he saw that we were
taken with it, equally as himself, he became more expansive regarding
the play. He said it was a true “miracle” play—a holy theme; and that he
had felt already in studying it that it made him a better man.

Before we parted I had by his wish written to Hallam Tennyson at
Freshwater asking him if he could see me on business if I came down to
the Isle of Wight. I mentioned also Irving’s wish that it might be as
soon as possible.

Hallam Tennyson telegraphed up on Monday, after he had received my
letter, saying that I would be expected the next day, April 19—Easter
Tuesday, 1892.

In the meantime, I had read both the original play and the acting
version, and was fairly familiar with the latter.

XX
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—III

I went down by the 10.30 train from Victoria and got to Freshwater about
four o’clock. Hallam was attending a meeting of the County Council but
came in about five. He and I went carefully over the suggested changes,
in whose wisdom he seemed to acquiesce. We arranged provisionally
royalties and such matters, as Irving had wished to acquire for a term
of years the whole rights of the play for both Britain and America. We
were absolutely at one on all points.

At a little before six he took me to see his father, who was lying on a
sofa in his study. The study was a fine room with big windows. Tennyson
was a little fretful at first, as he was ill with a really bad cold; but
he was very interested in my message and cheered up at once. At the
beginning I asked if he would allow Irving to alter _Becket_, so far as
cutting it as he thought necessary. He answered at once:

“Irving may do whatever he pleases with it!”

“In that case, Lord Tennyson,” said I, “Irving will do the play within a
year!”

He seemed greatly gratified, and for a long time we sat chatting over
the suggested changes, he turning the manuscript over and making a
running commentary as he went along. He knew well where the cuts were;
he knew every word of the play, and needed no reference to the fuller
text.

When he came to the end of the scene in Northampton Castle, I put before
him Irving’s suggestion that he should, if he thought well of it,
introduce a speech—or rather amplify the idea conveyed in the shout of
the kneeling crowd: “Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord!”
In our discussion of the play on the night of the reading we had all
agreed that something was here wanting—something which would, from a
dramatic point of view, strengthen Becket’s position. If he could have
the heart of the people behind him it would manifestly give him a firmer
foothold in his struggle with the King. Naturally there was an opening
for an impassioned voicing of the old cry, “_Vox populi, vox Dei_.” When
I ventured to suggest this he said in a doubting way:

“But where am I to get such a speech?”

As we sat we were sheltered by the Downs from the sea which thunders
night and day under one of the highest cliffs in England. I pointed out
towards the Downs and said:

“There it is! In the roar of the sea!” The idea was evidently already in
his mind; and when he sent up to Irving a few days later the new
material the mighty sound of the surge and the blast were in his words.

When Tennyson had run roughly through the altered play, he seemed much
better and brighter. He put the play aside and talked of other things.
In the course of conversation he mentioned the subject of anonymous
letters from which he had suffered. He said that one man had been
writing such to him for forty-two years. He also spoke of the
unscrupulous or careless way in which some writers for the press had
treated him. That even Sir Edwin Arnold had written an interview without
his knowledge or consent, and that it was full of lies—Tennyson never
hesitated to use the word when he felt it—such as: “‘Here I parted from
General Gordon!’ And that I had ‘sent a man on horseback after him.’
General Gordon was never in the place!” This subject both in general and
special he alluded to also at our last meeting in 1892; it seemed to
have taken a hold on his memory.

He also said:

“Irving paid me a great compliment when he said that I would have made a
fine actor!”

In the morning, Hallam and I walked in the garden before breakfast.
Farringford is an old feudal farm, and some of the trees are
magnificent—ilex, pine, cedar; primrose and wild parsley everywhere, and
underneath a great cedar a wilderness of trailing ivy. The garden gave
me the idea that all the wild growth had been protected by a loving
hand.

After breakfast Hallam and I walked in the beautiful wood behind the
house, where beyond the hedgerows and the little wood rose the great
bare rolling Down, at the back of which is a great sheer cliff five
hundred feet high. We sat in the summer-house where Tennyson had written
nearly all of _Enoch Arden_. It had been lined with wood, which Alfred
Tennyson himself had carved; but now the bare bricks were visible in
places. The egregious relic hunters had whittled away piecemeal the
carved wood. They had also smashed the windows, which Tennyson had
painted with sea-plants and dragons; and had carried off the pieces!
When we returned I was brought up to Tennyson’s room.

He was not feeling well. He sat in a great chair with the cut play on
his knee, one finger between the pages as though to mark a place. He had
been studying the alterations; and as he did not look happy, I feared
that there might be something not satisfactory with regard to some of
the cuts. Presently he said to me suddenly:

“Who is God, the Virgin?”

“Who is _what_?” I asked, bewildered as to his meaning; I feared I could
not have heard aright.

“God, the Virgin! That is what I want to know too. Here it is!”

“As he spoke he opened the play where his finger marked it. He handed it
to me and there to my astonishment I read:

“I do commend my soul to God, the Virgin....”

When Irving had been cutting the speech he had omitted to draw his
pencil through the last two words. The speech as written ran thus:

“I do commend my soul to God, the Virgin,
St. Denis of France, and St. Alphege of England,
And all the tutelary saints of Canterbury.”

In doing the scissors-work he had been guided by the pencil-marks, and
so had made the error.

The incident amused Tennyson very much, and put him in better spirits.
We went downstairs into what in the house is called the “ballroom,” a
great sunny room with the wall away from the light covered with a great
painting by Lear of a tropical scene intended for _Enoch Arden_. Here we
walked up and down for a long time, the old man leaning on my arm. He
told me that he had often thought of making a collection of the hundred
best stories.

“Tell me some of them?” I asked softly. Whereupon he told me quite a
number, all excellent. Such as the following:

“A noble at the Court of Louis XVI. was extremely like the King, who
on it being pointed out to him, sent for him and asked him:

“‘Was your mother ever at Court?’ Bowing low he replied:

“‘No, sire! But my father was!’”

Again:

“Colonel Jack Towers was a great crony of the Prince Regent. He was
with his regiment at Portsmouth on one occasion; and was in Command of
the Guard of Honour when the Prince was crossing to the Isle of Wight.
The Prince had not thought of his being there, and was surprised when
he saw him. After his usual manner he began to banter:

“‘Why, Jack, they tell me you are the biggest blackguard in
Portsmouth!’ To which the other replied, bowing low:

“‘I trust that your Royal Highness has not come down here to take away
my character!’”

Again:

“Silly Billy—the sobriquet of the Duke of Gloucester—said to a friend:

“‘You are as near a fool as you can be!’ He too bowed as he answered:

“‘Far be it from me to contradict your Royal Highness!’”

III

That evening at dinner Tennyson was, though far from well in health,
exceedingly bright in his talk. To me he seemed to love an argument and
supported his side with an intellectual vigour and quickness which were
delightful. He was full of insight into Irish character. He asked me if
I had read his poem, _The Voyage of Maeldune_; and when I told him I had
not yet read it he described it and repeated verses. How the Irish had
sailed to island after island, finding in turn all they had longed for,
from fighting to luscious fruit, but were never satisfied and came back,
fewer in numbers, to their own island. In the drawing-room he said to
me, as if the idea had struck him, I daresay from something I said:

“Are you Irish?” When I told him I was he said very sweetly:

“You must forgive me. If I had known that I would not have said anything
that seemed to belittle Ireland.”

He went to bed early after his usual custom.

That evening in the course of conversation the name of John Fiske the
historian, and sometime a professor of Yale University, came up. To my
great pleasure, for Fiske had been a close friend of mine for nearly ten
years, Tennyson spoke of him in the most enthusiastic way. He asked me
if I knew his work. And when I replied that I knew well not only the
work but the man, he answered:

“You know him! Then when you next meet him will you tell John Fiske from
me that I thank him—thank him most heartily and truly—for all the
pleasure and profit his work has been to me!”

“I shall write to him to-morrow!” I said. “I know it will be a delight
to him to have such a message from you!”

“No!” said Tennyson, “Don’t write! Wait till you see him, and then tell
him—direct from me through you—how much I feel indebted to him!”

I did not meet John Fiske till 1895. When the message was delivered it
was from the dead.

On the next morning I saw Tennyson again in his bedroom after early
breakfast. He looked very unwell, and was in low spirits. Indeed he
seemed too dispirited to light his pipe, which he held ready in his
hand. He said that he had not yet got the lines he wanted: “The Voice of
the People is the Voice of God”—or: “The Voice of the People is the
Voice of England!” I think that he had been over the altered text again
and that some of the cutting had worried him. Before I came away after
saying good-bye he said suddenly, as if he had all at once made up his
mind to speak:

“I suppose he couldn’t spare me Walter Map?”

Walter Map was a favourite character of his in the original _Becket_. He
it is who represents scholarly humour in the play.

When I told Irving about this he was much touched, and said that he
would go over the play again, and would, if he possibly could see his
way to it, retain the character. He spent many days over it; but at last
came to the conclusion that it would not do.

At this last meeting—at that visit—when I asked Tennyson what composer
he would wish to do the music for his play he said:

“Villiers Stanford!” He and Irving had independently chosen the same
man. How this belief was justified is known to all who have heard the
fine _Becket_ music.

On September 25 the same year, 1892, my wife and I spent the day with
Lord and Lady Tennyson at Aldworth. We were to have gone a week earlier,
but as Tennyson was not well the visit was postponed. We left Waterloo
by the 8.45 train. At the station we were joined by Walter Leaf, the
Homer scholar, who had been at Cambridge with Hallam. We had met him at
Lionel Tennyson’s years before. The day was dull but the country looked
very lovely; still full of green, though the leaves were here and there
beginning to turn. The Indian vines were scarlet. A carriage was waiting
and we drove to Aldworth, meeting Mrs. Tennyson on her way to church. On
Blackdown Common the leaves were browner than in the valley, and there
was a sense of autumn in the air; but round the house, where it was
sheltered, green still reigned alone. Far below us the plain was a sea
of green, with dark lines of trees and hedgerows like waves. In the
distance the fields were wreathed with a dark film—a sapphire mystery.

We sat awhile with Lady Tennyson, who was in the drawing-room on a sofa
away from the light. She had long been an invalid. She was perhaps the
most sweet and saintly woman I ever met, and had a wonderful memory. She
had been helper and secretary to her husband in early days, trying to
save him all the labour she could; and she told us of the enormous
correspondence of even that early time. Presently Hallam took us all up
to his father, who was in his study overhead.

The room was well guarded against cold, for we had to pass from the door
all along one side of it through a laneway made between the bookcases
and the high manifold screen. Tennyson was sitting on a sofa with his
back to the big mullioned window which looked out to the south. He had
on a black skull-cap, his long thin dark hair falling from under it. He
seemed very feeble, a good deal changed in that way during the five
months that had elapsed since I had seen him. His fine brown nervous
hands lay on his lap. Irving had the finest and most expressive hands I
have ever seen; Tennyson’s were something like them, only bigger. When
he began to talk he brightened up. Amongst other things he spoke of the
error in the alteration of _Becket_, “God the Virgin.” We did not stay
very long, as manifestly quietude was best for him, and no one else but
ourselves was allowed to see him that day. Presently we all went for a
walk, Mrs. Allingham, the painter, who was an old and close friend of
the Tennysons, joining us. As we went out we had a glimpse from the
terrace of Tennyson reading; part of his book and the top of his head
were visible. At that time the lawn presented a peculiar appearance.
There had come a sort of visitation of slugs, and the grass was all
brown in patches where paraffin had been poured on it.

After lunch Hallam brought Walter Leaf and me up to the study again.
Tennyson had changed his place and now sat on another sofa placed in the
north-west corner of the room. He was much brighter and stronger and
full of intellectual fire. He talked of Homer with Walter Leaf, and in a
fine deep voice recited, in the Greek, whole passages—of the sea and the
dawn rising from it. He spoke of Homeric song as “the grandest sounds
that can be of the human voice.” He spoke very warmly of Leaf’s book,
and said he would have been proud to have been quoted in it. He
ridiculed the idea of any one holding that there had been no such person
as Homer. He thought Ilium was a “fancy” town—the invention of Homer’s
own imagination. Doubts of Homer brought up doubts as to Shakespeare,
and the Bacon and Shakespeare controversy which was then raging. He
ridiculed the idea:

“What ridiculous stuff!” he said. “Fancy that greatest of all
love-poems, _Romeo and Juliet_, written by a man who wrote: ‘Great
spirits and great business do keep out this weak passion!’” (From
Bacon’s Essay on _Love_.)

I told him the story which I had heard General Horace Porter—the
Ambassador of the United States to France—tell long before. It may be an
old story but I venture to tell it again:

“In a hotel ‘out West’ a lot of men in the bar-room were discussing
the Shakespeare and Bacon question. They got greatly excited and
presently a lot of them had their guns out. Some one interfered and
suggested that the matter should be left to arbitration. The
arbitrator selected was an Irishman, who had all the time sat quiet
smoking and not saying a word—which circumstance probably suggested
his suitability for the office. When he had heard the arguments on
both sides formally stated, he gave his decision:

“‘Well, Gintlemin, me decision is this: Thim plays was not wrote be
Shakespeare! But they was wrote be a man iv the saame naame!’”

Tennyson seemed delighted with the story.

Then he spoke of Shakespeare, commenting on _Henry VIII._, which had
been running all the year at the Lyceum. He mentioned Wolsey’s speech,
speaking the lines:

“Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.”

Then he added in a very pronounced way:

“Shakespeare never wrote that! I know it! I know it! I know it!” As he
spoke he smote hard upon the table beside him.

After a long chat we left Tennyson to have his afternoon nap, and smoked
in the summer-house. Then we walked to the south-west edge of Blackdown.
The afternoon was very clear and we could see the hills of the Isle of
Wight, which Hallam said he had never before seen from there.

VII

After tea Hallam took Leaf and me again to his father. After a while we
were joined there by Mrs. Tennyson and my wife. Tennyson was then very
feeble, but cheerful. He told us a lot of stories and incidents—his
humour and memory were quick in him that evening.

One was of the landlord of a hotel at Stirling. He had, during a trip in
Scotland, telegraphed to the hotel to have rooms kept. When he arrived
he was delighted with them. They were on the first floor, airy and
spacious, and in all ways desirable. He felt pleased at being treated
with such consideration. After dinner he was sitting by the open window
smoking his pipe when he heard a conversation going on below. One of the
speakers was the landlord, the other a stranger. Said the latter:

“I hear you have Tennyson staying with you to-night?”

“Aye! That’s the man’s name. He telegraphed the day for rooms. Do ye ken
him?”

“Know him! Why that’s Alfred Tennyson, the poet!”

“The poet! I’m wishin’ I had kent that!”

“Why?” asked the stranger. After a pause the answer came:

“He a poet! I’d ha’ seen him dommed before I had gied him ma best
rooms!”

As he was reminiscent that night his anecdotes were mostly personal.
Another was of a man of the lower class in the Isle of Wight, who spoke
of him in early days:

“He, a great man! Why ’e only keeps one man-servant—an’ ’e don’t sleep
in th’ ’ouse!”

Another was of a workman who was heard to say:

“Shakespeare an’ Tennyson! Well, I don’t think nothin’ of neither on
’em!”

Another was of a Grimsby fishmonger, who said when asked by an
acquisitive autograph hunter if he happened to have any letters from
Tennyson:

“No! His son writes ’em. He still keeps on the business; but he ain’t a
patch on his fayther!”

Tennyson was sitting on the sofa as he had been in the morning. For all
his brightness and his humour, which seemed to bubble in him, he was
very feeble and seemed to be suffering a good deal. He moaned now and
then with pain. Gout was flying through his knees and jaws. He had then
on his black skull-cap, but he presently took it off as though it were
irksome to him. In front of him was a little table with one wax candle
lighted. It was of that pattern which has vertical holes through it to
let the overflow of melted wax fall within, not without. When the fire
of pleasant memory began to flicker, he grew feeble and low in spirits.
He spoke of the coming spring and that he would not live to see it.
Somehow he grew lower in spirits as the light died away and the twilight
deepened, as if the whole man was tuned to nature’s key. Through the
window we could note the changes as evening drew nearer. The rabbits
were stealing out on the lawn, and the birds picking up grubs in the
grass.

Once again Tennyson seemed troubled about the press, and was bitter
against certain newspaper prying. He could not get free from it. It had
been found out during his illness that the beggar-man who came daily for
the broken meat was getting ten shillings a week from a local reporter
to come and tell him the gossip of the kitchen. Turning to me he said:

“Don’t let them know how ill I am, or they’ll have me buried before
twenty-four hours!” Then after a while he added:

“Can’t they all let me alone. What did they want digging up the graves
of my father and mother and my grandfather and grandmother. I sometimes
wish I had never written a line!” I said:

“Ah, don’t say that! Don’t think it! You have given delight to too many
millions, and your words have done too much good for you to wish to take
them back. And the good and the pleasure are to go on for all the
future.” After a moment’s thought he said very softly:

“Well, perhaps you’re right! But can’t they leave me alone!”

We were all very still and silent for a while. The lessening twilight
and the moveless flame of the close-set candle showed out his noble face
and splendid head in full relief. The mullioned window behind him with
the darkening sky and the fading landscape made a fitting background to
the dying poet. We said good-bye with full hearts.

Outside, our tears fell. We knew that we should see him no more; we had
said good-bye for ever!

XXI
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—IV

Tennyson died on Thursday, October 6, eleven days after we had seen him.
Two others only saw him after we did—with of course the exception of his
own family—Mr. Craik, of Messrs. Macmillan, his publishers, and Dr.
Dabbs, of the Isle of Wight, his physician.

Before he died he spoke of May—the spring seemed to be for him a time
which the Lords of Life and Death would not allow him to pass. It had
too some connection in his mind with his play _The Promise of May_. He
said to Dr. Dabbs, who wrote to me about it afterwards:

“I suppose I shall never see _Becket_?”

“I fear not!”

“Ah!” After a long pause he said again: “They did not do me justice with
_The Promise of May_—but——” another long pause and then half fiercely:

“I can trust Irving—he will do me justice!”

Tennyson was buried in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey on October
12. There was a great crowd both in the Abbey and the streets without.
All were still, hushed and solemn. The sense of great loss was over all.
Very solemn and impressive was the service. There was gloom in the great
Cathedral, and the lights were misty. Everywhere the strong odour of
many flowers. A body of distinguished men of letters, science and art
followed the coffin, coming behind his family. Amongst them Henry
Irving, looking as usual, wherever he was, the most distinguished of
all. On that sad day, Tennyson’s poem, _Crossing the Bar_, was sung.
Then his last poem, _The Silent Voices_. The exquisite music written for
this by Lady Tennyson and arranged by Sir John Frederick Bridge was
heard for the first time. The noble words ringing through the great
Cathedral seemed like a solemn epitome of the teaching of the poet’s
life. Six years afterwards I heard Irving speak them in the crowded
Senate House at Cambridge with that fervour which seemed a part of his
very life. Now, from that Poet’s Corner where they both rest I seem to
hear the voices of the two great souls in unison, calling to the great
Humanity which each in his own way loved and which was so deep in the
hearts of both:

“Call me rather, silent voices,
Forward to the starry track
Glimmering up the heights beyond me
On, and always on!”

_Becket_, having been in preparation since the end of September, was
ready to take its place after the run of _King Lear_. The first dress
rehearsal was held on the evening of February 3, 1893, beginning at 6.30
and lasting till one o’clock. It was an excellent rehearsal and all went
well. The play was produced three nights later, February 6, 1893—
Irving’s fifty-fifth birthday—and was a really enormous success. The
public, who had been waiting since early morning at the pit and gallery,
could not contain themselves; and even the more staid portions of the
house lost their reserve. It was like one huge personal triumph. No one
seemed to compare the play or the character to anything seen before. Not
even to _Henry VIII._ and Cardinal Wolsey, which had held the stage for
eight months the previous year.

_Becket_ was played one hundred and twelve times that season. The entire
scenery was burned in the disastrous fire of 1898. There was a new
production in 1904. Altogether Tennyson’s play was performed three
hundred and eight times, as follows:

London, 147; British Provinces, 92; America, 69.

III

In 1897 Irving gave a remarkable Reading of _Becket_. This was in the
old Chapter House of Canterbury Cathedral, which had been recently
restored exactly to its ancient condition. Farrar was then Dean of
Canterbury, and as Irving had promised to read _Becket_ for the benefit
of the Cathedral Restoration Fund, he and I had three meetings on the
subject for which he came specially from Canterbury to London on April
21 and 28 and May 5. At our first meeting the Dean suggested that the
Reading should be held in the restored Chapter House, which the Prince
of Wales was to open on May 29. Thus Irving’s Reading of _Becket_ would
be on the first occasion which the restored room should be used. I well
remember my host’s dismay when he met me at the doorway of the Athenæum
Club and apologised that there was not a single room in the club to
which a member could ask a stranger. I do not know if that iron-clad
rule still exists; a somewhat similar one existed at that time at the
United Service Club, on the other side of Waterloo Place. There a member
could ask a friend into the hall and there give him a glass of sherry.
Such was the only measure of hospitality allowable at the “Senior.” That
rule has been since abandoned in the “Service” Club; the usual club
hospitalities can now be extended to guests.

At these meetings, as I was authorised to speak for Irving on all
matters, we arranged the necessary details. The Reading was to be given
on Monday, May 31, at two o’clock, the tickets to be a guinea and half a
guinea each. As time was then pressing and publicity with regard to the
undertaking was necessary, we decided at the last meeting that Dean
Farrar was to write a letter to the newspapers calling attention to the
coming event and its beneficent purpose. I undertook if he would send me
the letter to have it facsimiled and sent to four hundred newspapers.

Of course every seat was sold long ahead of the time. A place like
Canterbury cannot—and cannot be expected to—furnish such an audience as
would be required on such an occasion. Most of them would have to come
from London and other cities and towns. When I left the Dean I saw Mr.
William Forbes, one of the powers of the London, Chatham and Dover
Railway, who kindly undertook to arrange trains to and from Canterbury
to suit the convenience of the audience, and especially to look after
accommodation for Irving and his friends.

On the day of the Reading we went down by train from Victoria at 10
A.M., Ellen Terry being one of the party. Sir Henry’s two sons were with
him, as was also Sir John Hassard, the Secretary of the Court of Arches,
and who then was the right hand of the Archbishop of Canterbury—as he
had been to several of his predecessors. At Canterbury, Irving and I
went to see the Chapter House. After a walk through the Cathedral we
went to the County Hotel, where Irving rested for a while. A little
before two o’clock we went to the Chapter House. At two punctually he
stepped on the stage, and was introduced in the usual way by Dean
Farrar. There was a fine audience. Every spot where one could stand was
occupied. Irving got a great reception.

It was a remarkable occasion, and we could not but feel a certain
solemnity from the place as well as from the subject. There were so many
historic associations with regard to the great room that we could not
dissociate them from the occasion.

Irving read magnificently. To the inspiration of the theme was to him
the added force of the place and the occasion. The Reading lasted one
hour and thirty-five minutes—a terrible tax on even the greatest
strength. During all that time he held his audience spell-bound. At the
conclusion he was, naturally, a good deal exhausted; such a _tour de
force_ takes all the strength one has.

We all returned to London by the 4.18 o’clock train.

The result of the Reading was an addition to the Restoration Fund of
over £250.

On one other historic occasion Henry Irving read _Becket_. This was at
the King Alfred Millenary at Winchester in 1901. In the June of that
year he had been selected by the Royal Institution to represent their
body; and thinking that he might in addition give some practical aid to
the cause, he told the authorities at Winchester that he would on the
occasion give a Reading of _Becket_ for the benefit of the Expense Fund.
Wednesday, September 18, was fixed for the event. As the Autumn tour had
been arranged we would be playing in Leeds; but distance nor magnitude
of effort ever came between Irving and his promise. On September 17 he
played _Charles I._ and left for Winchester at the close of the play. At
Winchester he was the guest of the then Mayor, Mr. Alfred Bowker. The
next day he gave in the Castle Hall, to a great audience, a slightly
compressed Reading of _Becket_. Winchester then thronged with strangers
from all parts of the world, a large number of whom were accredited
representatives of some branch or interest of the Anglo-Saxon race. Poor
John Fiske was to have been one of the representatives of America. He
was to have spoken, and when I had seen him last he told me that that
was to be the crowning effort of his life.

At the close of the Reading Irving received an ovation and was compelled
to make a speech. In it he said:

“A thousand years of the memory of a great King, who loved his country
and made her loved and respected and feared, is a mighty heritage for
a nation; one of which not England alone but all Christendom may well
be proud. The work which King Alfred did he did for England, but the
whole world benefited by it. And most of all was there benefit for
that race which he adorned. In the thousand years which have elapsed
since he was laid to rest in that England in whose making he had such
a part, the world has grown wiser and better, and civilisation has
ever marched on with mighty strides. But through all extension and all
advance the land which King Alfred consolidated and the race which
peopled it, have ever been to the front in freedom and enlightenment;
and to-day when England and her many children, east and west and north
and south, are united by one grand aspiration of human advance, it is
well that we should celebrate the memory of him to whom so large a
measure of that advance is due.”

XXII
“WATERLOO”—“KING ARTHUR”—“DON QUIXOTE”

One day early in March 1892, whilst we were rehearsing Tennyson’s play,
_The Foresters_, which in accordance with the author’s request was
produced for copyright purposes at the Lyceum, Irving came into the
office in a hurry. He was a little late. He, Loveday and myself always
used the same office, as we found it in all ways convenient for our
perpetual consultations. As he came hurrying out to the stage, after
putting on the brown soft broad-brimmed felt hat for which he usually
exchanged his “topper” during rehearsals, he stopped beside my table
where I was writing, and laying a parcel on it said:

“I wish you would throw an eye over that during rehearsal. It came this
morning. You can tell me what you think of it when I come off!”

I took up the packet and unrolled a number of type-written sheets a
little longer than foolscap. I read it with profound interest and was
touched to my very heart’s core by its humour and pathos. It was very
short, and before Irving came in again from the stage I had read it a
second time. When he came in he said presently in an unconcerned way:

“By the way, did you read that play?”

“Yes!”

“What do you think of it?”

“I think this,” I said, “that that play is never going to leave the
Lyceum. You must own it—at any price. It is made for you.”

“So I think, too!” he said heartily. “You had better write to the author
to-day and ask him what cheque we are to send. We had better buy the
whole rights.”

“Who is the author?”

“Conan Doyle!”

The author answered at once and the cheque was sent in due course. The
play was then named _A Straggler of ’15_. This Irving changed to _A
Story of Waterloo_, when the play was down for production. Later this
was simplified to _Waterloo_.

Irving fell in love with the character, and began to study it right
away. The only change in the play he made was to get Sir Arthur—then
“Dr.” or “Mr.”—Conan Doyle to consolidate the matter of the first few
pages into a shorter space. The rest of the MS. remained exactly as
written.

It was not, however, for nearly two years that he got an opportunity of
playing it. It is a difficult matter to find a place for an hour-long
play in a working bill. _Henry VIII._, _King Lear_, and _Becket_ held
the Lyceum stage till the middle of 1893. Then came a tour in America
lasting up to end of March 1894. The short London season was taken up
with a prearranged reproduction of _Faust_.

Then followed a provincial tour from September to Christmas. Here was
found the opportunity. _The Bells_ is a short play, and for mere length
allows of an addition.

In the first week of the tour at the Princes Theatre, Bristol, on
September 21, 1894, _A Story of Waterloo_ was given. The matter was one
of considerable importance in the dramatic world; not only was Irving to
play a new piece, but that piece was Conan Doyle’s first attempt at the
drama. The chief newspapers of London and some of the greater provincial
cities wished to be represented on the occasion; the American press also
wished to send its critical contingent. Accordingly we arranged for a
special train to bring the critical force. Hearing that so many of his
London journalistic friends were coming an old friend of Irving’s then
resident in Bristol, Mr. John Saunders, arranged to give a supper in the
Liberal Club, to which they were all invited, together with many persons
of local importance.

The play met with a success extraordinary even for Irving. The audience
followed with rapt attention and manifest emotion, swaying with the
varying sentiments of the scene. The brief aid to memory in my diary of
that day runs:

“New play enormous success. H. I. fine and great. All laughed and
wept. Marvellous study of senility. Eight calls at end.”

Unfortunately the author was not present to share the triumph, for it
would have been a delightful memory for him. He was on a tour in
America; “and thereby hangs a tale.”

Amongst the audience who had come specially from London was Mr. H. H.
Kohlsaat, owner and editor of the _Chicago Times Herald_, a close and
valued friend of Irving and myself. He was booked to leave for America
the next day. When the play was over and the curtain finally down, he
hurried away just in time to catch the train for Southampton, whence the
American Line boat started in the morning. He got on board all right.
The following Saturday he arrived in New York, just in time to catch the
“flyer,” as they call the fast train to Chicago on the New York Central
line. On Sunday night a public dinner was given to Conan Doyle to which
of course Kohlsaat had been bidden. He arrived too late for the dining
part; but having dressed in the train he came on to the hotel just as
dinner was finished and before the speeches began. He took a chair next
to Doyle and said to him:

“I am delighted to tell you that your play at Bristol was an enormous
success!”

“So I am told,” said Doyle modestly. “The cables are excellent.”

“They are not half enough!” answered Kohlsaat, who had been reading in
the train the papers for the last week.

“Indeed! I am rejoiced to hear it!” said Conan Doyle somewhat dubiously.
“May I ask if you have had any special report?”

“I didn’t need any report, I saw it!”

“Oh, come!” said Conan Doyle, who thought that he was in some way
chaffing him. “That is impossible!”

“Not to me! But I am in all human probability the only man on the
American continent who was there?” Then whilst the gratified author
listened he gave him a full description of the play and the scene which
followed it.

To my own mind _Waterloo_ as an acting play is perfect; and Irving’s
playing in it was the high-water mark of histrionic art. Nothing was
wanting in the whole gamut of human feeling. It was a cameo, with all
the delicacy of touch of a master-hand working in the fine material of
the layered shell. It seemed to touch all hearts always. When the dying
veteran sprang from his chair to salute the colonel of his old regiment
the whole house simultaneously burst into a wild roar of applause. This
was often the effect at subsequent performances both at home and in
America.

In 1897, when representatives of the Indian and Colonial troops were
gathered in London for the “Diamond” Jubilee of Queen Victoria, Irving
gave a special performance for them. It was a _matinée_ on June 25. The
event was a formal one, for it was given by Royal consent, and special
arrangements were made by the public officials. Some two thousand troops
of all kinds and classes and costumes were massed at Chelsea Barracks.
The streets were cleared by the police for their passing as they marched
to the Lyceum to the quickstep of the Guards’ Fife and Drum Band, the
public cheering them all the way. They represented every colour and
ethnological variety of the human race, from coal black through yellow
and brown up to the light type of the Anglo-Saxon reared afresh in new
realms beyond the seas.

Their drill seemed to be perfect, and we had made complete arrangements
for their seating. Section by section they marched into the theatre, all
coming by the great entrance, without once stopping or even marking time
in the street.

In the boxes and stalls sat the Indian Princes and the Colonial
Premiers, and some few of the foreign guests. The house was crammed from
wall to wall; from floor to ceiling; the bill was _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_. No such audience could have been had for this military piece. It
sounded the note of the unity of the Empire which was then in
celebration; all were already tuned to it. The scene at the end was
indescribable. It was a veritable ecstasy of loyal passion.

_Waterloo_ was played by Irving eighty times in London; one hundred and
seventy-seven times in the provinces; and eighty-eight times in America—
in all three hundred and forty-five times, the last being at London on
June 15, 1905.

III

For a long time Irving had in view of production a play on the subject
of King Arthur. He broached the subject to Tennyson, but the latter
could not see his way to it. He had dealt with the subject in one way
and did not wish to try it in another. Then he got W. G. Willis to write
a play; this he purchased from him in 1890. As, however, he did not
think it would act well, he got Comyns Carr to write another some three
years later.

In 1894 the production was taken in hand. Sir Edward Burne-Jones
undertook to design scenes and dresses, armour and appointments. His
suggestions were new lights on stage possibilities. As he was not
learned in stage technique and mechanism, there were of course some
seemingly insuperable difficulties; but these in the hands of artists
skilled in stage work soon disappeared. To my own mind it was the first
time that what must in reality be a sort of fairyland was represented as
an actuality. Some of the scenes were of transcendent beauty, notably
that called “The Whitethorn Wood.” The scene was all green and white—the
side of a hill thick with blossoming thorn through which, down a winding
path, came a bevy of maidens in flowing garments of tissue which seemed
to sway and undulate with every motion and every breath of air. There
was a daintiness and a sense of purity about the whole scene which was
very remarkable.

The armour which Burne-Jones designed was most picturesque. I fear it
would hardly have done for actual combat as the adornments of shoulder
and elbow were such that in the movement of the arms they took strange
positions. When some virtuoso skilled in the lore of mail asked the
great painter why he fixed on such a class of armour he answered:

“To puzzle the archæologists!”

For the great Fancy Ball given by the Duchess of Devonshire in
Devonshire House, the armour was lent by Irving. It furnished the men of
a quadrille and was a very striking episode in a gorgeous scene.

In the preparation of the scenes we had at first some difficulty, for
great scene-painters like to make their own designs. But Burne-Jones’
genius together with his great reputation—to both of which all artists
bow—accompanied by Irving’s persuasions carried the day. When it was
objected that the suggested scenes were impossible to work in accordance
with stage limitations, Irving pointed out that there was in itself
opportunity for the ability of the scene-painters’ skill and invention.
Burne-Jones suggested the effect aimed at; with them rested the carrying
it out. And surely neither Hawes Craven nor Joseph Harker could have
ever had any emotions except those of pleasure when the round of
applause nightly welcomed each scene as the curtain went up.

The cast was a fine one; Irving as King Arthur and Johnston
Forbes-Robertson as Sir Lancelot, Ellen Terry as Guinevere, and
Geneviève Ward as Morgan Le Fay. Some of the parts were not easy to
play. One had a difficulty all its own. In the scene where Elaine is
brought in on her bier she had to remain for a considerable time
stone-still in full view of the audience. All that season Miss Lena
Ashwell, who played the part, never once sneezed or yielded to any other
temporary convulsion.

_King Arthur_ was produced on January 12, and ran that season for one
hundred and five performances. It was played twelve times in the
provinces and seventy-four times in America. In all one hundred and
ninety-one performances. It was one of those plays cut short in its
prime. The scenery and appointments were burned in the stage fire of
1898.

The subject of Don Quixote for a play was matter that Irving had for a
long time held in mind. In 1888, he had bought from W. G. Wills the
entire rights of a play on the subject which he had suggested his
writing. He was not, however, satisfied with it. Don Quixote is a great
name and a picturesque figure to remember. He is also a great subject
for a book, and Cervantes made him the hero and centre of many
entertaining and amusing adventures. But he is not in reality a figure
for prolonged stage use. He is too much in one note to make effective
music. If any one ever succeeds in making a “full” play with him as hero
the author will have to invent a story for it, or compile one out of the
materials which Cervantes has in his immortal work bequeathed to
mankind. The dramatic author or adapter can thus maintain the figure in
its simplicity, keeping his personality always as a _deus ex machina_.

When he was satisfied he could not do Wills’ play in its entirety Irving
got another enthusiast of the subject, Mr. J. I. C. Clarke of New York,
to write a fresh play on the theme. Clarke made an admirable play, of
which Irving bought the entire rights in 1894. There were some very fine
points in this new play, especially in illustrating the gravity of the
Don’s high character and his deep understanding of a noble act. But the
difficulty of the subject was again apparent; the character was too
simple and too fixed for the necessary variety and development of
character in a long grave play.

Recognising the limitation of the subject, Irving, being determined to
essay the character, made up a one-act play from Cervantes’ book,
keeping as far as possible to the lines of the first act of Wills’ play.
There were two scenes; the first showing Don Quixote in his own house
with the madness of his chivalric belief upon him. A notable figure he
looked as fully armed in rusty armour and with drawn sword in hand he
sat reading a great folio of _Amadis de Gaule_. His own physique—tall
and lean, his fine high-bred features heightened by the resources of art
to an exaggerated aquiline, all helped to the efficacy of the illusion.
In his old armour, his worn leather and threadbare velvet, he was indeed
the Knight of La Mancha.

When in the second scene he rode into the inn yard on his skeleton steed
Rosinante the effect was heightened. The scene was beautifully lit.
There was a fine, rich, soft light from the moon, hung high in the
semi-tropic sky. It softened everything to the possibilities of romance.
One seemed to forget the unreality in the dim, quaint beauty. The very
shadows seemed to be full of possibilities, and to hold a mystery of
their own. No one who saw it can ever forget that spare, quaint figure
marching up and down, lance on shoulder, watching his armour laid in
front of the pump—a solemn, grim travesty of the vigil of a probationary
knight.

In the preparation of _Don Quixote_ there was an incident which was not
without its humorous aspect—though not to some of those who had a part
in it. When it was decided that Rosinante was to be a factor in the
play, Irving told the Property Master, Arnott, to get a horse as thin
and ragged-looking as he could.

“I think I know the very one, sir,” said Arnott. “It belongs to a baker
who comes down Exeter Street every day. I shall look out for him
to-morrow and get him to bring the horse for you to see!”

In due course he saw the baker and arranged that he should on the next
day bring the horse. The morrow came; but neither the baker nor the
horse. Inquiries having been made, it turned out that on the morning
arranged, as the baker was leading the horse down Bow Street to bring it
to the Lyceum, an officer of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals saw them, and being dissatisfied with the appearance of the
animal, “ran in” both man and beast. The sitting magistrate went out to
the police yard and made inspection for himself. When he came back to
court where the prisoner was waiting in the dock, he said that the case
was one of the worst within his experience and gave his decision: He
fined the owner of the horse ten pounds; sent the man who had been
arrested whilst in charge of it to prison for a week without option of a
fine; and ordered the horse _to be killed_!

XXIII
ART AND HAZARD

When Irving read the report of the production of _Madame Sans-Gêne_ in
Paris, he bought the British rights; but it was not till April 10, 1897,
that the new play could be given. This was the Saturday before Holy
Week; not in itself a good time, but it would get the play into swing
for Easter.

The part of Napoleon in the play is not one that could appeal to any
great actor on grounds of dramatic force. Its relative position in the
play is not even one that appeals to that measure of self-value which
is, to some degree, in all of us. True, it is the part of a great man
and such is pleasurable histrionically—if there be an opportunity of
excellence. An actor of character finds his own pleasure in the study
and representation of strong individuality. Irving had always been
interested in Napoleon. As long as I can remember he had always in his
room a print and a bust of him—both beautiful. He had many books
regarding him, all of which he had studied. He was always delighted to
talk of him. I had long taken it for granted that he had an idea of some
day playing the character; but I hardly took it seriously. The very
light of history which makes the character known to the public also has
made known his stature. No two men could be further apart in matter of
physique and identity. Napoleon, short and stout, full-faced,
aggressive, coarse. Irving, tall, thin, ascetic; with manners of
exquisite gentleness; with a face of such high, thoughtful distinction
that it stood out in any assemblage of clever men. I have been with
Irving in many Universities—Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin, Edinburgh,
Glasgow, Manchester, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Chicago. I have stood
by him whilst he was the host of Princes, Ambassadors, Statesmen,
Soldiers, Scholars. I think I have seen him under most conditions in
which man may be compared with men; but I never found his appearance,
bearing or manner other than the best. How then reconcile such opposites
to such beguilement of his audience that the sense of personal
incongruity should not mar the effect at which he aimed. It must be by
some strange _tour de force_ that this could be accomplished; and a
special effort of the kind, though in its own way a dangerous experiment
to a reputation already won, has a charm of its own. Man always wants to
climb, even if the only charms of climbing be difficulty and danger. He
saw at once that a chance to essay Napoleon was in _Madame Sans-Gêne_.
The play was a comedy and Napoleon’s part in it was a comedy position.
Matters that work against one in serious drama can be made actually to
further one’s purpose in comedy.

When he began to think of the part he very often spoke of it with me and
took me into his confidence as to his idea of doing it.

“You see,” he said to me one time, “perspective is a matter of contrast
and juxtaposition. You can enlarge the appearance of anything by placing
something smaller beside it, or _vice versa_. Of course you must choose
for the contrasted object something which to common knowledge is of at
least or at most a standard size. It would not make a man look big to
put him next a doll’s house—such you expect to be small and the sense of
comparison does not strike one. The comparison must, on the part of the
spectator, be unconscious.”

Thus it was that in the play Napoleon in his study, when the scene
opened and he made his first appearance, sat behind a huge writing-table
piled with books; he sat on an exceedingly low chair so that he seemed
dwarfed. The room was a vast one with pillars and pilasters which
carried the eye upward from the floor. The attendants, the soldiers on
guard, the generals and statesmen who surrounded him were all big, fine
men. The ladies who played the Princesses, his sisters, were of good
stature, and Ellen Terry is a tall woman. He applied here to himself the
lesson of juxtaposition which in _Cymbeline_ he had used for Ellen
Terry’s service in the previous year. She, a tall, fine woman, had to
represent a timid young girl. Matters had therefore to be so arranged
that size should be made a comparative and not an absolute matter. To
this end Imogen was surrounded by the tallest and biggest women
obtainable. The Queen looked, and Helena was, tall, and such
miscellaneous ladies as are possible in a royal _entourage_ even in the
semi-mythical days of early England were simply giantesses. Amid her
surroundings her timidity seemed natural to one so sweet and tender and
almost frail. The towering height and girth of the trees and the
architecture and stonework lent themselves to the illusion. All the men
too were tall and of massive build, so that the illusions of size and
helplessness were perfect.

Irving was now face to face with the same difficulty, but reversed;
there was still the matter of his own proportions. Long before, when we
had spoken of the difficulties ahead of him in representing the part, he
had said:

“I shall keep the proportions of Napoleon. After all it is only dressing
a big doll instead of a little one. They have given me a big doll,
whereas Napoleon had a little one. No one need notice the difference,
unless the dolls are put together!”

This idea he carried out absolutely. He had made for him “fleshings” of
great proportions. When these were on he looked like a Daniel Lambert
for the white had no relief in variety; but this was but the doll which
he had to dress. When the breeches—which were made to proportion by the
best tailor in London—were drawn on, the thighs stood out as in De La
Roche’s picture. When the green coat was on and buttoned high up, the
shoulders, especially at the back, were so wide and tight as to make him
look podgy. That dress was certainly supremely artful. It was so
arranged that all the lines, either actual or suggested, were
horizontal. The sloping of the front of the buttoned coat was from very
high on the chest and the slope very generous. The waistcoat was short
and the lower line of it wide and broadly marked. The concealment of
real height was further effected by the red sash and many orders which
were so artfully placed as to lead the eye in the wished-for direction.
All that Irving required to satisfy the audience was the _coup d’œil_;
in endeavouring to convince it does not do to start off with antagonism.
So long as the first glance did not militate against him, he could
depend on himself to realise their preconceived idea—which was of
historical truth—by acting.

And when he did act how real it was. The little short-stepped quick run
in which he moved in his restless dominance was no part of general
historic record; but it fitted into the whole personality in such a way
that, having seen, one cannot dissociate them. The ruthless dominance;
the quick blaze of passion which recalled to our memory the whirlwind
rush at Lodi or the flamelike sweep over the bridge at Arcola; the
conscious acting of a part to gain his end; the typical attack on
Nipperg. All these were so vivid that through the mist of their swirling
memory loomed the very identity of Napoleon himself.

Strange to say the very excellence of Irving’s acting, as well as his
magnitude in public esteem, injured the play, _quâ_ play. To my mind it
threw it in a measure out of perspective. The play is a comedy, and a
comedy of a woman at that. Napoleon is in reality but an incidental
character. It is true he and his time were chosen, because of his
absolutism and his personal character; he is a glorified _deus ex
machina_, whose word is law and is to be accepted as ruling life and
death. So far Irving’s reputation and personality helped. He was on the
mimic stage what Napoleon was on the real one. Still, after all _Madame
Sans-Gêne_ is a comedy though the authors were a little clumsy in
changing it into melodrama at the end; but when Irving was present
comedy, except his comedy, had to cease. Of course in the part of the
scene where he and Ellen Terry played together comedy was triumphant;
but here the note of comedy was the note of the scene and nothing could
be finer than the double play, each artist foiling the other, and all
the time developing and explaining their respective characters. But
after that Irving, as the part was written, was too big for the play. It
was not in any way his fault. No modification of style or repression of
action could have obviated the difficulty. It was primarily the fault of
the dramatists in keeping the Emperor, who was incidental, on the stage
too long.

The same reasoning applied to _Cymbeline_. Irving was too big for
Iachino, and the better he played the worse the harm. Each little touch
that helped to build up the individuality of the character helped—he
being what he was in public esteem—to expand the sense of deliberate
villainy. Iachino’s purpose was not to injure; he only used wrong-doing,
however base, as a means to an end: the winning of his wager.

In Ellen Terry’s performance of _Madame Sans-Gêne_ came an incident
which I have always thought to be typically illustrative of “unconscious
cerebration” in art—that “dual consciousness” which we shall by-and-by
consider. The actress had steeped herself in the character; when playing
the part she thought as the laundress-duchess thought. She had already
played it close on a hundred times. The occasion was the first
performance of the piece at Sheffield, where the audiences were enormous
and the people hearty. In the scene with the dancing-master, where she
is ill at ease and troubled with her unaccustomed train—“tail” she calls
it—it is part of the “business” that this keeps falling or slipping from
her arm. Once when she put it back its bulk seemed to attract
unconsciously her troubled mind. Accordingly she began to _wring_ it as
she had been used to do with heavy articles in the days of her wash-tub.
There was an instantaneous roar of applause. Half the women of the
audience did their own washing and half the men knew the action; all
throughout the house, both men and women, recognised the artistic
perfection from which she utilised the impulse.

From that evening the action became an established usage.

In 1897 Laurence Irving completed his play on _Peter the Great_ and his
father purchased it from him. At that time he had in expectation a play
by H. D. Traill and Robert Hichens, for which he had contracted on
reading the _scenario_ in July of that year. As, however, the latter
play was not ready when arrangements had to be made for opening the
London season early in January 1898, young Irving’s play was put into
preparation by his father before he went on the provincial tour.
Naturally he wished to do all he possibly could for his son’s play, and
in the production neither pains nor expense was spared.

On July 24, the night after the closing of the season, he read the play
in the Beefsteak Room to Loveday and myself and Johnston
Forbes-Robertson, whom he hoped would play the part of Alexis. The
reading took three hours and twenty minutes, and was a remarkable fine
piece of work. Forbes-Robertson, however, did not see his way to the
part, which was ultimately given to Robert Taber, a fine actor, then
young and strong, who had just come from America, where he had played
leading business.

Great pains were spent in the archæology of the play, so that when it
was produced it was in its way a historical lesson. Irving cut off a
whole week of his own work of the tour in order to come up to London to
superintend the production personally. Miss Terry and the company played
_Madame Sans-Gêne_ at Bradford and Wolverhampton—strange to say, the
last two towns he played in eight years later.

The production was certainly a very interesting one. The place and time
did not allow much opportunity for beauty, but all appeared so real as
to enhance the natural power of the play. The part of Peter was a
terribly trying one, even to a man of Irving’s “steel and whipcord”
physique. I fancy it was a lesson to the dramatist—as yet not at his
full skill—in saving the actor of his plays. On the seventh night the
stage manager, before the play began, asked for the consideration of the
audience for Irving, who was suffering from a partial loss of voice.
Laurence Irving was having a brief holiday in Paris, so we telegraphed
him to return at once. On Monday night Henry Irving was unable to play
and Laurence Irving took his place. It was really a wonderful effort—
especially for so young a man—to play such a part on short notice.
Fortunately, as author, he knew the words well; and as he had helped his
father in the stage management he was familiar with the business. That
night after the performance I went to see Irving and had the pleasure of
telling him of his son’s success.

Unfortunately the tone of the play did not suit the public taste. It was
not altogether the fault of the dramatist, but rather of the originals.
History is history and has to be adhered to—in some measure at any rate;
and the spectacle of a father hounding his son to death is one to make
to shudder those whose instincts and sympathies are normal. The history
of the time lent itself to horrors. On the first night in one scene
where one of the conspirators who had been tortured—off the stage, but
whose screams were heard—was brought in pale and bloody, the effect was
too great for some of the audience, who rose quickly and left their
seats. On the next night this part of the scene was taken out and other
lesser horrors modified. Towards the end of the month it became
necessary to prepare for a change of bill. On the last night of the
piece the Prince and Princess of Wales were present as they wished to
see the play again. The Prince had already seen it twice and had
expressed his appreciation of it.

III

_Robespierre_ was produced on April 15, 1899—the date on which the
Lyceum was re-opened under the management of the Lyceum Company.
Irving’s reception after his dangerous illness was exceptionally warm,
even for him.

The play had been in hand for some time. In May 1896, whilst in New
York, Irving and I went to see Miss Elizabeth Marbury, the agent for
America of the French Dramatic Author’s Society. The purpose of the
interview was regarding the writing by Sardou of a play on the subject.
Irving suggested as a scene that in Robespierre’s lodgings. He had read
somewhere of Robespierre shaving himself whilst listening to a matter of
life and death for many people and all the time turning to spit. This
was a grim streak of character which fastened on his imagination. The
suggestion was well received by Sardou and the following year Irving
entered into a contract whereby he was, after previous acceptance of the
_scenario_, to receive the play before May 1898. On his part he
undertook to produce the piece in London before June 1899. In due order
the _scenario_ was sent and approved, and the script of the play finally
delivered and translated into English by Laurence Irving.

_Robespierre_ was played in London one hundred and five times—of which
ninety-three were the first season; in the provinces forty-three times;
and in America one hundred and nine times. In all two hundred and
fifty-seven times.

Charles Dickens used to say that it was a perpetual wonder to him how
small the world was. Here is an instance of how the same may be said
to-day:

When we were playing the piece in New England a gentleman wrote to
Irving to thank him for preserving in the play the honourable character
of his ancestor, Benjamin Vaughan, M.P., one of the _dramatis personæ_
who has an interview with Robespierre in the first act!

_Robespierre_ was a terrific play to stage manage. There are in it no
less than _sixty-nine_ speaking parts. The rehearsals were endless, for
there were required in the play a very large number of supers—more than
a hundred. In the scene of the Convention, in which Robespierre is
overthrown, much of the effect depends on the rush of the deputies
across the floor of the house, and the series of fights for the tribune.
It was a stormy scene, and was admirably done. Everywhere the piece was
played it went with uncontrollable effect.

Irving’s dressing of the part and that personal preparation which is
known in the actor’s craft as “make-up” afforded in themselves a lesson
in stage art. In the first act, where he had to strike the true note of
Robespierre’s character, everything was done to create the proper
effect. Here Robespierre was shown in his true light: A doctrinaire, a
self-seeking politician; vain, arrogant, remorseless; something of a
poet; a little of an artist; an intriguer without scruple. Irving showed
in face and form, in bearing, in speech and even in inflection of the
voice, the true inwardness of the man. The clear-cut face with prominent
chin; the pronounced stillness of bearing, except for the restless eyes;
the eager suspicion of one who is watched; the gaudy colour of his
well-fitting clothes. All these things had their lessons for stranger
eyes. He took no chance whatever that the idea of the man’s dominant
qualities should not be closely and deeply marked in the minds of the
audience. But after that—although the man _seemed_ to be the same—he was
gradually and perpetually changing. And all the changes were, in
addition to the acting and the spoken words, unconsciously conveyed in
dress, bearing and facial appearance. When the fatherhood woke in him in
Act III., it seemed natural enough, though it would not have seemed out
of place in the first or second acts. In Act IV., sympathy with the
mother was added to intense and overwhelming anxiety for his son—and all
seemed still consistent with the original conception of the character as
shown. That is, there was no jarring note as things progressed. In fact
he was subtly changing in the mind of the audience the original idea of
the man’s nature. And all the time the face was growing refined and more
marked with human kindness, till in the last act he seemed to be a
saintly man full of noble and generous feelings; a patriot and martyr.
In the last act all the externals were changed: wig, “make-up” of face,
clothing from top to toe. The harsh colour of his first-seen coat was
softened to an ineffable blue, suggestive at once of distance,
refinement and delicacy. Altogether, though the personality seemed
always consistent, it was a figure of harsh and ruthless scheming that
walked in at one end of the play, but a noble martyr who was carried out
at the other!

Irving had long wished to act the part of Dante if he could get a good
play on the subject. To this end he had made several efforts, including
that in the direction of Tennyson. In July 1894, when _Madame Sans-Gêne_
was being played in London by Rejane, Irving had a conversation
regarding a play on the subject of Dante with Emile Moreau, joint author
with Victorien Sardou of the French comedy. The issue of the meeting was
that Sardou and Moreau were to write a play and submit it to Irving. It
was not, however, till some seven years later that the idea began to
materialise. There was a good deal of correspondence spread over the
time, but after an interview at the end of May 1901 in London with Miss
Marbury, who had just returned from paying a prolonged visit to Sardou,
the matter rose over the horizon of practicability. It was agreed that
Sardou was to submit a _scenario_ before the end of that year. Irving
felt justified after the success of _Robespierre_ to venture on another
play by the same author. The _scenario_ was sent to him in due course,
and he studied it very carefully in such pauses as were in the American
tour of that autumn. When we were in Chicago in December he told me that
he had practically given up hope of doing _Dante_ as he could not see
his way to accepting the _scenario_. By his wishes I drafted a letter
for him to that effect. I considered that the matter had there ended and
did not have an opportunity of reading the _scenario_ which was
returned.

Much to my surprise, in the following spring Irving told me that he had
decided to do the play and asked me to draw out a contract on the lines
of that of _Robespierre_. I asked him why he had changed his mind and
reminded him that from what he had told me of the original _scenario_,
we had agreed that it was not likely to make for success. He did not,
however, wish to talk about it then—he could be very secretive when he
wished—but said he had sent word to Sardou that he would go on with the
idea of the play. I knew it would upset him to argue about anything to
which he was pledged; I said no more.

MM. Sardou and Moreau delivered the completed play in August, and
forthwith Irving began to use his great imagination on its production.
His son Laurence had taken the translation in hand.

The production was on a gigantic scale; the arrangements for it having
been made in Paris, but not through me. The labour of preparation and
rehearsal was endless, the expense enormous. The curtain went up on the
night of production to an incurred expense of nearly thirteen thousand
pounds.

On Monday, January 12, 1903, Irving read _Dante_ to the actors and
actresses of his company at his office in Bedford Street—the great room
occupied for so many years by the Green Room Club. My contemporary note
runs:

“Read it wonderfully well. Adumbrated every character!”

To me this was in one way the most interesting of all his readings to
the company of a new play. Hitherto I had not read the play or even the
_scenario_, and I am bound to say that as it went on my heart sank. The
play was not a good one. It had too many characters and covered too wide
a range. Indeed had it not been for Irving’s wonderful reading I should
not have been able to follow the plot. When I saw the play on the first
night, acted by a lot of people and lacking the concentration of the
whole thing passing through one skilled mind, I found a real difficulty
of comprehension. Strange to say this very difficulty in one way helped
the play with the less cultured part of the audience. As they could not
quite understand it all they took it for granted that there was some
terribly subtle meaning in everything. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico._

The play was produced at Drury Lane Theatre on April 30, 1903—the last
day, by the way, allowable for production in London by the contract—with
great enthusiasm. There was an immense audience, and managerial hopes
ran high. Irving was certainly superb. He did not merely look like
Dante—he _was_ Dante; it was like a veritable re-incarnation. His
features had a natural resemblance to the great poet! The high-bred
“eagle” profile; the ascetic gauntness; the deep earnest resonant voice;
the general bearing of lofty gloom of the exile—these things one and all
completed a representation which can never be forgotten by any one who
saw it.

The play ran during the whole season at Drury Lane, eighty-two
performances. On the provincial tour the following autumn it was given
twenty-one times in only three towns. Then succeeded the American tour
on which it was played thirty-four times—a total of one hundred and
thirty-seven performances.

When we opened in New York the civic elections, which that term were
conducted with even more than usual vigour, were on. As the receipts
were not up to our normal we thought that the political “colieshangie”
was the sole cause; we found out the difference when the _répertoire_
bill was put up the third week. The experience was repeated in
Philadelphia, Boston, Springfield, Hartford, New Haven, Brooklyn, and
Washington. The last performance in America was given at the Federal
capital to a great house—the largest the piece was played to in America.
Perforce we had to accept the verdict: the public did not care for the
play. Accordingly we stored it in Washington and for the rest of the
tour gave the _répertoire_ plays. When the tour was over we paid the
expenses of sending the scenery into Canada where we gave it away. This
was cheaper than paying the duty into the United States, which we should
have had to do had we left it behind us.

Altogether _Dante_ as a venture was a fearful hazard. Before it was done
I remonstrated with Irving about the production, he being then not
really able to afford such an immense loss as was possible. As
Chancellor of the Exchequer to his Absolute Monarchy I had to be content
with his reply:

“My dear fellow, a play like this beats Monte Carlo as a hazard.
Whatever one may do about losing, you certainly can’t win unless you
play high!”

XXIV
VANDENHOFF

Old Vandenhoff played his farewell engagement in Edinburgh, at the
Queen’s Theatre, in 1858. In _The Merchant of Venice_, Irving played
Bassano to his Shylock; this was on Tuesday, February 16. In Act I,
scene 3, where Shylock and Bassano enter, an odd thing occurred. I give
it in Irving’s words as he told me of it!

“Vandenhoff began: ‘Three thousand’—there was a sort of odd click of
something falling, and the speech dried up. I looked up at him and saw
his mouth moving, but there was no sound. At the moment my eye caught
the glitter of something golden on the stage. I stooped to pick it up,
and as I did so saw that it was a whole set of false teeth. This I
handed to Shylock, keeping my body between him and the audience so that
no one might see the transaction. He turned away for an instant, putting
both hands up to his face. As he turned back to the audience his words
came out quite strong and clearly: ‘Three thousand ducats—well!’”

XXV
CHARLES MATHEWS

Irving had always a deep regard for Charles Mathews. Not only did he
look upon him as a consummate dramatic actor—which was always in itself
a sure road to his heart, but he had lively recollections of his
kindness to him. The first was in his youth on the stage in Edinburgh
when he played the boy in one of the plays of his _répertoire_. Irving
had invented for himself a little piece of business; when the lad was
placed in the militant position in the play he took out his handkerchief
to mop his brow. As he pulled it out there came with it an orange which
rolled along the stage and which he hastily followed and recovered.
Charles Mathews seemed pleased. His kindly recognition was, however,
opposed a little later by another actor who played the same part as
Mathews. This gentleman strongly objected to what he delicately called
the “tomfoolery” which he said interfered with the gravity of his own
acting. When Mathews again visited Edinburgh, Irving omitted the
incident, fearing it might be out of place. But at the end of the act
Mathews sent for him to his dressing-room and in a very kind manner
called his attention to a piece of business of which he had made use on
the last occasion, and there and then recapitulating the incident asked
why he had omitted it. Irving explained that he had been held to task
for it by the other actor. To his great delight Mathews spoke quite
crossly of the other actor. Said he:

“He had no right to find fault! He must have been an ignorant fellow not
to see that it helped his own part. The humour of the situation in the
play hangs on the contrast between the boy’s bellicose attitude towards
the elder man whom he considers his rival, and his own extreme
youthfulness. That very incident is all that is wanted to make the
action complete; and since I saw you do it I have asked every other who
plays the part to bring it in. I should have asked you, only that I took
it of course for granted that you would repeat it. Never let any one
shake you out of such an admirable piece of by-play!”

The other occasion was when he had played Doricourt at his first
appearance at the St. James’s Theatre in 1866. One of the first
congratulations he got was from Charles Mathews, who not only sent him
by hand a letter in the morning but followed it up with a visit later in
the day.

Mrs. Charles Mathews was, till the day of her death, a very dear friend
of Irving; and the tradition of affection was kept up till Irving’s own
death by the son, Sir Charles W. Mathews, the eminent barrister.

For my own part I first knew Charles Mathews in 1873, when I had the
pleasure of being introduced. From that time on I met him occasionally
and was always fascinated with his delightful personality. Years
afterwards I was not surprised to hear an instance of its effect from
the late Henry Russell, the author of the song “_Cheer, boys, cheer_”
and a host of other dramatic and popular songs. It was after supper one
night in the Beefsteak Room. Russell told his story thus:

“I was at that time tenant of the Lyceum, and had let it for a short
season to Charles Mathews. He did not pay my rent and, as I suppose you
know, the freeholder, Arnold, was not one to let _me_ off my rent on
that account. The debt ran on till it grew to be quite a big one. I
wrote to Mathews, but I never could get any settlement. He was always
most suave and cheery; _but_ no cash! At last I made up my mind that I
_would_ have that money; and finding that letters were of no avail, I
called on him one forenoon. He was having his breakfast and asked me to
join him in a cup of chocolate. I said no! that I had come on business—
and pretty stern business at that; and that I would not mix it up with
pleasure. I had come for cash—cash! cash! He was very pleasant, quite
undisturbed by my tirade; so that presently I got a little ashamed of
myself and sat down. I stayed with him an hour.”

“And did you get your money?” asked Irving quietly. Russell smiled:

“Get my money! I came away leaving him a cheque for three hundred pounds
which he had borrowed from me; and I never asked him for rent again!”
Then after a pause he added:

“He was certainly a great artist; and a most delightful fellow!”

XXVI
CHARLES DICKENS AND HENRY IRVING

Irving often spoke with pride of the fact that Charles Dickens had
thought well of his acting, when he had seen him play at the St. James’s
Theatre in 1866 and the Queen’s Theatre in 1868. Unhappily the two men
never met then; and Dickens died in 1870. In later years he had the
pleasure of the friendship of several of Dickens’ children, and of his
sister-in-law, Miss Georgina Hogarth, to whom he was so much attached.
Charles Dickens the younger was an intimate friend and was often in the
Beefsteak Room and elsewhere when Irving entertained his friends; Kate
Dickens, the present Mrs. Perugini, was also a friend. But the youngest
son, Henry Fielding Dickens, was the closest friend of all. Both he and
his wife and their large family—who were all children, such of them as
were then born, when I knew them first—were devoted to Irving. In all
the years of his management no suitable gathering at the Lyceum was
complete without them. Whenever Irving would leave London for any long
spell some of them were sure to be on the platform to see him off; when
he returned their welcome was amongst the first to greet him. Indeed he
held close in his heart that whole united group, Harry Dickens and his
sweet family and the dear old lady whom happily they are still able to
cherish and as of old call “Aunty.”

Lately I asked Henry Dickens if he remembered the occasion of his father
speaking of Irving. The occasion of my asking was a gathering at which
he had many social duties to fulfil, so that there was no opportunity of
explaining fully. But next day he wrote me the following letter:

“2 Egerton Place, S.W.
“_May 29 1906._

“MY DEAR BRAM,

“I do not remember the exact year in which _Hunted Down_ was played at
the St. James’s. It must have been somewhere about 1866. But I have a
vivid recollection of the fact owing to the impression which Irving’s
performance made upon me father. He was greatly struck by it. It
seemed to appeal at once to his artistic and dramatic sense:

“‘Mark my words: that man will be a great actor.’

“I should not like to pledge myself to the exact words, but that is
the substance of what he said after the performance.

“He also saw Irving in _The Lancashire Lass_, when he had been much
impressed by his acting though not to the same extent.

“I do not suppose any man was more competent to give an opinion than
my father. He was himself, as you know, a great actor. The fever of
the footlights was always with him. He had a large number of friends
in the dramatic profession, amongst them Macready and Fechter, the two
greatest actors of his time.

“What a pity he did not live long enough to add Irving’s name to that
brilliant list!

“Irving was certainly one of the most striking personalities I ever
met, besides being, beyond all question, the most loyal and delightful
of friends as I and those who are dear to me have good reason to know.

“We shall always hold his name in loving remembrance.

“Yours very sincerely,
HENRY F. DICKENS.”

XXVII
MR. J. M. LEVY

Amongst many loving, true friends Irving had none more loving or more
helpful than the late J. M. Levy, the owner and editor of the _Daily
Telegraph_. From the first he was a warm and consistent friend, and his
great paper, which in the early days of Irving’s success was devoting to
the drama care and space unwonted in those days, did much—very much—to
familiarise the public with his work and to spread his fame. As a
personal friend his hospitality was unsurpassed. His house was always
open, and nothing pleased him better than when Irving would drop in
unasked. Up to the time of Mr. Levy’s death there were many delightful
evenings spent with him. These were always on Sundays, for during
working days we of the theatre had no opportunity for such pleasures.
But even after his death the same hospitality was extended by his
children. Some are gone, but those who happily remain, Lord Burnham,
Miss Matilda Levy, Lady Faudel-Phillips, Lady Campbell Clarke, were
friends up to the hour of his death; and with them all his memory is and
shall be green. Lord Burnham truly held as a part of his great
inheritance this friendship; and he always extended to the actor the
helpfulness which had been his father’s. In a thousand delicate ways he
always tried to show his love and friendship. Whenever, for instance, he
had the honour of entertaining at his beautiful place, Hall Barn, Edward
VII., either as Prince of Wales or King, he always included Irving in
his house-party.

Such a friendship is a powerful help to any artist—and to like and
cherish artists is a tradition in that family.

XXVIII
VISITS TO AMERICA

Irving’s first visit to America, in 1883, was a matter of considerable
importance, not only to him, but to all of his craft and to all by whom
he was held in regard. At that time the body of British people did not
know much about America; and perhaps—strange as it may seem—did not care
a great deal. Irving had played nearly five years continuously at the
Lyceum, and his theatre had grown to be looked upon as an established
institution. The great _clientèle_ which had gathered round it, now
numbering many thousands, looked on the venture with at least as much
concern as he did himself. Thus the last night of the season, July 28,
1883, was a remarkable occasion. The house was jammed to suffocation and
seemingly not one present but was a friend. When the curtain fell at the
end of _The Belle’s Stratagem_, there began a series of calls which
seemed as though it would never end. Hand-clapping and stamping of feet
seemed lost in the roar, for all over the house the audience were
shouting—shouting with that detonating effect which is only to be found
from a multitude animated with a common feeling. The sight and sound
were moving. Wherever one looked were tears; and not from women or the
young alone.

At the last, after a pause a little longer than usual—from which the
audience evidently took it that the dramatic moment had arrived—came a
marvellous silence. The curtain went up, showing on the stage the entire
_personnel_ of the company and staff.

Then that audience simply went crazy. All the cheers that had been for
the play seemed merely a preparation for those of the parting. The air
wherever one looked was a mass of waving hands and handkerchiefs,
through which came wave after wave of that wild, heart-stirring
detonating sound. All were overcome, before and behind the floats alike.
When the curtain fell, it did so on two thousand people swept with
emotion.

[Illustration:

HENRY IRVING BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA

_From a drawing by Fred Barnard, 1883, after the picture by Sir Joshua
Reynolds “Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy”_
]

Something of the same kind was enacted across the Atlantic. When on the
evening of Monday, October 29, the curtain rose on the first scene of
_The Bells_, there was the hush of expectation, prolonged till the
moment when the door of the inn parlour was thrown open and Irving
seemed swept in by the rushing snowstorm. The tempest of cheers seemed
just as though the prolongation of that last moment in London; and for
six or seven minutes—an incredibly long time for such a matter on the
stage—the cheering went on.

III

For my own part, I had a curious experience of that reception. Mr. Levy
had asked me to send a cable to the _Daily Telegraph_ describing
Irving’s reception. He knew, and I knew too, that it was a close shave
for such a message to reach London in time for press. For in those days
printing had not reached the extreme excellence of to-day, and the
multiplication of stereos in the present form had not been accomplished.
The difference of longitude seemed almost an insuperable difficulty. As
I had to wait till Irving had actually appeared, I arranged with the
manager of the Direct United States Cable Company to keep the wire for
me. He was himself anxious to make a record, and had all in readiness. I
had a man on a fleet horse waiting at the door of the theatre; and when
Irving’s welcome had _begun_, I ran out filling up the last words of my
cable at the door. The horseman went off at once _ventre à terre_.

But my cable did not arrive in time. Another did, however, that sent to
the _Daily News_ by its correspondent, J. B. Bishop. I could not imagine
how it was done, for the account cabled was a true one, manifestly
written after the event.

Years afterwards, one night at supper with two men, J. B. Bishop and
George Ward, then manager of the newly established Mackey-Bennett Cable,
it was explained to me. They had come to know that I was cabling and in
order not to be outdone Ward had had a wire brought all the way up from
the Battery, and actually over the roof of the theatre and in by a side
window.

Whilst my man was galloping to Lower Broadway, Bishop was quietly
wording the despatch which his friend was telegraphing to his local
office as he wrote!

The welcome which Irving received on that night of October 29, 1883,
lasted for more than twenty years—until that night of March 25, 1904,
when at the Harlem Opera House he said “Good-bye” to his American
friends—for ever! Go where he would, from Maine to Louisiana, from the
Eastern to the Western Sea, there was always the same story of loving
greeting; of appreciative and encouraging understanding; of heartfelt
_au revoirs_, in which gratitude had no little part. As Americans of the
United States have no princes of their own, they make princes of whom
they love. And after eight long winters spent with Henry Irving amongst
them, I can say that no more golden hospitality or affectionate belief,
no greater understanding of purpose or enthusiasm regarding personality
or work has ever been the lot of any artist—any visitor—in any nation.
Irving was only putting into fervent words the feeling of his own true
heart, when in his parting he said:

“I go with only one feeling on my lips and one thought in my heart—God
bless America!”

XXIX
WILLIAM WINTER

Amongst the many journalists who were Irving’s friends, none was closer
than William Winter, the dramatic critic of the New York _Tribune_,
whose work is known all over America. Winter is not only a critic, but a
writer of books of especial charm and excellence, and a poet of high
order. One of his little poems which he spoke at a dinner of welcome to
Irving on his first arrival at New York in 1883 is so delightful that I
venture to give it—especially as it had a prophetic instinct as to the
love and welcome extended to the actor throughout the whole of the
United States. He and Irving had been already friends for some time, and
always saw a good deal of each other during Winter’s visits to London.
The occasion was the dinner given by Colonel E. A. Buck, to attend which
many of the friends present came from Cleveland, Buffalo, West Point,
Louisville, Chicago—distances varying from fifty to a thousand miles.

HENRY IRVING.

A WORD OF WELCOME.

_November 18, 1883._

If we could win from Shakespeare’s river
The music of its murmuring flow,
With all the wild-bird notes that quiver
Where Avon’s scarlet meadows glow,
If we could twine with joy at meeting
Their love who lately grieved to part,
Ah, then, indeed, our word of greeting
Might find an echo in his heart.

But though we cannot, in our singing,
That music and that love combine,
At least we’ll set our blue-bells ringing,
And he shall hear our whispering pine;
And these shall breathe a welcome royal,
In accents tender, sweet, and kind,
From lips as fond and hearts as loyal
As any that he left behind!
WILLIAM WINTER.

XXX
PERFORMANCE AT WEST POINT

The United States Military Academy at West Point on the Hudson River had
from the time of his first visit to America a great charm for Irving.
One of the first private friends he met on arriving at New York was
Colonel Peter Michie, Professor of Applied Mathematics at the College.
During the war he had been General Grant’s chief officer of Engineers.
Another friend made at the same time was Colonel Bass, Professor of
Mathematics. With these two charming gentlemen we had become close
friends. When Irving visited West Point he said that he would like to
play to the cadets if it could be arranged. The matter came within hail
in 1888, when he repeated the wish to Colonel Michie. The latter, as in
duty bound, had the offer conveyed, through the Commandant, to the
Secretary for War at Washington. To the intense astonishment of every
one the War Secretary not only acquiesced at once but conveyed his
appreciation of Irving’s offer in most handsome and generous terms. The
effect at West Point was startling. The authorities there had taken it
for granted that such an exception to the iron rule of discipline which
governs the Military and Naval Academies of the United States would not
be permitted. The professors had a feeling that the closing his theatre
in New York for a night was too great a sacrifice to make. I was made
aware of this feeling by an early visit from Colonel Michie on the
morning after the sanction of the War Secretary had been given. At
half-past seven o’clock he came into my room at the Brunswick Hotel and
was almost in a state of consternation as to what he should do. He was
vastly relieved when I told him that Irving’s offer had, of course, been
made in earnest and that nothing would please him so much. And so it was
arranged that on the evening of Monday, March 19, Irving and Ellen Terry
and the whole of the company should play _The Merchant of Venice_ in the
Grant Hall, the cadets’ mess-room.

In the meantime an obstacle arose which covered us all with concern. On
the night of Sunday, March 11, the eastern seaboard was visited by the
worst blizzard on record. Between one and eight in the morning some four
feet deep of snow fell, and as the wind was blowing a hundred miles an
hour, as recorded by the anemometer, it was piled up in places in
gigantic drifts. For some days New York and all around it was paralysed.
The railways were blocked, the telegraph cut off. Even the cables had
suffered. We were getting our news from Philadelphia _via_ London—and
even these had to come _via_ Canada. West Point is sixty miles from New
York and the two railways—the New York Central on the left hand and the
West Shore line on the right—the West Point side—were simply obliterated
with snowdrifts. The managers of these two lines and that of the New
York, Ontario, and Western line—it having running powers over the West
Shore—had most kindly arranged to place a special train at Irving’s
disposal for the West Point visit. Towards the end of the week the
outlook of the journey, which had at first seemed unfavourable, grew a
little brighter; it _might_ be possible. Possible it was, for by
superhuman exertions the line was cleared in time for our journey of
March 19. Our train opened the line.

Of course it was not possible to use scenery in the space available for
the performance; so it was arranged that the play should be given as in
Shakespeare’s time. To this end notices were fastened to the curtains at
the proscenium: “Venice: A Public Place”; “Belmont: Portia’s House”;
“Shylock’s House by a Bridge,” &c. As it happens, the Venetian dress of
the sixteenth century was almost the same as the British; so that the
costumes now used in the piece were alike to those worn by the audience
as well as on the stage at the Globe Theatre in Shakespeare’s time. Thus
the cadets of West Point saw the play almost identically as Shakespeare
had himself seen it.

I think that we all in that hall felt proud when we saw over the
proscenium of the little stage the flags of Britain and America draped
together and united by a branch of palm. It thrilled us to our heart’s
core merely to see.

It was a wonderful audience. I suppose there never was another on all
fours with it. I forget how many hundreds of cadets there are—I think
four or five, or more, and they were all there. As they sat in their
benches they looked, at the first glance, like a solid mass of steel.
Their uniforms of blue and grey with brass buttons; their bright young
faces, clean-shaven; their flashing eyes—all lent force to the idea. As
I looked at them I remembered with a thrill an anecdote that John
Russell Young had told me after dinner the very night before. He had
been with General Grant on his journey round the world and had heard the
remark. At Gibraltar Grant had reviewed our troops with Lord Napier.
When he saw them sweep by at the double he had turned to the great
British General and said:

“Those men have the swing of conquest!”

The attention and understanding of the audience could not be surpassed.
Many of these young men had never seen a play; and they were one and all
chosen from every State in the Union, each one having been already
trained or being on the way to it to command an army in the field. There
was not a line of the play, not a point which did not pass for its full
value. This alone seemed to inspire the actors down to the least
important. At the end of each act came the ringing cheers which are so
inspiring to all.

When the curtain finally fell there was a pause. And then with one
impulse every one of those hundreds of young men with a thunderous cheer
threw up his cap; for an instant the air was darkened with them. There
was a significance in this which the ordinary layman may not understand.
By the American Articles of War—which govern the Military Academy—for a
cadet to throw up his cap, except at the word of command given by his
superior officer, is an act of insubordination punishable with
expulsion. These splendid young fellows—every one of whom justified
himself later on in Cuba or the Philippines—had to find some suitable
means of expressing their feelings; and they did it in a way that they
and their comrades understood. Strange to say, not one of the superior
officers happened to notice the fearful breach of discipline. They
themselves were too much engaged in something else—possibly throwing up
their own caps; for they were all old West Point men.

Right sure I am that no one who had the privilege of being present on
that night can ever forget it—men, women, or children; for behind the
corps of cadets sat the officers with their wives and families.

When Irving came to make the little speech inevitable on such an
occasion he said at the close:

“I cannot restrain a little patriotic pride now, and I will confess
it. I believe the joy-bells are ringing in London to-night, because
for the first time the British have captured West Point?”

He spoke later of that wonderful audience in terms of enthusiasm, and
Ellen Terry was simply in a transport of delight. For my own part,
though I had been in the theatre each of the thousand times Irving and
Ellen Terry played _The Merchant of Venice_, I never knew it to go so
well.

Beyond this delightful experience, which must long be a tradition in
West Point, the Academy has another source of perpetual memory. In the
officers’ mess hangs a picture presented by Henry Irving which they hold
beyond price. It is a portrait of the great Napoleon done from life by
Captain Marryat when he was a midshipman on the British warship
_Bellerophon_ which carried the Conquered Conqueror to his prison in St.
Helena.

XXXI
AMERICAN REPORTERS

I can bear the highest testimony to the _bona fides_ of American
reporters, though they do not, either individually or collectively,
require any commendation from me. I have had, in the twenty years
covered by our tours in America, many hundreds of “interviews” with
reporters, and I never once found one that “went back” on me. I could
always speak quite openly to them individually on a subject which we
wished for the present to keep dark, simply telling him or them that the
matter was not for present publication. Any one who knows the inner
working of a newspaper, and of the keenness which exists in the
competition for the acquisition of news, will know how much was implied
by the silence—the scorn and contempt that would now and then be hurled
at those who “couldn’t get a story.” I have no doubt that sometimes the
engagement on the paper was imperilled, or even cancelled. Of course I
always tried to let them get _something_. It was quite impossible at
times that Irving should give interviews. Such take time, and time was
not always available in the midst of strenuous work; sickness and
weariness are bars to intellectual undertakings; and now and again the
high policy of one’s business demands silence. In Irving’s case his
utterances had to be carefully considered. He was one of the very few
men who was always reported _verbatim_. With ordinary individuals there
is habitual compression and “editing” which, though it may occasionally
suppress some fact or step in an argument, is protective against many
errors. It is an old journalistic saying that “Parliamentary reputations
are made in the Gallery!” This is almost exact; were it qualified so as
to admit of exceptions it would be quite exact. In ordinary speeches, or
in any form of _extempore_ and unpremeditated utterance, there are
evidences of changement during the process of thought—uncompleted
sentences, confused metaphors, words ill chosen or slightly misapplied.
In addition, as in almost every case Irving spoke or was interviewed on
professional subjects or matters closely allied to his own work or
ideas, there was always a possibility of creating a wrong impression
somewhere. Also, he stood so high amongst his own craft that an omission
would now and again be treated as an affront. I have known him to
receive, after some speech or interview or recorded conversation where
he had given a few names of actors as illustrating some part, a dozen
letters asking if there was any reason why the writer’s name was omitted
in that connection. Irving was always most loyal to all those of his own
calling and considerate of their needs and wishes; and so in all matters
where he was by common consent or by general repute vested with the
responsibilities of judgment he tried to hold the scales of justice
balanced. In order, therefore, to see that his real views were properly
set out—and incidentally for self-protection—he always took precautions
with regard to speeches and interviews. The former, he always wrote out.
On occasions where he had to speak as if _impromptu_—such as on the
stage after the performance on first or last nights; any time when mere
pleasant commonplaces were insufficient—he learned the speech by heart.
When he could have anything before him, such as at dinners, he would
have ready his speech carefully corrected, printed in very large type on
small pages printed on one side only and not fastened together—so that
they could be moved easily and separately. This he would place before
him on the table. He would not seem to read it, and of course he would
be familiar with the general idea. But he read it all the same; with a
glance he would take in a whole sentence of the big type and would use
his acting power not only in its delivery but in the disguising of his
effort. If there were not time to get the speech printed he would write
it out himself in a big hand with thick strokes of a soft pen. With
regard to interviews he always required that the proof should be
submitted to him and that his changes, either by excisions or additions,
should be respected. He would sign the proof if such were thought
desirable. I never knew a case where the interviewer or the newspaper
did not loyally hold to the undertaking. I am anxious to put this on
record; for I have often heard and read diatribes by the inexperienced
against not only the system of interviewing but the interviewers. Let me
give an instance of the chagrin which must be felt by men, skilled in
the work and with responsibilities to their newspapers, who are baffled
in their undertakings by reasons which they do not understand or agree
with.

In the winter of 1886 I went across to arrange a tour of _Faust_ for the
coming year. We especially wished the matter kept dark, for we had
alternative plans in view. Therefore I went quietly and without telling
any one. When I landed in New York my coming was some way known—I
suppose I had been missed at the Lyceum and some one had guessed the
purpose of my absence and cabled—and I was met by a whole cloud of
interviewers, nearly all of whom I had known for some years. When we
were all together in my hotel I told them frankly that I would talk to
them about anything they wished except the purpose of my visit. This
being _their_ purpose, they were naturally not satisfied. I saw this and
said:

“Now, look here, boys, you know I have always tried to help you in your
work in any way I was free to do. I want for a few days to keep my
present purpose secret. When what I want to do is through, I shall tell
you all about it. It will be only a few days at most. Won’t you trust me
about the wisdom of this? All I want is silence for a while; and if you
will tell me that you will say nothing till I let you go ahead, I shall
tell you everything—right here and now!”

One of them said at once:

“No! Don’t tell us yet. If you are silent the difficulty will be only
between you and us. But if you tell us we shall each have to fight his
own crowd for not telling them what we know!” The general silence
vouched this as accepted by all. We sat still for perhaps a minute, no
one wishing to begin. Before us was the whisky of hospitality. At last
one of my guests said:

“By the way, how do you like American as compared with Irish whisky?—_of
course, not for publication!_”

There was a roar of laughter. I felt that my reticence was forgiven, and
we had a pleasant chat through a delightful half-hour. Out of that they
made a “story” of some kind to suit their mission.

In a few instances the reporter who writes from his own side without
consultation has said funny things. Two cases I remember. The first was
when more than twenty years ago we made a night journey from Chicago to
Detroit. When we boarded our special train I found one strange young man
with a gripsack who said he was coming with us. To this I demurred,
telling him that we never took any stranger with us and explaining that,
as all our company was divided into little family groups they would not
feel so comfortable with a stranger as when, as usual, they were among
friends and comrades only. He said he was a reporter, and that he was
going to write a story about the incidents of the night. I cannot
imagine what kind of incidents he expected! However, I was firm and
would not let him come.

When we arrived in Detroit in the morning a messenger came on board with
a large letter directed to me. It contained a copy of a local paper in
which was marked an article on how the Irving company travelled—a long
article of over a column. It described various matters, and even made
mention of the appearance _en déshabille_ of some members of the
company. At the end was appended a note in small type to say that the
paper could not vouch for the accuracy of the report as their
representative had not been allowed to travel on the train. I give the
whole matter from memory; but the way in which the writer dealt with
myself was most amusing. It took up, perhaps, the first quarter of the
article. It spoke of “an individual who _called himself_ Bram Stoker.”
He was thus described:

“... who seems to occupy some anomalous position between secretary and
valet. Whose manifest duties are to see that there is mustard in the
sandwiches and to take the dogs out for a run; and who unites in his
own person every vulgarity of the English-speaking race.”

I forgave him on the spot for the whole thing on account of the last
sub-sentence.

The second instance was as follows:

When on our Western tour in 1899–1900 we visited Kansas City for three
nights, playing in the Opera House afterwards destroyed by fire. At that
time limelight for purposes of stage effect had been largely superseded
by electric light, which was beginning to be properly harnessed for the
purpose. It was much easier to work with and cheaper, as every theatre
had its own plant. Irving, however, preferred the limelight or calcium
light, which gives softer and more varied effects; and as it was not
possible to get the necessary gas-tanks in many places we took with us a
whole railway waggon-load of them. These would be brought to the theatre
with the other paraphernalia of our work. As we had so much stuff that
it was not always possible to find room for it, we had to leave some of
the less perishable goods on the sidewalk. This was easy in Kansas City,
as the theatre occupied a block and its sidewalks were wide and not much
used except on the main street. Accordingly the bulk of our gas-tanks
were piled up outside. The scarlet colour of the oxygen tanks evidently
arrested the attention of a local reporter and gave him ideas. On the
morning after the first performance his paper came out with a
sensational article to the effect that at last the treasured secret was
out: Henry Irving was in reality a dying man, and was only kept alive by
using great quantities of oxygen, of which a waggon-load of tanks had to
be carried for the purpose. The reporter went on to explain how, in
order to investigate the matter properly, he had managed to get into the
theatre as a stage hand and had seen the tanks scattered about the
stage. Further, he went on to tell how difficult it was to get near
Irving’s dressing-room as rude servants ordered away any one seen
standing close to the door. But he was not to be baffled. He had seen at
the end of the act Irving hurry into his room to be reinvigorated. He
added, with an inconceivable _naïveté_, that precautions were taken to
prevent the escape of the life-giving oxygen—_for even the keyhole was
stopped up_.

XXXII
TOURS-DE-FORCE

Perhaps the greatest _tour de force_ of Irving’s life was made on the
night of February 23, 1887, when at the Birkbeck Hall he read the play
of _Hamlet_ before a large audience for the benefit of the Institute. He
had, of course, cut the play, just as he did for acting; indeed his
cutting for the reading was a further slight curtailment, as on such an
occasion there has to be a limit of time. But the cutting is in itself a
tribute to his immense knowledge of the play, and is a lesson to
students.

He read the play in two sections, with an interval of perhaps ten
minutes between. The sustained effort must have been a frightful strain;
for in such an undertaking there is not an instant’s pause. Character
follows character, each necessitating an instant change of personality;
of voice; of method of speech and bearing and action. Irving was a great
believer in the value of time in acting. He used to say that on certain
occasions the time in which things were taken increased or marred the
attention, emotion and eagerness of the audience. A play like _Hamlet_
has as many and as varying times as an opera; thus the first knowledge
and intention of the reader must have been complete. Strong as he was,
it was a wonder how he got through that evening. When I went round to
him at the end of the first part I found him sitting down and almost
gasping. He had a wonderful recuperative power, however, and like a good
fighter he was up at the call of “time.” With unimpaired vitality,
strength and passion he went on with his work right to the very end. For
my own part I have never had so illuminative an experience of the play.
Irving’s own performance of the title _rôle_ I had of course seen, and
with even greater effect than then; for dress and picturesque
surroundings, in addition to the significance of movement and action,
can intensify speech even when aided by the expression conveyed by face
and hands. But the play as a whole came into riper prominence. Imagine
the play with _every part_ in it done by a great actor! It was never to
be forgotten. The passionate scenes were triumphant. Knowing that he had
the whole thing in his own hands and that he had not to trust to others,
howsoever good they might be, he could give the reins to passion. The
effect was enthralling. We of the audience sat spell-bound, hardly able
to breathe.

When he ceased, almost fainting with the prolonged effort and excess of
emotion, the pent-up enthusiasm burst forth like a storm.

In his dressing-room he had to sit for a while to recover himself—a rare
thing indeed for him in those days. The note in my diary of that night
has the following:

“Immense enthusiasm—remarkable—magnificent—every character given in
masterly manner—consider it greatest _tour de force_ of his life—even
_he_ exhausted!”

Eight years before, on July 25, 1879, the night of his “Benefit,” as it
was called after the old-time custom, he had given another wonderful
example of his power. On that occasion he had taken the great and
strenuous act out of each of five plays and finished up with a comedy
character. The bill was: _Richard III._, Act I.; _Richelieu_, Act IV.;
_Charles I._, Act IV.; _Louis XI._, Act III.; _Hamlet_, Act III. (to end
of Play Scene); _Raising the Wind_.

The strain of such a bill was very great. Not only the playing and the
changing to so many complete identities each in moments of wild passion,
but even the dressing and preparation for each part. Throughout the
whole of that even there was not a single minute—or a portion of a
minute—to spare. Such a strain of mind and body and psychic faculties
all at once and so prolonged does not come into the working life of any
other art or calling. Small wonder is it if the wear and tear of life to
great actors is exceptionally great.

But Irving up to his sixtieth year was compact of steel and whipcord.
His energy and nervous power were such as only came from a great brain;
and the muscular force of that lean, lithe body must have been
extraordinary. The standard of animal mechanics is “foot-pounds”—the
force and heart effort necessary to raise a pound weight a foot high. An
actor playing a heavy part, judged by this rule, does about as much work
in an evening as a hod-man carrying bricks up a ladder. For more than
forty years this man did such work almost every night of his life; with
the added strain and stress of high emotion—no negligible quantity in
itself. I know of no other man who could have done such work in such a
way and with such astounding passion as Henry Irving on great occasions.

XXXIII
CHRISTMAS

All through Irving’s management of the Lyceum Christmas was, with regard
to the working staff and supers, kept in a patriarchal way. Every man
and woman had on Christmas Eve or the night before it a basket
containing a goose with “trimmings”—sage and onions and apples—and a
bottle of gin. The children had each a goose, and a cake instead of the
gin. There were some four or five hundred altogether, and as they
trailed away you could trace them through distant streets by their
scent. On most Christmas Eves there was in the Green Room punch and cake
for the company. The punch-bowl was a vast one, and was refilled as
often as required. We would sometimes use a five-gallon keg of old
whisky in that bowl, for a liberal supply was always left over for the
stage hands.

Two years later we were all at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Irving arranged
an “off” night Christmas and had the whole company, over a hundred
persons, to dinner at the Monhongaheela House, where he was staying. We
drank all the loyal and usual toasts and finished with a sing-song,
wherein various members of the company and the staff exhibited hitherto
unknown powers of song and dance. They did amongst them a nigger
entertainment which would have passed muster anywhere.

XXXIV
IRVING AS A SOCIAL FORCE

The history of the Lyceum Theatre was for a quarter of a century a part
of the social history of London. A mere list of Irving’s hospitalities
would be instructive. The range of his guests was impossible to any but
an artist. As he never forgot or neglected his old friends there were
generally at his table some present who represented the commonplace or
the unsuccessful as well as the famous or the successful sides of life.
The old days and the new came together cheerily under the influence of
the host’s winning personality, which no amount of success had been able
to spoil.

Sometimes the Beefsteak Room, which could only seat at most thirty-six
people, was too small; and at such times we migrated to the stage. These
occasions were interesting, sometimes even in detail. On the hundredth
night of _The Merchant of Venice_, February 14, 1880, there was a supper
for three hundred and fifty guests. On March 25, 1882, ninety-two guests
sat down to dinner to celebrate the hundredth night of _Romeo and
Juliet_.

The Prince of Wales dined there in a party of fifty on May 7, 1883. The
table was a round one, and in the centre was a glorious mass of yellow
flowers with sufficient green leaves to add to its beauty. This bouquet
was thirty feet across, and was in the centre only nine inches in
height, so that it allowed an uninterrupted view all round the table. I
remember the Prince saying that he had never seen a more lovely table.
On this as on other occasions there was overhead a great tent-roof
covering the entire stage. Through this hung chandeliers. On three sides
were great curtains of crimson plush and painted satin ordinarily used
for tableaux curtains; and on the proscenium side a forest of high palms
and flowers, behind which a fine quartette band played soft music.

One charming night I remember in the Beefsteak Room when the Duke of
Teck and Princess Mary and their three sons and Princess May Victoria,
whose birthday it was, came to supper. In honour of the occasion the
whole decorations of room and table were of pink and white may, with the
birthday cake to suit. Before the Princess was an exquisite little set
of _Shakespeare_ specially bound in white vellum by Zaehnsdorf, with
markers of blush-rose silk.

The ordinary hospitalities of the Beefsteak Room were simply endless. A
list of the names of those who have supped with Irving there would alone
fill chapters of this book. They were of all kinds and degrees. The
whole social scale has been represented from the Prince to the humblest
of commoners. Statesmen, travellers, explorers, ambassadors, foreign
princes and potentates, poets, novelists, historians—writers of every
style, shade and quality. Representatives of all the learned
professions; of all the official worlds; of all the great industries.
Sportsmen, landlords, agriculturists. Men and women of leisure and
fashion. Scientists, thinkers, inventors, philanthropists, divines.
Egotists, ranging from harmless esteemers of their own worthiness to the
very ranks of Nihilism. Philosophers. Artists of all kinds. In very
truth the list was endless and kaleidoscopic.

Irving never knew how many personal friends he had, for all who ever met
him claimed acquaintance for ever more—and always to his great delight.
Let me give an instance: In the late “eighties” when he took a house
with an enormous garden in Brook Green, Hammersmith, he had the house
rebuilt and beautifully furnished; but he never lived in it. However, in
the summer he thought it would be a good opportunity of giving a garden
party at which he might see all his friends together. He explained to me
what he would like to do:

“I want to see all my friends at once; and I wish to have it so arranged
that there will be no one left out. I hope my friends will bring their
young people who would like to come. Perhaps you may remember our
friends better than I do; would you mind making out a list for me—so
that we can send the invitations. Of course I should like to ask a few
of our Lyceum audience who come much to the theatre. Some of them I
know, but there are others from whom I have received endless courtesies
and I want them to see that I look on them as friends.”

I set to work on a list, and two days afterwards in the office he said
to me:

“What about that list? We ought to be getting on with the invitations.”

“No use!” I said. “You can’t give that party—not as you wish it!”

“Why not?” he asked amazed; he never liked to hear that anything he
wished could not be done. I held up the sheets I had been working at.

“Here is the answer,” I said. “There are too many!”

“Oh, nonsense, my dear fellow. You forget it is a huge garden.” I shook
my head.

“The other is huger. I am not half through yet, and they total up
already over five thousand!”

And so that party never came off.

He had many many close friends whose names I should like to mention
here, but to attempt a full list would not be possible. Such must be
incomplete; and those so neglected might be pained. And so I venture to
give in this book only the names of those who belong to the structure of
the incident which I am recounting.

But Irving’s social power was not merely in his hospitality. He was in
request for all sorts and kinds of public and semi-public functions—the
detailed list of them would be a serious one; of monuments that he has
unveiled; of public dinners at which he has taken the chair or spoken;
of foundation and memorial stones which he has laid; of flower shows,
bazaars, theatres, libraries and public galleries that he has opened.

The public banquets to him have been many. The entertainments in his
honour by clubs and other organisations were multitudinous.

And wherever he went on any such occasion, whatever space there was—were
it even in an open square or street—was crowded to the last point.

This very popularity entailed much work, both in preparation and
execution, for he had always to make a speech. With him a speech meant
writing it and having it printed so that he could read it—though he
never appeared to do so.

All this opened many new ways for his successes in his art, and so aided
in the growth of its honour. For instance, he was the first actor asked
to speak at the annual banquet of the Royal Academy; thus through him a
new toast was added to the restricted list of that very conservative
body.

The “First Night” gatherings on the stage of the Lyceum after the play
became almost historic; the list of the guests would form an index to
those of note of the time.

There were similar gatherings of a certain national, and even
international, importance; such as when the members of the Colonial
Conference came _en masse_; when the Conference of Librarians attended
the theatre; when ships of war of foreign nations sent glad contingents
to the theatre; when the Guests of the Nation were made welcome.

Some of the latter groups are, I think, worthy to be told of in detail.

XXXV
VISITS OF FOREIGN WARSHIPS

When, in May 1894, the United States cruiser _Chicago_ came to London
whilst making her cruise of friendly intent, there was of course a
warm-hearted greeting. Admiral Erben was the very soul of geniality and
Captain Mahan was, through his great work on _The Sea Power of England_,
himself a maker of history. At the banquet to them in St. James’s Hall,
Irving, though he was unable to attend as he had to play at the Lyceum,
was nominally present. He felt that all that could possibly be done to
cement the good feeling between Great Britain and America was the duty
of every Englishman.

At the banquet, on the end of the hall was the legend in gigantic
letters:

“BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER”

—the phrase that became historic when Admiral Erben was in China. It
will be remembered that whilst a flotilla of British boats were
attacking a fort on the river and had met a reverse they were aided by
the crew of the American ship of war. They were on a mud flat at the
mercy of the Chinese, who were wiping them out. But the crew of the
neutral vessel—unaided by their officers, who had of course to show an
appearance of neutrality in accord with the wisdom of international law—
put off their boats and took them off. On protest being made, the answer
was given in the above phrase.

Through me—I was one of the diners—Irving conveyed a warm invitation to
all the officers to come to the Lyceum to see the play and stop for
supper in the Beefsteak Room. A night was fixed and they all came except
Captain Mahan, who had to be away at an engagement out of London. It was
a delightful evening for us all and many a new friendship began.

In addition to the officers, Irving had asked the whole crew of the
_Chicago_ to come to the play in such numbers and on such nights as
might be possible. They came on three different nights. Each party came
round to the office to have a drink—and a very remarkable thing it was
considering that, except the petty officers, they were all ordinary
seamen, marines and stokers, though they had everything that was
drinkable to choose from—for Irving wished them to have full choice of
the best—no man would take a second drink! They had evidently made some
rule of good manners amongst themselves. A fine and hearty body of men
they were—and with good memories one and all. For ten years afterwards—
right up to the end of our last tour—there was hardly a week during our
American touring that some of that crew did not come to make his
greeting.

The return visit to the ship came on Sunday, June 3, when we went to
lunch on board the _Chicago_. Irving took with him J. L. Toole and
Thomas Nast, the American cartoonist, who had been at the supper at the
Lyceum. We went down to Gravesend, where the vessel lay, and were met by
the younger officers who brought us on board. There welcome reigned. It
shone in the eyes of every man on the ship, from the Admiral down. The
men on parade looked as if only the hold of discipline restrained them
as Irving passed by with words of kindly greeting. We had a delightful
time.

When late in the afternoon we were returning on shore, the whole crew
were on deck. I do not believe there was a man on board who was not
there. If the greeting was hearty, the farewell was touching. We had got
into the boat and were just clearing the vessel, we waving our hats to
those behind, when there burst out a mighty cheer, which seemed to rend
the air like thunder. It pealed over the water that still Sabbath
afternoon and startled the quiet folk on the frontages at Gravesend.
Cheer after cheer came ringing and resonant with a heartiness that made
one’s blood leap. For there is no such sound in the world as that
full-throated Anglo-Saxon cheer which begins at the heart—that
inspiring, resolute, intentional cheer which has through the memory of
ten thousand victories and endless moments of stress and daring become
the heritage of the race.

Before the _Chicago_ left London, a little deputation came one evening
to the Lyceum from the crew. To Irving they presented a fine drawing in
water-colour of their ship, together with a silver box with an Address
written and illuminated by themselves. It was a hearty document,
redolent of the memories of crossing the Line and such quaint conceits
as the deep water seaman loves.

I value dearly their gift to myself; a beautiful walking-stick of
zebra-wood and silver, of which the inscription runs:

“Presented to Bram Stoker, Esq.,
By the crew of U.S. _Chicago_, 1894.”

Three years after the visit of the _Chicago_—1897—another warship came
on a similar friendly mission.

This was the battleship _Fuji_, of the Japanese Navy. In those days
Japan was just beginning to step from her sun-lit shores down into the
great world. She had awakened to the need for self-protection and had
manifested her fighting power with modern weapons in the capture of Port
Arthur. Captain Mimra, who commanded the _Fuji_, had been appointed
Commandant of the fortress-city after the capture.

Irving thought it would be hospitable to ask the visitors to the play.
On the night of April 2, Captain Mimra and his officers came. The play
then running, _Richard III._, was one that took up Irving’s time from
first to last during the evening so that it was not possible for him to
have the privilege of meeting his guests personally. So I had to be
deputy host. The party sat in the Royal box and the one next to it, the
two boxes having been made into one for the occasion. After the third
act of the play we all went into the “Prince of Wales’s Room”—the
drawing-room attached to the Royal box—and drank a glass of wine
together to a toast which was prophetic:

“England and Japan!”

XXXVI
IRVING’S LAST RECEPTION AT THE LYCEUM

At the time of the Queen’s Jubilee in 1887, Irving had something to do
in the celebration in a histrionic way. He was able to make welcome at
the Lyceum and to entertain individually many of those who came from
over seas to do honour to the occasion. The only act of general service
which came within his power was to lend the bells which were played in
Hyde Park on the occasion of the Children’s Jubilee. These were the
“hemispherical” bells which had been founded for the production of
_Faust_, and were the largest of the kind that had ever been made. On
that day it seemed as though the carillon sounded all over London.

Ten years later, when the “Diamond” Jubilee was kept, much more
attention was paid to the Colonial and Indian guests than had ever been
done before. The Nation had waked up to the importance of the
“Dependencies,” and the representatives of these were treated with all
due honour. Irving, thinking like many others that it would be well that
private hospitalities given in general form might supplement the public
functions, gave a special _matinée_ performance on June 25 for the
troops of all kinds which had been sent to represent the various parts
of the Empire. The authorities fell in with the plan so thoroughly that
he was encouraged to add to his service of hospitality a reception on
the stage after the play on the night of June 28. To this came all the
Colonial Premiers, and all those Indian Princes and such persons of
local distinction throughout the world as had been named on the official
lists, and all the officers taking a part in the proceedings. Besides
these were a host of others, amongst whom were a large number of
representatives of literature and the various arts.

III

When, in 1902, the time of the Coronation was approaching and matters
were being organised for a fitting welcome to the guests of the nation,
Irving, remembering the success of his little effort of five years
before and the official approval of it, wrote to the Lord Chamberlain to
ask if it would be in accordance with the King’s wishes that the stage
reception should be repeated. His Majesty not only approved of the idea,
but commanded that the matter should be taken up by the India and the
Colonial Offices, so that those high officials in charge of the public
arrangements might have the date of the reception placed on the official
list of “informal formalities.” This meant that a special date was to be
made certain for the occasion and that the nation’s guests would attend
in force. There were so many events of social importance close to the
time fixed for the Coronation that there was a certain struggle for
dates. Those hosts were supposed to be happy who secured that which they
wished. Our date was fixed for the night of Thursday, July 3.

When, on June 26, the ceremony of the Coronation was postponed on
account of the dangerous illness of the King, it was made known formally
that it was His Majesty’s expressed wish that all the functions of
hospitality to the guests should go on as arranged. In Irving’s case
much pains had been taken officially. Sir William Curzon Wyllie, of the
Political Department of the India Office, and Sir William
Baillie-Hamilton, at the Colonial Office, arranged matters.

When the night of July 3 arrived all possible preparations had been made
at the Lyceum. As the function was to take place after the audience had
gone there would be little time to spare, and we had to provide against
accidents and hitches of all kinds.

The play began at eight o’clock and there was an immense audience. At
ten minutes to eleven the curtain fell; and then began one of the finest
pieces of carefully organised work I have ever seen. Everything had been
planned out, every man was in his place, and throughout there was no
scrambling or interfering with each other although the haste was
positively terrific. All was done in silence, and each gang knew how to
wait till their moment for exertion came.

As the audience filed out of the stalls and pit a host of carpenters
edged in behind them and began to unscrew the chairs and benches. So
fast did they work that as the audience left the proscenium the blocks
of seats followed close behind them to the waiting carts. Following the
carpenters came an array of sturdy women cleaners, who used broom and
duster with an almost frantic energy, moving in a nimbus of dust of
their own making. All the windows of the house had been opened the
instant the curtain fell, so that the place was being aired whilst the
work was going on. Behind the cleaners came a force of upholsterers with
great bales of red cloth, which had already been prepared and fitted, so
that an incredibly short time saw the floor of the house looking twice
its usual size in its splendour of crimson. By this time the curtain had
gone up showing the stage clear from front to back and from side to
side. A train of carts had been waiting, and as there was a great force
of men on the stage the scenes and properties seemed to move of their
own accord out of the great doors at the back of the stage. On the walls
right and left of the stage and at the back hung great curtains of
crimson velvet and painted satin which we used in various plays. The
stage was covered with crimson cloth. At each side of the orchestra was
lifted in a staircase ready prepared, some six feet wide, carpeted with
crimson and with handrails covered with crimson velvet. A rail covered
with velvet of the same colour protected unthinking guests from walking
into the orchestra. Then came the florists. An endless train of palms
and shrubs and flowers in pots seemed to move in and disperse themselves
about the theatre. The boxes were filled with them and all along the
front of the circles they stood in serried lines till the whole place
was in waves of greenery and flowers. The orchestra was filled with
palms which rose a foot or two over the place of the footlights. In the
meantime the caterer’s little army had brought in tables which they
placed in the back of the pit, the wall of which had during the time
been covered in Turkey red.

All the while another army of electricians had been at work. They had
fixed some great chandeliers over the stage and had put up the “set
pieces” arranged for the proscenium. These were a vast Union Jack
composed of thousands of coloured lights which hung over the dress
circle, and an enormous Crown placed over the upper circle. I never in
my life saw anything so magnificently effective as these lights. They
seemed to blaze like titanic jewels, and filled the place with a glory
of light.

While all this was going on, we had the whole house searched from roof
to cellar by our own servants and a force of detectives sent for the
purpose. It did not do to neglect precautions on such an occasion when
the spirit of anarchy stalked abroad. When this was done the detectives
took their places all round the theatre, and the coming guests had to
pass through a line of them. This was necessary to avoid the possibility
of expert thieves gaining admission. Some of these guests were known to
wear, when in State costume, jewels of great value. In fact one of the
Indian Princes who was present that night wore jewels of the value of
half a million sterling.

All this preparation had been made within the space of _forty minutes_.
When the guests began to arrive a few minutes before half-past eleven,
for which hour they had been bidden, all was in order. Some of them, who
had been present at the play and had waited in the vestibule, could
hardly believe their eyes when they saw the change.

Irving stood in the centre of the stage, for there were three doors of
entry, one at the back of the stage, the private door O.P., and the
stage door which was on the prompt side. Only one door, that at the back
of the stage, had been arranged, but the guests came so fast—and so many
of them were of a class so distinguished as not to be accustomed to
wait—that we found it necessary to open the others as well. Servants
trained to announce the names of guests had been put on duty, but their
task was no easy one, and there were some strange mispronunciations. I
give some of the names of the thousand guests, from which the difficulty
may be inferred:

His Highness Maharaj Adhiraj Sir Madho Rao Scindia, Maharaja of
Gwalior.

His Highness Maharaja Sir Ganga Singh, Maharaja of Bikaner.

His Highness Sir Pertab Singh, Maharaja of Idar.

His Highness Maharaj Adhiraj Sawai Sir Mahdo Singh, Maharaja of
Jeypore.

His Highness the Maharaja of Kohlapur.

Maharaja Kunwar Dolat Singh.

His Highness the Maharaja of Kooch Bahar.

Maharaj Kunwar Prodyot Kumar Tagore.

Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhai.

Raja Sir Savalai Ramaswami Mudaliyar.

Maharaja Sri Rao the Hon. Sir Venkalasvetachalapati Ranga Ras Bahadur,
Raja of Bobbili.

Meherban Ganpatrao Madhavrao Vinchwikar.

The Hon. Asif Kadr Saiyid Wasif Ali Mirza, of Murshidabad.

The Hon. Nawab Mumtaz-ud-daula Muhamad Faiyaz Ali Khan, of Pahasu
Bulandshahr.

Nawab Fateh Ali Khan, Kizilbash.

Gangadhar Madho Chitnavis.

Rai Jagannath Barua Bahadur.

Maung On Gaing.

Lieut.-Colonel Nawab Mahomed Aslam Khan, Khan Bahadur.

The Sultan of Perak.

King Lewanika.

H.R.H. The Crown Prince of Siam.

The Datoh Panglima Kinta.

The Datoh Sedelia Rab.

Sri Baba Khem Singh, Bedi of Kullar.

They were from every part of the world and of every race under the sun.
In type and colour they would have illustrated a discourse on ethnology,
or craniology. Some were from the centre of wildest Africa, not long
come under the dominion of Britain. Of one of them, a king whose
blackness of skin was beyond belief, I was told an anecdote. Just after
his arrival in London, he had been driving out with the nobleman to
whose tutelage he had been trusted. In one of the suburban squares a
toxophilite society was meeting. The king stopped the carriage and
turning to his companion said:

“Bows and arrows here in the heart of London! And I assure you that for
more than a year I have prohibited them in my dominions.”

The Premiers of all the great Colonies were present, and a host of
lesser representatives of King Edward’s dominions. Also a vast number of
peers and peeresses and other representatives of the nation—statesmen,
ecclesiastics, soldiers, authors, artists, men of science and commerce.

The most gorgeous of all the guests were of course the Indian Princes.
Each was dressed in the fullest dress of his nationality, state and
creed. The amount of jewels they wore, cut and uncut, was perfectly
astonishing.

It was very hard to keep Irving in the spot which he had chosen for
himself; for as the great crowd streamed in on three sides he kept
shifting a little every moment to greet some old friend, and had to be
brought back to the point where he could meet all. In such cases he was
always amenable to a delightful degree. Seeing the difficulty to himself
he asked me to get two or three important friends to stand with him. He
named Lord Aberdeen and the late Right Hon. Richard Seddon, the Premier
of New Zealand. These came and stood with him, and the nucleus protected
him from movement.

Lord Aberdeen was an old friend and had, when he was Governor-General of
Canada, shown Irving the most conspicuous courtesy. I remember well the
evening when we were leaving Toronto for Montreal after the _matinée_,
February 21, 1894. We had got into the train and the workmen were
loading up the scenery and luggage when there was a great clatter of
horsemen coming at the gallop; and up rode the Governor-General with his
escort. His courtesy to the distinguished guest was very pleasing to the
warm-hearted Canadians.

Irving had met “Dick” Seddon five years before at the great party which
Lord Northcliff—then Mr. Alfred Harmsworth—had given in his new house in
Berkeley Square on the night before the Diamond Jubilee—June 21, 1897.
When Irving and I arrived we followed immediately after the Colonial
Premiers—I think there were eight of them—who had that day received the
honour of Privy Councillorship and wore their Court dress. Mr. Seddon
asked to be introduced to Irving, and at once took him away to the
corner of a room where they could talk freely. I was afterwards told
that when he had gone to the Opera in Covent Garden a few days before—
where with his family he was given the Royal box—he asked when the opera
had gone on for a good while:

“But where is Irving? He is the man I want to see most!”

That Coronation reception was certainly a most magnificent sight. Many
who were at both functions said that it was even finer than the
reception at the India Office, which was a spectacle to remember. But of
course the theatre had an advantage in shape and its rising tiers. When
one entered at the back of the stage the _coup d’œil_ was magnificent.
The place looked of vast size; the many lights and the red seats of the
tiers making for infinite distance as they gleamed through the banks of
foliage. The great Crown and Union Jack seeming to flame over all; the
moving mass of men and women, nearly all the men in gorgeous raiment, in
uniform or Court dress, the women all brilliantly dressed and flashing
with gems; with here and there many of the Ranees and others of various
nationalities in their beautiful robes. Everywhere ribbons and orders,
each of which meant some lofty distinction of some kind. Everywhere a
sense of the unity and the glory of Empire. Dominating it all, as though
it was floating on light and sound and form and colour, the thrilling
sense that there, in all its bewildering myriad beauty, was the spirit
mastering the heart-beat of that great Empire on which the sun never
sets.

That night was the swan-song of the old Lyceum, and was a fitting one;
for such a wonderful spectacle none of our generation shall ever see
again. As a function it crowned Irving’s reign as Master and Host.

Two weeks later the old Lyceum as a dramatic theatre closed its doors—
for ever.

XXXVII
THE VOICE OF ENGLAND

In August 1880, Irving and I went on a short holiday to the Isle of
Wight, where later Loveday joined us. One evening at Shanklin we went
out for a stroll after dinner. It was late when we returned; but the
night was so lovely that we sat for a while under a big tree at the
entrance to the Chine. It was a dark night and under the tree it was
inky black; only the red tips of our cigars were to be seen. Those were
early days in the Home Rule movement, and as I was a believer in it
Irving was always chaffing me about it. It was not that he had any
politics himself—certainly in a party sense; the nearest point to
politics he ever got, so far as I know, was when he accepted his
election to the Reform Club. But he loved to “draw out” any one about
anything, and would at times go quite a long way about to do it. We had
been talking Home Rule and he had, of course for his purpose, taken the
violently opposite side to me. Presently we heard the slow, regular,
heavy tramp of a policeman coming down the road; there is no mistaking
the sound to any one who has ever lived in a city. Irving turned to me—I
could tell the movement by his cigar—and said with an affected intensity
which I had come to identify and understand:

“How calm and silent all this is! Very different, my boy, from the
hideous strife of politics. It ought to be a lesson to you! Here in this
quiet place, away from the roar of cities and on the very edge of the
peaceful sea, there is opportunity for thought! You will not find here
men galling their tempers and shortening their lives by bitter thoughts
and violent deeds. Believe me, here in rural England is to be found the
true inwardness of British opinion!”

I said nothing; I knew the game. Then the heavy, placid step drew
closer. Irving went on:

“Here comes the Voice of England. Just listen to it and learn!” Then in
a cheery, friendly voice he said to the invisible policeman:

“Tell me, officer, what is your opinion as to this trouble in Ireland?”
The answer came at once, stern and full of pent-up feeling, and in an
accent there was no possibility of mistaking:

“Ah, begob, it’s all the fault iv the dirty Gover’mint!” His brogue
might have been cut with a hatchet. From his later conversation—for of
course after that little utterance Irving led him on—one might have
thought that the actor was an ardent and remorseless rebel. I came to
the conclusion that Home Rule was of little moment to that guardian of
the law; he was an out and out Fenian.

For many a day afterwards I managed to bring in the “Voice of England”
whenever Irving began to chaff about Home Rule.

XXXVIII
RIVAL TOWNS

In the course of our tour in the Far West of America in 1893–4 we had an
experience which Irving now and again told with great enjoyment to his
friends. From San Francisco we went to Tacoma and Seattle, two towns on
Puget Sound between which is a mighty rivalry. In Seattle we were
walking along the main street when we saw a crowd outside the window of
a drug store and went over to see the cause. The whole window-space was
cleared and covered with sheets of white paper. In the centre, raised on
a little platform, was an immense Tropical American horned beetle quite
three inches from feelers to tail. Behind it was propped a huge card on
which was printed in ink with a brush in large letters:

“ORDINARY BED-BUG CAPTURED IN TACOMA.”

XXXIX
TWO STORIES

Naturally the form of humour that appealed most to Irving was that based
on human character. This feeling he shared with Tennyson—indeed with all
in whom a deep knowledge of the “essential difference” of character is a
necessity of their art. Perhaps the two following stories, of which he
was exceedingly fond, will illustrate the bent of his mind. The first,
having heard from some one else, he told me; the second I told him. I
have heard him tell them both several times in his own peculiar way.

An English excursionist was up near Balmoral in the later days of Queen
Victoria. The day being hot, he went into a cottage to get a glass of
water. He sat mopping his forehead, whilst the guidwife was polishing
the glass and getting fresh water from the well. He commenced to talk
cheerfully:

“So the Queen is a neighbour of yours!”

“Ooh, aye!”

“And she is quite neighbourly, isn’t she? And comes to visit you here in
your own cottages?”

“Ooh, aye! She’s weel eneuch!”

“And she asks you to tea sometimes at Balmoral?”

“Ooh, aye! She’s nae that bad!” The tourist was rather struck with the
want of enthusiasm shown and ventured to comment on it inquiringly:

“Look here, ma’am; you don’t seem very satisfied with Her Majesty! May I
ask you why?”

“Weel, I’ll tell ye if ye wish. The fac’ is we don’t leik the gangin’s
on at the Caastle.”

“Oh, indeed, ma’am! How is that? What is it that displeases you?”

“We don’t leik the way they keep—or don’t keep—the Sawbath. Goin’ oot in
bo-ats an’ rowin’ on the Sawbath day!” The tourist tried to appease her
and suggested:

“Oh, well! after all, ma’am, you know there is a precedent for that. You
remember Our Lord, too, went out on the Sabbath——” She interrupted him:

“Ooh, aye! I ken it weel eneuch. Ye canna’ tell me aught aboot Hem that
I dinna ken a’ready. An’ I can tell ye this: we don’t think any moor o’
Hem for it either!”

III

There was a funeral in Dublin of a young married woman. The undertaker,
after the wont of his craft, was arranging the whole affair according to
the completest local rules of mortuary etiquette. He bustled up to the
widower saying:

“You, sir, will of course go in the carriage with the mother of the
deceased.”

“What! Me go in the carriage with my mother-in-law! Not likely!”

“Oh, sir, but I assure you it is necessary. The rule is an inviolable
one, established by precedents beyond all cavil!” expostulated the
horrified undertaker. But the widower was obdurate.

“I won’t go. That’s flat!”

“Oh, but, my good sir, remember the gravity of the occasion—the
publicity—the—the—possibility—scandal.” His voice faded into a gasp. The
widower stuck to his resolution and so the undertaker laid the matter
before some of his intimate friends who were waiting instructions. They
surrounded the chief mourner and began to remonstrate with him:

“You really must, old chap; it is necessary.”

“I’ll not! Go with me mother-in-law!—Rot!”

“But look here, old chap——”

“I’ll not I tell ye—I’ll go in any other carriage that ye wish; but not
in that.”

“Oh, of course, if ye won’t, ye won’t. But remember it beforehand that
afterwards when it’ll be thrown up against ye, that it’ll be construed
into an affront on the poor girl that’s gone. Ye loved her, Jack, we all
know, an’ ye wouldn’t like _that_!”

This argument prevailed. He signed to the undertaker and began to pull
on his black gloves. As he began to move towards the carriage he turned
to his friends and said in a low voice:

“I’m doin’ it because ye say I ought to, and for the poor girl that’s
gone. But ye’ll spoil me day!”

XL
SIR RICHARD BURTON

When in the early morning of August 13, 1878, Irving arrived at Dublin,
on his way to Belfast to give a Reading for the Samaritan Hospital, I
met him at Westland Row Station. He had arranged to stay for a couple of
days with my brother before going north. When the train drew up,
hastening to greet him I entered the carriage. There were two other
people in the compartment, a lady and a gentleman. When we had shaken
hands, Irving said to his _compagnons de voyage_:

“Oh, let me introduce my friend Bram Stoker!” They both shook hands with
me very cordially. I could not but be struck by the strangers. The lady
was a big, handsome blonde woman, clever-looking and capable. But the
man riveted my attention. He was dark, and forceful, and masterful, and
ruthless. I have never seen so iron a countenance. I did not have much
time to analyse the face; the bustle of arrival prevented that. But an
instant was enough to make up my mind about him. We separated in the
carriage after cordial wishes that we might meet again. When we were on
the platform, I asked Irving:

“Who is that man?”

“Why,” he said, “I thought I introduced you!”

“So you did, but you did not mention the names of the others!” He looked
at me for an instant and said inquiringly as though something had struck
him:

“Tell me, why do you want to know?”

“Because,” I answered, “I never saw any one like him. He is steel! He
would go through you like a sword!”

“You are right!” he said. “But I thought you knew him. That is Burton—
Captain Burton who went to Mecca!”

The Burtons were then paying a short visit to Lord Talbot de Malahide.
After Irving went back to London, I was very busy and did not ever come
across either of them. That autumn I joined Irving and went to live in
London.

In January of next year, 1879, I met the Burtons again. They had come to
London for a holiday.

The first meeting I had then with Burton was at supper with Irving in
the Green Room Club—these were occasional suppers where a sort of
smoking-concert followed the removal of the dishes. I sat between Burton
and James Knowles, who was also Irving’s guest. It was a great pleasure
to me to meet Burton familiarly, for I had been hearing about him and
his wonderful exploits as long as I could remember. He talked very
freely and very frankly about all sorts of things, but that night there
was nothing on the _tapis_ of an exceptionally interesting nature.

That night, by the way, I heard Irving recite _The Captive_ for the
first time. He also did _Gemini and Virgo_; but that I had heard him do
in Trinity College, Dublin.

The Burtons remained in London till the end of February, in which month
we met at supper several times. The first supper was at Irving’s rooms
in Grafton Street, on the night of Saturday, February 8, the other
member of the party being Mr. Aubertin. The subdued light and the
quietude gave me a better opportunity of studying Burton’s face; in
addition to the fact that this time I sat opposite to him and not beside
him. The predominant characteristics were the darkness of the face—the
desert burning; the strong mouth and nose, and jaw and forehead—the
latter somewhat bold—and the strong, deep, resonant voice. My first
impression of the man as of steel was consolidated and enhanced. He told
us, amongst other things, of the work he had in hand. Three great books
were partially done. The translation of the _Arabian Nights_, the
metrical translation of Camoëns, and the _Book of the Sword_. These were
all works of vast magnitude and requiring endless research. But he lived
to complete them all.

Our next meeting was just a week later, Saturday, February 15. This time
Mr. Aubertin was host and there was a new member of the party, Lord
Houghton, whom I then met for the first time. I remembered that amongst
other good things which we had that night was some exceedingly fine old
white port, to which I think we all did justice—in a decorous way. The
talk that evening kept on three subjects: fencing, the life of Lord
Byron, and Shakespeare. Burton was an expert and an authority on all
connected with the sword; Lord Houghton was then the only man living—I
think that Trelawny, who had been the only other within years, had just
died—who knew Byron in his youth, so that the subject was at once an
interesting one. They all knew and had ideas of Shakespeare and there
was no lack of variety of opinion. Amongst other things, Burton told us
that night of his life on the West Coast of Africa—“the Gold Coast”—
where he was Consul and where he kept himself alive and in good health
for a whole year by never going out in the midday sun if he could help
it, and by drinking a whole flask of brandy every day! He also spoke of
his life in South America and of the endurance based on self-control
which it required.

The third supper was one given on February 21, at Bailey’s Hotel, South
Kensington, by Mr. Mullen the publisher. Arthur Sketchley was this time
added to the party. The occasion was to celebrate the birthday of Mrs.
Burton’s book of travel, _A.E.I._ (Arabia, Egypt, India), a big book of
some five hundred pages. We were each presented with a copy laid before
us on the table. I sat between Lord Houghton and Burton. They were old
friends—had been since boyhood. Each called the other Richard. Houghton,
be it remembered, was Richard Monckton Milnes before he got his peerage
in 1863. The conversation was very interesting especially when Burton
was mentioning experiences, or expounding some matters of his knowledge,
or giving grounds for some theory which he held. The following fragment
of conversation will explain something of his intellectual attitude:

Burton had been mentioning some of his explorations amongst old tombs
and Houghton asked him if he knew the tomb of Moses. He replied that he
did not know it though of course he knew its whereabouts.

“It must be found if sought for within a few years!” he added. “We know
that he was buried at Shekem.” (I do not vouch for names or details—such
do not matter here. I take it that Burton knew his subject and was
correct in what he did say.) “The valley is narrow, and only at one side
and in one place would a tomb be possible. It wouldn’t take long to
explore that entire place if one went at it earnestly.” Again Houghton
asked him:

“Do you know exactly where any of the Patriarchs are buried?”

“Not exactly! But I could come near some of them.”

“Do you think you could undertake to find any one of them?” Burton
answered slowly and thoughtfully—to this day I can seem to hear the deep
vibration of his voice:

“Well, of course I am not quite certain; and I should not like to
promise anything in a matter which is, and must be, purely
problematical. But I think—yes! I think I could put my hand on Joseph!”
As he stopped there and did not seem as though he was going to enlarge
on the subject, I said quietly as though to myself:

“There’s nothing new or odd in that!” Burton turned to me quickly:

“Do you know of any one attempting it? Has it been tried before? Do you
know the explorer?”

“Yes!” I said, feeling that I was in for it, “but only by name. I cannot
claim a personal acquaintance.”

“Who was it?”—this spoken eagerly.

“Mrs. Potiphar!”

The two cynics laughed heartily. The laughter of each was very
characteristic. Lord Houghton’s face broadened as though he had suddenly
grown fatter. On the other hand Burton’s face seemed to lengthen when he
laughed; the upper lip rising instinctively and showing the right canine
tooth. This was always a characteristic of his enjoyment. As he loved
fighting, I can fancy that in the midst of such stress it would be even
more marked than under more peaceful conditions.

The last time we met Captain Burton during that visit was on the next
night, February 22, 1879, at supper with Mrs. Burton’s sister, Mrs. Van
Tellen.

He was going back almost immediately to Trieste, of which he held the
consulship. In those days this consulship was a pleasant sinecure—an
easy berth with a fairly good salary. It was looked on as a
resting-place for men of letters. Charles Lever held it before Burton.
In the old days of Austrian domination Trieste was an important place
and the consulship a valuable one. But its commercial prosperity began
to wane after the cry _Italia irredenta_ had been efficacious. The only
thing of importance regarding the office that remained was the salary.

III

Six years elapsed before we met again. This was on June 27, 1885. The
Burtons had just come to London and had asked Irving and me to take
supper with them at the Café Royal after the play, _Olivia_. That night
was something of a disappointment. All of our little _partie carrée_ had
made up our minds for a long and interesting—and thus an enjoyable—
evening.

Chiefest amongst the things which Irving was longing to hear him speak
of was that of the death of Edmund Henry Palmer three years earlier.
Palmer had been a friend of Irving’s long before, the two men having
been made known to each other by Palmer’s cousin, Edward Russell, then
in Irving’s service. When Arabi’s revolt broke out in Egypt, Palmer was
sent by the British Government on a special service to gather the
friendly tribes and persuade them to protect the Canal. This, by
extraordinary daring and with heroic devotion, he accomplished; but he
was slain treacherously by some marauders. Burton was then sent out to
bring back his body and to mete out justice to the murderers—so far as
such could be done.

Just before that time Burton had in hand a work from which he expected
to win great fortune both for himself and his employer, the Khedive.
This was to re-open the old Midian gold mines. He had long before, with
endless research, discovered their locality, which had been lost and
forgotten. He had been already organising an expedition, and I had asked
him to take with him my younger brother George, who wished for further
adventure. He had met my suggestion very favourably, and having examined
my brother’s record was keen on his joining him. He wanted a doctor for
his party; and a doctor who was adventurous and skilled in resource at
once appealed to him. Arabi’s revolt postponed such an undertaking; in
Burton’s case the postponement was for ever.

Our new civic brooms had been at work in London and new ordinances had
been established. Punctually at midnight we were inexorably turned out.
Protests, cajoleries, or bribes were of no avail. Out we had to go! I
had a sort of feeling that Burton’s annoyance was only restrained from
adequate expression by his sense of humour. He certainly could be
“adequate”—and in many languages which naturally lend themselves to
invective—when he laid himself out for it. The Fates were more
propitious a few months later, when Irving had a supper at the
Continental Hotel, on July 30—the last night of the season and Benefit
of Ellen Terry. By this time we understood the licensing law and knew
what to do. Irving took a bed at the hotel and his guests were allowed
to remain; this was the merit of a hotel as distinguished from a
restaurant. There was plenty of material for pleasant talk in addition
to Captain and Mrs. Burton, for amongst the guests was James McHenry, J.
L. Toole, Beatty Kingston (the war correspondent of the _Daily
Telegraph_), Willie Winter, Mr. Marquand of New York, and Richard
Mansfield. All was very pleasant, but there was not the charm of
personal reminiscence, which could not be in so large a gathering.

The following year, 1886, however, whilst the Burtons were again in
London, we had two other delightful meetings. On July 9, 1886, Irving
had Sir Richard and Lady Burton—he had been knighted in the meantime—to
supper in the Beefsteak Room after the play, _Faust_. This was another
_partie carrée_; just Sir Richard and Lady Burton, Irving and myself.
That night we talked of many things, chiefly of home interest. Burton
was looking forward to his retirement and was anxious that there should
not be any hitch. He knew well that there were many hands against him
and that if opportunity served he would not be spared. There were
passages in his life which set many people against him. I remember when
a lad hearing of how at a London dinner-party he told of his journey to
Mecca. It was a wonderful feat, for he had to pass as a Muhammedan; the
slightest breach of the multitudinous observances of that creed would
call attention, and suspicion at such a time and place would be instant
death. In a moment of forgetfulness, or rather inattention, he made some
small breach of rule. He saw that a lad had noticed him and was quietly
stealing away. He faced the situation at once, and coming after the lad
in such a way as not to arouse his suspicion suddenly stuck his knife
into his heart. When at the dinner he told this, some got up from the
table and left the room. It was never forgotten. I asked him once about
the circumstance—not the dinner-party, but the killing. He said it was
quite true, and that it had never troubled him from that day to the
moment at which he was speaking. Said he:

“The desert has its own laws, and there—supremely of all the East—to
kill a man is a small offence. In any case what could I do? It had to be
his life or mine!”

As he spoke the upper lip rose and his canine tooth showed its full
length like the gleam of a dagger. Then he went on to say that such
explorations as he had undertaken were not to be entered lightly if one
had qualms as to taking life. That the explorer in savage places holds,
day and night, his life in his hand; and if he is not prepared for every
emergency, he should not attempt such adventures.

Though he had no fear in the ordinary sense of the word, he was afraid
that if any attack were made on him _apropos_ of this it might militate
against his getting the pension for which he was then looking and on
which he largely depended. We spoke of the matter quite freely that
evening. At that time he was not well off. For years he had lived on his
earnings and had not been able to put by much. The _Arabian Nights_
brought out the year before, 1885, produced ten thousand pounds. There
were only a thousand copies issued at a cost of ten guineas each. The
entire edition was subscribed, the amounts being paid in full and direct
to Coutts and Co., so that there were no fees or discounts. The only
charge against the receipts was that of manufacturing the book. This
could not have amounted to any considerable sum, for the paper was poor,
the ink inferior, and the binding cheap. Burton had then in hand another
set of five volumes of _Persian Tales_ to be subscribed in the same way.
Neither of the sets of books were “published” in the literal way. The
issue was absolutely a private one. All Burton’s friends, myself
included, thought it necessary to subscribe. Irving had two sets. The
net profits of these fifteen volumes could hardly have exceeded thirteen
thousand pounds.

Our next meeting was on September 18, 1886, when we were all Irving’s
guests at the Continental once again—another _partie carrée_.

On this occasion the conversation was chiefly of plays. Both Sir Richard
and Lady Burton impressed on Irving how much might be done with a play
taken from some story, or group of stories, in the _Arabian Nights_.
Burton had a most vivid way of putting things—especially of the East. He
had both a fine imaginative power and a memory richly stored not only
from study but from personal experience. As he talked, fancy seemed to
run riot in its alluring power; and the whole world of thought seemed to
flame with gorgeous colour. Burton _knew_ the East. Its brilliant dawns
and sunsets; its rich tropic vegetation, and its arid fiery deserts; its
cool, dark mosques and temples; its crowded bazaars; its narrow streets;
its windows guarded for out-looking and from in-looking eyes; the pride
and swagger of its passionate men, and the mysteries of its veiled
women; its romances; its beauty; its horrors. Irving grew fired as the
night wore on and it became evident that he had it in his mind from that
time to produce some such play as the Burtons suggested, should occasion
serve. It was probably the recollection of that night that brought back
to him, so closely as to be an incentive to possibility, his own glimpse
of the East as seen in Morocco and the Levant seven years before. When
De Bornier published his _Mahomet_ in Paris some few years later he was
in the receptive mood to consider it as a production.

I asked Lady Burton to get me a picture of her husband. She said he had
a rooted dislike to letting any one have his picture, but said she would
ask him. Presently she sent me one, and with it a kindly word: “Dick
said he would give it you, because it was you; but that he wouldn’t have
given it to any one else!”

XLI
SIR HENRY MORTON STANLEY

On October 22, 1882, Irving gave a little dinner to H. M. Stanley in the
small private dining-room of the Garrick Club. The other guests were
George Augustus Sala, Edmund Yates, Col. E. A. Buck of New York, Mr.
Bigelow (then British agent of the U.S. Treasury), H. D. Traill, Clement
Scott, Joseph Hatton, T. H. S. Escott, Frank C. Burnand, W. A.
Burdett-Coutts, J. L. Toole, and myself—fourteen in all.

The time was after Stanley had made his expedition in Africa, which he
afterwards chronicled under the name of _Through the Dark Continent_,
and had gone out again to explore the region of the Congo for the
Brussels African International Association. He had returned for a short
visit to Brussels and London. He had been much in Belgium in
consultation with the King regarding the foundation of the Congo Free
State. Every one present was anxious to hear what he had to say; and
Irving, who, when he chose, was most excellent in drawing any one out,
took care that he had a good leading. Indeed it was a notable evening,
for we sat there after dinner till four o’clock in the morning and for
most of the time he held the floor. He was always interesting and at
times kept us all enthralled. He had a peculiar manner, though less
marked then than it became in later years. He was slow and deliberate of
speech; the habit of watchful self-control seemed even then to have
eaten into the very marrow of his bones. His dark face, through which
the eyes seemed by contrast to shine like jewels, emphasised his slow
speech and measured accents. His eyes were comprehensive, and, in a
quiet way, without appearing to rove, took in everything. He seemed to
have that faculty of sight which my father had described to me of Robert
Houdin, the great conjurer. At a single glance Stanley took in
everything, received facts and assimilated them, gauged character in its
height, and breadth, and depth, and specific gravity; formed opinion so
quickly and so unerringly to the full extent of his capacity that
intention based on what he saw seemed not to follow receptivity but to
go hand in hand with it. Let me give an instance:

At least two of those present did not seem prepared to accept his
statements in simple faith. Of course not a word was said by either to
jar the harmony of the occasion or to convey doubt. But doubt at least
there was; one felt it without evidence. I knew both men well and felt
that it was only the consistent expression of their attitude towards the
unknown. Both, so far as I knew—or know now—were strangers to him,
though of course their names were familiar. I knew from Irving’s glance
at me where I sat across the table from him that he understood. Irving
and I were so much together that after a few years we could almost read
a thought of the other; we could certainly read a glance or an
expression. I have sometimes seen the same capacity in a husband and
wife who have lived together for long and who are good friends,
accustomed to work together and to understand each other. He had a quiet
sardonic humour, and this combined with an intuitive faculty of
reasoning out _data_ before their issue was declared—together with his
glance to my right where the two men sat—seemed to say:

“Look at Yates and Burnand. Stanley will be on to them presently!”

And surely enough he was on to them, and in a remarkable way. He was
describing some meeting with the King of the Belgians regarding the
finances of the new State, and how of those present a small section of
the financiers were making negative difficulties. The way he spoke was
thus:

“Amongst them two ‘doubting Thomases’—as it might be you and you”—making
as he spoke a casual wave of his hand without looking at either, as
though choosing at random; but so manifestly meaning it that all the
other men laughed in an instantaneous chorus.

Somehow that seemed to clear the air for him; and having established a
position which was manifestly accepted by all, he went on to speak more
earnestly.

I shall never forget that description which he gave us of the reaching
that furthest point on Lake Leopold II. that white men had ever reached.
He wrote of it all afterwards in his book on the Congo, though the
incident which he then described differed slightly from the account in
his book produced three years afterwards. No written words could convey
the picturesque convincing force of that quiet utterance, with the
searching still eyes to add to its power. How as the little steamer drew
in shore the natives had rushed in clustering masses ready to do battle.
How one nimble giant had leaped far out on an isolated rock that just
showed its top above the still water, and poised thereon for an instant
had hurled a spear with such force and skill that it passed the limit
they had fixed as the furthest that a missile could reach them and where
they held the boat in safety. How he himself had peremptorily checked in
a whisper one beside him who was preparing to shoot, and he himself took
a gun and fired high in the air just to show the savages that he too had
power and greater power than their own should they choose to use it.
How, awed by the sound and by the steamer, the natives made signs of
obeisance, whereupon he brought the boat close to the rock whence the
warrior had launched his spear and laid thereon offerings of beads and
coloured stuffs and implements of steel, saying as he prepared to move
away:

“We shall come again!”

Then he told of the wonder of the savages; their reverence; their
complete submission! How the canoe moved away in that glory of wonder
which would in time grow to a legend, and then to a belief that some day
white Gods who brought gifts would come to them bringing unknown good.

It was an idyll of peace; a lesson in beneficent pioneering; a page of
the great book of England’s wise kindliness in the civilisation of the
savage which has yet been written but in part. We all sat spell-bound.
There was no “doubting Thomas” then. I think, one and all, we held high
regard and affection for the man who spoke.

Then encouraged by the reception of his words—and after all it was a
noble audience, in kind if not in quantity, for any man to speak to—he
went on at Irving’s request to re-tell to us the story of his finding
Livingstone. Here he did not object to any direct questioning, even when
one man asked him if the report was exact of his taking off his helmet
and bowing when he met the lost explorer with the memorable address:

“Dr. Livingstone, I believe?”

He laughed quietly as he answered affirmatively—a strange thing to see
in that dark, still face, where toil and danger and horror had set their
seals. But it seemed to light up the man from within and show a new and
quite different side to his character.

Somehow there is, I suppose—indeed must be—some subtle emanation from
both character and experience. The propulsive power of the individuality
takes something from the storage of the mind. Certainly some persons who
have been down in deep waters of any kind convey to those who see or
hear them something of the dominating note of their experience. Stanley
had not only the traveller’s look—the explorer’s look; he seemed one
whose goings had been under shadow. It may of course have been that the
dark face and the still eyes and that irregular white of the hair which
speaks of premature stress on vitality conveyed by inference their own
lesson; but most assuredly Henry Stanley had a look of the forest gloom
as marked as Dante’s contemporaries described of him: that of one who
had traversed Heaven and Hell.

After a long time we broke up the set formation of the dinner table, and
one by one in informal turn we each had a chat with the great explorer.
He told us that he wanted some strong, brave, young men to go with him
to Africa, and offered to accept any one whom I could recommend.

The next year, on September 14, we met again when Irving had a large
dinner-party—sixty-four people—at the Continental Hotel. Of course in so
large a party there was little opportunity of general conversation. All
that any one—except a very favoured few who sat close at hand—could
speak or hear was of the commonplace of life—parting and meeting.

I did not meet Stanley again for six years, but Irving met him several
times, and at one of their meetings there was a little matter which gave
me much pleasure:

When we had gone to America in 1883 I had found myself so absolutely
ignorant of everything regarding that great country that I took some
pains to post myself up in things exclusively and characteristically
American. Our tour of 1883–4 was followed by another in 1884–5, so that
in the space of more than a year which the two visits covered I had fine
opportunities of study. In those days Professor James Bryce’s book on
_The American Commonwealth_ had not been written—published at all
events. And there was no standard source from which an absolutely
ignorant stranger could draw information. I found some difficulty then
in buying a copy of an Act of Congress so that I might study its form;
and it was many months before I could get a copy of the Sessional Orders
of Congress. However, before we left at the conclusion of our second
visit I had accumulated a lot of books—histories, works on the
constitution, statistics, census, school books, books of etiquette for a
number of years back, Congressional reports on various subjects—all the
means of reference and of more elaborate study. When I had studied
sufficiently—having all through the tour consulted all sorts of persons—
professors, statesmen, bankers, &c.—I wrote a lecture, which I gave at
the Birkbeck Institute in 1885 and elsewhere. This I published as a
pamphlet in 1886, as _A Glimpse of America_. Stanley had evidently got
hold of it, for one night when we were in Manchester, June 4, 1890, I
had supper alone with Irving and he told me that the last time he had
met him, Stanley had mentioned my little book on America as admirable.
He had said that I had mistaken my vocation—that I should be a literary
man! Of course such praise from such a man gave me a great pleasure.

Strangely enough I had a ratification of this a year later. On March 30,
1891, I met at luncheon, in the house of the Duchess of St. Albans, Dr.
Parke, who had been with Stanley on his journey _In Darkest Africa_; I
had met him before at Edward Marston’s dinner, but we had not had much
opportunity of talking together. He told me that it was one of the very
few books that Stanley had brought with him in his perilous journey
across Africa, and that he had told him that it “had in it more
information about America than any other book that had ever been
written.”

III

The dinner given to Stanley by Edward Marston, the publisher, on the eve
of bringing out Stanley’s great book, _In Darkest Africa_—June 26, 1890—
was a memorable affair. Marston had then published two books of mine,
_Under the Sunset_, and the little book on America, and as “one of his
authors” I was a guest at the dinner. Irving was asked, but he could not
go as he was then out of town on a short holiday, previous to commencing
an engagement of two weeks at the Grand Theatre, Islington, whilst the
Lyceum was occupied by Mr. Augustin Daly’s company from New York. At the
dinner I sat at an inside corner close to Sir Harry (then Mr.) Johnston,
the explorer and administrator, and to Paul B. du Chaillu, the African
explorer who had discovered gorillas. I had met both these gentlemen
before; the first in London several times; the latter in New York, in
December 1884, in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Tailer, who that night were
entertaining Irving and Ellen Terry. There we had sat together at supper
and he had told me much of his African experience and of his adventures
with gorillas. I had of course read his books, but it was interesting to
hear the stories under the magic of the adventurer’s own voice and in
his characteristic semi-French intonation. In the course of conversation
he had said to me something which I never have forgotten—it spoke
volumes:

“When I was young nothing would keep me of out Africa. Now nothing would
make me go there!”

In reply to the toast of his health, Stanley spoke well and said some
very interesting things:

“In my book that is coming out I have said as little as possible about
Emin Pasha. He was to me a study of character. I never met the same kind
of character.” Again:

“I have not gone into details of the forest march and return to the sea.
It was too dreary and too horrible. It will require years of time to be
able to think of its picturesque side.”

At that time Stanley looked dreadfully worn, and much older than when I
had seen him last. The six years had more than their tally of wear for
him, and had multiplied themselves. He was darker of skin than ever; and
this was emphasised by the whitening of his hair. He was then under
fifty years of age, but he looked nearer to eighty than fifty. His face
had become more set and drawn—had more of that look of slight distortion
which comes with suffering and over-long anxiety.

There were times when he looked more like a dead man than a living one.
Truly the wilderness had revenged upon him the exposal of its mysteries.

XLII
ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY

Amongst the interesting visitors to the Lyceum and the Beefsteak Room
was Arminius Vambéry, Professor at the University of Buda-Pesth. On
April 30, 1890, he came to see the play, _The Dead Heart_, and remained
to supper. He was most interesting, and Irving was delighted with him.
He had been to Central Asia, following after centuries the track of
Marco Polo and was full of experiences fascinating to hear. I asked him
if when in Thibet he never felt any fear. He answered:

“Fear of death—no; but I am afraid of torture. I protected myself
against that, however!”

“How did you manage that?”

“I had always a poison pill fastened here, where the lappet of my coat
now is. This I could always reach with my mouth in case my hands were
tied. I knew they could not torture me; and then I did not care!”

He is a wonderful linguist, writes twelve languages, speaks freely
sixteen, and knows over twenty. He told us once that when the Empress
Eugénie remarked to him that it was odd that he who was lame should have
walked so much, he replied:

“Ah, Madam, in Central Asia we travel not on the feet but on the
tongue.”

We saw him again two years later, when he was being given a Degree at
the Tercentenary of Dublin University. On the day on which the delegates
from the various Universities of the world spoke, he shone out as a
star. He soared above all the speakers, making one of the finest
speeches I have ever heard. Be sure that he spoke loudly against Russian
aggression—a subject to which he had largely devoted himself.

XLIII

Shortly after the publication of this book I received a letter from a
gentleman, Mr. Charles Richard Ford, who had in early life been one of
Irving’s companions at Thacker’s in Newgate Street. We met and a few
days afterwards he sent me the following memorandum which he had
written. I give it _in extenso_, as it bears on a period of his life but
little known. This reminiscence of one who was a close friend and who
had kept and valued for more than fifty years every little souvenir of
their companionship—even to his visiting card—is to my mind a valuable
enlightenment as to his life and nature in early days.

By Mr. Ford’s kind permission I am able to reproduce the photograph
alluded to in the monograph.

AN EARLY REMINISCENCE OF SIR HENRY IRVING

BY MR. C. R. FORD

It seems evident that the numerous memoirs of the late Sir Henry
Irving that have appeared in the newspapers have been intended to
cover only that part of his life since he became famous: it may
therefore be interesting to the many friends who have known and
admired him during that period to hear something of his earlier years
in London while engaged in what he himself described as a “musty City
office.”

He began life at the early age of fifteen, and in 1853 was to be met
most days walking down Cheapside, tall, thin and striking-looking,
with that firm, long stride, since so well known, on his way to the
Bank to pay in the firm’s cash.

The thoroughness and carefulness so consistently displayed in all his
future life were eminently apparent in his short City career: he was
always punctual and regular in his attendance at 87 Newgate Street,
and the whole day saw him hard at work at the books committed to his
keeping. These ledgers were put away among other disused books and
remained unthought of for years; some time after he became famous they
were sought for but have never been found.

One of his memoirs speaks of his giving “us boys a halfpenny for
mis-pronouncing words.” The fact, of which this is a perversion,
really showed his keenness in helping others. The staff at Messrs.
Thacker’s was a mixed one and contained in addition to well-educated
gentlemen some who had never grasped the true pronunciation of their
own language. To help the latter, the following paper was drawn up by
Irving (it is still in existence in his handwriting) and signed by
most of the clerks:

LIST OF FINES

_Fine_ for not aspirating h’s, whether in the beginning or in the
middle of words such as house and behaviour.

Exceptions: Honour, heir, honest, herb, hour, hostler, and their
derivatives.

_Fine_ for misplacing the h such as hart for art.

_Fine_ for not giving the pure sound to the u as dooty for duty, toone
for tune and the like.

Exception: blue.

_Fine_ for omitting the g at the end of words, as shillin for
shilling.

_Fine_ for saying jist for jest, jest for just, instid for instead and
such like cockneyisms.

_Fine_ for using the singular number instead of the plural and all
ungrammatical expressions.

We, the undersigned, agree to pay the fine of one halfpenny for each
breach of the foregoing rules and to appoint Mr. J. H. Brodribb as
treasurer.

(Signed) JOHN HENRY BRODRIBB,
(and five others).

_March 20th, 1856._

Only two of the other five are known to be living.

While thus most conscientiously discharging his office duties and
seeking to improve others, he was hard at work after business hours in
self-improvement and in fitting himself for his future career on the
stage. He was a frequent attendant at the Old Sadler’s Wells Theatre and
often stood for more than an hour at the door in order to secure one
particular corner seat in the pit, where he could watch every emotion in
the face of Phelps, especially in his Shakespearean parts. His other
method was to practise himself in the art of elocution by inviting his
relatives and friends to some large rooms placed at his disposal by his
father and mother and entertain them by reading a play through, or with
a selection of recitations. His favourite play for such occasions was
the _Lady of Lyons_, although he more than once read through (somewhat
“cut”) one of Shakespeare’s dramas. His two recitations most impressed
on the mind after fifty years were _Eugene Aram_ and _Skying the
Copper_, evidencing as they undoubtedly did both his remarkable tragic
and comic powers. As showing his thoroughness even then in small
matters, his “make up” for the servant girl in the latter piece has
never been forgotten by one who helped him to rouge his bare arms to the
proper red tint for a “slavey’s.”

The efforts he afterwards so constantly made to place the stage in what
he considered its proper position in the country and its education—as
witness his last speech in favour of a Municipal theatre—were really
begun when still in his “teens.” A young friend had promised to open a
discussion on his suggestion at a literary debating society on the
question of the moral effect of theatrical representations and sought
his aid in forming his arguments in their favour. He at once took a
great deal of trouble, giving him many authorities and writing out long
quotations in favour of the educational value of the stage when properly
conducted; in fact, composing a good half of the paper subsequently
read.

In 1856 he could no longer endure the privation of being kept away from
the profession for which his inner consciousness told him he was fitted.
As an illustration of the errors of judgment clever men may make, his
old employer went to see him at Manchester some time after he left
Newgate Street, and wrote to his son:

“We went to see Brodribb and did not think much of him; he would have
done much better to keep to his stool in Newgate Street.”

This use of his old name brings to remembrance the fact that the name he
made famous was not the first he thought of adopting: indeed he had
cards printed with an entirely different one, J. Hy. Barringtone. The
decision for “Irving” was a sudden one and was made known to a friend in
a short note saying, “I have decided that the name shall be Irving”; but
for some years after this he continued to sign his notes “J. H. B.” to
his family and friends.

Nothing he enjoyed more than studying human nature in its various phases
of excitement. He was found one day on the hustings of a contested
election and much enjoyed pointing out how the passions of those in
front of his view-point were delineated in their actions and faces. At
another time he happened to be present at a provincial cricket dinner,
which ended in a fiasco, and it is not easy to forget how eagerly he
watched the physiognomies of those who unhappily contended around him.
It was on this occasion, after he had previously electrified the company
with one of his powerful recitations (he was still a City clerk), that
upon being asked to give a toast, he gave one typical of his own
feelings on such occasions, “The Pleasure of Pleasing.”

The time came when he left the City—July 1856—and entered upon his new
and loved profession. He was most careful in the selection of articles
that would be useful to him in his future career, and the wonderful
forethought and adaptation which were afterwards so successful at the
Lyceum were foreshadowed in the purchases for his first small wardrobe.

Although he did not look back with much pleasure to his days in the
City, he always welcomed most heartily and kindly any of his former
companions who called on him at the Lyceum, and in one instance gave
employment to one needing it.

One object of these reminiscences is to show his numerous friends that
as a youth he developed the same kindly, thoughtful and clever
characteristics which they recognised and admired in his later life.

The very early portrait of him in the possession of the writer gives
clear evidence to those who knew his father in the early fifties, how
closely he inherited his remarkable physiognomy, while much of his
mental power was undoubtedly derived from the mother who doted on him—of
whom she always spoke as “My Boy.”

One later reminiscence may be added. He was met on June 21, 1887,
walking up and down opposite the Horse Guards, studying the holiday
crowd and waiting for the return of the Queen’s Jubilee procession. As
his salutation, his friend asked him “How is it you are not in the
Abbey?” The reply was, “Oh, they have given me a seat, but I don’t think
I shall go in.” The service was then about half over, but his well-known
face appears in the plate published to commemorate the Jubilee, in the
place assigned to him. This is only one out of many illustrations that
might be given of his delight in quiet enjoyment, rather than in any
desire for public notoriety. We know that the laurel pall used over his
coffin in Westminster Abbey covered the ashes not only of a “dominating
personality” but also of a true gentleman.

C. R. F.

XLIV
IRVING’S PHILOSOPHY OF HIS ART

Irving and I were alone together one hot afternoon in August 1889,
crossing in the steamer from Southsea to the Isle of Wight, and were
talking of that phase of Stage Art which deals with the conception and
development of character. In the course of our conversation, whilst he
was explaining to me the absolute necessity of an actor’s understanding
the prime qualities of a character in order that he may make it
throughout consistent, he said these words:

“_If you do not pass a character through your own mind it can never be
sincere!_”

I was much struck with the phrase, coming as it did as the crown of an
argument—the explanation of a great artist’s method of working out a
conceived idea. To me it was the embodiment of an artistic philosophy.
Even in the midst of an interesting conversation, during which we
touched upon many subjects of inner mental working, the phrase presented
itself as one of endless possibilities, and hung as such in my mind.
Lest I should forget the exact words I wrote them then and there in my
pocket-book. I entered them later in my diary.

I think that if I had interrupted the conversation at the above words
and asked my friend to expound his philosophy and elaborate it, he would
have been for an instant amused, and on the impulse of the moment would
have deprecated the use of such an important word. Men untrained to
mental science and unfamiliar with its terminology are apt to place too
much importance on abstract, wide-embracing terms, and to find the
natural flow of their true thought interrupted by disconcerting fears.
His amusement would have been only momentary, however. I know now, after
familiar acquaintance with his intellectual method for over a quarter of
a century, that with his mental quickness—which was so marked as now and
again to seem like inspiration—he would have grasped the importance of
the theme as bearing upon the Art to which he had devoted himself and to
his own part in it. He would have tried to explain matters as new and
relevant subjects, causes or consequences, presented themselves. But
such an exposition would have been—must have been—confused and
incomplete. The process of a creative argument is a silent and lonely
one, requiring investigation and guesses; the following up of clues in
the labyrinth of thought till their utility or their falsity has been
proved. The most that a striving mind can do at such a time is to keep
sight of some main purpose or tendency—some perpetual recognition of its
objective. If in addition the thinker has to keep eternally and
consciously within his purview a lot of other subjects bearing on his
main idea, each with its own attendant distractions and divergencies,
his argument would to a listener seem but a jumble of undigested facts,
deductions and imaginings. Moreover, it would leave in the mind of the
latter a belief that the speaker is without any real conviction at all;
a mere groper in the dark. If, on the other hand, the man in thinking
out his problem tries to bear in mind his friend’s understanding—with an
eye to his ultimate approval and acceptance of his argument and
conclusion—he is apt to limit himself to commonplace and accepted
truths. In such case his thought is machine-made, and lacks the
penetrative force which has its origin in intellectual or psychic fire.
A whole history of such thought cannot equal a single glimpse or hint of
an earnest mind working truly.

As Irving on that pleasant voyage spoke the words which seemed to
explain his whole intellectual method I grasped instinctively the
importance of the utterance, though the argument did not then present
itself in its entirety.

To me the words became a text of which the whole of his work seemed the
expounding. From him, as an artist, the thought was elementary and
basic; explanatory and illuminative.

To “pass a character through your mind” requires a scientific process of
some kind; some process which is natural, and therefore consistent. If
we try to analyse the process we shall find that it is in accord with
any other alimentative process. Nature varies in details, but her
intents and objects are fixed: to fit and sustain each to its appointed
task. In the animal or vegetable kingdoms, so in the mind of man. The
hemlock and the apple take the juices of the earth through different
processes of filtration; the one to noxious ends, the other to
beneficence. Hardness and density have their purpose in the mechanism of
the vegetable world; the wood rejects what the softer and more open
valves or tissues receive. So too in the world of animal life. The wasp
and the viper, the cuttle-fish and the stinging ray work to different
ends from the sheep and the sole, the pheasant and the turtle. But one
and all draw alimentative substance from common sources. But he who
would understand character must draw varying results from common causes.
And the only engine powerful enough in varying purposes for this duty is
the human brain. Again, the worker in imagination is the one who most
requires different types and varying methods of development. And still
again, of all workers in imagination, the actor has most need for
understanding; for on him is imposed the task of re-creating to external
and material form types of character written in abstractions. It behoves
him, then, primarily to understand what exactly it is that he has to
materialise. To this end two forms of understanding are necessary:
first, that which the poet—the creator or maker of the play—sets down
for him; second, the truth of the given individual to the type or types
which he is supposed to represent. This latter implies a large knowledge
of types; for how can any man judge of the truth of things when to him
both the type and the instance are strange. Thus it happens that an
actor should be a judge of character; an understander of those
differences which discriminate between classes and individuals of the
class. This is an actor’s study at the beginning of his work—when he is
preparing to study his Art.

Let me say at the outset of this branch of my subject, that I am trying
to put into words and the words into some sort of ordered sequence, that
knowledge of his craft which in a long course of years Irving conveyed
to me. Sometimes the conveyance was made consciously, sometimes
unconsciously. By words, by inferences, by acting; by what he added to
seemingly completed work, or by what he omitted after fuller thought or
experience. One by one, or group by group, these things were
interesting, though often of seeming unimportance; but taken altogether
they go to make up a philosophy. In trying to formulate this I am not
speaking for myself. I am but following so well as I can the manifested
wisdom of the master of his craft. Here and there I shall be able to
quote Irving’s exact words, spoken or written after mature thought and
with manifest and deliberate purpose. For the rest, I can only
illustrate by his acting, or at worst by the record of the impression
conveyed to my own mind.

III

We may, I think, divide the subject thus:

CHARACTER
_A._—ITS ESSENCE {_x._—_The Dramatist’s setting out of it_
{_y._—_Its truth to accepted type_
{_z._—_The Player’s method of studying these two_
_B._—RETICENCE
_C._—ART AND
TRUTH

THE PLAY
STAGE PERSPECTIVE
DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS
INDIVIDUALITY, AND THE KNOWLEDGE OF IT

IV
CHARACTER

_A._—ITS ESSENCE

We think in abstractions, but we live in concretions. In real life an
individual who is not in any way distinguishable from his fellows is but
a poor creature after all and is not held of much account by anybody.
That law of nature which makes the leaves of a tree or the units of any
genus, any species, any variety all different—which in the animal or the
vegetable world alike makes each unit or class distinguishable whilst
adhering to the type—is of paramount importance to man. Tennyson has
hammered all this out and to a wonderful conclusion in those splendid
stanzas of _In Memoriam_ LIV to LVI beginning “Oh yet we trust that
somehow good” to “Behind the veil, behind the veil.” Let it be
sufficient for us to know and accept that there can be endless
individual idiosyncrasies without violation of type. To understand these
is the study of character. The _differentia_ of each individual is an
endless and absorbing study, not given to all to master. Some at least
of this mastery is a necessary part of the equipment of an actor. Now
there is a common saying that “the eyebrow is the actor’s feature.” This
is largely true; but there is a double purpose in its truth. In the
first place the eyebrow is movable at will; a certain amount of exercise
can give mobility and control. It can therefore heighten expression to a
very marked degree. But in addition it, when in a marked degree, is the
accompaniment of large frontal sinuses—those bony ridges above the
eyebrows which in the terminology of physiognomy imply the power to
distinguish minute differences, and so are credited with knowledge of
“character”—the difference between one and another; divergences within a
common type. With this natural equipment and the study which inevitably
follows—for powers are not given to men in vain—the actor can by
experience know types, and endless variants and combinations of the
same. So can any man who has the quality. But the actor alone has to
work out the ideas given to him by this study in recognisable material
types and differentiated individual instances of the same type.

_x_

The dramatist having, whether by instinct or reason, selected his type
has in the play to give him situations which can allow opportunity for
the expression of his qualities; words in which he can expound the
thoughts material to him in the given situations; and such hints as to
personal appearance, voice and bearing as can assist the imagination of
a reader. All these things must be consistent; there must be nothing
which would show to the student falsity to common knowledge. “Do men
gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?” has a large application
in art, and specially in stage art. It is the ignorance or neglect of
this eternal law which is to my mind the weakness of some writers.
Instance Ibsen who having shown in some character an essential quality
through one or two acts makes the after action of the character quite at
variance with it. A similar fault weakens certain of the fine work of
“Ian Maclaren” when he proceeds to explain away in a later story some
perfectly consistent and understandable quality of mind or action in one
of his powerful and charming character stories. No after-explanation can
supersede the conviction of innate character.

_y_

Now a dramatist is at perfect liberty to choose any type he likes and to
deal with his individual creations just as he chooses. There is no law
against it; however ridiculous it may be, it makes no breach of any code
in accepted morals. But he should at least be true to itself. It is by
such qualities that posterity as well as the juries of the living judge.
The track of literary progress is littered with wreckage from breaches
of this truth.

Of this we may be sure: if a character have in itself opposing qualities
which cannot be reconciled, then it can never have that unity which
makes for strength. Therefore the actor who has to represent the
abstract idea as a concrete reality must at the beginning understand the
dramatist’s intention. He can by emphasis of one kind or another help to
convey the dominant idea. There is an exact instance of this from
Irving’s own work; one which at the same time illustrates how an actor,
howsoever thoughtful and experienced he may be, can learn: For a good
many years he had played Shylock to universal praise; then, all at once,
he altered it. Altered it in the manner of utterances of the first words
he speaks: “Three thousand ducats,—well.” He explained it to me when
having noticed the change I asked him about it. He said that it was due
to the criticism of a _blind_ man—I think it was the Chaplain of the
American Senate, Dr. Milburn.

“What did he say?” I asked. He answered with a thoughtful smile:

“He said: ‘I thought at first that you were too amiable. I seemed to
miss the harsh note of the usurer’s voice!’ He was quite right! The
audience should from the first understand, if one can convey it, the
dominant note of a character!”

This was distinctly in accordance with his own theory; and he always
remembered gratefully the man who so enlightened him. The incident
illustrates one phase of “passing a character through one’s own mind.”
When it has gone through this process it takes a place as an actual
thing—a sort of clothing of the player’s own identity with the
attributes of another. This new-seeming identity must have at first its
own limitations; the clothing does not fit—somewhere too tight,
elsewhere too loose. But at last things become easier. The individuality
within, being of plastic nature, adapts itself by degrees to its
surroundings. And then for purposes of external expression the mastery
is complete.

Experience adds much to this power of mastery. When an actor has played
many parts he learns to express the dominant ideas of various characters
in simple form, so that each, through a sort of artistic metonymy,
becomes a type. In fact, as he goes on studying fresh characters he gets
a greater easiness of expression; he is not creating every time, but is
largely combining things already created. This is true Art. The
etymology of the word shows that its purpose is rather to join than to
create. Were it not that each mind must create the units which have to
be joined, histrionic art would not be primarily a creative art.

In Irving’s own words:

“It is often supposed that great actors trust to the inspiration of
the moment. Nothing can be more erroneous. There will, of course, be
such moments when an actor at a white heat illumines some passages
with a flood of imagination (and this mental condition, by the way, is
impossible to the student sitting in his arm-chair); but the great
actor’s surprises are generally well weighed, studied, and
balanced.... And it is this accumulation of such effects which enables
an actor, after many years, to present many great characters with
remarkable completeness.”

And again when he insists upon the _intention_ of effect:

“It is necessary that the actor should learn to think before he
speaks.... Let him remember, first that every sentence expresses a new
thought, and, therefore, frequently demands a change of intonation;
secondly, that the thought precedes the word. Of course, there are
passages in which thought and language are borne along by the streams
of emotion and completely intermingled. But more often it will be
found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental effects are
obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the tongue gives
it words.”

I well remember at one of our meetings in 1876 when after dinner we had
some “recitations,” according to the custom of that time, Irving was
very complimentary to my own work because I anticipated words by
expression, particularly by the movement of my eyes.

_z_

So far, the study of natural types and the acceptance of the dramatist’s
ideas. But next the actor has to learn how to show best the development
of character. It is not to the purpose of a high-grade play that each
character can be at the start as though labelled thus or thus. As the
story unfolds itself the new situations bring into view qualities
hitherto unknown; there has been heretofore no necessity for knowing
them. Here it is that the dramatist must not make contradictions. He may
show opposing qualities—such make the struggles of life and passions
which it is the duty of the drama to portray; but the opposing forces,
though they may clash, must not deny each other’s very existence. Honour
and baseness do not synchronously coexist; neither do patriotism and
treachery; nor truth and falshood; nor cruelty and compassion. If it be
necessary in the struggles of good and bad—any of the common phases of
human nature—in the same individual to show that now and again either
dominates for a time, the circumstances must be so arranged as to show
preponderating cause. If the dramatist keeps up to this standard all can
go well. But if his work be crude and not in itself illuminative, the
actor’s work becomes more complex and more difficult. He has in the
manifold ways of his own craft to show from the first the
_possibilities_ of character which later on will have to be dealt with.
He will have to suggest the faintest _beginnings_ of things which later
are to be of perhaps paramount importance.

This it is that Irving meant when he said that a character should be
“sincere.” It must not be self-contradictory. He put this point very
definitely:

“... the actor must before all things form a definite conception of
what he wishes to convey. It is better to be wrong and consistent,
than to be right, yet hesitating and uncertain.”

And thus it is that the actor’s skill can so largely supplement that of
the dramatist. He must add whatever the other has omitted or left
undone. He must make straight the path which is in common to himself,
the dramatist, and the public. He must prepare by subtle means—not too
obtrusive to be distracting to the present purpose, nor too slight to
pass altogether unnoticed—the coming of something as yet below the
horizon. If this be done with care—and care implies both study and
premeditation—the sincerity of the character will from first to last be
unimpaired.

_B._—RETICENCE

On the other side of this phase of the Art of Acting is that fine
undefinable quality of all art which is known as “reticence.” Restraint
is almost as rare as passion. The “reticence” of the actor is perhaps
its most difficult phase. For he has to express that which has in the
others to be concealed; and if his expression be too marked, not only
does the restraint cease to exist, but a wrong idea—that of concealment—
is conveyed.

_C._—ART AND TRUTH

All these things are parts of an integral whole; they all go to the
formation of an Art. Art is in itself only a part of the mechanism of
truth. It is from the inner spirit that the outward seeming must derive.
Rules and laws are but aids, restraints, methods of achievement; but it
is after all to nature that the artist must look. In the words of Pope:

“These laws of old discover’d, not deviz’d,
Are nature still but nature methodiz’d.”

Irving put the idea thus:

“... merely to imitate is not to apply a similar method ... the
greatest of all the lessons that Art can teach is this: that truth is
supreme and eternal. No phase of art can achieve much on a false
basis. Sincerity, which is the very touchstone of Art, is
instinctively recognised by all.”

V
THE PLAY

The play as a whole is a matter of prime consideration for the actor,
though it only comes into his province _quâ_ actor in a secondary way.
In the working of a theatre it is the province of the stage manager to
arrange the play as an entity; the actor has to deal with it only with
reference to his own scenes. But the actor must understand the whole
scheme so as to realise the ultimate purpose; otherwise his limitations
may become hindrances to this. Irving, who was manager as well as actor,
puts the matter plainly from the more comprehensive point of view:

“It is most important that an actor should learn that he is a figure
in a picture, and that the least exaggeration destroys the harmony of
the composition. All the members of the company should work toward a
common end, with the nicest subordination of their individuality to
the general purpose.”

Here we have again the lesson of restraint—of reticence. There are also
various other forms of the same need, to which he has at various times
alluded. For instance, speaking of the presentation of a play he said:

“You want, above all things, to have a truthful picture which shall
appeal to the eye without distracting the imagination from the purpose
of the drama.”

In fact Irving took the broadest possible views of the aims and
possibilities of his chosen art, and of the duties as well as of the
methods of those who follow it. He even put it that the State had its
duty with regard to the art of illusion:

“The mere study of the necessities and resources of theatre art—the
art of illusion—should give the theatre as an educational medium a
place in State economy. Just think for a moment: a comprehensive art
effort which consolidates into one entity which has an end and object
and purpose of its own, all the elements of which any or all of the
arts and industries take cognisance—thought, speech, passion, humour,
pathos, emotion, distance, substance, form, size, colour, time, force,
light, illusion to each or all of the senses, sound, tone, rhythm,
music, motion. Can such a work be undertaken lightly or with
inadequate preparation? Why, the mere patience necessary for the
production of a play might take a high place in the marvels of human
effort.”

VI
STAGE PERSPECTIVE

One of the things on which Irving always insisted was a knowledge and
understanding of stage perspective, and of its application in the
practice not only of the art of the stage in its scenic and illusive
aspect but of the art of acting:

“The perspective of the stage is not that of real life, and the result
of seeming is achieved by means which, judged by themselves, would
seem to be indirect. It is only the raw recruit who tries to hit the
bull’s eye by point-blank firing and who does not allow for elevation
and windage.”

In pointing out the necessity of speaking more loudly on the stage than
in a room, he puts the same idea in a different and perhaps a broader
way:

“This exaggeration applies to everything on the stage. To appear to be
natural, you must in reality be much broader than natural. To act on
the stage as one really would in a room would be ineffective and
colourless.”

He never forgot—and never allowed any one else to forget—that the
purpose of stage art is illusion. Its aim is not to present reality but
its semblance; not to be, but to seem. He puts it thus:

“The function of art is to do and not to create—it is to make to seem,
and not to make to be, for to make to be is the Creator’s work.”

He had before said:

“It must never be forgotten that all art has the aim or object of
seeming and not of being, and to understate is as bad as to overstate
the modesty or the efflorescence of nature.”

Thus we get the higher aim: to seem to be—but always in such wise that
nature shall be worthily represented. Nature

“At once the end and aim and test of art.”

So Pope. Irving put the value nature as against the mere pretence thus:

“To be natural on the stage is most difficult, and yet a grain of
nature is worth a bushel of artifice.... Nature may be overdone by
triviality in conditions that demand exaltation.... Like the practised
orator, the actor rises and descends with his sentiment, and cannot be
always in a fine frenzy.”

How true this is; how consistent with eternal truth! Nature has her
moods, why not man; has her means of expressing them, why not man also?
Nature has her tones; and with these why may not the heart of man
vibrate and express itself?

In this connection and with the same illustration—the orator compared
with the actor—Irving put a new phase of the same idea:

“It matters little whether the actor sheds tears or not, so long as he
can make his audience shed them; but if tears can be summoned at will
and subject to his control it is true art to utilise such a power, and
happy is the actor whose sensibility has at once such delicacy and
discipline. In this respect the actor is like the orator. Eloquence is
all the more moving when it is animated and directed by a fine and
subtle sympathy which affects the spectator though it does not master
him.”

VII
DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS

The last-mentioned utterance of Irving’s brings us at once to the
deepest problem in the art of acting: the value and use of sensibility.
Throughout his later life, from the time he first entered the polemics
of his art, he held consistently to one theory. To him the main
disputants were Diderot and Talma; any other was merely a supporter of
the theory of either.

Diderot in his _Paradox of Acting_ held that for good acting there must
be no real feeling on the part of the actor:

“Extreme sensibility makes middling actors; middling sensibility makes
the ruck of bad actors; in complete absence of sensibility is the
possibility of a sublime actor.”

Irving’s comment on this theory is:

“The exaltation of sensibility in Art may be difficult to define, but
it is none the less real to all who have felt its power.”

Talma[1] held quite the opposite view to that of Diderot. To him one of
the first qualifications of an actor is sensibility, which indeed he
considered the very source of imagination. To this quality, he held,
there must be added intelligence:

Footnote 1:

When Irving began to consider this branch of the “true inwardness” of
his work he was so much struck with the argument of Talma that he had
it translated and inserted in _The Theatre_. This was easy of
accomplishment, for with regard to that magazine he had only to ask.

As a matter of fact _The Theatre_ at that time belonged to him. He had
long considered it advisable that there should be some organ in which
matters deeply concerning the stage could be set forth. He accordingly
arranged with the late Mr. F. W. Hawkins, then a sub-editor of the
_Times_, to take the work in hand. Hawkins had already by his work
shown his interest in the stage; Irving had a high opinion of his
“Life of Edmund Kean” and of his book on the French stage which he had
then well in hand. He trusted Hawkins entirely; gave him a free hand,
and never interfered with him in any possible way except to suggest
some useful article of a neutral kind. He would never even give a hint
of his own opinion regarding any one of his own profession, but kept
studiously out of the theatrical party-politics of the day. Hawkins
had his own views which he was perfectly well able to support; he
could take care of himself. Irving was content that the magazine
should exist, and footed the bills. Later on when the editorship was
vacant Irving made a present of the whole thing to Clement Scott who
said that he would like to see what he could do with it.

The Talma articles appeared in _The Theatre_ for the 30th January and
6th and 13th February 1877. This was before I came to Irving. It was
long afterwards when I read them.

In 1883 Walter Herries Pollock, then editor of the _Saturday Review_,
a great friend of Irving, produced an edition of the _Paradox of
Acting_ to which Irving wrote a preface. In this he set out his own
views in his comments on the work of Diderot.

“To form a great actor ... the union of sensibility and intelligence
is required.”

Irving used his knowledge of the controversy to this effect:

“I do not recommend actors to allow their feelings to carry them
away ...; but it is necessary to warn you against the theory,
expounded with brilliant ingenuity by Diderot, that the actor never
feels.... Has not the actor who can ... make his feelings a part of
his art an advantage over the actor who never feels, but makes his
observations solely from the feelings of others? _It is necessary to
this art that the mind should have, as it were, a double
consciousness, in which all the emotions proper to the occasion may
have full swing, while the actor is all the time on the alert for
every detail of his method...._ The actor who combines the electric
force of a strong personality with a mastery of the resources of his
art, must have a greater power over his audiences than the passionless
actor who gives a most artistic simulation of the emotions he never
experiences.”

The sentence printed in italics is a really valuable addition to the
philosophy of acting. It is Irving’s own and is, as may be seen, a
development or corollary of Talma’s conclusion. Talma required as a
necessity of good acting both sensibility and intelligence. But Irving
claimed that in the practice of the art they must exist and act
synchronously. This belief he cherished, and on it he acted with
excellent result. I have myself seen a hundred instances of its
efficiency in the way of protective self-control; of conscious freedom
of effort; of self-reliance; of confidence in giving the reins to
passion within the set bounds of art.[2]

Footnote 2:

I have seen a good many times Irving illustrate and prove the theory
of the dual consciousness in and during his own acting; when he has
gone on with his work heedless of a fire on the stage and its
quelling: when a gas-tank underneath the stage exploded and actually
dispersed some of the boarding close to him, he all the time
proceeding without even a moment’s pause or a falter in his voice. One
other occasion was typical. During a performance of _The Lyons Mail_,
whilst Dubose surrounded by his gang was breaking open the iron
strong-box conveyed in the mail-cart the horses standing behind him
began to get restive and plunged about wildly, making a situation of
considerable danger. The other members of the murderous gang were
quickly off the stage, and the dead body of the postillion rolled away
to the wings. But Irving never even looked round. He went calmly on
with his work of counting the _billets de banque_, whilst he
interlarded the words of the play with admonitions to his comrades not
to be frightened but to come back and attend to their work of robbing.
Not for an instant did he cease to be Dubose though in addition he
became manager of the theatre.

In speaking of other branches of the subject Irving said:

“An actor must either think for himself or imitate some one else.”

And again:

“For the purely monkey arts of life there is no future—they stand only
in the crude glare of the present, and there is no softness for them,
in the twilight of either hope or memory. With the true artist the
internal force is the first requisite—the external appearance being
merely the medium through which this is made known to others.”

VIII
INDIVIDUALITY, AND THE KNOWLEDGE OF IT

If an actor has to learn of others—often primarily—through his own
emotions, it is surely necessary that he learn first to know himself. He
need not take himself as a standard of perfection—though poor human
nature is apt to lean that way; but he can accept himself as something
that he knows. If he cannot get that far he will never know anything.
With himself then, and his self-knowledge as a foothold, he may begin to
understand others.[3]

Footnote 3:

As an instance of the efficacy of the method, let any one try to tell
character by handwriting. It is very simple, after all. Let him take
the strange writing, and after making himself familiar with it,
measure it by himself, asking himself: “Under stress of what emotion
would my own writing most nearly resemble that?” Let him repeat this
with each sign of divergence from his own caligraphy: and in a short
time he will be astonished with the result. So it is with all studies
of character. Without any standard the task is impossible; but weigh
each against your own self-knowledge and you at once begin to acquire
comparative knowledge of simple qualities capable of being combined
endlessly.

Γνῶθι σεαυτὸν Know thyself! It is, after all, the base of all knowledge—
the foothold for all forward thought. Commenting on the speech of
Polonius: “To thine own self be true,” Irving said:

“But how can a man be true to himself if he does not know himself?
‘Know thyself’ was a wisdom of the Ancients. But how can a man know
himself if he mistrusts his own identity, and if he puts aside his
special gifts in order to render himself an imperfect similitude of
some one else?”

Thus we have come back to Irving’s original proposition:

“If you do not pass a character through your own mind it can never be
sincere.” The logical wheel has gone its full round and is back at the
starting-place. Begin with the argument where you will it must come
sooner or later to the same end: “To know others know yourself.” Your
own identity is that which you must, for histrionic purposes, clothe
with attributes not your own. You must have before your mind some
definite image of what you would portray; and your own feeling must be
ultimately its quickening force.

So far, the resolution of the poet’s thought into a moving, breathing,
visible, tangible character. But that is not the completion of the
endeavour. In the philosophy of histrionic art are rarer heights than
mere embodiment, mere vitality, mere illusion. The stage is a world of
its own, and has its own ambitions, its own duties. Truth either to
natural types or to the arbitrary creations of the dramatist is not
sufficient. For the altitudes something else is required. Irving set it
forth thus:

“Finally in the consideration of the Art of Acting, it must never be
forgotten that its ultimate aim is beauty. Truth itself is only an
element of beauty, and to merely reproduce things vile and squalid and
mean is a debasement of art.”

Here he supports the theory of Taine that art, like nature, has its own
selective power; and that in the wisdom of its choosing is its power for
good. Does it not march with that sublime apothegm of Burke: “Vice
itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness”?

Finally Irving summed up the whole Philosophy of his Art and of its
place amongst the sister Arts in a few sentences:

“In painting and in the drama the methods of the workers are so
entirely opposed, and the materials with which they work are so
different, that a mutual study of the other work cannot but be of
service to each. Your painter works in mouldable materials, inanimate,
not sensitive but yielding to the lightest touch. His creation is the
embodiment of the phantasm of his imagination, for in art the purpose
is to glorify and not merely to reproduce. He uses forms and facts of
nature that he may not err against nature’s laws. But such natural
facts as he assimilates are reproduced in his work, deified by the
strength of his own imagination. Actors, on the other hand, have to
work with materials which are all natural, and not all plastic, but
are all sensitive—with some of the strength and all the weakness of
flesh and blood. The actor has first to receive in his own mind the
phantasmal image which is conveyed to him by the words of the poet;
and this he has to reproduce as well as he can with the faulty
material which nature has given to him. Thus the painter and the poet
begin from different ends of the gamut of natural possibilities—the
one starts from nature to reach imagination, the other from
imagination to reach at reality. And if the means be not inadequate,
and if the effort be sincere, both can reach that veritable ground
where reality and imagination join. This is the true realism towards
which all should aim—the holy ground whereon is reared the Pantheon of
all the Arts.”

XLV
THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE

For fourteen years, from 1881 to 1895, Mr. Gladstone was a visitor at
the Lyceum. The first occasion was on the First night of _The Cup_,
January 3, 1881, of which I have already written. He had known Irving
before, but this was the first time he had been behind the Lyceum
scenes. He was very interested in everything, especially those matters
of which up to then he knew little such as the setting of the scenes.
His fund of information was prodigious and one could feel that he took a
delight in adding to it. He was on that occasion very complimentary
about all he saw and very anxious to know of the reality—as
distinguished from the seeming—of things such as food and drink used,
&c. That night his visit to the stage was only a passing one as he sat
through the active part of the play in his own box, except during a part
of one scene.

He seemed ever afterwards to take a great interest in Irving and all he
did. On July 8 of the same year he came to the Lyceum and brought Lord
Northbrook with him. Whenever he visited the theatre after 1881 he
always came and went by the private door in Burleigh Street, and he
always managed to visit Irving on the stage or in his dressing-room or
both. The public seemed to take a delight in seeing him at the theatre,
and he appeared to take a delight in coming. I honestly believe that he
found in it, now and again, an intellectual stimulant—either an
excitement or a pausing-time _before_ some great effort, or a relief of
change from fact to fancy _after_ it. For instance: On April 8, 1886,
Thursday, he made his great speech in the House of Commons introducing
the Home Rule Bill—amid a time of great excitement. Two nights after,
Saturday night, he came to the Lyceum—and received an immense ovation.
Again, in the time of bitter regret and anxiety when Parnell made the
violent attack on him in his Manifesto, November 29, 1890, Saturday, he
took his earliest opportunity, Tuesday, December 2, of coming to the
Lyceum.

[Illustration:

_Photo Window & Grove_

ELLEN TERRY AS IMOGEN, 1896
]

This visit was a somewhat special one, for it was the first time that
Mr. Gladstone came to sit behind the scenes in the O.P.[4] proscenium
corner which then became known as “Mr. Gladstone’s seat.” The occasion
of it was thus: I had the year previously written an Irish novel, _The
Snake’s Pass_, which after running as a serial through the London
_People_ and several provincial papers had now been published in book
form. I had done myself the pleasure of sending an early copy to Mr.
Gladstone, whose magnificent power and ability and character I had all
my life so much admired. Having met and conversed with him several times
I felt in a way justified in so doing. He had at once written; I
received his letter the same day—that of publication, November 18, 1890.
I give his letter, which was in the post-card form then usual to him. I
think it is a good example of his method of correspondence, kind and
thoughtful and courteous—a model of style. I had as may be gathered
written with some diffidence, or delicacy of feeling:

Footnote 4:

Opposite prompt.

“DEAR MR. BRAM STOKER,—My social memory is indeed a bad one, yet not
so bad as to prevent my recollection of our various meetings. I thank
you much for your work, and for your sympathy; and I hope to have
perused all your pages before we meet again. When that will be I know
not; but I am so fond a lover of _The Bride of Lammermoor_ that I may
take the desperate step of asking Mr. Irving whether he will some
night, if it is on, let me sit behind the stage pillar—a post which C.
Kean once gave me, and which alone would make me sure to hear.—Yours
faithfully,

“W.E. GLADSTONE.

“_N. 18, 90._”

Some days later, after a most cordial invitation from Irving, it was
arranged that he should choose exactly what date he wished and that all
should be ready for him. There could be no difficulty, as _Ravenswood_
was the only play then in the bill and would hold it alone till the
beginning of the new year. When he did come I met him and Mrs. Gladstone
at the private door and piloted them across the stage, which was the
nearest way to Irving’s box. The door to it was beside the corner where
Mr. Gladstone would sit.

Possibly it was that as Mr. Gladstone was then full of Irish matters my
book, being of Ireland and dealing with Irish ways and specially of a
case of oppression by a “gombeen” man under a loan secured on land,
interested him, for he had evidently read it carefully. As we walked
across the stage he spoke to me of it very kindly and very searchingly.
Of course I was more than pleased when he said:

“That scene at Mrs. Kelligan’s is fine—very fine indeed!”

Now it must be remembered that, in the interval between his getting the
book and when we met, had occurred one of the greatest troubles and
trials of his whole political life. The hopes which he had built through
the slow progress of years for the happy settlement of centuries-old
Irish troubles had been suddenly almost shattered by a bolt from the
blue, and his great intellect and enormous powers of work and
concentration had been for many days strained to the utmost to keep the
road of the future clear from the possibility of permanent destruction
following on temporary embarrassment. And yet in the midst of all he
found time to read—and remember, even to details and names—the work of
an unimportant friend.

When it had been known on the stage that Mr. Gladstone was coming that
night to sit behind the scenes the men seemed determined to make it a
gala occasion. They had prepared the corner where he was to sit as
though it were for Royalty. They had not only swept and dusted but had
scrubbed the floor; and they had rigged up a sort of canopy of crimson
velvet so that neither dust nor draught should come to the old man. His
chair was nicely padded and made comfortable. The stage men were all, as
though by chance, on the stage and all in their Sunday clothes. As the
Premier came in all hats went off. I showed Mr. Gladstone his nook and
told him, to his immense gratification, how the men had prepared it on
their own initiative. We chatted till the time drew near for the curtain
to go up. Then I fixed him in his place and showed him how to watch for
and avoid the drop-scene, the great roller of which would descend guided
by the steel cord drawn taut beside him. Lest there should be any danger
through his unfamiliarity with the ways of theatres, I signalled the
Master Carpenter to come to me and thus cautioned him:

“Would it not be well,” I said, “if some one stood near here in case of
accident?”

“It’s all right, sir, we have provided for that. The two best and
steadiest men in the theatre are here ready!” I looked round and they
were—alert and watchful. And there they remained all night. There was
not going to be any chance of mishap to Mr. Gladstone _that_ night!

I went always to join him between the acts, and Irving, when he had
opportunity from his dressing—of which there was a good deal in
_Ravenswood_—would come to talk with him. We were all, whatever our
political opinions individually, full of the Parnell Manifesto and its
many bearings on political life. For myself, though I was a
philosophical Home-Ruler, I was much surprised and both angry at and
sorry for Parnell’s attitude, and I told Mr. Gladstone my opinion. He
said with great earnestness and considerable feeling:

“I am very angry, but I assure you I am even more sorry.”

On that particular night he was very chatty, and in commenting on the
play compared, strangely enough, Caleb Balderstone with Falstaff. He was
interested and eager about everything round him and asked innumerable
questions. In the course of conversation he said that he had always
taken it for granted that the stage word “properties” included costumes.

He was seemingly delighted with that visit, and from that time on
whenever he came to the theatre he always occupied the same place, Mrs.
Gladstone and whoever might be with him sitting in Irving’s box close at
hand.

The next time he came, which was on January 29 of the next year, 1891,
he generously brought Irving a cheque for ten pounds for the Actors’
Benevolent Fund. That evening too he was delighted with the play, _Much
Ado About Nothing_, which he had seen before in 1882, in the ordinary
way. He applauded loudly, just as he used to do when sitting in the
front of the house.

III

He came again in 1892, May 7, when we were playing _Henry VIII._, and in
the course of conversation commented on Froude’s estimate of the
population of England in the sixteenth century, which according to his
ideas had been stated much below the mark. He also spoke of Dante being
in Oxford—a subject about which he wrote in the _Nineteenth Century_ in
the next month.

Another instance of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to the Lyceum: on the evening
of February 25, 1893, he came to see _Becket_. He had introduced his
second Home Rule Bill on the thirteenth of the month, and as it was
being discussed he was naturally full of it—so were we all. By the way
the Bill was carried in the Commons at the end of August of that year.
That night when speaking of his new Bill, he said to me:

“I will venture to say that in four or five years those who oppose it
will wonder what it was that they opposed!”

He was delighted with _Becket_, and seemed specially to rejoice in the
success of Tennyson’s work.

He was as usual much interested in matters of cost. Irving talked with
him very freely, and amongst other things mentioned the increasing
expenses of working a theatre, especially with regard to the salaries of
actors which had, he said, almost been doubled of late years. Gladstone
seemed instantly struck with this. When Irving had gone to change his
dress, Gladstone said to me suddenly:

“You told me, I think, that you are Chancellor of the Exchequer here.”

“Yes!” I said. “As in your own case, Mr. Gladstone, that is one of my
functions!”

“Then would you mind answering me a few questions?” On my giving a
hearty acquiescence he began to inquire exhaustively with regard to
different classes of actors and others, and seemed to be weighing in his
mind the relative advances. In fact his queries covered the whole
ground, for now and again he asked as to the quality of materials used.
I knew he was omnivorous with regard to finance, but to-night I was
something surprised at the magnitude and persistence of his interests.
The reason came shortly. Three days after the visit, 28th February, Sir
Henry Meysey-Thompson, M.P. for Handsworth, voiced in the House the
wishes then floating of the Bi-Metallists for an International Monetary
Conference. Mr. Gladstone replied to him in a great speech, the
immediate effect of which was to relegate the matter to the Greek
Kalends. In this speech he began with the standard of value, and by
figures arrived at gold as the least variable standard. Then he went on
to the values and change of various commodities, leading him to what he
called “the greatest commodity of the world—human labour.” This he
broadly differentiated into three classes of work which were dependent
on ordinary trade laws and conditions, and of a more limited class which
seemed to illustrate the natural changes of the laws of value, inasmuch
as the earners were not influenced to any degree by the course of events
or the cost of materials. This, broadly speaking, was his sequence of
ideas. When he had got so far he said:

“Take also the limited class about whom I happened to hear the other
day—the theatrical profession. I have it on unquestionable authority
that the ordinary payments received by actors and actresses have risen
largely.”

With his keen instinct for both finance and argument he had seized at
once on Irving’s remark about the increase of salaries, recognising on
the instant its suitability as an illustration in the setting forth of
his views. And I doubt if he could have found any other class of
wage-earning so isolated from commercial changes.

Irving told me of an interesting conversation which he had in those days
with Lord Randolph Churchill in which the latter mentioned Gladstone in
a striking way. Answering a query following on some previous remark, he
said:

“The fact is we are all afraid of him!”

“How is that—and why?” asked Irving.

“Well, you see, he is a first-class man. And the rest of us are only
second class—at best!”

Mr. Gladstone was a really good playgoer and he seemed to love the
theatre. When he came he and Mrs. Gladstone were always in good time. I
once asked him, thinking that he might have mistaken the hour, in which
case I would have borne it in mind to advise him on another occasion, if
he liked to come early, and he said:

“Yes. I have always made it a practice to come early. I like to be in my
place, and composed, before they begin to tune the fiddles!”

This is the true spirit in which to enjoy the play. No one who has ever
sat in eager expectation can forget the imaginative forcefulness of that
acre of green baize which hid all the delightful mysteries of the stage.
It was in itself a sort of introduction to wonderland, making all the
seeming that came after as if quickened into reality.

XLVI
THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD

I never saw Benjamin Disraeli (except from the Gallery of the House of
Commons) but on the one occasion when he came to see _The Corsican
Brothers_. Irving, however, met him often and liked to talk about him.
He admired, of course, his power and courage and address; but it was, I
think, the Actor that was in the man that appealed to him. I think also
that Beaconsfield liked him, and gauged his interest and delight in
matters of character. Somehow the stories which he told him conveyed
this idea.

One was of an ambitious young clergyman, son of an old friend of the
statesman, who asked him to use his influence in having him appointed a
Chaplain to the Queen. This he had effected in due course. The Premier,
to his surprise, some time afterwards received a visit from his protégé,
who said he had, on the ground of the kindness already extended to him,
to ask a further favour. When asked what it was he answered:

“I have through your kindness—for which I am eternally grateful—been
notified that I am to preach before Her Majesty on Sunday week. So I
have come to ask you if you would very kindly give me some sort of hint
in the matter!” The Premier, after a moment’s thought, had answered:

“Well, you see, I am not much in the habit of preaching sermons myself
so I must leave that altogether to your own discretion. But I can tell
you this: If you will preach for fifteen minutes the Queen will listen
to you. If you will preach for ten minutes she will listen with
interest. But if you will preach for five minutes you will be the most
popular chaplain that has ever been at Court.”

“And what do you think,” he went on, “this egregious young man said:

“‘But, Mr. Disraeli, how can I do myself justice in five minutes!’” Then
came the super cynical remark of the statesman-of-the-world:

“Fancy wanting to do himself justice—and before the Queen!”

Sir George Elliott, Bart., M.P., the great coal-owner, was a friend of
Irving’s and used to come to the Lyceum. One night—4th December 1890—at
supper in the Beefsteak Room, he told us of a visit he paid to Lord
Beaconsfield at Hughenden Manor. Disraeli had taken a fancy to the old
gentleman, who was, I believe, a self-made man—all honour to him. He was
the only guest on that week-end visit. His host took him over the house
and showed him his various treasures. In the course of their going
about, Beaconsfield asked him:

“How do you like this room?” It was the dining-room, a large and
handsome chamber; in it were two portraits, the Queen and the Countess
Beaconsfield—Disraeli had had her title conferred whilst he was still in
the Commons. At the time of Sir George’s visit he was a widower.

“I thought it odd,” said Sir George, “that the Queen’s picture should
hang on the side wall whilst another was over the chimney-piece, which
was the place of honour, and asked Dizzy if they should not be changed.”
He smiled as he said, after a pause:

“Well, Her Majesty did me the honour of visiting me twice at Hughenden;
but _she_ did not make the suggestion!”

“He said it very sweetly. It was a gentle rebuke. I don’t know how I
came to make such a blunder.”

There is another reading of the speech which I think he did not see.

III

Disraeli was always good to his Countess, who loved and admired him
devotedly. She must, however, have been at times something of a trial to
him, for she was outspoken in a way which must now and again have galled
a man with his sense of humour; no man is insensitive to ridicule. One
night at supper in the Beefsteak Room, a member of Parliament, who knew
most things about his contemporaries, told us of one evening at a big
dinner-party at which Disraeli and Lady Beaconsfield were present. Some
man had been speaking of a new beauty and was expatiating on her charms—
the softness of her eyes, her dimples, her pearly teeth, the
magnificence of her hair, the whiteness of her skin—here he was
interrupted by a remark of Lady Beaconsfield made across the table:

“Ah! you should see my Dizzy in his bath!”

James McHenry told me an anecdote of Disraeli which illustrates his
astuteness in getting out of difficulties. The matter happened to a lady
of his acquaintance. This lady was very anxious that her husband should
get an appointment for which he was a candidate—one of those good things
that distinctly goes by favour. One evening, to her great joy, she found
that she was to sit at dinner next the Premier. She was a very
attractive woman whom most men liked to serve. The opportunity was too
good to lose, and as her neighbour “took” to her at once she began to
have great hopes. Having “ground-baited” the locality with personal
charm she began to get her hooks and tackle ready. She led the
conversation to the subject in her mind, Disraeli talking quite freely.
Then despite her efforts the conversation drifted away to something
else. She tried again; but when just close to her objective it drifted
again. Thus attack and repulse kept on during dinner. Do what she would,
she could not get on the subject by gentle means. She felt at last that
she was up against a master of that craft. Time ran out, and when came
that premonitory hush and glance round the table which shows that the
ladies are about to withdraw she grew desperate. Boldly attacking once
more the arbiter of her husband’s destiny, she asked him point blank to
give the appointment. He looked at her admiringly; and just as the move
came he said to her in an impressive whisper:

“Oh, you are a darling!”

Irving told me this:

He was giving sittings for his bust to Count Gleichen, who was also
doing a bust of Lord Beaconsfield. One day when he came the sculptor,
looking at his watch, said:

“I’m afraid our sitting to-day must be a short one—indeed it may be
interrupted at any moment. You won’t mind, I hope?”

“Not at all!” said Irving. “What is it?”

“The Premier has sent me word that he must come at an earlier hour than
he fixed as he has a Cabinet Meeting.” He had already unswathed the clay
so as not to waste in preparation the time of the statesman when he
should come. Irving was looking at it when something struck him. Turning
to Count Gleichen he said:

“That seems something like myself—you know we actors have to study our
own faces a good deal, so that we come to know them.”

Just then Disraeli came in. When they had shaken hands, the sculptor
said to the new-comer:

“Mr. Irving says that he sees in your bust a resemblance to himself.

Disraeli looked at Irving a moment with a pleased expression. Then he
walked over to where Irving’s bust was still uncovered. He examined it
critically for a few moments; and then turning to Count Gleichen said:

“What a striking and distinguished physiognomy!”

XLVII
SIR WILLIAM PEARCE, BART.

Sir William Pearce—made a Baronet in 1887—was a close friend of Irving.
He was the head of the great Glasgow shipbuilding firm of John Elder &
Co. In fact he _was_ John Elder & Co., for he owned the whole great
business. He went to Glasgow as a shipwright and entered the works at
Fairfield. He was a man of such commanding force and ability that he
climbed up through the whole concern right up to the top, and in time—
and not a long time either for such a purpose—owned the whole thing. He
built many superb yachts, notably the _Lady Torfrida_ and the _Lady
Torfrida the Second_. The first-named was in his own use when we were
playing in Glasgow in the early autumn of 1883. We accepted Mr. Pearce’s
invitation to go on a week-end yachting tour, to begin after the play on
the following Saturday night, 1st September.

The _Lady Torfrida_ was berthed in the estuary of the Clyde off
Greenock; so a little after eleven o’clock we all set off for Greenock.

It had been a blustering evening in Glasgow; but here in the open it
seemed a gale. I think that the hearts of all the landsmen of our party
sank when we saw the black water lashed into foam by the fierce wind.
Pearce had met us at the station and came with us. Of the yachting party
were his son the present Baronet, and a College friend of his, Mr.
Bradbury. With the bluff heartiness of a yachtsman Pearce now assured us
that everything was smooth and easy. At the stairs we found a trim boat
with its oarsmen fending her off as with every rising wave she made
violent dashes at the stonework. One of the men stood on the steps
holding the painter; he dared not fasten it to the ring. From near the
level of the water the estuary looked like a wide sea and the water so
cold and dark and boisterous that it seemed like madness going out on
such a night in such a boat _for pleasure_. There were several of us,
however, and we were afraid of frightening each other; I do not think
that any of us were afraid for ourselves. Ellen Terry whispered to me to
take her son, who was only a little chap, next to me, as she knew me and
would have confidence in me.

We managed to get into the boat without any of us getting all wet, and
pushed off. We drove out into the teeth of the wind, the waves seeming
much bigger now we were amongst them and out in the open Firth. Not a
sign of yacht could be seen. To us strangers the whole thing was an act
of faith. Presently Pearce gave an order and we burned a blue light,
which was after a while answered from far off—a long, long distance off,
we thought, as we looked across the waste of black troubled water,
looking more deadly than ever in the blue light—though it looked even
more deadly when the last of the light fell hissing into the wave. By
this time matters were getting really serious. Some one had to keep
baling all the time, and on the weather side we had to sit shoulder to
shoulder as close as we could so that the waves might break on our backs
and not over the gunwale. It was just about as unpleasant an experience
as one could have. I drew the lad next to me as close as I could, partly
to comfort him and more particularly lest he should get frightened and
try to leave his place. And yet all the time we were a merry party.
Ellen Terry with the strong motherhood in her all awake—a lesson and a
hallowed memory—was making cheery remarks and pointing out to her boy
the many natural beauties with which we were surrounded: the distant
lights, the dim line of light above the shore line, the lurid light of
Greenock on the sky. She thought of only one thing, her little boy, and
that he might not suffer the pain of fear. The place seemed to become
beautiful in the glow of her maternity. He did not say much in answer—
not in any enthusiastic way; but he was not much frightened. Cold waves
of exceeding violence, driven up your back by a fierce wind which beats
the spray into your neck, hardly make a cheerful help to the enjoyment
of the æsthetic!

Irving sat stolid and made casual remarks such as he would have made at
his own fireside. His quiet calm, I think, allayed nervous tremors in
some of the others. I really think he enjoyed the situation—in a way. As
for Pearce, who held the tiller himself, he was absolutely boisterous
with joviality, though he once whispered in my ear:

“Keep it up! We shall be all right; but I don’t want any of them to get
frightened. It is pretty serious!” I think we settled in time into a
sort of that calm acceptance of fact which is so real a tribute to
Belief. It certainly startled us a little when we heard a voice hailing
us with a speaking-trumpet—a voice which seemed close to us. Then a
light flashed out and we saw the _Lady Torfrida_ rising high from the
water whereon she floated gracefully, just swaying with wave and wind.
She was a big yacht with 600 h.p. engines, after the model of those of
the _Alaska_, one of Pearce’s building, then known as the “Greyhound of
the ocean!”

I think we were all rejoiced; even Pearce, who told me before we went to
our cabins in the early morning that all through that miserable voyage
in the dark the sense of his responsibility was heavy upon him.

“Just fancy,” he said, “if anything had happened to Irving or Ellen
Terry! And it might have, easily! We had no right to come out in such a
small boat on such a night; we were absolutely in danger at times!”

We were not long in getting aboard. The whole yacht seemed by comparison
with the darkness we emerged from to be blazing with light and filled
with alert, powerful men. We were pulled, jerked, or thrown on board, I
hardly knew which; and found ourselves hurried down to our luxurious
cabins where everything was ready for our dressing. Our things had
fortunately been sent on board during the day; anything coming in the
boat would have had a poor chance of arriving dry.

III

In a very short time we were sitting in the saloon, light and warm and
doing ample justice to one of the most perfect meals I ever sat down to.
It was now after one o’clock and we were all hungry. After supper we sat
and talked; and after the ladies had retired we sat on still till the
September sun began to look in through the silk curtains that veiled the
ports.

Pearce was a man full of interesting memories and experiences, and that
night he seemed to lay the treasures of them at the feet of his guests.
But of all that he told—we listening eagerly—none was so fascinating as
his account of the building and trial trip of the _Livadia_.

This was the great yacht which the Czar Alexander II. had built from the
designs of Admiral Popoff of his own navy. It was of an entirely new
pattern of naval construction; a turtle with a house on its back. The
work of building had been entrusted to the Fairfield yard with _carte
blanche_ in the doing of it. No expense was to be spared in having
everything of the best. Under the circumstances it could not be
contracted for; the builder was paid by a fixed percentage of the prime
cost. The only thing that the builder had to guarantee was the speed.
But that was so arranged that beyond a certain point there was to be a
rising bonus; the shipbuilder made an extra £20,000 on this alone.
Pearce told us that it was the hope of the Czar to be able to evade the
Nihilists, who were then very active and had attempted his life several
times. The _Livadia_ was really a palace of the sea whereon he could
live in comfort and luxury for long periods; and in which by keeping his
own counsel he could go about the world without the knowledge of his
enemies. It was known that the Nihilists regarded very jealously the
building of the ship, and careful watch was kept in the yard. One day
when the ship was finished and was partly coaled, there came a wire from
the Russian Embassy that it was reported that there were two Nihilists
in the shipyard. When the men were coming back from dinner, tally was
kept at the gate where the Russian detectives were on watch. I have seen
that return from dinner. Through the great gates seven thousand men
poured in like a huge living stream. On this occasion the check showed
that _two men were missing_. The Nihilists also had their own Embassy
and secret police!

It then became necessary to examine the ship in every part. Those were
the days of the Thomassin “infernal machine,” which was suspected of
having been the means by which many ships had been sent to the bottom.
These machines were exploded by clockwork set for a certain time, and
were made in such fashion as would not excite suspicion. Some were in
the form of irregularly shaped lumps of coal. The first thing to be done
was therefore to take out all the coal which had already been put in.
When the bunkers were empty and all the searchable portions of the ship
had been carefully examined inch by inch, a picked staff of men opened
and examined the watertight compartments. This was in itself a job, for
there were, so well as I remember, something like a hundred and fifty of
them. However, as each was done Pearce himself set his own seal upon it.
At last he was able to assure the Grand Duke, who was in command and who
had arrived to take the boat in charge, that she was so far safe from
attack from concealed explosives. When she was starting the Grand Duke
told Pearce that the Czar expected that he would go on the trial trip.
In his own words:

“It is not any part of a shipbuilder’s business to go on trial trips
unless he so wishes. But in this case I could not have thought of
refusing. The Czar’s relations with me and his kindness to me were such
that I could not do anything but what would please him!”

So the _Livadia_ started from the Clyde with sealed orders. Her first
call was at Holyhead. There they met with a despatch which ordered an
immediate journey to Plymouth. At Plymouth she was again directed with
secret orders to go to Brest, whither she set out at once.

At Brest there was an “easy,” and certain of the officers and men were
allowed shore leave. The “easy” should have been for several days; but
suddenly word was received to leave Brest at once; it was said that some
suspected Nihilists were in the way. The men on shore were peremptorily
recalled and in haste preparations were made for an immediate start for
the south. Pearce’s own words explain the situation:

“I went at once to the Grand Duke Nicholas and remonstrated with him. ‘I
can answer for the workmanship of the _Livadia_,’ I said; ‘but the
design is not mine, and so far as I know the principle on which she has
been constructed has never been tested. There is no possibility of
knowing what a ship of the pattern will do in bad weather, and that we
have ahead of us. It is dirty now in the Bay and a storm is reported
coming up. Does your Highness really think it wise to attempt the Bay of
Biscay under the conditions?’ To my astonishment not only the Grand Duke
but some of his officers who were present, who had not hitherto shown
any disposition to despise danger, spoke loudly in favour of going on at
once. Of course I said no more. I had built the ship, and though I was
not responsible for her I felt that if necessary I should go down in
her. We had a terrible experience in the Bay, but got through safely to
Ferrol. There she was laid up in a land-locked bay, round the shores of
which guards were posted night and day for months. It was necessary that
she should lie up somewhere as the dock at Sebastopol—the only dock in
the world large enough to hold her—was not ready.

“And whilst she lay there the Czar was assassinated.” This was on 13th
March, 1881.

Then he went on to tell us how once already the _Livadia_ had been the
means of saving the Czar’s life:

“When she was getting on I had a model of her made—in fact, two; one of
them,” he said, turning to me, “you saw the other day in my office.
These models are troublesome and costly things to make. The one which I
intended as a present to the Czar cost five hundred pounds. It was my
present to his Majesty on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his
succession. It arrived the day before, 17th February—29th February old
style. The Czar was delighted with it. That evening there was a banquet
in the Winter Palace, where he was then in residence. He had been
threatened for some time by means of a black-edged letter finding its
way every morning into the Palace, warning him in explicit terms that if
his oppression did not cease he would not live past the anniversary of
his accession, which would be the following day. When he was leading the
way to the dining-hall from the drawing-room he turned to the lady with
him—Princess Dolgoruki, his morganatic wife—and said:

“‘By the way I want to show you my new toy!’ The model had been placed
in the salon at the head of the grand staircase and they stopped to
examine it.

“As they were doing so the staircase down which they would have been
otherwise passing was blown up. The Nihilists, knowing the exact routine
of the Court and the rigid adherence to hours, had timed the explosion
for the passage of the staircase!”

We spent a delightful Sunday going around Arran. We dined at anchor in
Wemyss Bay and slept on board. On the forenoon of Monday we went back to
Glasgow.

XLVIII
STEPNIAK

On the evening of 8th July 1892, after the play, _Faust_, Irving had
some friends to supper in the Beefsteak Room. I think that, all told, it
was as odd a congeries of personalities as could well be. Sarah
Bernhardt, Darmont, Ellen Terry and her daughter, Toole, Mr. and Mrs. T.
B. Aldrich of Boston, two Miss Casellas—and Stepniak. It was odd that
the man was known only by the one name; no one ever used his first name,
Sergius. Other men have second names of some sort; but this one, though
he signed himself S. Stepniak, I never heard spoken of except by the one
word. I sat next to him at supper and we had a great deal of
conversation together, chiefly about the state of affairs in Russia
generally and the Revolutionary party in especial. He, who had
presumably been in the very heart of the Revolutionary party and in all
the secrets of Nihilism, told me some of his views and aspirations and
those of the party—or rather the parties—of which he was a unit.

Stepniak was a very large man—large of that type that the line of the
shoulders is high so that the bulk of the body stands out solid. He had
a close beard and very thick hair, and strongly marked features with a
suggestion of the Kalmuck type. He was very strong and had a great
voice. On 1st May of that year, 1892, I had heard him speak at the great
meeting in Hyde Park for the “Eight-hour” movement. There were in the
Park that day not far from a quarter of a million of people, so that
from any of the tribunes—which were carts—no one could be heard that was
not strong of voice. The only three men whom I could hear were John
Burns, Stepniak, and Frederick Rogers—the latter a working bookbinder
and President of the Elizabethan Society—also one of the very finest
speakers—judged by any standard—I have ever heard.

In our conversation at supper that night he told me of the letters which
they were receiving from the far-off northern shores of Siberia. It was
a most sad and pitiful tale. Men of learning and culture, mostly
University professors, men of blameless life and takers of no active
part in revolution or conspiracy—simply theorists of freedom, patriots
at heart—sent away to the terrible muddy shores of the Arctic sea, ill
housed, ill fed, overworked—where life was one long, sordid, degrading
struggle for bare life in that inhospitable region. I could not but be
interested and moved by his telling. He saw that I was sympathetic, and
said he would like to send me something to read on the subject. It came
some weeks later, as the following letter will show:

“31 BLANDFORD ROAD,
BEDFORD PARK, W.,
_August 2, 1892_.

“DEAR MR. STOKER,—It is a long time that I wanted to write to you
since that delightful party at the Lyceum. But I was so busy, and the
parcel I wanted to send to you for one reason or another could never
be ready, and so it dragged on. What I send to you is the paper, _Free
Russia_, I am editing. Since you have read all my books and have been
so kind and indulgent for them, and so interested in the Russian
Cause, I suppose you will be interested in the attempt to give a
practical expression to English sympathies. Unfortunately the
collection of _Free Russia_ is incomplete (No. 1 is quite out of
print). But what you will have is quite sufficient to give you an idea
of the whole.

“May I ask whether you live permanently in London and whether I may
hope to see you some day once again?—Yours very truly,

S. STEPNIAK.”

III

In February 1893 Stepniak saw Irving and Ellen Terry play in _King
Lear_. The following excerpts are from a letter which he sent to Irving—
a long letter of fourteen pages. I was so struck with it when Irving
showed it to me that I asked leave to make a copy. Whereupon he gave me
the letter.

This was after a habit of his; he generally gave me things which would
be of interest to me—and to others. In the letter Stepniak said:

“The actor is a joint creator with the author—even with such an author
as Shakespeare. He has a right of his own in interpretation, and the
only point is how far he makes good his claims, and that you have done
to a wonderful extent. Yours was not acting: it was life itself, so
true, natural and convincing was every word, every shade of expression
upon your face or in your voice. The gradual transformation of the
man, his humbling himself, the revelation of his better, sympathetic
self—it was all a wonder of realism, nature and subtlety. Your acting
reminded me of the pictures of the great Flemish master who seems to
paint not with a brush but with a needle. Yet this astonishing
subtlety was in no way prejudicial to the completeness and the power
and masterliness of the great whole.... I cannot forbear from asking
you to transmit my compliments and admiration to Miss Ellen Terry—if
you think that she may care about such a humble tribute. There is a
passage from ‘I love your Majesty according to my bonds, not more or
less’ and the following monologue, which I am bold enough to say are
the weakest in the play: too cold and dry and forward and elaborate
for Cordelia. But in her rendering there was nothing of that: it was
all simplicity, tenderness, spontaneous emotion. The charm of her
personality and character, which she has such a unique gift of
infusing into everything, has partially improved the original text. I
hope you will not consider my saying so too sacrilegious. There are
spots upon the sun. And the scene in the French camp! Her ‘No cause,
no cause!’ was quite a stroke of genius. I would not believe before I
saw her in that, that words can produce such an emotion.”

And this was the man who stood for wiping tyrants from the face of the
earth; who aided in the task, if _Underground Russia_ be even based on
truth. This gentle, appreciative, keenly critical, sympathetic man!

Strange it was that he who must have gone through such appalling dangers
as beset hourly the workers in the Nihilist cause and come through them
all unscathed was finally killed in the commonplace way of being run
over by a train on the underground railway.

It reminds me of another experience with Irving and a surprising
_dénouement_. When we were in California in 1893 a gentleman called to
see Irving at his hotel. He was a countryman of Stepniak, but of quite
the opposite degree—a Prince claiming blood kin with the Czar, Nicholas
Galitzin. He supped with Irving and some others, forty-five in all, at
the Café Riche, 13th September, when he gave Irving a very charming
souvenir in the shape of a gold match-box set with gems. Several times
after we met at supper and came to be quite friends. Prince Galitzin was
a mighty hunter and had slain much big game, including even grizzlies
and other bears. He told us many interesting hunting adventures. He had
lost one arm. He had not mentioned any adventure bearing on this, and
Irving asked him if it was by a mischance in a hunting adventure that he
had suffered the loss. He said with a laugh:

“No! No! Nothing of the kind. It was a damn stupid fellow who let a
Saratoga trunk fall on me over the staircase of a hotel!”

XLIX
E. ONSLOW FORD, R.A.

One morning—it was 12th January 1880—I got a note from Irving sent down
by cab from his rooms. In it he said:

“There is a certain Mr. Onslow Ford coming to the theatre this morning.
Please see him for me and give him some fatherly or brotherly advice.”

I left word with the hall-keeper to send for me whenever the gentleman
came. I did not know who he was or what he wanted: but I did know what
“fatherly or brotherly advice” meant. At that period of his life the
demands made on Irving’s time were fearful. There was no end to them; no
limit to the range of their wants. And I was the “fatherly adviser” in
such cases.

A little after noon I was sent for; the expected stranger had arrived.
In those days the stage door in Exeter Street was very small and
absolutely inconvenient. There was comfortable room for Sergeant Barry,
the hall-keeper, who was a fine, big, bulky man; two in the room crowded
it. Barry waited outside and I went in. The stranger was a young man of
medium height, thin, dark haired. His hair rose back from his forehead
without parting of any kind, in the way which we in those days
associated in our minds with French artists. His face was pale, a little
sallow, fine in profile and moulding; a nose of distinction with
sensitive nostrils. He had a small beard and moustache. His eyes were
dark and concentrated—distinctly “seeing” eyes. My heart warmed to him
at once. He was young and earnest and fine; I knew at a glance that he
was an artist, and with a future. Still I had to be on guard. One of my
functions at the theatre, as I had come to know after a year of
exceedingly arduous work, was to act as a barrier. I was “the Spirit
that Denies!” In fact I had to be. No one likes to say “no!”—a very few
are constitutionally able to. I had set myself to help Irving in his
work and this was one of the best ways I could help him. He recognised
gratefully the utility of the service, and as he trusted absolutely in
my discretion. I gradually fell into the habit of using my own decision
in the great majority of cases.

When Mr. Onslow Ford told me that he wished to make a statuette of Henry
Irving as Hamlet I felt that the time for “advice” had come, and began
to pave the way for a _non possumus_, strong in intention though gentle
in expression. The young sculptor, however, had thought the matter all
over for himself. He knew the demands on Irving’s time and how vastly
difficult it would be to get sittings so many and so long as would be
required for the work he had projected. I listened of course and thought
better of him and his chance in that he knew his difficulties at the
beginning.

Presently he put his hand in his pocket and took out something rolled in
paper—a parcel about as big as a pork pie. When he had unrolled it he
held up a rough clay model of a seated figure.

“This,” said he, “is something of the idea. I have been several times in
the front row of the stalls watching as closely as I could. One cannot
well model clay in the stalls of a theatre. But I did this after the
first time, and I have had it with me on each other occasion. I compared
it on such opportunities as I had—you do keep the Lyceum dark all but
the stage; and I think I can see my way. I don’t want to waste Irving’s
time or my own opportunities if I am so fortunate as to get sittings!”

That was the sort of artist that needed none of my “advice”—fatherly,
brotherly, or otherwise. My mind was already made up.

“Would you mind waiting here a while?” I asked. In those early days we
had only the one office and no waiting-room except the stage. He waited
gladly, whilst I went back to the office. Irving had by this time
arrived. I told him I had seen Mr. Ford.

“I hope you put it nicely to him that I can’t possibly give him
sittings,” he said.

“That is why I came to see if you had arrived.”

“How do you mean,” he asked again. So I said:

“I think you had better see him, and if you think as I do you will give
him sittings!”

“Oh, my dear fellow, I can’t. I am really too pressed with work.”

“Well, see him any way!” I said; “I have asked him to wait on purpose.”
He looked at me keenly for an instant as though I had somehow “gone
back” on him. Then he smiled:

“All right. I’ll see him now!”

I brought Onslow Ford. When the two men met, Irving _did_ share my
opinion. He did give sittings for a bronze statuette. The result was so
fine that he gave quite another series of sittings for him to do the
life-size marble statue of “Irving as Hamlet” now in the Library of the
London Guildhall. It is a magnificent work, and will perhaps best of all
his works perpetuate the memory of the great Sculptor who died all too
young.

Irving gave many sittings for the statue. With the experience of his
first work Onslow Ford could begin with knowledge of the face so
necessary in portrait art. I often went with him and it was an intense
pleasure to see Onslow Ford’s fine hands at work. They seemed like
living things working as though they had their own brains and
initiation.

I was even able to be of some little assistance. I knew Irving’s face so
well from seeing it so perpetually under almost all possible phases of
emotion that I could notice any error of effect if not of measurement.
Often either Irving or Onslow Ford would ask me and I would give my
opinion. For instance:

“I think the right jowl is not right!” The sculptor examined it
thoughtfully for quite a while. Then he said suddenly:

“Quite right! but not in that way. I see what it is!” and he proceeded
to add to the left of the forehead.

After all, effect is comparative; this is one of the great principles of
art!

On 31st March 1906, one of the Academy view days of those not yet Royal
Academicians, I went to Onslow Ford’s old studio in Acacia Road, now in
possession of his son, Wolfram the painter, to see his portrait of his
beautiful young wife, the daughter of George Henschel. Whilst we were
talking of old days he unearthed treasures which I did not know existed:
casts from life of Henry Irving’s hands.

No other such relics of the actor exist; and these are of supreme
interest. Irving had the finest man’s hands I have ever seen. Later on
he sent me a cast of one of them in bronze; a rare and beautiful thing
which I shall always value. Size and shape, proportion and articulation
were all alike beautiful and distinguished and distinctive. It would be
hard to mistake them for those of any other man. With them he could
_speak_. It was not possible to doubt the meaning which he intended to
convey. With such models to work on a few lines of pencil or brush made
for the actor an enlightening identity of character. The weakness of
Charles I., which not all the skill of Vandyck could hide; the vulture
grip of Shylock; the fossilised age of Gregory Brewster; the asceticism
of Becket.

What, after the face, can compare with the hand for character, or
intention, or illustration. It can be an index to the working of the
mind.

L
SIR LAURENCE ALMA-TADEMA, R.A.

In his speech at the close of the second “season” at the Lyceum, 25th
July, 1879, Irving announced amongst the old plays which he intended to
do, _Coriolanus_. He never announced any play, then or thereafter,
without having thought it well over and come to some conclusion as to
its practicability. In this instance he had already made up his mind to
ask Laurence Alma-Tadema to make designs for the play and to superintend
its production. The experience of having a free hand in such matters,
now that he was his own master in regard to stage productions, had shown
to him the great possibilities of effect to be produced by the great
masters of technique. There had in the past been great painters who had
worked for the stage. Loutherbourg and Clarkson Stanfield, for instance,
had made fame in both ways of picturesque art, the gallery and the
stage. But the idea was new of getting specialists in various periods to
apply their personal skill as well as their archæological knowledge to
stage effect. Indeed up to that time even great painters were not always
historically accurate. A survey of the work of most of the painters of
the first half of the Victorian epoch will show such glaring instances
of anachronism and such manifest breaches of geographical, ethnological,
and technological exactness as to illustrate the extraordinary change
for the better in the way of accuracy in the work of to-day. The
National Gallery and Holland House have instances of errors in costumes
incorrect as to alleged nationality and date. Irving wanted things to be
correct, well knowing that as every age has its own suitabilities to its
own needs that which is accurate is most likely to convince. Alma-Tadema
had made a speciality of artistic archæology of Ancient Rome. In working
from his knowledge he had reformed the whole artistic ideas of the time.
He had so studied the life of old Rome that he had for his own purposes
reconstructed it. Up to his time, for instance, the toga was in art
depicted as a thin linen robe of somewhat scanty proportions. Look at
the picture of Kemble as Cato by Lawrence, or indeed of any ancient
Roman by any one. Irving had become possessed of the toga of Macready,
and anything more absurd one could hardly imagine; it was something like
a voluminous night-shirt. Of course the audience also were ignorant of
the real thing, and so it did not matter; the great actor’s powers were
unlessened by the common ignorance. In his studying for his art
Alma-Tadema had taken from many statues and fragments the folds as well
as the texture of the toga. With infinite patience he had gathered up
details of various kinds, till at last, with a mind stored with
knowledge, he set to himself the task of reconstruction; to restore the
toga so that it would answer all the conditions evidenced in
contemporary statuary. And the result? Not a flimsy covering which would
have become draggle-tailed in a day or an hour of strenuous work; but a
huge garment of heavy cloth which would allow of infinite varieties of
wearing, and which would preserve the body from the burning heat of the
day and the reacting chills of night. Even for the purposes of pictorial
art the revived toga made a new condition of things, in all ways
harmonising with the accepted facts. There is on record plenty of marble
and stone work of old Rome; of work in bronze and brass and iron and
copper; in silver and gold; in jewels and crystals—in fact in all those
materials which do not yield to the ravages of time. All this
Alma-Tadema had studied till he _knew_ it. He was familiar with the
kinds of marble and stone used in Roman architecture, statuary, and
domestic service. The kinds of glass and crystal; of armour and arms; of
furniture; of lighting; sacerdotal and public and domestic service. He
knew how a velarium should be made and of what, and how adorned; how it
should be put up and secured. He was learned of boats and chariots; of
carts and carriages, and of the trappings of horses. Implements of
agriculture and trade and manufacture and for domestic use were familiar
to him. He was a master of the many ceremonial undertakings which had
such a part in Roman life.... In fact, Alma-Tadema’s artistic
reconstruction was like that of Owen; he reconciled fragments and
brought to light proof of the unities and harmonies and suitabilities of
ancient life.

Irving felt that with such an artist to help—archæologist, specialist,
and genius in one—he would be able to put before an audience such work
as would not only charm them by its beauty and interest them in its
novelty, but would convince by its suitability. For there is an enormous
aid to conviction in a story when those who follow it accept from the
beginning in good faith the things of common knowledge and use which are
put before them. I often say myself that the faith which still exists is
to be found more often in a theatre than in a church. When an audience
go into a playhouse which is not connected in their minds with the habit
of deceit they are unconsciously prepared to accept all things _ab
initio_ in the simple and direct manner of childhood. When therefore
what they see is _vraisemblable_—with the manifest appearance of truth
to something—all the powers of intellectual examination and working
habit come into force in the right direction.

In that summer of 1879 when Irving announced _Coriolanus_ he also
announced several other plays.

It was not, of course, his intention to produce these plays all at once,
but one by one as occasion served. As has been seen, the putting on of
_The Merchant of Venice_ and its phenomenal success shelved or postponed
most of the plays then announced; but Irving did not lose sight of
_Coriolanus_. One morning in the following winter, whilst Sir Laurence
Alma-Tadema, as he himself told me, was in his studio in his house in
North Gate, Regent’s Park, he heard the sound of sleigh bells coming
over the bridge. Naturally his thoughts went back to _The Bells_ and
Irving, for no one who has seen the play can hear the sound unexpectedly
without the thought. He heard the sound stop at his own gate; and whilst
wondering what it could mean Irving was announced. He was accompanied by
Mr. W. L. Ashmead Bartlett, who afterwards took his present name on his
marriage to the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Irving at once entered upon the
subject of his visit; and the great painter was charmed to entertain it.
As was usual with him when working on a new play, Irving had a rough
scenario in his mind, and he and Alma-Tadema spoke of it then and there.
Irving could tell him of the scenes he wanted and give some hints not
only as to their practical use but of the ideas which he wished them to
convey. When he had gone Alma-Tadema took down his Shakespeare and began
his own study of the play. The continuous success of _The Merchant of
Venice_ gave him ample time, and his studies and designs were unique and
lovely.

III

As we know, the production of _Coriolanus_ did not take place till
twenty-two years later; but all through 1880 and 1881 Alma-Tadema had
the matter in hand. In those years the high policy of his theatre
management was a good deal changed. When Irving had experience of Ellen
Terry’s remarkable powers and gifts he wisely determined to devote to
them, so far as was possible, the remaining years of her youth. She had
now been twenty-five years on the stage; and though she began in her
very babyhood—at eight years old—the flight of time has to be
considered, for the future if not for the past. She was now thirty-three
years of age; in the very height of her beauty and charm, and to all
seeming still in her girlhood. He therefore arranged _Romeo and Juliet_
as the next Shakespearean production. This was followed in time by _Much
Ado About Nothing_, _Twelfth Night_, _Olivia_, _Faust_—all plays that
showed her in her brightness and pathos; and so _Coriolanus_ was kept
postponed. But well into 1881 it was still being worked on, and in those
days I had many visits to the studio of Alma-Tadema.

Let me give an instance of his thoroughness in his art work.

Once when in his studio I saw him occupied on a beautiful piece of
painting, a shrub with a myriad of branches laden with berries and but
few leaves, through which was seen the detail of the architecture of the
marble building beyond. The picture was then almost finished. The next
time I came I found him still hard at work on the same painting; but it
was not nearly so far advanced. Dissatisfied with the total effect, he
had painted out the entire background and was engaged on a new and quite
different one. The labour involved in this stupendous change almost made
me shudder. It needs but a small amount of thought to understand the
infinite care and delicacy of touch to complete an elaborate
architectural drawing between the gaps of those hundreds of spreading
twigs.

This devotion to his art is often one of the touchstones of the success
of an artist in any medium; the actor, or the singer, or the musician as
well as the worker in any of the plastic arts.

I remember Irving telling me of a conversation he had with the late W.
H. Vanderbilt when, after lunch in his own house in Fifth Avenue, the
great millionaire took him round his beautiful picture gallery. He was
pointing out the portrait of himself finished not long before by
Meissonier, and gave many details of how the great painter did his work
and the extraordinary care which he took. Vanderbilt used to give long
sittings, and Meissonier, to aid the tedium of his posing, had mirrors
fitted up in such a way that he could see the work being executed. “Do
you know,” the millionaire concluded, “that sometimes after a long
sitting he would take his cloth and wipe out everything he had done in
the day’s work. And I calculated roughly that every touch of his brush
cost me five dollars!”

When in 1896 Irving produced _Cymbeline_, Alma-Tadema undertook to
design and supervise the picturesque side; or, as it was by his wish
announced in the programme: “kindly acted as adviser in the production
of the play.”

He chose a time of England when architecture expressed itself mainly in
wood; natural enough when it was a country of forest. It is not a play
allowing of much display of fine dresses, and Irving never under any
circumstances wished a play to be unsuitably mounted. The opportunities
of picturesque effect came, in this instance, in beautiful scenery.

LI
SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES, BART.

It was to Irving an intense pleasure to work with Sir Edward
Burne-Jones. The painter seemed to bring to whatever he had in hand a
sort of concentration of all his great gifts, and to apply them with
unsparing purpose and energy. His energy was of that kind which seems to
accomplish without strenuous effort; after all it is the waste of force
and not its use which proclaims itself in the doing. This man had such
mighty gifts that in his work there was no waste; all the creations of
his teeming brain were so fine in themselves that they simply stood
ready for artistic use. His imagination working out through perfected
art, peopled a whole world of its own and filled that world around them
with beautiful things. This world had been opened to Irving as to every
one else who admired it. But when the player came adventuring into it,
the painter displayed to him a vast of hidden treasures. There was
simply no end to his imaginative ideas, his artistic efforts, his
working into material beauty the thoughts which flitted through his
mind. As a colourist he was supreme, and he could use colour as a medium
of conveying ideas to the same effect as others used form. His own power
of dealing with the beauties of form was supreme.

To work with such an artist was to Irving a real joy. He simply revelled
in the task. Every time they met it was to him a fresh stimulation.
Burne-Jones, too, seemed to be stimulated; the stage had always been to
him a fairyland of its own, but he had not had artistic dealings with
it. Now he entered it with full power to let himself run free. The play
which he undertook for Irving, _King Arthur_, was of the period which he
had made his own: that mystic time when life had single purposes and the
noblest prevailed the most; when beauty was a symbol of inner worth;
when love in some dainty as well as some holy form showed that even
flesh, which was God’s handiwork, was not base.

In the working out of the play each day saw some new evidence of the
painter’s thought; the roughest sketch given as a direction or a light
to scene-painter or property maker or costumier was in itself a thing of
beauty. I veritably believe that Irving was sorry when the production of
the play was complete. He so enjoyed the creative process that the
completion was a lesser good.

Regarding human nature, which was Irving’s own especial study,
Burne-Jones had a mind tuned to the same key as his own. To them both
the things which were basic and typal were closest. The varieties of
mankind were of lesser importance than the species. The individual was
the particular method and opportunity of conveyance of an idea; and, as
such, was of original importance. To each of the two great artists such
individual grew in his mind, and ever grew; till in the end, on canvas
or before the footlights, the being lived.

It would be hard to better illustrate the mental attitude of both to men
and type and individual than by some of the stories which Burne-Jones
loved to tell and Irving to hear. The painter had an endless collection
of stories of all sorts; but those relating to children seemed closest
to his heart. In our meetings on the stage or at supper in the Beefsteak
Room, or on those delightful Sunday afternoons when he allowed a friend
to stroll with him round his studio, there was always some little tale
breathing the very essence of human nature.

I remember once when he told us an incident in the life of his daughter,
who was then a most beautiful girl and is now a most beautiful woman,
Mrs. J. W. Mackail. When she was quite a little girl, she came home from
school one day and with thoughtful eyes and puckered brows asked her
mother:

“Mother, can you tell me why it is that whenever I see a little boy
crying in the street I always want to kiss him; and when I see a little
girl crying I want to slap her?”

III

Another story was of a little boy, one of a large family. This little
chap on one occasion asked to be allowed to go to bed at the children’s
tea time, a circumstance so unique as to puzzle the domestic
authorities. The mother refused, but the child whimpered and persevered—
and succeeded. The father was presently in his study at the back of the
house looking out on the garden when he saw the child in his little
night-shirt come secretly down the steps and steal to a corner of the
garden behind some shrubs. He had a garden fork in his hand. After a
lapse of some minutes he came out again and stole quietly upstairs. The
father’s curiosity was aroused, and he too went behind the shrubs to see
what had happened. He found some freshly turned earth, and began to
investigate. Some few inches down was a closed envelope which the child
had buried. On opening it he found a lucifer match and a slip of paper
on which was written in pencil in a sprawling hand:

“DEAR DEVIL,—Please take away Aunt Julia.”

Another story related to a little baby child, the first in the
household. There was a dinner party, and the child, curious as to what
was going on, lay awake with torturing thoughts. At last, when a
favourable opportunity came through the nurse’s absence, she got quietly
from her cot and stole downstairs just as she was. The dining-room door
was ajar, and before the agonised nurse could effect a capture she had
slipped into the room. There she was, of course, made much of. She was
taken in turn on each one’s knees and kissed. Mother frowned, of course,
but father gave her a grape and a wee drop of wine and water. Then she
was kissed again and taken to the waiting nurse. Safe in the nursery her
guardian berated her:

“Oh, Miss Angy, this is very dreadful. Going down to the dining-room!—
And in your nighty!—And before strangers!—_Before Gentlemen!_ You must
never let any gentleman see you in your nighty!—Never! Never! Never!
That is Wicked!—Awful!” And so on!

A few nights afterwards the father, when going from his dressing-room
for dinner, went into the nursery to say another “good-night” to baby.
When he went in she was saying her prayers at nurse’s knees, in long
night-robe and with folded hands like the picture of the Infant Samuel.
Hearing the footstep she turned her head round, and on catching sight of
her father jumped up crying: “Nau’ty—nau’ty—nau’ty!” and ran behind a
screen. The father looked at the nurse puzzled:

“What is it, nurse?”

“I don’t know, sir! I haven’t the faintest idea!” she answered, equally
puzzled.

“I’ll wait a few minutes and see,” he said, as he sat down. Half a
minute later the little tot ran from behind the screen, quite naked, and
running over to him threw herself on his knee. She snuggled in close to
him with her arms round his neck, and putting her little rosebud of a
mouth close to his ear whispered wooingly:

“Pap-pa, me dood girl now!”

LII
EDWIN A. ABBEY, R.A.

When Irving was having the enforced rest consequent to the accident to
his knee in December 1896, he made up his mind that his next
Shakespearean production should be _Richard II._ For a long time he had
had it in view and already formed his opinion as to what the leading
features of such a production as was necessary should be. He knew that
it could not in any case be made into a strong play, for the
indeterminate character of Richard would not allow of such. The strong
thing that is in the play is, of course, his suffering; but such, when
the outcome of one’s own nature, is not the same as when it is effected
by Fate, or external oppression. He knew therefore that the play would
want all the help he could give it. Now he set himself to work out the
text to acting shape, as he considered it would be best. Despite what
any one may say to the contrary—and it is only faddists that say it—
there is not a play of Shakespeare’s which does not need arranging or
cutting for the stage. So much can now be expressed by pictorial effect—
by costume, by lighting and properties and music—which in Shakespeare’s
time had to be expressed in words, that compression is at least
advisable. Then again, the existence of varied scenery and dresses
requires time for changes, which can sometimes be effected only by the
transposition of parts of the play. In his spare time, therefore, of
1897 he began the arrangement with a definite idea of production in
1899. When he had the general scheme prepared—for later on there are
always changes in readings and minor details—he approached the man who
in his mind would be the best to design and advise concerning the
artistic side: Edwin A. Abbey, R.A.

Irving and Abbey were close friends; and I am proud to say I can say the
same of myself and Abbey for the last twenty-five years. Irving had a
great admiration for his work, especially with regard to Shakespeare’s
plays, many of which he illustrated for _Harper’s Magazine_. The two men
had been often thrown together as members of “The Kinsmen,” a little
dining club of literary and artistic men of British and American
nationality. Abbey and George Boughton and John Sargent represented in
London the American painters of the group. Naturally in the intimate
companionship which such a club affords, men understand more of the
wishes and aims and ambitions of their friends. Irving had instinctive
belief that the painter who thought out his work so carefully and
produced effects at once so picturesque and so illuminative of character
would or might care for stage work where everything has to seem real and
regarding which there must be an intelligent purpose somewhere. Irving,
having already produced _Richard III._ with the limited resources of the
Bateman days, knew the difficulties of the play and the effects which he
wished to produce. When afterwards Abbey painted his great picture of
the funeral of Henry VI., Irving recognised a master-hand of scenic
purpose. Years afterwards when he reproduced the play he availed
himself, to the best of his own ability and the possibilities of the
stage, of the painter’s original work. It was not possible to realise on
the stage Abbey’s great conception. It is possible to use in the
illusion of a picture a perspective forbidden on the stage by limited
space and the non-compressible actuality of human bodies.

When he came to think over _Richard II._, he at once began to rely on
Abbey’s imagination and genius for the historical aspect of the play. He
approached him; and the work was undertaken.

III

Abbey has since told me of the delight he had in co-operating with
Irving. Not only was he proud and glad to work with such a man in such a
position which he had won for himself, but the actual working together
as artists in different media to one common end was pleasure to him.
Irving came to him with every detail of the play ready, so that he could
get into his mind at one time both the broad dominating ideas and the
necessary requirements and limitations of the scenes. The whole play was
charted for him at the start. Irving could defend every position he had
taken; knew the force and guidance of every passage; and had so studied
the period and its history that he could add external illumination to
the poet’s intention.

In addition, the painter found that his own suggestions were so quickly
and so heartily seized that he felt from the first that he himself and
his work were from the very start prime factors in the creation of the
_mise en scène_. In his words:

“Irving made me understand him; and he understood me! We seemed to be
thoroughly at one in everything. My own idea of the centre point of the
play was Richard’s poignant feeling at realising that Bolingbroke’s
power and splendour were taking the place of his own. The speech
beginning:

“‘O God! O God! that ere this tongue of mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment....’

“This seemed to be exactly Irving’s view also—only that he seemed to
have thought out every jot and tittle of it right down to the ‘nth.’ He
had been working out in his own mind the realisation of everything
whilst my own ideas had been scattered, vague, and nebulous. As we grew
to know the play together it all seemed so natural that a lot of my work
seemed to do itself. I had only to put down in form and colour such
things as were requisite. Of course there had to be much consulting of
authorities, much study of a technical kind, and many evasive
experiments before I reached what I wanted. But after I had talked the
play over with Irving I never had to be in doubt.”

To my humble mind this setting out of Abbey’s experience—which is in his
own words as he talked on the subject with me—is about as truthful and
exhaustive an illustration of the purpose and process of artistic
co-operation as we are ever likely to get.

In his designs Abbey brought home to one the _cachet_ of mediæval life.
What he implied as well as what he showed told at a glance the
conditions and restrictions—the dominant forces of that strenuous time:
the fierceness and cruelty; the suspicion and distrust; the horrible
crampedness of fortress life; the contempt of death which came with the
grim uncertainties of daily life. In one of his scenes was pictured by
inference the life of the ladies in such a time and place in the way
which one could never forget. It was a corner in the interior of a
castle, high up and out of reach of arrow or catapult; a quiet nook
where the women could go in safety for a breath of fresh air. Only the
sky above them was open, for danger would come from any side exposed.
The most had been made of the little space available for the cultivation
of a few plants. Every little “coign of vantage” made by the unequal
tiers of the building was seized on for the growth of flowers. The
strictness of the little high-walled bower of peace conveyed forcibly
what must have been the life of which this was the liberty. It was
exceedingly picturesque; a grace to the eye as well as an interest to
the mind. There was a charming effect in a great copper vase in a niche
of rough stonework, wherein blossomed a handful of marigolds.

In this play Irving was very decided as to the “attack.” He had often
talked with me about the proper note to strike at the beginning of the
play. To him, it should seem to be stately seriousness. In Richard’s
time the “Justice” of the King was no light matter; not to take it
seriously was to do away with the ultimate power of the Monarch.
Richard, as is afterwards shown, meant to use his kingly power
unscrupulously. He feared both Bolingbroke and Norfolk, and meant to get
rid of them. So meaning, he would of course shroud his unscrupulous
intent in the ermine of Justice. A hypocrite who proclaims himself as
such at the very start is not so dangerous as he might be, for at once
he sounds the note of warning to his victims. This, _pace_ the critics,
makes the action of Bolingbroke simple enough. _He_ saw through the
weaker Richard’s intent of treachery, and knew that his only chance lay
in counter-treachery. A King without scruple was a dangerous opponent in
the fourteenth century. It was not until Richard had violated his pledge
regarding the succession and right of Lancaster—thus further intending
to cripple the banished Duke—that the new Lancaster took arms as his
only chance.

In Irving’s reading of the character of Richard this intentional
hypocrisy did not oppose his florid, almost flamboyant, self-torturing
vapouring of his pain and woe. He is a creature of exaggerations of his
greatness, as of his own self-surrender.

As the production of the play progressed Irving began to build greater
and greater hopes on it. Already when he was taken ill at Glasgow in
1898 he had expended on the scenery alone—for the time for costumes and
properties had not arrived—a sum of over sixteen hundred pounds. It was
a bitter grief to him that he had to abandon the idea of playing the
part. But he still cherished the hope that his son Harry might yet play
it on the lines he had so studiously prepared. To this end he wished to
retain the freshness of Abbey’s work, and when during his long illness,
another manager, believing that he intended abandoning the production,
wished to secure Abbey’s co-operation, the painter refused the offer so
that Irving might later use the work for his son. Abbey, though no fee
or reward for all his labour had yet passed, considered the work done as
in some way joint property. This generous view endeared him more than
ever to Irving, who up to the day of his death regarded him as one of
the best and kindest and most thoughtful of his friends.

LIII
J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE

For a good many years Bernard Partridge was a _persona grata_ at the
Lyceum Theatre. He made the drawings of Irving and Ellen Terry for the
souvenirs which we issued for the following plays, _Macbeth_, _The Dead
Heart_, _Ravenswood_, _Henry VIII._, _King Lear_, _Becket_, and _King
Arthur_. He has a wonderful gift of “remembering with his eyes.” This
was particularly useful in working any drawing of Henry Irving, whose
expression altered so much when anything interested him that he became
the despair of most draughtsmen. Partridge used to stand on the stage
and watch him; or sit with him in his dressing-room for a chat. He would
make certain notes with pen and pencil, and then go home and draw him.
In the meantime Hawes Craven, the scene-painter, would make sketches in
monochrome of the scenes chosen for the souvenir, putting in the figures
but leaving the faces vacant. Then would come Bernard Partridge with his
own fine brushes and Hawes Craven’s palette and put in the likeness of
the various actors. These were so admirably done that any one taking up
any of the souvenirs can say who were the actors—if, of course, the
individuality of the latter be known to him. He used to laugh whenever I
spoke of his “putting in the noses.” Of course, the single figures were
his own work entirely. I think in all the years of Irving’s management
Bernard Partridge was the only person outside the _personnel_ of the
Company or staff who was allowed to pass in and out of the stage door
just as he wished. He used to be present at rehearsals from which all
others were forbidden.

Thus he came to have an exceptional knowledge of Irving’s face in pretty
well all its moods and phases. For this reason, too, the coloured
frontispiece of this book is of exceptional interest. It was the last
work of art done from Irving’s sitting before his death. Later on, he
was, of course, photographed; the last sun picture done of him was of
him sitting alongside John Hare, with whom he was staying at his place
in Overstrand two months before he died. But Partridge’s pastel was the
last art study from life. On the evening of 17th July 1905, he was
dining with Mr. and Mrs. Partridge in their pretty house in Church
Street, Chelsea. Sir Francis and Lady Burnand were there and Anstey
Guthrie, and Mr. Plowden, the magistrate. Irving enjoyed the evening
much—one can see it by the happy look in his face. Partridge, in the
fashion customary to him, made his “eye notes” as Irving sat back in his
arm-chair with the front of his shirt bulging out after the manner usual
to such a pose. Early next morning Partridge did the pastel.

To me it is of priceless worth, not only from its pictorial excellence,
but because it is the last artistic record of my dear friend; and
because it shows him in one of the happy moods which, alas! grew rarer
with his failing health. It gives, of course, a true impression of his
age—he was then in his sixty-eighth year; but all the beauty and
intelligence and sweetness of his face is there.

LIV
ROBERT BROWNING

It was quite a treat to hear Irving and Robert Browning talking. Their
conversation, no matter how it began, usually swerved round to
Shakespeare; as they were both excellent scholars of the subject the
talk was on a high plane. It was not of double-endings or rhyming lines,
or of any of the points or objects of that intellectual dissection which
forms the work of a certain order of scholars who seem to always want to
prove to themselves that Shakespeare was Shakespeare and no one else—and
that he was the same man at the end of his life that he had been at the
beginning. These two men took large views. Their ideas were of the
loftiness and truth of his thought; of the magic music of his verse; of
the light which his work threw on human nature. Each could quote
passages to support whatever view he was sustaining. And whenever those
two men talked, a quiet little group grew round them; all were content
to listen when they spoke.

We used to meet Browning at the houses of George Boughton, the Royal
Academician, and of Arthur Lewis, the husband of Kate, the eldest sister
of Ellen Terry. Both lived on Campden Hill, and the houses of both were
famous for hospitality amongst a large circle of friends radiating out
from the artistic classes.

Robert Browning once made Irving a present which he valued very much.
This was the purse, quite void of anything in the shape of money, which
was found, after his death, in the pocket of Edmund Kean. It was of
knitted green silk with steel rings. Charles Kean gave it to John Foster
who gave it to Browning who gave it to Irving. It was sold at Christie’s
at the sale of Irving’s curios, with already an illustrious record of
possessors.

Irving loved everything which had belonged to Edmund Kean, whom he
always held to be the greatest of British actors. He had quite a
collection of things which had been his. In addition to this purse he
had a malacca cane which had come from Garrick, to Kean; the knife which
Kean wore as Shylock; his sword and sandals worn by him as Lucius
Brutus; a gold medal presented to him in 1827; his Richard III. sword
and boots; the Circassian dagger presented to him by Lord Byron.

He had had also two Kean pictures on which he set great store. One of
large size was the scene from _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_, in which
Kean appeared as Sir Giles. The other was the portrait done by George
Clint as the study for Kean in the picture. This latter was the only
picture for which Edmund Kean ever sat, and Irving valued it
accordingly. He gave the large picture to the Garrick Club; but the
portrait he kept for himself. It was sold at the sale of his effects at
Christie’s where I had the good fortune to be able to purchase it. To me
it is of inestimable value, for of all his possessions Irving valued it
most.

LV
WALT WHITMAN

In the early afternoon of Thursday, 20th March, 1884, I drove with
Irving to the house of Thomas Donaldson, 326 North 40th Street,
Philadelphia. We went by appointment. Thomas Donaldson it was who had,
at the dinner given to Irving by the Clover Club on December 6, 1883,
presented him with Edwin Forrest’s watch.

When we arrived Donaldson met us in the hall. Irving went into the
“parlour”; Hatton, who was with us, and I talked for a minute or so with
our host. When we went in Irving was looking at a fine picture by Moran
of the Great Valley of the Yellowstone which hung over the fireplace. On
the opposite side of the room sat an old man of leonine appearance. He
was burly, with a large head and high forehead slightly bald. Great
shaggy masses of grey-white hair fell over his collar. His moustache was
large and thick and fell over his mouth so as to mingle with the top of
the mass of the bushy flowing beard. I knew at once who it was, but just
as I looked Donaldson, who had hurried on in front, said:

“Mr. Irving, I want you to know Mr. Walt Whitman.” His anxiety
beforehand and his jubilation in making the introduction satisfied me
that the occasion of Irving’s coming had been made one for the meeting
with the Poet.

When he heard the name Irving strode quickly across the room with
outstretched hand. “I am delighted to meet you!” he said, and the two
shook hands warmly. When my turn came and Donaldson said “Bram Stoker,”
Walt Whitman leaned forward suddenly, and held out his hand eagerly as
he said:

“Bram Stoker—Abraham Stoker is it?” I acquiesced and we shook hands as
old friends—as indeed we were. “Thereby hangs a tale.”

In 1868 when William Michael Rossetti brought out his Selected Poems of
Walt Whitman it raised a regular storm in British literary circles. The
bitter-minded critics of the time absolutely flew at the Poet and his
work as watch-dogs do at a ragged beggar. Unfortunately there were
passages in the _Leaves of Grass_ which allowed of attacks, and those
who did not or could not understand the broad spirit of the group of
poems took samples of detail which were at least deterrent. Doubtless
they thought that it was a case for ferocious attack; as from these
excerpts it would seem that the book was as offensive to morals as to
taste. They did not scruple to give the _ipsissima verba_ of the most
repugnant passages.

In my own University the book was received with cynical laughter, and
more than a few of the students sent over to Trübner’s for copies of the
complete _Leaves of Grass_—that being the only place where they could
then be had. Needless to say that amongst young men the objectionable
passages were searched for and more noxious ones expected. For days we
all talked of Walt Whitman and the new poetry with scorn—especially
those of us who had not seen the book. One day I met a man in the Quad
who had a copy, and I asked him to let me look at it. He acquiesced
readily:

“Take the damned thing,” he said; “I’ve had enough of it!”

I took the book with me into the Park and in the shade of an elm-tree
began to read it. Very shortly my own opinion began to form; it was
diametrically opposed to that which I had been hearing. From that hour I
became a lover of Walt Whitman. There were a few of us who, quite
independently of each other, took the same view. We had quite a fight
over it with our companions who used to assail us with shafts of their
humour on all occasions. Somehow, we learned, I think, a good deal in
having perpetually to argue without being able to deny—in so far as
quotation went at all events—the premises of our opponents.

However, we were ourselves satisfied, and that was much. Young men are,
as a rule, very tenacious of such established ideas as they have—perhaps
it is a fortunate thing, for them and others; and we did not expect to
convince our friends all at once. Fortunately also the feeling of
intellectual superiority which comes with the honest acceptance of an
idea which others have refused is an anodyne to the pain of ridicule. We
Walt-Whitmanites had in the main more satisfaction than our opponents.
Edward Dowden was one of the few who in those days took the large and
liberal view of the _Leaves of Grass_, and as he was Professor of
English Literature at the University his opinion carried great weight in
such a matter. He brought the poems before the more cultured of the
students by a paper at the Philosophical Society on May 4, 1871, on
“Walt Whitman and the Poetry of Democracy.” To me was given the honour
of opening the debate on the paper.

For seven years the struggle in our circle went on. Little by little we
got recruits amongst the abler young men till at last a little cult was
established. But the attack still went on. I well remember a militant
evening at the “Fortnightly Club”—a club of Dublin men, meeting
occasionally for free discussions. Occasionally there were meetings for
both sexes. This particular evening—February 14, 1876—was, perhaps
fortunately, not a “Ladies’ Night.” The paper was on “Walt Whitman” and
was by a man of some standing socially; a man who had had a fair
University record and was then a county gentleman of position in his own
county. He was exceedingly able; a good scholar, well versed in both
classic and English literature, and a brilliant humorist. His paper at
the “Fortnightly” was a violent, incisive attack on Walt Whitman; had we
not been accustomed to such for years it would have seemed outrageous. I
am bound to say it was very clever; by confining himself almost entirely
to the group of poems, “Children of Adam,” he made out, in one way, a
strong case. But he went too far. In challenging the existence in the
whole collection of poems for mention of one decent woman—which is in
itself ridiculous, for Walt Whitman honoured women—he drew an
impassioned speech from Edward Dowden, who finished by reading a few
verses from the poem “Faces.” It was the last section of the poem, that
which describes a noble figure of an old Quaker mother. It ends:

“The melodious character of the earth,
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go,
and does not wish to go,
The justified mother of men.”

I followed Dowden in the speaking and we carried the question. I find a
note in my diary, which if egotistical has at least that merit of
sincerity which is to be found now and again in a man’s diary—when he is
young:

“Spoke—I think well.”

III

That night before I went to bed—three o’clock—I wrote a long letter to
Walt Whitman. I had written to him before, but never so freely; my
letters were only of the usual pattern and did not call for answer. But
this letter was one in which I poured out my heart. I had long wished to
do so but was, somehow, ashamed or diffident—the qualities are much
alike. That night I spoke out; the stress of the evening had given me
courage.

Mails were fewer and slower thirty years ago than they are to-day. My
letter was written in the early morning of February 15. Walt Whitman
wrote in answer on March 6, and I received it exactly two weeks later;
so that he must have written very soon after receipt of my letter. Here
is his reply:

“431 STEVENS ST.
COR. WEST.
CAMDEN, N. JERSEY,
U.S. AMERICA,
_March 6, ’76_.

“BRAM STOKER,—My dear young man,—Your letters have been most welcome
to me—welcome to me as a Person and then as Author—I don’t know which
most. You did well to write to me so unconventionally, so fresh, so
manly, and so affectionately too. I, too, hope (though it is not
probable) that we shall one day personally meet each other. Meantime I
send you my friendship and thanks.

“Edward Dowden’s letter containing among others your subscription for
a copy of my new edition has just been rec’d. I shall send the book
very soon by express in a package to his address. I have just written
to E. D.

“My physique is entirely shatter’d—doubtless permanently—from
paralysis and other ailments. But I am up and dress’d, and get out
every day a little, live here quite lonesome, but hearty, and good
spirits.—Write to me again.

“WALT WHITMAN.”

In 1871 a correspondence had begun between Walt Whitman and Tennyson
which lasted for some years. In the first of Tennyson’s letters, July
12, 1871, he had said:

“I trust that if you visit England, you will grant me the pleasure of
receiving and entertaining you under my own roof.”

This kind invitation took root in Walt Whitman’s mind and blossomed into
intention. He was arranging to come to England, and Edward Dowden asked
him to prolong his stay and come to Ireland also. This was provisionally
arranged with him. When he should have paid his visit to Tennyson he was
to come on to Dublin, where his visit was to have been shared between
Dowden and myself. Dowden was a married man with a house of his own. I
was a bachelor, living in the top rooms of a house, which I had
furnished myself. We knew that Walt Whitman lived a peculiarly isolated
life, and the opportunity which either one or other of us could afford
him would fairly suit his taste. He could then repeat his visit to
either, and prolong it as he wished. We had also made provisional
arrangements for his giving a lecture whilst in Dublin; and as the
friends whom we asked were eager to take tickets, he would be assured of
a sum of at least a hundred pounds sterling—a large sum to him in those
days.

But alas!

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley.”

At the very beginning of 1873 Walt Whitman was struck down by a stroke
of paralysis which left him a wreck for the rest of his days. He could
at best move but a very little; the joys of travel and visiting distant
friends were not to be for him.

At the meeting in 1884 he and Irving became friends at once. He knew
some at least of Walt Whitman’s work, for we often spoke of it; I myself
gave him a two-volume edition. Walt Whitman was sitting on a sofa and
Irving drew up a chair, a large rocker, beside him. They talked together
for a good while and seemed to take to each other mightily. Irving
doubtless struck by his height, his poetic appearance, his voice, and
breadth of manner, said presently:

“You know you are like Tennyson in several ways. You quite remind me of
him!” Then knowing that many people like their identity to be unique and
not comparable with any one else, however great, he added:

“You don’t mind that, do you?” The answer came quickly:

“Mind it! I like it!—I am very proud to be told so! I like to be
tickled!” He actually beamed and chuckled with delight at the praise. He
always had a lofty idea of Tennyson and respect as well as love for him
and his work; and he was hugely pleased at the comparison. He stood up
so that Irving might gauge his height comparatively with Tennyson’s.

Donaldson in his book on Walt Whitman, published after the Poet’s death,
wrote of the interview:

“Mr. Whitman was greatly pleased with Mr. Irving, and remarked to me
how little of the actor there was in his manner or talk. Frequently,
after this, Mr. Whitman expressed to me his admiration for Mr. Irving,
now Sir Henry Irving, for his gentle and unaffected manners and his
evident intellectual power and heart.”

Be it remembered that Walt Whitman was fond of the theatre and went to
it a good deal before he was incapacitated by his paralysis; but he did
not like the vulgarity of certain actors in their posing off the stage.
When he met the great actor, with whose praise the whole country was
then ringing, and found that he was gentle and restrained and unassuming
in manner the whole craft rose in his estimation.

When it came to my own turn to have a chat with Walt Whitman I found him
all that I had ever dreamed of, or wished for in him: large-minded,
broad-viewed, tolerant to the last degree; incarnate sympathy;
understanding with an insight that seemed more than human. Small wonder,
I thought, that in that terrible war of ’61–5 this man made a place for
himself in the world of aid to the suffering, which was unique. No
wonder that men opened their hearts to him—told him their secrets, their
woes and hopes and griefs and loves! A man amongst men! With a herculean
physical strength and stamina; with courage and hope and belief that
never seemed to tire or stale he moved amongst those legions of the
wounded and sick like a very angel of comfort materialised to an
understanding man.

To me he was an old friend, and on his part he made me feel that I was
one. We spoke of Dublin and those friends there who had manifested
themselves to him. He remembered all their names and asked me many
questions as to their various personalities. Before we parted he asked
me to come to see him at his home in Camden whenever I could manage it.
Need I say that I promised.

It was not till after two years that I had opportunity to pay my visit
to Walt Whitman. The cares and responsibilities of a theatre are always
exacting, and the demands on the time of any one concerned in management
are so endless that the few hours of leisure necessary for such a visit
are rare.

At last came a time when I could see my way. On 23rd October 1886 I left
London for New York, arriving on 31st. I had come over to make out a
tour for _Faust_ to commence next year. On 2nd November I went to
Philadelphia by an early train. There after I had done my work at the
theatre I met Donaldson, and as I had time to spare we went over to
Camden to pay the visit to which I had looked forward so long.

His house, 328 Mickle Street, was a small ordinary one in a row, built
of the usual fine red brick which marks Philadelphia and gives it an
appearance so peculiarly Dutch. It was a small house, though large
enough for his needs. He sat in the front room in a big rocking-chair
which Donaldson’s children had given him; it had been specially made for
him, as he was a man of over six feet high and very thick-set. He was
dressed all in grey, the trousers cut straight and wide, and the coat
loose. All the cloth was a sort of thick smooth frieze. His shirt was of
rather coarse cotton, unstarched, with a very wide full collar open low—
very low in the neck and fastened with a big white stud. The old lady
who cared for him and nursed him had for him a manifest admiration. She
evidently liked to add on her own account some little adornment; she had
fastened a bit of cheap narrow lace on his wide soft shirt cuffs and at
the neck of his collar. It was clumsily sewn on and was pathetic to see,
for it marked a limited but devoted intelligence used for his care. The
cuffs of his coat were unusually deep and wide and were stuck here and
there with pins which he used for his work. His hair seemed longer and
wilder and shaggier and whiter than when I had seen him two years
before. He seemed feebler, and when he rose from his chair or moved
about the room did so with difficulty. I could notice his eyes better
now. They were not so quick and searching as before; tireder-looking, I
thought, with the blue paler and the grey less warm in colour.
Altogether the whole man looked more worn out. There was not, however,
any symptom of wear or tire in his intellectual or psychic faculties.

He seemed genuinely glad to see me. He was most hearty in his manner and
interested about everything. He asked much about London and its people,
specially those of the literary world; and spoke of Irving in a way that
delighted me. Our conversation presently drifted towards Abraham Lincoln
for whom he had an almost idolatrous affection. I confess that in this I
shared; and it was another bond of union between us. He said:

“No one will ever know the real Abraham Lincoln or his place in
history!”

I had of course read his wonderful description of the assassination by
Wilkes Booth given in his _Memoranda during the War_, published in the
volume called _Two Rivulets_ in the Centennial Edition of his works in
1876. This is so startlingly vivid that I thought that the man who had
written it could tell me more. So I asked him if he were present at the
time. He said:

“No, I was not present at the time of the assassination; but I was close
to the theatre and was one of the first in when the news came. Then I
afterwards spent the better part of the night interviewing many of those
who were present and of the President’s Guard, who, when the terrible
word came out that he had been murdered, stormed the house with fixed
bayonets. It was a wonder that there was not a holocaust, for it was a
wild frenzy of grief and rage. It might have been that the old sagas had
been enacted again when amongst the Vikings a Chief went to the Valhalla
with a legion of spirits around him!”

The memory of that room will never leave me. The small, close room—it
was cold that day and when we came in he had lit his stove, which soon
grew almost red-hot; the poor furniture; the dim light of the winter
afternoon struggling in through the not-over-large window shadowed as it
was by the bare plane-tree on the sidewalk, whose branches creaked in
the harsh wind; the floor strewn in places knee-deep with piles of
newspapers and books and all the odds and ends of a literary working
room. Amongst them were quite a number of old hats—of the soft grey
wide-brimmed felt which he always wore.

Donaldson and I had arrived at Mickle Street about three, and at four we
left. I think Walt Whitman was really sorry to have us go. Thomas
Donaldson describes the visit in his book _Walt Whitman as I knew him_.

The opportunity for my next visit to Walt Whitman came in the winter of
1887 when we were playing in Philadelphia. On the 22nd December
Donaldson and I again found our way over to Mickle Street. In the
meantime I had had much conversation about Walt Whitman with many of his
friends. The week after my last interview I had been again in
Philadelphia for a day, on the evening of which I had dined with his
friend and mine, Talcott Williams of the _Press_. During the evening we
talked much of Walt Whitman, and we agreed that it was a great pity that
he did not cut certain lines and passages out of the poems. Talcott
Williams said he would do it if permitted, and I said I would speak to
Walt Whitman about it whenever we should meet again. The following year,
1887, I breakfasted with Talcott Williams, 19th December, and in much
intimate conversation we spoke of the subject again.

We found Walt Whitman hale and well. His hair was more snowy white than
ever and more picturesque. He looked like King Lear in Ford Madox
Brown’s picture. He seemed very glad to see me and greeted me quite
affectionately. He said he was “in good heart,” and looked bright though
his body had distinctly grown feebler.

I ventured to speak to him what was in my mind as to certain excisions
in his work. I said:

“If you will only allow your friends to do this—they will only want to
cut about a hundred lines in all—your books will go into every house in
America. Is not that worth the sacrifice?” He answered at once, as
though his mind had long ago been made up and he did not want any
special thinking:

“It would not be any sacrifice. So far as I am concerned they might cut
a thousand. It is not that—it is quite another matter:”—here both face
and voice grew rather solemn—“when I wrote as I did I thought I was
doing right and right makes for good. I think so still. I think that all
that God made is for good—that the work of His hands is clean in all
ways if used as He intended! If I was wrong I have done harm. And for
that I deserve to be punished by being forgotten! It has been and cannot
not be. No, I shall never cut a line so long as I live!”

One had to respect a decision so made and on such grounds. I said no
more.

When we were going he held up his hand saying, “Wait a minute.” He got
up laboriously and hobbled out of the room and to his bedroom overhead.
There we heard him moving about and shifting things. It was nearly a
quarter of an hour when he came down holding in his hand a thin
green-covered volume and a printed picture of himself. He wrote on the
picture with his indelible blue pencil. Then he handed to me both book
and picture, saying:

“Take these and keep them from me and Good-bye!”

The book was the 1872 edition of the _Leaves of Grass_—“As a Strong Bird
on Pinions Free”—and contained his autograph in ink. The portrait was a
photograph by Gutekunst, of Philadelphia. On it he had written:

_To_
Bram Stoker.
Walt Whitman. Dec. 22, ’87.

That was the last time I ever saw the man who for nearly twenty years
had held my heart as a dear friend.

VII

When I had come to New York after my visit to Walt Whitman in 1886 I
made it my business to see Augustus St. Gaudens, the sculptor, regarding
a project which had occurred to me. That was to have him do a bust of
Walt Whitman. He jumped at the idea, and said it would be a delight to
him—that there ought to be such a record of the great Poet and that he
would be proud to do it. I arranged that I should ask if he could have
the necessary facilities from Walt Whitman. We thought that I could do
it best as I knew him and those of his friends who were closest to him.
I made inquiries at once through Donaldson, and when business took me
again to Philadelphia, on 8th and 9th November, we arranged the matter.
Walt Whitman acquiesced and was very pleased at the idea. I wrote the
necessary letters and left addresses and so forth with St. Gaudens. He
was at that time very busy with his great statue of Abraham Lincoln for
Chicago. Incidentally I saw in his studio the life mask and hands of
Lincoln made by the sculptor Volk before he went to Washington for his
first Presidency. The mould had just been found by the sculptor’s son
twenty-five years after their making. Twenty men joined to purchase the
models and present them to the nation. St. Gaudens made casts in bronze
of the face and hands with a set for each of the twenty subscribers with
his name in each case cast in the bronze. Henry Irving and I had the
honour of being two of the twenty. The bronze mask and hands, together
with the original plaster moulds, rest in the Smithsonian Institute in
Washington with a bronze plate recording the history and the names of
the donors. I felt proud when, some years later, I saw by chance my own
name in such a place, in such company, and for such a cause.

Unhappily, for want of time—for he was overwhelmed with work—and other
causes, St. Gaudens could not get to Philadelphia for a long time. Then
Walt Whitman got another stroke of paralysis early in 1888. Before the
combination of possibilities came when he could sit to the sculptor and
the latter could give the time to the work he died.

VIII

I was not in America between the spring of 1888 and the early fall of
1893 at which time Irving opened the tour in San Francisco. We did not
reach Philadelphia till towards the end of January 1894. In the meantime
Walt Whitman had died, March 26, 1892. On 4th February I spent the
afternoon with Donaldson in his home. Shortly after I came in he went
away for a minute and came back with a large envelope which he handed to
me:

“That is for you from Walt Whitman. I have been keeping it till I should
see you.”

The envelope contained in a rough card folio pasted down on thick paper
the original notes from which he delivered his lecture on Abraham
Lincoln at the Chestnut Street Opera House on April 15, 1886.

“With it was a letter to Donaldson, in which he said:

“Enclosed I send a full report of my Lincoln Lecture for our friend
Bram Stoker.”

This was my Message from the Dead.

LVI
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Irving, like all who have ever known him, loved the “Hoosier” poet. We
saw a great deal of him when he was in London; and whenever we were in
Indianapolis, to meet him was one of the expected pleasures. Riley is
one of the most dramatic reciters that live, and when he gives one of
his own poems it is an intellectual delight. I remember two specially
delightful occasions in which he was a participant. Once in Indianapolis
when he came and supped on the car with us whilst we were waiting after
the play for the luggage to be loaded. He was in great form, and Irving
sat all the time with an expectant smile whilst Riley told us of some of
his experiences amongst the hill folk of Indiana where conditions of
life are almost primitive. One tale gave Irving intense pleasure—that in
which he told of how he had asked a mountaineer who was going down to
the nearest town to bring him back some tobacco. This the man had done
gladly; but when Riley went to pay him the cost of it he drew his gun on
him. When the other asked the cause of offence, which he did not intend
or even understand, the mountaineer answered:

“Didn’t I do what ye asked me! Then why do you go for to insult me. I
ain’t a tobacker dealer. I bought it for ye, an’ I give it to ye free
and glad. I ain’t sellin’ it!”

The other occasion was a dinner at the Savoy Hotel, July 29, 1891, to
which Irving had asked some friends to meet him. “Jamesy”—for so his
friends call him—recited several of his poems, most exquisitely. His
rendering of the powerful little poem, “Good-bye, Jim,” made every one
of the other eight men at the table weep.

LVII
ERNEST RENAN

On April 3, 1880, when we were playing _The Merchant of Venice_, Ernest
Renan came to the Lyceum; the Rev. H. R. Haweis was with him. At the end
of the third act they both came round to Irving’s dressing-room. It was
interesting to note the progress through the long Royal passage of that
strangely assorted pair. Haweis was diminutive, and had an extraordinary
head of black hair. Renan was ponderously fat and bald as a billiard
ball. The historian waddled along with an odd rolling gait, whilst the
preacher, who was lame, hopped along like a sort of jackdaw. The
conversation between Irving and Renan was a strange one to listen to.
Neither knew the other’s language; but each kept talking his own with,
strange to say, the result that they really understood something of what
was said. When I was alone with Irving and remarked on it he said:

“If you don’t know the other person’s language, keep on speaking your
own. Do not get hurried or flustered, but keep as natural as you can;
your intonation, being natural, will convey something. You have a far
better chance of being understood than if you try to talk a language you
don’t know!”

LVIII
HALL CAINE

The early relations between Irving and Hall Caine are especially
interesting, considering the positions which both men afterwards
attained. They began in 1874. On the 16th of October in that year Irving
wrote to him a very kindly and friendly letter in answer to Hall Caine’s
request that he should allow his portrait to be inserted in a monthly
magazine which he was projecting.

A fortnight later Hall Caine, as critic of the Liverpool _Town Crier_,
attended the first night of _Hamlet_ at the Lyceum—31st October, 1874.
His criticism was by many friends thought so excellent that he was asked
to reprint it. This was done in the shape of a broad-sheet pamphlet. The
critique is throughout keen and appreciative. The last two paragraphs
are worthy of preservation:

“To conclude. Throughout this work (which is not confined to the
language of terror and pity, the language of impassioned intellect,
but includes also the words of everyday life), every passage has its
proper pulse and receives from the actor its characteristic mode of
expression. Every speech is good and weighty, correct and dignified,
and treated with feeling. The variety, strength and splendour of the
whole conception have left impressions which neither time nor
circumstance can ever efface. They are happy, indeed, who hear Hamlet
first from Mr. Irving. They may see other actors essay the part (a
very improbable circumstance whilst Mr. Irving holds his claim to it),
but the memory of the noble embodiment of the character will never
leave them.

“We will not say that Mr. Irving is the Betterton, Garrick, or Kemble
of his age. In consideration of this performance we claim for him a
position altogether distinct and unborrowed. Mr. Irving will, we
judge, be the leader of a school of actors now eagerly enlisting
themselves under his name. The object will be—the triumph of _mental_
over _physical_ histrionic art.”

This critical forecast is very remarkable considering the writer’s age.
At that time he was only in his _twenty-second_ year. He had already
been writing and lecturing for some time and making a little place for
himself locally as a man of letters.

Two years later they had a meeting by Irving’s request. This was during
a visit to Liverpool whilst the actor was on tour. There began a close
friendship which lasted till Irving’s death. Caine seemed to intuitively
understand not only Irving’s work but his aim and method. Irving felt
this and had a high opinion of Caine’s powers. I do not know any one
whose opinions interested him more. There was to both men a natural
expression of intellectual frankness, as if they held the purpose as
well as the facts of ideas in common. The two men were very much alike
in certain intellectual ways. To both was given an almost abnormal
faculty of self-abstraction and of concentrating all their powers on a
given subject for any length of time. To both was illimitable patience
in the doing of their work. And in yet one other way their powers were
similar: a faculty of getting up and ultimately applying to the work in
hand an amazing amount of information. When Irving undertook a character
he set himself to work to inform himself of the facts appertaining to
it; when the time for acting it came, it was found that he knew pretty
well all that could be known about. Hall Caine was also a “glutton” in
the same way. He absorbed facts and ideas almost by an instinct and
assimilated them with natural ease. For instance, when he went to
Morocco to get local colour before writing _The Scapegoat_ he so steeped
himself in the knowledge of Jewish life and ideas and ritual that those
who read his book almost accepted him as an authority on the subject.

When Hall Caine published _The Deemster_ in 1887 Irving was one of its
most appreciative admirers. We were then on tour in America and he
naturally got hold of the book a little later than its great and sudden
English success. Still he read it unprejudiced by its success and
thought it would make a fine play. When we got back to England early in
April 1888, he took his earliest opportunity of approaching the author;
but only to find that he had already entered into an arrangement with
Wilson Barrett with regard to dramatisation of the novel.

Irving’s view of this was different to that of both Caine and Barrett.
To him the dramatic centre and pivotal point of the play that would be
most effective was the Bishop. Had the novel been available he would—
Caine being willing to dramatise it or to allow it to be dramatised by
some one else—have played it on those lines.

I think it was a great pity that this could not be, for Irving and Hall
Caine would have made a wonderful team. The latter was compact of
imagination and—then undeveloped—dramatic force. With Irving to learn
from, in the way of acting needs and development, he would surely have
done some dramatic work of wonderful introspection and intensity.—As he
will do yet; though his road has been a rough one.

From that time on, Irving had a strong desire that Caine should write
some play that he could act. Time after time he suggested subjects;
theories that he could deal with; characters good to act. But there
seemed to be always some _impasse_ set by Fate. For instance, Irving had
had for a long time a desire to act the part of Mahomet, and after the
publication in France of the play on the subject by De Bornier it seemed
to be feasible. Herein too came the memory of the promptings and urging
of Sir Richard Burton of some three years before as to the production of
an Eastern play. De Bornier’s play he found would not suit his purpose;
so he suggested to Hall Caine that he should write one on the subject.
Caine jumped at the idea—he too had a desire to deal with an Eastern
theme. He thought the matter out, and had before long evolved a
_scenario_. Well do I remember the time he put it before me. At that
time he was staying with me, and on the afternoon of Sunday, January 26,
1890, he said he would like to give his idea of the play. He had already
had a somewhat trying morning, for he had made an appointment with an
interviewer and had had a long meeting with him. Work, however, was—is—
always a stimulant to Hall Caine. The use of his brain seems to urge and
stimulate it “as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on.”
Now in the dim twilight of the late January afternoon, sitting in front
of a good fire of blazing billets of old ship timber, the oak so
impregnated with salt and saltpetre that the flames leaped in rainbow
colours, he told the story as he saw it. Hall Caine always knows his
work so well and has such a fine memory that he never needs to look at a
note. That evening he was all on fire. His image rises now before me. He
sits on a low chair in front of the fire; his face is pale, something
waxen-looking in the changing blues of the flame. His red hair, fine and
long, and pushed back from his high forehead, is so thin that through it
as the flames leap we can see the white line of the head so like to
Shakespeare’s. He is himself all aflame. His hands have a natural
eloquence—something like Irving’s; they foretell and emphasise the
coming thoughts. His large eyes shine like jewels as the firelight
flashes. Only my wife and I are present, sitting like Darby and Joan at
either side of the fireplace. As he goes on he gets more and more afire
till at last he is like a living flame. We sit quite still; we fear to
interrupt him. The end of his story leaves us fired and exalted too....

He was quite done up; the man exhausts himself in narrative as I have
never seen with any one else. Indeed when he had finished a novel he
used to seem as exhausted as a woman after childbirth. At such times he
would be in a terrible state of nerves—trembling and sleepless. At that
very time he had not quite got through the nervous crisis after the
completion of _The Bondman_. At such times everything seemed to worry
him; things that he would shortly after laugh at. This is part of the
penalty that genius pays to great effort.

III

The next day, January 27, 1890, in the office at the Lyceum, Caine told—
not read—to Irving the story of his play on Mahomet. Irving was very
pleased with it, and it was of course understood that Caine was to go on
and carry out the idea. He set to work on it with his usual fiery
energy, and in a few months had evolved a _scenario_ so complete that it
was a volume in itself. By this time it was becoming known that Irving
had in mind the playing of Mahomet. The very fact of approaching De
Bornier regarding his play had somehow leaked out. As often happens in
matters theatrical there came a bolt from the blue. None of us had the
slightest idea that there _could_ be any objection in a professedly
Christian nation to a play on the subject. A letter was received from
the Lord Chamberlain’s department, which controls the licences of
theatres and plays, asking that such a play should not be undertaken.
The reason given was that protest had been made by a large number of our
Mahometan fellow subjects. The Mahometan faith holds it sacrilege to
represent in any form the image of the Prophet. The Lord Chamberlain’s
department does its spiriting very gently; all that those in contact
with it are made aware of is the velvet glove. But the steel hand works
all the same—perhaps better than if stark. It is an understood thing
that the Lord Chamberlain’s request is a command in matters under his
jurisdiction. Britain with her seventy millions of Mahometan subjects
does not wish—and cannot afford—to offend their sensibilities for the
sake of a stage play. Irving submitted gracefully at once, of course.
Caine was more than nice on the matter; he refused to accept fee or
reward of any kind for his work. He simply preserved his work by
privately printing, three years later, the _scenario_ as a story in
dramatic form. He altered it sufficiently to change the _personnel_ of
the time and place of Mahomet, laying the story of _The Mahdi_ in modern
Morocco.

This was not Irving’s first experience of the action on a political
basis of the Lord Chamberlain. I shall have something to say of it when
treating of Frank Marshall’s play, _Robert Emmett_.

During Caine’s visit to me in Edinburgh in 1891 he and Irving saw much
of one another. On the 18th we took supper with Dr. Andrew Wilson, an
old friend of us all, at the Northern Club. That night both Irving and
Caine were in great form and the conversation was decidedly interesting.
It began with a sort of discussion about Shakespeare as a dramatist—on
the working side; his practical execution of his own imaginative
intention. Hall Caine held that Shakespeare would not have put in his
plays certain descriptions if he had had modern stage advantages to
explain without his telling. Irving said that it would be good for
moderns if they would but take Shakespeare’s lesson in this matter.
Later on the conversation tended towards weird subjects. Caine told of
seeing in a mirror a reflection not his own. Irving followed by telling
us of his noticing an accidental effect in a mirror, which he afterwards
used in the _Macbeth_ ghost: that of holding the head up. The evening
was altogether a fascinating one; it was four o’clock when we broke up.

On November 19, 1892, Hall Caine supped with Irving in the Beefsteak
Room, bringing his young son Ralph with him. The only other guest was
Sir (then Mr.) Alexander Mackenzie. It was a delightful evening, a long,
pleasant, home-like chat. Irving was very quiet and listened attentively
to all Caine said. The latter told us the story of the novel he had just
then projected. The scene was to be laid in Cracow to which he was
shortly to make his way.

Irving was hugely interested. Any form of oppression was noxious to him;
and certainly the Jewish “Exodus” that was just then going on came under
that heading. I think that he had in his mind the possibilities of a new
and powerful play. As I said, he was most anxious to have a play by Hall
Caine, and after the abortive attempt at Mahomet, he was more set on it
than ever.

He had before this suggested to Caine that he should do a play on the
subject of the “Flying Dutchman.” The play which he had done in 1878,
_Vanderdecken_, was no good as a play, though he played in it admirably.
For my own part I believed in the subject and always wanted him to try
it again—the play, of course, being tinkered into something like good
shape, or a new play altogether written. The character, as Irving
created it, was there fit for any setting; and so long as the play
should be fairly sufficient the result ought to be good. Irving had a
great opinion of Caine’s imagination, and always said that he would
write a great work of weirdness some day. He knew already his ability
and his fire and his zeal. He believed also in the convincing force of
the man.

In 1894 Hall Caine wrote a poem called _The Demon Lover_, in which he
found material for a play. He made a _scenario_, which he told rather
than read to Irving after supper in the Beefsteak Room on St.
Valentine’s day of the next year, 1895. Irving was much impressed by it
but thought that the part would of necessity be too young for him—he was
then fifty-six. He asked Caine again to try the “Flying Dutchman.”

In the June of next year 1896 we were in Manchester in the course of a
tour. Hall Caine came over from the Isle of Man to stay with me,
bringing with him the _scenario_ of a play on the “Flying Dutchman” and
also the _scenario_ of a new play which he had just completed, _Home,
Sweet Home_. He read, or rather told, me the latter with the MS. open
before him. He never, however, turned the pages. The next forenoon we
went by previous arrangement to Irving’s rooms at the Queen’s Hotel.
There he read—or told from his script—the _scenario_ of his play on the
“Flying Dutchman.” We discussed it then, and afterwards during a
carriage drive. Irving asked Caine if he could not make the character of
Vanderdecken more sympathetic and less brutal at the start. Caine having
promised to go into this and see what he could do, then told the story
of _Home, Sweet Home_. Irving feared from the description that the play
would not do for him. In Act I. the character was too young; in Act II.
too rough; and in Act III. too tall. For his objection in the last case
he gave a reason, enlightening in the matter of stagecraft:

“There is no general sympathy on the stage for tall old men!”

Finally Caine told us the story of his coming novel, which was
afterwards called _The Christian_. He knew it in his own mind by the
tentative title which he used, “Glory and John Storm.”

VII

In the afternoon we all went to the Bellevue Gardens to see a wonderful
chimpanzee, “Jock,” a powerful animal and more clever even than “Sally,”
who was then the great public pet at the “Zoo” in Regent’s Park. Ellen
Terry came with us and also Comyns Carr, who had arrived from London.
Jock was certainly an abnormal brute. He rode about the grounds on a
tricycle of his own! He ate his food from a plate with knife and fork
and spoon! He slept in a bed with sheets and blankets! He smoked
cigarettes! And he drank wine—when he could get it! His favourite tipple
was port wine and lemonade, and he was very conservative in his rights
regarding it. Indeed in this case it was very nearly productive of a
grim tragedy.

We went into a little room close to the keeper’s house; a sort of
general refreshment room with wooden benches round it and a table in the
centre. Jock had his cigarette; then his grog was mixed to his great and
anxious interest. The keeper handed him the tumbler, which he held tight
in both paws whilst he went through some hanky-panky pantomime of
thanks—usually, I took it, productive of pennies. Irving said to the
keeper:

“Would he give you some of that, now?” The man shook his head as he
answered:

“He doesn’t like to, but he will if I ask him. I have to be careful
though.” He asked Jock, who very unwillingly let him take the tumbler,
following it with his paws. The arms stretched out as it went farther
from him; but the paws always remained close to the glass. The man just
put the edge of the glass to his mouth and then handed it back quickly.
The monkey had acted with considerable self-restraint, and looked
immensely relieved when he had his drink safe back again. Then Irving
said:

“Let me see if he will let me have some!” The keeper spoke to the
monkey, keeping his eye fixedly on him. Irving took the glass from his
manifestly unwilling paws and raised it to his own lips. Being a better
actor than the keeper he did his part more realistically, actually
letting the liquid rise over his shut lips.

The instant the monkey saw his beloved liquor touch the mouth he became
a savage—a veritable, red-eyed, restrainless demon. With a sudden
hideous screech he dashed out his arms, one paw catching Irving by the
throat, the other seizing the glass. It made us all gasp and grow pale.
The brute was so strong and so savage that it might have torn his
windpipe before a hand could have been raised. Fortunately Irving did
instinctively the only thing that could be done; he yelled suddenly in
the face of the monkey—an appalling yell which seemed to push the brute
back. At the same moment he thrust away from him the glass in the
animal’s other paw. The monkey, loosing his hold on his throat, jumped
back across the wide table with incredible quickness without losing its
seated attitude, and sat clutching the tumbler close to his breast and
showing his teeth whilst he manifested his rage in a hideous trumpeting.

Before that, at our first coming into the room he had nearly frightened
the life out of Ellen Terry. She had sat down on the bench along the
wall. The monkey looked at her and seemed attracted by her golden hair.
He came and sat by her on the bench and, turning over, laid his head in
her lap, looking up at her and at the same time putting up his paw as
big as a man’s hand and as black and shiny as though covered with an
undertaker’s funeral glove. She looked down, saw his eyes, and with a
scream made a jump for the doorway. The monkey laughed. He had a sense
of humour—of his own kind, which was not of a high kind.

A little later he regained his good temper and forgave us all. When we
went round the gardens he got on his tricycle and came with us. In the
monkey house was a great cage as large as an ordinary room, and here
were a large number of monkeys of a mixed kind. Our gorilla—for such he
really was—started to amuse himself with them. He got a great stick and
standing close to the cage hammered furiously at the bars, all the while
trumpeting horribly. In the midst of it he would look at us with a grin,
as much as to say:

“See how I am frightening these inferior creatures!” They were in an
agony of fear, crouching in the farthest corners of the great cage,
moaning and shivering.

VIII

Irving had had an incident with a monkey some years before. On June 16,
1887, we went to Stratford-on-Avon, where he was to open a fountain the
next day. We stayed with Mr. C. E. Flower, at Avonbank, his beautiful
place on the river. In his conservatory was a somewhat untamed monkey;
not a very large one, but with anger enough for a wilderness of monkeys.
Frank Marshall, who was of our party, would irritate the monkey when we
went to smoke in there after dinner. It got so angry with his puffing
his smoke at it that it shook the cage to such an extent that we thought
it would topple over. We persuaded Marshall to come away, and then
Irving, who loved animals, went over to pacify the monkey.

The latter, however, did not discriminate between malice and good
intent, and when Irving bent down to say soothing things to it a long
arm flashed out and catching him by the hair began to drag his head
towards the cage, the other paw coming out towards his eyes. It was an
anxious moment; but this time, as on the later occasion, a sudden
screech of full lung power from the actor frightened the monkey into
releasing him.

Irving loved all animals, and did not, I think, realise the difference
between pets and _feræ naturæ_. I remember once at Baltimore—it was the
1st January 1900—when he and I went to Hagenbach’s menagerie which was
then in winter quarters. The hall was a big one, the shape of one of
those great panorama buildings which used to be so popular in America.
There were some very fine lions; and to one of them he took a great
fancy. It was a fine African, young and in good condition with
magnificent locks and whiskers and eyebrows, and whatsoever beauties on
a hairy basis there are to the lion kind. It was sleeping calmly in its
cage with its head up against the bars. The keeper recognised Irving and
came up to talk and explain things very eagerly. Irving asked him about
the lion; if it was good-tempered and so forth. The man said it was a
very good-tempered animal, and offered to make him stand up and show
himself off. His method of doing so was the most unceremonious thing of
the kind I ever saw; it showed absolutely no consideration whatever for
the lion’s _amour-propre_ or fine feelings. He caught up a broom that
leaned against the cage—a birch broom with the business end not of
resilient twigs but of thin branches cut off with a sharp knife. It was
the sort of scrubbing broom that would take the surface off an ordinary
deal flooring. This he seized and drove it with the utmost violence in
his power right into the animal’s face. I should have thought that no
eye could have escaped from such an attack. He repeated the assault as
often as there was time before the lion had risen and jumped back.

Irving was very indignant, and spoke out his mind very freely. The
keeper answered him very civilly indeed I thought. His manner was
genuinely respectful as he said:

“That’s all very well, Mr. Irving; but it doesn’t work with lions!
There’s only one thing such animals respect; and that’s force. Why, that
treatment that you complain of will save my life some day. It wouldn’t
be worth a week’s purchase without it!”

Irving realised the justice of his words—he was always just; and when we
came away the gratuity was perhaps a little higher than usual, to
compensate for any injured feelings.

LIX
IRVING AND DRAMATISTS

Only those who are or have been concerned in theatrical management can
have the least idea of the difficulty of obtaining plays suitable for
acting. There are plenty of plays to be had. When any one goes into
management—indeed from the time the fact of his intention is announced—
plays begin to rain in on him. All those rejected consistently
throughout a generation are tried afresh on the new victim, for the hope
of the unacted dramatist never dies. There is just a sufficient
percentage of ultimate success in the case of long-neglected plays to
obviate despair. Every one who writes a play sends it on and on to
manager after manager. When a player makes some abnormal success every
aspirant to dramatic fame tries his hand at a play for him. It is all
natural enough. The work is congenial, and the rewards—when there are
rewards—are occasionally great. There is, I suppose, no form of literary
work which seems so easy and is so difficult—which while seeming to only
require the common knowledge of life, needs in reality great technical
knowledge and skill. From the experience alone which we had in the
Lyceum one might well have come to the conclusion that to write a play
of some kind is an instinct of human nature. To Irving were sent plays
from every phase and condition of life. Not only from writers whose work
lay in other lines of effort; historians, lyric poets, divines from the
curate to the bishop, but from professional men, merchants,
manufacturers, traders, clerks. He has had them sent by domestic
servants, and from as far down the social scale as a workhouse boy.

But from all these multitudinous and varied sources we had very few
plays indeed which afforded even a hope or promise. Irving was always
anxious for good plays, and spared neither trouble nor expense to get
them. Every play that was sent was read; very many commissions were
given and purchase-money or advance fees paid. In such cases subjects
were often suggested, _scenario_ being the basis. In addition to the
plays in which he or Ellen Terry took part and which he produced during
his own management, he purchased or paid fees and options on
twenty-seven plays. Not one of these, from one cause or another, could
he produce. One of these made success with another man. Some never got
beyond the _scenario_ stage. In one case, though the whole
purchase-money was paid in advance, the play was never delivered; it was
finished—and then sold under a different title to another manager! One
was prohibited—by request—by the Lord Chamberlain’s department. Of this
play, _Robert Emmett_, were some interesting memories.

In Ireland or by Irish people it had often been suggested to Irving that
he should present Robert Emmett in a play. He bore a striking
resemblance to the Irish patriot—a glance at any of the portraits would
to any one familiar with Irving’s identity be sufficient; and his story
was full of tragic romance. From the first Irving was taken with the
idea and had the character in his mind for stage use. In the first year
of his management he suggested the theme to Frank A. Marshall, the
dramatist; who afterwards co-operated with him in the editorship of the
“Irving” Shakespeare. He was delighted with the idea, became full of it,
and took the work in hand. In the shape of a _scenario_ it was so far
advanced that at the end of the second season Irving was able to
announce it as one of the forthcoming plays. As we know, the
extraordinary success of _The Merchant of Venice_ postponed the work
then projected for more than a year. Marshall, therefore, took his work
in a more leisurely fashion, and it was not till the autumn of 1881 that
the play appeared in something like its intended shape. But by that time
_Romeo and Juliet_ was in hand and a full year elapsed before _Robert
Emmett_ could be practically considered. But when that time came the
Irish question was acute. Fenianism or certain of its _sequelæ_ became
recrudescent. The government of the day considered that so marked and
romantic a character as Robert Emmett, and with such political views
portrayed so forcibly and so picturesquely as would be the case with
Irving, might have a dangerous effect on a people seething in revolt.
Accordingly a “request” came through the Lord Chamberlain’s department
that Mr. Irving would not proceed with the production which had been
announced. Incidentally I may say that nothing was mentioned in the
“request” regarding the cost incurred. Irving had already paid to Frank
Marshall a sum of £450.

In the early stages of the building up of the play there was an
interesting occurrence which illustrates the influence of the actor on
the author, especially when the former is a good stage manager. Marshall
came to supper in the room which antedated the Beefsteak Room for that
purpose. The occasion was to discuss the _scenario_ which had by then
been enlarged to proportions comprehensive of detail—not merely the
situations but the working of them out. Only the three of us were
present. We were all familiar with the work so far as it was done; for
not only used Marshall to send Irving a copy of each act and scene of
the _scenario_ as he did it, but he used very often to run in and see me
and consult about it. I would then tell Irving at a convenient
opportunity; and when next the author came I would go over with him
Irving’s comments and suggestions. This night we all felt to be a
crucial one. The play had gone on well through its earlier parts; indeed
it promised to be a very fine play. But at the point it had then reached
it halted a little. The scene was in Dublin during a phase or wave of
discontent even with the “patriotic” party as accepted in the play.
Something was necessary to focus in the minds of certain of the
characters the fact and cause of discontent and to emphasise it in a
dramatic way. After supper we discussed it for a long time. All at once
Irving got hold of an idea. I could see it in his face; and he could see
that I saw he had something. He glanced at me in a way which I knew well
to be to back him up. He deftly changed the conversation and began to
speak of another matter in which Marshall was interested. I knew my cue
and joined in, and so we drifted away from the play. Presently Irving
asked Marshall to look at a playbill which he had had framed and hung on
the wall. It was one in which Macready was “starred” along with an
elephant called “Rajah”—this used in later years to hang in Irving’s
dressing-room. Marshall stood up to look at it closely. Whilst he was
doing so, with his back to us, Irving got half-a-dozen wine glasses by
the stems in his right hand and hurled them at the door, making a
terrific crash and a litter of falling glass. Frank Marshall, a man of
the sunniest nature, was not built spiritually in a heroic mould. He
gave a cry and whirled round, his face pale as ashes. He sank groaning
into a chair speechless. When I had given him a mouthful of brandy he
gasped out:

“What was it? I thought some one had thrown a bomb-shell in through the
window!”

“That was exactly what I wanted you to think!” said Irving quietly.
“That is what those in Curran’s house would have felt when they
recognised that the fury to which they had been listening and whose
cause they did not understand was directed towards them. You are in the
rare position now, my dear Marshall, of the dramatist who can write of
high emotion from experience. The audience are bound to recognise the
sincerity of your work. Just write your scene up to that effect. Let the
audience feel even an indication of the surprise and fear that you have
just felt yourself, and your play will be a success!” He said this very
seriously but with a bland smile and his eyes twinkling; for through all
the gravity of the issue in the shape of a good play he enjoyed the
humour of the situation. Frank Marshall recovered his nerves and his
buoyancy after a while, and when we broke up in the early morning he
took his way home, eager to get to work afresh and full of ideas.

As Irving was for the time debarred from playing the piece, when
completed he let Boucicault have it to see what he could do with it. He
did not, I think, improve it. Boucicault played it himself in America,
but without much success.

The following list, not by any means complete, will show something of
the wide range which Irving covered in his search for suitable plays. I
give it because certain writers, who do not know much of the man whom
they criticise so flippantly or so superciliously, have been in the
habit of saying that Irving did not encourage British dramatists. To
those who were on the “inside track” their utterances often meant that
he did not accept, pay for, and produce _their_ worthless plays or those
of their friends, and he did not talk about his business to chance
comers. Moreover, he held that it was not good for any one to produce an
inferior play. The greatest of all needs of a theatre manager is a
sufficiency of plays, and it is sheer ignorant folly for any one to
assert that a manager does not accept good plays out of some crass
obstinacy or lack of ability on his own part.

_Author._ _Play._
W. G. Wills Rienzi
„ Mephisto
„ King Arthur
„ Don Quixote
Frank Marshall Robert Emmett
Richard Voss Schuldig
J. I. C. Clarke George Washington
„ Don Quixote
Fergus Hume The Vestal
Penrhyn Stanlaws The End of the Hunting
H. T. Johnson The Jester King
Egerton Castle and Walter Pollock Saviolo
O. Booth and J. Dixon Jekyll and Hyde (from Stevenson)
J. M. Barrie The Professor’s Love Story
F. C. Burnand The Isle of St. Tropez
„ The Count
H. Guy Carleton The Balance of Comfort
Ludwig Fulda The Bloody Marriage[5]

Footnote 5:

This was dramatised for Irving by W. L. Courtney, but the opportunity
for its production had not come at the time of his last illness.

For obvious reasons I do not give what any of these authors received for
play or option or advance fees; but the total was over nine thousand
pounds.

Regarding one of the plays, Irving’s exact reason for not playing it was
that he felt it would not suit him—or rather that he would not suit it.
He liked the play extremely, and when after studying the _scenario_ very
carefully he had to come to the conclusion that it was not in his own
special range of work, he obtained permission from the author to submit
it to two of his friends in turn, John L. Toole and John Hare. Both
these players were delighted with the work, but neither had it in his
vogue. Finally another actor saw his way to it, and made with it both a
hit and fortune.

The play was Barrie’s _The Professor’s Love Story_; the actor who played
it E. S. Willard. This is a good instance of delayed fortune. For my own
part, knowing the peculiar excellences and strength of the three players
who refused it, I cannot but think that they were all right. The play is
an excellent one, but wants to be exactly fitted. Irving was naturally
too strong for it; Toole was a low comedian, and it is not in the vein
of low comedy; Hare’s incisive finesse would have militated against that
unconsciousness of effect which is the “note” of the Professor.

III

In addition to the above plays on which he adventured wholly or in part
Irving made efforts regarding plays by other authors, amongst whom were
Mrs. Steel, K. and Hesketh Pritchard, Marion Crawford, Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, Henry Arthur Jones, W. L. Courtney, Miss Mary Wilkins, Robert
Barr. These included the possible dramatisation of several novels.

A. W. Pinero was always regarded by Irving as a great intellectual
force, and to the last he was in hopes that some day he would have the
opportunity of playing in a piece by him. He often expressed his wish to
Pinero; and more than once have Pinero and I talked and corresponded on
the subject. Pinero, however, would not think of giving Irving a play
that would not have suited him. He had for Irving a very profound regard
and a deep personal affection. They were always the best of friends and
Pinero was loyalty itself. I do not think that any man understood
Irving’s power and the excellence of his method better than he did. I
fear, however, that that very affection and regard stood in the way of a
play; Pinero, I think, wanted to surpass himself on Irving’s behalf.

LX
MUSICIANS

Musicians always took a deep interest in Irving’s work both as actor and
manager. They seemed to understand in a peculiarly subtle way the
significance of everything he did.

II
BOITO

Boito came to the Lyceum on June 13, 1893, when we were playing
_Becket_. I talked with him in his box and in the little drawing-room of
the royal box. He afterwards came round on the stage to see Irving. He
was wonderfully impressed with _Becket_. He said to me that Irving was
“the greatest artist he had ever seen.” Two nights later, 15th June, he
came to supper in the Beefsteak Room. Irving had got some musicians and
others to meet him. The following were of the party: A. C. Mackenzie,
Villiers Stanford, Damrosch, Jules Claretie, Renaud, Brisson, Le Clerc,
Alfred Gilbert, Toole, Hare, Sir Charles Euan Smith, Bancroft, Coquelin
Cadet—an extraordinary group of names in so small a gathering.

III
PADEREWSKI

Paderewski was greatly taken with Irving’s playing and with the man
himself. He came to supper one night in the Beefsteak Room. Irving met
him several times and was an immense admirer of his work. He offered to
write for Irving music for some play that he might be doing.

I remember one very peculiar incident in which Paderewski had a part.
Whilst we were playing in New York, Hall Caine, who had been up in
Canada trying to arrange the copyright trouble there, came to New York
also. One Sunday in November 1895 he and I took a walk in the afternoon.
Our destination took us down Fifth Avenue, which in those days was a
great Sunday promenade. Hall Caine was soon recognised—he is, as some
one said, “very like his portraits”; and as he has an enormous vogue in
America certain of the crowd began to follow him at a little distance.
It is of the nature of a crowd to increase, if merely because it _is_ a
crowd; and in a short time I saw, when by some chance I looked back, a
whole streetful of people close behind us and the crowd momentarily
swelling. We increased our pace a little, wishing to get away; but the
crowd kept equal pace. Between 42nd and 40th Street we met another crowd
coming up the Avenue following Paderewski who was walking with a friend.
We stopped to talk, whereupon _both_ crowds pressed in on us—it was too
interesting an opportunity to be missed to see two such men, and each so
remarkable in appearance, together.

It was with some difficulty, and by going into a hotel on one side and
leaving it by another that we managed to escape.

IV
GEORG HENSCHEL

Georg Henschel was from the very first a great admirer of Irving away
back from 1879, and so he used to come to the Lyceum and sometimes stay
to supper in the Beefsteak Room, or in the room we used before it. I
shall never forget one night when he sang to us. There were a very few
others present, all friends and all lovers of music. Two items linger in
my memory unfailingly; one a lullaby of Handel and the other the
“Elders’ Song” from Handel’s _Susannah_. We had all become great friends
before he went to Boston where—I think succeeding Gerische—he took over
the conductorship of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He had wished to
study practically orchestral music. One forenoon—February 28, 1884—by
previous arrangement Irving and I went to the Music Hall to hear his
orchestra play Schumann’s _Manfred_. It was quite a private performance
given entirely for Irving; the gentlemen of the orchestra, all fine
musicians, were delighted to play for him. He was entranced with the
music and the rendering of it. When we were driving back to the Vendôme
Hotel in Commonwealth Avenue where we were both staying he talked all
the time about the possibilities of producing Byron’s play. He had had
it in his mind for a long time as a work to be undertaken; indeed the
_répétition_ which we had just heard was the outcome of his having
mentioned the matter to Henschel on a previous occasion. He was nearer
to making up his mind to a definite production that morning than he had
ever been or ever was afterwards.

It was agreed between them that later on, if he should undertake to do
_Julius Cæsar_, for which he had already arranged the book, Henschel was
to compose the music for it.

V
HANS RICHTER

Hans Richter was another great admirer of Irving. He too is a great
master of his own art, and has the appreciative insight that only comes
with greatness. Richter was not only a musician; he had had so much
experience of stage production at Bayreuth and elsewhere that if he did
not originate he at least understood all about it. I remember one day,
24th October 1900, after lunch with the Miss Gaskells in Manchester,
when he talked with me about the new effect for _The Flying Dutchman_ at
the Wagner Festival on the following year. This was especially regarding
lighting. They had succeeded in so arranging lights that the two ships
were to approach each other, one in broad sunlight, the other bathed in
moonlight.

With Hans Richter I had once the felicity of another such experience in
its own way as Irving’s comprehensive reading of _Hamlet_; truly another
delightful experience of the survey of a great work at the hands of a
master. It was when in the house of my friend E. W. Hennell, Hans
Richter amongst a few friends sat down to the piano and gave us a
_résumé_ of Wagner’s _Meistersinger_, singing snatches of the songs as
he went on, and now and again explaining some subtle purpose in the
music that he played. It was an hour of breathless delight which no
money could purchase. With my wife I attended the Wagner Cycle at
Bayreuth that summer and heard the opera in all its magnificent
perfection; but I never got so clear an insight to the great composer’s
purpose as when Richter pictured it for us.

VI
THE ABBÉ FRANZ LISZT

On 14th April 1886 Abbé Liszt came to the Lyceum to see _Faust_ and to
stay to supper in the Beefsteak Room. He was then the guest of Mr.
Littleton, staying at his house at Sydenham. At that time musical London
made such a rush for the old man that it was absolutely necessary to
guard him when he came to the theatre. All the real music lovers of the
younger generation wanted to see him, for they had not had opportunity
before and were not likely to have it again. He was then seventy-five
years of age and had practically given up playing inasmuch as he only
played to please himself or his friends. That night he was accompanied
by Mr. and Mrs. Littleton together with the sons and daughters-in-law of
the latter, and by Stavenhagen his pupil, and Madame Muncacksy. As it
was necessary to keep away all who might intrude upon him—enthusiasts,
interviewers, cranks, autograph-fiends, notoriety seekers who would like
to be seen in his box—we arranged a sort of fortress for him. Next to
the royal box on the grand tier O.P. was another box separated only by a
partition, part of which could be taken down. This box was on the
outside from the proscenium. We had the door of this box screwed up so
that entrance to it could only be had through the royal box. Liszt sat
here with some of the others unassailable, as one of the Mr. Littletons
kept the key of the other box and none could obtain entrance without
permission.

There was an interesting party at supper in the Beefsteak Room, amongst
them, in addition to the party at the play, the following: Ellen Terry,
Professor Max Müller, Lord and Lady Wharncliffe, Sir Alexander and Lady
Mackenzie, Sir Alfred Cooper, Walter Bach and Miss Bach, Sir Morell
Mackenzie, Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Littleton, Mr. and Mrs. Augustus
Littleton, Mr. and Mrs. William Beatty Kingston, and the Misses Casella.

Liszt sat on the right hand of Ellen Terry who faced Irving. From where
I sat at the end of the table I could not but notice the quite
extraordinary resemblance in the profiles of the two men. After supper
Irving went round and sat next him, and the likeness became a theme of
comment from all present. Irving was then forty-eight years of age; but
he looked still a young man, with raven-black hair and face without a
line. His neck was then without a line or mark of age. Liszt, on the
other hand, looked older than his age. His stooping shoulders and long
white hair made him seem of patriarchal age. Nevertheless the likeness
of the two men was remarkable.

Stavenhagen played, but as it was thought by all that Liszt must be too
tired after a long day no opening was made for him, much as all longed
to hear him. The party did not break up till four o’clock in the
morning. The note in my diary runs:

“Liszt fine face—leonine—several large pimples—prominent chin of old
man—long white hair down on shoulders—all call him ‘Master’—must have
had great strength in youth. Very sweet and simple in manner. H. I.
and he very much alike—seemed old friends as they talked animatedly
though knowing but a few words of each other’s language—but using much
expression and gesticulation. It was most interesting.”

The next day Irving and my wife and I, together with some others,
lunched with the Baroness Burdett-Coutts in Stratton Street to meet
Liszt. After lunch there was a considerable gathering of friends asked
to meet him. Lady Burdett-Coutts very thoughtfully had the pianos
removed from the drawing-rooms, lest their presence might seem as though
he were expected to play. After a while he noticed the absence and said
to his hostess:

“I see you have no pianos in these rooms!” She answered frankly that she
had them removed so that he would not be tempted to play unless he
wished to do so.

“But I would like some music!” he said, and then went on:

“I have no doubt but there is a piano in the house, and that it could be
brought here easily!” It was not long before the servants brought into
the great drawing-room a grand piano worthy of even his hands. Then
Antoinette Sterling sang some ballads in her own delightful way. The
contralto tones went straight to one’s heart.

“Now I will play!” said Liszt. And he did.

It was magnificent and never to be forgotten.

VII
GOUNOD

Gounod came, as far as I know, but once to the Lyceum. That was during
the first week of the season—6th September, 1882–during the continuance
of the run of _Romeo and Juliet_. He came round to Irving’s
dressing-room at the end of the third act and sat all the time of the
wait chatting. Gounod was a man who seemed to speak fully formed
thoughts. It was not in any way that there was about his speech any
appearance of formality or premeditation. He seemed to speak right out
of his heart; but his habit or method was such that his words had a
power of exact conveyance of the thoughts. One might have stenographed
every sentence he spoke, and when reproduced it would require no
alteration. Form and structure and choice of words were all complete.

After chatting a while Irving was loth to let him go. When the call-boy
announced the beginning of Act IV.—in which act Irving had no part—he
asked Gounod to stay on with him. So also at the beginning of Act V.
When he had to go on the stage for the Apothecary scene, he asked me to
stay with Gounod till he came back—I had been in the dressing-room all
the time. Whilst Irving was away Gounod and I chatted; several things he
said have always remained with me.

He was saying something about some “great man” when he suddenly stopped
and, after a slight pause, said:

“But after all there is no really ‘great’ man! There are men through
whom great things are spoken!”

I asked him what in his estimation were the best words to which he had
composed music. He answered almost at once, without hesitation:

“‘Oh that we two were maying!’ I can never think of those words without
emotion! How can one help it?” He spoke the last verse of the poem from
_The Saint’s Tragedy_:

“Oh! that we two lay sleeping
In our nest in the churchyard sod,
With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast,
And our souls at home with God.”

As he spoke, the emotion seemed to master him more and more; at the last
line the tears were running down his cheeks. He spoke with an
extraordinary concentration and emphasis. It was hard to believe that he
was not singing, for the effect of his speaking the words of Charles
Kingsley’s song was the same. His speech seemed like—was music.

Later on I asked him who in his opinion was the best composer. “Present
company, of course, excepted!” I added, whereat he smiled. After a
moment’s thought he answered:

“Mendelssohn! Mendelssohn is the best!” Then after another but shorter
pause: “But there is only one Mozart!”

VIII
SIR ALEXANDER MACKENZIE

Sir Alexander Mackenzie, who was one of the oldest and closest of
Irving’s friends, had much to do with him in his productions. He
composed the music for _Ravenswood_ and _Coriolanus_. At Irving’s burial
in Westminster Abbey a part of the latter, the _Marcia Funèbre_, was
played whilst the coffin was being borne from the choir to the grave.

In addition to these important works, Mackenzie wrote the music for
_Manfred_, which Irving intended at one time to produce. He was also
engaged on the music for _Richard II._, a large part of which was
completed when the play was abandoned owing to Irving’s serious illness
in 1898.

Mackenzie in an “interview” shortly after Irving’s death, told a pretty
story of how the end of _Ravenswood_ had been changed. Irving had
arranged that the last scene should be the waste of quicksand, wherein
Edgar was lost, seen in the cold glare of moonlight—suggestive of
misery. When, however, he heard the music—of which the finale is the
_love motive_ in a triumphant burst—he seemed much struck by it. He said
nothing at the time, but the next morning the composer received a letter
thanking him for the hint and adding:

“And the moonlight on the sea I shall change to the rising sun.”

LXI
LUDWIG BARNAY

When in 1881 the Meiningen Company came to London to play in Drury Lane
Theatre at least one German player came with them who, though for
patriotic reasons he played with the Company, had not belonged to it.
This was Ludwig Barnay. By a happy chance I met him very soon after his
arrival and we became friends. He was then able to speak but very little
English. Like all Magyars, however, he was a good linguist, and before a
fortnight was over he spoke the language so well that only an occasional
word or phrase spoken to or by him brought out his ignorance.

At their first meeting Irving and he became friends; they “took” to each
other in a really remarkable way. Barnay had come to see the play then
running, _Hamlet_, and between the acts came round to Irving’s
dressing-room. By this time he spoke English quite well; when he lacked
a word he unconsciously showed his scholarship by trying it in the
Greek. Irving after a few minutes forgot that he was a foreigner and
began to use his words in the _argot_ of his own calling. For instance,
talking of the difficulty of getting some actors to study their parts
properly, he said:

“The worst of it is they won’t take the trouble even to learn their
words, and when the time comes they begin to “fluff.” To “fluff” means
in the language of the theatre to be uncertain, inexact, imperfect. This
was too much for the poor foreigner, who up to then had understood
everything perfectly. He raised his hands—palm outwards, the wrists
first and then the fingers straightening—as he said in quite a piteous
tone:

“Flof!—Fluoof—Fluff! Alas! I know him not!”

A very delightful gathering about that time—one which became remarkable
in its way—was a supper given by Toole at the Adelphi Hotel on 1st July.
Amongst the guests were Irving, Barnay, McCullough, Lawrence Barrett,
Wilson Barrett, Leopold Teller. After supper some one—I think it was
Irving—said something on the subject of State subsidy for theatres. It
was an interesting theme to such a company, and, as the gathering was by
its items really international, every one wanted to hear what every one
else said. So the conversational torch went round the table—like the
sun, or the wine. There were all sorts and varieties of opinion, for
each said what was in his heart. When it came to Barnay’s turn he
electrified us all. He did not say much, but it was all to the point and
spoken in a way which left no doubt as to his own sincerity. He finished
up:

“Yes, these are all good—to some. The subsidy in France; the system of
the Hof and the Stadt Theatres in Germany; the help and control in
Austria which brings the chosen actors into the State service. But”—and
here his eyes flashed, his nostrils quivered, and his face was lit with
enthusiasm—“your English freedom is worth them all!” Then, springing to
his feet, he raised his glass and cried in a voice that rang like a
trumpet:

“Freiheit!”

III

Before the production of _Faust_ in 1885 Irving took a party, including
Mr. and Mrs. Comyns Carr and Ellen Terry, to Nürnberg and Rothenburg to
study the ground. On the way home they went to Berlin. There Barnay gave
two special performances in his own theatre, the Berliner. The bill of
the play is in its way historical; the names of the honoured guests were
starred. The performances were of _Julius Cæsar_ and _The Merchant of
Venice_.

The Grand Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, to whose theatre the Meiningen Company
belonged, sent to Irving an Order of his own Court. Later on, however,
when he had seen Irving play and had met him, he said that the Order
sent him was not good enough for so distinguished a man. He accordingly
bestowed on him—with the consent and co-operation of the Grand Duke of
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh)—the Order
of the Komthur Cross of the Second Class of the Ducal Saxon Ernestine
House Order—a distinction, I believe, of high local dignity, carrying
with it something in the shape of knighthood. Irving wore the Collar of
the Order on the night of 25th May 1897 when the Grand Duke of
Saxe-Meiningen came to supper with him in the Beefsteak Room—the only
time I think when he wore the insignia of this special honour.

Irving’s first meeting with the Grand Duke was preceded by an odd
circumstance. This was on the evening of 28th May 1885.

I was passing across the stage between the acts when I saw a stranger—a
tall, distinguished-looking old gentleman. I bowed and told him that no
one was allowed on the stage without special permission. He bowed in
return, and said:

“I thought that permission would have been accorded to me!”

“The rule,” said I, “is inviolable. I fear I must ask you to come with
me to the auditorium. This will put us right; and then I can take any
message you wish to Mr. Irving.”

“May I tell you who I am?” he asked.

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I fear I cannot ask you till we are outside.
You see, I am the person responsible for carrying out the rules of the
theatre. And no matter who it may be I have to do the duty which I have
undertaken.”

“You are quite right!... I shall come with pleasure!” he said with very
grave and sweet politeness. When we had passed through the iron door—
which had chanced to be open, and so he had found his way in—I said as
nicely as I could, for his fine manner and his diction and his
willingness to obey orders charmed me:

“I trust you will pardon me, sir, in case my request to leave the stage
may have seemed too imperative or in any way wanting in courtesy. But
duty is duty. Now will you kindly give me your name and I will go at
once and ask Mr. Irving’s permission to bring you on the stage, and to
see him if you will!”

“I thank you, sir!” he said; “I am the Grand Duke of Saxe-Meiningen. I
am very pleased with your courtesy; and to see that you carry out orders
so firmly and so urbanely. You are quite right! It is what I like to
see. I wish my people would always do the same!”

LXII
CONSTANT COQUELIN (AINÉ)

Irving and Coquelin first met on the night of April 19, 1888. The
occasion was a supper given for the purpose by M. L. Mayer, the
impresario of French artists in London, at his house in Berners Street.
Previous to this there had been a certain amount of friction between the
two men. Coquelin had written an article in _Harper’s Magazine_ for May
1897 on “Acting and Actors.” In his article he made certain comments on
Irving which were—using the word in its etymological meaning—not
impertinent, but were most decidedly wanting in delicacy of feeling
towards a fellow artist.

Irving replied to the article in an “Actor’s Note” in the _Nineteenth
Century_ for June of the same year. His article was rather a caustic
one, and in it he did not spare the player, turned critic of his fellow
players.

To the “not impertinent” comments on his own method he merely alluded in
a phrase of deprecation of such comments being made by one player on
another. But of the theory advanced by Coquelin, in which he supported
the views of Diderot, he offered a direct negative, commenting freely
himself on such old-fashioned heresies.

It is but right to mention that when, some two years later, Coquelin
re-published his article, with some changes and embellishments, in the
_Revue Illustrée_, December 1889, under the title, “L’Art du Comédien,”
he left out entirely the part relating to Irving.

When the two men met at Mayer’s they at once became friends. The very
fact of having crossed swords brought to each a measure of respect to
the other. At first the conversation was distinctly on the militant
side, the batteries being masked. The others who were present, including
Toole, Coquelin fils, and Sir Squire (then Mr.) Bancroft, had each a
word to say at times. Irving, secure in his intellectual position with
regard to the theory of acting, was most hearty in his manner and used
his rapier with sweet dexterity. Toole, who had his own grievance: that
Coquelin, an artist of first-class position, late a Sociétaire of the
Comédie-Française, should accept fee or emolument for private
performances—a thing not usual to high-grade players of the British
stage—limited himself to asking Coquelin in extremely bad French if it
was possible that this was true. At that time Coquelin did not speak
much English, though he attained quite a proficiency in it before long.

In a very short time the supper party at Mayer’s subsided into gentle
and complete harmony. The actors began to understand each other, and
from that moment became friends. Coquelin gave imitations of certain
French actors, amongst them Frédéric Le Maître and Mounet-Sully. The
performance was a strange comment on his own theory that an actor in
portraying a character must in the so doing divest himself of his own
identity, and quite justified Irving’s remark in his “note”:

“Indeed it is strange to find an actor, with an individuality so
marked as that of M. Coquelin, taking it for granted that his identity
can be entirely lost.”

To us whilst his imitations were remarkably clever, there was no
possibility of forgetting for an instant that the exponent was Coquelin.
Why should we? If an actor entirely loses his own identity the larger
measure of his possible charm is gone!

I find this note in my diary regarding Coquelin on that night of Mayer’s
supper:

“He is a fine actor; essentially a Comedian!”

LXIII
SARAH BERNHARDT

When Irving and Sarah Bernhardt met there already was that
predisposition towards friendship which true artists must feel towards
those who work greatly in their own craft. When the Comédie-Française
came to London in 1879 and played at the Gaiety Theatre, Irving went to
one of the _matinées_ and was immensely struck by Sarah Bernhardt’s
genius. He was taken round on the stage and introduced to the various
members of the Company; but he did not have in that short season any
opportunities of furthering friendships. That was a busy season for
every one, both the London players and the foreigners. We were playing
_répertoire_ and changing the bill every few nights; the rehearsals were
endless. So too with the strangers; they had a great list of plays to
get through, and they also were rehearsing all day. When they could the
various members of the French Company came to the Lyceum, where they
were always made welcome. Indeed, all through his management Irving made
it an imperative rule that his fellow artists should when possible be
made welcome at his theatre. Little people as well as great people, all
were welcome. In those early days the same rule of hospitality did not
hold with the Comédie-Française; actors had to go like any one else—on a
“specie basis.” Even Irving who had thrown his own theatre open to his
French fellow artists had to pay for his own box at the Gaiety. When,
however, Jules Claretie became Director of the Théâtre Français he
changed all that, absolutely.

The next year, 1880, Sarah Bernhardt was playing for a short time in
London—this time her own venture—again at the Gaiety. Irving took a box
for her benefit, a _matinée_ on 16th June. Loveday and I went with him.
The bill was _Jean Marie_, the fourth act of _La Rome vaincue_, and the
fifth act of _Hernani_. Irving was charmed with her playing in _Jean
Marie_, which is a one-act piece with the same note of sentiment in it
as that of the song “Auld Robin Gray.” He was also struck with her
extraordinary tragic force in _La Rome vaincue_.

On Saturday night, 3rd July of that year, 1880, Sarah Bernhardt came to
supper in the Beefsteak Room. The two other guests were both friends of
hers, Bastien Lepage the painter, and Libbotton the violoncellist. This
was a night of extraordinary interest. Irving and Sarah Bernhardt were
both at their best and spoke quite freely on all subjects concerning
their art which came on the _tapis_. Irving was eager to know the
opinion of one so familiar with the working of the French stage and yet
so daring and original in her own life and artistic method. When they
touched on the subject of the value of subsidy she grew excited and
spoke of the value of freedom and independence:

“What use,” she said, “subsidy when a French actress cannot live on the
salary, at even the Comédie-Française!”

On the subject of tradition in art her manner was more pronounced. She
railed against tradition on the stage—as distinguished from the guiding
memory and record of great effective work. Her face lit up and her eyes
blazed; she smote her clenched hand heavily on the table, as, after a
fierce diatribe against the cramping tendency of an artificial method
relentlessly enforced, she hurled out:

“A bas la tradition!”

Then the change to her softer moods was remarkable. She was a being of
incarnate grace, with a soft undertone of voice as wooing as the cooing
of pigeons. As I looked at her—this was my first opportunity of seeing
her close at hand—all the wondrous charm which Bastien Lepage had
embodied in his picture of her seemed at full tide. This picture of
Bastien Lepage—that wherein she is seated holding a distaff—was
exhibited in a silver frame at the first exhibition of the Grosvenor
Gallery and met with universal admiration. With the original before one
and the memory of her wonderful playing ever fresh in one’s mind it was
not possible not to be struck with her serpentine grace. I said to
Bastien Lepage in such French as I could manage:

“In that great picture you seemed to get the true Sarah. You have
painted her as a serpent with all a serpent’s grace!” He seemed much
interested and asked me how I made that out. Again, as well as I could I
explained that all the lines of the picture were curved—there was not a
single straight line in the drawing or shading. He seemed more than
pleased and asked me to go on. I said that it had seemed to me that he
had painted all the shadows in a scheme of yellow, shading them to
represent in a subtle way the scales of the serpent skin.

He suddenly took me by both hands and shook them hard—I thought for a
moment that he was going to kiss me. Then he patted me on the shoulder,
and suddenly shot out the big wide cuff then in vogue in Parisian dress,
and taking a pencil from his pocket drew the picture in little, showing
every line as serpentine, and suggesting the shadows with little curved
and shaded lines. Then he shook hands again.

I have regretted ever since that I did not ask him to cut off that cuff
and give it to me! It was an artistic treasure!

In some of the discussions on art that evening he too got excited. I
remember once the violent way in which he spoke of his own dominant
note:

“Je suis un ré-a-liste!” As he spoke his voice rose and quivered with
that “brool” that marks strong emotion. The short hair of his bulled
head actually seemed to bristle like the hair of an excited cat. He rose
and brought down his raised clenched fist on the table with a mighty
thump. One could realise him at that moment as a possible leader of an
_émeute_. One seemed to see him amid a whirl of drifting powder-smoke
waving a red flag over the top of a barricade.

Another thing which Bastien Lepage said that night has always remained
in my memory. It is so comprehensive that its meaning may be widely
applied:

“In an original artist the faults are brothers to the qualities!”

We sat late that night. It was five o’clock when we broke up, and the
high sun was streaming into our eyes as we left the building. Many a
night after that, Sarah Bernhardt spent pleasant hours at the Lyceum—
pleasant to all concerned. She grew to _love_ the acting of Irving and
of Ellen Terry, and whenever she had an opportunity she would hurry in
by the stage door and take a seat in the wings. Several times when she
arrived in London from Paris she would hurry straight from the station
to the theatre and see all that was possible of the play. It was a
delight and a pride to both Irving and Miss Terry when she came; and
whenever she could do so she would stop to supper. Those nights were
delightful. Sometimes some of her comrades would come with her. Marius,
Garnier, Darmont or Damala. The last time the latter—to whom she was
then married—came he looked like a dead man. I sat next him at supper,
and the idea that he was dead was strong on me. I think he had taken
some mighty dose of opium, for he moved and spoke like a man in a dream.
His eyes, staring out of his white, waxen face, seemed hardly the eyes
of the living.

Sarah Bernhardt was always charming and fresh and natural. Every good
and fine instinct of her nature seemed to be at the full when she was
amongst artistic comrades whom she liked and admired. She inspired every
one else and seemed to shed a sort of intellectual sunshine around her.

LXIV
GENEVIÈVE WARD

On the evening of Thursday, 20th November 1873, I strolled into the
Theatre Royal, Dublin, to see what was on. I had been then for two years
a dramatic critic, and was fairly well used to the routine of things.
There was a very poor house indeed; in that huge theatre the few
hundreds scattered about were like the plums in a fo’c’sle duff. The
play was Legouve’s _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, a somewhat machine-made play
of the old school. The lady who played Adrienne interested me at once;
she was like a triton amongst minnows. She was very handsome; of a rich
dark beauty, with clear-cut classical features, black hair, and great
eyes that now and again flashed fire. I sat in growing admiration of her
powers. Though there was a trace here and there of something which I
thought amateurish she was so masterful, so dominating in other ways
that I could not understand it. At the end of the second act I went into
the lobby to ask the attendants if they could tell me anything about her
as the name on the bill was entirely new to me. None of them, however,
could enlighten me on any point except that she had appeared on Monday
in _Lucrezia Borgia_; and that the business was very bad.

When the grand scene of the play came—that between the actress and her
rival, the Princesse de Bouillon—the audience was all afire. Their
enthusiasm and the sound of it recalled the description of Edmund Kean’s
appearance at Drury Lane. I went round on the stage and saw John Harris
the manager. I asked him who was the woman who was playing and where did
she come from.

“She has no right to be playing to an audience like that!” I said
pointing at the curtain which lay between us and the auditorium.

“I quite agree with you!” he answered. “She is fine; isn’t she? I saw
her play in Manchester and at once offered her the date here which was
vacant.” Just then she came upon the stage and he introduced me to her.
When the play was over I went home and wrote my criticism, which duly
appeared in the _Irish Echo_ next evening.

That engagement of nine days was a series of _débuts_. In addition to
_Adrienne Lecouvreur_ she appeared in _Medea_, _Lucrezia Borgia_, _The
Actress of Padua_, the “sleep-walking” scene of _Macbeth_, _The
Honeymoon_. In one and all she showed great power and greater promise.
It is a satisfactory memory to me to find, after her career has been
made and her retirement—all too soon—effected after more than thirty
years of stage success, in my diary of 29th November 1873—the last night
of her engagement—

(“Mem. will be a great actress”).

I was reintroduced to her—this time by a personal friend—and there and
then began a close friendship which has never faltered, which has been
one of the delights of my life and which will I trust remain as warm as
it is now till the death of either of us shall cut it short.

Geneviève Ward, both in the choice of her plays and in her manner of
playing, followed at that time the “old” school. I had a good
opportunity of judging the excellence of her method, for that very year,
1873, after an absence of fifteen years, Madame Ristori had visited
Dublin. She was then in her very prime; an actress of amazing power and
finish. She had played _Medea_, _Mary Stuart_, _Queen Elizabeth_ and
_Marie Antoinette_. Her method was of course the “Italian,” of which she
was the finest living exponent—probably the finest that ever had been.
Her speech was a series of cadences; the voice rose and fell in waves—
sometimes ripples, sometimes billows—but always modified with such
exquisite precision as not to attract special attention to the rhythmic
quality. Its effect was entirely unconscious. Indeed it was a method
which in time could, and did, become of itself mechanical—like
breathing—so that it did not in the least degree interfere even with the
volcanic expression of passion. The study was of youth and at the
beginning of art; but when the method was once formed nature could
express herself in it as unfettered as in any other medium. Years
afterwards Miss Ward showed me one of Ristori’s promptbooks; and I could
not but be struck with the accentuation. Indeed the marking above the
syllables ran in such unbroken line as to look like musical scoring.

Miss Ward was a friend of the great Italian and had learned most of her
art from her. She was a fine linguist, speaking French, Italian and
Spanish as easily as her own tongue. At that time Ristori, who was in
private life La Comtessa Campramican del Grillo, lived in her husband’s
ancestral home in Rome, and Miss Ward often stayed with her. Miss Ward
in her private life was also a Countess, having whilst a very young girl
married a Russian, Count de Gerbel of Nicolaeiff. The marriage was a
romance as marked as anything that could appear on the stage. In 1855 at
Nice Count de Gerbel had met and fallen in love with her and proposed
marriage. She was willing and they were duly married at the Consulate at
Nice, the marriage in the Russian church was to follow in Paris. But the
Count was not of chivalrous nature. In time his fancy veered round to
some other quarter, and he declared that by a trick of Russian law which
does not acknowledge the marriage of a Russian until the ceremony in the
Russian church has been performed, the marriage which had taken place
was not legal. His wife and her father and mother, however, were not
those to pass such a despicable act. With her mother she appealed to the
Czar, who having heard the story was furiously indignant. Being an
autocrat, he took his own course. He summoned his vassal Count de Gerbel
to go to Warsaw, where he was to carry out the orders which would be
declared to him. There in due time he appeared. The altar was set for
marriage and before it stood the injured lady, her father, Colonel Ward,
and her mother. Her father was armed, for the occasion was to them one
of grim import. De Gerbel yielded to the mandate of his Czar, and the
marriage—with all needful safeguards this time—was duly effected. Then
the injured Countess bowed to him and moved away with her own kin. At
the church door husband and wife parted, never to meet again.

III

In her first youth Miss Ward was a singer and had great success in Grand
Opera. But overwork in Cuba strained her voice. It was thought that this
might militate against great and final success; so, bowing to the
inevitable, she with her usual courage forsook the lyric for the
dramatic stage. It was when she had prepared herself for the latter and
was ready to make her new venture that I first saw her.

During the holiday season of 1879, whilst Irving was yachting in the
Mediterranean, Miss Ward rented the Lyceum for a short season commencing
2nd August. By the contract Irving had agreed to find, in addition to
the theatre, the heads of departments, box-office and the usual working
staff at an inclusive rent, as he wished to keep all his people
together. So I had to remain in London to look after these matters. Miss
Ward asked me to be manager for her also; but I said I could not do so
as a matter of business as it might be possible that her interests and
Irving’s might clash; but that I would do all I could.

She opened in a play called _Zillah_ written by her friend Palgrave
Simpson and another. It was put in preparation some time before and was
carefully rehearsed. My own work kept me so busy that I did not have any
time to see the rehearsals till the night before the performance when
the dress rehearsal was held. That rehearsal was one which I shall never
forget. It was too late to say anything—there was no time then to make
any radical change; and so I held my peace.

The play was of the oldest-fashioned and worst type of “Adelphi” drama!
It was machine-made and heartless and tiresome to the last degree, and
in addition the language was turgid beyond belief. It was an absolute
failure, and was taken off after a few nights. _Lucrezia Borgia_ was put
up whilst a new play should be got ready. She had not made arrangements
for a second new play, so we all undertook to do what we could to find a
suitable play, a new one. Miss Ward gave me a great parcel of plays sent
to her at various times. I came on one play which at once arrested my
attention. As I shortly afterwards learned, it was one which had been
hawked about unsuccessfully. So soon as I had read it I sent word to
Miss Ward that I thought, with a little alteration in the first act, it
would make a great success. Miss Ward’s judgment agreed with my own. She
knew the author, Hermann Merivale, and wrote to him to see her. He came
to the Lyceum that night. He came in a hurry, passing through London;
she saw him a few minutes after and the agreement was verbally made.

The play was produced on August 21—within a fortnight of the time of its
discovery. It was an enormous success, and ran the whole time of her
tenancy—indeed a week longer than had been decided on as Irving was loth
to disturb the successful run.

The play was _Forget me not_, by Hermann Merivale and F. C. Grove. Miss
Ward played it continuously for _ten years_ and made a fortune with it.

Miss Geneviève Ward played in four of Irving’s great productions, of
course always as a special engagement. The first was _Becket_, in which
she “created” the part of Queen Eleanor—by old custom, to “create” a
stage part is to play it first in London; the second was Morgan Le Fay
in _King Arthur_; the third the Queen in _Cymbeline_; and the fourth
Queen Margaret in _Richard III._ In all these parts she was exceedingly
good.

With regard to the last-named play, there was one of the few instances
in which Irving was open to correction with regard to emphasis of a
word. In Act IV. scene 3, of his acting version—Act IV. scene 4, of the
original play—the last two lines of Queen Margaret’s speech to Queen
Elizabeth before her exit:

“Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse;
Revolving this will teach thee how to curse!”

When Miss Ward spoke the last line she emphasised the word _this_—
“Revolving _this_ will teach thee how to curse!” Irving said the
emphasised word should be teach—“Revolving this will _teach_ thee how to
curse!”

They each stuck to their own opinion; but at the last rehearsal he came
to her and said:

“You are quite right, Miss Ward, your reading is quite correct.” I
daresay he had not considered the reading when arranging the play. As a
matter of fact in his original arrangement of the play, at his first
production of it under Mrs. Bateman in 1877, Queen Margaret was not in
the scene at all. In the new version he had restored her to the scene as
he wished to “fatten” Miss Ward’s part and so add to the strength of the
play. Miss Ward was always a particularly _strong_ actress, good at
invective, and as the play had no part for Ellen Terry he wished to give
it all the other help he could.

Miss Ward has one great stage gift which is not given to many: her eyes
can blaze. I can only recall two other actresses who had the same
quality in good degree: Mdlle. Schneider, who forty years ago played the
Grand Duchess of Gerolstein in Offenbach’s Opera; and Christine Nilsson.
The latter I saw in London in 1867, and from where I sat—high up in the
seat just in front of the gallery—I could note the starry splendour of
her blue eyes. Ten years later, in _Lohengrin_ at Her Majesty’s Opera
House, I noticed the same—this time from the stalls. And yet once again
when I sat opposite her at supper on the night of her retirement, June
20, 1888. The supper party was a small one, given by Mr. and Mrs.
Brydges-Willyams at 9 Upper Brook Street. Irving was there and Ellen
Terry, Lord Burnham and Miss Matilda Levy—brother and sister of our
hostess—Count Miranda, to whom Nilsson was afterwards married, and his
daughter, my wife and myself.

Nilsson came in from her triumph at the Albert Hall, blazing with
jewels. She wore that night only those that had been given to her by
Kings and Queens—and other varieties of monarchs.

LXV
JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE

The friendship between Henry Irving and John Lawrence Toole began in
Edinburgh in 1857. Toole was the elder and had already won for himself
the position of a local semi-star. The chances of distinction come to
the “Low” comedian quicker than to the exponent of Tragedy or “High”
Comedy, and Toole had commenced his stage experience at almost as early
an age as Irving—eighteen. On 20th June 1894, during a Benefit at the
Lyceum for the Southwark Eye Hospital, at which he did the wonderfully
droll character sketch, “Trying a Magistrate,” he told me that
forty-five years before, Charles Dickens had heard him do the sketch and
advised him to go on the stage. Wisely he had taken the advice; from the
very start he had an exceptionally prosperous career.

He, the kindliest and most genial soul on earth, became a fast friend
with the proud, shy, ambitious young beginner, eight years his junior.
From the first he seemed to believe in Irving, and predicted for him a
great career. To this end he contributed all through his life. When he
toured on his own account he took Irving with him, giving him a star
place in his bill, and an opportunity of exhibiting his own special
tragic power in a recital of _The Dream of Eugene Aram_.

To the last day of Irving’s life the friendship of the two men each for
the other never flagged or faltered. Such a thing as jealousy of the
other never entered into the heart of either. Toole simply venerated his
friend and enjoyed his triumph more than he did his own. He would not
hear without protest any one speak of Irving except in a becoming way;
and there was nothing which Toole possessed which he would not have
shared with Irving. When one entertained, there was always a place for
the other; whoever had the good fortune to become a friend of either
found his friendship doubled at once. The two men seemed to supplement
each other’s natures. Each had, in his own way and of its own kind, a
great sense of humour. Toole’s genial, ebullient, pronounced; Irving’s
saturnine, keen, and suggestive. Both had—each again in his own way—a
very remarkable seriousness. Those who only saw Toole in his inimitable
pranks knew little how keenly the man felt emotion; how unwavering he
was in his sense of duty; how earnest in his work. With Irving the
humour was a fixed quantity, which all through his life kept its
relative proportion to his seriousness; but Toole, being a low comedian,
and perhaps because of it, seemed at times vastly different in his hours
of work and relaxation. For it is a strange thing that the conditions of
emotion are such that what is work in one case is rest in another, and
_vice versa_; the serious man finds ease in relaxation, the humorous man
seeks in quietude his rest from the stress of laughter. In their younger
days and up to middle life the two men had indulged in harmless pranks.
They both loved a joke and would take any pains to compass it. The
tricks they played together would fill a volume. Of course from their
protean powers of expressing themselves and in merging their identities
actors have rare opportunities of consummating jokes. Moreover they are
in the habit of working together, and two or three men who understand
each other’s methods can go far to sway the unwary how they will.

One of the practical jokes of Toole and Irving is almost classical. One
Sunday when they both happened to be playing at Liverpool at the same
time they went to dine at an old inn at Wavertree celebrated for the
excellence of its hospitality. They had a good dinner and a good bottle
of port and sat late. When most of the guests in the hotel had gone to
bed and when the time necessary for their own departure was drawing
nigh, they rang and told the waiter to get the bill. When he had gone
for it they took all the silver off the table—they had fine old silver
in the inn—and placed it in the garden on which the room opened. Then
they turned out the gas and got under the table. Hearing no answer to
his repeated knocking the waiter opened the door. When he saw the lights
out, the window opened, and the guests—and the silver—gone he cried out:

“Done! They have bolted with the silver.” Then he ran down the passage
crying out: “Thieves, thieves!”

The instant he was gone the two men came from under the table, closed
the door, lit the gas, and took in the silver which they replaced on the
table. Presently a wild rush of persons came down the passage and burst
into the room: the landlord and his family, servants of the house,
guests _en deshabille_—most of them carrying pokers and other impromptu
weapons. They found the two gentlemen sitting quietly smoking their
cigars. As they stood amazed Irving said in his quiet, well-bred voice:

“Do you always come in like this when gentlemen are having their dinner
here?”

Toole would even play pranks on Irving, these generally taking the form
of some sort of gift. For instance, he once sent Irving on his birthday
what he called in his letter “a miniature which he had picked up!” It
came in a furniture van, an enormous portrait of an actor, painted
nearly a hundred years before; it was so large that it would not fit in
any room of the theatre and had to be put in a high passage. Again, when
he was in Australia he sent to Irving, timed so that it would arrive at
Christmas, a present of two frozen sheep and a live kangaroo. These
arrived at Irving’s rooms in Grafton Street. He had them housed at the
Lyceum for the night, and next day sent the sheep to gladden the hearts—
and anatomies—of the Costermongers’ Club at Chicksand Street, Mile End,
New Town. The kangaroo was sent with a donation to the Zoological
Society as a contribution from “J. L. Toole and Henry Irving.” A brass
plate was fixed over the cage by the Society.

Toole loved to make beautiful presents to Irving. Amongst them was a
splendid gilt silver claret jug; several silver cups and bowls, the
trophy designed by Flaxman which was presented to Macready in 1818—a
magnificent piece of jeweller’s work; a “grangerised” edition of
Forster’s _Life of Charles Dickens_—unique in its richness of material
and its fine workmanship—which he had bought in Paris for £500.

III

When Toole and Irving were separated they were in constant communication
by letter, telegram or cable. No birthday of the other passed without a
visit if near enough, or a letter or telegram if apart, and there was
always a basket of flowers each to each. For a dozen years before
Irving’s death Toole had been in bad health, growing worse and worse as
the years went on. He grew very feeble and very, very sad. But without
fail Irving used to go to see him whenever he had an opportunity. At his
house in Maida Vale, at Margate, or at Brighton, in which latter place
he mainly lived for years past, Irving would go to him and spend all the
hours he could command. Even though the width of the world separated
them, the two men seemed to have, day by day, exact cognisance of the
whereabouts and doings of the other, and not a week but the cables were
flashing between them.

Poor Toole had one by one lost all his immediate family—son, wife,
daughter; and his tie to life was in great part the love to and from his
friend. He used to think of him unceasingly. Wherever he was, Toole’s
wire would come unfailingly making for good luck and remembrance. He
would keep the flowers that Irving sent to him till they faded and
dropped away; even then the baskets and bare stalks were kept in his
room.

No one appreciated more than Toole the finest of Irving’s work. For
instance, when he saw him play _King Lear_ he was touched to his heart’s
core, and his artistic admiration was boundless. I supped with him that
night after the play, and he said to me:

“_King Lear_ is the finest thing of Irving’s life—or of any one else’s.”

When Toole was going to Australia there were many farewell gatherings to
wish him God-speed. Some of them were great and elaborate affairs, but
the last of all was reserved for Irving, when Toole, with some old
friends, supped in the Beefsteak Room. When Irving proposed his old
friend’s health—a rare function indeed in that room—he never spoke more
beautifully in his life. His little speech was packed with pathos, and
so great was his own emotion that at moments he was obliged to pause to
pull himself together.

Toole and I were very close friends ever since I knew him first in the
early seventies. I shared with him many delightful hours. And when
sorrow came to him I was able to give him sympathy and such comfort as
could be from my presence. I was with him at the funeral of his son and
then of his wife. When his daughter died in Edinburgh, where he was then
playing, I went up to him and stayed with him. We brought her body back
to London and I went with him to her grave. With me he was always
affectionate, always sympathetic, always merry when there was no cause
for gloom, always grave and earnest when such were becoming. I have been
with him on endless occasions when his merriment and geniality simply
bubbled over. Unless some sorrow sat heavily on him he was always full
of merriment which evidenced itself in the quaintest and most unexpected
ways.

[Illustration:

THE CAST OF “DEARER THAN LIFE,” 1868
]

One evening, for instance, we were walking together along the western
end of Pall Mall. When we came near Marlborough House, where on either
side of the gateway stood a Guardsman on sentry, he winked at me and
took from his pocket a letter which he had ready for post. Then when we
came up close to the nearest soldier he moved cautiously in a semi-blind
manner and peering out tried to put the letter in the breast of the
scarlet tunic as though mistaking the soldier for a postal pillar-box.
The soldier remained upright and stolid, and did not move a muscle.
Toole was equally surprised and pleased when from the Guardsman’s
moveless lips came the words:

“It’s all right, Mr. Toole! I hope you’re well, sir?”

Another time I was staying with him at the Granville at Ramsgate, and on
the Sunday afternoon we drove out to Kingsgate. Lionel Brough was
another of the party. As we passed a coastguard station we stopped
opposite a very handsome, spruce, and dandified coastguard. The two men
greeted him, but his manner was somewhat haughty. Whereupon the two
actors without leaving their seats proceeded to dance a hornpipe. That
is they seemed, from the waist up, to be dancing that lively measure.
Their arms and hands took motion as though in a real dance and their
bodies swayed with appropriate movement. The little holiday crowd looked
on delighted, and even the haughty sailor found it too much. He unbent
and, smiling, danced also in very graceful fashion.

Again at another time we found ourselves in Canterbury, where Toole
amused himself for a whole afternoon by spreading a report that the
Government were going to move the Cathedral from Canterbury to Margate,
giving as a reason that the latter place was so much larger. Strange to
say that there were some who believed it. Toole worked systematically.
He went into barbers’ shops—three of them in turn, and in each got
shaved. As I wore a beard I had to be content with having my hair cut;
it came out pretty short in the end. As he underwent the shaving
operation he brought conversation round to the subject of the moving of
the Cathedral. Then we went into shops without end where he bought all
sorts of things—collars, braces, socks, caps, fruits and spice for
making puddings, children’s toys, arrowroot, ginger wine, little shawls,
sewing cotton, emery paper, hair oil, goloshes, corn plasters—there was
no end to the variety of his purchases, each of which was an opening for
some fresh variant of the coming change.

At one other visit to Canterbury we came across in the ancient Cathedral
an insolent verger. Toole, who was, for all his fun, a man of reverent
nature, was as usual with him grave and composed in the church. The
verger, taking him for some stranger of the _bourgeois_ class, thought
him a fit subject to impress. When Toole spoke of the new Dean who had
been lately appointed the man said in a flippant way:

“We don’t care much for him. We don’t think we’ll keep him!”

This was enough for Toole. He looked over at me in a way I understood
and forthwith began to ask questions:

“Did you, may I ask, sir, preach this morning?”

“No. Not this morning. I don’t preach this week.” We knew then that that
verger was to be “had on toast.” Toole went on:

“Do you preach on next Sunday, sir? I should like to hear you.”

“Well, no! I don’t think I’ll preach on Sunday.”

“Will you preach the Sunday after?”

“Perhaps.”

“May I ask, sir, are you the Dean?”

“No. I am not the Dean!” His manner implied that he was something more.

“Are you the Sub-Dean?”

“Not the Sub-Dean.” His answers were getting short.

“Are you what they call a Canon?”

“No, I should not exactly call myself a Canon.”

“Are you a minor Canon?”

“No!”

“Are you a precentor?”

“Not exactly that.”

“Are you in the choir?”

“No.”

“May I ask you what you are then, sir?”—this was said with great
deference. The man, cornered at last, thought it best to speak the
truth, so he answered:

“I am what they call a ‘verger!’”

“Quite so!” said Toole gravely; “I thought you were only a servant by
the insolent way you spoke of your superiors!”

The remainder of that personal conduction was made in silence.

On one occasion when Toole was taking the waters at Homburg, King Edward
VII., then Prince of Wales, was there. He had a breakfast party to which
he had asked Toole and also Sir George Lewis and Sir Squire Bancroft. In
the course of conversation his Royal Highness asked Bancroft where he
was going after Homburg. The answer was that he was going to Maloya in
Switzerland. Then turning to Toole he asked him:

“Are you going to Maloya also, Mr. Toole?” In reply Toole said, as he
bowed and pointed to the great solicitor:

“No, sir, Ma-loya (my lawyer) is here!”

I remember one Derby day, 1893, when we were both in the party to which
Mr. Knox D’Arcy extended the hospitality of his own stand next to that
of the Jockey Club—a hospitality which I may say was boundless and
complete. When I arrived the racing was just beginning, and the course
was crowded by the moving mass seeking outlets before the cordon of
police with their rope. As I got close to the stand I heard a voice that
I knew coming from the wicket-gate, which was surrounded with a seething
mass of humanity of all kinds pushing and struggling to get close.

“Walk this way, ladies and gentlemen! Walk this way! get tickets here.
Only one shilling, including lunch. Walk this way!”

A somewhat similar joke on his part was on board a steamer on Lake
Lucerne, when he was there with Irving. He went quietly to one end of
the steamer and cried out in a loud voice: “Cook’s tourists, this way.
Sandwich and glass of sherry provided free!” Then, slipping over to the
other end of the boat as the crowd began to rush for the free lunch, he
again made proclamation: “Gaze’s party, this way. Brandy and soda,
hard-boiled eggs, and butterscotch provided free!” Again he disappeared
before the crowd could assemble.

A favourite joke of his when playing Paul Pry was to find out what
friends of his were in the house and then to have their names put upon
the blackboard at the inn with scores against them of gigantic amount.
This was a never-stale source of surprise and delight to the children of
his friends. He loved all children, and next to his own, the children of
his friends. For each of such there was always a box of chocolates. He
kept a supply in his dressing-room, and I never knew the child of a
friend to go away empty-handed. With such a love in his heart was it
strange that in his own bad time, when his sadness was just beginning to
take hold on his very heart’s core, he loved to think much of those old
friends who had loved his own children who had gone?

VII

Somehow his mirth never lessened his pathos. His acting—his whole life—
has been a sort of proof that the two can coexist. His Caleb Plummer was
never a whit less moving because his audience laughed through their
tears. It may be his art became typified in his life.

When Irving died I telegraphed the same night to Frank Arlton, Toole’s
nephew, who during all his long illness had given him the most tender
care. I feared that if I did not send such warning some well-intentioned
blunderer might give him a terrible shock. Arlton acted most prudently,
and broke the sad news himself at a favourable opportunity the next day.
When poor Toole heard it his remark was one of infinite pathos:

“Then let me die too!”

Such a wish is in itself an epitaph of lasting honour.

VIII

Toole’s belief and sympathy and help were of infinite service to the
friend whom he loved. Comfort and confidence and assistance all in one.
And it is hardly too much to say that Irving could never have done what
he did, and in the way he did it, without the countenance and help of
his old friend. Irving always, ever since I knew him, liked to associate
Toole with himself in everything; and to me who know all that was
between them it is but just—as well as the carrying out of my dear
friend’s wishes—that in this book their names shall be associated as
closely as I can achieve by the Dedication. Shortly before his last
illness I went down to Brighton to see him and to ask formally his
permission to this end. He seemed greatly moved by it. Later on I sent
the proof of the page containing it, asking Arlton to show it to him if
he thought it advisable. Toole had then partially recovered from the
attack and occasionally saw friends and was interested in what went on.
Arlton’s letter to me described the effect:

“I gave him your message last night, and I fear I did unwisely, as
nurse says he has been talking all night about Sir Henry and books.”

That visit to Brighton was the last time I saw Toole. He was then very
low in health and spirits. He could hardly move or see; his voice was
very feeble and one had to speak close and clearly that he might hear
well. But his intellect was as clear as ever, and he spoke of many old
friends. I spent the day with him; after lunch I walked by his
bath-chair to the end of the Madeira Walk. There we stayed a while, and
when my time for leaving came, I told him—but not before. In his late
years Toole could not bear the idea of any one whom he loved leaving
him, even for a time. We used therefore to say no word of parting till
the moment came. When he held out his poor, thin, trembling hand to me
he said with an infinite pathos whose memory moves me still:

“Bram, we have often parted—but this time is the last. I shall never see
you again! Won’t you let me kiss you, dear!”

LXVI
ELLEN TERRY

The first time I saw Ellen Terry was on the forenoon of Monday, December
23, 1878. The place was the passage-way which led from the stage of the
Lyceum to the office, a somewhat dark passage under the staircase
leading to the two “star” dressing-rooms up the stage on the O.P. side.
But not even the darkness of that December day could shut out the
radiant beauty of the woman to whom Irving, who was walking with her,
introduced me. Her face was full of colour and animation, either of
which would have made her beautiful. In addition was the fine form, the
easy rhythmic swing, the large, graceful, goddess-like way in which she
moved. I knew of her of course—all the world did then though not so well
as afterwards; and she knew of me already, so that we met as friends. I
had for some years known Charles Wardell, the actor playing under the
name of Charles Kelly, to whom she had not long before been married.
Kelly had in his professional visits to Dublin been several times in my
lodgings, and as I had reason to believe that he had a high opinion of
me I felt from Ellen Terry’s gracious and warm manner of recognition
that she accepted me as a friend. That belief has been fully justified
by a close friendship, unshaken to the extent of a hair’s breadth
through all the work and worry—the triumphs and gloom—the sunshine and
showers—storm and trial and stress of twenty-seven years of the
comradeship of work together.

Irving had engaged her entirely on the strength of the reputation which
she had already made in _Olivia_ and the other plays which had gone
before it. He had not seen her play since the days of the Queen’s
Theatre, Long Acre, 1867–8, when they had played together in _The Taming
of the Shrew_, she being the Katherine to his Petruchio. He had not
thought very much of her playing in those days. Long after she had made
many great successes at the Lyceum, in speaking of the early days he
said to me:

“She was always bright and lively, and full of fun. She had a distinct
charm; but as an artist was rather on the hoydenish side!”

From the moment, however, that she began to rehearse at the Lyceum his
admiration for her became unbounded. Many and many a time have I heard
him descant on her power. It was a favourite theme of his. He said that
her pathos was “nature helped by genius,” and that she had a “gift of
pathos.” He knew well the value of her playing both to himself and the
public, and for the early years of his management plays were put on in
which she would have suitable parts. _Iolanthe_ was put on for her,
likewise _The Cup_, _The Belle’s Stratagem_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Much
Ado About Nothing_, _Twelfth Night_ and _Olivia_. Synorix was not a part
for the sake of which Irving would have produced _The Cup_; neither
Romeo nor Benedick is a part such as he would have chosen for himself.
Neither Malvolio nor Dr. Primrose was seemingly a great _rôle_ for a man
who had been accustomed for years to “carry the play on his back.”

I think that Ellen Terry fascinated every one who ever met her—men,
women and children, it was all the same. I have heard the evidences of
this fascination in many ways from all sorts of persons in all sorts of
places. One of them in especial lingers in my mind: perhaps this is
because I belong to a nationality to whose children “blarney” is
supposed to be a heritage.

On the afternoon of Sunday, November 25, 1883, we had travelled from New
York to Philadelphia, paying our first visit to the Quaker City. Irving
and I were staying at the Belle Vue Hotel; there, too, Ellen Terry took
up her quarters. I dined with Irving, and we were smoking after dinner
when a card and a message came up. The card was that of the Hon.
Benjamin H. Brewster, then Attorney-General of the United States. The
message was to the effect that he had broken his journey for a few hours
on his way to Washington for the purpose of meeting Mr. Irving, and
begging that he would waive ceremony and see him. Of course, Irving was
very pleased, and the Attorney-General came up. He was a clever-looking,
powerfully built man, but his face was badly scarred. In his boyhood he
had, I believe, fallen into the fire. Until one knew him and came under
the magic of his voice, and tongue, his appearance was apt to concern
one over-much. He was quaint in his dress, wearing frills on shirt-front
and cuffs. He was of an Irish family which had sent very prominent men
to the Bar; a namesake of his was a leading counsel in my own youth.
Irving and I were delighted with him. After an hour or so he asked if it
were possible that he might see Miss Terry. Irving thought she would be
very pleased. In compliance with the Attorney-General’s request she came
down to Irving’s room and was most sweet and gracious to the stranger.
After a while she went away; he prepared to go also, for his train was
nearly due. When Ellen Terry had left the room he turned to us and said,
with all that conviction of truth which makes “blarney” so effective:

“What a creature! what a Queen! She smote me with the sword of her
beauty, and I arose her Knight!”

III

Ellen Terry had no sooner come into the Lyceum than all in the place
were her devoted servants. Irving was only too glad to let her genius
and her art have full swing; and it was a pleasure to all to carry out
her wishes. As a member of a company she was always simply ideal. She
encouraged the young, helped every one, and was not only a “fair” but a
“generous” actor. These terms imply much on the stage, where it is
possible, without breaking any rule, to gain all the advantage to the
detriment of other players. To Ellen Terry such a thing was impossible;
she not only gave to every one acting with her all the opportunities
that their parts afforded, but made opportunities for them. For
instance, it is always an advantage for an actor to stand in or near the
centre of the stage and well down to the footlights. In old days such a
place was the right of the most important actor; a right which was
always claimed. But Ellen Terry would when occasion served stand up
stage or down as might be suitable to the person speaking. And when her
own words had been spoken she would devote her whole powers to helping
the work of her comrades on the stage. These seemingly little things
count for much in the summing up of years, and it is no wonder that
Ellen Terry as an artist is, and always has been, loved. From the first,
to her as an artist always has been given the supreme respect which she
had justly won. No one ever cavilled, no one ever challenged, no one
ever found fault. All sought her companionship, her advice, her
assistance. She moved through the world of the theatre like embodied
sunshine. Her personal triumphs were a source of joy to all; of envy to
none.

She seems to have the happy faculty of spinning gaiety out of the very
air; and adds always to the sum of human happiness.

Her performance of Ophelia alone would have insured her a record for
greatness; Irving never ceased expatiating on it. I well remember one
night in 1879—it was after a third performance of _Hamlet_—when he took
supper with my wife and me. He talked all the time of Ellen Terry’s
wonderful performance. One thing which he said fixed itself in my mind:

“How Shakespeare must have dreamed when he was able to write a part like
Ophelia, knowing that it would have to be played by a boy! Conceive his
delight and gratitude if he could but have seen Ellen Terry in it!”

Indeed it was a delight to any one even to see her. No one who had seen
it can forget the picture that she made in the Fourth Act when she came
in holding a great bunch—an armful—of flowers; lilies and other gracious
flowers and all those that are given in the text. For my own part, every
Ophelia whom I have seen since then has suffered by the comparison.

Ellen Terry loves flowers, and in her playing likes to have them on the
stage with her when suitable. Irving was always most particular with
regard to her having exactly what she wanted. The Property Master had
strict orders to have the necessary flowers, no matter what the cost.
Other players could, and had to, put up with clever imitations; but
Ellen Terry always had real flowers. I have known when the rule was
carried through under extreme difficulties. This was during the week
after the blizzard at New York in March 1888 when such luxuries were at
famine price. She had as Margaret her bunch of roses every night. I
bought them one day myself for the purpose when the blooms were five
dollars each.

Ellen Terry’s art is wonderfully true. She has not only the instinct of
truth but the ability to reproduce it in the different perspective of
the stage. There must always be some grand artistic qualities, quite
apart from personal charm, to render any actress worthy of universal
recognition. To those who have seen Ellen Terry no explanation is
needed. She is artist to her finger-tips. The rules which Taine applies
to Art in general, and to plastic art in particular, apply in especial
degree to an artist of the Stage. That which he calls “selective” power,
a natural force, is ever a ruling factor in the creation of character.

The finer and more evanescent evidences of individuality must to a large
extent be momentary. No true artist ever plays the same part alike on
different repetitions. The occasion; the variation of temperament, even
of temperature; the emotional characteristic of the audience; the
quickening or dulling of the ruling sentiment of the day or hour—each
and all of these insensibly, if not consciously, can regulate the
pressure in the temperamental barometer. When to the gift of logical
power of understanding causes and effects there is added that of
instinctively thinking and doing the right thing, then the great artist
is revealed. It is, perhaps, this instinctive power which is the basis
of creative art; the power of the poet as distinguished from that of the
workman. Then comes a nicely balanced judgment of the selective faculty.
There are always many ways of doing the same thing. One, of course, must
be best; though others may come very close to it in merit.

Ellen Terry has the faculty of reaching the best. When one sees any
other actress essay a part in which she has won applause, the actuality
seems but dull beside the memory. As the object of stage work is
“seeming” not “being,” the effort to appear real transcends reality—with
the art of stage perspective added.

When Ellen Terry has taken hold of a character it becomes, whilst her
thoughts are on it, a part of her own nature. In fact, her own nature

“is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.”

Her intuition—which in a woman is quicker than a man’s reason—not only
avoids error from the very inception of her work, but brings her
unerringly by the quickest road to the best end. In the studying of her
own parts and the arranging of her own business of them she had always
had a free hand with Irving. At the Lyceum she was consulted about
everything; and the dispositions of other persons and things were made
to fit into her arrangements. I can only recall one instance when her
wishes were not exactly carried out. This was at the end of the church
scene of _Much Ado About Nothing_ which in the Lyceum version finished
the Fourth Act—the scene of the Prison which in Shakespeare ends the act
having been transferred to the beginning of the last act. Here Beatrice
has pledged Benedick to kill Claudio. Her newly accepted lover finishes
the scene: “Go, comfort your cousin; I must say, she is dead; and so,
farewell.” Irving thought that the last words should be a little more
operative with regard to the coming portion of the play; and so insisted
in putting in the “gag” which was often in use:

_Beatrice._ “Benedick, kill Claudio!”

_Benedick._ “As sure as I’m alive I will!”

Against this Ellen Terry protested, almost to tears. She thought that
every word of Shakespeare was sacred; to add to them was wrong. Still
Irving was obdurate; and she finally yielded to his wishes.

To my own mind Irving was right. He too held every word of Shakespeare
in reverence; but modern conditions, which require the shortening of
plays, necessitate now and again the concentration of ideas—the emphasis
of purposes. The words of the “tag” which he and Ellen Terry spoke, and
the extraordinary forceful way they spoke them, heightened the effect.
By carrying on the idea of the audience to an immediate and definite
purpose they increased the “tug” of the play.

It may be interesting to note that this introduction was not, so far as
I remember, commented on by any of the critics. It was not printed in
the acting version, but the words were spoken—and there was no
possibility of their not being heard—on every performance of the run of
two hundred nights. Where there are so many Shakespeareans looking
keenly for errors of text, it was odd such an addition should have
passed without comment!

VII

The sincerity of Ellen Terry’s nature finds expression in her art. In
all my long experience of her I never knew her to strike a wrong note.
Doubtless she has her faults. She is a woman; and perfection must not be
expected even in the finishing work of Creation.

But whatever faults she may have are altogether those of the individual
human being, not of the artist. As the latter she had achieved
perfection even when I first saw her in 1878.

The mind which balances truly each item, each evidence of character
submitted to it by nature, experience or the dramatist, is the true
source of art. Without it perfection must be a hazard; when there are
many roads to choose from, the traveller may chance to blunder into the
right one, but the doing so is the work of luck not art. But when day
after day, week after week, year after year one _always_ takes the right
road, chance or fortune cannot be regarded as the dominating cause. The
sincerity of art has many means of expression; but even of these some
are more subtle than others. Such exposition demands mind, and the
exercise of mind; we may, I think, take it that intention requires
intellectual effort both for its conception and execution—the wish and
the attempt to turn desire into force. The carrying out of intention
requires fresh mental effort. And such must be primarily based on a
knowledge of the powers and facts at command. Thus it is that the actor
must understand himself; the task is even more difficult when the actor
is a woman whose nature, therefore, in its manifestations is continually
changing. But this very changeableness has in it the elements of force
and charm. Out of the kaleidoscope come glimpses of new things which
have only to be recorded and remembered in order to become knowledge. In
the variety of emotions is a pauseless attractiveness which does not
admit of weariness. Nature was good to Ellen Terry in the equipment for
her work. Her personality, enriched by the gifts showered upon her, is a
very treasure-house of art. No other woman of her time has shown such
abounding and abiding charm; such matchless mirthfulness; pathos so
deep.

VIII

As to the stage characters which she has made her own it would be
impossible to say enough. Any one of them is worthy of an exhaustive
study. In the early days of her acting, which began when her years were
but few, stage art was in a poor way. The old style of acting, eminently
suitable to the age in which it had been evolved, was still in vogue,
though the conditions of the great world without were changing. “The
Drama’s laws the Drama’s patrons give” is a truth told with poetic
comprehensiveness; what the public wants, the actors must in reason
supply. But that age—when railways were still new, when telegraphs were
hoped for; when such knowledge as that of the influence of worms on the
outer layer of the structure of the world was being investigated, and
when the existence of bacteria was becoming a conclusion rather than a
guess—did not mean to be satisfied with an old-world, unnatural
expression of human feeling seemingly based on a belief that passions
were single and crude and that they swept aside the manifold
complications of life. Ellen Terry belongs to the age of investigation.
She is of those who brought in the new school of natural acting. It is
true that she had learned and benefited by the teaching and experience
of the old school. The lessons which Mrs. Charles Kean had so patiently
taught her gave her boldness and breadth, and made for the realisation
of poetic atmosphere and that perspective of the stage which is so much
stronger than that of real life. But the work which she did in the new
school came from herself. Here it was that her manifold gifts and charms
found means of expression—of working out her purpose in relation to the
characters which she undertook. If I had myself to put into a phrase the
contribution to art-progress which Ellen Terry’s work has been, I should
say that it was the recognition of freedom of effort. She enlarged the
bounds of art from those of convention to those of nature; and in doing
so gave fuller scope to natural power. Since she set the way many
another actress has arrived at the full success possible to the range of
her gifts who otherwise would have been early strangled in the meshes of
convention. The general effect of this has been to raise the art as well
as widening it. The natural style does not allow of falsity or
grossness; in the light which is common to all who understand, either by
instinct or education, these stand out as faults or excrescences. In
this “natural” method also individual force counts for its worth and the
characteristic notes of sex are marked. For instance, I have heard—for
unfortunately I never saw the piece—that when long ago she played _The
Wandering Heir_ her charm of sex was paramount; she played a girl
masquerading as a boy so delightfully because she was so complete a
woman. In her, womanhood is paramount. She has to the full in her nature
whatever quality it is that corresponds to what we call “virility” in a
man.

Her influence on her art has been so marked that one can see in the
younger generation of women players how in their efforts to understand
her methods they have unconsciously held her identity as their
objective. In a number of them this appears as a sort of mild imitation.
It was the same thing with the school of Irving. Trying to follow in his
footsteps they have achieved something of his identity; generally those
little personal traits or habits catching to the eye, which some call
faults, others idiosyncrasies.

The advantages which both Irving and Ellen Terry gave to dramatic art
will be even more marked in the future than it is at the present; though
the credit to them of its doing will be less conspicuous than it is now.
Already the thoughtful work has been done; the principles have been
tested and accepted, and the teaching has reached its synthetic stage.

Naturally the years that went to the doing of this fine art work threw
the two players together in a remarkable way, and made for an artistic
comradeship which, so far as I know, has had no equal in their own
branch of art. It began with Irving’s management at the end of 1878 and
lasted as a working reality for twenty-four years. At the Prince’s
Theatre, Bristol, on the last night of the Provincial Tour of 1902,
December 13, she played for the last time under his management. Some
months later, July 14, 1903, they played again in the same piece _The
Merchant of Venice_ at Drury Lane for the benefit of the Actors’
Association. This occasion has become a memorable one; it was the last
time when they played together.

Their cause of separation was in no wise any form of disagreement. It
was simply effluxion of time. To the last hour of Irving’s life the
brotherly affection between them remained undimmed. Naturally when these
two great powers who had worked together in the public eye for nearly a
quarter of a century separated Curiosity began to search for causes, and
her handmaid Gossip proclaimed what she alleged to be them. Let me tell
the simple truth and so set the matter right:

In the course of their long artistic co-operation Irving had produced
twenty-seven plays in which they had acted together. In nineteen of
these Ellen Terry had played young parts, which naturally in the course
of so many years became unsuitable. Indeed the first person to find
fault with them was Ellen Terry herself, who, with her keen
uncompromising critical faculty always awake to the purposes of her
work, realised the wisdom of abandonment long before the public had ever
such a thought. There remained, therefore, for their mutual use but
eight plays of the _répertoire_—the finished work of so many years. Of
these, two, _Macbeth_ and _Henry VIII._, had been destroyed by fire, and
the expense of reproducing them adequately for only occasional
presentation was prohibitive. Two others, _Coriolanus_ and _Peter the
Great_, were not popular. _Robespierre_ had had its day, a long run to
the full extent of its excellence. There remained, therefore, but three:
_Charles I._, _The Merchant of Venice_ and _Madame Sans-Gêne_. The last
of these had not proved a very great success in England; in America it
had been done to death. For _Charles I._, by its very sadness and its
dramatic scope, the audience could only be drawn from a limited class.
So that there remained for practical purposes of continuous playing only
_The Merchant of Venice_. There was one other play in which, though her
part was a young one, Ellen Terry could always play, _Much Ado About
Nothing_. But then Irving had grown too old for Benedick, and so for his
purposes the play was past.

Ellen Terry did not care—and rightly enough—to play only once or twice a
week as Portia—or in _Nance Oldfield_, given with _The Bells_—whilst
there was so much excellent work, in all ways suitable to her
personality and her years, to be done. Ordinarily one would not allude
to these matters; ladies have by right no date. But when a lady’s
Jubilee on the Stage has been a completed fact, to whose paramount
success the whole world has rung, there is no need for misleading
reticence.

The mere fact of their ceasing to play together did not bring to a close
the long artistic comradeship of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. To the
very last the kindly interest in each other’s work and the affection
between them never ceased or even slackened. Whatever one did the other
followed with eager anxiety. Right up to the hour of his death Irving
was interested in all that she did. On that last sad evening, even
whilst anxiety for the coming changes in his own work was looming over
him, he spoke to me in his dressing-room about her health and her work.
He spoke feelingly and sympathetically, and with confidence and
affection; just as he had always done during the long period of their
working together. He had written to her himself in the same vein. In his
letter he had told her what a delight it would be to him to hear her
Lecture on “The Letters in Shakespeare’s Plays.”

For my own part I have no words at command adequate to tell the kindly
feeling which I have always had for the delightful creature—to express
my reverence and regard and love for her enchanting personality. From
the very first she took me into the inner heart of her friendship;
unconsciously I was given the _rôle_ of “big brother.” Nay, she found a
name for me which was all her own and which one would think to be the
least appropriate to a man of my inches. When I would ask her about some
social duty which it was necessary for her to attend to—some important
person to receive, some special entertainment to attend—she would make
what nurses call a “wry face”; then she would ask:

“Bram, is this earnest?”

“Yes!” I would reply. “Honest injun!” She would smile and pout together
as she would reply:

“All right, mama!” Then I knew that she was going to play that part as
nicely as it could be played by any human being. Indeed it was hardly
“playing a part” for she was genuinely glad to meet cordiality with
equal feeling. It was only the beginning and the publicity that she
disliked.

It is hard to believe that half a century has elapsed since Ellen Terry
went timidly through her first part on the stage. The slim child
dragging the odd-looking go-cart, which the early daguerreotype recorded
as Mamilius in Charles Kean’s production of _A Winter’s Tale_, has been
so long a force of womanly charm and radiant beauty—an actress of such
incomparable excellence that in her art as in our memories she almost
stands alone—great amongst the great.

Ellen Terry is a great actress, the greatest of her time; and she will
have her niche in history. She is loved by every one who ever knew her.
Her presence is a charm, her friendship a delight; her memory will be a
national as well as a personal possession.

LXVII
FRESH HONOURS IN DUBLIN

When we visited Dublin in the tour of 1894 there were some memorable
experiences. Ever since 1876 my native city had a warm place in Irving’s
heart. And very justly so, for it had showered upon him love and honour.
This time there were two occasions which should not be forgotten.

The first was a public Reception at the Mansion House given by the then
Lord Mayor, Valentine Dillon, a friend of my own boyhood. This took
place on Thursday, November 29, and was in truth an affair of national
importance. At that time the long-continued feuds between Conservatives
and Liberals, Home Rulers and Unionists, Catholics and Protestants,
which had marked with extra virulence—for they had been long existent—
the past decades, were still operative. Still, improvement was in the
air; only opportunity was wanting to give it expression.

The beneficent occasion came in that Reception. Irving and Ellen Terry
were delightfully popular personalities. They had no politics, and what
religion either professed was not even considered; their artistic
excellence shadowed all else. Lord Mayor Dillon was a man with broad
views of life and of the dignity of the position which he held for, I
think, the third time. He cast very wide the net of his hospitable
intent. He asked every one who was of account in any way; and all came.
Some three thousand persons had been bidden and there was a full tally
of guests. When once they had actually met in a common cause, one and
all seemed to take the opportunity of showing that the hatchet had been
buried. Men who had not spoken for years—who had not looked at each
other save with the eyes of animosity, seemed glad to mingle on
something of the old terms—to renew old friendships and long-severed
acquaintanceship.

Irving and Ellen Terry, with some of us lesser lights supporting them,
stood on the daïs beside the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress; and I can
bear witness that not one who passed went without a handshake from both.
It was a serious physical effort. To shake hands with some thousands of
persons would tax the strongest. Irving went through it with all the
direct simplicity of his nature. Ellen Terry, having to supplement
nature with art, rested at times her right hand and shook with the left
with such cunning dexterity that no one was a whit the wiser. One and
all went away from that hospitable and friendly gathering in a happy
frame of mind. Dublin was a gainer by that wave of beneficent sympathy.

Two days later, on the last night of the engagement, Saturday, December
1, there was another and even more remarkable function. This was the
presentation of a Public Address on the stage after the play. This
Address was no ordinary one. It was signed by all the great public
officials, both of the city and of the country:

The Lord Mayor, the High Sheriff, the Lord Chancellor, the Commander of
the Forces, the Lord Chief Justice, all the Judges, all the City Members
of Parliament, the Provost of Dublin University, the President of the
College of Surgeons, the President of the College of Physicians, all the
Public Officials, and by a host of Leading Citizens.

When the curtain drew up the great body of the Committee, numbering
about sixty, stood behind the Lord Mayor on one side of the stage. On
the other Irving, with close behind him Ellen Terry, whom I had the
honour of escorting, and all the other members of the Company. The Lord
Mayor read the Address, which was conceived in love and honour and born
in noble and touching words. In replying for himself and Miss Terry,
Irving was much touched, and had to make an effort to speak at all.
There was a lofty look in his eyes which spoke for the sincerity of the
words which he used in his reply:

“Now when your great University has accepted me to the brotherhood of
her sons, and when your city and nation have taken me to your hearts, I
feel that the cup of a player’s honour is full to the brim.”

I have not often seen him moved so much as he was that night. His speech
and movement were only controlled by his strong will and the habit of
self-repression.

Within and without the theatre was a scene of wild enthusiasm not to be
forgotten. I have been witness of many scenes of wild generosity but
none to surpass that night.

Irving was always anxious that others should rejoice in some form with
his own rejoicing. Before leaving Dublin he placed in the hands of the
Lord Mayor a cheque for a hundred guineas for his disposal to the use of
the poor.

LXVIII
PERFORMANCES AT SANDRINGHAM AND WINDSOR

I
SANDRINGHAM, 1889.

In April 1889 the Prince of Wales had the honour of entertaining the
Queen at Sandringham. He wished that she should see Irving and Ellen
Terry, neither of whom she had seen play. Accordingly it was arranged
that on April 26 the Lyceum would be closed for the evening and that a
performance should be given in Sandringham in a little theatre specially
built in the great drawing-room. For this theatre Irving had got Walter
Hann to paint an act drop; scenery of a suitable size was prepared by
Hawes Craven—an exceedingly fine piece of miniature stage work. The Bill
fixed was: _The Bells_, and the Trial Scene from _The Merchant of
Venice_, the combination of which pieces would, the Prince thought, show
both the players at their best.

The drawing-room looked very beautiful, the white walls showing up the
many stands of magnificent weapons and armour; greenery and flowers were
everywhere. There was a large gathering in the drawing-room of not only
the house guests but local personages; the big music gallery at the back
was full of tenants and servants. The Queen had kindly expressed her
wish that the audience should do just as they wished as to applauding,
and I must say that I have never seen or heard a more enthusiastic
audience within the bounds of decorum.

The Queen sat in the centre in front with the Prince of Wales on her
right and the Princess on her left, and the others of the family beside
them. Next came the guests in their degrees. The doorway was crowded
with the servants—the Queen’s all in black and the Prince’s in Royal
scarlet liveries. Her Majesty seemed greatly pleased. It had been
arranged that Irving and Ellen Terry were to join the Prince and
Princess at supper. The Queen would not wait up, but was to retire at
once. However, just as the players were removing their war-paint, Her
Majesty sent word by Sir Henry Ponsonby that she would like to speak to
Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. Irving was in the act of removing his
“make-up” as Shylock, which was a job requiring some little time. He was
extraordinarily quick both as to dressing and undressing; but the
“priming” of earth on which stage paint is laid, grease, paint, and
lampblack and spirit-gum take some little time to remove, even before
the stage of soap-and-water is reached. Portia, however, is a part which
does not soil, and as to mere dressing, Ellen Terry can simply fly. She
knew that Irving would be at least a few minutes, and it is not good
form to keep a Queen waiting. Within a minute she was tearing down the
passage, with her dresser running close behind her and fastening up the
back of her frock as she went. At the doorway she threw over her
shoulders the scarf which was a part of her dress and sailed into the
room with a grand courtesy. Within a very few minutes Irving in
immaculate evening dress followed.

Irving and Ellen Terry supped with the Royal guests. For the rest of the
Company supper was prepared in the Conservatory. The heads of
departments and workmen were entertained in the Housekeeper’s room or
the Servants’ Hall according to their degrees. Irving had with his usual
wish to save trouble arranged for supper for all the party on the train
home. But the Prince of Wales would not hear of such a thing. He said
that the players were his guests and that they must eat in his house. It
had been understood that there was to be no suggestion of payment of
even expenses. Irving was only too proud and happy to serve his Queen
and future King in all ways of his own art to the best of his power.
This arrangement was held to on every occasion on which he had the
honour to give a special performance before Royalty.

At half-past two o’clock the whole Company and workmen were driven to
Wolferton station where the special train was waiting. It arrived at St.
Pancras a few minutes past six in the morning.

II
WINDSOR, 1893.

The performance at Windsor was in its way quite a remarkable thing. In
the earlier years of her reign Queen Victoria was accustomed to have
from time to time theatrical performances at Windsor Castle. These were
generally held in the Waterloo Chamber, where a movable stage was
erected on each occasion. In old days this stage was so low that once
Mr. Henry Howe, who had to come up through a trap according to the
action of the piece, had to crawl on his stomach under the stage to get
to the appointed place. Howe was nearly eighty years of age when he told
me this incident, but the memory was so strong on him that he laughed
like a boy. When the Prince Consort died in 1861 all such gaieties were
stopped, and for thirty-two years no play was given at Windsor. But
after 1889 when the Queen did begin to resume something like the old
life at Court her first effort in that direction was to command a
performance by those players of the later day whom she had seen at
Sandringham, whose merit was widely recognised and who had already won
official recognition of another kind—the previous year the University of
Dublin had given Irving a degree _Honoris Causa_. Moreover, the Queen
wanted to see _Becket_, the work of her own Poet Laureate, which had
created so much interest and thought.

Sir Henry Ponsonby, the Queen’s Private Secretary, came from Windsor to
see Irving at Her Majesty’s wish. Irving was, of course, delighted to
hold himself at the Queen’s will. The only stipulation which he made was
that he was to be allowed to bear the expenses of all kinds and was not
to be offered fee or pay of any kind, even though such was a usual
formality. For this he had a special reason; not to set himself up as an
individual against the custom of the Court, but to avoid the possibility
of such a _bêtise_ as had in earlier years stopped the Windsor
theatrical performances for a time. The way of it was this: At the
commencement of the system of having such performances the Queen had
left the matter in the hands of Charles Kean, then the manager of the
Princess’s Theatre, and acknowledged head of the theatrical calling. He
and his assistants made all the necessary arrangements, taking care that
the gift of the Court patronage was, as fairly as was possible, divided
amongst actors both in London and throughout the provinces. This worked
excellently; and there were few, if any, jealousies. Kean made all the
financial arrangements and paid salaries on the scale fixed on his
suggestion by the Privy Purse. Matters went along smoothly so long as
Kean had control. Later on, however, this was handed over to Mr.
Mitchell of Bond Street, the agent who acted for the Queen with regard
to her visits to London theatres and other places of amusement. At last
came trouble. The scale of salary fixed was, I believe—for I can only
speak from hearsay—at the rate of twice the actor’s earnings in the
previous year. On one occasion an actor of some repute was through some
incredible stupidity paid at this rate, strictly applied though the case
was exceptional. He had been for years receiving a large salary, but
during nearly the whole of the previous year had been ill and of course
“out of work.” His total earnings therefore when divided by fifty-two
amounted to but a meagre weekly wage. At a nightly standard it was
ridiculous. Kean would of course, as an actor, have understood this and
have carried out the spirit of Her Majesty’s wishes. But the man of
business went “by the card,” and when the comedian received the dole
sent to him he was highly indignant, and determined to taste some form
of satisfaction, if only of revenge for his injured feelings. Of course
the Queen knew nothing of all this, and be sure she was incensed when
she heard of it. The actor’s form of revenge was to send the amount of
salary paid to him to the police court poor-box as a contribution from
himself and Queen Victoria.

I may be wrong in details of the story, for it is one of fifty years
ago, but in the main it is correct. I had it from Irving and I have
often heard it spoken about by old actors of the time. With such a
catastrophe in his memory Irving naturally wished to be careful. He had
to consider not only himself but his whole Company, hundreds of persons
of all degrees. Some of them might look on the affair as an Eldorado
whence should come wealth beyond the dreams of avarice and be
“disgruntled” at any failure to that end. When he was himself the
paymaster and shared as an individual the conditions attaching to his
comrades, there could be no complaint. Henry Irving was a most loyal
subject; he wished at all times to render love and honour to the
Monarch, and as he was in his own way a conspicuous individual it was
necessary to be careful lest his good intentions should stray.

Sir Henry Ponsonby quite understood Irving’s feelings and wishes, and
acceded to them. Train arrangements were to be at the expense of the
Queen, who was particular that this should be the rule with all her
guests. Of course Irving acquiesced. When the day—March 18, which the
Queen wished—had been arranged the matter of accomplishment was left
entirely in his hands. Forthwith the work of preparation began.

New scenery, exactly the same as that in use but on a smaller scale and
better suited to its mechanism to the limited space, was painted; and
with it a beautiful proscenium for the miniature theatre built up in the
Waterloo Chamber. The first contingent which went to Windsor on the
morning of the day of the performance numbered one hundred and
seventy-eight persons.

At nine o’clock the Queen arrived, walking slowly through the long
corridor. She sat, of course, in the centre of the daïs, with the
Empress Frederick of Germany on her right and the Prince of Wales on her
left. The room was exquisitely decorated with plants and flowers, and as
it was filled with ladies and gentlemen in court dress and uniform, the
effect was very fine. The play went well. The Queen had with graceful
and kindly forethought given orders that all present might applaud as
they would—it not having been etiquette to applaud on such occasions
without Royal permission. Another piece of thoughtful kindness of Her
Majesty was to have amongst the guests staying for the week-end at
Windsor Lord and Lady Tennyson. The adaptation of the play to the lesser
space than the Lyceum was so judiciously done that one did not notice
any difference.

At the close of the performance the Queen sent for Irving and Ellen
Terry and complimented them on the perfection and beauty of their
playing. To Irving she said:

“It is a very noble play! What a pity that old Tennyson did not live to
see it. It would have delighted him as it has delighted Us!”

She also received Geneviève Ward and William Terriss.

The Queen always wished that her guests of all degrees should be made
welcome, and Sir Henry Ponsonby said that she had arranged that all the
company, players and workmen of all kinds, should dine and take supper
in the Castle. The dinner was less formal, but the supper was in its way
a function. Four different rooms were arranged for the purpose. In the
first were the acting company and higher officials to the number of
about fifty. The gentlemen of the orchestra and the heads of departments
in the second and third; the workmen, &c., in the fourth. At the end all
drank the Queen’s health loyally.

There was an immense amount of public interest in this performance. So
high it ran that all the great newspapers asked permission to be
represented. This request could not be acceded to as it was a purely
private affair; the utmost that could by usage be allowed was that press
representatives should during the afternoon be allowed to see the
Waterloo Chamber prepared for the performance in the evening.

Late in the afternoon I received a request from a lot of the chief
papers that I should myself ask permission to send a short despatch, say
some five hundred words, at the close of the performance. I took the
message to Sir Henry Ponsonby, who seemed very much struck with it, as
though the public importance of the event had suddenly dawned on him. He
said:

“I must take this to the Queen at once and learn her wishes respecting
it. The matter seems to be of much more importance than I had thought!”
He came back shortly, seemingly very pleased, and said to me, speaking
as he approached:

“The Queen says that she is very pleased to give permission. Mr. Bram
Stoker may write whatever he pleases about the event. But he must say
nothing till after the performance is all over.” Then he added, “The
Queen also told me to explain that she was sending orders to have the
telegraph office in the Castle kept open for your convenience till you
have quite done with it. I had better explain that the telegraph office
here is a private one and that the Queen pays for all telegrams. This
she insists on.”

Altogether the performance was a very memorable one. It marked an epoch
in the life of the great Queen—that in which she broke the long gloom of
more than thirty years and began the restoration to something like the
old happy life of the earlier years of her reign.

III
SANDRINGHAM, 1902

The second visit to Sandringham came thirteen years after the first,
being in 1902, after the King’s accession. The occasion was that of the
Kaiser’s visit. The King wished to have a surprise for him; and at the
time he had his “Command” conveyed to Irving his wish was intimated that
the matter should be kept absolutely secret till the event came off.
This we could see was to be a difficult task; but the promise was given
and kept. At the date fixed—November 14—we would be playing in Belfast,
so that the task to get there and return with the loss of only one night
to the audience was really a stupendous one. It would involve special
arrangements with at least one shipping company and several railways.
This would necessitate the fact of the journey being known to so many
people that really secrecy seemed impossible of achievement. However the
matter was undertaken and had to be done. Not a soul other than the
actively engaged knew of the affair beforehand. Even Ellen Terry was
purposely kept in the dark. As the only play to be given by Irving was
_Waterloo_ the cast was small, there being only four people in it. These
with three others would comprise the party. One man had been sent to
London to bring down the scene specially painted for the occasion and to
see to arrangements. Mr. Ben Webster, who was to play his original part
of Colonel Midwinter, was to come from London, where he was then
playing. Let me say here that not the slightest whisper went forth on
our side; and we were surprised to see an account of what was to be
done, which evidently came from another branch of the entertainment
being made ready for the King’s Imperial guest.

When we began to consider the practicability of the journey my heart
sank. There seemed no way by which the out and return journeys could be
done. I was for a time seriously considering the advisability of asking
for a torpedo boat to run us over from Belfast, to Stranraer, Barrow,
Fleetwood, or Liverpool. After a good deal of consideration, however, a
journey was arranged which could only have been done by placing the
whole resources of shipping and railway companies at our disposal. The
_Magic_, the fastest boat of the Belfast line, was to be taken off her
regular service two days before; loaded up with the best Welsh coal, and
held ready at the wharf with full steam up on the evening of the
journey. The railroading would be arranged from Euston.

_Faust_ was played in Belfast on the night of November 13. As the
members of the little party finished on the stage they got dressed and
were driven down to the wharf. The moment the last call was given at the
end of the play Irving hurried into his travelling clothes, and he and I
were whirled off to the _Magic_. The instant we passed on deck the
gangway plank was drawn and the ship started off full speed. Such was
contrary to law, as ships should only go part speed in the Loch. But no
one made objections; we were on the King’s service.

We got to Liverpool at eight in the morning and found alongside the dock
the special carriage, one of the Royal saloons used on the London and
North-Western Railway; got on board and were whirled off to Crewe, where
we caught the fast express to Rugby. There we took on a dining-car and
went on to Peterborough. Here our carriage was handed over to the Great
Eastern Company, which took us on the fast train to Lynn, and thence on
a special to Wolferton.

At ten o’clock precisely, Sandringham time—which is half an hour ahead
of standard time—the Kaiser and the Queen moved into the great
drawing-room where the stage was fixed. Then followed the King and
family, and guests. There were altogether some three hundred and fifty
in the room.

As the movement to the theatre began there was—to us—an amusing episode.
After our arrival, when things were being put in order for the
performance, it had been discovered that kettle-drums were missing.
Either they had not been sent at all or they had gone astray. At first
we took it for granted that in such a scene of pomp and splendour as was
around us drums and drummers would be easy to find. But it was not so.
Drums were obtainable but no drummer, and there was not time to get one
from the nearest town. Now the military music is necessary for the
performance of _Waterloo_; the quicksteps are not only required for the
Prelude but are in the structure of the piece. For the occasion of the
Imperial visit, there had been brought from Vienna a celebrated string
band, the conductor of high status in his art and all the components of
the band fine players. But there was no drummer; and there could be even
no proper rehearsal of the incidental music of the play without the
drums. We were beginning to despair, when the head constable of the
county who was present said that there was one man in the police of the
division who was the drummer of the Police Band of the district, and
undertook to try and find him. After much telegraphing and telephoning
it was found that he was out on his beat about the farthest point of his
district. However, when he was located a trap with a fresh horse was
sent for him. He arrived tired and foodless just before the time fixed
for beginning. He was a fine performer fortunately, a master of his
work, and with the score before him needed no preparation.

When the signal was given of the movement of the Royalties the Conductor
took his baton, but when he looked at the score of the Prelude, which is
continually changing time with the medley of the various regimental
quicksteps, he said:

“I cannot play it.”

“Go on, man! Go on!” said Belmore, who was acting as stage manager.

“I cannot!” he answered; “I cannot!” and stood unmoving. Things were
serious, for already the procession was formed and the Kaiser and the
Queen were entering the room. It had been arranged that the Prelude was
to play them to their seats. “Give me the stick!” said Belmore suddenly,
and took the fiddle bow with which he conducted from the unresisting
hand of the stranger. Of course all this was behind the scenes and
amongst ourselves only. Then he began to conduct. He had never done so,
but he had some knowledge of music. But the gentlemen of the band did
not hesitate. They were all fine musicians and well accustomed to
playing together. Probably they were not averse from showing that they
could play perfectly without a conductor at all! They certainly did seem
to play with especial verve. Belmore was a sight to behold. He seemed to
know all the tricks of leadership, modifying or increasing tone with one
hand whilst he beat time with the other; pausing dramatically with
uplifted baton or beating with sudden forcefulness; screwing round with
his left hand as though to twist the music into a continued unity.
Anyhow it—or something—told. The music went excellently and without a
hitch.

At one o’clock—half-past one Sandringham time—we drove to Wolferton; and
at a quarter to seven in the morning we got to the dock at Liverpool and
went aboard the _Magic_ which stood ready with steam up. The tide was
low, but as there was much fog in the river Mr. McDowell arranged that
the dock-gates should be opened before the usual hour. We actually
stirred up the mud with the screw as we passed out into the Mersey. The
river was dark with thick fog and we had to find our way, inch by inch,
to beyond New Brighton. We were beginning to despair of arriving at
Belfast in time when we cleared the belt of fog. We came out seemingly
all at once into bright sunshine which lasted all the way home. It was a
delightful day and a delightful run. The sun was bright, the air fresh
and bracing and the water of sapphire blue so calm that passing to the
south’ard of the Isle of Man we ran between the Calf and the Hen and
Chickens—the dangerous cluster of rocks lying just outside it.

We ran full tilt up Belfast Lough and arrived at the wharf at five
o’clock in good time for a wash and dress for the theatre.

When Irving stepped on the stage that night he got a right hearty cheer.

That journey was in many ways a record.

LXIX
PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES

Henry Irving had the honour of calling four Presidents of the United
States by the name of friend.

The first was General Chester A. Arthur, who was in his high office in
1884 when Irving first visited Washington. The President sent to him a
most kindly invitation to a Reception through Clayton McMichael, then
Marshal of the district of Columbia. This was on the night of Saturday,
8th March. After the Reception he asked Irving to remain with a very few
intimate friends after the rest had gone. They sat till a late—or rather
an early hour.

Irving’s first meeting with Mr. Grover Cleveland was when the latter was
President-Elect. The occasion was the _matinée_ for the benefit of the
Actor’s Fund at the Academy of Music in New York, December 4, 1884. Mr.
Cleveland was in a box, and when Irving had with Ellen Terry played the
fourth act of _The Merchant of Venice_ he sent to ask if he would come
to see him in his box. The occasion seemed rather peculiar as Irving
thus described it to me that evening:

“When I came into the box Mr. Cleveland turned round and, seeing me,
stood up and greeted me warmly. As I was thus facing the stage I could
not help noticing that a man dressed exactly as I dressed Shylock, and
with a wig and make-up counterparts of my own, was playing some droll
antics with a pump and milk cans. The President-Elect saw, I suppose,
the surprise on my face, for he turned to the stage for a moment and
then, turning back to me again, said in a grave way:

“‘That doesn’t seem very good taste, does it!’ Then leaning against the
side of the box with his face to me and his back to the stage, he went
on speaking about Shylock.”

III

Major McKinley was a friend before he was nominated for President. The
first meeting was at New York on November 16, 1893. He came to the play
with Melville Stone, a great friend of Irving’s—who introduced the
Player to him. The following week we all met again at supper with John
Sergeant Wise. This time Joseph Jefferson was of the party. Afterwards
in Cleveland Mark Hanna brought him round to see Irving in his
dressing-room.

In 1899, during our visit to Washington, Irving and I called at the
White House to pay our respects to the President, then in his second
term of office. The officials of course recognised Sir Henry, and said
that they knew the President would wish to see him. A Cabinet meeting
was on, but when word was sent the President graciously sent a message
asking Irving to wait as the Cabinet was nearly over and he wished to
see him. We waited in the “War Room,” with which Irving was immensely
struck. He said it was the most wonderful piece of organisation he had
ever known.

Presently word was brought that the Cabinet Council was over and would
we go in. It was really an impressive sight—all the more as there was no
pomp or parade of any sort. In the middle of the great room with its row
of arched windows stood the President, the baldness of his domed
forehead making more apparent than ever his likeness to Napoleon.
Grouped round him were various chiefs of State departments, amongst them
John Hay, Secretary of State; Elihu Root, Secretary for War; Charles
Emory Smith, Postmaster-General, all of whom were by that time old
friends. We had known them intimately since 1883–4. The President was
sweetly gracious. We thought that he did not seem well in health; there
was a waxen hue in his face which we did not like. The terrible labour
of the Presidency—increased in his time by two wars—was undoubtedly
telling on his strength. We were with him quite half an hour, a long
while for such a place and time, and then came away.

At that visit to the White House we saw President McKinley for the last
time. His assassination was attempted on 6th September 1901; he died on
14th.

On the 18th September Irving gave his Reading of _Becket_ at Winchester
for the King Alfred Millenary. He was called on to speak, and after
speaking of King Alfred and what he had done for the making of England,
he said:

“All that race which looks on King Alfred’s memory as a common
heritage is in bitter grief for one whom to-morrow a mourning nation
is to lay to rest. President McKinley, like his predecessor of a
thousand years ago, worked for all the world; and his memory shall be
green for ever in the hearts of a loyal and expansive race—in the
hearts of all English-speaking people.”

Irving’s first meeting with Theodore Roosevelt was on 27th November
1895. The occasion was a luncheon party given by Seth Low, ex-Mayor of
Brooklyn and then President of Columbia College. At that time Mr.
Roosevelt was Commissioner of Police for the City of New York, with
absolute power over the whole force. He and Irving had a chat together
before lunch and again after it. For myself he was a person of
extraordinary interest. After I had been introduced we had a chat.
Before he left he came to me and said:

“I am holding a sort of Court of justice the day after to-morrow—a trial
of the charges made against policemen during the last fortnight. Would
you like to come with me; you seem to be interested in the subject?”

I went with him to an immense hall where were gathered all the
complainants and all the police, with their respective witnesses.
Everything was done in perfect order. The Commissioner had the list of
cases before him, and when one was over, a lusty officer with a
stentorian voice called out the next. Those interested in each case had
been already grouped, so that when the case was announced the whole body
thus segregated moved up in front of the table. The method was simple.
The case was stated as briefly as possible—the Commissioner saw to that;
the witnesses for the prosecution gave their evidence and were now and
again asked a question from the Bench. Then the defendant had his say
and produced his witnesses, if any; again came an occasional searching
question from the Commissioner, who when he had satisfied himself as to
the justice of the case would smite the table with his hand and order on
the next case. While the little crowd was changing places he would write
a few words on the paper before him—judgment and perhaps sentence in
one. The Commissioner was incarnate justice, and his judgments were
given with a direct simplicity and brevity which were very remarkable.
Each one would take only a few minutes; sometimes as few as two or
three, never more than about twelve or fifteen. As there were very many
cases brevity was a necessity.

Now and then in a case very difficult of conclusion Mr. Roosevelt, when
he had written his decision, would turn to me and say:

“What do you think of that?” I would answer to the best of my own
opinion. Then he would turn up the paper, lying face down, and show me
what had been his own decision. As in every such case it was exactly
what I had said, I thought—naturally—that he was very just.

I came away from the Court with a very profound belief in Mr. Roosevelt.
I wrote afterwards in my diary:

“Must be President some day. A man you can’t cajole, can’t frighten,
can’t buy.”

On December 28, 1903, Irving commenced a week’s engagement at
Washington. On the morning of Friday, January 1, 1904, he received a
letter from the President saying that he was that day holding his New
Year’s Reception and that he would be very pleased if he would come. Sir
Henry would be expected to come by the private entrance with the
Ambassadors. It was such a letter as to make its recipient feel proud—so
courteous, so full of fine feeling and genuine hospitality—so
significant of his liking and respect.

We went in by the private entrance at the back, and were brought up at
once. At his Reception the President stood a little inside the doorway
on the right and shook hands with every one who came—no light task in
itself as there were on the queue for the reception a good many
thousands of persons, male and female. The long line four deep extended
far into the neighbouring streets, winding round the corners like a huge
black snake, and disappearing in the distance. The serpentine appearance
was increased by the slow movement as the crowd advanced inch by inch.

Beside the President stood Mrs. Roosevelt and beyond him all the
Ministers of his Cabinet with their wives in line—all the ladies were in
full dress. The room was in form of a segment of a circle and the crowd
passed between red cords stretched across the base of the arc, the
President’s party being behind either cord. The President gave Irving a
really cordial greeting and held him for a minute or two speaking—a long
time with such a crowd waiting. He did not know that I was with Irving,
but when he saw me he addressed me by name. He certainly has a royal
memory! He asked us to go behind the ropes and join his family and
friends. This we did. We remained there a full hour, and Irving was made
much of by all.

LXX
KNIGHTHOOD

Late in the afternoon of Friday, May 24, 1895, I got from Irving the
following telegram:

“Could you look in at quarter to six. Something important.”

When I saw him he showed me two letters which he had received. One was
from the Prime Minister, the Earl of Rosebery, telling him that the
Queen had conferred on him the honour of knighthood in personal
recognition and for his services to art.

The other was from the Prince of Wales congratulating him on the event.

The announcement had evidently given the Actor very much pleasure; even
when I saw him he was much moved.

The next day was the Queen’s Birthday on which the “Honour List” was
promulgated, and when it was known that Irving was so honoured the
telegrams, letters and cables began to pour in from all parts of the
world. For it was in its way a remarkable event. It was the first time
that in any country an actor had been, _quâ_ actor, honoured by the
State.

It really seemed as if the whole world rejoiced at the honour to Irving.
The letters and telegrams kept coming literally in hundreds during the
next two days, and cables constantly arrived from America, Australia,
Canada, India, and from nearly all the nations in Europe. They were
bewildering. Late in the afternoon of Saturday Irving sat at his desk in
the Lyceum before piles of them opened by one of the clerks. Presently
he turned to me with his hand to his head and said:

“I really can’t read any more of these at present. I must leave them to
you, old chap. They make my head swim.” Of course he did in time read
them all; and sent answers too. For three days several men were at work
copying out the answers as he sorted them out into heaps, each heap
having a similar wording. It was quite impossible to send a distinctly
different answer to each—and it was not necessary.

The actual knighting took place at Windsor Castle on July 18. The
account of it was told by Arthur Arnold, who was knighted in the same
batch, and who came very soon after Irving. He said that the Queen, who
usually did not make any remark to the recipient of the honour as she
laid the sword on his shoulder, said on this occasion:

“I am very, very pleased!”

The corollary of the honour came the next day when on the Lyceum stage a
presentation was made to Irving by his fellow players. This was unique
of its kind. It was an Address of Congratulation signed by every actor
in the kingdom. The Address was read by Sir (then Mr.) Squire Bancroft.
Irving was greatly touched by it; few things were so essentially dear to
him as the approval of his fellows. The unanimity was in itself a
wonder. The Address was in the shape of a volume and was contained in a
beautiful casket of gold and crystal designed by Johnston
Forbes-Robertson—a painter as well as a player.

III

The idea of knighthood for Irving was not new to that year, 1895. I
mention this now because after his death a statement was made that he
had by a lecture at the Royal Institution compelled the Government to
give him knighthood. The statement was, of course, more than ridiculous.
Here is what happened to my own knowledge:

In 1883, before Irving’s visit to America, I was consulted, I understood
on behalf of a very exalted person, by the late Sir James Mackenzie, as
to whether the conferring of knighthood would be pleasing to Mr. Irving.
It has never been usual to confer the honour on an unwilling recipient—
any more than it has been to allow any “forcing” to be effective. I
asked for a day to find out. Then I conveyed the result of my veiled
inquiry into the matter. At that time Irving thought it was better that
an actor, whilst actively pursuing his calling, should not be so singled
out from his fellows. On my showing, the matter was not proceeded with
at that time. From the very beginning of his management of the Lyceum he
had been scrupulously particular that all the names given on the cast of
the play should be printed in the same type. That rule was never
altered, even after his knighthood. But as he was no longer “Mr.” and
would not be called by his title he thenceforth appeared as “Henry
Irving.” Advertisement was, of course, different as to type, but he did
not use the title.

But in the twelve years that had elapsed since 1883 many things had
changed. Other Arts had benefited by the large measures of official
recognition extended to them; and the very fact of the Art of Acting not
having any official recognition was being used as an argument that it
was not an art at all. Indeed his lecture at the Royal Institution,
whilst it was in no way intended to “force” recognition or had no power
of so doing, was taken as a manifest proof that the conferring of the
honour would be regarded in a favourable light. Thus it was that in 1895
no “judicious” opinion was asked; none was necessary. The Prime Minister
was assured that there could not be any _contretemps_, and even the
Prince of Wales felt secure in his most gracious letter of
congratulation.

I feel it too bad that one who in his days tried to live up to the ideal
of discretion, and has regarded reticence as a duty rather than a
motive, should have to speak openly, even after a lapse of years, on so
private a matter; and I can only trust that I may be forgiven should any
one with the power of forgiveness see the need of it. But such
statements as those to which I have alluded are calculated to destroy
all the claim of gracious courtesy—of the spontaneous kindness from
which high favour springs; and it is, I think, better that I should be
deemed to err than that such a misconception should be allowed to pass.

The King was always a most gracious and generous friend to Irving.
Throughout the whole management of the Lyceum and to the time of
Irving’s death, King Edward, both as Prince and King, extended to him
the largest measure of his approval. He gave him a position by his very
courtesy and by the hospitalities which he graciously gave and accepted.
When players dined with him the post of honour on his right hand was
always given to Irving. He showed his own immediate surroundings in
private as well as the world in public that he respected Irving as well
as liked and admired him. He showed that he considered the Player in his
own way to have brought some measure of honour to the great nation that
he rules and whose countless hearts he sways.

He often honoured the Player by being his guest in the theatre. At the
marriage of the present Prince of Wales he was given a place in St.
James’s Palace; at the Queen’s funeral he was bidden to a seat in St.
George’s Chapel at Windsor. At the King’s coronation he was amongst the
guests invited to Westminster Abbey.

And, whether as Prince or King, his Most Gracious Majesty Edward VII. R.
et I. had no more loyal, no more respectful, no more believing, no more
loving subject than Henry Irving.

LXXI
HENRY IRVING AND UNIVERSITIES

I
DUBLIN

The first University to recognise Irving’s great position was that of
Dublin. In 1876 it gave him an informal Address. In 1892 it conferred on
him the degree of Doctor of Literature—“Litt.D.” As this was the first
occasion on which a University degree was given _Honoris Causa_ to an
actor, _quâ_ actor, it may be allowable to say something of it.

It had for a long time been the intention of the Senate to confer on him
a suitable degree. The occasion came in the celebration of the
Tercentenary of the University, which was founded by Queen Elizabeth.

In order to be present Irving had to go out of the bill at the Lyceum,
where we were then playing _Henry VIII._ He and I travelled to Dublin by
the mail of Tuesday, 5th July. We had heard that the Dublin folk and the
Irish generally were very pleased that he was to receive the honour, but
the first evidence we saw of it was the attitude of the chief steward on
the mail boat. He could not make enough of Irving, and in his excitement
confused his honours and invented new ones. He was at a loss what to
call him. He tried “Docthor,” but it did not seem to satisfy him. Then
he tried “Sir Henry”—this was three years before he was knighted; but
this also seemed inadequate. Then he tried “Docthor Sir Henry”; this
seemed to meet his ideas and to it he stuck.

The function of the conferring of degrees was a most interesting one;
the mere pageant of it was fine. There were representatives of nearly
all the Universities of the world, each in its proper robes. As Irving
passed to his place in the Examination Hall he was loudly cheered. I
was, of course, not close to him; I sat with the Senate, of which I am a
member. He looked noble and distinguished, and the robes seemed to suit
him. His height and bearing and lean figure carried off the peculiarly
strong mass of colour. The robes of the Dublin Doctor of Literature are
scarlet robes with broad facing of deep blue, and scarlet hood with blue
lining. The cap is the usual Academic “mortar-board” with long tassel.
When Irving was present at the formal opening of the Royal College of
Music, where all who were entitled to do so wore Academic dress, his
robes stood out in startling prominence.

Of course, each recipient of a degree received an ovation, but there was
none so marked as that to Irving. He went up with the President of the
Royal Academy, Sir Frederic (afterwards Lord) Leighton and Mr. (now Sir)
Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A., these three being bracketed in the agenda of
the function. When the conferring of degrees was over and the assembly
in the Examination Hall poured out into the quadrangle, Irving was
seized by a great body of some hundreds of students and carried to the
steps of the dining-hall opposite, where he was compelled to make a
speech.

At the banquet that night there was something of a _faux pas_, which was
later much commented on. In the toast list was one: Science, Literature
and Art.

This was proposed by the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, and was responded
to for Science by Lord Kelvin; for Literature by the Bishop of Derry;
and for Art by Sir Frederic Leighton. The latter was, of course, quite
correct, for the President of the Royal Academy is naturally the
official mouthpiece for the voice of Art in this country. The mistake
was that, in speaking for Art, Sir Frederic limited himself to Painting.
He spoke in reality for himself and Alma-Tadema, but ignored completely
the sister Art of Acting, the chief exponent of which was a fellow
recipient of the honour which he himself had received that day and who
was present as a guest at the banquet. The comments of the press on the
omission were marked, and the authorities of the University did not like
the mistake. Leighton evidently heard of some comment on it, for a few
days afterwards he wrote to Irving to explain that he did not think he
was intended to reply, except for his own Art.

It was this circumstance that made up Irving’s mind to put forward on
some suitable occasion the claims of his own Art to a place in the
general category. The opportunity came a little more than two years
afterwards at the Royal Institution. On that occasion he selected for
his subject, “Acting: an Art”—the truth of which he proved logically and
conclusively. I mention the circumstance here as his silence has been
misconstrued.

II
CAMBRIDGE

The second University to honour the Player was Cambridge. The occasion
was this:

He was asked by the Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Hill, to give the “Rede”
Lecture for 1898. This request is, from the antiquity and record of the
function, in itself an honour.

The Rede Lecture was delivered at noon in the Senate House of the
University on Wednesday, 15th June, 1898, for the night of which day he
had closed the Lyceum. Irving had chosen as his subject, “The Theatre in
its relation to the State.” Throughout his life he always selected some
subject connected with his work. His art with him was the Alpha and
Omega of his endeavour. In this case he showed that, though some might
regard the theatre as a mere pleasure-house, it had in truth a much more
important use as a place of education.

“I claim for the theatre that it may be, and is, a potent means of
teaching great truths and furthering the spread or education of the
higher kind—the knowledge of the scope and working of human
character.”

The lecture was beautifully and earnestly delivered and was received
with very great enthusiasm. Very picturesque the lecturer looked in the
rostrum in his Dublin robes. These he exchanged later in the day, when
he received his Cambridge degree, D.Litt. This dress, all scarlet and
red with velvet hat, looked even more picturesque than that of Dublin
University.

That was an exhausting day. A journey from St. Pancras at 8.15 A.M. A
visit to the Vice-Chancellor at Downing Lodge, Cambridge. The Public
Lecture. Luncheon with the Vice-Chancellor in Downing Hall, with speech.
The Conferring of Degree. A Garden Party at King’s College. A Dinner
Party in Hall given by the Master and Fellows of Trinity College to the
Recipients of degrees. A Reception in the house of the Master of
Trinity. And finishing up with a quiet smoke among a few friends at the
rooms of Dr. Jackson.

The next morning there was a delightful breakfast in the house of
Frederick Myers—Mrs. Myers, formerly Miss Tennant, was an old friend of
Irving. Lord Dufferin was the youngest of the party, despite his
seventy-two years. I think the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava had the most
winning manner of any man I ever met. There was a natural sweetness of
the heart and an infinite humour from the head whose combination was
simply irresistible. His humour was of enormous and wide-embracing
range, and touched with illumination whatever subject he talked of. He
and Irving had much to say to each other. The rest who were present
wished to hear them both; and so there was silence when either spoke.
Irving seemed quite charmed with Lord Dufferin and gave way to him
altogether. The picture rises before me of the scene in the study of
Frederick Myers after breakfast, well shown by the wide window opening
out on the beautiful garden behind the house. Seated on the high fender
with padded top, with his back to the fireplace, sat Lord Dufferin, and
round him in a close circle—the young girls being the closest and
looking with admiring eyes—the whole of the rest of the party. His
clear, sweet, exquisitely modulated voice seemed to suit the sunshine
and the universal brightness of the place. Lord Dufferin’s voice seemed
to rise and fall, to quicken or come slowly by a sort of selective
instinct. It struck me as being naturally one of the most expressive
voices I had ever heard.

That night Irving played _The Medicine Man_ at the Lyceum, and I thought
I detected here and there a trace of the influence of Lord Dufferin in
the more winning passages of the play.

III
GLASGOW

Irving now held University degrees from Ireland and England. The
Scottish degree came in another year. For a long time Professor Herbert
Story, D.D., LL.D., the Professor of Ecclesiastical History at the
University of Glasgow, had a very high opinion of Henry Irving and of
the good work which he had done for education and humanity. I remember
well a talk which Dr. Story had with me in his study after I had lunched
with him on 26th June 1896. Incidentally he mentioned that he thought
his University should give Irving a degree. Two years after, 22nd
October 1898, he told me that it was in contemplation to carry this out
in the following year. In that year Professor Story was presented by the
Queen to the Principalship of the University on the resignation of Dr.
Caird from that high position. On the 20th July 1899, the honour was
actually completed when Irving was invested with his degree of LL.D.

That was, I think, the only honourable occasion of Irving’s life since
1878 at which I was not present. But it was quite impossible; I was then
in bed with a bad attack of pneumonia. I had been looking forward to the
occasion, for Principal Story and his wife and daughters were friends of
mine as well as of Irving. I read, however, of the heartiness of his
reception, both in the Bute Hall, where the degrees were conferred, and
by the great mass of students without.

IV
OXFORD

On Sunday, 7th March 1886, Irving and I went to Oxford to stay with W.
L. Courtney, then a Don of New College. For some years the two men had
been close friends and Courtney, whenever he was in London, would come
to supper in the Beefsteak Room. This Oxford visit was arranged for some
time, for Courtney was anxious to have Irving meet some of the Heads of
Colleges. The dinner was naturally a formal one, for in Oxford a very
strict order of precedence rules. The Vice-Chancellor of the University—
Dr. Jowett, Master of Balliol College—was there; also the Master of
University, the President of Magdalen, and the Warden of Merton, the
last three with their wives. Professor Max Müller was also a guest, his
wife and daughter completed the party of fourteen. Jowett was in great
form that evening. He was always a good and original talker, but he
seemed on that evening to be on his mettle. During dinner one of the
ladies sounded to Irving the praises of the Ober-Ammergau play, its fine
effects, its deep moral teaching, and so forth. Irving listened
attentively, and presently said quietly:

“If it is so good they ought to bring it to the Crystal Palace.” The
lady was quite shocked, and turning to the Vice-Chancellor said:

“Oh, Mr. Vice-Chancellor, do you hear what Mr. Irving says: ‘That the
Ober-Ammergau play should be brought to the Crystal Palace!’” The pause
round the table was marked. All wanted eagerly to hear what the
Vice-Chancellor, who in those days ruled Oxford, would say to such a
startling proposition. His answer startled them afresh when it came:

“Why not!”

The result of the _rapprochement_ which Courtney had so kindly effected
was that Irving was asked to give an Address at the University. He, of
course, assented to the honourable request, and the date was fixed for
Saturday, 26th June. The subject which he chose for the discourse was
“English Actors: their Characteristics and their Methods.”

On arriving at Oxford on the day he and I went at once with W. L.
Courtney, who had met us at the station, to the New Examination Hall,
where the Address was to be given. Irving always liked to see beforehand
the place in which he was to act or speak. From there we drove to
Balliol, where we were staying with the Master. At half-past nine
o’clock we went to the hall with him. The great hall was crowded to
suffocation with an immense audience, and the reception was warm in the
extreme. The discourse was received with rapt attention pointed with
applause; and the conclusion was followed by a salvo of cheers. Then
came the presentation of an Address, made by the Vice-Chancellor in a
delightful, carefully-worded speech. Amongst other things Dr. Jowett
said:

“I express ... our admiration of him for the great services which he
has rendered to the world and to society by improving and elevating
the stage....”

Then after explaining the views of Plato on whose work he was so supreme
an authority, regarding the rhapsodist, and of Socrates on the same
subject, and following up the views of the latter with regard to the
good company he kept, he went on:

“The drama is the only form of literature which is not dead, but
alive, and is always being brought to life again and again by the
genius of the actor.... The indirect influence of the theatre is very
great, and tends to permeate all classes of society, so that the
condition of the stage is not a bad index or test of a nation’s
character. And those who, regardless of their own pecuniary loss or
gain, have brought back Shakespeare to the English stage, who have
restored his plays to their original form, who have quickened in the
English people the love of his writings and the feelings of his
greatness may be truly considered national benefactors.”

Surely a noble tribute this from a man of such personal and official
distinction to the worth of the drama, the stage, and the great actor to
whom his praise was given.

Breakfast next morning was another pleasant function, at which all the
house-party were present. The “Master,” as Dr. Jowett was called, was in
great form. I remember his quoting a remark of Tennyson’s:

“I would rather get six months than put two S’S together in verse!”

V
VICTORIA UNIVERSITY OF MANCHESTER

In 1894 Manchester had no University exclusively its own. Its College,
Owens College, was chartered by the Queen in 1880 and it was afterwards
grouped with the Colleges of Liverpool and Leeds in the Victoria
University. It was not till 1904 that it became a University by itself.

Before the time of visiting Manchester, on his tour of 1894, Irving was
asked to give a lecture to the Owens College Literary Society. To this
he acceded, and chose as his subject “The Character of Macbeth.”

His reason for the choice was that he had wished to make, under
important conditions, a reply to some of the criticisms with which he
had been assailed on his reproduction of Shakespeare’s play in 1888, but
a suitable opportunity had not up to then appeared. Some of these
criticisms had been ridiculous, some puerile, some even infantile. I
remember Irving telling me that one ingenuous gentleman had gone so far
as to suggest that the Messenger who in Act. I. scene 5 announces to
Lady Macbeth the coming of the King, should have a bad cold. His
contention having been that Lady Macbeth says in her soliloquy:

“The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.”

The delay in his answer to the various feeble or foolish things spoken
of his work did not detract from its power. His reasoning on the
character from the text and from a study of the authorities which
Shakespeare had evidently had before him when he wrote, was absolutely
masterly. I venture to say that no student of the play can form any kind
of correct estimate of Macbeth’s character without reading it.

The lecture was given on the afternoon of Tuesday, 11th December, in the
Chemical Theatre, the largest hall then appertaining to the College and
holding some eight hundred persons. That the student element manifested
itself in no uncertain way is shown by the note in my diary:

“H. I. got enormous reception. Cheers were startling! On leaving,
students wanted to take out horses and draw carriage, but wiser
counsels prevailed.”

VI
HARVARD

_a_

Irving gave addresses at Harvard on two separate occasions.

The first was on 30th March 1885, on which occasion he took as his
subject “The Art of Acting.”

We were then playing in New York, but as Irving had promised to come to
Boston for the occasion, we left on Sunday afternoon. Several friends
came with us, amongst whom was William Winter, of the New York
_Tribune_. The train, on which we had a special carriage, was met at
Worcester by a deputation of Harvard students, who travelled back with
us to Boston. The address was given on the Monday evening, 30th, in the
Sanders Theatre, a beautifully proportioned hall of octagon shape, which
though looking not large yet held on that occasion over two thousand
people. The crowd was so great at the doors both inside and outside that
when we arrived at half-past seven we could not get in. Finally we had
to be taken in through the trap-door to the coal cellar, from which by
devious ways we were escorted to the platform. The Address was received
enthusiastically. My note says:

“Went well. H.I. looked very distinguished.”

That was in reality a mild putting of the fact. Distinguished was hardly
an adequate adjective. Even from that sea of fine intellectual heads his
noble face shone out like a star.

We were all to sup with the President of the College, Mr. Elliot; but
when the time of departure came we could not find Winter. We searched
for him high and low, but without avail. As a large party was waiting at
the President’s house we had to make up our minds to go without him. I
had, however, one more last look and found him. He was in the coal
cellar, which was about the only quiet place in the building. He sat on
a heap of coal; on the ground beside him was a lighted candle stuck in
the neck of a bottle which he had somehow requisitioned. When I came
upon him he was writing furiously—if so rude a word may be applied to an
art so gentle. He glanced up, when I spoke, with an appealing look and,
with raised hand, said with passionate entreaty:

“Bram, for God’s sake!”—I understood, and left him, having secured from
a local fireman the promise of unfaltering obedience to my instructions
to wait and take him to the carriage which we left for him. I also left
a telegraph messenger on guard, for I saw that he was writing on
telegraph “flimsy.”

Any one who will take the trouble to look up the file of the New York
_Tribune_ of the following day—March 31, 1885—will read as fine a piece
of descriptive criticism as can well be. I hope that such an one when he
finishes the article will spare time for a glance, from the eye of
imagination, at the silent figure phrasing it in the gloom of the coal
cellar.

_b_

Irving’s second address at Harvard was nine years later. On that
occasion his subject was: “The Value of Individuality,” and the address
was given in the afternoon—the place being the same, the Sanders
Theatre. There was again a great audience and a repetition of the old
enthusiasm.

That night the Tremont Theatre in Boston, where we were playing, saw an
occasion unique to the place, though not to the actor. The University
had proclaimed a “Harvard Night,” and the house was packed with College
men, from President to jib. At the end of the performance—_Nance
Oldfield_ and _The Bells_—the students presented to Irving a gold medal
commemorative of the occasion.

I may perhaps, before leaving the subject of Harvard University, mention
a somewhat startling circumstance. It had become a custom during our
visit to Boston for a lot of Harvard students to act as “supers” in our
plays. There seemed to be a brisk demand for opportunities and the local
super-master grew rich on options. When we played _King Arthur_ in 1895
there were many of these gentlemen who wore armour—the beautiful armour
designed by Burne-Jones. The biggest of the men available were chosen
for this service, and there were certainly some splendidly stalwart
young men amongst them. A few of them got “sky-larking” amongst
themselves on the stage before the curtain went up. Sky-larking in full
armour is a hazardous thing both to oneself and to others, and a blow
struck in fun with the unaccustomed weight of plate armour behind it had
an unexpected result, for the stricken man was knocked head over heels
senseless just as Irving had come on the stage to see that all was
correct for the coming scene—“The Great Hall of Camelot.” He reprimanded
the super shortly and told him that if he undertook duties he should
respect them, and himself, in performing them gravely. Imagine his
surprise when in the morning he received a bellicose cartel from the
offended young man challenging him to mortal combat. Irving, who took
all things as they were meant, understood that the man was a gentleman
who considered himself wronged and wrote him a pleasant letter in which
he explained the necessity of taking gravely the work which others
considered grave. The young man _was_ a gentleman, and wrote a handsome
apology for his misconduct on the stage and explained that he had had no
intention of either breaking rules or hurting any one else.

And so on that occasion no blood was shed.

VII
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

Owens College, Manchester, blossoming into Manchester University, had a
parallel in the growth of Columbia University, New York. In 1895 when,
at the request of its President, Seth Low, Irving delivered the address
on “Macbeth,” which he had delivered in Manchester, it was still merely
a College though the matter of its coming development was then at hand.
Before our next visit to America in 1899 the whole new University of
Columbia had been built and equipped.

Irving’s address was given in the Library, the largest hall in the old
building, which had been somewhat dismantled for the purpose. It held
some fifteen hundred persons. The occasion was Irving’s first experience
of the New York College cry, which has a startling effect when
enunciated in unison by a thousand lusty throats. When he entered the
Library with the President, the cheering began and soon formulated
itself into this special concourse of sounds. At the close of the
address, which went extremely well, the enthusiastic cheering was
repeated.

VIII
CHICAGO UNIVERSITY

Irving addressed the University of Chicago twice.

The first was on 17th March 1896, when he repeated his lecture on
“Macbeth.” The second on April 25, 1900, when he repeated the lecture
which he had given in 1895 at the Royal Institution: “Acting: an Art.”
Both addresses were given in the Kent Hall, which was on each occasion
crowded to excess.

The University of Chicago might well be taken as an illustration of the
rapid growth possible in America. In the fall of 1893 the ground on
which it stands was a section of the World’s Fair, what was called “The
Midway Pleasaunce.” In the spring of 1896, less than two years and a
half, the University was built, organised and furnished with students to
its full capacity.

IX
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

The last address which Irving gave in America was at Princeton
University, where on March 19, 1902, he read a paper on the subject of
“Shakespeare and Bacon,” an eloquent and logical defence of Shakespeare
against his detractors.

X
LEARNED BODIES AND INSTITUTIONS

The following is a list of various addresses given by Irving at
Institutions and before learned Bodies other than Universities:

“The Stage.” Perry Bar Institute, near Birmingham, 6th March 1878.

“The Stage as it is.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 8th November
1881.

“Shakespeare and Goethe.” Goethe Society, New York, 15th March 1888.
(_Given at Madison Square Theatre._)

“Hamlet.” Literary and Scientific Institute, Wolverhampton, 18th
February 1890. (_This was given at the Agricultural Hall._)

“The Art of Acting.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 9th November
1891. (_This was given in the Music Hall._)

“Shakespeare as a Playwright.” Twentieth Century Club, Chicago, 2nd
November 1893. (_Given in the private theatre in the house of Mr.
George Pullman._)

“Municipal Theatres.” Literary Institute, Walsall, 26th September,
1894. (_Given in the Grand Theatre._)

“Acting: an Art.” Royal Institution, London, 1st February 1895.

“Macbeth.” Contemporary Club, Philadelphia, 17th April 1886. (_Given
at the New Art Gallery._) Also at the Catholic Social Union, London,
17th May 1898. (_Given at the house of Cardinal Vaughan._)

“Actors and Acting.” Liberal Club, Buffalo, 4th February 1902.

LXXII
ADVENTURES

I
OVER A MINE-BED

On 9th August 1880 Irving and I went for a short holiday together. The
heat in London was very great. We began at Southsea, where we stopped at
the Pier Hotel; that evening after dinner in the afternoon we got a
sail-boat and went over to Ryde, returning by moonlight. The next day we
walked on the Esplanade. Southsea was very full, and along the sea front
a vast crowd of people moved in endless procession. Every one seemed to
know my companion, and he became surrounded with a crowd which, though
the composing individuals changed, never left him. At last he got tired
of shaking hands and answering endless commonplace questions. In a
momentary pause he said to me:

“I can’t stand any more of this. Let’s get a boat and have a sail. We
can get quiet that way anyhow!”

We went down on the beach and picked out a likely looking boat that was
ready launched. The boatman was very deaf, but as he seemed also dumb we
regarded him as a find. He hoisted his sail and we began to steal away
from shore. Behind us was a lot of shouting, and many people ran down on
the beach gesticulating and calling out. We could not distinguish what
they said; but we were both so accustomed to hear people shouting at
Irving that we took it that the present was but another instance of
clamorous goodwill.

We had got away from the shore about half a mile when suddenly there was
a terrific sound close to us, and the boat was thrown about just as a
rat is shaken by a dog. A column of water rose some thirty yards from us
and for quite half a minute the sea round us seemed to boil. The old
boatman seemed very much frightened and found his voice to the extent of
ejaculations of a prayerful kind, mingled with blasphemy. There seemed
some excuse for him, for it was certainly very terrifying. To us, who
did not understand, it seemed like an earthquake or a volcanic eruption
of some kind. Irving, however, was quite calm; he did not seem put out
at all. The only motion he made was to put on his pince-nez which had
been shaken off. I am not as a rule very timorous myself.

As the sea began to resume its normal calm it presented a strange
appearance. All around us were strewn floating fish, mostly belly up,
the white catching the eye everywhere. There were scores—hundreds of
them, all seemingly dead. We lifted a lot of them into the boat. A few
did not move at all, but after a while most of them began to wriggle and
flop about. These had only been stunned.

We had after the first surprise taken it for granted that the shock had
been from some submarine explosion; but we were content to await
developments. When the boatman began to get over his agitation, he
enlightened us:

“’Tis they torpedoes; they’ve fired ’em by wire from Fort Monckton. ’Tis
silly I am not to have thought on ’em an’ kept out of the way!” Then he
explained that the event of the day was to be an attack on Fort
Monckton—the low-lying fort which guards the mouth of the harbour at
Portsmouth—by the _Glatton_, then the most up-to-date of our
scientifically equipped ships. We appeared to have come right over the
mine-bed. The prudent fisherman had by this time put his boat’s head
against such wind as there was and began to gather up the unforeseen
harvest of the sea. He was intent on this, though his hands shook and he
kept looking around him apprehensively. We drifted with the tide.
Presently, a little distance in front of us, another mine went off, and
our friend got agitated afresh. He implored us to come away, and began
to slack the sheet which he had drawn tight. Irving had lit a cigar and
was calmly smoking. He had evidently taken a common-sense view of the
situation.

“Why should we come away? We are, I take it, in about as safe a place as
can be. The mines here have been fired and we don’t know where the
others are. If we go on, no matter in what direction, we shall probably
come across another explosion. Let us stay where we are—and enjoy
ourselves!” And stay we did and enjoyed—to a certain extent—the thunder
of the cannon which later on, when the attack developed, rolled over the
water and was brought to our ears, we being so close to the surface, in
a way to make us feel as if each fresh explosion was close at hand.

I think, however, that we both enjoyed the attack more that night when
the actual sham battle was fought. In those days search-lights were new
and rare. Both the _Glatton_ and Fort Monckton were well equipped with
them, and during the attack the whole sea and sky and shore were
perpetually swept with the powerful rays. It was in its way a noble
fight, and as then most people were ignorant of the practical working of
the new scientific appliances of war, it was instructive as well as
fascinating. We, who had been out in the middle of it during the day,
could perhaps appreciate its possibilities better than ordinary civil
folk unused to the forces and horrors of war!

II
FIRES

_a_

The first fire of which Irving and I were spectators together was in
November 1881. We were playing at Edinburgh and stayed in the old
Edinburgh Hotel opposite the Scott Memorial. The house was pulled down
long since. The hotel was made up of several houses thrown into one, and
was of the ramshackle order. It would have been easily set on fire; and
had it got well alight nothing could have saved it.

Loveday and I supped with Irving in his sitting-room on the second
storey, and after supper were enjoying our smoke. It was then late for
Edinburgh, nearly one o’clock. As we sat we heard a queer kind of
roaring and crackling sound in the passage outside.

“That sounds like a fire!” I said, and ran out to see if I could help.
In the passage a curious scene presented itself. A sort of housemaid’s
closet in the back wall was well alight; the flames were roaring. The
night porter, when collecting the boots, had seen it and was now trying
to put it out. He was in a really dangerous position, and was behaving
very bravely. I ran up to my room just overhead and brought down two
great jugs of water which were on my wash-hand stand. When I got down a
tall man was standing near the closet and talking very angrily to the
porter. He was attired in a long white night-shirt under which his bare
feet and legs displayed themselves. He was not making the least effort
to help, but kept on abusing the man who was working, Considering that
the chances were that in a few minutes the whole hotel would be on fire,
with what awful result none could foresee, it was strange conduct. In
the midst of the hurry, for by this time we were all doing what we
could, I had to laugh at the absurd situation and his out-of-place
blaming:

“This is a pretty nice sort of thing for a gentleman staying in your
damned hotel to have to endure! Do you always do this sort of thing,
sir? Nice thing indeed! A gentleman to be waked up out of his bed by
your infernal stupidity in setting the house on fire. Are we all to be
burned in our beds? Nice sort of conduct indeed! Edinburgh should be
ashamed of itself!” We were all hard at work but were doing little good.
The porter who knew the place was trying to get at the water-tap within.
He succeeded at last, and when a jet of water could be used in that
narrow space the fire was soon held in check. We stood for a while to
admire the angry stranger, still “jawing” away at the porter, who took
not the least notice of him. By this time the other guests were alarmed
and came running out of their rooms in various stages of night gear and
partial dressing, till the passage was thronged with frightened women
and men full of inquiries.

When we went back to the room to finish our smoke we left them all
there. The unclad stranger was in the midst, still in a sublime state of
indifference to decorum, haranguing—at what or whom he did not seem to
know, for the porter had gone. In the room Irving said, as he cut the
end of a fresh cigar:

“I wish I had that fellow’s self-conceit—or even a bit of it. With it I
could do anything!”

_b_

The next fire we were at was on 6th December 1882. We had supped
together in the Lyceum after the play and were leaving tolerably early.
We were going out by the private door in Burleigh Street, when there
came a sudden red glare in front of us a little to the right, or north,
just as Irving was crossing the sidewalk to the cab. In those days he
always used a four-wheeler; he did not have a brougham till twelve or
thirteen years later—and then it was a hired one.

“Hullo!” said Irving, “there is a fire! It seems pretty close too. I
suppose you’re off!” It was a standing joke with him against me that
whenever there was a fire within range I was off to it hot-foot. I was
just putting on heavy shoes when a vehicle stopped hurriedly at the door
and there was a loud rapping. I ran out—Irving was back.

“Come quick,” he said, “don’t wait to change. It’s the Alhambra.” We
jumped into the cab and the man drove for all he was worth. We got into
Leicester Square just as the police were clearing the place and forming
a cordon. All the Bow Street men knew us both and they hurried us into a
doorway just where the Empire Music Hall is now. From there we had a
splendid view, the place all to ourselves.

The fire had made quick headway and as we got to our place the whole
theatre seemed alight within, and the flames burst out of the windows.
The Fire Brigade got to work quick; but when a building of that size and
with so large an interior gets alight there is no checking it. Within a
time which seemed incredibly short the roof began to send up sparks and
flames, and then all at once it seemed to be lifted and to send up a
fiery column of flames and sparks and smoke and burning ashes, which a
few seconds later began to fall round us like rain. There was a terrific
crash, and more leaping and towering flames. And then the roof fell in.

After the fall of the roof, the rest was detail. We waited an hour or so
and then came away.

_c_

At the next fire we were not together. Irving was on the stage of the
Star Theatre, New York, and I happened to be standing at the back of the
parquet near the aisle which in all American theatres runs straight back
from the orchestra rail. The occasion was the first night of Irving’s
playing _Hamlet_ in New York, and the house was crowded to excess in
every part. The play went well, incidentally I may say that it was an
enormous success. All went well till the “play scene.” The light for the
mimic stage was supposed to be given from the attendants ranged on each
side carrying torches. These torches were of spirit, as such give
leaping flames which are picturesque and appear to give good light,
though in truth their illuminating quality is small. Early in the scene
one of these torches got overheated, and the flaming spirit running over
set fire to one of the stage draperies. The super-master, Marion, who
was “on” in the scene, at once ran over and tore down the curtain and
trampled it out.

Through it all Irving never hesitated or faltered for an instant. He
went on with his speech; no one could take it from movement, expression
or intonation that there was any cause for concern.

Still a fire in a theatre has very dreadful possibilities; and at the
first sign of flame a number of people rose hurriedly in their seats as
if preparatory to rushing out. There was all over the house a quick,
quiet whisper:

“Sit down!” As if in obedience, the standers sat.

There was but one exception. A lanky, tallow-faced, herring-shouldered,
young man, with fear in his white face, dashed up the aisle. It is such
persons who cause death in such circumstances. There is a moment when
panic can be averted; but once it starts _nothing_ can stop it. The idea
of “_Sauve qui peut!_” comes from the most selfish as well as the most
weak of human instincts. I feared that this man might cause a panic, and
as he dashed up I stepped out and caught him by the throat and hurled
him back on the ground. At such a time one must not think of
consequences—except one, which is to prevent a holocaust. The rude,
elementary method was effective. No one else stirred. I caught the
fallen man and dragged him to his feet.

“Go back to your seat, sir!” I said sternly. “It is cowards like you who
cause death to helpless women!” He was so stunned or frightened that he
did not make the least remonstrance, but went sheepishly back to his
seat.

On the way he had to pass a man who stood a little in front of me—a
tall, powerful, black-bearded, masterful-looking man. As the other was
passing he put out his hand, and with finger and thumb caught the lappet
of the young man’s coat and drew him close. Then he said in a low voice,
full of personal indignation as at a wrong to himself:

“Do you know that you rushed past me like a flash of lightning!” Then he
suddenly released him and turned his eyes to the stage. I think it was
the most contemptuous action I ever saw. The rest of those present moved
no more.

_d_

Two years after we had at the Lyceum a somewhat similar experience of a
stage fire. This was during _Faust_. A curtain caught fire, and was
promptly put out by the nearest person. Another such fire occurred in
1891 in _The Corsican Brothers_.

_e_

There was one other fire which had a bearing on Irving’s interests
though he was not in it or near it. This was the burning of the Union
Square Theatre, New York, on the 28th February 1888. This theatre backed
on to the side of the Star Theatre where we were playing. The Morton
House beside it, at the corner of Broadway and Union Square, caught
fire. The theatre was quite burned out. When I saw it, which was quite
by chance, it was well alight. There was a great crowd held back by the
cordon of police. I managed to pass the guard, as I was concerned in the
Star Theatre, and inside saw the Fire Chief of that section—the
Thirteenth Street. He and I had become great friends in the process of
years. The American firemen are born to their work and they are all
splendid fellows. If they like you they drop the “Mr.” at once; and when
they call you by your Christian name that is, in their own way, the
highest honour they can pay you. I was “Bram” to Chief Bresnin and his
men. He said to me:

“Would you like to come into the theatre? It may be of use to you some
day to know what a theatre is like inside when it is burning!” I
acquiesced eagerly, and we hurried to the stage entrance. A policeman
stood there, and when I went to pass in barred the way. The Fire Chief
was surprised. “He is with me!” he said. The other answered gruffly:

“You can go in, of course; but I won’t let him! It’s murder to let him
go in there!” The chief was speechless with indignation. From his point
of view it was a gross affront to question any direction of his. By New
York rules the Fire Chief takes absolute command, and the police have to
obey his orders. Bresnin threw back the lappel of his uniform coat and
showed his badge as Fire Chief.

“Do you see that?” he asked. The other answered surlily:

“I see it!”

“Then if you say one word—even to apologise for your insolence—I shall
have you broke! Stand back! Come on, Bram!”

I wanted to go on. But even if I had wished to hang back, I could not do
so then. In we went.

The place was a veritable hell. It seemed to be alight in every part;
the roaring of the flames was terrific. The streams of water from some
twenty fire-engines seemed to be having no effect at all, they did not
make even steam, but seemed to simply dry up. The heat was of course
very great, but as the draught was coming behind us we did not feel it
much. It seemed to be all overhead. I was made aware of it by my silk
hat collapsing over my eyes, like a big tam-o’-shanter. The whole place
seemed moving and tumbling about; great beams were falling, and
brickwork rattled down like gigantic hail. We stood on the stage. Here
my own special knowledge of the safest place supplemented the fireman’s
general experience. It was by no means safe. Within a minute a huge
beam, all ablaze, came thundering down not far from us and drove end on
right through the stage, like a bullet through a sheet of paper. We kept
an eye on the door close to us, and when things got perilous we came
away.

I went back to the Brunswick Hotel where Irving and I were both staying.
I sent for his man, Walter, to tell him if the “Governor” had been
alarmed he had better go into his room where he was having his regular
afternoon nap and tell him that as yet the Star Theatre was all right,
and would probably escape as the ruins of the other theatre were falling
and the firemen would be able to deal with them. I had just come from
it. He answered me:

“It’s all right, sir! The Governor knows about the fire. Some one here
went up and woke him and told him that the Star was on fire! So he sent
for me.”

“What did he say?” I asked. He grinned as he replied:

“He said: ‘Is Fussy safe, Walter?’ So when I told him the dog had been
with me all the time, he said ‘All right!’ and went to sleep again!”

III
FLOODS

_a_

On Saturday night, 1st February 1896, we played in New Orleans, and as
we were to play in Memphis on Monday, arranged that our “special” should
leave as soon as possible after the play. We had all ready for a quick
start, and so far as our part was concerned had loaded up and were ready
to start at the time fixed, one o’clock. We did not start, however;
something was wrong on the line. It was two o’clock when we heard that
we should have to go by a different route, the Valley section, as there
had been a “wash-out” on the course destined for us. In New Orleans the
heat had been intense, almost unendurable, and higher up the Mississippi
valley there had been terrific rain-storms. It was three o’clock before
we started. All went well till the forenoon of next day when we came to
a creek called Bayou Pierre. This was a wide valley seemingly miles
across—it was really between one and two miles. Here the line was
carried on a long trestle-bridge. But the flood was out and the whole
great valley was a turgid river whose yellow, muddy water rushing past
swirled in places like little whirlpools. It had risen some four feet
over the top of the bridge, so that no one could say whether the track
remained or had been swept away. There was a short and hurried
conference between our train master and the local engineer and they
determined to “take the chances.” And so we started.

It was necessary to go very slowly, for in that alluvial soil the
running water weakens any support; the motion and vibration of a heavy
train might shake down the structure. Moreover, the water level was
almost up to the level of the floor of the carriages. Any wave, however
little, might drown out the fires. It was a most remarkable journey; the
whole broad surface of the stream was starred with wreckage of all
sorts: hayricks, logs, fences, trees with parts of the roots sticking up
in the air; now and again, the roof of a barn or wooden shanty of some
kind. Several times the floating masses carried snakes!

Our own little group took the experience calmly. Indeed we enjoyed its
novelty. Of course things might have turned out very badly. It was on
the cards that any moment we might find that the bridge had been swept
away—there could be no possible indication to warn us; or the passage of
our long train might cause a collapse. In either case our engine would
dive head foremost, and the shock of its blowing up would throw the rest
of the train into the flooded bayou. Irving sat quietly smoking all the
time and looking out of the windows on either side as some interesting
matter “swam into his ken.”

In the other cars the same calm did not reign. There were a good many of
the company who were quite filled with fear. So fearful were they that,
as I was told later, they got reckless and in their panic _confessed
their sins_. I never heard the details of these confessions, and I did
not want to. But from the light manner in which they were held by the
more sturdy members I take it that either the calendar of their sins was
of attenuated or mean proportions; or else that the expression of them
was curtailed by a proper sense of prudence or decorum. Anyhow, we never
heard of any serious breach or unhappiness resulting from them.

We crossed Bayou Pierre at last in safety, and kept on our way. Ours by
the way was the last train that crossed the bayou till the flood was
over. We heard next day that one section of the bridge close to the bank
had gone down ten minutes after we had crossed. It had been an anxious
time for the officials of the line. We could see them from both banks
perpetually signalling to our driver, who was signalling in reply. It
made the wide waste of water seem wider and more dangerous still. The
only really bad result to us was that we arrived in Memphis too late to
get anything to eat.

In those days the rules governing hours in the South-Western Hotels were
very fixed, especially on Sundays. Up to nine o’clock you could get what
you wanted. But after nine the kitchen was closed and money would not
induce them to open it. Irving and Ellen Terry had of course ordered
each their own dinner, and these, cold, waited them in their rooms; but
the rest of us were hungry and wanted food of some kind. So I tried
strategy with the “boy” who attended me, a huge, burly nigger with a
good-humoured face and a twelve-inch smile. I said:

“What is your name?”

“George, sah! George Washington.”

“George!” I said, as I handed him half a dollar—“George, you are an
uncommonly good-looking fellow!”

“Yah! Yah! Yah!” pealed George’s homeric laughter. Then he said:

“What can I do for you, sah!”

“George, your cook is a very stout lady, is she not?”

“Yes, sah, almighty stout, wide as a barrel. Yah! Yah! Yah!”

“Exactly, George. Now I want you to go right up to her, put your arms
around her—tight, and give her a kiss—a big one!”

“’Fore Gad, sah, if I did, she’d open my head wid de cleaver!”

“Not so, George! Not with a good-looking fellow like you.”

“An’ what then, sah?”

“Then, George, you tell her that there is a stranger here who is
perishing for some food. He is sorry to disturb so pretty a woman, who
he is told is the belle of Memphis; but _necessitas non habet leges_.
Explain that to her, won’t you, like a good fellow? Make me out tall and
thin and aristocratic-looking, with a white thin face and a hectic spot
on each cheek-bone, a black, melting and yearning eye, and a large black
moustache—don’t forget the moustache. Ask her if she will of her
gracious kindness break the iron rule of discipline that governs the
house, and send me some food, _anything_ that is least troublesome. A
slice of cold meat, some bread and a pitcher of milk, and if she has any
cold vegetables of any sort, and the cruet, I can make a salad!”

George laughed wildly and hurried out. I could hear his cachinnation
dying away down the long passage. Presently I heard it swelling up again
as he drew near. The heavy footfall drew closer, and the door was kicked
in after the manner of negro waiters—in hotels there is an iron or brass
plate at the base of the dining-room door for the purpose. George
Washington bore an enormous tray, resting on an open palm spread back
over his shoulder. When he laid it down its weight made the table shake.

That episode was worth a whole silver dollar to George. It was divided,
I presume, with the adipose cook; for there was no external appearance
of his head having been “opened wid de cleaver.” For the remaining days
of our stay he followed me when opportunity served like a shadow. A very
substantial shadow; quite a Demogorgon of a shadow!

_b_

We had had a somewhat similar experience of a flood some years before,
though of nothing like so dangerous a nature. This was on 3rd February
1884, on our journey from Cincinnati to Columbus. The thaw had come on
suddenly on the southern watershed of the northern hills when the ground
through a long rigorous winter was frozen to a depth of several feet. Of
course, the water, unable to sink into the ground, ran into the streams,
and the Ohio River was flooded. As we left we could see that it was up
to the top of the levée. Later on it rose some _forty feet_ higher. It
was a record flood. We went by the Panhandle route of the Pennsylvania
Railway. As we went, whole tracts of country were flooded; in places we
ran where the roads were under water, and a mighty splash our engine
sent ahead of her. We went very fast, “rushing” all the bridges,
especially the small ones of which there were many. In a stopping time I
had a chat with the driver—one whom the depôt-master of Cincinnati had
told me he had put on specially because he was a bold driver who did not
mind taking a risk. I asked him why he went so fast over the bridges, as
I had heard it was much safer to go slow.

“Not in a flood like this!” he answered. “You see, the water has been
out some time and the brickwork is all sapped and sodden with wet.
Mayhap we may shake a bridge down now and then, but I like them to fall
_behind_ me, and not whilst we’re crossing. The depôt-master told me I
was to get you folks in; and, by the Almighty, I mean to do it if I
shake down all the bridges in the Panhandle. Anyhow, this is the last
train that will run over the section till the floods are over.”

IV
TRAIN ACCIDENTS

_a_

At a rough computation the railroad journeys of Irving’s tours ran over
fifty thousand miles—more than twice round the Equator. The journeys
were nearly always taken in special trains running at all sorts of
hours, and almost invariably in the bad seasons of the year. It is not
to be wondered at, therefore, that we had a certain percentage of
accidents. That some of these accidents did not entail loss of life is
the source of wonder. Several times we have had the train on fire; once
so badly that the danger was very great. It was only by the chance of it
being discovered just as we were coming into a station that the whole
train was not lost. As it was, the Insurance Company had to liquidate
damages to our goods to the extent of £500.

Three times the bolt-head of the engine has been blown out, once
entailing a delay of six hours, until not only another engine but
another driver who knew the road as well as the engine, could be found.

_b_

Once in February 1900 when on our way from Indianapolis to Louisville
some accident or explosion took place which seemed to shatter the whole
engine into scrap-iron. But no one was hurt.

_c_

On 17th January 1904 we went from Pittsburg to Buffalo. The cold was
intense. There were ten feet of snow lying on the hills, and down the
serpentine valley our driving-wheel got “frosted” and flew to pieces.
Fortunately we were on a stretch of level ground. Down the valley are
here and there the remains of train wrecks on the bank of the river. Our
engine was a very powerful one, a great Pennsylvania fast hauler; the
great wheel was so thick that I could not lift a seemingly small
fragment of it from the ground.

_d_

The very next week, Sunday, 24th January, when going from Albany to
Montreal, we met with another accident. I had been most careful about a
good engine, and the agent of the New York Central had given us the
spare engine used in case of need for the New York and Chicago “Flyer.”
The cold was again intense and the snow thicker than ever. Up high
amongst the Adirondack Mountains, where the wind roared over hill and
through valley, the snowdrifts piled up in places to great heights. That
was an exceptionally severe winter and railroading was hard. We climbed
all right to the top of a pass amongst the hills and were going along
steadily when there was a sharp explosion. Then in a few seconds the
train drew up with a jerk. Our saloon was at the end of the train, so it
took me some little time to reach the engine, as I had gone outside
instead of passing through the train. The road just there was running on
an embankment, and the snow-plough had swept the track, only leaving the
snow piled at the sides so that to pass the carriages was difficult
leg-deep in the snow. On the sloping embankment the snow lay many feet
deep; and as the whole place was intersected with storm rivulets there
were great holes like caverns in the snowdrift. The other men had also
tumbled out of their carriages in much concern. We came across the train
crew working in frantic haste. They told us that both the driver and the
fireman were missing, and they feared that they had been blown off into
one of the watercourse cavities. In such case either or both might die
before we could find them, for these cavities were secret—they were
honeycombed out beneath the blanket of snow. Very shortly we found the
fireman. He had been on the outside of the engine when the explosion had
occurred and was blown into the snowdrift head down. He was nearly
choked when he was taken out.

But there was no sign of the driver, and the search went on. Immediately
after the accident the brakesman had run back on the track to flag
“Danger” lest any other train should come down upon us. This is the
imperative rule in such cases. When he had done this duty he was to run
along the track to the last station we had passed about a mile back, and
bring help.

I was back on the line about a quarter of a mile when an engine piled
with men came up at a furious pace. As it drew near the men began to
call.

“Has he been found?” I shook my head.

Close to our train they stopped and the men leaping from the engine
spread themselves along the slopes of the embankment beginning a
systematic search. Presently one of the crew of our train came along
leaping through the deep snow calling out that the driver was found and
was on the engine. We rushed back and found him there smearing his
burns, which were pretty bad, with oil. The explosion had set his
clothes on fire, but he had not lost his head. He had waited to turn the
steam off, and then had taken a header into the deep snow wherein he had
rolled himself till he had put the fire out. When he had managed to
crawl out of his burrow the others of the crew, seeing the engine empty,
had gone back to make search for him. He, not knowing that he was
missed, had climbed quietly back into his cab.

When Irving heard of the man’s gallantry in stopping whilst all on fire
to turn off steam before thinking of himself he said it was a thing that
should be rewarded in a marked way. He was quite willing to give the
reward himself, but he thought that the company would like to, and ought
to, join in it. So we got up a subscription which he headed. We handed
to the injured men a little purse of sixty-one dollars. They declared
that they would like to take their injuries over again any time for half
the money or a quarter of the kindness.

_e_

The occasions when we were delayed by minor accidents to the train—hot
boxes, breaking steam-pipes, freezing steam-brakes, snows-up,
washes-out, broken bridges—were never ending. Many of them were not
matters for much concern, but they were all causes of delay; and in
touring, delay is often disastrous.

V
STORMS AT SEA

_a_

Irving was across the Atlantic eighteen times, of which one, in 1886,
was for a summer holiday trip. Of course there were many times when
there was bad weather; but on one crossing in 1899 we encountered a
terrific storm. The waves were greater by far than any I had ever seen,
even when I crossed in the _Germanic_ in the February of the same year
during the week of the worst weather ever recorded. On this occasion we
were on board the Atlantic transport ss. _Marquette_. The weather had
been nice for three days from our leaving London. But in the afternoon
of the fourth day, 18th October, we ran into the track of a hurricane.
As we went on, the seas got bigger and bigger till at last they were
mountainous. When we were down in the trough the waves seemed to stand
up higher than our masts. The wind was blowing furiously, something like
a hundred miles an hour, but there was no rain. The moon came out early,
a splendid bright moon still in its second quarter, so that when night
fell the scene was sublimely grand. We forged on as long as we could,
but the screw raced so furiously as the waves swept past us that we had
perforce to lie by for six hours; it was not safe to go on as we might
lose our screw-head. The tossing in that frightful sea was awful. Most
of those on board were dreadfully frightened. Irving came out for a
while and stood on the bridge holding on like grim death, for the
shaking was like an earthquake. He seemed to really enjoy it. He stayed
as long as he could and only went in when he began to feel the chill.
Ellen Terry came out with me and was so enraptured with the scene that
she stayed there for hours. I had to hold her against the rail, for at
times we rolled so that our feet shot off the deck. I showed her how to
look into the wind without feeling it: to hold the eyes just above the
bulwark—or the “dodger” if you are on the bridge—and a few inches away
from it. The wind strikes below you and makes a clear section of a
circle right over and round your head, you remaining in the calm. To
test the force of the wind I asked her to put out her hand, palm out so
as to make a fair resistance; but she could not hold it for an instant.
Neither could I; my hand was driven back as though struck with a hammer.

In the companion-way of the _Marquette_ several trunks too large for the
adjacent cabin had been placed. They had been carefully lashed to the
hand-rail, but in that wild sea they strained at their lashings rising
right off the ground the way a chained dog does when he raises himself
on his hind legs. One of the trunks belonging to Irving, a great leather
one, full of books and papers, was lashed by its own straps. In the
companion-way had gathered nearly all the passengers, huddled together
for comfort—especially the women, who were mostly in a panic. In such
cases the only real comfort a poor woman can have is to hold on to a
man. I happen to be a big one, and therefore of extra desirability in
such cases of stress. I was sitting on a trunk on the other side of the
companion-way from Irving’s trunk, surrounded by as many of the
womenkind as could catch hold of me, when in a roll of extra magnitude
the leather straps gave way and the trunk seemed to hurl itself at us. I
shoved the women away right and left, but missed clearing its course
myself by the fraction of a second. The corner of it caught me on the
calf sideways, fortunately just clearing the bone. Another half-inch and
I should certainly have lost my leg. I was lifted into the music saloon,
which was close at hand, and my trouser leg cut open. We had three
American footballers on board and these at once began to rub and knead
the injured muscle; quite the best thing to do. Then it seemed as if
every soul on board, man, woman, and child, had each a separate bottle
of embrocation or liniment. These were all produced at once—and used.

Before a minute was over the skin of the wounded spot and for inches
around it was completely rubbed off! The pain was excruciating—like an
acre of toothache; but I suppose it did me good. In the morning my foot
was quite black, but by degrees this passed away. I limped for a week or
two and then got all right.

The women had a sore time of it that night. They nearly all refused
absolutely to go to their cabins, and, producing rugs and pillows,
camped in the music saloon which was on deck.

One young man, who spent most of his time leaning on the counter of the
bar, gained instant notoriety by christening the saloon: “_the Geeser’s
Doss-house_!”

_b_

On Saturday, 5th October 1901, we left the Thames for New York on the
Atlantic transport ss. _Minnehaha_. In the river the wind began to blow,
and by the time we rounded the South Foreland a whole gale was on. Our
boat was a large one, so that we on board did not mind; but it was a bad
time for the pilot whom we had to shed at Dover. The row-boat to take
him off had come out to us in the comparative shelter of the Goodwins
and had trailed beside us on the starboard quarter, nearly swamped in
the rough sea. When we slowed down off Dover the sea seemed to get worse
than ever. To look at it in the darkness of the night, each black slope
crested with white as the lighthouse lit up its savage power, one could
not believe that a little boat could live in it. It took the men on
board all their time to keep her baled. A number of us men had gone down
on the afterdeck to see the pilot depart. He was a huge man; tall as he
was, the breadth of his shoulders seemed prodigious. When he descended
the rope ladder and debarked, which was a deed requiring skill and
nerve, he seemed to overweight the little boat, he so towered over the
two men in it. When a few strokes took them out of the shelter of our
good ship, the boat, as she caught the gale, lurched sideways so much
that it looked as though she were heeling over. My own heart was in my
mouth. I heard a sudden loud laugh behind me, and turning round saw one
of the passengers, a stranger to me. I cried out with angry indignation:

“What the devil are you laughing at? Is it to see splendid fellows like
that in danger of their lives? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. The
men could actually hear you!” For a few seconds he continued laughing
wildly; then turning to me said quite heartily:

“Sorry! It’s a shame I know; but I could not help laughing!” Despite
myself and my indignation I could not help smiling.

“What at?” I said again. “There’s nothing to laugh at there?”

“Well, my dear fellow,” he gasped out, “I was laughing just to think
that I’m not a pilot!” And once again his wild laughter pealed out.

VI
FALLING SCENERY

In the great mass of scenery in a theatre and its many appliances, some
of considerable weight, resting overhead there are certain elements of
danger to those on the stage. Things have to be shifted so often and so
hastily that there is always room for accident, no matter what care may
be exercised. For instance, in Abbey’s theatre in New York—afterwards
“The Knickerbocker”—on the first night of Irving’s playing _Macbeth_,
one of the limelight men, who was perched on a high platform behind the
proscenium O.P., fell on the stage together with the heavy gas cylinder
beside him. The play was then over and Irving was making a speech in
front of the curtain. Happily the cylinder did not explode. The man did
not seem at the moment to be much injured, but he died on his way to
hospital. Had any one been waiting underneath in the wing, as is nearly
always the case all through a play, that falling weight must have
brought certain death.

I have myself seen Irving lifted from the stage by the Act drop catching
his clothing. I have seen him thrown into the “cut” in the stage with
the possibility of a fall to the mezzanine floor below. On another
occasion something went wrong with the bracing up of the framed cloths
and the whole scene fell about the stage. This happened between the acts
whilst Irving was showing the stage to some American friends. Happily no
one was hurt. Such accidents, veritable bolts from the blue, are,
however, both disconcerting and alarming. During _Faust_ the great
platforms which made the sloping stage on which some hundreds of people
danced wildly at the Witches’ Sabbath on the Brocken had to be suspended
over the acting portion of the stage. The slightest thing going wrong
would have meant death to all underneath. In such cases there must
always be great apprehension.

VII

I have mentioned all these matters under the heading of “Adventures”—
torpedoes, fires, floods, train accidents, storms at sea, mishaps of the
stage—for a special reason. Not once in the twenty-seven years of our
working together did I ever see a sign of fear on Henry Irving. Whether
danger came in an instant unexpectedly, or slowly to expecting eyes, it
never disturbed him. Danger of any kind, so far as I ever had the
opportunity of judging, always found him ready.

When he was lying ill at Wolverhampton in the spring of 1905 Ellen Terry
ran down from London, where she was then playing, to see him. She had
known from me and others how dangerously ill he had been and was
concerned as to how fear of death might act on his strength. She had
asked him if he had such fear; her description of the occasion as she
gave it to me after his death left the matter settled:

“He looked at me steadily for a minute, and then putting his third
finger against his thumb—like that—held his hand fixedly for a few
seconds. Then with a quick movement he snapped his fingers and let his
hand fall. How could I not understand!”

As the great actress spoke, her face through some mysterious power grew
like Irving’s. The raised hand, with the fingers interlaced, was rigid
till with a sudden movement the fingers snapped, the hand going down as
if propelled from the wrist! It conveyed in a wonderful way the absence
of a sense of fear, even on such a subject as Death. Even at second hand
it was not possible not to understand. It said as plainly as if in
words: “Not _that_!” There was no room for doubt!

LXXIII
BURNING OF THE LYCEUM STORAGE

At ten minutes past five on the morning of Friday, 18th February 1898, I
was wakened by a continuous knock at a door somewhere near my house in
Chelsea. I soon discovered that it was at my own house. I went
downstairs and opened the door, when a muffled-up cab-driver gave me a
letter. It was from the police station at Bow Street telling me that the
Lyceum Storage, Bear Lane, Southwark, was on fire. The four-wheeler was
waiting, and I was soon on the way there as fast as the horse could go.
It was a dim, dark morning, bitterly cold. I found Bear Lane a chaos.
The narrow way was blocked with fire-engines panting and thumping away
for dear life. The heat was terrific. There was so much stuff in the
storage that nothing could possibly be done till the fire had burnt
itself out; all that the firemen could do was to prevent the fire
spreading.

These premises deserve some special mention, for they played an
important part in many ways, as shall be seen.

One of the really great difficulties in the management of a London
theatre is that of storage. A “going” theatre has to be always producing
new plays and occasionally repeating the old. In fact, to a theatrical
manager his productions form the major part of his stock-in-trade. Now,
no one outside theatrical management—and very few who are inside—can
have any idea of the bulk of a lot of plays. In Irving’s case it was
really vast; the bulk was almost as big as the whole Lyceum theatre. To
get housing for such is a very serious matter. Scenery is long,
difficult stuff to handle. That of the Lyceum was forty-two feet long
when the cloths were rolled up round their battens; the framed cloths
were thirty feet high and six feet wide in the folding plaques. We were
always on the look-out for a really fine storage; and at last we heard
of one. This consisted of two great, high railway arches under the
Chatham and Dover Railway, then leased to the South-Eastern. It was a
part of Southwark where the ground lies low and the railway line very
high, so that there was full height for our scenes. In the front was a
large yard. We took the premises on a good long lease and set to work to
make them complete for our purpose. The backs of the arches were bricked
up. Great scaffold-poles were firmly fixed for the piling of scenery
against them. It is hard to believe what lateral pressure a great pack
of scenery can exercise. Before we had occupied this storage a year, one
of the poles gave way and the scenery sinking against the new wall at
the back of the arch carried it entirely away. We had to pay expenses of
restoration to the injured neighbour and to compensate him. We had the
entire yard in front roofed over, brought in gas, which was carefully
protected, and water, and made the storage the best of its kind that was
known. The experience of a good many years went to the making of it.

We had had to put in a clause when making the agreement to take the
lease for a reason not devoid of humour to any one not a sufferer by it.
When I went to look at the arches I found them full almost to the top
with mud—old mud that had been put in wet and had dried in time to
something like the consistency of that to be found at Herculaneum. The
manager of the estate office of the railway told me the history of it.

Some years before, the arches were placarded as to let, and in due
course came an applicant. He said he was satisfied with the rent and
took out his lease. The railway people were pleased to get such a big
place off their hands and took no more trouble about it till the
half-year’s rental became due. They applied to the lessee, but could get
no reply. So they sent to the premises to make inquiries. There was no
one there; and they could not hear any tidings of the lessee. They did
find, however, that the arches were filled with mud, and discovered on
inquiry that the lessee had taken a contract for the removal of road
sweepings. This is a serious item in municipal accounts, for the
conveyance of such out of London is costly, whether by road or barge or
rail. Into the arches he had for half a year dumped all the stuff;
thousands and thousands of loads of it. He had drawn his money as earned
from the municipal authorities. Rent day drew near, and as he feared
discovery he had bolted, leaving every one, including the contractors
for carting, unpaid.

It took the railway company months of continuous work with a large staff
of men and carts and horses to remove the accumulation.

As the premises were secure in every way we could devise we looked upon
them as comparatively immune from fire risk. No one lived in them. They
were all brick, stone, and slate—as the insurance policies put it. They
were completely isolated front and back; at the sides were blocks of
solid brickwork like bastions. I had at first, with Irving’s consent,
insured the contents for £10,000, but only that year when the policies
were to be renewed he said it was wasting money as the place was so
secure, and would not let me put on more than £6000.

In these premises were the scenes for the following plays, forty-four in
all, of which in only ten Irving himself did not play. Twenty-two were
great productions:

_Hamlet._
_The Merchant of Venice._
_Othello._
_Much Ado About Nothing._
_Twelfth Night._
_Macbeth._
_Henry VIII._
_King Lear._
_Cymbeline._
_Richard III._
_The Corsican Brothers._
_The Cup._
_The Belle’s Stratagem._
_Two Roses._
_Olivia._
_Faust._
_Werner._
_The Dead Heart._
_Ravenswood._
_Becket._
_King Arthur._
_Richelieu._
_The Lady of Lyons._
_Eugene Aram._
_Jingle._
_Louis XI._
_Charles I._
_The Lyons Mail._
_The Bells._
_The Iron Chest._
_Iolanthe._
_The Amber Heart._
_Robert Macaire._
_Don Quixote._
_Raising the Wind._
_Daisy’s Escape._
_Bygones._
_High Life Below Stairs._
_The Boarding School._
_The King and the Miller._
_The Captain of the Watch._
_The Balance of Comfort._
_Book III. Chapter V._
_Cool as a Cucumber._

For the plays there were over _two hundred and sixty_ scenes, many of
them of great elaboration. In fact, each scene, even if only a single
cloth at back with wings and borders, took up quite a space. There were
in all more than _two thousand_ pieces of scenery, and bulky properties
without end. And the prime cost of the property destroyed was over
thirty thousand pounds sterling.

But the cost price was the least part of the loss. Nothing could repay
the time and labour and artistic experience spent on them. All the
scene-painters in England working for a whole year could not have
restored the scenery alone.

As to Irving, it was checkmate to the _répertoire_ side of his
management. Given a theatre equipped with such productions, the plays to
which they belong being already studied and rehearsed, it is easy to put
on any of them for a few nights. There is only the cost of carting and
hanging the scenes and generally getting ready—small matters in the vast
enterprise of putting on a big play. They had had their long runs, and
though they were good for occasional repetitions, few of them could be
relied on for great business over any considerable period. Several of
them were held over for a second run, of which good things might have
been fairly expected. For instance, _Macbeth_ was good for another
season. It was taken off because of the summer vacation when it was
still doing enormous business. _Ravenswood_, too, had only gone a part
of its course when the Baring failure, as I have shown, necessitated its
temporary withdrawal. _Henry VIII._ and _King Arthur_ and _Becket_ and
_Faust_ were certain draws. When for _répertoire_ purposes in later
years several were required, _Louis XI._, _Charles I._, _The Bells_,
_The Lyons Mail_, _Olivia_, _Faust_, _Becket_ were all reproduced at an
aggregate cost of over eleven thousand pounds.

The effect of the fire on Irving was not only this great cost, but the
deprivation of all that he had built up. Had it not occurred he could
have gone on playing his _répertoire_ for many years, and would never
have had to produce a new play.

The fire was so fierce that it actually burned the building of the
railway arches three bricks deep and calcined the coping-stones to
powder. The Railway Company, therefore, not only made a rule that in no
case was theatrical scenery ever to be stored on their premises, but
actually refused to allow us to reinstate or to have use for the term of
their lease. They were prepared to fight an action over it, but the
scenery having all been burned, we had no more present use for so large
a storage, and we compromised the matter.

LXXIV
FINANCE

So much that is erroneous regarding Irving’s financial matters has been
said at any time from the beginning of his success on to the day of his
death—and after—that I think it well to speak frankly of the matter now.
Indeed there is no reason that I know of why it should not be made
public. During his lifetime, ever since his business affairs were
conducted on a big scale, we observed for purely protective reasons a
very strict reticence. It must be remembered that a theatre, and
especially a popular one, is a centre of great curiosity. Every one
wants to know all about it, and curiosity-mongers if they cannot
discover facts invent them. The only possible safeguard that I know of
is strict reticence at headquarters, and the formulation of such a
system of accounts as makes it impossible for lesser officials to know
any more than their own branch of work entails. To this end all our
books at the Lyceum were designed and kept. Not one official of the
theatre outside myself knew the whole of the incomings and the
outgoings. Some knew part of one, some knew part of the other; not even
that official who was designated “treasurer” knew anything of the high
finance of the undertaking. The box-office keeper made entry of daily
receipts and checked over the nightly booking-sheet so as to secure
accuracy in his own work; but he had no knowledge whatever of the cash
receipts at pit or gallery, where all is ready money. The treasurer made
to the bank such lodgments as I gave him; he paid treasury to the actors
and staff on each Friday according to the list which I gave him, and on
every Tuesday he paid such accounts as were settled in cash and such of
my own cheques as I gave to his keeping for the purpose to be paid
according to my list. But he did not pay all the salaries—did not know
them. Certain of them I myself paid, and these were not of the smaller
amounts. He did not pay all the trade accounts; not the larger of them
in any case. The weekly accounts of the heads of departments-carpenters,
property, wardrobe, gas, electric, supers, chorus, orchestra, &c.—having
been thoroughly checked in the office and vouched for by the stage
manager, were paid in bulk to the heads of the departments, who
distributed the amounts, and returned to me the receipted accounts with
vouchers. In fact, the minor books kept by the various departments of
both receipts and expenditure had practically only one side. Such
officials either received money for handing in to me or paid out money
given to them for the purpose. None of them did both. Thus it was that
we kept our business to ourselves. Even in such a matter as free
admissions none except those in the “office” knew of them. They did not
go through the box-office at all, but were sent out under my own
instruction in each individual case. Even the “bill orders”—the
equivalent given in kind to those small traders who exhibit in their
windows bills of the play of “double crown” or “folio” size—were not
distributed in the usual way through the “bill inspector,” but sent out
in properly directed envelopes by the clerical staff. The account-books
of the theatre were kept by myself and rigidly preserved in a great safe
of which I alone had the key. The safe stood in the room which Irving
and I and Loveday used in common, so that the books were always
available for Irving’s purposes when he required them. The accounts were
very carefully audited by chartered accountants whose clerks made
monthly check of details. Then at the end of each season the audit was
completed by the accountants themselves, who made return to Irving
direct in sealed envelopes.

Thus I can say that all through Irving’s management from the time of my
joining him in 1878 till the time of my handing over such matters as
were in my care to the executors—by their own desire, after his will had
been found, and before his funeral—no one, except Irving himself,
myself, and the chartered accountants (who made audit and whose
profession is one sworn to individual secrecy) knew Irving’s affairs. I
am thus particular because the very reticence which we adopted as a
policy and pursued as a system was a wise protection, with of course
such attendant possibilities as belong to a custom of strict reticence.
Not once, in all our long connection of friendship and business, have I
given to any one without Irving’s special permission a single detail of
his business. It was not until 1904, when I was writing an article by
request of the Editor of the _Manchester Guardian_, _apropos_ of his
return to Sunderland after an absence of nearly fifty years, that we
made known even approximately the vast total of his takings during his
management. I quoted figures in that article—which in modern form the
paper designated as “an appreciation”—with Irving’s consent, and ran up
to London from Derby, where we were then playing, to verify them. When
we were arranging the matter I reminded him that I had never in all the
years given a figure unless he had asked me to. Whereupon he said:

“But you are always free to use what figures and anything else of mine
you will. You know, my dear fellow, what confidence I have in your
discretion. You are quite free in the matter, now and always!”

With this permission I feel at ease in now dealing publicly with matters
regarding which I have been silent for so many years. I deal with them
now because I regard them as good for Irving—for that memory which he
valued more than life.

When Irving took over the Lyceum from Mrs. Bateman he had then
accumulated no fortune. He received only a salary up to the time of
Colonel Bateman’s death. He then had salary—an extraordinarily mild one
considering all things—and a prospective share of profits, which under
the circumstances did not amount to much. Practically such little as he
had in the autumn of 1878 was rather in the nature of a treasury balance
than of capital. Of course, in his tour he was earning good money, and
this came in a “ready” form; but the expenses which he was incurring in
the reorganising and beautifying the Lyceum were vastly in excess of his
present earning. When I came to London and took over his financial
matters his bankers, the London and County Bank, had already arranged
with him a large overdraft, some £12,000, for which he had given bills.
This debt and all others incurred in preparation of his long campaign at
the Lyceum were duly paid. Throughout his whole managerial life his
payment was twenty shillings in the pound, with added interest whenever
such was due or possible.

When he was undertaking the provincial tour in the autumn of 1878—the
first under his own management, his friend, Mrs. Hannah Brown, the
life-long friend and companion of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, pressed
on him a loan of fifteen hundred pounds. She had wished him to accept a
larger sum, but he limited the amount to this. Indeed he took it at all
to please her; such a sum went but a small way in the vast enterprise on
which he had entered. Unhappily she died before he began to play in his
own theatre. The sum which she had lent was repaid to her executor in
due season.

When he first knew her, Mrs. Brown was a very old lady. She had been
immensely struck with his power, and had recognised before most others
the probable destiny that lay before him. When she was almost if not
entirely blind he used to often go to see her and the Baroness, in the
house in Stratton Street or elsewhere as they resided. Of course, all
this I only know from being told it, for Mrs. Brown had died just before
I came to live in London. Lady Burdett-Coutts told me of the great
affection which Mrs. Brown had for the clever man whose genius she so
much admired, and whose friendship was such a delight in her old age.
Not long after Irving’s death, when I was dining with her and Mr.
Burdett-Coutts, she said:

“I don’t think he ever passed the house in her later years without
coming in to see her, if only for a moment!” Others, too, of the old
friends have spoken to me of Mrs. Brown without stint; and of her Irving
often spoke to me himself. She used to go to the Lyceum time after time.
During the long run of _Hamlet_ she went some thirty times. For her
pleasure the Baroness rented from the management a box at the Lyceum.
This was not in itself unique, for she had already a box at Drury Lane
Theatre and another at Her Majesty’s Opera House. I was told that when
the old lady was dying—she was then I believe about or over eighty—she
spoke of Irving and his future, mentioning him as: “My poor brave boy!”
Irving was then forty, but he was still a “boy” to a woman of her great
age.

Mrs. Brown had very considerable means of her own, and a bequest paid by
her executor to Irving was five thousand pounds. This was handed to him
at the final settlement of her affairs in, strange to say, bank-notes.
That evening he told me of it when he arrived at the theatre. When he
did so I opened the door of the safe thinking that he intended to place
it there in safety until the next morning, when it could be lodged in
bank. I was mightily surprised when he told me that he had not got it
with him. He smiled at me as he said:

“I was afraid to carry it with me. I never in my life had so much money
close to me!”

“What have you done with it?” I asked.

“I left it in my room at home!”

“Is it put by safely?” I asked again.

“Oh yes!” he added quickly, as though justifying himself. I had an idea
that it was _not_ quite safe and went on with my queries:

“Where is it?” He smiled, I thought superiorly, as he answered:

“In my hat-box!”

“You locked it, I hope?” Again the smile:

“What would be the use of that? If I had locked away anything it would
only have called attention to it. The hat-box is simply lying there as
usual with the lid half off. No one would dream of suspecting it—not in
a thousand years!”

This illustrates, I think, in a remarkable way the subtlety of his own
character, and the method by which he judged others. He had passed the
possibilities “through his mind,” and was so content with his knowledge
that he backed it with a fortune. Later on there was a boy who _did_
take things from his rooms. He was, however, found out and the property
recovered, all except Edwin Forrest’s watch of which a part had been
probably melted down.

That legacy of five thousand pounds was, so far as I know, and had there
been other I should certainly have known, the only money which Irving
received for which he did not work, through all the long course of his
years of much toil. I mention it now specifically because one of the
unkindly, presuming that his ignorance of fact was the ignorance of
others also, made after the actor’s death a statement that he had been
“subsidised.” It ought not to be necessary to contradict such reckless
statements—they ought never to have been made; but having been made it
is best to let the exact facts be known. The best of all bucklers, for
the living or the dead, is simple, honest truth.

The needs of the theatre were very great; at the beginning almost
overwhelming. On my first taking over the responsibility of business
affairs I acquired a wide experience of what is known as “pulling the
devil by the tail.” When Irving took the Lyceum its entire holding
capacity was £228. Sometimes under extraordinary pressure, when every
inch of standing room was occupied, we got in a little more; but only
once in the first two seasons did we cover £250. That was on Irving’s
“Benefit,” as it was then called.

The autumn of 1881 was devoted to enlarging and improving the house. At
a cost of over £12,000 it was made to hold another £100. Thence on,
various improvements and certain dispositions of the seating were
effected, which brought up the holding power to a maximum of about £420,
though on very special occasions we managed to squeeze in a little more.
Some idea may be formed of the vast expense of working such a theatre as
the Lyceum, and in the way which Irving worked it, when I say that on
that theatre he spent in what we called “Expenses on the House” a sum of
£60,000. During my time the “Production account” amounted to nearly
£200,000.

The takings for his own playing between the time of beginning
management, 30th December 1878, and the day of his death, 13th October
1905, amounted to the amazing total of over two million pounds sterling.

Only those who have experience of the working of a great theatre can
have any idea of the vast expenditure necessary to hold success. A play
may be a success or a failure, and its life must have a natural
termination; but a theatre has to go on at almost equal pressure and
expense through bad times and good alike. It is necessary for the
management to have a large reserve of strength ready to be used if need
arises. This implies ceaseless expenditure; a portion of which never can
be repaid because the plays which involve it have to be abandoned. It is
really too much work for one man to have to think of the policy of the
future, and of carrying it into effect, whilst at the same time he has
to work as an artist in the running play. No monetary reward would atone
for such labour; only ambition can give the spur. Things, therefore, are
so constituted in the theatrical world that the ambitious artist _must_
be his own manager. And only those strong enough to be both artist and
man of business can win through. The strain of ceaseless debt must
always be the portion of any one who endeavours to uphold serious drama
in a country where subsidy is not a custom. In the future, the State or
the Municipality may find it a duty to support such effort, on the
ground of public good. Otherwise the artist must pay with shortened life
the price of his high endeavour. Light performances may and generally do
succeed, but good plays seriously undertaken must always be at great
risk to the venturer. For more than twenty-five years Irving did for
England that which in other nations is furthered by the State; and his
theatre was known and respected all over the world. This entailed not
only hospitality in all forms to foreign artists, but to many, many
strangers attracted by the fame of his undertaking, and anxious to meet
so famous a man in person. This duty Irving never shirked; he had ever a
ready hand for any stranger, and in the long career of his ministration
of the duties of hospitality he actually aided, so far as one man could
do, the popularity of his own country amongst the nations of the world.
Such men are the true Ambassadors of Peace, as well as National
benefactors. Reputation for hospitality and charity is a factor in the
enlargement of the demands made on these. When duty called, Irving was
never found wanting, in this or any other form.

But still through all it must be remembered that the more he had to
spend the harder he had to work to earn the wherewithal to do it. When I
came to him first, six performances each week in heavy plays was deemed
sufficient work for the strongest; but as time went on a _matinée_ was
added. And for some twenty years seven performances a week was the
working rule. In light, amusing, or unemotional plays this is not too
much; for when a run is on, the ordinary work of rehearsal is suspended.
But for heavy plays it is too much. Still what is one to do who is
playing for the big stakes of life? Brain and body, nerve and soul have
to be ground up in the effort to hold the place already won. Irving was
determined from the very first to strain every nerve for the honour of
his art; for the perfecting of stage work; for his own fame. To these
ends he gave himself, his work, his fortune. He forwent very many of the
ordinary pleasures of life, and laboured unceasingly and without
swerving from his undertaken course. He gave freely in its cause all the
fortune that came to him as quickly as it accrued. It was only when
through shocks of misfortune and the stress of coming age he was unable
to put by the large sums necessary for further developments that he had
to forestall the future temporarily. Bankers are of necessity stern folk
and unless one can give _quid pro quo_ in some shape they are pretty
obdurate as to advances. Therefore it was that now and again, despite
the enormous sums that he earned, he had occasionally to get an advance.
Fortunately, there were friends who were proud and happy to aid him.
Such never lost by their kindness; every advance was punctiliously met,
and the attachment between him and such friends grew ever and ripened.
It would be invidious to mention who those friends were. Some perhaps
would not like their names mentioned, and so “the rest is silence.”

There were not many occasions when such measures were necessary. I only
mention them now lest any of those friends should deem me wanting, in
even such a partial record as this, did I not mention that Henry Irving
had constant and loving friends who held any power in their hands at his
disposal, and were alike glad and proud to help him in the splendid work
which he was doing. Let me, as the only mouthpiece that he now can ever
have, since I alone know all those friends, say that to the last hour of
his life he was grateful to them for their sympathy, and belief, and
timely help; and for all the self-confidence which their trust gave to
him.

III

When after his long illness in 1898–1899 the proposition of selling his
interest in the Lyceum was made to Irving by the Lyceum Theatre Company—
the parent Company—the terms suggested were these:

He was to convey to the Company his lease—of which some eighteen years
were still to run, and all his furniture and fittings in the theatre. He
was for five years—the duration of the contract—to play an annual
engagement of at least a hundred performances at the Lyceum on terms
which were mentioned and which were between 10 per cent. and 25 per
cent. less than he was in the habit of receiving in any other theatre.
He was to hand over to the Company one-fourth of all his profits made by
acting elsewhere, he guaranteeing to play on tour at least four months
in each year. He was to give the Company free use of such of his scenery
and properties as were not in his own use. He was to pay all the
expenses of production of plays in the first year, and in the others 60
per cent. of the same. For the first season he was to guarantee the
Company a minimum of £100 for their share of each performance. He was to
pay all the stage expenses, and half of the advertisements.

For this the Company were to pay him down £26,500 in cash and £12,500 in
fully paid shares in proportion of the two classes, viz., £100,000 6 per
cent. preference shares and £70,000 ordinary shares.

I protested to Irving against the terms. I had already worked out the
figures of results, according to such data as were available, of this
scheme and also of an alternative one, in case he wished to abandon or
alter the one on which we had already decided. The difference was that
according to the alternative scheme, he would at the end of five years,
in addition to the total of profits realisable by the Company scheme, be
still in possession of his theatre, scenery, and property of all kinds.

That I was correct has been shown by the unhappy result of the Company
enterprise. The Company lost almost persistently except in the seasons
when Irving played. The one exception was, I believe, when William
Gillette played _Sherlock Holmes_, a piece which Irving recommended the
directors to accept. I was present at its first night in New York, and
saw at once its London possibilities.

The Company lasted from the beginning of 1899 till the end of the season
of 1902. During this period of less than four years the total amount in
cash accruing to the Company from Irving’s acting was roughly £29,000.

In estimating this amount I took as the basis of the Company’s expenses
the cost of running the theatre in our own time for the number of weeks
covering the time of Irving’s seasons with the Company. This allowed as
liberal an amount as our own management, which was carried out on a much
more generous scale. I excluded only the item of rental, which, as the
Company was its own landlord, would be represented by the productiveness
of the capital. The above amount would, roughly, have paid during each
of the whole four years in which the contract lasted the preference
shareholders their whole 6 per cent. and the ordinary shareholders over
1½ per cent. in each entire year, leaving seven whole months of each
year, exclusive of summer holidays, for earning the 4 per cent. dividend
on the £120,000 mortgage debentures, and increasing the dividend on the
ordinary shares.

It will from the above figures be seen that the contract which Irving
made with the Lyceum Company was not in any way a beneficial one for
him, but an excellent one for them.

I am particular about giving these figures in detail, for at some of the
meetings of the Company there was the usual angry “heckling” of the
directorate regarding losses; and there were not lacking those who
alleged that Irving was in some way to blame for the result. But I am
bound to say that when, at the meeting in 1903, I thought it necessary
to put a stop to such misconception and gave the rough figures showing
the results of his playing during the time the contract existed, my
statement was received even by the disappointed shareholders with loud
and continuous cheers—the only cheers which I ever heard at a meeting of
the Company. I honestly believe that there was not one person in the
room who was not genuinely and heartily glad to be reassured from such
an authoritative source as myself as to Irving’s position with the
Company.

The cancellation of the contract between Irving and the Lyceum Theatre
Company was in no way due to any fault or default of his. It became
necessary solely because the Company was unable to fulfil its part. The
London County Council, in accordance with some new regulations, called
on the Company to make certain structural alterations in the theatre.
The directors said they could not afford to make them as their funds
were exhausted; and so the theatre had to remain closed. At that time
Irving had already undertaken vast responsibilities with regard to the
play of _Dante_, for which he had made contracts with painters and
costumiers, and had engaged artists. It was vitally necessary that he
should have a theatre wherein to play; and so there was no alternative
but to annul the contract. Even as it was, he had to take on his own
shoulders the whole of the vast cost of the production upon which he had
entered as a joint concern.

In fine, Irving’s dealings with the Company may be thus summed up. He
received in all for his property, lease, goodwill, fixtures, furniture,
the use of his stock of scenery and properties, and a fourth of his
profits elsewhere, £39,000 paid as follows: cash, £26,500; shares,
£12,500. He repaid by his work £29,000 in cash. The shares he received
proved valueless.[6] He gave, in fact, his property and £2500 for
nothing;—and he lost about two years of his working life.

Footnote 6:

The preference shares at the break-up sold for, as well as I remember,
_seven pence_ for each fully paid share of one pound sterling. He
would never sell his shares lest his doing so might injure the
property of the Company. They were only parted with at the winding-up,
when the Receiver sold, on his own authority, all unapplied-for
shares.

I should like to say, on my own account, and for my own protection,
inasmuch as I was Sir Henry Irving’s business manager, that from first
to last I had absolutely no act or part in the formation of the Lyceum
Theatre Company—in its promotion, flotation, or working. Even my
knowledge of it was confined to matters touched on in the contract with
Irving. From the first I had no information as to its purposes, scope or
methods, outside the above. I did not take a single share till it began
to look queer with regard to its future; I then bought from a friend
five shares for which I paid par value. This I did in order that I might
have a right to attend the meetings. Later, in 1903, when shares were
selling at all sorts of prices I bought some in the open market. This
was simply as a speculation, as I regarded the freehold of the Lyceum as
a valuable property which might eventually realise a price which would
make my investment at the prevailing figures a good one. These shares I
protected on the winding-up and reconstruction of the Company with an
assessment of 25 per cent. of their face value. But finally, seeing the
conditions under which the new Company was about to work, I sold them in
the usual way through my broker.

As a matter of fact I was on the Atlantic or in America at the time the
parent company or syndicate—to whom it was that Irving had sold his
property—was formed. When I arrived home this association had become
merged in the Lyceum Theatre Company which had been floated, and of
which the whole capital had been subscribed. Not for nearly a year
afterwards did I even see a copy of the prospectus of the Company.

LXXV
THE TURN OF THE TIDE

“There is a tide in the affairs of men.” For twenty-five years it flowed
for Henry Irving without let or lull. From the production of _The Bells_
in November 1871 he became famous; and thence on he bore himself so well
that with the exception of the disgruntled few who grudge success to any
one, he was accorded by all an unquestioned supremacy in his chosen art.
For a full quarter of a century there was nothing but ever-increasing
esteem and honour and position; an undeviating prosperity which made all
things possible to the ambitious actor. True, the success was
accompanied throughout by endless labour and self-sacrifice, and by
grinding responsibility. His life was more strenuous than the lives of
most successful men. For an actor’s work is altogether personal, and
when in addition to the practice of his art he undertakes the added
stress and risk of management such, too, is altogether personal. But,
after all, labour and responsibility are the noblest roads by which a
man may travel towards honour. By any other way success is merely the
outcome of hazard.

But the tide must turn some time—otherwise the force would be not a tide
but a current. The turning came on the night of 19th December 1896—the
night of his production of _Richard III._ A night of unqualified
success—as should be when high-water mark is reached. A night which
seemed to crown the personal triumph of the years. After the performance
and when the cheering crowd had taken their reluctant way, Irving had a
large gathering on the stage. Such had become a custom on first and last
nights of the season, and now and again on marked occasions. They were
very delightful opportunities for large and comprehensive hospitality,
enjoyed, I think, by all. So soon as the curtain fell the scenery would
be put rapidly into the “scene docks” and the stage left clear. Then the
caterers, who had everything ready, would place long tables round three
sides of the stage and prepare a cold “standing” supper for all who were
expected. During this time Irving would have rapidly changed his costume
for evening dress; so that by the time the waiting guests in the
auditorium were beginning to file in on the stage through the iron door
in the proscenium O.P., he would meet them coming from his
dressing-room. I used to stand at the door myself so as to see that no
chance guests whose presence was welcome were denied. For very often
there were in the house some whom Irving would like to welcome, and of
whose presence we were ignorant to the last. The whole proceeding was an
informal one. There were no invitations except such verbal ones as I
conveyed myself. On such occasions there would be from three to six
hundred guests on the stage, a large proportion of whom were persons
whose names were at least widely known; representatives of art and
letters, of statesmanship and the various forms of public life; of the
great social world, of the professions, of commerce—of the whole great
world of personal endeavour.

On this particular occasion there was a large gathering. When the
curtain went up on the empty proscenium, the big stage seemed a solid
mass of men and women. One could tell Irving’s whereabouts by the press
of friends thronging round to congratulate him on the renewal of his
success in _Richard III._ of twenty years before.

Little by little as time wore away the crowd thinned. When the last had
gone Irving and a very dear friend of his, Professor (afterwards Sir
James) Dewar, went for a while to the Garrick Club. After the strain of
such a night sleep was shy and the kindest thing that any friend could
do was to keep with him and talk over matters old and new, so as to make
a break between strain and rest. That night was a strangely exciting one
to Irving. On it he had reproduced after a lapse of just twenty years
one of the greatest and most surprising successes of his earlier life.
For _Richard III._ when he played it in 1877 was a new thing to all who
saw it. Clement Scott, writing of it in the _Daily Telegraph_, had said:

“The enjoyment derived from the performance was undoubtedly heightened
by the pleasurable astonishment with which the playgoer made the
unexpected discovery of a new source of dramatic delight. It is not
often that a frequenter of theatres can recall in the course of a long
experience one particular night when the channels of thought seemed to
be flushed by a tide of new sensations.”

On the night of its revival all the old triumph came back afresh. No
wonder that the player was too high-strung to rest. From the Garrick the
two friends walked to Albemarle Street where Dewar had his rooms in the
Royal Institution. There they sat and smoked for a while and discussed
the philosophy of Acting and the form of education which would be most
beneficial for Irving’s sons. When Irving rose to go home—he lived
literally “round the corner” in 15A Grafton Street, Dewar went with him.
Irving insisted on his going in for a few minutes. This he acceded to,
anxious that the super-wearied man should not feel lonely at such a
time. After a cigar Dewar left. It was then coming daylight, and Irving
announced his intention of taking a bath before turning in. Dewar left
him tranquil and now ready for his needed rest.

The stairs in the Grafton Street “upper part” were steep and narrow, and
Irving in the dim light of morning which was stealing into the staircase
slipped a foot on the top stair. Unfortunately on the narrow landing
stood an old oak chest. His knee as he slipped struck this, and the blow
and the strain of recovery ruptured the ligatures under the knee cap.
When in the morning the surgeon who had been sent for saw him he
declared that it would be utterly impossible for him to play for some
time. Further advice was even more pessimistic, placing the period at
months.

The disaster of that morning was the beginning of many which struck, and
struck, and struck again as though to even up his long prosperity to the
normal measure allotted to mankind.

It was ten weeks before he was able to play again. Ellen Terry had gone
to Homburg—whither she had been recommended—the day after _Cymbeline_—
which had preceded _Richard III._—had been taken off. It was the end of
January before she could give up her “cure” and return to London. She
played _Olivia_ for three weeks with good effect. We had tried
_Cymbeline_ for a week after Christmas; but with Irving and Ellen Terry
out of the cast the receipts were such that though the salaries, rent
and such running expenses had to be paid in any case, it was cheaper to
close than go on. The entire income did not nearly pay the expenses of
keeping the theatre open instead of shut.

That accident of a foot-slip cost Irving two months and a half of
illness and an out-of-pocket expense of over six thousand pounds. This
instead of the prosperous winter season which had already seemed
assured.

A little more than a year afterwards, February 1898, came the burning of
the storage, which I have already described, and the effect of which was
so permanently disastrous in crippling effort. Eight months after that
came the greatest calamity of his life.

The disasters of these three years, 1896–7–8, seemed cumulative and
consistent. The first struck his activity; the second crippled his
resources; the third destroyed his health.

III

To any human being health is a boon. To an actor, _quâ_ actor, it is
existence. During the provincial tour in the autumn of 1898 all was
going well. We had got through the earlier weeks of the tour when we
had, through very hot weather, played at some of the lesser places and
were now in the big cities. Birmingham and Edinburgh had shown fine
results of the week’s work in each place, and we were in the midst of
the first week in Glasgow—always a stronghold of Irving. On the Thursday
night, 13th October, we were playing _Madame Sans-Gêne_ to a fine house
and all was going splendidly. Just before the curtain went up on the
second act, in which Napoleon makes his appearance, Irving sent for me
to my office. I came at once to his dressing-room. I found him sitting
down dressed for his part. His face was drawn with pain at each breath.
When I came in he said:

“I think there must be something wrong with me. Every breath is like a
sword-stab. I don’t think I ought to be suffering like this without
seeing some one.” As I saw that he was really ill, I asked if I might go
and dismiss the audience. But he would not hear of it. Never in his life
have I known him let any pain of his own keep him from his work. He
said:

“I shall be able to get through all right; but when I have seen a doctor
we may have to make some change for to-morrow.” I hurried off to send
for a doctor, and as his call came he went on the stage. The doctor
arrived during the last act, but he could not see him till the end of
the play. Then the doctor said he feared he was seriously ill, and
hurried him off to his hotel—and to bed. A careful examination showed
that he had both pneumonia and pleurisy. Two nurses of special
excellence were picked out and preparations were made for a lengthy
illness.

The bill for next night was _The Merchant of Venice_, and Norman Forbes,
almost without preparation, played Shylock. The tour went on by Irving’s
wish, for the livelihood of some seventy people depended on it. The ten
weeks which it lasted cost him a very considerable sum of money.

The cause of his illness was a chill he received the previous Sunday.
That day the Company went from Edinburgh to Glasgow, but he remained as
he had an engagement to lunch at Dalmeny with Lord Rosebery. In the
afternoon he drove back to Edinburgh and took train. At that time,
however, the new station of the North British Railway was in process of
erection and had reached a stage in which the road from Princes Street
down to the level of the line was blocked during reconstruction; so that
it was necessary to walk down. There had been a good deal of rain that
afternoon and the torn roadway was full of water-pools. In walking
through the imperfectly lighted way he got his feet wet and had to sit
in this condition in a carriage without a foot-warmer during the hour’s
journey to Glasgow. He did not feel the ill effects immediately, but the
seeds of the disease, or rather the diseases, had been laid.

Of course during his illness he had every help and care that could be.
But his case was a bad one. For seven weeks he lay ill in Glasgow.
During this time I almost lived in trains, seeing the work started and
finished in each town and in the meantime travelling to Glasgow and to
London, where immense and responsible work for the future had to be
done. Forbes-Robertson had then the Lyceum for an autumn season, but his
tenancy expired at Christmas. So we arranged that the Carl Rosa Opera
Company should play for six weeks. Then Martin Harvey would produce a
play, _The Only Way_, a version of Charles Dickens’ _A Tale of Two
Cities_, dramatised by Freeman Wills. Our negotiations for letting the
theatre were very difficult, for as we did not know when it would be
possible for Irving to play, we had in every case to have the option of
bringing the temporary tenancy to an end at any time to suit us. This
involved that every arrangement made by any one renting the theatre
should contain similar conditions with other people. Nevertheless,
through all difficulties we arranged for the provisional occupation of
the theatre at a good rental right up to the end of July.

As I used to see Irving every few days I could note his progress—down or
up. At first, of course, he got worse and worse; weaker, and suffering
more pain. He had never in his life been anything but lean, but now as
he lost flesh the outline of his features grew painfully keen. The
cheeks and chin and lips, which he had kept clean-shaven all his life,
came out stubbly with white hair. At that time his hair was iron-grey,
but no more. I remember one early morning when I came into the
sitting-room and found his faithful valet, Walter, in tears. When I
asked him the cause—for I feared it was death—he said through his sobs:

“He is like Gregory Brewster!”—the old soldier in _Waterloo_. Walter did
not come into the room with me; he feared he would break down and so do
harm. When I stole into the room Irving had just waked. He was glad to
see me, but he looked very old and weak. Poor Walter’s description was
sadly accurate. Indeed he realised the pathetic picture of the dying Sir
John Falstaff given by Mrs. Quickly: “His nose was as sharp as a
pen....”

It was not till 7th December that he was well enough to get back to
London. On the 15th at Manchester, where I then was with the Company, I
got a wire from him asking to see me at once on urgent business. I saw
him next morning. The business was regarding a speculative offer made to
him, against which I strongly advised him. The business did not,
however, require much thought; it came to an end before it was well
started. That day he left for Bournemouth. He was looking well when he
left, though still very weak. He felt much even the going _down_ stairs
from his second floor in Grafton Street. For the remainder of his life
he could never with ease go _up_ stairs.

On Wednesday morning, 21st December, I got a wire asking me to come down
to Bournemouth by the 2.15 train. I arrived at five at the Bath Hotel
where he was staying. The note in my diary says:

“H. I. looking well. Much stronger, self-possessed and evenly
balanced. Arranged to tour at Easter. Lyceum season in September and
October. American tour in autumn.”

This was just what I had already advised. We had arranged for a
rack-rental of the Lyceum for the season. We should have a tour of three
months with small expenses, as we should only take a few plays with
light casts and would only play in places in which he had never
appeared. The satisfactory result was a foregone conclusion.

Then would come a holiday of two months to recuperate and get strong,
and then a season of eight weeks in London. This, too, promised more
than well. He had already arranged with Sardou and Moreau to produce
_Robespierre_ that year (1899); and as he had paid a thousand pounds
advance royalties he would have no fees to pay for five or six weeks. He
had then also an offer of ten thousand pounds for his lease of the
Lyceum to come into operation after October. This offer was still open
in case he should wish to avail himself of it. The American tour
promised a rich reward.

Irving’s judgment was at high tide when with fresh hope and vigour he
accepted this policy. I left him the next morning to join the tour at
Brighton where it was to finish on Saturday, Christmas Eve. We were both
in good spirits, hopeful and happy.

It was an unfortunate thing for his own prosperity that Irving did not
adhere to the arrangement then made. I fear that the chagrin which he
felt at the check to his plans had too operative a force with him. When
the offer made by the parent Lyceum Theatre Company was put before him
he jumped at it; and before he had consulted with me about it, or even
told me of it, he had actually signed a tentative acceptance. It was now
three weeks since he had agreed as to the policy of the immediate
future. Loveday and I had been during that time engaged in working out
the provincial and American tours, so that it was a surprise when he
sent to us both to come down to Bournemouth to see him regarding the new
proposal. We went down on the 12th January and stayed a few days. We
discussed the matter of the Company’s proposition, and I laid before him
some memoranda comparing this with the scheme already in hand. The
advantage was all to the latter. It was easy to see, however, that
Irving’s mind was made up. The new scheme was attractive to him in his
then condition and circumstances. He had been recently very, very ill
and was still physically weak. He had for over two years felt the want
of capital or of such organised association of interests as makes for
helpfulness; and here was something which would share, if it did not
lift, the burden. At any rate, whatever may have been the cause or the
prevailing argument or interest with him, he had in this matter made up
his mind. When a man of his strong nature makes up his mind to a course
of action he generally goes on with it despite reasons or arguments. So
far as facts and deeds go he is like a horse that has taken the bit
between its teeth. He listened, as ever, attentively and courteously and
with seeming thoughtfulness, to all I had to say—and then shifted
conversation to details, as though the main principle had been already
accepted. On the 14th Comyns Carr came down on behalf of the Company as
had been agreed before Irving sent for us. Together we all went over the
scheme. As Irving had accepted the principle and was determined to go
on, we could only discuss details. I tried hard to get a betterment of
the sharing terms; but without avail. The only change of importance I
could effect was that Irving should be put down for the same salary—
almost nominal to an actor of his position—which had always been entered
on our books. Even this was to be only the provincial salary, not the
American which was three times as much. This concession, however, as to
salary was eventually to him an addition of some five thousand pounds. A
few lesser matters, such as the Company sharing the cost of storage,
were to his betterment.

In the original proposition it had been, I believe, suggested that
Irving should be a director of the Company, but when he told me of this
I said such a decided “No” that he acquiesced. I impressed on him that
he must not have his name in any form as a participant in the venture
mentioned. He was selling to the Company and sharing his outside profits
with them; and that such being the measure of his association, he should
not be implicated beyond it.

According to our previous plan of policy I was already in treaty with
Charles Frohman regarding the tour in America, to begin in the autumn of
that year. There was to be no change in this arrangement, as after the
London season with _Robespierre_ was to come this tour. The
correspondence with Frohman had now reached a point when it was
absolutely necessary that one or other of us should cross the Atlantic.
A multitude of details had to be discussed, and as this was our first
business transaction with Frohman, all had to be gone over carefully so
as to insure a full understanding of our mutual and individual interests
and responsibilities. This could not possibly be done by cable, and
there was no time for letters; already we were nearly a year later than
was usual with such arrangements. As we had to settle things face to
face, and as his own affairs would not allow of Frohman’s leaving
America at that time, I had to go to New York. I left London on 31st
January, 1899, and arrived at New York in the _Germanic_ on 11th
February—after coming through the greatest storm in the North Atlantic
ever recorded. I left New York in the _Teutonic_ on 22nd February, and
arrived in London on 1st March. During the time of my absence everything
in which Irving was concerned had been completed. The contract between
him and the Syndicate Company had been finally settled by the
solicitors. The Syndicate Company had sold its rights to the Lyceum
Theatre Company, which had been effectively floated and of which the
whole capital had been subscribed. There was not anything left to me to
do in the matter.

On my return I was surprised to hear that, in addition to the amount of
capital originally mentioned in the provisional contract with Irving as
that of the final Company to which his agreement was to be transferred
on its flotation—namely, £170,000 in £100,000 6 per cent. preference and
£70,000 ordinary shares—there appeared a sum of £120,000 mortgage
debentures given to the original freeholders as a part of the purchase
money. This made the responsibility of the Company up to £290,000.

Later on I learned that Irving’s name had appeared in the prospectus as
“Dramatic Adviser,” a thing against which I had cautioned him. As a
matter of fact he was never called by the directorate of the Company to
fulfil the function. Once, he _offered_ advice as to an engagement—which
advice was happily taken to considerable advantage to the Company. But
so far as I know he was never asked for his advice, nor were the
Company’s prospective arrangements ever made known to him in advance of
the public intimation. I mention this here as it is, I think, advisable
for his sake that it should be known.

With the one exception of Gillette’s engagement, he never had knowledge
of, or act or part in any of the business of the Lyceum Theatre Company
outside those matters dependent on or arising from his own agreement
with them.

As to myself: for right or wrong, when once I had communicated to him my
views on the advisability of his contracting with the Company at all, I
had no part in the matter and no responsibility.

After that illness of 1898 Irving’s health was never the same as it had
been before it. There was always a shortness of breath which, if it did
not limit effort, made him careful how he exerted himself. It may have
been partly this; it may have been partly the wound to a proud nature
which was entailed by the long series of misfortunes with their
consequent losses; but there was a certain shrinkage within himself
during the last seven years of his life which was only too apparent to
the eyes of those who loved him. To the outer world he still bore
himself as ever: quiet, self-contained, masterful in his long purpose.
Perhaps the little note of defiance which was added was the conscious
recognition of the blows of Fate. But outside his own immediate circle
this was not to be seen; he was far too good an actor to betray himself.
The bitterness was all for himself. He did not vent it on any one; he
did not blame any one. He took it as a good fighter takes a hard blow:
he fought all the more valiantly. When he was stricken with pleurisy and
pneumonia he was in his sixty-first year. He had been working hard for
forty-two years; strenuously for twenty-seven of them. Growing age more
or less limits the resilient power; labour so exacting and so prolonged
increases vastly the wear and tear of life. So we may, I think, take it
that he was actually older than his years. Thus every little ailment
told on him with undue force. Things that he used not to mind had now to
be carefully considered. He had when working to give up many of his old
pleasures so as to save himself for his work. Amongst these pleasures
was that of sitting up late. Work had to be considered first, and last,
and between; and whatever would take from his strength had to be
rigorously put aside. Thus life lost part of its charm for him. He felt
it deeply; and, all unknowing, was fostered that bitterness which had
struck root already. It is the nature of strong men to fight harder
through evil hours; and this was indeed a strong man. He would not give
way on any point. Well he knew, with that deep, true instinct of his
which is always the superior to mere logical thought, that to give way
in anything however small is the beginning of the end.

His bearing through the last seven years was truly heroic. Now that it
may be spoken of and known, I may say that I can recall in my own
experience nothing like it. Each day, each hour, had its own tally of
difficulty to be overcome—of pain or hardship to be borne—of some form
of self-denial to be exercised. For a long time before this he had a
complaint which always goes on increasing—a complaint common to actors
and to all men and women who have to speak much; the complaint which is
called “clergyman’s sore throat.” Doctors classify it as _Follicular
Pharyngitis_. It is, as well as an irritating and often painful malady,
a lowering condition from its constant loss of those secretions which
make for perfect health. After his illness this seemed to grow to
alarming proportions. Month by month and year by year the weakening
expectoration increased, till for the last three years he used some
_five hundred_ pocket-handkerchiefs in each week. Such a detail is a
somewhat sickening one even to read—what must it have been to the poor
brave soul who through it all had to so bear himself as to conceal it
from the world. He who lived with the fierce light of publicity on him
had eternally to play his part day and night, bearing his old brave
front so that none might know. Whoso is worthy to wear the crown must
have the courage and the patience to endure. I ask no pity for him. He
would have scorned even with his dying breath to ask for himself pity
from any of the sons of men. But to ask for pity and to deserve it are
different things. It is my duty—my privilege now that in the perspective
of history, recent though it be, I am writing the true inwardness of his
life—to speak the exact truth so that those who loved him, even those
who were content to accept him unquestioned, should learn how
unfalteringly brave he was. It was not till February 1905 when after a
hard night’s work he fell fainting in the hall-way of the hotel at
Wolverhampton that the true cause of his weakness was diagnosed.
Fortunately he fell into the hands of one of the most able doctors in
England, Dr. W. A. Lloyd-Davis of that town—a man to whom grateful
thanks are due for his loving care of my dear friend. He it was who
discovered that for more than six years—ever since his attack of
pleurisy and pneumonia—Irving had been coughing up pus from an unhealed
lung. I ask no pardon for giving these medical details. It was prudent
to be silent all those years; but the time has gone for such reticence.
It is well that the truth should be known.

Many and many a time; day or night; in stillness; in travel; in tropic
heat such as now and again is experienced in early summer in America;
through raging blizzards; in still cold when the thermometer registered
down to figures below zero which would kill us in a breath did we have
it in our moist atmosphere; in dust-storms of rapid travel; in the
abounding dust of many theatres, the man had to toil unendingly. For
others there was rest; for him none. For others there was cessation, or
at worst now and again a lull in the storm of responsibility; for him
none. Others could find occasional seclusion; for him there was no such
thing. His very popularity was an added strain and trial to increasing
weakness and ill-health. But in all, and through all, he never faltered
or thought of faltering. For the well-meaning friend or stranger there
was the same ever-ready hand of friendship, the same old winning smile
of welcome. He might have later to pay for the added strain entailed by
his very kindness of heart, but he went on his way all the same.

Henry Irving had undertaken to play the game of life; and he played it
well. Right up to the very last hour of his life, when he was at work he
_would not_ think of himself. He would play as he had ever played: to
the best of his power; in the fulness of his intention; with the last
ounce of his strength.

If those who make it their business to direct the minds of youth knew
what I know about him they would take this man—this great Englishman—as
a shining light of endeavour; as a living embodiment of that fine
principle, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might.” All his life long Irving worked for others—for his art; never
for himself. If rewards came—and they showered upon him—he took them
meekly without undue pride, without arrogance; never as other than
tributes beyond his worth. He made throughout years a great fortune, but
nearly all of it he spent as it came on his art, and in helping his
poorer brethren. His own needs were small. He lived in a few rooms, ate
sparingly, drank moderately. He had no vices that I know of; he was not
extravagant; did not gamble, was not ostentatious even in his charities.
There are many widows and orphans who mourn his loss; if only for his
comforting sympathy and the helping of his kindly hand. In the sacred
niche of many, many hearts there is a blank space which only a memory—no
longer an image—fills.

_Requiescat in pace!_

In those last seven years of his life I was not able to see so much of
him as I had been in the habit of doing throughout the previous twenty.
We had each of us his own work to do, and the only way I could help him
was to take on my own shoulders all the work I could. As he did not come
to his office in the theatre regularly every day as he was accustomed to
do, I used to go to him; to his flat in Stratton Street when in London,
to his hotel when we travelled. He did not often have supper in the old
way. He still entertained to a reasonable amount, but such
entertainments were generally in the shape of dinners on Sunday, the
only day possible to him. When the play was over at night he would dress
slowly, having a chat as he did so; for he loved to talk over his work
past, present and future. When travelling he would often be reluctant to
take his way to his lonely home—if indeed a hotel can be called a home.
When in London he would linger and linger; the loneliness of his home
made it in a degree a prison house. But all that while, night by night
and year by year, he would stick to his purpose of saving himself for
his work—at any cost to himself in the shape of loss of pleasure, of any
form of self-abnegation.

Thus it was that through those last seven years I saw less of his
private life than I had hitherto done. My work became to save him all I
could. Of course each day during working months, each night—except at
holiday times—I would see him for hours; and our relations were always
the same. But the opportunities were different. Seldom now were there
the old long meetings when occasion was full of chances for
self-development, for self-illumination; when idea leads on idea till
presently the secret chambers of the soul are made manifest. Seldom did
one gather the half-formed thoughts and purposes which tell so much of
the inner working of the mind. It was, of course, in part that hopes and
purposes belonged to an earlier age. There is more life and spring in
intentions that have illimitable possibilities than in those that are
manifestly bounded, if not cramped, by existing and adverse facts. But
the effect was the same. The man, wearied by long toil and more or less
deprived by age and health of the spurs of ambition, shrank somewhat
into himself.

This book is no mere panegyric; it is not intended to be. For my own
part, my love and admiration for Irving were such that nothing I could
tell to others—nothing that I can recall to myself—could lessen his
worth. I only wish that, so far as I can achieve it, others now and
hereafter may see him with my eyes. For well I know that if they do, his
memory shall not lack. He was a man with all a man’s weaknesses and
mutabilities as well as a man’s strong qualities. Had he not had in his
own nature all the qualities of natural man how could he have for close
on half a century embodied such forces—general and distinctive—in such a
long series of histrionic characters whose fidelity to natural type
became famous. I have the feeling strong upon me that the more Irving’s
inner life is known, the better he must stand in the minds and hearts of
all to whom his name, his work, and his fame are of interest.

The year 1899 was so overwhelmingly busy a one for him that he had
little time to think. But the next year, despite the extraordinary
success which attended his work, he began to feel the loss of his own
personal sway over the destinies of the Lyceum. There was in truth no
need for worrying. The work of that year made for the time an
extraordinary change in his fortunes. In the short season of fifteen
weeks at the Lyceum the gross receipts exceeded twenty-eight thousand
pounds. Five weeks’ tour in the Provinces realised over eleven thousand
pounds. And the tour in America of twenty-nine weeks reached the amazing
total of over half a million dollars. To be exact $537,154.25. The
exchange value in which all our American tour calculations were made was
$4.84 per £1. So that the receipts become in British money £110,982
4_s._ 9_d._—leaving a net profit of over thirty-two thousand pounds.

But the feeling of disappointment was not to be soothed by material
success. Money, except as a means to an end, never appealed to Irving.
We knew afterwards that the bitterness that then came upon him, and
which lasted in lessening degree for some three years, was due in the
main to his surely fading health. To him any form of lingering
ill-health was a novelty. All his life up till then he had been
amazingly strong. Not till after he was sixty did he know what it was to
have toothache in ever so small a degree. I do not think that he ever
knew at all what a headache was like. To such a man, and specially to
one who has been in the habit of taxing himself to the full of his
strength, restriction of effort from any cause brings a sense of
inferiority. So far as I can estimate it, for he never hinted at it much
less put it in words, Irving’s tinge of bitterness was a sort of protest
against Fate. Certainly he never visited it on any of those around him.
Indeed, in any other man it would hardly have been noticeable; but
Irving’s nature was so sweet, and he was so really thoughtful for his
fellow workers of all classes, that anything which clouded it was a
concern to all.

As his health grew worse the bitterness began to pass away; and for the
last two years of his life his nature, softened however to a new
tenderness, went back to its old dignified calm.

In the spring of 1905 came the beginning of the end. He had since his
illness gone through the rigours of two American winters without
seemingly ill effect. But now he began to lose strength. Still, despite
all he would struggle on, and acted nightly with all his old unsparing
energy and fire. The audiences saw little difference; he alone it was
who suffered. Since the beginning of the new century his great ventures
had not been successful. _Coriolanus_ in 1901 and _Dante_ in 1903 were
costly and unsuccessful. Both plays were out of joint with the time. The
public in London, the Provinces and America would not have them; though
the latter play ran well for a few weeks before the public of London
made up their minds that it was an inferior play. In both pieces Irving
himself made personal success; it was the play in each case that was not
popular. This was shown everywhere by the result of the change of bill;
whenever any other play was put up the house was crowded. But a great
organisation like Irving’s requires perpetual sustenance at fairly high
pressure. The five years of the new century saw a gradual oozing away of
accumulation. The “production account” alone of that time exceeded
twenty-five thousand pounds.

Had he been able to take a prolonged rest, say for a year, he might have
completely recovered from the injury to his lung. But it is the penalty
of public success that he who has achieved it must keep it. The
slightest break is dangerous; to fall back or to lose one’s place in the
running is to be forgotten. He therefore made up his mind to accept the
position of failing health and strength, and to set a time limit for his
further efforts.

VII

The time for his retirement he fixed to be at the conclusion of his
having been fifty years on the stage. He made the announcement at a
supper given to him by the Manchester Art Club on June 1, 1904. This
would give him two years in which to take farewell of the public. The
time, though seeming at the first glance to be a generous one, was in
reality none too long. There were only about forty working weeks in each
year, eighty altogether. Of these the United States and Canada would
absorb thirty. The Provinces would require three tours of some twelve
weeks each. London would have fourteen or fifteen weeks in two
divisions, during which would be given all the available plays in his
_répertoire_.

At the conclusion of the tour we arranged with Mr. Charles Frohman, who
secured for us the American dates for which we asked. We had made out
the tour ourselves, choosing the best towns and taking them in such
sequence that the railway travel should be minimised. All was ready, and
on 19th September we began at Cardiff our series of farewell visits. The
Welsh people are by nature affectionate and emotional. The last night at
Cardiff was a touching farewell. This was repeated at Swansea with a
strange addition: when the play was over and the calls finished the
audience stood still in their places and seemingly with one impulse
began to sing. They are all fine part-singers in those regions, and it
was a strange and touching effect when the strains of Newman’s beautiful
hymn, “Lead, kindly light,” filled the theatre. Then followed their own
national song, “Land of my fathers.”

Irving was much touched. He had come out before the curtain to listen
when the singing began; and when, after the final cheering of the
audience, he went back to his dressing-room the tears were still wet on
his cheeks.

During that tour at half the places the visit was of farewell. For the
tour had been arranged before Irving had made up his mind about
retiring, and it was the intention that the last tour of all, before the
final short season in London, should be amongst the eight greatest
provincial cities.

VIII

In one of the towns then visited and where the visit was to be the final
one, there was a very remarkable occasion. At Sunderland he had made his
first appearance in 1856, and now the city wished to mark the
circumstance of his last appearance in a worthy way. A public banquet
was organised at which he was presented with an Address on behalf of the
authorities and the townspeople. The function took place on the
afternoon of Friday, October 28, 1904. The occasion was of special
interest to Irving. For weeks beforehand his mind was full of it, for it
brought back a host of old memories. He talked often with me of those
old days, and every little detail seemed to come back vividly in that
wonderful memory of his which could always answer to whatever call was
made upon it. Amongst the little matters of those days when all things
were of transcendent importance was one which had its full complement of
chagrin and pain. In the preliminary bill regarding the New Lyceum
Theatre, where the names of all the Company were given, his own name was
wrongly spelled. It was given as “Mr. Irvine.” At that time the name in
reality did not matter much. It was not known in any way; it was not
even his own by birthright, or as later by the Queen’s Patent. But it
was the name he hoped and intended to make famous; and the check at the
very start seemed a cruel blow. Of course the error was corrected, and
on the opening night all was right.

In his early life he was very unfortunate regarding the proper spelling
of his name. I find in the bill of his first appearance in Glasgow at
the Dunlop Street Theatre his name thus given in the case of the great
spectacular play, given on Easter Monday, April 9, 1869, _The Indian
Revolt_:

“Achmet, a Hindoo attached to the Nana, by Mr. Irwig (his first
appearance).”

I do not think that these two mistakes ever quite left his memory—
certainly he was always very particular about his name being put in the
bill exactly as he had arranged it.

The Sunderland function went off splendidly. Everything went so well
that the whole affair was a delight to him and gave the city of his
first appearance a new and sweet claim on his memory.

Another provincial tour was arranged for the spring of 1905. It began at
Portsmouth on the 23rd January and was to go on to 8th April, when it
would conclude at Wigan. But severe and sudden illness checked it in the
middle of the fifth week. The passage through the South and West had
been very trying, for in addition to seven performances a week and many
journeys there were certain public hospitalities to which he had been
pledged. At Plymouth, lunch on Wednesday with the Admiral, Sir Edward
Seymour; and on Thursday with the Mayor, Mr. Wyncotes and others, in the
Plymouth Club. At Exeter, on Wednesday a Public Address and Reception in
the Guildhall. Two days later at Bath a ceremony of unveiling a memorial
to Quin the actor, followed by a civic lunch with the Mayor, Mr. John,
in the Guildhall. On the following Tuesday, 21st February, a Public
Address was to be presented in the Town Hall of Wolverhampton under the
auspices of the Mayor, Mr. Berrington.

But by this time Irving had become so alarmingly ill that we were very
seriously anxious. After the performance of _The Lyons Mail_ at Boscombe
on 3rd February he had been very ill and feeble, though he had so played
that the audience were not aware of his state of health. The note in my
diary for that day is:

“H. I. fearfully done up, could hardly play. At end in collapse. Could
hardly move or breathe.”

His wonderful recuperative power, however, stood to him. Next day he
played _The Merchant of Venice_ in the morning and _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_ at night.

The function at Bath was very trying. The weather was bitterly cold, yet
he stood bareheaded in the street speaking to a vast crowd. This
required a great voice effort. It was a striking sight, for not only was
the street packed solid with people, but every window was full and the
high roofs were like clusters of bees. Our journey on the following
Sunday was from Bath to Wolverhampton. Much snow had fallen and there
was intense frost. So difficult was the railroading that our “special”
was forty-five minutes late in a scheduled journey of three hours and
ten minutes. In that journey Irving got a chill which began to tell at
once on his strength. On Monday night he played _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_. My note is:

“H. I. very weak, but got through all right.”

But that night in going into the hotel he fainted—for the first time in
his life! He did not know he had fainted until I told him the next
morning. When the doctor saw him in the morning he said that he would
not possibly be able to go to the Town Hall in the afternoon and play at
night; that he was really fit for neither, but he might get through
_one_ of them. _Becket_ was fixed for that night, and it was
comparatively light work for him. That night he played all right, but at
the end was done up, and short of breath. The next night he played _The
Merchant of Venice_, and at the end of the play made his speech of
farewell to Wolverhampton. But his condition of illness was such that we
decided that the tour must be abandoned. Dr. Lloyd-Davies was with him
in the theatre all the evening and did him yeoman’s service. The next
day Dr. Foxwell of Birmingham came over for consultation. After their
examination the following bulletin was issued:

“It is imperatively necessary that Sir Henry Irving shall not act for
at least two months from this date.

“ARTHUR FOXWELL, M.D.

“W. ALLAN LLOYD-DAVIES, L.R.C.P., F.R.C.S.”

On 17th March I visited Irving at Wolverhampton. He was looking
infinitely better and we had a drive before luncheon. The two doctors
had another consultation and it was decided that Irving must not go to
America, as arranged for the following autumn. Loveday came down by a
later train, and he and Irving and I consulted as to future
arrangements. We returned to London next day and a few days later Irving
left Wolverhampton for Torquay, where he remained till 19th April.

In the meantime I had seen Charles Frohman and postponed our American
tour for a year.

A short season of six weeks had been arranged for Drury Lane. This began
on 29th April. There were three weeks of _Becket_ and two of _The
Merchant of Venice_. In the last week were four nights of _Waterloo_ and
_Becket_, the last performance of this bill being the last night of the
season, and two nights of _Louis XI._ All went well for the six weeks.
He was none the worse for the effort.

The last night of the season, June 10, 1905, was one never to be
forgotten by any one who was present. It almost seemed as if the public
had some precognition that it was the last time they would see Irving
play. The house was crowded in every part—an enormous audience, the
biggest Irving ever played to in London—and full of wild enthusiasm. An
inspiring audience! Irving felt it and played magnificently; he never
played better in his life. The moment of his entrance was the signal for
a roar of welcome, prolonged to an extraordinary degree. Something of
the same kind marked the close of each act. At the end the audience
simply went mad. It was a scene to be present at once in a lifetime. The
calls were innumerable. Time after time the curtain had to be raised to
ever the same wild roar. It was marvellous how the strength of the
audience held out so long.

It had been arranged that on that night at the close of the play the
presentation of a Loving Cup by the workmen of all the theatres
throughout the kingdom should take place on the stage. The
representatives of the various theatres assembled in due course, about a
hundred of them. As there were to be some speeches, a moment of quiet
was necessary; we tried turning down the lights in the theatre, for
still the audience kept cheering. It never ceased—that prolonged
insistent note of perpetual renewals which once heard has a place in
memory. After a while we did a thing I never saw done before: the lights
were turned quite out. But still the audience remained cheering through
the black darkness of the house.

[Illustration:

HENRY IRVING AND JOHN HARE

_The last photograph of Henry Irving taken in John Hare’s garden at
Overstrand by Miss Hare, 1905_
]

Irving with his usual discernment and courtesy recognised the right
thing to do. He ordered the curtain to go up once more; and stepping in
front of the stage said, so soon as the wild roar of renewed strength,
stilled on purpose, would allow him:

“Ladies and gentlemen,—We have a little ceremony of our own to take
place on the stage to-night. I think, however, it will be the mind of
all my friends on the stage that you should join in our little
ceremony. So with your permission we will go on with it.”

Another short sharp cheer and then sudden stillness.

The presentation was made in due form and then—the curtain still
remaining up, for there was to be no more formal barrier that night—the
audience, cheering all the time, melted away.

It was a worthy finish to a lifetime of loving appreciation of the art
work of a great man.

This was Irving’s last regular London performance, and with the
exception of his playing _Waterloo_ for the benefit of his old friend,
Lionel Brough, at His Majesty’s Theatre on 15th June, the last time he
ever appeared in London.

The autumn tour of that year, 1905, was fixed for ten weeks and a half,
to commence at Sheffield on 2nd October. The tour commenced very well.
There were fine houses despite the fact that it was the week of the
Musical Festival. On Tuesday, 3rd, the Lord Mayor, Sir Joseph Jonas,
gave a great luncheon for him in the Town Hall. Irving was in good form
and spoke well. There was nothing noticeable in his playing or regarding
his health all that week. On Saturday night there was a big house and
much enthusiasm. Irving seemed much touched as he said farewell. From
Sheffield we went on to Bradford.

The Monday and Tuesday night at Bradford went all right. Irving did not
seem ill or extremely weak. We had by now been accustomed to certain
physical feebleness—except when he was on the stage. On Wednesday the
Mayor, Mr. Priestley, was giving a big lunch for him in the Town Hall,
at which he was to be presented with a Public Address. I joined him at
his hotel at a little past one o’clock and we went together to the Town
Hall. He seemed very feeble that morning, and as we went slowly up the
steep steps he paused several times to get his breath. He had become an
adept at concealing his physical weakness on such occasions. He would
seize on some point of local or passing interest and make inquiries
about it, so that by the time the answer came he would have been rested.
There was a party of some fifty gentlemen, all friends, all hearty, all
delightful. On the presentation of the Address he spoke well, but looked
sadly feeble.

That night we played _Louis XI._ He got through his work all right, but
was very exhausted after it. The bill of the next night was the one we
dreaded, _The Bells_. I had been with him at his hotel for an hour in
the morning and we had got through our usual work together. He seemed
feeble, but made no complaint. There was a great house that night. When
Irving arrived he seemed exceedingly feeble though not ill. In his
dressing-room I noticed that he did that which I had never known him do
before: sit down in a listless way and delay beginning to dress for his
part. He seemed tired, tired; tired not for an hour but for a lifetime.
He played, however, just as usual. There was no perceptible diminution
of his strength—of his fire. But when the play was over he was
absolutely exhausted. Whilst he was dressing I went in and sat with him,
having previously given instructions to the Master Machinist to send
_The Bells_ back to London. When I told Irving what I had done he
acquiesced in it and seemed relieved. He had played _The Bells_ against
the strong remonstrances of Loveday and myself. Knowing him as I did, I
came to the conclusion that his doing so was to prove himself. He had
felt weak but would not yield to the suspicion; he wanted to _know_.

It may be wondered at or even asked why Henry Irving was allowed to play
at all, being in his then state of weakness.

In the first place, Irving was his own master, and took his own course
entirely. He was of a very masterful nature and took on his own
shoulders the full responsibility of his acts. He would listen to the
advice of those whom he trusted naturally, or had learned to trust; but
he was, within the limits of possibility, the final arbiter of matters
concerning himself in which there was any power of choice. The forces of
a strong nature have to be accepted _en bloc_; these very indomitable
forces of resolution and persistence—of the disregard of pain or
weariness to himself which had given him his great position—ruled him in
weakness as in strength. His will was the controlling power of his later
as of his earlier days.

Moreover, he _could not_ stop. To do so would have been final
extinction. His affairs were such that it was necessary to go on for the
sake of himself in such span of life as might be left to him, and for
the sake of others. The carrying out of his purpose of going through his
farewell tours would mean the realisation of a fortune; without such he
would begin the unproductive period of age in poverty. Accustomed as he
had been now for many years to carry out his wishes in his own way: to
do whatever he had set his heart on and to help his many friends and
comrades, to be powerless in such matters would have been to him a
never-ending pain of chagrin. All this, of course over and above the
ties and duties of his family and his own personal needs. He was a very
proud man, and the inevitable blows to his pride would have been to him
worse than death—especially when such might be obviated by labour,
howsoever arduous or dangerous the same might be. We who knew him well
recognised all this. All that we could do was to keep our own counsel,
and to help him to the best of our respective powers.

XII

The next morning, 13th October, I went to Irving at half-past twelve.
Loveday as had been arranged came at one o’clock. We three discussed
matters ahead of us fully. We decided on the changes to be made in the
bill for the following week when we were to play in Birmingham. Irving
seemed quite calm, and, under the circumstances, cheerful. He endorsed
the decision of the previous evening as to leaving _The Bells_ out of
the _répertoire_ for the remainder of the tour; he seemed pleased at not
having to play the piece for the present. We then decided on such other
arrangements as were consequently necessary. During our conversation
Irving said:

“Of course the American tour is absolutely impossible! It will have to
be abandoned! But time enough for that; we can see to it later.”

That morning he was undoubtedly feeble. He was so unusually amenable in
accepting the changes of his plans that when we were walking back I
commented on it to Loveday, saying:

“He acquiesced too easily; I never knew him so meek before. I don’t like
it!”

When he came down to the theatre that night Irving seemed much better
and stronger, and was more cheerful than he had been for some time. He
played well; and though he was somewhat exhausted, was infinitely less
so than he had been on the previous evening. There was no speech that
night, so that the last words he spoke on the stage were Becket’s last
words in the play:

“Into Thy hands, O Lord! into Thy hands!”

I sat in his room with him while he dressed. He was quite cheerful, and
we chatted freely. I thought that he had turned the corner and was
already, with that marvellous recuperative power of his, on the way to
get strong again. I told him that it was my opinion that now he was rid
of the apprehension of having to play _The Bells_ he would be himself
soon:

“You have been feeling the taking up of your work again after an absence
from it of four months, the longest time of rest in your life. Now you
have got into your stride again, and work will be easy!”

He thought for a moment and then said quietly:

“I really think that is so!” Then he seemed to get quite cheery.

Percy Burton, who arranged our advance matters, had in answer to my
telegram come over from Birmingham, so that he might be fully told of
our prospective changes. He was coming home to supper with me before he
got the train back to Birmingham. I had asked Irving if he wanted to see
him; but he said he did not, as Burton quite knew what to do. Then,
always thoughtful of others, he added:

“But if he is going by the one o’clock train you must not wait here. He
will want time to take his supper.” I stood up to go and he held out his
hand to say good-night. Afterwards, the remembrance of that affectionate
movement came back to me with gratitude, for it was not usual; when men
meet every day and every night, hand-shaking is not a part of the
routine of friendly life. As I went out he said to me:

“Muffle up your throat, old chap. It is bitterly cold to-night and you
have a cold. Take care of yourself! Good-night! God bless you!”

Those were the last words that I heard Henry Irving speak!

Burton and I were at supper when a carriage drove rapidly up to the door
of my lodging. I suspected that it was something for me and opened the
door myself at once. Mr. Sheppard, one of my assistants who always
attended to Irving’s private matters, stepped in, saying quickly:

“I think you had better come down to the Midland Hotel at once. Sir
Henry is ill. He fainted in the hall just as he did at Wolverhampton.
When the doctor came I rushed off for you!” We all jumped into the
carriage and hurried as fast as we could go to the hotel.

In the hall were some twenty men grouped round Irving who lay at full
length on the floor. One of the doctors, there were three of them there
then, told me quietly that he was dead. He had died just two minutes
before. The clock in the hall showed the time then as eight minutes to
twelve. So that he died at ten minutes to twelve.

It was almost impossible to believe, as he lay there with his eyes open,
that he was really dead. I knelt down by him and felt his heart to know
for myself if it was indeed death. But all was sadly still. His body was
quite warm. Walter Collinson, his faithful valet, was sitting on the
floor beside him, crying. He said to me through his sobs:

“He died in my arms!”

His face looked very thin and the features sharp as he lay there with
his chest high and his head fallen back; but there was none of the usual
ungracefulness of death. The long iron-grey hair had fallen back,
showing the great height of his rounded forehead. The bridge of his nose
stood out sharp and high. I closed his eyes myself; but as I had no
experience in such a matter I asked one of the doctors, who kindly with
deft fingers straightened the eyelids. Then we carried him upstairs to
his room and laid him on his bed.

I had to send a host of telegrams at once to inform the various members
of his family and the press. The latter had to go with what speed we
could, for the hour of his death was such that there was no local
information. Loveday arrived at the hotel after we had carried him to
his room. He was indeed greatly distressed and in bitter sorrow.

The actual cause of Irving’s death was physical weakness; he lost a
breath, and had not strength to recover it.

Sheppard told me that when Irving was leaving the theatre he had said to
him that he had better come to the hotel with him, as was sometimes his
duty. When he got into the carriage he had sat with his back to the
horses—this being his usual custom by which he avoided a draught. He was
quite silent during the short journey. When he got out of the carriage
he seemed very feeble, and as he passed through the outer hall of the
hotel seemed uncertain of step. He stumbled slightly and Sheppard held
him up. Then when he got as far as the inner hall he sat down on a bench
for an instant.

That instant was the fatal one. In the previous February at
Wolverhampton, when he had suffered from a similar attack of weakness,
he had fallen down flat. In that attitude Nature asserted herself, and
the lungs being in their easiest position allowed him to breathe
mechanically. Now the seated attitude did not give the opportunity for
automatic effort. The syncope grew worse; he slipped on the ground. But
it was then too late. By the time the doctor arrived, after only a few
minutes in all, he had passed too far into the World of Shadows to be
drawn back by any effort of man or science. The heart beat faintly, and
more faintly still. And then came the end.

Before I left the hotel in the grey of the morning I went into the
bedroom. It wrung my heart to see my dear old friend lie there so cold
and white and still. It was all so desolate and lonely, as so much of
his life had been. So lonely that in the midst of my own sorrow I could
not but rejoice at one thing: for him there was now Peace and Rest.

I was at the hotel again at 7.30, and then went to meet his eldest son,
H. B. Irving, at the Great Northern Station at 9.35. He had received my
telegram in time to start by the newspaper train. His other son,
Laurence, with his wife, arrived later in the day; my telegram to him
had not arrived in time to allow his coming till the morning train. The
undertaker had come in the morning at nine, and the embalming done
before Irving’s sons had arrived.

That afternoon all the Company, including the workmen, came to see him.
It was a very touching and harrowing time for all, for he was much
beloved by every one.

At seven o’clock in the evening the body was laid in the lead coffin. I
was present alone with the undertakers and saw the lead coffin sealed.
This was then placed in the great oak coffin—which an hour later was
taken privately through the yard of the Midland Hotel by a devious way
to the Great Northern Station so as to avoid publicity; for the streets
were thronged with waiting crowds. At Bradford, Saturday is a half-day,
and large numbers of people are abroad. The ex-mayor, Mr. Lupton, who
had entertained Irving in the Town Hall at his previous visit, kindly
arranged with the Chief Constable that all should be in order in the
streets. All day throughout the City the flags had been at half-mast,
and there was everywhere a remarkable silence through which came the
mournful sound of the minute-bells from seemingly all the churches.

At half-past nine we left the hotel to drive to the railway station. The
appearance of the streets and the demeanour of the crowd I shall never
forget; and I never want to. Everywhere was a sea of faces, all the more
marked as all hats were off as we drove slowly along. Street after
street of silent humanity; and in all that crowd nothing but grief and
respect. One hardly realised its completeness till when, now and then, a
sob broke the stillness. To say that it was moving would convey but a
poor idea of that attitude of the crowd; it was poignant—harrowing—
overwhelming. In silence the crowd stood back; in silence, without hurry
or pushing or stress of any kind, closed around us and followed on. It
was the same at the railway station; everywhere the silent crowd,
holding back respectfully, uncovered.

For a quarter of a century I had been accustomed when travelling with
Irving to see the rushing crowd closing in with cheers and waving of
hats and kerchiefs; to watch the moving sea of hands thrust forward for
him to shake, to hear the roar of the cheering crowd kept up till the
train began to move, and then to hear it dying away from our ears not
from cessation but from mere distance. And now this silence! No nobler
or more loving tribute than the silence of that mighty crowd could ever
be paid to the memory of one who has passed away. Were I a Yorkshireman
I should have been proud of Bradford on that day. It moves me strangely
to think of it yet.

XIII

The Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey were memorialised by a number
of persons of importance to have a Public Funeral with burial in the
Abbey. So important were the signatories that no difficulty was
experienced. The only condition made was that the body should be
cremated, as a rule had been established that henceforth no actual body
should be buried in the Abbey. The ground had in the past been so broken
that for new graves it would be necessary to go down into the concrete,
which might injure the structure. The Abbey authorities were most kind
in all ways. Dean Armitage Robinson gave from his sick-bed his approval,
and Sub-Dean Duckworth and Archdeacon Wilberforce made all arrangements.
Indeed the Dean on the day of the funeral got up in order to perform the
burial service.

The Baroness and Mr. Burdett-Coutts, knowing that Irving’s flat in 17
Stratton Street was not suited to receive the crowds who would wish to
pay their respects, kindly placed at the disposal of his family their
spacious house in Piccadilly and Stratton Street. Here on Thursday, the
19th, he lay in state. The great dining-room was made a _Chapelle
ardente_, and here were placed the many, many flowers that were sent.
There was a veritable sea of them—wreaths, crosses, symbolic forms of
all kinds. On the coffin over the heart lay the floral cross sent by the
Queen. Attached to it was a broad ribbon on which she had written as her
tribute to the dead the last words he had spoken on the stage:

“Into Thy hands, O Lord! into Thy hands!”

On a little table in front of the coffin lay the wreath sent by Ellen
Terry. Behind, hung high along the end wall of the lofty room, was the
pall—“sent anonymously,” as the card on it declared. Surely such a pall
was never before seen. It was entirely wrought of leaves of fresh
laurel. Thousands upon thousands of them went to its making up. It was
so large that at the funeral when fourteen pall-bearers marched with the
coffin it covered all the space and hung to the ground, before, behind,
and on either side.

Through that room all day long passed a silent and mournful crowd of all
classes and degrees; and at any moment of the time a single glance at
their faces would have shown what love and sorrow had brought them
there.

XIV

_a_

The Public Funeral took place on Friday, 20th October. It would be
impossible in a book of this size to give details of it, even if such
belonged to the scope of my work. Suffice it that all the honours which
can be paid to the illustrious dead were observed. The King had sent to
represent him, according to the custom of such ceremonies, Irving’s old
and dear friend, General the Right Hon. Sir Dighton Probyn, V.C. The
Queen’s formal representative was Earl Howe; but her personal tribute
was the beautiful cross of flowers which lay on the actor’s coffin. The
Prince and Princess of Wales were also represented. Others were there
also whom men call “great”—chiefs of all great endeavours. Ministers and
soldiers, ambassadors and judges, peers and great merchants, and many
sorrowing exponents of all the Arts. To name them would be impossible;
to try to describe the ceremony unavailing. But the place for all this
is not here; it belongs now to the history of the Age and Nation.

_b_

All the previous night the coffin had lain in the little chapel of St.
Faith between the South Transept—wherein is the Poet’s Corner where
Irving was to be laid—and the Chapter House, where the mourners were to
assemble. The funeral had been arranged for noon, but hours before that
time every approach to the Abbey was thronged with silent crowds. There
was a hush in the air through which the roar of the traffic in the
streets seemed to come modified, as though it had been intercepted by
that belt of silence. Slowly, imperceptibly, like shadows in their
silence, the crowds gathered; a sombre mass closing as if with a black
ring the whole precincts of the Cathedral.

Noon found the interior of the edifice a solid mass of people, save
where the passage-way up the Nave and Choir was marked with masses of
white flowers. Wreaths and crosses and bunches of flowers must have been
sent in hundreds—thousands, for in addition to those within, both sides
of the Cloister walks were banked with them.

Who could adequately describe that passing from the Chapter House,
whence the funeral procession took its way through the South and West
Cloister Walk, down the South Aisle and up the Nave and Choir till the
coffin was rested before the Sanctuary; the touching music, in which now
and again the sweet childish treble—the purest sound on earth—seemed to
rend the mourners’ very hearts; the mighty crowd, silent, with bowed
heads; everywhere white faces with eyes that wept.

Oh that crowd! Never in the world was greater tribute to any man. The
silence! The majestic silence, for it transcended negation and became
positive from its dormant force. “Not dead silence, but living silence!”
as the dead man’s old companion, Sir Edward Russell, said in words that
should become immortal. All thoughts of self were forgotten; the lesser
feelings of life seemed to have passed away in that glory of triumphant
sorrow. Eye and heart and brain and memory went with the Dead as to the
solemn music the mournful procession passed along. Surely a lifetime of
devotion must have gone to the crowning of those long-drawn seconds. To
one moving through that divine alley-way of sympathetic sorrow it seemed
as though the serried ranks on either hand, seen in the dimness of that
October day, went back and back to the very bounds of the thinking
world.

As from the steps of the Sanctuary came the first words of the Service
for the Burial of the Dead, a bright gleam of winter sunshine burst
through the storied window of the South Transept and lit up the laurel
pall till it glistened like gold.

And then for a little while few could see anything except dimly through
their tears.

When the last words of the Benediction had been spoken over his grave,
there came from the Organ-loft the first solemn notes of Handel’s noble
_Dead March_. The great organ had been supplemented by military
instruments, and as the mournful notes of the trumpets rose they seemed
to cling to the arches and dim corners of the great Cathedral, tearing
open our hearts with endless echoes. And then the solemn booming of the
muffled drums seemed to recall us to the life that has to be lived on,
howsoever lonely or desolate it may be.

“The song of woe
Is after all an earthly song.”

The trumpets summon us, and the drums beat the time of the onward march—
quick or slow as Duty calls.

March! March!

INDEX

Abbey, Edwin A., R.A., 81, 293–297

Aberdeen, Earl of, 216

“Acting, an Art,” 394–395, 403, 404

“Acting and Actors,” 341

Acting, Old School and New, 8–15, 369–370

“Actor-Managers,” 28

“Actors and Acting,” 404

Actor’s Note,” “An, 341

Addresses by Irving, 393–404

Adventures, 405–422

Albery, James, 5

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 276

Aldworth, 131, 137–143, 151–155

Alexandra, Queen, 112–113, 174, 375, 382, 464, 465

Allingham, Mrs. H., 152

Alma-Tadema, Sir Laurence, R.A., 284–288, 394

_Amber Heart, The_, 425

America, Visits to, 186–199, 384–388

American Reporters, 195–199

Applause, Effect of, 47

_Architect, The_, 133

Arlton, Frank, 360–361

Arnold, Sir Arthur, 390

Arnold, Sir Edwin, 147

Arnott, A., 40–44, 91–92, 167

Art du Comédien,” “L’, 341

Art of Acting, The, 400, 404

Art-sense, 91–100

Arthur, Gen. Chester A. (President, U.S.A.), 384

Ashwell, Lena, 166

Asif Kadr Saiyid Wasif Ali Mirza, 215

Athenæum Club, 158

Aubertin, Mr., 225

Baba Khem Singh, Bedi of Kullar, 215

Baby in _Henry VIII._, 74–75

Bach, Walter, 334

Bacon and Shakespeare, Tennyson on, 152, 403

Baillie-Hamilton, Sir Wm., 212

_Balance of Comfort, The_, 329, 425

Ball, John Meredith, 71

Bancroft, Sir Squire, 331, 341, 390

Baring’s Bank, 124–125

Barnay, Ludwig, 338–340

Barr, Robert, 330

Barrett, Lawrence, 339

Barrett, Wilson, 316, 339

Barrie, J. M., 329

Barry, Sergeant, 280

Bass, Col. (U.S.A.), 191

Bastien Lepage, Jules, 130

Bateman, Col., 91, 429

Bateman, Mrs. H. L., 33, 48, 315, 429

Bath, Quin Memorial, Civic Lunch, 454–455

Beaconsfield, Lady, 267–268

Beaconsfield, Earl of, 108–109, 130, 266–269

_Becket_, 66, 67, 136, 143–160, 162;
Windsor, 376–380, 425, 426;
Irving’s last performance, 460

_Becket_, Reading, Canterbury Cathedral, 157–159

_Becket_, Reading, King Alfred Millenary, 159–160, 385–386

Bedford Street, Irving’s office at, 177

Beecher, Henry Ward, 130

Behenna, Sarah, 103

Belfast, Samaritan Hospital, 36–37

Belgians, The King of the, 232–233

Bellevue Gardens, 321–323

_Belle’s Stratagem, The_, 4, 57, 186, 425

_Bells, The_, 8, 91–93;
25th Anniversary, 98; 99, 162, 164, 187;
Sandringham, 375–376, 425, 426;
Irving’s last performance in, 458

Belmore, Lionel, 382–383

Benedict, Sir Julius, 60

Bernhardt, Sarah, 276, 343–346

Berrington, Mr. (Mayor of Wolverhampton), 454

Bigelow, Mr., 232

Bikaner, Maharaja of, 214

Bimetallism, 264–265

Birkbeck Institute, 200–201, 236

Bishop, J. B., 187–188

Blackie, Prof., 130

_Bloody Marriage, The_, 329

_Boarding School, The_, 425

Bobbili, Raja of, 214

Boito, 331

_Book III. Chapter V._, 425

Booth, Edwin, 1–2, 55–58

Booth, O., 329

Booth, Wilkes, 309

Boston, _Faust_, 118;
_Dante_, 178

Boston, Tremont Theatre, Harvard, Night at, 401

Boucicault, Dion (the Elder), 89, 328

Boughton, Geo., R.A., 294, 300

Bowker, Alfred (Mayor of Winchester), 159

Bradbury, Mr., 270

Braddon, Miss (Mrs. Maxwell), 1

Bradford: Irving’s last performances—his sudden death, 457–461, 463

Bresnin, Fire Chief, 411

Brewster, Hon. Benjamin H., 363–364

_Bride of Lammermoor, The_, see _Ravenswood_

Bridal Chambers, Variants of, 63

Bridge, Sir John F., 156

Bright, J. F., D.D. (Master of University), 397

Bright, John, 18, 130

Brisson, Adolphe, 331

Bristol, Prince’s Theatre, 162, 370

Brodribb, Samuel, 83

Brodribb, Thomas, 83

Brodrick, Hon. G. C. (Warden of Merton), 397

Brooklyn: _Dante_, 178

Brough, Lionel, 357, 457

Brougham, Lord, 18

Brown, Ford Madox, 76

Brown, Mrs. Hannah, 429–431

Browning, Robert, 300–301

Bryce, Prof. James, 235

Brydges-Willyams, Mr., 352

Buck, Col. E. A., 189, 232

Buffalo Liberal Club, 404

Burdett-Coutts, The Baroness, 53, 335, 429, 430, 464

Burdett-Coutts, W. A., M.P., 232, 286, 430, 464

Burlesque of _The Corsican Brothers_, 109

Burnand, Sir Francis C., 232–233, 299, 329

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, Bart., 165, 289–292

Burnham, Lord, 185, 352

Burns, Rt. Hon. John, 276

Burton, Lady, 224–231

Burton, Percy, 460

Burton, Sir Richard, 130, 224–231, 317

_Bygones_, 106, 425

Byron, Lord, 225–226, 301

Caine, Hall, 16, 315–321, 331–332

Caine, Ralph Hall, 319

Caird, Dr., 397

Calvert, 58

Cambridge University, 157;
“Rede” Lecture, D.Litt., 395–396

Caney, 70

Canterbury Cathedral, 157–159, 357–359

_Captain of the Watch, The_, 425

_Captive, The_, 225

Cardiff: Farewell visit, 453

Carleton, H. Guy, 329

Carl Rosa Opera Company, 442

Carr, J. Comyns, 321, 339, 445

Carr, Mrs. Comyns, 339

Casella, The Misses, 276, 334

Castle, Capt. Egerton, 329

Catholic Social Union, 404

_Charles I._, 8, 89, 425, 426

Chicago and _Faust_, 119

Chicago, Illinois Theatre, 85

Chicago, Twentieth Century Club, 404

Chicago, University of, 403

_Chicago Times Herald_, 163

_Chicago_, U.S. Cruiser, 208–210

Chinese Ambassador, 50

Christie’s, 97, 301

Christmas, 203

Churchill, Lord Randolph, 265

Claire, Louise, 5

Claretie, Jules, 98–100, 331, 343

Clarke, J. I. C., 166, 329

Clarke, Lady Campbell, 185

Clery, Jules, 99

Cleveland, Grover (President U. S. A.), 384

Clover Club, 302

Coatbridge, 10

Collinson, Walter, 412, 443, 461

Colman, Geo., 53

Colonial Conference, 207

Colonial Premiers, The, 164, 210–217

Colonial Troops, 164

Columbia (College) University, 402–403

Comédie-Française, The, 98–100, 343, 344

Cooke, Geo. Frederick, 47

_Cool as a Cucumber_, 425

Cooper, Sir Alfred, 334

_Copperfield and the Waiter_, 27

Coquelin (Cadet), 331

Coquelin, Constant (Ainé), 341–342

Coquelin (Fils), 341

_Coriolanus_, 53, 285–288, 337, 452

Coronation, The King’s (1902), 212–217, 392

Corpse, The way to carry a, 61–62

Correspondence, 39

Corry, “Monty” (Lord Rowton), 108

_Corsican Brothers, The_, 102–111, 134, 410, 425

_Count, The_, 329

Courtney, W. L., 329, 330, 397, 398

Craig, Edith, 276

Craik, Mr., 156

Craven, Hawes, 48, 54–55, 60, 66, 70, 115, 133, 165, 298, 375

Crawford, Marion, 330

Crosby Hall, 121

Cunningham, David, 37

_Cup, The_, 57, 104–105, 107–108, 131–135, 136, 425

Cuthbert, W., 55, 133

_Cymbeline_, 170, 172, 288, 425

Dabbs, Dr., 156

_Daily News, The_, 187–188

_Daily Telegraph, The_, 121, 185, 187, 439

_Daisy’s Escape_, 106, 425

Daly, Augustin, 237

Damala, 345–346

Damrosch, Walter, 331

Dante, 137, 263

_Dante_, 176–179, 436, 452

D’Arcy, Knox, 359

Darmont, 276, 345

Davis, E. D., 83

_Dead Heart, The_, 122, 425

De Bornier, 231, 317, 318

_Deemster, The_, 316

_Demon Lover, The_, 320

Devonshire, The Duchess of, 165

Dewar, Sir James, 439

Diamond Jubilee (1897), 164, 211

Dickens, Chas., 175, 183–184, 353

Dickens, Chas. (the younger), 83

Dickens, Henry Fielding, 183–184

Dickens, Kate (Mrs. Perugini), 183

Diderot, D., _Paradox of Acting_, 30–31, 255–257, 341

Dillon, Valentine (Lord Mayor of Dublin), 373–374

Dixon, J., 329

Dolat Singh, Maharaja Kunwar, 214

Dolgoruki, Princess, 275

Donaldson, Thomas, 302, 306, 308, 309, 311, 312

_Don Quixote_ (J. I. C. Clarke), 166, 329

_Don Quixote_ (W. G. Wills), 166–167, 328, 425

Doricourt, 182

Dowden, Edward, 17, 303–305

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 161–163, 330

Dramatists, 325–330

_Dream of Eugene Aram, The_, 18–21, 27, 353

Drury Lane Theatre, 47, 91, 178, 338, 430;
Irving’s last performances in London, 456–457

Dublin: Theatre Royal, 1867, 1–5;
1871, 5;
1872, 7;
1876, 11, 13–14, 22–25;
1877, 30–34;
Early Experiences at the Queen’s Theatre, 9–11, 70;
Public Reception and Address, 1894, 373–374

Dublin University, 1876, Honours from, 22–26, 393;
1877, a Reading at Trinity College, 27–28;
1892, D.Litt., 393–395

Du Chaillu, Paul B., 237

Duckworth, Sub-Dean Robinson, 464

Dufferin and Ava, The Marquis of, 394, 396

Edinburgh, 181–182, 353, 407

Edinburgh, H.R.H. the Duke of, _see_ Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Duke of

Edinburgh Philosophical Institute, 1881, 403;
1891, 404

Edinburgh, Queen’s Theatre, 180

Edinburgh, Theatre Royal, 2, 76

_Edgar and Lucy_, see _Ravenswood_

Educational value of the Stage, 118–119, 253, 395

Edward VII., 104, 112–113, 174, 185, 204–205, 212, 359, 375–376,
380–383, 389, 391–392, 464

Elliot, Mr. (President of Harvard), 400–401

Elliott, Sir George, Bart., 267

Elsler, Fanny, 5

Emin Pasha, 237

_End of the Hunting, The_, 329

“English Actors,” 398

_Enoch Arden_, 148

Erben, Admiral (U.S.A.), 208–210

Escott, T. H. S., 232

_Eugene Aram_, 8, 82, 241, 425

Eugénie, The Empress, 238

Exeter, 454

Farrar, Dean, 18, 157–159

Farringford, 131, 138, 145–151

Fateh Ali Khan, Nawab, 215

Faudel-Phillips, Lady, 185

_Faust_, 69, 94–95, 113–119, 122, 162, 339, 425, 426

Fawsitt, Amy, 5

Fechter, C. A., 184

Ferment, 113

Finance, 39–40, 264–265, 427–437

Fires, 407–412

First Nights, 80–81, 157, 206, 438–439

Fiske, John, 150, 159

Floods, 412–416

Florence, W. J., 58

Flower, C. E., 323

_Flying Dutchman, The_, 320–321, see also _Vanderdecken_

Forbes, Norman, 442

Forbes, Wm., 158

Forbes-Robertson, Johnston, 166, 173, 390

Ford, Charles Richard, 239–243

Ford, E. Onslow, R.A., 280–283

Ford, Wolfram Onslow, 282

Forrest, Edwin, 5;
his watch, 302, 431

_Foresters, The_, 137, 161

Foxwell, Dr. Arthur, 455

French, Samuel, 92

Frohman, Chas., 445, 452, 456

Froude, J. A., 263

_Fuji, The_, 210

Fulda, Ludwig, 329

Fussy, 412

Gaiety Theatre, 63, 99, 109, 343

Galitzin, Prince Nicholas, 278–279

_Gamester, The_, 53

Gangadhar Madho Chitnavis, 215

Garnier, 345

Garrick Club, 130, 232

Garrick, David, 14;
his malacca cane, 300

Gaskell, The Misses, 333

_Gemini et Virgo_, 27, 225

_George Washington_, 329

Gerbel, Count de, 349

Gerbel, Countess de, _see_ Ward, Miss Geneviève

Gerische, 332

Germany, Crown Prince of (Frederick III.), 115–116

Germany, Emperor William II. of, 382–383

Germany, Empress Frederick of, 379

Gilbert, Alfred, R.A., 95, 98, 331

Gillette, Wm., 316, 446

Gladstone, Mrs. W. E., 261, 263, 265

Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., 79;
as an actor, 107–108, 130, 260–265

Glasgow Theatre Royal, 43–44

Glasgow, Irving’s Illness, 296–297, 337, 441–443

Glasgow University, LL.D., 396–397

Gleichen, Count, 268–269

_Glimpse of America, A_, 236

Gounod, 335–337

Gouraud, Col., 142

Grand Theatre, Islington, 236

Grant, Digby, 5–7, 13

Grant, Gen., 191, 193

Grove, F. C., 315

Grove, Sir George, 112

Guthrie, F. Anstey, 299

Gwalior, Maharaja of, 214

Hackney, Mabel (Mrs. L. Irving), 462

Hagenbach’s Menagerie, 323–324

Hall, T. W., 70

Halswelle, Keeley, A.R.S.A., 69–70

_Hamlet_, 8, 11, 16–17, 30, 48–52, 55, 88, 425;
A Reading, 200–201;
Hall Caine’s Criticism of, 16, 315–316

“Hamlet” (An Address), 404

Hampton Court, 57–58

Handwriting, Character by, 258

Hann, W., 60, 70, 375

Hanna, Senator Mark, 385

Hare, John, 93, 298, 329, 331

Harker, J., 70, 165

Harlem Opera House, 188

Harmsworth, Alfred, _see_ Lord Northcliff

_Harper’s Magazine_, 294, 340

Harris, John, 17, 347

Hartford, _Dante_, 178

Harvard, Sander’s Theatre, 400

Harvard University, 400–402

Harvey, Martin, 442

Hassard, Sir John, 158

Hatton, Joseph, 232, 302

Haweis, Rev. H. R., 314

Hawkins, F. W., 255

Hay, Col. John (U.S. Ambassador), 385

Hennell, E. W., 333

_Henry VIII._, 72–75, 122, 143, 153, 157, 162, 425

Henschel, Georg, 332–333

Herbert, Miss, 1–5, 113

Herkomer, Prof. Hubert von, R.A., 131

Hichens, Robert, 173

_High Life Below Stairs_, 425

Hill, Vice-Chancellor, of Cambridge, 395

Hisses, 9–11

Hogarth, Miss Georgina, 183

Hollingshead, John, 63, 109

Holloway, W. J., 77–79

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 92

Homer, Tennyson on, 152

Home Rule Bill, 260, 263–264

_Home Sweet Home_, 320

Honey, Geo., 5

Hoskins, Wm., 83

Houghton, Lord, 225–227

Howard, J. B., 43

Howe, Earl, 465

Howe, Henry, 377

Hume, Fergus, 329

_Hunted Down_, 183

Hyper-criticism, 66, 134

Ibsen, 248

Idar, Maharaja of, 214

Indian and Colonial Troops, 164

Indian Princes, 164, 211–217

_Indian Revolt, The_ (“Mr. Irwig”), 454

Interviewers, 195–197

_Iolanthe_, 88, 425

Irish Famine, 18

_Irish Times, The_, 4

_Iron Chest, The_, 53, 425

Irving, Henry:
_Note._—For appearances in individual Plays and _Rôles_ and at London
Theatres _see_ under their respective names; at Provincial and
other Theatres, under name of town or city; _see also_ America,
visits to
Early experiences in Dublin, 3–5, 7, 9–11
A blaze of genius, 18–20
Carriage dragged by Students, 25
Reading at Trinity College, Dublin, 27–28
“Chaired,” 27
Takes over management of the Lyceum, 38–40, 46
Joined by Bram Stoker, 38–39
Lyceum Productions, 45
Mastery and decision of character, 50–52
Not ill for seven years, 52
Respect for feelings of others, 67
A lesson in collaboration, 70–72
Influenza during run of _King Lear_, 77–79
His method, 82–90
First appearance on the stage, 83, 453–454
And criticisms, 84
Skill in “make-up,” 89–90, 175–176, 241
Love of children, 90
Generosity, 93, 203, 374, 449
Love of sincerity, 95
Devotion and zeal of his staff, 95–97
Presentation, twenty-fifth anniversary _The Bells_, 98
Entertainment of French Authors, 98–100
A good friend to supers, 102
His stage doubles, 110
A narrow escape, 118
Fiftieth birthday—a record house, 118
Gift for reading, 121, 159, 177–178
On Tennyson, 128–130
A judge of character, 129, 430–431
Tennyson’s plays, 128–160
Fifty-fifth birthday—_Becket_ produced, 157
Reading, _Becket_, Canterbury Cathedral, 157–159
King Alfred Millenary, 159–160
Early days, 181–182
Visits to America, 186–199
Last performance in America, 188
Care in speaking, 195–196
Reading, _Hamlet_, Birkbeck Institute, 200–201
A heavy bill, 201–202
Energy and nervous power, 201–202
Christmas, 203
A social force, 204–207
His house at Brook Green, 205
Last reception at the Lyceum, 212–217
Politics, 218
Two favourite stories, 221–223
A Clerk in the City, 239–242
Education and Fines, 240
Choice of Professional Name, 241
Leaves the desk, 242
His Philosophy of his Art:
Key-stone, 244–245
Scientific process, 245–247
Character, 247–252
The play, 252–253
Stage perspective, 253–255
Dual consciousness, 96, 172, 255–257
Individuality, 257–258
Summary, 258–259
As Hamlet, Onslow Ford Statue of, 281–283
His hands, 151, 282–283, 381
Artistic co-operation with E. A. Abbey, 294–295
Last portraits, 298–299
Danger from a monkey:
Manchester, 321–323
Stratford-on-Avon, 323
His love of animals, 323–324
Dramatists—his search for plays, 325–330
Musicians, 331–337
Order of the Komthur Cross, 339
Friendship with Toole, 353–361
Ellen Terry, 362–372
Public reception and address, Dublin, 1894, 373–374
Performances at Sandringham and Windsor, 375–383
Presidents of the United States, 384–388
Knighthood, 389–392
Presentation from his fellow players, 390
Universities:
Dublin, 1876, Honours from, 22–26;
1877, 27;
1892, D.Litt., 393–395
Cambridge, 1898, “Rede” Lecture, D.Litt., 395–396
Glasgow, 1899, LL.D., 396–397
Oxford, 1886, “English Actors,” 397–399
Manchester, “Macbeth,” 399–400
Harvard, 1885 and 1894, two addresses, 400–402
Columbia, 1895, “Macbeth,” 402–403
Chicago, 1896 and 1900, two lectures, 403
Princeton, 1902, “Shakespeare and Bacon,” 403
Other learned bodies and institutions, 403–404
Adventures:
Over a mine-bed, 405–407
Fires, 407–410
Floods, 412–416
Train accidents, 416–418
Storms at sea, 418–421
Falling scenery, 421–422
Fearlessness, 257, 271–272, 404–406, 421–422
Finance, 39–40, 427–437
A bequest, 430–431
The turn of the tide:
Strenuous life, 432–433, 438
Accident to knee, 81, 440
Burning of the Lyceum Storage, 421–426, 441
Illness at Glasgow, 296–297, 337, 441–443
Lyceum Theatre Company, 45, 174, 434–437, 444–446
Failing health, 446
Fortitude and patient suffering, 447–449
Illness at Wolverhampton, 448
Last years, 449–462
Determination to retire, 452
Farewell Visits:
Cardiff: A touching farewell, 453
Swansea: _Lead, Kindly Light_, 453
Sunderland: Public banquet and address, 453–454
Exeter: Public address and reception, 454
Bath: Unveils Quin Memorial—Civic lunch, 454, 455
Wolverhampton: Public address—serious illness—tour abandoned,
454–456
Last Performances in London, 456–457
Workmen present a loving cup, 456–457
His last tour:
Sheffield: Civic luncheon, 457
Bradford: Public address—last performances, 457–460
Sudden death, 461–462
Public funeral in Westminster Abbey, 5, 463–466

Irving, Henry Brodribb, jun., 158, 297, 428, 462

Irving, Laurence, 158, 173–174, 177, 428, 462

_Isle of St. Tropez_, 329

Jackson, Dr., 395

Jagannath Barua, Rai Bahadur, 215

Jeejeebhai, Sir Jamsetjee, 214

Jefferson, Joseph, 385

_Jekyll and Hyde_, 329

_Jester King, The_, 329

Jeypore, Maharaja of, 214

_Jingle_, 425

John, Mr. (Mayor of Bath), 454

Johnson, H. T., 329

Johnston, Sir Harry, 237

Jonas, Sir Joseph (Lord Mayor of Sheffield), 457

Jones, Henry Arthur, 330

Jowett, Benjamin (Master of Balliol), 397–399

_Julius Cæsar_, 333

Kean, Chas., 86, 104, 261, 300, 372, 377

Kean, Edmund, 12, 91;
relics of, 300–301

Kean, Mrs. Chas., 369

Kelly, _see_ Wardell, Chas.

Kelvin, Lord, 394

King, T. C., 11

King Alfred Millenary, 159–160, 385–386

_King and the Miller, The_, 425

King Arthur, 137, 164

_King Arthur_ (J. Comyns Carr), 164–166, 289, 425, 426

_King Arthur_ (W. G. Wills), 164, 328

_King Lear_, 76–79, 82, 144, 162, 277–278, 356, 425

_King René’s Daughter_, see _Iolanthe_

Kingston, W. Beatty, 229, 334

Kinsmen,” “The, 294

Knighthood, 389–392

Knowles, Sir James, 28–29, 130, 133, 225

Kohlapur, Maharaja of, 214

Kohlsaat, H. H., 163

Kooch Bahar, Maharaja of, 214

_Lady Audley’s Secret_, 1–4

_Lady of Lyons, The_, 100–102, 121, 241, 425

_Lady Torfrida_, The yacht, 270–275

_Lancashire Lass, The_, 184

_Leaves of Grass_, 302–304, 310

Leaf, Walter, 151–155

Le Clerc, 331

Lehmann, Rudolph, 73

Leighton, Lord, 394–395

Lever, Chas., 8, 227

Levy, J. M., 185, 187

Levy, Miss Matilda, 185, 352

Lewanika, King, 215

Lewis, Arthur, 300

Lewis, Sir George, Bart., 359

Lewis, Leopold, 92–93

Libbotton, 344

Librarians, Conference of, 207

_Life of Charles Dickens_, Foster’s, 355

Lincoln, Abraham, 308–309, 311, 312

Liszt, Abbé Franz, 334–335

Littleton, Alfred, 334

Littleton, Augustus, 334

_Livadia, The_, 272–275

Liverpool _Town Crier_, 315

Livingstone, David, 234–235

Lloyd-Davies, William Allan, 448, 455

London and County Bank, 429

London County Council, 436

Long, Edwin, R.A., 89

Lord Chamberlain’s Department, The, 318–319, 326

_Louis XI._, 84–85, 425, 426;
Irving’s last performance in London, 456–457, 458

Loveday, H. J., 27, 44, 51, 53–54, 61, 73, 96, 120, 144, 161, 173, 218,
407, 428, 444, 456, 458, 459, 461

Low, Seth, 386, 402

Lucas, Seymour, R.A., 72–74

Lupton, Mr. (Ex-Mayor of Bradford), 463

Lyceum Storage, Burning of the, 423–426, 441

Lyceum Theatre, Productions, 45;
Irving’s first season, 39–40, 46–52;
its audience, 46–47, 186;
Hospitalities, 204–217, 343, 432–433;
Irving’s last reception, 212–217;
Enlarged and improved, 431–432;
Cash takings, 431–432

Lyceum Theatre Company, 45, 174, 434–437, 444–446

_Lyons Mail, The_, 86–87, 257, 425, 426, 455

Macartney, Sir Halliday, 50

_Macbeth_, 8, 15, 68–72, 87–88, 122, 425

Macbeth,” “The character of, 399–400, 402, 403, 404

McCullough, John, 57, 339

McDowell, James, 383

McHenry, James, 5, 229, 268

Mackail, Mrs. (Miss Burne-Jones), 290

Mackenzie, Sir Alexander C., 319, 331, 334, 337

Mackenzie, Sir James, 390

Mackenzie, Sir Morell, 334

McKinley, Wm. (President U.S.A.), 385–386

Maclaren, Ian, 248

McMichael, Clayton, 384

Macready, 88, 184;
Relics of, 285, 355

_Madame Sans-Gêne_, 105, 168–173, 371

Mahan, Capt. (U.S. Navy), 208–210

Mahomed Aslam Khan, Lieut.-Colonel Nawab, 215

Mahomet, 231, 317–319

_Mail, The_ (Dublin), 8, 23–25

“Make-up,” 89–90, 175–176, 241

Management:
Responsibility and difficulties, 39–40, 96–97, 120
Public pulse, 120–125
Hazard of, 179
Rain of plays, 325–330
Finance, 39–40, 329, 427–437

Manchester, Art Club, 452

Manchester, Theatre Royal, 55

Manchester, Victoria University of, 27, 69, 399–400

_Manchester Guardian_, 428

_Manfred_, 337

Mansfield, Richard, 229

Marbury, Miss Elizabeth, 174, 177

Marion, W., 409

Marius, 345

Marlow, Young, 4

Marquand, John P., 229

_Marquette_, ss., 419

Marryat, Capt., 194

Marshall, Frank A., 27, 53, 319, 323, 326–328, 329

Marston, Edward, 236

Mathews, Sir Charles W., 182

Mathews, Chas., 181–182

Mathews, Mrs. Chas., 182

Matthews, Frank, 4

Matthews, Mrs. Frank, 4

Matthison, Arthur, 110

Maung On Gaing, 215

Maunsell, Dr., 8

Mayer, M. L., 341

Mead, Tom, 86–87

_Medicine Man, The_, 45, 173

Meherban Ganpatrao Madhavrao Vinchwikar, 215

Meiningen Company, The, 338

Meissonier, J. L. E., 288

_Mephisto_, 328

_Merchant of Venice, The_, 53–55, 180;
as in Shakespeare’s time, 191–192, 370, 425

Merivale, Herman, 120–122, 350

Meysey-Thompson, Sir Henry, 264

Michie, Col. Peter (U.S.A.), 191

Midian Gold Mines, 228

Milburn, Dr. (Chaplain, American Senate), 249

Mimra, Capt., 210

_Minnehaha_, ss., 420–421

Miranda, Count, 352

Montague, H. J., 5

Moreau, Emile, 176–177, 444

_Much Ado about Nothing_, 65–67, 125, 367, 425

Muhamad Faiyaz Ali Khan, Nawab, 215

Mullen, Mr., 226

Müller, Rt. Hon. Frederick Max, 334, 397

Muncacksy, Madame, 334

“Municipal Theatres,” 404

Murray, Dr. A. S., 133–134

Murray, Gaston, 4

Musicians, 331–337

Myers, Frederick, 396

_Nance Oldfield_, 125–127

Napier, Lord, 193

Nast, Thomas, 209

New Haven, _Dante_, 178

_New Way to Pay Old Debts_, 55, 301

New York: _Faust_, 119;
_Dante_, 178
Goethe Society, 403

_New York Tribune_, 189, 400–401

Nihilists, 273–275, 276–278

Nilsson, Christine, 352

_Nineteenth Century, The_, 28–29, 263, 341

Normand, Jacques, 99

Northbrook, Earl of, 260

Northcliff, Lord, 216

Ober-Ammergau Play, 397

_Olivia_, 93, 425

_Othello_, 8, 27, 55–57, 425

Owens College, _see_ Manchester, Victoria University of

Oxford University, An Address at, 397–399

Paderewski, 331–332

Palmer, Edmund Henry, 228

Panglima Kinta, The Datoh, 215

_Paradox of Acting_, 30–31, 255–257

Parke, Dr., 236

Parnell, Chas. Stewart, 260, 263

Partridge, J. Bernard, 298–299

Pauncefort, Mrs., 87

Pearce, Sir William, Bart., 270–275

Pearce, Sir Wm. George, Bart., 270

Penberthy, Capt. Isaac, 65

Penberthy, John, 65–66, 81

Perak, The Sultan of, 215

Perkins, 70

Perry Bar Institute, 403

_Peter the Great_, 173–174

Phelps, S., 240–241

Philadelphia:
_Faust_, 118;
_Dante_, 178
Contemporary Club, 404

_Philip_, 8

Pinero, A. W., 106, 330

Pittsburgh, 203

Plays:
difficulties of obtaining, 325–326;
sources of, 325–326;
bought but not produced, 326–328

Plowden, A. C., 299

Plymouth, 454

Politics in the theatre, 89

Pollock, Walter Herries, 30–31, 256, 329

Polo, Marco, 238

Ponsonby, Sir Henry, 376, 378, 379, 380

Popoff, Admiral (Russian Navy), 273

Porter, H.E. General Horace (U.S.A.), 152

Priestley, Mr. (Mayor of Bradford), 457

Princess’s Theatre, 56, 104

Princeton University, 403

Pritchard, Hesketh, 330

Pritchard, K., 330

Probyn, Genl. Sir Dighton, V.C., 465

_Professor’s Love Story, The_, 329

Pullman, Geo., 404

_Queen Mary_, 8, 97, 128

Queen Victoria’s Jubilee (1887), 211

Queen’s Theatre, 183, 362

Quin Memorial, 454

_Raising the Wind_, 425

Ramaswami Mudaliyar, Sir Savalai, Raja, 214

_Ravenswood_, 120–122, 143, 261, 337, 425, 426

Reade, Chas., 86

“Rede” Lecture, Cambridge, 395

Reform Club, 218

Rejane, 176

Renan, Ernest, 314

Renaud, 331

_Revue Illustrée_, 341

Ricarde-Seaver, Major, 124

_Richard II._, 291–297, 337

_Richard III._, 27, 31, 58, 80–81, 301, 438–440

_Richelieu_, 8, 83–84, 425

Richter, Hans, 333

_Rienzi_, 328

Riley, J. Whitcomb, 313

Ristori, Madame, 348–349

_Rivals, The_, 1–5, 13

Rival towns, 220

_Road to Ruin, The_, 4

_Robert Emmett_, 53, 319, 326–328

_Robert Macaire_, 112, 425

_Robespierre_, 174–176, 444, 445

Robin Hood, 137

Robinson, Dean Armitage, 464

Rogers, Frederick, 276

_Romeo and Juliet_, 55, 59–63

Roosevelt, Theodore (President U.S.A.), 386–388

Root, Elihu (Sec. of State, U.S.A.), 385

Rosebery, Earl of, 389

Rossetti, Wm. Michael, 302

Royal Academy Banquet, 206

Royal College of Music, 112–113, 394

Royal Institution, 159, 390, 391, 394–395, 404, 440

Royce, E. W., 109

Russell, Edward, 228

Russell, Sir Edward R., 16, 466

Russell, Henry, 182

Russia, Alexander II., Czar of, 273–275

Russia, Grand Duke Nicholas of, 273–274

Sadler’s Wells Theatre, Old, 240

St. Albans, Duchess of, 236

St. Gaudens, Augustus, 311

St. James’s Company, 1–5

St. James’s Hall, 208

St. James’s Theatre, 113, 182, 183

Sala, George Augustus, 232

Sandringham, 1889, 375–376;
1902, 380–383

Sarcey, Francisque, 99

Sardou, Victorien, 174–175, 176–177, 444

Sargent, John, R.A., 294

_Saviolo_, 329

Saunders, John, 162

Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Grand Duke of, 339

Saxe-Meiningen, H.S.H. Grand Duke of, 339–340

Scenery, accidents from falling, 421–422;
cost of, 425–426

Schneider, Mdlle., 352

_School for Scandal, The_, 4

_School of Reform_, 113

_Schuldig_, 329

Scott, Clement, 232, 256, 439

Scott, Sir Walter, 120

Seattle, 219

Seddon, Rt. Hon. Richard, 216

Sedelia Rab, The Datoh, 215

Seymour, Admiral Sir Edward, 454

Shakespeare and Bacon, Tennyson on, 152

“Shakespeare and Bacon,” 403

“Shakespeare and Goethe,” 403

“Shakespeare as a Playwright,” 404

Shakespeare’s Plays, 53–81

Shaw, George F., 22

Sheffield, 457

Sheppard, J. W., 461, 462

_Sherlock Holmes_, 435

_She Stoops to Conquer_, 4

Siam, H.R.H. the Crown Prince of, 215

_Silent Voices, The_, 156–157

Simpson, Palgrave, 350

Sketchley, Arthur, 226

_Skying the Copper_, 241

Smith, Chas. Emory (U.S.A.), 385

Smith, Sir Charles Euan, 331

Smithsonian Institute, 311

_Snake’s Pass, The_, 261

Springfield: _Dante_, 178

Stage,” “The, 403

Stage Art, Philosophy of:
Key-stone, 244–245
Scientific process, 245–247
Character, 247–252
The play, 252–253
Stage perspective, 253–255
Dual consciousness, 96, 172, 255–257
Individuality, 257–258
Summary, 258–259
Ellen Terry, 365–372

Stage as it is,” “The, 403

Stagecraft:
_Macbeth_, 14–15
_Hamlet_, 48–49
Realistic fighting, 62–63
Lessons in illusion, 73–74
Stage jewellery, 73–74
_Richard III._, 81
A marching army, 101–102
Some great sets, 102–103
Stage snow, 104
A stage supper, 110–111
Application of science, 113–114
Stage fire, 114
Steam and mist, 114
Division of stage labour, 115
A “ladder” of angels, 116–118
Stage lighting, 116–117
Stage perspective, 133, 169–172
Camma’s dress, 134
Limelight and electric light, 198

Stage Manager, Irving a, 2

Stanford, Sir Chas. Villiers, 144, 151, 331

Stanlaws, Penrhyn, 329

Stanley, Sir Henry M., 130, 232–237

State Subsidy for theatres, 339, 344, 432

Statue of Irving as Hamlet, 280–283

Stavenhagen, 334–335

Steel, Mrs., 330

Stepniak, S., 276–279

Sterling, Antoinette, 335

Stock Companies, 83

Stoker, Abraham, 12

Stoker, Bram:
Earliest recollections of Irving, 1–7
Friendship with Irving, ix., 9, 16–21
Coming events, 33–34
Joins Irving, 38–39
A Triton amongst minnows, 107
and Tennyson, 130–131, 139–143, 146–151, 151–155
An angry reporter, 197–198
A visit to the _Chicago_, 209–210
“England and Japan!”, 210
Walt Whitman, 302–312
First meets Ellen Terry, 362
Their friendship, 361, 372
Irving’s last words to, 460

Stoker, Dr. Geo., C.M.G., 61–62, 228

Stoker, Sir Thornley, 36, 38

Storms at Sea, 418–421

Story, Principal, of Glasgow University, 396–397

_Story of Waterloo, A_, see _Waterloo_

Stoyle, 4

_Straggler of ’15, A_, see _Waterloo_

_Stranger, The_, 53

Stratford-on-Avon, 323

Students:
Irving’s carriage dragged by, 25
“Chair” Irving, 27
Seized and carried by, 394
Wild enthusiasm, 400
As supers—a challenge, 401–402

Sunderland, Lyceum Theatre;
Irving’s first appearance on the stage, 83;
Farewell visit, 453

Sullivan, Barry, 12–15

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 70–71

Supers, 62–63, 101–102, 110–111, 175

Surface, Joseph, 4

Swansea, farewell visit, 453

Taber, Robert, 173

Tacoma, 220

Tagore, Maharaja Kunwar, 214

Tailer, W. H., 237

Talbot de Malahide, Lord, 224

Talma, 255–257

Teck, H.R.H. Duchess of, 204

Teck, H.S.H. Duke of, 204

Teck, Princess May of, _see_ Wales, Princess May of

Telbin, W., 60, 116–117, 133

Teller, Leopold, 339

Temple, Archbishop, 130

Tennyson, Lady (Alfred), 131, 139, 151, 156

Tennyson, Lady (Hallam), 142, 151, 379

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 31;
His plays, 128–160;
on Irving’s _Hamlet_, 130;
“Irving will do me justice,” 156;
Death—burial in the Abbey, 156–157, 164, 179, 221, 379, 399;
Walt Whitman, 305–306

Tennyson, Hallam, Lord, 131, 138, 139, 145–151, 151–155, 379

Tennyson, Lionel, 151

Terriss, William, 10, 63, 77, 379

Terry, Ellen:
_Note._—_See also_ under various plays
Under John Hare’s Management, 93
As a Dramatist, 125–127
On the _Lady Torfrida_—motherhood, 271–272
Stepniak on, 277–278
A prime consideration in Irving’s arrangements, 287, 363, 364
Frightened by a monkey, 322
Early playing with Irving, 362
Knighting an Attorney-General, 364
A generous player, 364
Her Ophelia, 365
Real flowers, 365
Her Art, 365–372
Last performance with Irving, 370
Separation, 370–371
Comradeship, 370–371
Dublin, 1894, 373–374
At Sandringham and Windsor, 375–383

Thacker, Messrs., 239–242

_Theatre, The_, 255

Théâtre Français, _see_ Comédie-Française

Theatre in its relation to the State,” “The, 395–396

Thompson, Alfred, 59–60

Toole, J. L., 10, 112, 130, 209, 229, 232, 276, 329, 331, 338, 341;
life-long friendship with Irving, 353–361

Traill, H. D., 173, 232

Trelawny, 226

Tsêng, The Marquis, 50

_Twelfth Night_, 425

_Two Roses_, 5–7, 8, 425

Tyars, Frank, 55

Tyrrell, Prof. R. Y., 22

Ulster Hall, 36–37

Universities:
Cambridge, 157, 395–396
Chicago, 403
Columbia, 402–403
Dublin, 22–26, 27, 393–395
Glasgow, 396–397
Harvard, 400–402
Manchester, 69, 399–400
Oxford, 397–399
Princeton, 403

United States:
Military Academy, _see_ West Point
Presidents of, 384–388

Value of Individuality,” “The, 401–402

Vambéry, Arminius, 238

Vandenhoff, 180

Vanderbilt, W. H., 288

_Vanderdecken_, 35–36, 320

Van Tellen, Mrs., 227

Vaudeville Company, 5–7

Vaughan, Benjamin, M.P., 175

Vaughan, Cardinal, 404

_Vestal, The_, 329

Vezin, Hermann, 75, 93

Victoria, Queen, 115–116, 221;
1889, Irving’s first appearance before, 375–380;
1893, 376–380, 389–390

Voss, Richard, 329

Wales, Albert Edward, Prince of, _see_ Edward VII.

Wales, Prince George of, 465

Wales, Princess Alexandra of, _see_ Alexandra, Queen

Wales, Princess May of, 204–205, 465

_Walrus_, The yacht, 53

Walsall Literary Institute, 404

Ward, Col., 349

Ward, Geo., 187

Ward, Miss Geneviève, 166, 347–352, 379

Wardell, Chas., 105, 362

Warren, T. H. (President of Magdalen), 397

Warships, visits of foreign, 208–210

Washington: _Dante_, 178

_Waterloo_, 161–164;
Sandringham, 380–383;
Irving, last appearance in London, 457

Webb, Harry, 9

Webster, Ben., 381

_Werner_, 425

Westminster Abbey:
Tennyson’s burial, 156–157
Irving’s burial, 5, 463–466

West Point, U.S., Military Academy, 191–194

Wharncliffe, Earl of, 334

Whistler, James McNeill, 97

White, Sir Arnold, 132

White House, Washington, 385

Whiteside, James, 18

Whitman, Walt, 130, 139, 302–312

Wikoff, Chevalier, 5–7

Wilberforce, Archdeacon, 464

Wilkins, Miss Mary, 330

Willard, E. S., 329

Williams, Talcott, 309

Wills, Rev. Freeman, 328

Wills, W. G., 35, 88, 166–167, 328

Wilson, Dr. Andrew, 319

Winchester, 159–160, 385–386

Windsor Castle, 376–380, 390

Winter, William, 189–190, 229, 400–401

Wise, John Sargent, 385

Wolverhampton, Irving’s illness at, 422, 448, 454–456

Wolverhampton Literary and Scientific Institute, 404

Wrestling Match, A, 32–33

Wyllie, Sir Wm. Curzon, 212

Wyncotes, Mr. (Mayor of Plymouth), 454

Yates, Edmund, 130, 232–233

Young, John Russell, 193

Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, London

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 408, changed “Are we all to burned” to “Are we all to be burned”.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers.
5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Personal reminiscences of Henry Irving" ***

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