Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  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 3o, 1903 — the last day, by the way, allowable for production in London by the contract with Sardou and Moreau. On that night it was received 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. Naturally his features had a great 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 repertoire 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 repertoire 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!”

  CHAPTER 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! ‘“

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHARLES MATHEWS

  In Early Days — A Touch of character — Mathews’ appreciation — Henry Russell — The Wolf and the Lamb

  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 repertoire. 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 obj ected 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 youth-fulness. 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, C. 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 staye
d with him areliour.”

  “And did you get yelp-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!”

  CHAPTER 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, for Dickens died in 187o. 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 my 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 Pechter, 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.”

  CHAPTER 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.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  VISITS TO AMERICA

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

  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 in stitution. The great clientHe 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.

  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 m
ake 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 d 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 “ Goodbye “ 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: