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diff --git a/old/68779-0.txt b/old/68779-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 787cda5..0000000 --- a/old/68779-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21369 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Personal reminiscences of Henry -Irving, by Bram Stoker - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Personal reminiscences of Henry Irving - -Author: Bram Stoker - -Release Date: August 17, 2022 [eBook #68779] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF -HENRY IRVING *** - - - - - - PERSONAL - REMINISCENCES - - OF - - 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 - - - BY - - 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_ - - - - - TO - - THE MEMORY OF - - JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE - - LOVING COMRADE AND TRUE FRIEND - - OF - - 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 - - - I - -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.” - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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?” - - - IV - -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!” - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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! - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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!” - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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.” - - - IV - -_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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - 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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -_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! - - - II - -_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!” - - - IV - -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....” - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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.” - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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_. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -_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’!” - - - V - -_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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -_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. - - - II - -_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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -_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_. - - - IX - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -_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!” - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - 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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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!” - - - II - -_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. - - - IV - -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” - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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! - - - IV - -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 - - - I - -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”_ -] - - - II - -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! - - - IV - -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._ - - I - - 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. - - II - - 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 - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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!” - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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.” - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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?” - - - IX - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - -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!” - - - II - -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!” - - - IV - -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!” - - - V - -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. - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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!” - - - VI - -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. - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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.” - - - IV - -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. - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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.” - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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_. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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_. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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. - - - IX - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -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 - - - I - -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!” - - - II - -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_. - - - IV - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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 - - - I - -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.” - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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. - - - IX - -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.” - - - X - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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.” - - - IV - -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 - - - I - -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!” - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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. - - - V - -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 - - - I - -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. - - - II - -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 - - - I - -“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. - - - II - -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. - - - IV - -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!_ - - - V - -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. - - - VI - -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. - - - IX - -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. - - - X - -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. - - - XI - -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. 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