by Bram Stoker
Owens College, Manchester, blossoming into Manchester University, had a parallel in the growth of Columbia University, New York. In 1895 when, at the request of its President, Seth Low, Irving delivered the address on “ Macbeth,” which he had delivered in Manchester, it was still merely a College though the matter of its coming development was then at hand. Before our next visit to America in 1899 the whole new University of Columbia had been built and equipped. On 14th November 1899 I was taken all over it by President Low, and was amazed to see what had been done within the four years. The great Library, which the President had himself built and presented, was a magnificent centre for so fine and thoughtfully-conceived a piece of work. Irving’s address was given in the Library, the largest hall in the old building, which had been somewhat dismantled for the purpose. It held some fifteen hundred persons. The occasion was Irving’s first experience of the New York College cry, which has a startling effect when enunciated in unison by a thousand lusty throats. When he entered the Library with the President, who took in Ellen Terry, the cheering began and soon formulated itself into this special concourse of sounds. At the close of the address, which went extremely well, the enthusiastic cheering was repeated. And again Ellen Terry had her special share of it.
VIII
CHICAGO UNIVERSITY
Irving addressed the University of Chicago twice.
The first was on 17th March 1896, when he repeated his lecture on “ Macbeth.” The second on April 25, 19oo, when he repeated the lecture which he had given in 1895 at the Royal Institution: “ Acting: an Art.” Both addresses were given in the Kent Hall which was on each occasion crowded to excess.
The University of Chicago might well be taken as an illustration of the rapid growth possible in America. In the fall of 1893 the ground on which it stands was a section of the World’s Fair, what was called “ The Midway Pleasaunce.” In the spring of 1896, less than two years and a half, the University was built, organised and furnished with students to its full capacity.
IX
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
The last address which Irving gave in America was at Princeton University, where on March 19, 1902, he read a paper on the subject of “ Shakespeare and Bacon,” an eloquent and logical defence of Shakespeare against his detractors.
X
LEARNED BODIES AND INSTITUTIONS
The following is a list of various addresses given by Irving at Institutions and before learned Bodies other than Universities: —
“The Stage.” Perry Bar Institute, near Birmingham, 6th March 1878.
“The Stage as it is.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 8th November 1881.
“Shakespeare and Goethe.” Goethe Society, New York, 15th March 1888. (Given at Madison Square Theatre.)
“Hamlet.” Literary and Scientific Institute, Wolverhampton, 19th February 189o. (This was given at the Agricultural Hall.)
“The Art of Acting.” Philosophical Institute, Edinburgh, 9th November 1891. (This was given in the Music Hall)
“Shakespeare as a Playwright.” Twentieth Century Club, Chicago, 2nd November 1893. (Given in the private theatre in the house of Mr. George Pullman.)
“Municipal Theatres.” Literary Institute, Walsall, 26th September, 1894. (Given in the Grand Theatre.)
“Acting: an Art.” Royal Institution, London, ist February 1895.
“Macbeth.” Contemporary Club, Philadelphia, 17th April 1896 (given at the New Art Gallery). Also at the Catholic Social Union, London, 17th May 1898 (given at the house of Cardinal Vaughan).
“Actors and Acting.” Liberal Club, Buffalo, 4th February 1902.
CHAPTER LXXI
ADVENTURES
Over a mine-bed — Fires: Edinburgh Hotel; Alhambra, London; Star Theatre, New York; Lyceum — — How theatre fires are put out — Union Square Theatre, New York” Fussy” safe — Floods — Bayou Pierre — How to get supper — On the Pan Handle — Train Accidents: Explosions; “ Frosted” wheel; A lost driver — Storms at sea — A reason for laughter — Falling scenery — No fear of death — Master of himself
I
OVER A MINE BED
ON gth August 188o Irving and I went for a short holiday together. The heat in London was very great. We began at Southsea, where we stopped at the Pier Hotel; that evening after dinner in the afternoon we got a lug-sail boat and went over to Ryde, returning by moonlight. The next day we walked on the Esplanade. Southsea was very full, and along the sea front a vast crowd of people moved in endless procession. Every one seemed to know my companion, and he became surrounded with a crowd which, though the composing individuals changed, never left him. At last he got tired of shaking hands and answering endless commonplace questions. In a momentary pause he said to me:
“I can’t stand any more of this. Let’s get a boat and have a sail. We can get quiet that way anyhow!”
We went down on the beach and picked out a likely looking boat that was ready launched. The boatman was very deaf, but as he seemed also dumb we regarded him as a find. He hoisted his sail and we began to steal away from shore. Behind us was a lot of shouting, and many people ran down on the beach gesticulating and calling out. We could not distinguish what they said; but we were both so accustomed to hear people shouting at Irving that we took it that the present was but another instance of clamorous goodwill.
We had got away from shore about half a mile when suddenly there was a terrific sound close to us, and the boat was thrown about just as a rat is shaken by a dog. A column of water rose some thirty yards from us and for quite half a minute the sea round us seemed to boil. The old boatman seemed very much frightened and found his voice to the extent of ejaculations of a prayerful kind, mingled with blasphemy. There seemed some excuse for him, for it was certainly very terrifying. To us, who did not understand, it seemed like an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption of some kind. Irving, however, was quite calm; he did not seem put out at all. The only motion he made was to put on his pince-nez which had been shaken off. I am not as a rule very timorous myself.
.As the sea began to resume its normal calm it presented a strange appearance. All around us were strewn floating fish, mostly belly up, the white catching the eye everywhere. There were scores — hundreds of them, all seemingly dead. We lifted a lot of them into the boat. A few did not move at all, but after a while most of them began to wriggle and flop about. These had only been stunned.
We had after the first surprise taken it for granted that the shock had been from some sub-marine explosion; but we were content to await developments. When the boatman began to get over his agitation he enlightened us:
“‘Tis they torpedoes; they’ve fired ‘em by wire from Fort Monckton. ‘Tis silly I am not to have thought on ‘em an’ kept out of the way! “ Then he explained that the event of the day was to be an attack on Fort Monckton — the low-lying fort which guards the mouth of the harbour of Portsmouth — by the Glation, then the most up-to-date of our scientifically equipped ships. We appeared to have come right over the mine-bed. The prudent fisherman had by this time put his boat’s head against such wind as there was and began to gather up the unforeseen harvest of the sea. He was intent on this, though his hands shook and he kept looking around him apprehensively. We drifted with the tide. Presently a little distance in front of us another mine went off, and our friend got agitated afresh. He implored us to come away, and began to slack the sheet which he had drawn tight. Irving had lit a cigar and was calmly smoking. He had evidently taken a common-sense view of the situation.
“Why should we come away? We are, I take it, in about as safe a place as can be. The mines here have been fired and we don’t know where the others are. If we go on, no matter in what direction, we shall probably come across another explosion. Let us stay where we are — and enjoy ourselves! “ And stay we did and enjoyed — to a certain extent — the thunder of the cannon which later on, when the attack developed, rolled over the water and was brought to our ears, we being so close to the sur
face, in a way to make us feel as if each fresh explosion was close at hand.
I think, however, that we both enjoyed the attack more that night when the actual sham battle was fought. In those days search-lights were new and rare. Both the Glatton and Fort Monckton were well equipped with them, and during the attack the whole sea and sky and shore were perpetually swept with the powerful rays. It was in its way a noble fight, and as then most people were ignorant of the practical working of the new scientific appliances of war, it was instructive as well as fascinating. We, who had been out in the middle of it during the day, could perhaps appreciate its possibilities better than ordinary civil folk unused to the forces and horrors of war!
II
FIRES a The first fire of which Irving and I were spectators together was in November 1881. We were playing at Edinburgh and stayed in the old Edinburgh Hotel opposite the Scott Memorial. The house was pulled down long since. The hotel was made up of several houses thrown into one, and was of the ramshackle order. It would have been easily set on fire; and had it got well alight nothing could have saved it.
Loveday and I supped with Irving in his sitting-room on the second storey, and after supper were enjoying our smoke. It was then late for Edinburgh, nearly one o’clock. As we sat we heard a queer kind of roaring and crackling sound in the passage outside.
“That sounds like a fire! “ I said, and ran out to see if I could help. In the passage a curious scene presented itself. A sort of housemaid’s closet in the back wall was well alight; the flames were roaring. The night porter, when collecting the boots, had seen it and was now trying to put it out. He was in a really dangerous position, and was behaving very bravely. I ran up to my room just overhead and brought down two great jugs of water which were on my wash-hand stand. When I got down a tall man was standing near the closet and talking very angrily to the porter. He was attired in a long white night shirt under which his bare feet and legs displayed themselves. He was not making the least effort to help, but kept on abusing the man who was working. Considering that the chances were that in a few minutes the whole hotel would be on fire, with what awful result none could foresee, it was strange conduct. In the midst of the hurry, for by this time we were all doing what we could, I had to laugh at the absurd situation and his out-of-place blaming:
“This is a pretty nice sort of thing for a gentleman staying in your damned hotel to have to endure! Do you always do this sort of thing, sir? Nice thing indeed! A gentleman to be waked up out of his bed by your infernal stupidity in setting the house on fire. Are we all to be burned in our beds? Nice sort of conduct indeed! Edinburgh should be ashamed of itself! “ Irving and Loveday and I were all hard at work but were doing little good. The porter who knew the place was trying to get at the water tap within. He succeeded at last, and when a jet of water could be used in that narrow space the fire was soon held in check. We stood for a while to admire the angry stranger, still “jawing “ away at the porter, who took not the least notice of him. By this time the other guests were alarmed and came running out of their rooms in various stages of night gear and partial dressing, till the passage was thronged with frightened women and men full of inquiries.
When we went back to the room to finish our smoke we left them all there. The unclad stranger was in the midst, still in a sublime state of indifference to decorum, haranguing — at what or whom he did not seem to know, for the porter had gone. In the room Irving said, as he cut the end of a fresh cigar:
“I wish I had that fellow’s self-conceit — or even a bit of it. With it I could do anything!” b The next fire we were at was on 6th December 1882. We had supped together in the Lyceum after the play and were leaving tolerably early. We were going out by the private door in Burleigh Street, when there came a sudden red glare in front of us a little to the right, or north, just as we were crossing the side-walk to the cab. In those days he always used a four-wheeler; he did not have a brougham till twelve or thirteen years later — and then it was a hired one.
“Hullo! “ said Irving, “ there is a fire! It seems pretty close too. I suppose you’re off! “ It was a standing joke with him against me that whenever there was a fire within range I was off to it hot-foot. I ran back to my office to put on a heavier pair of shoes — attending a fire is wet work and evening shoes are not fit for it. I was just putting them on when a vehicle stopped hurriedly at the door and there was a loud rapping. I ran out — Irving was back.
“Come quick,” he said, “ don’t wait to change. It’s the Alhambra.” We jumped into the cab and the man drove for all he was worth. We got into Leicester Square just as the police were clearing the place and forming a cordon. All the Bow Street men knew us both and they hurried us into a doorway just where the Empire Music Hall is now. From there we had a splendid view, the place all to ourselves.
The fire had made quick headway and as we got to our place the whole theatre seemed alight within, and the flames burst out of the windows. The Fire Brigade got to work quick; but when a building of that size and with so large an interior gets alight there is no checking it. The only thing that can be done with any prospect of success is to try to prevent it spreading. Within a time which seemed incredibly short the roof began to send up sparks and flames, and then all at once it seemed to be lifted and to send up a fiery column of flames and sparks and smoke and burning ashes, which a few seconds later began to fall round us like rain. There was a terrific crash, and more leaping and towering flames. And then the roof fell in.
It was a magnificent, if costly, sight. Fortunately no one was killed or even injured. One of the firemen had his wife and baby at the top of the theatre, I was told; and that it was the delay in saving them that made the warning to the Brigade later than it might have been.
After the fall of the roof, the rest was detail. We waited an hour or so and then came away.
At the next fire we were not together. Irving was on the stage of the Star Theatre, New York, and I happened to be standing at the back of the parquet near the. aisle which in all American theatres runs straight back from the orchestra rail. The occasion was the first night of Irving’s playing Hamlet in New York, and the house was crowded to excess in every part. The play went well; incidentally I may say that it was an enormous success. All went well till the “ play scene.” The light for the mimic stage was supposed to be given from the attendants ranged on each side carrying torches. These torches were of spirit, as such give leaping flames which are picturesque and appear to give good light, though in truth their illuminating quality is small. Early in the scene one of these torches got overheated, and the flaming spirit running over set fire to one of the stage draperies. The super-master, Marion, who was “ on “ in the scene, at once ran over and tore down the curtain and tramped it out.
Through it all Irving never hesitated or faltered for an instant. He went on with his speech; no one could take it from movement, expression or intonation that there was any cause for concern.
Still a fire in a theatre has very dreadful possibilities; and at the first sign of flame a number of people rose hurriedly in their seats as if preparatory to rushing out. There was all over the house a quick, quiet whisper:
“Sit down! “ As if in obedience, the standers sat.
There was but one exception. A lanky, tallow-faced, herring-shouldered, young man, with fear in his white face, dashed up the aisle. It is such persons who cause death in such circumstances. There is a moment when panic can be averted; but once it starts nothing can stop it. The idea of “Sauve qui peut “ comes from the most selfish as well as the most weak of human instincts. I feared that this man might cause a panic, and as he dashed up I stepped out and caught him by the throat and hurled him back on the ground. At such a time one must not think of consequences, except one, which is to prevent a holocaust. The rude, elementary method was effective. No one else stirred. I caught the fallen man and dragged him to his feet.
“Go back to your seat, sir! “ I said sternly. “ It is cowa
rds like you who cause death to helpless women! “ He was so stunned or frightened that he did not make the least remonstrance, but went sheepishly back to his seat.
On the way he had to pass a man who stood a little in front of me — a tall, powerful, black-bearded, masterful-looking man. As the other was passing he put out his hand, and with finger and thumb caught the lappet of the young man’s coat and drew him close. Then he said in a low voice, full of personal indignation as at a wrong to himself:
“Do you know that you rushed past me like a flash of lightning! “ Then he suddenly released him and turned his eyes to the stage. I think it was the most contemptuous expression I ever saw. The rest of those present moved no more. It left me with a very firm impression that no one need fear for the courage and self-restraint of an American audience. d Two years after we had at the Lyceum a somewhat similar experience of a stage fire. This was during Faust. A curtain caught fire, and was promptly put out by the nearest person. Another such fire occurred in 1891 in The Corsican Brothers.
Stage fires generally have very small beginnings, and if they are taken in time are hardly dangerous. At a Theatres Parliamentary Commission the Hon. Sir Spencer Ponsonby-Fane, then and for a great number of years the permanent official in the Lord Chamberlain’s department, to whom was entrusted the supervision of London theatres, was asked by a Committee man:
“How are fires in theatres usually put out? “ His answer was sufficiently explanatory:
“With the carpenter’s cap! “ ‘When a flame is small it can be smothered in an instant.
It is a reassuring fact that during the last century hardly a life was lost by fire in a London theatre. Indeed there were even very few injuries. I remember one exception which occurred at a panic — arising, as it turned out, without cause — at the Grecian Theatre some twenty years ago. On this occasion the audience did not lose their heads, but they began to move out quickly. There was one old gentleman who would not join in the movement. He said he had always heard that in case of a fire in the theatre the best thing any one of the audience could do was to remain quietly in his seat, and that he did not intend to stir. As it turned out he was the only person injured. He was sitting at the end of a row in the Pit close to the doorway; and as he would not stir, the rest of the audience simply walked over him!
