Читать книгу Henry Irving's Impressions of America - Joseph Hatton - Страница 18

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“She is not quite pretty,” says a New York reporter, turning to me during his contemplation of Miss Terry, who is very picturesque as she sits by the taffrail at the stern; “but she is handsome, and she is distinguished. I think we would like to ask her a few questions; will you introduce us?”

I do the honors of this presentation. Miss Terry is too much under the influence of the wonderful scene that meets her gaze to receive the reporters with calmness.

“And this is New York!” she exclaims. “What a surprising place! And, oh, what a river! So different to the Thames! And to think that I am in New York! It does not seem possible. I cannot realize it.”

“If you had a message to send home to your friends, Miss Terry, what would it be?” asks Reporter No. 1, a more than usually bashful young man.

The question is a trifle unfortunate.

“Tell them I never loved home so well as now,” she answers, in her frank, impulsive way.

She turns her head away to hide her tears, and Reporter No. 2 remonstrates with his companion.

“I wouldn’t have said it for anything,” says No. 1. “I was thinking how I would add a few words for her to my London cable—that’s a fact.”

“It is very foolish of me, pray excuse me,” says the lady; “it is all so new and strange. I know my eyes are red, and this is not the sort of face to go into New York with, is it?”

“I think New York will be quite satisfied, Miss Terry,” says a third reporter; “but don’t let us distress you.”

“Oh, no, I am quite myself now. You want to ask me some questions?”

“Not if you object.”

“I don’t object; only you see one has been looking forward to this day a long time, and seeing land again and houses, and so many ships, and New York itself, may well excite a stranger.”

“Yes, indeed, that is so,” remarks No. 1, upon whom she turns quickly, the “Liberty” scarf at her neck flying in the wind, and her earnest eyes flashing.

“Have you ever felt what it is to be a stranger just entering a strange land? If not you can hardly realize my sensations. Not that I have any fears about my reception. No, it is not that; the Americans on the ship were so kind to me, and you are so very considerate, that I am sure everybody ashore will be friendly.”

“Do you know Miss Anderson?”

“Yes. She is a beautiful woman. I have not seen her upon the stage; but I have met her.”

“Do you consider ‘Charles I.’ will present you to a New York audience in one of your best characters?”

“No; and I am not very fond of the part of Henrietta Maria either.”

“What are your favorite characters?”

“Oh, I hardly know,” she says, now fairly interested in the conversation; and turning easily towards her questioners, for the first time, “I love nearly all I play; but I don’t like to cry, and I cannot help it in ‘Charles I.’ I like comedy best—Portia, Beatrice, and Letitia Hardy.”

“Do you intend to star on your own account?”

“No, no.”

“You prefer to cast your fortunes with the Lyceum company?”

“Yes, certainly. Sufficient for the day is the Lyceum thereof. There is no chance of my ever desiring to change. I am devoted to the Lyceum, and to Mr. Irving. No one admires him more than I do; no one knows better, I think, how much he has done for our art; no one dreams of how much more he will yet do if he is spared. I used to think, when I was with Charles Kean—I served my apprenticeship, you know, with Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean—that his performances and mounting of plays were perfect in their way. But look at Mr. Irving’s work; look at what he has done and what he does. I am sure you will be delighted with him. Excuse me, is that the ‘Britannic’ yonder, following in our wake?”

“Yes.”

She kisses her hand to the vessel, and then turns to wonder at the city, which seems to be coming towards us, so steadily does the “Yosemite” glide along, hardly suggesting motion.

Then suddenly the word is passed that the “Yosemite” is about to land her passengers. A few minutes later she slips alongside the wharf at the foot of Canal street. The reporters take their leave, raising their hats to Miss Terry, many of them shaking hands with Mr. Irving. Carriages are in waiting for Mr. Barrett and his party. A small crowd, learning who the new-comers were, give them a cheer of welcome, and Henry Irving and Ellen Terry stand upon American soil.

“I am told,” says Mr. Irving, as we drive away, “that when Jumbo arrived in New York he put out his foot and felt if the ground was solid enough to bear his weight. The New Yorkers, I believe, were very much amused at that. They have a keen sense of fun. Where are we going now?”

“To the Customs, at the White Star wharf, to sign your declaration papers,” says Mr. Florence.

“How many packages have you in your state-room, madame?” asks a sturdy official, addressing Miss Terry.

“Well, really I don’t know; three or four, I think.”

“Not more than that?” suggests Mr. Barrett.

“Perhaps five or six.”

“Not any more?” asks the official. “Shall I say five or six?”

“Well, really, I cannot say. Where’s my maid? Is it important—the exact number?”

There is a touch of bewilderment in her manner which amuses the officials, and everybody laughs—she herself very heartily—when her maid says there are fourteen packages of various kinds in the state-room of the “Britannic,” which is now discharging her passengers. A scene of bustle and excitement is developing just as we are permitted to depart. A famous politician is on board. There is a procession, with a band of music, to meet him. Crowds of poor people are pushing forward for the “Britannic” gangway to meet a crowd of still poorer emigrant friends. Imposing equipages are here to carry off the rich and prosperous travellers. Tons of portmanteaus, trunks, boxes, baggage of every kind, are sliding from the vessel’s side upon the quay. Friends are greeting friends. Children are being hugged by fathers and mothers. Ship’s stewards are hurrying to and fro. The expressman, jingling his brass checks, is looking for business; his carts are fighting their way among the attendant carriages and more ponderous wagons. A line of Custom-House men form in line, a living cord of blue and silver, across the roadway exit of the wharf. There is a smell of tar and coffee and baked peanuts in the atmosphere, together with the sound of many voices; and the bustle repeats itself outside in the rattle of arriving and departing carts and carriages. Above all one hears the pleasant music of distant car-bells. We dash along, over level crossings, past very continental-looking riverside cabarets and rum-shops, under elevated railroads, and up streets that recall Holland, France, Brighton, and Liverpool, until we reach Washington square. The dead leaves of autumn are beginning to hide the fading grass; but the sun is shining gloriously away up in a blue sky. Irving is impressed with the beauty of the city as we enter Fifth avenue, its many spires marking the long line of street as far as the eye can see. The Brevoort House has proved a welcome, if expensive, haven of rest to many a weary traveller. To-day its bright windows and green sun-blinds, its white marble steps, and its wholesome aspect of homelike comfort, suggest the pleasantest possibilities.

Let us leave the latest of its guests to his first experiences of the most hotel-keeping nation in the world.