by Bram Stoker
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 At that time limelight for purposes of stage effect had been largely superseded by electric light, which was beginning to be properly harnessed for the purpose.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 naivete, that precautions were taken to prevent the escape of the life-giving oxygen — for even Me keyhole was slopped up.
CHAPTER XXXII
TOURS-DE-FORCE
A “ Hamlet”Reading — A vast “Bill”
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 at once a tribute to his immense knowledge of the play and 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 Hamlet. Irving’s own performance of the title role 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:
RichardIII.. 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 evening 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.
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHRISTMAS
Christmas geese — Punch in the Green Room — A dinner in the Theatre — Gambling without risk — Christmas at Pittsburg
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 of them, 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 punchbowl 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
On one Christmas Eve-1882 — Irving had a dinnerparty in the old Beefsteak Room. These were all close friends — Ellen Terry’s family and my own and Loveday’s, and a few others — twenty in all. We had a real Christmas dinner. Spiced beef, roast beef, turkey, plum pudding et hoc genus omne. All was perfect and after dinner a roulette table was placed before us. Then came the notable surprise.
Before each person was placed a canvas bag containing new silver of different denominations to the value of five pounds. Each and all could play with a good conscience as the hazard was not eating into accumulated fortune!
III
Two years later we were all at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Irving arranged an “ off “ night Christmas and had the who
le 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. There was much punch consumed that night. The whisky for it was brought in great pitchers the size of those used in a wash-basin. I brewed the punch so I know.
CHAPTER 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, 188o, 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 shall 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. Gunter can do the commissariat. 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. I venture to give here — only as illustration of the range of his hospitalities at the Lyceum and elsewhere — some names which may be interesting. There are but few to whom they could all be known; but many of them are known either in London or locally. Occasionally, when opportunity permitted and memory served, I jotted down — often on my copy of the menu — the names of some of my fellow guests; and as I usually kept these interesting souvenirs, I am able to give a somewhat suggestive list. It is, of course, only partial — incomplete; by comparison meagre; representative rather than comprehensive. A complete list — were such possible — might be tiresome to the many, even though it should recall to individuals, as this of more than a thousand will, some delightful hours.
H.H. Prince Ibraham Senator Chauncey Depew Principal Story, Glasgow University Mrs. and Misses Story Sir Edward and Lady Russell Mrs.
Jack Gardner Miss Genevieve Ward Emma Nevada Coquelin
Admiral Sir Harry Keppel
Mrs. Stirling (Lady Gregory)
Lord Chancellor Walker
Frederick Goodall, R.A.
Mrs. and Miss.Goodall
Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Barrett
Dr. Billings, U.S.A.
Judge and Mrs. McConnell
General Barnes (U.S.A.)
Edwin A. Ward
Dion Boucicault
Mr. and Mrs. E. Cramp
John Farrell
Sir William Robinson
The Ranee, Lady Brooke
Sir Ernest and Miss Cassel
Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Holmes
Sir Wm. Thomson, C.B.
Lady and Miss Thomson
W. T. Emmott
Judge Truax (New York)
Charles Santley
Mr. and Mrs. Margetson
Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Yates
Paderewski Marquis of Worcester Lord Burnham
Mr. and Mrs. Henry F. Dickens The Misses Dickens Miss Georgina Hogarth Gamier
Hon. Sir S. Ponsonby-Fane Alexander Salvini Sir Charles Scotter Richard Harding Davis Sir C. and Lady Kinloch Cooke Hon. Benjamin H. Brewster Mr. and Mrs. C. Bradshaw Albert Bierstadt Stephen Fiske Ernest Moore James Albery Dr. Keeley
Sir F. and Lady Lockwood
Fitzgerald Molloy
Sir Walter Gilbey, Bart.
Thomas Thorne
Sir James D. Linton, P.R.I.
Austin Brereton
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Wilson
Col. Mellor, M.P.
Mrs. and Mrs. Ernest Hawksley
General Sir Owen Lanyon
Charles Dickens (the younger)
James Orrock, R.I.
H. W. Massingham
C. W. Mcllvaine
Montgomery Phister
