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On Monday morning the newspapers, from one end of the United States to the other, chronicled the arrival of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. The New York journals rivalled each other in columns of bright descriptive matter, with headings in more than customary detail. The “Herald” commenced its announcement in this way:—

IRVING—TERRY.

Arrival of the Famous English Actor and the Leading Lady of the Lyceum.

A Hearty Welcome Down the Bay by Old Friends.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. IRVING.

His Views on the Drama and Stage of To-day.

PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.

The “Sun” greeted its readers with—

UP EARLY TO MEET IRVING!

A BUSINESS-LIKE HAMLET AND A JOLLY OPHELIA ARRIVE.

What the Famous English Actor Looks Like, and How He Talks—A Stentorian Greeting Down at Quarantine before Breakfast.

The “Morning Journal” (the latest success in cheap newspaper enterprise) proclaimed:—

ENGLAND’S GREAT ACTOR.

Henry Irving Cordially Welcomed in the Lower Bay.

He Tells of His Hopes and Fears, and Expresses Delight over Dreaded Newspaper Interviewers—Miss Terry Joyful.

A leading Western journal pays a large salary to a clever member of its staff, whose duty is confined to the work of giving to the varied news of the day attractive titles. The New York press is less exuberant in this direction than formerly.

The sketches of the arrival of the “Britannic’s” passengers are bright and personal. They describe the appearance of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. The vivacity of Miss Terry charmed the reporters. The quiet dignity of Irving surprised and impressed them. The “interviews” generally referred to Mr. Irving’s trip across the Atlantic; his programme for New York; his hopes of a successful tour; his ideas of the differences between American and English theatres; what he thought of Booth, and other points which I have myself set forth, perhaps more in detail than was possible for the journals, and, what is more important, from the platform of an interested English spectator. The following conversation is, in the main, a revised edition of an interview that appeared in the “Herald.”

“And now to speak to you of yourself as an actor, and also of your theatre—let me ask you, to what mainly do you attribute your success?”

“The success I have made, such as it is, has been made by acting—by acting alone, whether good or bad.”[4]

“There is a notion in America, Mr. Irving, that your extraordinary success is due to your mise en scène and the research you have given to the proper mounting of your pieces.”

“Indeed, is that so? And yet ‘The Cup’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’ were the only two pieces I have done in which the mise en scène has been really remarkable. During my early association with the Lyceum nothing of that kind was attempted. For instance, the church-yard scene in ‘Hamlet’ was a scene painted for ‘Eugene Aram,’ as the then manager of the Lyceum (my old friend, Mr. Bateman), did not believe in the success of ‘Hamlet.’ The run of the play was two hundred nights. I have been associated with the Lyceum since 1871, eleven years, and, until the production of ‘The Corsican Brothers’ and ‘The Cup,’ in 1880–1881, no play in which I acted had ever been elaborately mounted. Before the time of these plays I had acted in ‘The Bells,’ ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene Aram,’ ‘Philip,’ ‘Richelieu,’ ‘Hamlet,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Louis XI.,’ ‘Othello,’ ‘Richard III.,’ ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others; and this, I think, is sufficient answer to the statement that my success has, in any way, depended upon the mounting of plays. When I played ‘Hamlet,’ under my own management, which commenced in December, 1878, I produced it with great care; and many things, in the way of costume and decoration, which had been before neglected, I endeavored to amend. But take, for instance, ‘The Merchant of Venice,’—it was put upon the stage in twenty-three days.”

“It will be impossible for managers to go back to the bad system of mounting formerly in vogue, will it not?”

“I think so. Indeed, it is impossible for the stage to go back to what it was in any sense. Art must advance with the times, and with the advance of other arts there must necessarily be an advance of art as applied to the stage. In arranging the scenery for ‘Romeo and Juliet’ I had in view not only the producing of a beautiful picture, but the illustration of the text. Every scene I have done adds to the poetry of the play. It is not done for the sake of effect merely, but to add to the glamor of the love story. That was my intention, and I think that result was attained. I believe everything in a play that heightens and assists the imagination, and in no way hampers or restrains it, is good, and ought to be made use of. I think you should, in every respect, give the best you can. For instance, Edwin Booth and I acted together in ‘Othello.’ He alone would have drawn a great public; yet I took as much pains with it as any play I ever put upon the stage. I took comparatively as much pains with the ‘Two Roses’ and the ‘Captain of the Watch’ as with ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ But there is no other play in Shakespeare that seems to me to so much require a pictorial setting as ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ You could not present plays nowadays as they formerly did, any more than you could treat them generally as they were treated.”

“How did you come to identify yourself so much with the revival of Shakespearian acting?”

“I will try to tell you briefly what I have done since I have been before the London public. Much against the wish of my friends I took an engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘Two Roses,’ which ran three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre I recited the drama of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be successful—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Richard III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’ was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. He thought there was a prejudice against the management, and that there would probably be a prejudice against that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered. The next piece was a great difficulty. It was thought that whatever part I played it must be a villain, associated with crime in some way or other; because I had been identified with such sort of characters it was thought my forte lay in that direction. I should tell you that I had associated histrionically with all sorts of bad characters, house-breakers, blacklegs, assassins. When ‘Charles I.’ was announced, it was said that the bad side of the king’s character should be the one portrayed, not the good, because it would be ridiculous to expect me to exhibit any pathos, or to give the domestic and loving side of its character. After the first night the audience thought differently. Following ‘Charles I.’ ‘Eugene Aram’ was, by Mr. Bateman’s desire, produced. In this we have a character much like that of Mathias, but with a pathetic side to it. Then Mr. Bateman wished me to play ‘Richelieu.’ I had no desire to do that; but he continued to persuade, and to please him I did it. It ran for a long time with great success. What I did play, by my own desire, and against his belief in its success, was ‘Hamlet,’ for you must know that at that time there was a motto among managers—‘Shakespeare spells bankruptcy.’ ”

“What is your method in preparing to put a play on the stage—say one of Shakespeare’s; would you be guided by the tradition of Shakespearian acting?”

“There is no tradition of Shakespearian acting; nor is there anything written down as to the proper way of acting Shakespeare. We have the memoirs and the biographies of great actors, and we know something of their methods; but it does not amount to a tradition or to a school of Shakespearian acting. For instance, what is known on the stage of Shakespeare’s tradition of Richard? Nothing. The stage tradition is Colley Cibber. ‘Off with his head—so much for Buckingham!’ is, perhaps, the most familiar line of his text. We have had some men who have taken this or that great actor as their exemplar; they have copied him as nearly as they could. Actors, to be true, should, I think, act for themselves.”

“You would advise an actor, then, to go to the book and study the play out for himself, and not take this or that character by rote?”

“Certainly; take the book, and work the play out to the best of your intelligence. I believe my great safeguard has been that I have always tried to work out a character myself. As a boy I never would see a play until I had studied it first.”

“That would be an answer to the strictures which have been made on you, that you have not kept to the old acting versions, but have made versions for yourself?”

“True; and why should I not, if I keep, as I do, to Shakespeare? For many actors Shakespeare was not good enough. A picture which hangs in my rooms affords an instance in point. It represents Mr. Holman and Miss Brunton in the characters of Romeo and Juliet, and gives a quotation from the last scene of Act V. Juliet says, ‘You fright me. Speak; oh, let me hear some voice beside my own in this drear vault of death; or I shall faint. Support me.’ Romeo replies, ‘Oh! I cannot. I have no strength, but want thy feeble aid. Cruel poison!’ Not one word of which, as you know, is Shakespeare’s.”

“You referred just now to the necessity of an actor acting ‘from himself;’—in other words, not sinking his own individuality in the part he is trying to represent; would it not be an answer to those who charge you with mannerisms on the stage? Is it not true, in short, that the more strongly individual a man is the more pronounced his so-called mannerisms will be?”

“Have we not all mannerisms? I never yet saw a human being worth considering without them.”

“I believe you object to spectators being present at your rehearsals. What are your reasons for that course?”

“There are several, each of which would be a valid objection.”

“For instance?”

“Well, first of all, it is not fair to author, manager, or actor, as the impression given at an incomplete performance cannot be a correct one.”

“But surely by a trained intellect due allowance can be made for shortcomings?”

“For shortcomings, yes; but a trained intellect cannot see the full value of an effort, perhaps jarred or spoiled through some mechanical defect; or, if the trained intellect knows all about it, why needs it to be present at all? Now, it seems to me that one must have a reason for being present, either business or curiosity, and business cannot be properly done, while curiosity can wait.”

“Another reason?”

“It is unjust to the artists. A play to be complete must, in all its details, finally pass through one imagination. There must be some one intellect to organize and control; and in order that this may be effected it is necessary to experimentalize. Many a thing may be shown at rehearsal which is omitted in representation. If this be seen, and not explained, a false impression is created. A loyal company and staff help much to realize in detail and effect the purpose of the manager; but still, all are but individual men and women, and no one likes to be corrected or advised before strangers.”

“As to the alleged dearth of good modern English plays, what do you think is the cause of their non-production?”

“I deny the dearth, except so far as there is always a dearth of the good things of the world. I hold that there are good English plays. I could name you many.”

“What are your opinions of the stage as an educational medium? I ask the question because there is a large class of people, both intelligent and cultured, who still look upon the stage and stage-plays, even if not downright immoral, as not conducive to any intellectual or moral good.”

“My dear sir, I must refer you to history for an answer to that problem. It cannot be solved on the narrow basis of one craft or calling. Such ideas are due to ignorance. Why, in England, three hundred years ago—in Shakespeare’s time—in the years when he, more than any other human being in all that great age of venture and development, of search and research, was doing much to make the era famous, actors were but servants, and the stage was only tolerated by court license. A century later, in London city, actors were pilloried and the calling deemed vagrancy; while in France a Christian burial was denied to Molière’s corpse. The study of social history and development teaches a lesson in which you may read your answer. When bigotry and superstition fade, and toleration triumphs, then the work of which the stage is capable will be fairly judged, and there will be no bar to encounter. The lesson of toleration is not for the player alone; the preacher must learn it.”