XIII. LAURENCE IRVING IN AMERICA. "If white and black blend, soften, and unite -POPE. LAURENCE IRVING, second son of Henry Irving, came to America for the first time in 1899, as a member of the theatrical company of his great father, and he also acted here, in that association, in 1901-'02, and in 1903-'04. He is well known both as dramatist and actor. His plays are "Godefroi and Yolande," "Richard Lovelace," "Peter the Great," "The Fool Hath Said, "There Is No God,'" and the adapted translations of Sardou's "Robespierre" and "Dante." If Laurence Irving had done nothing else his remarkable play of "Peter the Great," which his father produced and acted in, at the London Lyceum Theatre, January 1, 1898,-would have demonstrated his extraordinary ability. It is more than unfortunate, it is lamentable, that a man of such exceptional talent should have mistaken the province of the Theatre as he has done, and undertaken to reform mankind and improve society by the singular process of presenting on the Stage some of the most noxious subjects and repulsive spectacles which have been obtruded there in our time. Mr. Irving's first missionary endeavor missionary endeavor was made with "Godefroi and Yolande," which Henry Irving, swayed by paternal partiality, produced, in Chicago, March 13, 1896, and at Abbey's Theatre, New York, on May 4, following, and in which Ellen Terry appeared, as Yolande. "GODEFROI AND YOLANDE." That play relates to a medieval time and it aims at weirdness of character. The following is a synopsis of its contents: Yolande is a courtesan, in the time of Philippe, surnamed "Le Bel," King of France. She holds her court, and many distinguished persons are her followers. Godefroi, her clerk, a man of lowly birth, loves her, but she views him merely as a servant. The play opens on a night of storm. Without the castle all is wild, but within, in a spacious hall, the ruddy light from the fireplace and the gleam of torches make a scene of comfort. The attendants, preparing for a festival, are decorating the hall with garlands. Yolande calls aloud and often, and her maids go to her and return, again and again. Yolande is ill, and Godefroi has been sent for a doctor. A poor, blind woman, led by a child, enters the hall. These are the mother and sister of Godefroi. A Doctor comes in and sings as follows: "Merry old skeleton, flesh underlying, Laughing or crying— Merry old skull! Flesh may fall in, Old skull still doth grin, Grin, skull! grin, skull! grin-grin, skull— The maids watch him fearfully as he goes to the fireplace and brushes the snow from his garments. Godefroi enters, and, seeing his mother and sister, embraces them tenderly, inquiring the cause of their coming. "To take you away from here, my son," the mother replies. Godefroi is summoned to Yolande's presence. The Doctor and the attending women discuss her illness and Godefroi's infatuation, and Megarde, Godefroi's mother, who, being blind, fears not the Doctor, as do others who see him, confides in him. The Pageant, or Masque, to be celebrated, has been written by Godefroi, and it is said by one of the waiting women that Philippe, the King, and the King's brother, the Archbishop, will be present. A scene between Godefroi and his mother ensues, in which the former discloses his love for Yolande; but the mother conquers, and Godefroi promises to leave the scene of his infatuation. Yolande enters, queenlike, impetuous, and cruel. She is uneasy at what she has learned from the Doctor, and she vents her impatience on Godefroi, bidding him drive forth into the storm his mother and sister. Lepers come to the gates of Yolande's castle and she sends her menials to drive them away. Then arrive Sir Sagramour, courier of King Philippe, and the Archbishop, and in a conversation with the Doctor the knight shows that he understands the terrible plagues of the East. "And could you know a leper by the touch or look-say, of the hand?" asks the Doctor. "Indeed, I could," replies Sir Sagramour. The Masque is now in progress, and Yolande appears as Venus. Sir Sagramour claims to kiss her hand, and the King and the Archbishop would follow him, when, just as Sir Sagramour is about to touch his lips to it, he gazes at her intently, cries aloud, rushes to the King and the Archbishop to prevent their approach to Yolande, and, amid a fearful tumult, declares her to be a leper; whereupon the Doctor cries out, "Aye! She is stricken with leprosy!" The populace demands that Yolande shall remove her mask, and as she does so she is anathematized by the King, the Archbishop, and the people. All rush from her presence, except the despised clerk, who now avows his love. Yolande cries, "Perish my body, so my soul survives." The lepers call for their "sister"; the King's officer, with a gray garment, the badge of leprosy, and a bell which the lepers must ring, comes upon the scene and attempts to drive her out. Godefroi alone supports her. Yolande yields to him, and they depart together, while the curtain falls to the sound of distant voices of lepers crying, "Unclean! Unclean!"-an apt and comprehensive comment on the subject. Upon Ellen Terry's embodiment of Yolande the remembrance of those who best understand and most appreciate her fine genius,-in which were blended, as they have seldom or never before been blended in one person, the constituents of poetry, spirituality, and humanity, lingers with deep regret. Not that the performance was deficient in either imagination, sensibility, physical loveliness, dramatic art, or personal charm, but because of natural objection to stage portrayal of the grossness inherent in the character. Yolande is an image of moral turpitude combined with loathsome physical disease, and no matter how well depicted she must, in the essential nature of things, be obnoxious to those who are able to comprehend the meaning of what they see. Nothing that is said or done by her counts for the value of a straw in redeeming her. She means nothing in art, beyond a fleeting picture of terrified dismay, and she means nothing in ethics beyond the hackneyed bugbear of a "frightful example." Such a part is completely superfluous on the Stage and it is as far beneath the genius of such a woman as Ellen Terry as the wastes of a quagmire are beneath the stars. There was, apparently, in the young dramatist's mind, when he wrote his play of "Godefroi and Yolande," some idea of illustrating and extolling the celestial heroism which impelled Father |