Читать книгу Henry Irving's Impressions of America - Joseph Hatton - Страница 8

Table of Contents

At the corner of Grafton street, where the traffic of a famous West End artery ebbs and flows among picture exhibitions and jewelry stores, lives the most popular actor of his time. It is a mysterious-looking house. The basement is occupied by a trunk store. From the first floor to the top are Mr. Henry Irving’s chambers. They present from the outside a series of dingy, half-blind windows that suggest no prospect of warmth or cheer. “Fitting abode of the spirit of tragic gloom!” you might well exclaim, standing on the threshold. You shall enter with me, if you will, to correct your first impressions, and bear testimony to the fact that appearances are often deceptive.

This sombre door, the first on the left as we enter Grafton street from Bond street, leads to his chambers. Two flights of stairs (not bright, as a Paris staircase), not with the sunlight upon the carpet, as in New York, but darkened with the shadows of a London atmosphere—and we enter his general room. With the hum of the West End buzzing at the windows, the colored glass of which shuts out what little sunlight falls there, the apartment is characteristic of a great artist and a great city. The mantel-piece recalls the ancient fashion of old English mansions. It is practically an oak cabinet, with a silver shield as the centre-piece. On the opposite side of the room is a well-stocked bookcase, surmounted by a raven that carries one’s thoughts to Poe and his sombre story. On tables here and there are materials for letter-writing, and evidence of much correspondence, though one of the actor’s social sins is said to be the tardiness with which he answers letters. The truth is, the many pressing claims on his time do not enable him to act always upon the late Duke of Wellington’s well-known principle of immediately replying to every letter that is addressed to him. A greater philosopher than His Grace said many letters answer themselves if you let them alone, and I should not wonder if Irving finds much truth in the axiom. Bric-à-brac, historic relics, theatrical properties, articles of virtu, lie about in admired disorder. Here is Edmund Kean’s sword, which was presented to Irving on the first night of his Richard III. by that excellent and much-respected artist Mr. Chippendale, who had acted with Edmund Kean, and was his perpersonal friend. In a glass case near this precious treasure is a ring that belonged to David Garrick. It is an exquisite setting of a miniature of Shakespeare. This was given to Irving by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. In a cabinet near one of the windows, the order of the George, which Edmund Kean wore in “Richard III.,” and his prompt-book of “Othello.” Close by are three marble busts—one of Young, with a faded wreath upon its brow; another of Mrs. Harriet Brown, “a most dear and valued friend” (to use his own words); and the third, of Ellen Terry, sculptured by Irving’s friend, Brodie—a portrait of Rossi (presented by the actor) as Nero; a photograph of Charles Dickens (presented by Miss Mary Dickens)—the one by Gurney, of New York, which the great author himself thought an excellent portrait; medallions of Émile Devrient and John Herchell (the latter a gift from Herchell’s daughter); and a sketch of a favorite Scotch terrier (very well known to his friends as “Charlie”), which during the last year or two has become his most constant companion at home and at the theatre. The adjoining room continues the collection of the actor’s art treasures—not the mere connoisseur’s museum of articles of virtu, but things which have a personal value and a special history associated with the art their owner loves.

It is a frank smile that greets us as the actor enters and extends his long, thin hand. I know no one whose hand is so suggestive of nervous energy and artistic capacity as Irving’s. It is in perfect harmony with the long, expressive face, the notably æsthetic figure!

“You want to talk shop,” he says, striding about the room, with his hands in the pockets of his loose gray coat. “Well, with all my heart, if you think it useful and interesting.”

“I do.”

“May I select the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would like to go back to one we touched upon at your own suggestion some months ago.”

“An actor on his audiences?”

“Yes. The subject is a good one; it interests me, and in that brief anonymous newspaper sketch of a year ago you did little more than indicate the points we discussed. Let us see if we cannot revive and complete it.”

“Agreed. I will ‘interview’ you, then, as they say in America.”

“By all means,” replied my host, handing me a cigar, and settling himself down in an easy-chair by the fire. “I am ready.”

“Well, then, as I think I have said before when on this subject, there has always appeared to me something phenomenal in the mutual understanding that exists between you and your audiences; it argues an active sympathy and confidence on both sides.”

“That is exactly what I think exists. In presence of my audience I feel as safe and contented as when sitting down with an old friend.”

“I have seen Lord Beaconsfield, when he was Mr. Disraeli, rise in the House of Commons, and begin a speech in a vein and manner evidently considered beforehand, which, proving at the moment out of harmony with the feelings of the house, he has entirely altered from his original idea to suit the immediate mood and temper of his audience. Now, sympathetic as you are with your audience, have you, under their influence in the development of a new character, ever altered your first idea during the course of the representation?”

“You open up an interesting train of thought,” he answered. “Except once, I have never altered my original idea under the circumstances you suggest; that was in ‘Vanderdecken,’ and I changed the last scene. I can always tell when the audience is with me. It was not with me in ‘Vanderdecken’; neither was it entirely on the first night of ‘Hamlet,’ which is, perhaps, curious, considering my subsequent success. On the first night I felt that the audience did not go with me until the first meeting with Ophelia, when they changed toward me entirely. But as night succeeded night, my Hamlet grew in their estimation. I could feel it all the time, and now I know that they like it—that they are with me heart and soul. I will tell you a curious thing about my ‘Hamlet’ audience. It is the most interesting audience I play to. For any other piece there is a difficulty in getting the people seated by half-past eight. For ‘Hamlet’ the house is full and quiet, and waiting for the curtain to go up, by half-past seven. On the first night the curtain dropped at a quarter to one.”

“In what part do you feel most at home with your audience, and most certain of them?”

“Well, in Hamlet,” he replied, thoughtfully.

“Has that been your greatest pecuniary success?”

“Yes.”

“What were the two unprecedented runs of ‘Hamlet’?”

“The first was two hundred nights; the second, one hundred and seven; and in the country I have often played it ten times out of a twelve nights’ engagement. But, as we have moved into this line of thought about audiences, it should be remembered that, with the exception of two or three performances, I had never played Hamlet before that first night at the Lyceum. Indeed, so far as regards what is called the classic and legitimate drama, my successes, such as they were, had been made outside it, really in eccentric comedy. As a rule, actors who have appeared for the first time in London in such parts as Richard III., Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello, have played them previously for years in the country; and here comes a point about my audiences. They knew this, and I am sure they estimated the performance accordingly, giving me their special sympathy and good wishes. I believe in the justice of audiences. They are sincere and hearty in their approval of what they like, and have the greatest hand in making an actor’s reputation. Journalistic power cannot be overvalued; it is enormous; but, in regard to actors, it is a remarkable fact that their permanent reputations, the final and lasting verdict of their merits, are made chiefly by their audiences. Sometimes the true record comes after the players are dead, and it is sometimes written by men who possibly never saw them. Edmund Kean’s may be called a posthumous reputation. If you read the newspapers of the time you will find that during his acting days he was terribly mauled. Garrick’s impersonations were not much written about in his day. As to Burbage, Betterton, and other famous actors of their time, whose names are familiar to us, when they lived there were practically no newspapers to chronicle their work.”

“You believe, then, that merit eventually makes its mark, in spite of professional criticism, and that, like Masonic rituals, the story of success, its form and pressure, may go down orally to posterity?”

“I believe that what audiences really like they stand by. I believe they hand down the actor’s name to future generations. They are the judge and jury who find the verdict and pronounce sentence. I will give you an example in keeping with the rapid age in which we live. I am quite certain that within twelve hours of the production of a new play of any importance all London knows whether the piece is a success or a failure, no matter whether the journals have criticised it or not. Each person in the audience is the centre of a little community, and the word is passed on from one to the other.”

“What is your feeling in regard to first-night audiences, apart from the regular play-going public? I should imagine that the sensitive nature of a true artist must be considerably jarred by the knowledge that a first-night audience is peculiarly fastidious and sophisticated.”

“I confess I am happier in presence of what you call the regular play-going public. I am apt to become depressed on a first night. Some of my friends and fellow-artists are stimulated and excited by a sense of opposition. I fear it lowers me. I know that while there is a good, hearty crowd who have come to be pleased, there are some who have not come to be pleased. God help us if we were in the hands of the few who, from personal or other motives, come to the theatre in the hope of seeing a failure, and who pour out their malice and spite in anonymous letters!”

“Detraction and malicious opposition are among the penalties of success. To be on a higher platform than your fellows is to be a mark for envy and slander,” I answered, dropping, I fear, into platitude, which my host cut short with a shrug of the shoulders and a rapid stride across the room.

He handed to me a book, handsomely bound and with broad margins, through which ran a ripple of old-faced type, evidently the work of an author and a handicraftsman who love the memories both of Caxton and his immediate successors. It was entitled “Notes on Louis XI.; with some short extracts from Commines’ Memoirs,” and was dated “London, 1878—printed for the author.”

“That book,” said my host, “was sent to me by a person I had then never seen nor heard of. It came to me anonymously. I wished to have a second copy of it, and sent to the printer with the purpose of obtaining it. He replied by telling me the work was not for sale, and referring me to the author, whose address he sent to me. I made the application as requested; another copy was forwarded, and with it a kindly intimation that if ever I should be near the house of the writer, ‘we should be glad to see you.’ I called in due course, and found the author one of a most agreeable family. ‘You will wonder,’ they said at parting, ‘why we wrote and compiled this book. It was simply for this reason: a public critic in a leading journal had said, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, and habits of Louis XI., an actor might take whatever liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.’ Here is another present that I received soon afterward—one of the most beautiful works of its kind I ever remember to have seen.”

It was an artistic casket, in which was enshrined what looked like a missal bound in carved ivory and gold. It proved, however, to be a beautifully bound book of poetic and other memorials of Charles the First, printed and illustrated by hand, with exquisite head and tail pieces in water-colors, portraits, coats-of-arms, and vignettes, by Buckman, Castaing, Terrel, Slie, and Phillips. The work was “imprinted for the author at London, 30th January, 1879,” and the title ran: “To the Honor of Henry Irving: to cherish the Memory of Charles the First: these Thoughts, Gold of the Dead, are here devoted.” As a work of art, the book is a treasure. The portraits of the Charleses and several of their generals are in the highest style of water-color painting, with gold borders; and the initial letters and other embellishments are studies of the most finished and delicate character.

“Now these,” said their owner, returning the volumes to the book-shelves over which the raven stretched its wings, “are only two out of scores of proofs that audiences are intellectually active, and that they find many ways of fixing their opinions. These incidents of personal action are evidences of the spirit of the whole. One night, in “Hamlet,” something was thrown upon the stage. It struck a lamp, and fell into the orchestra. It could not be found for some time. An inquiry was made about it by some person in the front—an aged woman, who was much concerned that I had not received it—so I was informed at the box-office. A sad-looking woman, evidently very poor, called the next day; and, being informed that the trinket was found, expressed herself greatly pleased. ‘I often come to the gallery of the theatre,’ she said, ‘and I wanted Mr. Irving to have this family heirloom. I wanted him alone in this world to possess it.’ This is the trinket, which I wear on my watch-chain. The theatre was evidently a solace to that poor soul. She had probably some sorrow in her life; and she may have felt a kind of comfort in Hamlet, or myself, perhaps, possessing this little cross.”

As he spoke, the actor’s lithe fingers were busy at his watch-chain, and he seemed to be questioning the secret romance of the trinket thrown to him from the gallery.

“I don’t know why else she let it fall upon the stage; but strange impulses sometimes take hold of people sitting at a play, especially in tragedy.”

The trinket about which he speculated so much is an old-fashioned gold cross. On two sides is engraved, “Faith, Hope, and Charity”; on the front, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins”; and on the reverse, “I scorn to fear or change.”

“They said at the box-office,” went on the actor, musingly, “that she was a poor mother who had lost her son;” and then, rousing himself, he returned brightly to the subject of our conversation. “One example,” he said, “of the generous sympathy of audiences serves to point the moral of what I mean; and in every case the motive is the same, to show an earnest appreciation, and to encourage and give pleasure to the actor. At Sheffield one night, during the grouse season, a man in the gallery threw a brace of birds upon the stage, with a rough note of thanks and compliments; and one of the pit audience sent me round a knife which he had made himself. You see, the people who do these things have nothing to gain; they are under no extraneous influence; they judge for themselves; and they are representative of that great Public Opinion which makes or mars, and which in the end is always right. When they are against you it is hard at the time to be convinced that you are wrong; but you are. Take my case. I made my first success at the St. James’s. We were to have opened with ‘Hunted Down.’ We did not. I was cast for Doricourt in ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’—a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me. I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, on my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience that I was compelled to reappear on the scene—a somewhat unusual thing, as you know, except on the operatic stage.”

“And in America,” I said, “where scene-calls are quite usual, and quite destructive of the illusion of the play, I think.”

“You are right; and, by the way, if there must be calls, I like our modern method of taking a call after an act on the scene itself. But to proceed. I next played ‘Hunted Down,’ and they liked me in that; and when they do like, audiences are no niggards of their confessions of pleasure. My next engagement was at the Queen’s Theatre, where I was successful. Then I went to the Gaiety, where I played Chevenex. I followed at Drury Lane in ‘Formosa,’ and nobody noticed me at all.”

“Do you think you always understand the silence of an audience? I mean in this way: on a first night, for example, I have sometimes gone round to speak to an actor, and have been met with the remark, ‘How cold the audience is!’ as if excessive quietness was indicative of displeasure, the idea being that when an audience is really pleased, it always stamps its feet and claps its hands. I have seen an artist making his or her greatest success with an audience that manifested its delight by suppressing every attempt at applause.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he answered. “I recall a case in point. There was such an absence of applause on the first night of ‘The Two Roses,’ while I was on the stage, that I could not believe my friends when they congratulated me on my success. But with experience one gets to understand the idiosyncrasies and habits of audiences. You spoke of the silence of some audiences. The most wonderful quiet and silence I have ever experienced as an actor, a stillness that is profound, has been in those two great theatres, the one that was burned down at Glasgow, and the Standard, in London, during the court scene of ‘The Bells.’ ”