MARION AND FLORENCE TERRY
While Ellen Terry was firmly cementing her popularity and ever adding to her fame, two of the younger members of her gifted family had come to the front to add to the honour of the name they bore. These were her sisters, Marion and Florence. It is generally understood that thedébutof Florence Terry was made in 1870, while the first appearance of Marion Terry was delayed until 1873, but I think there may have been a good many previous tentative performances. The Terrys always believed in groundwork, and we may be sure that these young ladies were carefully taught the art of acting.
My old friend, W. H. Vernon, has told me how, when he was fulfilling his long engagement under Henry Neville's management at the Olympic Theatre, the two young sisters played with him in an old-fashioned one-act drama by John Howard Payne, entitled "Love in Humble Life." Their mother was constantly with them, and Kate Terry used to "coach" her sisters at rehearsal. They were quite unaccustomed to the stage, but, says my friend, "theTerry charm was there, crude, and unformed as it all was."
"Love in Humble Life" does not offer much scope for acting, and the girls had to content themselves with playing on alternate nights the one feminine character of Christine.
In 1870 Florence Terry was certainly ripe for a public appearance in a piece of importance. On June 15th, at the Adelphi—the theatre in which, it will be remembered, her sister Kate had said her farewell—she went through the ordeal and acquitted herself right worthily. The piece was an English version of Molière's "Le Malade Imaginaire," entitled "The Robust Invalid," and her part was that of Louison. Although his name did not appear in the bills, it was generally understood that the adaptation was from the pen of the Terrys' old and well-tried friend, Charles Reade, and the chance was a good one for the young artiste. Vining and Mrs. Seymour were in the cast and all went well.
In connection with "Le Malade Imaginaire," it can never be forgotten that Molière was playing his own creation in it when he broke a blood-vessel. Gallantly he struggled on to the hour of curtain fall, and then, in a dying state, was taken to his home.
In the November of 1870 Florence Terry was engaged to play Little Nell at the Olympic Theatre in Andrew Halliday's stage version of "The Old Curiosity Shop"; probably one of the best adaptationsfrom Dickens (how unsatisfactory they all are!) that has been seen in the theatre.
No one who saw it will forget the exquisite pathos and tenderness with which she endowed the character of the sorely tried, yet always gentle-souled and trusting child. She made us think, as Bret Harte has sweetly put it, that we
"Read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of 'Little Nell,'"
"Read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of 'Little Nell,'"
"Read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of 'Little Nell,'"
"Read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of 'Little Nell,'"
and she took us by the hand until, "on English meadows," her audiences
"Wandered and lost their way."
"Wandered and lost their way."
"Wandered and lost their way."
"Wandered and lost their way."
No doubt she was greatly helped by the deeply impressive and affecting portrayal by George Belmore of the weak-minded but affectionate old grandfather. The two made a perfect picture. The Quilp of the cast, in the person of clever John Clarke, is a thing that, in its effective, savage, grotesque, and always true realism, haunts the memory.
Showing her autograph, 1901. Photograph by Lallie CharlesPhotograph by[Lallie Charles.MARION TERRY.Showing her autograph, 1901.[To face page 194.
Photograph by[Lallie Charles.MARION TERRY.Showing her autograph, 1901.[To face page 194.
Photograph by[Lallie Charles.
MARION TERRY.
Showing her autograph, 1901.
[To face page 194.
[See larger version]
Marion Terry made her first bold, histrionic plunge in 1873. This was at the Crystal Palace, when she played Ophelia to the Hamlet of Steele Mackaye. Mackaye was theprotégéof Tom Taylor, and the then leading English dramatist made a new acting version of Shakespeare's masterpiece for his behoof. Great things were expected of it, but the production merely excitedpassing curiosity, and though it was taken to the Shakespeare-loving provinces it soon flickered out. Thus did Marion and Florence Terry—"twin roses on one stalk," as Davenport Adams called them—take the rank of Princesses in Stage Land.
The career of Florence Terry was destined to be a brief one, but, happily, Marion Terry is still with us, still charming us; and every one will agree with Clement Scott's words—"She is one of the very few actresses I have known who has never gone back from her gentle career of continued success. On and on she has wended her way, improving and improving. With her gifted sisters, some characters have suited her better than others; but from the old Olympic days down to the present time I never remember to have been disappointed with Marion Terry, or wished she had not appeared in such and such a character."
In 1874 she became a prominent member of Henry Neville's company at the Olympic, appearing (inter alia) in an English version of "Le Mariage de Figaro," by James Mortimer, entitled "A School for Intrigue." Henry Neville was the Almaviva, Edward Righton the Figaro, and Emily Fowler the Suzanne. Later, in a revival of "Much Ado about Nothing," she made a very winsome Hero to the Beatrice of Emily Fowler, the Benedick of Henry Neville (this was a delightful reproduction of Shakespeare's spirited picture), the DonPedro of W. H. Vernon, the Dogberry of Edward Righton, and the Verges of G. W. Anson. Then she migrated to the Strand Theatre, to play in some of H. J. Byron's pleasant comedies, such as "Old Sailors" and "Weak Woman." Of the last-named play, Edward Leman Blanchard (never inclined to be enthusiastic) said that it was "a brightly written and most ingeniously constructed piece; excellently acted, and having a well-deserved success." As its heroine, Marion Terry became very popular, and successes were also made by Ada Swanborough, W. H. Vernon, J. G. Grahame, Harry Cox, and Edward Terry. In the hands of the last-named admirable comedian—and thanks to the excellence of his acting in the eccentric character of Captain Ginger—"Weak Woman" still holds the stage. On September 11th, 1876, came the young actress's first great chance, and right worthily she availed herself of it. On that evening W. S. Gilbert's three-act drama, "Dan'l Druce, Blacksmith," was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, and to her was allotted the one feminine, but all-important, part of Dorothy. The dramatist had avowedly taken the episode of the first act—the finding by the saturnine blacksmith of a wee but winning girl-baby in his lonely hermitage—a mere hut by the sea-shore—from George Eliot's beautiful story, "Silas Marner," but that was all the better, for it formed the preludeto a most interesting play. In it Marion Terry made an instantaneous success by the absolute simplicity of her acting. With a grip rare in so young an artiste, she had realised her author's meaning; her love-scenes (with Forbes Robertson) were finely presented, and, throughout the two acts in which she appeared, her quietly won victory was from the first apparent, and ultimately complete. With such actors as Hermann Vezin, Henry Howe, Odell, and Forbes Robertson, she easily held her own, and shared in the honours of a notable artistic success.
In the October of 1877 there was a greater and even a unique triumph. This was in W. S. Gilbert's whimsically conceived and wittily written farcical comedy "Engaged,"—in its way a gem of the first water, with its every facet cut and polished to the point of resplendency. Good as was the acting of George Honey as Cheviot Hill, Fred Dewar as Angus Macalister, Harold Kyrle (Kyrle Bellew) as Belvawney, Henry Howe as Mr. Symperson, Lucy Buckstone as Miss Symperson, Emily Thorne as Mrs. Macfarlane, and Julia Stewart as the "Lowland Lassie," Maggie Macfarlane, the Belinda Treherne of Marion Terry capped them one and all. It was, indeed, an impersonation as humorous as it was original. If it had not been interpreted as she interpreted it, the very fabric of the work might have fallen; but the extreme cleverness of her actingin a most difficult part held it up, and she became a joy to all endowed with a true sense of fun. It will be remembered that the character is that of a young lady who, apparently steeped in romantic notions, possesses a remarkably matter-of-fact mind. She manifestly believes in herself, but, under the surface of her honeyed rhodomontade, she has to let the audience see the under-current of her secret and worldly aspirations. Badly done, the character would have been impossible. Handled as it was by Marion Terry it became not only delicious in its humour, but strangely convincing. Let us listen to the ring of one or two of the sentences with which she was called upon to deal.
In the first act she meets the susceptible Cheviot Hill; he immediately falls in love with her, and in reply to his words of gushing admiration she says—
"I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among the number."
And when he has replied—
"How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of underbred country girls!"
She answers—
"I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with mymodesty. It has often been admired." The whole house rocked with laughter, and there, on the stage, stood the graceful, pretty, and impassive girl, who, in a very remarkable way, had given meaning to the writer's every word. Her lines were so ridiculous, yet so telling, that we all felt it a wonder that she did not laugh with us. No! Like the perfect, well-graced actress she has ever been, she lived in her part, and seemed absolutely to forget that she was playing to a crowded audience.
One more instance.
In the third act the amorous Cheviot returns from his mission to Scotland to find that during his absence his two English lady-loves, Belinda Treherne and Minnie Symperson, have (at least) been amusing themselves with the dangerous Belvawney. Prompted by absurd jealousy, the ridiculous man expostulates; he cannot bear to hear that the girls, who ought to have been pining for him, have been amused by the impostor's conjuring tricks, that they have, in short, to use his own words, been "Belvawneying." The following conversation ensues:—
Minnie.Have you seen him (Belvawney) bring a live hen, two hair-brushes, and a pound and a half of fresh butter out of his pocket-handkerchief?Cheviot.No, I have not had that advantage.Belinda.It is a thrilling sight.Cheviot.So I should be disposed to imagine. Pretty goings on in my absence. You seem to forget that you two girls are engaged to be married tome!
Minnie.Have you seen him (Belvawney) bring a live hen, two hair-brushes, and a pound and a half of fresh butter out of his pocket-handkerchief?
Cheviot.No, I have not had that advantage.
Belinda.It is a thrilling sight.
Cheviot.So I should be disposed to imagine. Pretty goings on in my absence. You seem to forget that you two girls are engaged to be married tome!
Belinda.Ah, Cheviot, do not judge us harshly. We love you with a reckless fervour that thrills us to the very marrow—(toMinnie) don't we, darling? But the hours crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed a live rabbit, and brought it out, smothered with onions, from his left boot, we could not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teachmethe trick.
Belinda.Ah, Cheviot, do not judge us harshly. We love you with a reckless fervour that thrills us to the very marrow—(toMinnie) don't we, darling? But the hours crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed a live rabbit, and brought it out, smothered with onions, from his left boot, we could not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teachmethe trick.
Could anything be more superlatively or irresistibly ludicrous than this? And yet Marion Terry, with an unmoved and quietly angelic face, spoke the words as if she absolutely believed in them, and scored a success for the author that he could hardly have anticipated.
Again, when with all her own carefully planned motives in full play, Belinda comes dressed in funereal and stately black to the home of her rival, Minnie Symperson, on the day of that outwardly artless young lady's strictly "quiet" wedding with the fickle and faithless Cheviot Hill, she serenely says: "At last I am in my darling's home, the home of the bright, blythe, carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven's sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable schooldays. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas! I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill attuned to scenes of revelry," and then takes a tart, and, with calm appreciation, eats it. Once more the house shook with merriment, but she remained as composed as if she were taking part in some solemn and sacred rite.
Many very clever actresses have since played the part, but they have perforce acted on the lines originally laid down by its creatress. They have all been popular, but there has been only one and incomparable Belinda Treherne, and she was Marion Terry. To those who could appreciate its extreme cleverness, "Engaged" made a delightful and even fascinating entertainment, though it has truly been said that the play afforded a picture of humanity more cynical than had been painted since the days of Swift.
In March 1879, Marion Terry earned another debt of gratitude from W. S. Gilbert. This was at the Olympic Theatre in "Gretchen," a play in four acts. The author stated that the leading idea of this work was suggested by Goethe's "Faust," but that, with the exception of a scene between Mephisto and Martha, the dialogue was original. It was not only original but brilliant, and if the piece failed to draw the multitude it was through no fault of its author.
Joseph Knight said of it:—
"Never, perhaps, in the history of letters has an experiment been tried bolder or more startling than that of Mr. Gilbert in the production of 'Gretchen.' When Dryden and Davenant and their successors undertook to remove the crude work of Shakespeare to suit their own more cultivated tastes, there was nothing especially courageous in the action. Thefame of Shakespeare did not then stand on the pinnacle in the sight of all men it has subsequently occupied. From its first appearance, however, the 'Faust' of Goethe took intellectual Europe by storm. So sensible is Mr. Gilbert of the worth of the work with which he deals, he justifies his own effort on the one ground that the play he alters is not suited to dramatic exposition, and he fortifies his opinion on this point by quoting the assertion of Schlegel, in his lecture on German drama, that 'Faust' runs out in all directions beyond the limits of the theatre." To the thoughtful, "Gretchen" was a most interesting production, and no doubt much of its charm was due to the gentle and maidenly style, and quiet earnestness of Marion Terry as its deeply sinned against heroine.
We have only to take these three important and original characters—Dorothy, Belinda Treherne, and Gretchen—to prove that she is not only a consummate, but a curiously versatile actress.
But the three striking triumphs did not follow each other in succession. In 1877 she had, at the Haymarket, followed Mrs. Kendal (this, seeing what a matchless performance that had been was a formidable ordeal) as Galatea, and won much and well-merited praise—and in the following year she supported Sothern as the heroine of that ill-fated production, "The Crushed Tragedian," by H. J. Byron.
That was poor Sothern's last bid for popularity in an original character, and its failure in London (it had been a great success in America) was a disappointment from which he never quite recovered.
Concerning it he had written:—
"It appeared to me that if I could good-naturedly satirise the old school of acting, contrasting it through the several characters with the present school, I should arrive at the same effects in another manner which were produced in Dundreary; that is to say, that though stigmatised by everybody as a very bad tragedian, I should gain the sympathy of the audience in the satire, however much they might laugh at my peculiarities. The character is not an imitation of any one actor I have ever seen. I have simply boiled down all the old school tragedians as I boiled down all the fops I had met before I played Dundreary. I tested the piece in Philadelphia, and its success was immediate. In my judgment, 'The Crushed Tragedian,' if not the best part in my repertory, is likely to command popular favour at once wherever it is performed, and to retain its hold upon the stage for many years."
Before producing the piece in London he had, according to his custom, "tried" it in the provinces, and in Birmingham it was most enthusiastically received. Sothern was in high spirits that night. "I have got my second Dundreary success," he declared to me; "I didn't know how my 'Fitz' would go inEngland, but I see it's all right, and, mark me, this means five hundred nights at the Haymarket!" Full of assurance he left the next day for London. In the evening "The Crushed Tragedian" was produced at the Haymarket, and—well, the sad fate of that version of Byron's play is a matter of theatrical history. The next day he wrote: "An organised system to d—n the piece. Rows of hissers. We'll see who'll win!" We know now who won—and I fear that the loss of that game told heavily on Sothern's heart. It is not for me to defend, in the face of abler critics, "The Crushed Tragedian," but I think that all who saw the impersonation will allow that it contained many touches by no means unworthy of the creator of Dundreary. It was, however,caviareto the general, and in London failed to attract.
In the midst of his disappointment Sothern told me how delighted he was with the acting of Marion Terry in the character of Florence Bristowe. As the old prompter Henry Howe was excellent.
Her next engagement was with the Bancrofts at the old Prince of Wales' Theatre, and her first important part there was that of Mabel Holne in James Albery's adaptation of Victorien Sardou's "Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy," entitled "Duty." In all these impersonations it was aptly said (in the words of Ruskin)—she possessed "a serenity of effortless grace."
Of course within the limits of these pages it is impossible to follow her throughout her distinguished career. On several occasions she has followed her sister Ellen in some of her most famous parts, playing Olivia, Clara Douglas, and Margaret in the famous Lyceum version of "Faust." Her blind girl in "The Two Orphans," and her sweetly tender Mrs. Errol in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," will never be forgotten.
Her successes with George Alexander at the St. James's Theatre in "Sunlight and Shadow," "The Idler," "Lady Windermere's Fan," "Liberty Hall," and other plays, are fresh in the memory; and so is her appearance at the Criterion Theatre with Charles Wyndham in "The Physician." Her acting as Lady Valerie in this play by Henry Arthur Jones was indeed charming.
In the same author's "Michael and his Lost Angel," produced by Forbes Robertson at the Lyceum, her acting of a most difficult character was summed up by that sternest of critics, William Archer, as "perfect." And so, indeed, it was. She also did good work with the Bancrofts in some of their revivals of the Robertson comedies, especially distinguishing herself as Blanche Haye in "Ours," and Bella in "School."
The comparatively brief stage career of Florence Terry is necessarily less noteworthy, but she is gratefully remembered in the provinces as Olivia, as LadyBetty Noel in Tom Taylor's stirring historical play "Lady Clancarty," as Dorothy in W. S. Gilbert's "Dan'l Druce," and as Jenny Northcote in the same brilliant author's evergreen "Sweethearts." She also figured in some of the great Lyceum productions. In "The Merchant of Venice" she was a very pretty and engaging Nerissa, and she was entrusted with the character of the unfortunate Lady Ellen in the revival of the younger Colman's drama "The Iron Chest," in which Henry Irving took John Philip Kemble's original character of Sir Edward Mortimer. In all these parts she evinced the almost unique persuasive charm possessed by her sisters.
On June 21, 1882, in view of her forthcoming marriage and retirement from the stage, a singularly interesting event took place at the Savoy Theatre. In W. S. Gilbert's dainty fairy play "Broken Hearts," Marion Terry appeared as the Lady Hilda and Florence Terry as the Lady Vavir, parts originally taken at the Court Theatre by Mrs. Kendal and Miss Hollingshead. This was followed by the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice," in which Henry Irving was the Shylock, Ellen Terry the Portia, Marion Terry the Clerk, and Florence Terry the Nerissa.
Thus, and for the first and last time, the three gifted sisters appeared on the stage together.
Florence Terry (Mrs. William Morris) died in 1896.
It is surely good for the old playgoer to conjure up such recollections as these. Some of us already live more in the past than in the present, and one's pleasure is the sum of happy memories of other times and faces gone.
HENRY IRVING
Before Ellen Terry gratefully and gracefully acknowledges the great roar of welcome that greeted her on her first appearance on the Lyceum stage, it seems right to say a few words concerning Henry Irving and his position in the theatrical world at the time when (not far short of twenty-five years ago) he made this all-important engagement. He had already achieved far greater things than he could have dreamt of in his toilsome 'prentice days, and for some time had deservedly been recognised as the head and leader of his profession, as an actor whose name will live with those of Burbage, Betterton, David Garrick, Edmund Kean, and the other histrionic giants of the past, whose memories we cherish. Not suddenly, but by dint of sheer hard work, the victory had been won, and those who had in his earlier days detected his genius were very proud of him.
I had seen him in the days when he acted as a more or less obscure member of the good old provincial stock companies, when he was often called upon to appear in three plays on one night,and earned little or no money for his services. He has told me of an engagement when with his poor salary in hopeless arrear he was compelled (armed with a well-studied appeal) to thrust himself into the managerial presence, and to be rewarded with—acigar!
Never had a young actor so many formidable conditions to face. His first appearance on any stage was at Sunderland, in the September of 1856, and, in representing the small part of the Duke of Orleans in Lord Lytton's "Richelieu," the first words he uttered, behind the footlights, were (surely there was something prophetic about them!), "Here's to our enterprise!" How little did those who acted with him that night, and looked down upon him as a novice, think that as Richelieu himself he would ultimately win that chorus of applause which forms the world's tribute to genius.
But poor young Irving's "enterprise" at first appeared to be a forlorn hope.
While at Sunderland he suffered terribly from nervousness, and, being cast for the subordinate part of Cleomenes in "A Winter's Tale," he broke down. He had been called upon at very short notice to take the character, and, through no fault of his own, had inadequately studied it. He got through the first four acts well enough, but when in the fifth act he had to speak alone, his presence of mind, and his memory, entirely left him. Hecould not remember a word of his part; he merely muttered, "Come on to the market-place, and I'll tell you further," and rushed off the stage in despair.
Then the local critics were down upon him, and his friends warned him to abandon an effort that was evidently beyond his powers. But young though he was, and disheartened though he must have been, Henry Irving had faith in himself, and determined to overcome all obstacles. He had to work hard, and he had to live hard, but his career, though often crossed by the forbidding stream of discouragement, was one of steady progress, and his comrades of these struggling days have told me that whatever he had to endure (and the endurance must have been as bitter as it was long), he never forgot to be that thing so impossible of definition, and so capable of recognition—a gentleman. Indeed, having from the very outset keenly watched his public career, while I have for many years been privileged to enjoy his personal friendship, I have often thought that Henry Irving might have taken for his motto the well-known lines:—
"The World has battle-room for all,Go! fight, and conquer if ye can;But if ye rise, or if ye fall,Be each, pray God, a gentleman."
"The World has battle-room for all,Go! fight, and conquer if ye can;But if ye rise, or if ye fall,Be each, pray God, a gentleman."
"The World has battle-room for all,Go! fight, and conquer if ye can;But if ye rise, or if ye fall,Be each, pray God, a gentleman."
"The World has battle-room for all,
Go! fight, and conquer if ye can;
But if ye rise, or if ye fall,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman."
One of his most charming characteristics is that he has never forgotten an old friend.Videlicet: inthe troubled days of 1856 there was playing at the Sunderland theatre a comedian named Sam Johnson. He never achieved great things, but he encouraged the anxious aspirant with kindly words, and in the after years he found himself an honoured member of the famous Lyceum company.
In these early days I did not see any performance by Henry Irving that could strictly be called impressive, and yet, to me, and to many others, there was something in his appearance and manner that was singularly attractive. We did not realise it then, but no doubt it was that subtle charm that, for want of a better name or definition, we call, in an actor, "magnetism." Added to this was his wonderful capacity for painstaking, which, according to Thomas Carlyle, is the very essence of genius. For some time he was a member of the well-conducted stock company of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. The late Robert Wyndham, the genial and highly-esteemed proprietor of that historic playhouse, once told me that though in those early days he did not look upon Henry Irving as a particularly promising actor, he was always struck with the intense care that he took over any part entrusted to him, however small and insignificant it might be. "I am certain," he said, "that Henry Irving, without being in the least degree a fop, would have gone without his dinner in order to buy a 'button-hole,' or any such trivial adornment that he thought mightadd, even in the minutest degree, to the effect of the part in which he had to appear."
But for a long time the critics were painfully and, as I think, perversely against him. They either did not understand or waywardly resented the crack of the new whip. In 1865, at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, Birmingham, I saw him play Laertes to the Hamlet of Fechter. It was an original Laertes, and not modelled on the perfunctory reading of the part generally adopted by the ordinary provincial stock-actor of those days. To me, and I am sure to the large majority of the audience, it was a very interesting and entirely satisfying performance, but it was recorded by a local critic as "as bad as could be."
This is only one example of many little stabs that must have wounded him at the time. But I noticed that he never altered his methods, and in due season he convinced his would-be censors that he knew more than they did. From the time when he played Rawdon Scudamore at the St. James' Theatre, to the day when he made his first great triumph as Mathias at the Lyceum, it was my good fortune to see him in nearly all his London impersonations—as Harry Dornton in "The Road to Ruin," as Bob Gassitt in H. J. Byron's "Dearer than Life" (in which at the Queen's Theatre he shared honours with J. L. Toole and Lionel Brough), as Compton Kerr in Dion Boucicault's much discussed "Formosa" at Drury Lane,as Mr. Chevenix in H. J. Byron's "Uncle Dick's Darling" at the Gaiety, and in many other parts (one and all played with the touch of a master); until at the Vaudeville Theatre, as Digby Grant in James Albery's "Two Roses," he put the seal to his reputation. How some of us, who had faithfully followed him about from theatre to theatre, carefully watching and delighting in his growing reputation, rejoiced when we knew that he had conquered his opponents and become a king of the stage. How excited we were when in "The Bells" at the Lyceum he made the world ring with his praises.
It was when he was playing the part of Redburn in H. J. Byron's "Lancashire Lass" at the Queen's Theatre that he excited the admiration of Charles Dickens. Some years later the eldest son of the great novelist said in the course of a speech that his father had spoken with enthusiasm of "a young fellow in the play who sits at the table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of art."
Charles Dickens might have seen Henry Irving's graphic impersonation of Bill Sikes in a poor stage version of "Oliver Twist," in which Toole used to revel in the character of "The Artful Dodger," but he did not live to appreciate his life-like impersonation of Jingle. Sensitive as the author always was with regard to the interpretation of his creations in thetheatre, that inimitable and realistic stage-portrait would surely have satisfied him.
Never, it may safely be said, has any actor been more popular than Henry Irving, not only with the public but with members of his own profession. That he deserves his popularity no one who has studied his remarkable career will deny; that he has won it "facing fearful odds" his most intimate friends and ardent admirers must candidly admit. Even to-day, when his fame is so firmly established, that he could, if it troubled him at all, laugh at adverse and hostile criticism, we find any number of self-constituted and ridiculously complacent censors ready to tell us that he won his spurs by a fluke, and that he cannot be regarded as a great actor. Men existed who said the same of Betterton, Garrick, and Kean. But how absurd it is to hear such opinions when we know that, thanks to him, the Lyceum Theatre has for years and years been the cherished resort of all that is intellectual in modern life.
When he first began to make his successes, and had the jealousy that he has long since vanquished to fight, his so-called "mannerisms" (and is it not a truism that there never was an actor, or, for the matter of that, author, yet without some mannerism or speciality that made him a man of mark and so attracted the public to his piping?) were mercilessly caricatured and lampooned, and a weaker man might well have been crushed under the heaps of ill-natured ridiculethat were, mud-like, hurled at him. But an indomitable worker as well as a brave and generous man he rose superior to it all, and in a few busy, and no doubt very anxious, years the difficult sum was done in order that it might be incontestably proved, and to the satisfaction and advantage of all except the croakers, who even less than any one else understand their own croakings, our great English actor of to-day holds his throne.
"What a blessed thing it is," said wise Oliver Wendell Holmes, "that Nature, when she invented, manufactured, and patented her authors" (and original actors take rank amongst the best of authors), "contrived to make critics out of the chips that were left."
No actor more conclusively proves the rightly held theory that the perfection of dramatic art can only be achieved by early apprenticeship and many years devoted to earnest study and incessant hard work than Henry Irving. In a period of three and a half years he had played no fewer than four hundred and twenty-eight parts before his claim to be regarded as one of the most promising actors of his day was even considered. Well might the actor ponder over Chaucer's beautiful lines—
"The lyfe so short,The crafte so long to lerne,The essay so hard,So sharpe the conquering."
"The lyfe so short,The crafte so long to lerne,The essay so hard,So sharpe the conquering."
"The lyfe so short,The crafte so long to lerne,The essay so hard,So sharpe the conquering."
"The lyfe so short,
The crafte so long to lerne,
The essay so hard,
So sharpe the conquering."
If he cared to make one, Henry Irving's reply to his detractors might well be that he has stood the inexorable test of time. Since he first wore his laurels a new and very critical generation has sprung up—a generation that has little or no respect for tradition, that has abundant choice of entertainment, and only cares to pay for what it chooses to see.
Face to face with this somewhat intractable tribe, Henry Irving has for more than a quarter of a century held his own, and America has united with England in hailing him as the living master of dramatic art in its purest and highest form. From the first he was wise enough to know that even the best and greatest of men, to say nothing of the greatest and best of actors, cannot afford to stand alone. As a matter of consequence he surrounds himself with a company composed of the best dramatic talent of the day, and his productions are mounted with a general and generous richness, and a minute attention to detail never, until his time, attempted on the stage.
Then take the quality of the plays produced at the Lyceum, as compared with those morbid and unsavoury ones that during recent years we have seen in too many leading playhouses. Somebody wondered the other day why Adam had never been made the hero of a play, and a cynic suggested that it is because it is not possible to mix up his name with that of some married woman. If Adam is to have his stagechance it must be under the unsullied banner of Henry Irving.
Great as a leader of men as he has proved himself to be, modesty and unselfishness are prominent among his characteristics. Although Queen Victoria, in recognition of his personal worth and public services, created him a Knight (let it be remembered this was the first time that such a distinction had been conferred upon an actor), he still loves to be called plain Henry Irving. Proud as he was—and is—of the honour that, through him, has been bestowed upon his profession, on the day when he was privileged to call himself "Sir Henry" in the play-bills, he merely put his pen through the prefix "Mr.," so that he might remain to the public, as well as to his friends, "Henry Irving." When Ellen Terry was asked, "Have you got used to Sir Henry's title?" she prettily replied, "Oh yes! He has been a Prince in my eyes for many years;" and in doing so she unconsciously spoke for all his associates. Well, in 1878, Irving, having completed his brilliant engagements with the renowned Bateman family, found himself not only the chief actor and attraction, but manager of the Lyceum Theatre.
"His first effort," says Percy Fitzgerald, "was to gather round him an efficient and attractive company. It became presently known that Ellen Terry was to be his partner and supporter on the stage, and it was instantly, and almost electrically, felt that triumphhad been already secured. People could see in advance, in their mind's eye, the gifted pair performing together in a series of romantic plays; they could hear the voices blending, and feel the glow of dramatic enjoyment. This important step was heartily acclaimed. No manager ever started on his course cheered by such tokens of goodwill and encouragement, though much of this was owing to a natural and selfish anticipation of coming enjoyment."
To-day we know how that dream of enjoyment has been realised, and how, under the reign of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry at the Lyceum, we have found, in the words of the poet Campbell—
"The spell o'er heartsWhich only acting lends,The youngest of the Sister ArtsWhere all their beauty blends.For ill can Poetry expressFull many a tone of thought sublime,And Painting, mute and motionless,Steals but a glance of time.But by the mighty Actor broughtIllusion's perfect triumphs come,Verse ceases to be airy thoughtAnd Sculpture to be dumb."
"The spell o'er heartsWhich only acting lends,The youngest of the Sister ArtsWhere all their beauty blends.For ill can Poetry expressFull many a tone of thought sublime,And Painting, mute and motionless,Steals but a glance of time.But by the mighty Actor broughtIllusion's perfect triumphs come,Verse ceases to be airy thoughtAnd Sculpture to be dumb."
"The spell o'er heartsWhich only acting lends,The youngest of the Sister ArtsWhere all their beauty blends.
"The spell o'er hearts
Which only acting lends,
The youngest of the Sister Arts
Where all their beauty blends.
For ill can Poetry expressFull many a tone of thought sublime,And Painting, mute and motionless,Steals but a glance of time.
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty Actor broughtIllusion's perfect triumphs come,Verse ceases to be airy thoughtAnd Sculpture to be dumb."
But by the mighty Actor brought
Illusion's perfect triumphs come,
Verse ceases to be airy thought
And Sculpture to be dumb."
AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE, 1878-1883
Those who are truly interested in the stage must be more or less familiar with a Lyceum first-night under the reign of Henry Irving. He has made the long series of them prominent among the events of the day, and rich and poor alike are eager to be present. We know how the frequenters of the cheaper parts of the house will, in order to obtain good seats, assemble and wait patiently in the Strand from sunrise to sundown; we know how difficult it is to obtain seats at the besieged box-office; we know how from the front row of the pit to the back seats of the gallery the house is densely packed with an audience assembled to hear and see all that is noblest in English dramatic art. It is more than impressive to watch the faces of the patient and expectant pit; and to listen to the sounds in the eager and impulsive gallery; while as to the stalls and boxes, in them you see the cream of those who are distinguished in the paths of art, science, and literature. It is magnificent to be able to command such an audience; on the other hand it must be formidable to face it.
It was to such an assemblage as this that Ellen Terry had to make her bow when on the evening of December 30, 1878, she first appeared at the Lyceum, playing Ophelia to the Hamlet of Henry Irving. No doubt it was a trying and anxious moment for her, but the true ring in the long and loud welcome which greeted her on the threshold of the home in which she was destined to do so much noble work must have gone to her heart, and assured her that all would be well.
It was indeed a momentous evening in the history of our stage. Of it Dutton Cook said:—
"Mr. Irving's managerial career has commenced most auspiciously. The opening representation was, indeed, from first to last, triumphant. A distinguished audience filled to overflowing the re-decorated Lyceum Theatre, and the newimpresariowas received with unbounded enthusiasm. These gratifying evidences of goodwill were scarcely required, however, to convince Mr. Irving that his enterprise carried with it very genial sympathy. His proved devotion to his art, his determination to uphold the national drama to its utmost, have secured for him the suffrages of all classes of society. And it is recognised that he has become a manager, not to enhance his position as an actor—for already he stands in the front rank of his profession—but the better to promote the interests of the whole stage, and to serve more fully, to gratify more absolutely,the public and his patrons. Let it be added, as a minor matter, that he has followed the good examples set by Mr. Hollingshead and Mr. Bancroft, and has been careful of the comfort of his audience, neither permitting them to be pinched for room, nor subjecting them to those petty imposts which, like so many turnpike dues, have so persistently impeded the visitor on his passage from the street to his seat within the theatre.
"The tragedy of 'Hamlet' was well chosen for the first performance under the new management—as Hamlet Mr. Irving has obtained his greatest success. It has been said that no actor has ever been known to fail as Hamlet; it may be added that no actor has ever as Hamlet completely satisfied critical opinion. To many the play is a metaphysical study wholly unsuited for theatrical exhibition; 'an enigmatic work,' as Schlegel says, 'resembling those irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown magnitude always remains that will in no way admit of solution.' To many Hamlet is a mysterious and complex character, beyond the power of histrionic art adequately to interpret. Mr. Irving can, at any rate, point to the fact that, four years ago, for two hundred nights in succession, he played Hamlet to delighted crowds at the Lyceum. Weighed against popular success so consummate and prodigious, objections of any kind are as but feathers in the scale; and even those least disposed to accept this lateststage portraiture of Hamlet can afford to admit that the picture is in itself consistent and harmonious, the work of an ingenious and intellectual artist."
Yes, there were some who (in a hopeless minority) were still indisposed to accept the new Prince of Denmark, but by the sensible and appreciative his impersonation by Henry Irving will ever be honoured as one of the most complete, harmonious, profound, and artistic seen on the stage. Never was more thought given to the study and representation of very small phases of Hamlet's character. The result was a powerful, refined, graceful, intelligent interpretation in every detail, and as such it was applauded by the public.
Of Ellen Terry's acting on that memorable evening my authority says:—
"An Ophelia so tender, so graceful, so picturesque, and so pathetic, has not been seen in the theatre since Macready's Hamlet, many years ago, found his Ophelia in the person of Miss Priscilla Horton. In characters of this class, the heroines of genuine poetry, Miss Terry is now without a rival, is indeed unapproached by any other actress upon our stage. Her personal graces and endowments, her elocutionary skill, her musical speech, and, above all, her singular power of depicting intensity of feeling, are most happily combined, as the audience was quick to discover and applaud in this very exquisite presentment of Ophelia."
Photograph by Window & GrovePhotograph by[Window & Grove.ELLEN TERRY IN TRAGEDY AND COMEDY,CIRCA1878.[To face page 222.
Photograph by[Window & Grove.ELLEN TERRY IN TRAGEDY AND COMEDY,CIRCA1878.[To face page 222.
Photograph by[Window & Grove.
ELLEN TERRY IN TRAGEDY AND COMEDY,CIRCA1878.
[To face page 222.
[See larger version]
In summing up the performance, Joseph Knight said:—
"Of Mr. Irving's Hamlet we have already spoken. It is not greatly changed. The outline is distinctly the same as before, though much pains have been bestowed on the filling up. We do not accept as new readings the delivery while sitting of speeches formerly spoken standing, or other like alterations in arrangement. Nor do we feel that changes of method as regards matters of detail call for special comment. The one vital alteration of conception appears to consist in presenting Hamlet as under the influence of an overmastering love for Ophelia. A knowledge of his own weakness seems to inspire him when, subsequently addressing Horatio, he says—