Читать книгу Henry Irving's Impressions of America - Joseph Hatton - Страница 31

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The night before Irving’s first appearance at the Star Theatre was spent at a quiet little supper, given to a few private friends, at the Manhattan Club. The conversation turned chiefly upon English actors.

“I was once at a dinner of a theatrical fund, over which a famous old actor presided,” said Irving. “His proposal of the first toast of the evening was a pathetic incident. His mind was wandering back to his early days. After alluding to the loyalty of all classes of Englishmen, and of actors in particular, he raised his glass and said, ‘Gentlemen, I beg to give you the health of His Majesty King George the Third!’ ”

Somebody suggested that the ocean trip had done Irving a great deal of good.

“It was the most perfect rest I ever remember to have had,” he said; “nothing to do, nothing to think of, no letters to answer—none to receive, for that matter; nothing to do but to rest. I took plenty of exercise, also, on deck. I must have walked many miles a day.”

Later in the evening, over a last cigar, he said to me, “But I did a little writing on board the ‘Britannic.’ I think it will amuse you. Watson asked me to send him something for the Christmas number of his newspaper—an anecdote, or sketch of some kind. Shortly before I left Liverpool there appeared in the journals a paragraph to the effect that I had been bitten by a dog at some aristocratic house. It occurred to me on the ‘Britannic’ that this would make a good little story. You were telling me last night about my estate and palace on the Thames; and yet, I don’t suppose any man leads a quieter life than I do. I call my story ‘Bitten by a Dog.’ ”

He read as follows, and, like all good humorists, was tickled with his own fun, laughing now and then with real enjoyment at the suggestiveness of his satirical references to newspaper gossips, who, not knowing him personally, or being in any way acquainted with his habits, undertake to describe his inner life:—

“We regret to hear that Mr. Henry Irving, while on a visit near——, was severely bitten by a favorite dog, belonging to his host. He bled profusely, but we sincerely hope that he will not seriously suffer from this occurrence.—Newspaper Paragraph.

“The circumstance thus recorded was somewhat novel to me, and having received several telegrams and letters of condolence upon my sad misfortune, I thought I would attempt, during my leisure upon the good ship ‘Britannic,’ to tell this little story of ‘The Bite of a Dog,’ with a veracity equalling that of the inventor of the above-quoted paragraph.

“Seated in one of the suite of rooms which I invariably occupy in the hotels of the United Kingdom during my provincial tours—which have become alike the wonder and amazement of the entire dramatic profession—I was gazing into one of the many mirrors before which it is my regular habit to study grace of pose and poetry of expression. I was surrounded by the secretaries without whom I never travel; some telegraphing to the four corners of the globe the astounding success and enormous profit which accompany all my undertakings; others translating some of those essays on dramatic art which have done so much to regenerate the British drama; others copying in manifold certain not uncomplimentary criticisms of my own composition upon the most subtle and sublime of my impersonations; for, with Garrick, I agree that the actor should ever embrace the opportunity of becoming the critic of his own performances.

“In the midst of this multitudinous work a messenger was announced from the Duke of Stratford-upon-Avon. With a thrill of pleasure I sprang to my feet, and, greeting the messenger with a fascinating smile, begged him to be seated. Then throwing myself with a careless ease upon the velvet-pile sofa which adorned my room (a present from one of my admirers, and which I always carry with me, as I do my many mirrors), I crossed my graceful right over my still more graceful left leg, broke the duke’s seal, and perused his letter.

“It was an invitation to sojourn from Saturday to Monday at the duke’s feudal home, some fifteen miles from the town I was then appearing in. Throughout my life it has been my practice to solicit the favor and patronage of the great; for it is my firm belief that, to elevate one’s art, one should mix as much as possible with the nobility and gentry.

“ ‘To grovel to the great is no disgrace,

For nothing humble can be out of place.’

“This social opportunity was not to be lost; hesitation there was none; the invitation was accepted.

“On the night of my visit to His Grace, the theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling with an audience attracted by that cold curiosity which characterizes the public with regard to my performances. The play was ‘Louis XI.,’ and the difficult feat which I had to accomplish was to catch a train after the performance, in order to present myself at the mansion of my noble host in time to participate in the ducal supper.

“Throughout the play I labored with all heart and earnestness to cut short the performance by every means in my power. I was determined to sleep under the roof of the Stratford-upon-Avons that night, come what come would.

“The curtain fell only five minutes before the time of the train starting; so, throwing on my overcoat of sable furs (a handsome adjunct to my American expedition), and, still attired as King Louis—for I had no time to change my costume—I rushed into the brougham, ready at the stage-door, and, followed by my valet, drove frantically to the station.

“I was thrust immediately through the open door of the nearest compartment—the door was locked—the whistle shrieked—away sped the train—and, panting and breathless, I was left to my meditations.

“ ‘Ah, horror! most dreadful thought; too dreadful to relate! I have left the theatre without my teeth—my beautiful teeth!’

“In order to heighten the realism of the impersonation when I first acted Louis, I had several teeth extracted by one of our most eminent dentists, who has offered, as an advertisement, to take out any others in the like liberal manner.[6] In my insane hurry to catch the train I had left my teeth in a glass on my dressing-room table.

“But regrets are useless; the train has stopped, and I enter the duke’s chariot, in waiting at the station, and through the broad woodlands soon reach the duke’s home.

“I alight from the ancestral coach and enter the ancestral hall, in which a cheerful fire is blazing upon the ancestral hearth.

“Suddenly I find myself in the presence of my host, surrounded by many scions of the nobility of ‘England, Home, and Beauty.’ The oddness of my position (dressed as I was, and minus my teeth), and the natural inferiority which I always feel when in the presence of the real aristocrat, robbed me for the moment of my self-possession, and I unconsciously permitted two of the gentlemen in powder to divest me of my overcoat, and there I stood revealed as that wicked monarch Louis XI.

“Now, this character I have long had an idea of abandoning, for in art the eye must be pleased; and though it is commendable to follow nature and truth, yet, if this can only be accomplished at the cost of one’s personal appearance, nature and truth should certainly give way. But to resume.

“Surprise at my aspect was in every face. There was a painful pause, and then a burst of laughter.

“ ‘What is it?’ whispered one.

“ ‘Who is it?’ whispered another.

“ ‘Irving,’ said a third.

“ ‘Who’s Irving?’ asked a fourth.

“ ‘What! don’t you know?—the actor—Irving, the actor—I’ve seen him at the Gaiety!’

“I was profoundly relieved by the duke coming to my rescue and graciously suggesting that I might, before supper, wish to see my room. I thanked His Grace with the dignity with which nature has endowed me, and strode like Marshal Stalk across the marble vestibule, when a fierce sanguinary Blenheim spaniel flew from the lap of a dowager duchess, and, with a terrific howl, buried its fangs in the calf of my beautiful left leg.

“Consternation and pallor were in every countenance; the dowager ran to seize her pet; but, to the dismay of all, the dog’s hold would not relax. They pulled and pulled again, and ‘Fido’ howled at every pull. His teeth, unlike mine, would not be extracted.

“There was a pause of painful silence. Mingled fear and compassion sat on every brow. The dowager was on the point of swooning in the arms of the duke, when the dignity and distinction which sometimes support me in emergencies came to my aid. Turning to the gentle assembly, with a seraphic smile upon my noble features, I said, as well as my articulation would permit me:—

“ ‘Be not alarmed, fair ladies; be not alarmed! The dog has not torn my leg, he has only torn my paddings!’ ”