by Bram Stoker
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 fthence to speak again of the play at odd times.
III
That season was a busy one, as we had taken off Ravenswood and played repertoire. 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 at 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 cut 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 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 feel 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.
CHAPTER XX
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS — III
“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
I
I WENT down by the 10.3o 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 popu/i, 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:
“Hubert. The voice of the people blesses thee.
“Becket. And I bless The people, love them, live for them — and yet Not me, not me! they bless the Church in me. The Voice of the people goes against the King, The Voice of the Lord is in the Voice of the People 1 The Voice of the Lord is in the warring floods, And He will lead his people into Peace! The Voice of the Lord will shake the wilderness The barren wilderness of unbelief! The Voice of the Lord will break the cedar-trees-The Kings and Rulers that have dosed their ears Against the Voice — and at their hour of doom The Voice of the Lord will hush the hounds of Hell That ever yelp and snarl at Holy Church In everlasting silence!”
Any one who studies this fine passage in connection with the difference between the play as written and as adapted can see the extraordinary mental subtlety with which the dramatist reconciled two ideas of opposing purpose. In Becket, Tennyson takes as his main purpose — as the dramatic “ tug “ of the play — the opposition of Church and State as spoken of in Henry’s speech:
“Sceptre and crozier dashing, and the mitre Grappling the Crown.”
B
ecket was, except in the prologue, all churchman when interests clashed. When, however, the dramatist knew that stage exigency required the appearance of opposition between King and people, he did it in such a way, whilst fulfilling all requirements both of the character and the drama, that Becket used the very circumstance to the advantage of his own cause. This is real dramatic instinct, and may be taken as a good illustration of Tennyson’s natural capacity for the drama. It is all the more illustrative in that he was not only creating, but creating within very narrow bounds.
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 anoynmous 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 at our last meeting; 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!”
That evening the younger members of the family went to a political meeting, at which the local member, Sir Richard Webster, then Attorney-
General, was addressing his constituents, and I went with them.
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 XIV. 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 I 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 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 ship 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 all 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.
