IRVING'S LAST CURTAIN AT DRURY LANE

By EDITH HUNTINGTON TOMBES

IT was my privilege to be present at both the first and the last nights of Irving's season at Drury Lane in the spring of 1905. No one knew it would be his farewell.

After that London never saw him again.

From this distance those nights are merged into one, from which an overwhelming impression has effaced many details, but which is as vivid as though it were yesterday.

Miles of carriages, four-wheelers, hansoms, crawled along the way to Drury Lane, quite two hours, I think, before the first night performance. It seemed that we should never arrive in time—but we did: The theatre was packed long before the play began.

Excitement was high. It was also intense. The event had an added significance, since already the opening had been postponed because of Irving's illness. Throughout the house the question was asked : " How will he stand it ? "

From my place in a stage-box I looked out over the vast audience and saw what Irving was to see, though not as he beheld it. To him it must have been a mirror in which the man and his work were reflected.

At last the curtain rose.

At that very moment, a solid volume of sound rushed upon the slender figure of Becket, who sat at chess with the King. The impact, both physical and spiritual was so great that, from where I sat, I saw it strike his chest. His shoulders came forward. He trembled, then seemed to gather strength, as the barrage, without the least decrease, continued. It went terrifically on and on.

It was then I realised that the applause meant something deeper than emotion, something that was substance.

A London audience was determined, with all the power it could command, to give expression to its love and high appreciation for one who had given them so much : to crown with full recognition of its value, the work of the great artist and the mighty spirit.

The effect was tremendous.

The undiminished clapping thundered on, beyond the normal point of exhaustion.

Then, slowly, Irving's arm was raised, the fingers of the hand drooped towards an object on the board. Silence came at once, and a voice with lofty slightly nasal tone was heard : " My Liege, I move my bishop."

Becket had begun.

Although I can, in some degree, recall the close of that night, and see the multitudes pour down from the upper parts of the house and mingle with those who pressed towards the stage, the occasion flows into the more vivid close of the last night of all when, too, the play was Becket. The last there was to be.

I saw this from the stalls. There was a charming moment before we entered. Bram Stoker stood in the foyer receiving the guests, for so we seemed, as we arrived. My delighted ears heard a member of our little group say, as he held her hand : " Good evening, Bram. How is Henry ? "

The reply was assuring. After this personal touch we took our places. I felt we were really guests of Irving.

There are as many memories of that night as there were spectators, but there is one memory of Irving's Becket it would seem must be common to all. When the play was over, we knew we had been in the presence of goodness : that we had dwelt in the realm of spirit.

The curtain fell. Again the great audience crowded to the stage. Irving was called back repeatedly. A procession of flowers, of wreaths, including one from his " Loyal Lyceum Pittites," moved up to him. He came again and again. His thanks attended each appearance and each brief speech was warm, and loving, and simple and grateful.

It was all an endless tribute from us to him, from him to us.

There is an expression in the play, " Becket's Men." As we stood looking up at Irving as he bowed, suddenly someone called out " Irving's Men." Instantly Drury Lane rang with " Irving's Men ! Irving's Men ! "

The cries ceased, and as though they were of one mind, the assembly, in perfect key, sang : " Should Auld Acquaint- ance be forgot —" The curtain was slowly lowered.

But the audience remained. Most of the lights were put out. No one stirred. The stalls were covered with dust- sheets, but the audience did not move. It was as though it clung to something that had vanished.

Then, behold, the curtain was raised. Becket had become Irving in evening dress. On the stage were the company, and the stage-hands.

He stepped forward and in substance said : " My friends, you see us at a family party, to which you are invited."

We saw him receive a loving-cup which was presented. We heard the speeches.

Then—all was over.

Again he turned to us and, bowing,. said : " My friends, I bid you goodnight."

It was the final curtain.