Chapter IV: Part 4

IT was late before the Lotos-eaters parted, although London clubmen take more out of the night than is the habit with New-Yorkers. The raciness of the evening’s speeches was repeated in the stories that were told by the genial few, who sat and talked and smoked with their guest until Fifth avenue was as quiet and deserted as it was when a crowd of admiring friends went out to meet the “Britannic” a week previously. _Apropos_ of an amusing anecdote, with a practical joke in it, which was related, I think, by Colonel Knox, the courteous honorary secretary of the club, Irving said, “I am not much of a hand at that kind of fun, but I remember an incident in which my old friend Toole, a Glasgow doctor, and myself were engaged that may amuse you. Some years ago we found ourselves with a holiday forced upon us by the church of Scotland. We utilized it by going out a short distance into the country and dining together at a famous roadside inn. The house was quite empty of guests, and we claimed the privilege of travellers, on our way to the next town, to sit over our dinner a trifle later than it was the custom to keep the bar open. The landlord was very civil, and we had an excellent dinner. The waiter who attended to our wants was a quaint old fellow,—one of those rugged sort of serving-men with whom Sir Walter Scott has made us all so well acquainted. While he was respectful, he was, nevertheless, very talkative. He told us there had been of late many robberies in the neighborhood. The constabulary, he said, were quite out of their reckoning in regard to tracing the thieves. He wondered if the country was going back again to the coaching days when cracksmen and highwaymen had it all their own way in those parts. The old fellow was a little superstitious too, and a lover of the marvellous, as many of the country people who live outside great cities are apt to be.

“‘You seem a trifle hipped,’ I said; ‘take a glass of wine.’

“‘I am just a wee bit low,’ he said; ‘what wi’ the bad weather, the dull times’—

“‘And the robberies you’ve lately had about here,’ I suggested.

“‘Ah, weel, they’re nae calculated to raise one’s sperits. Good health to you, gentlemen!’

“We thanked him and I filled his glass again.

“‘This house,’ said Toole, ‘is rather a lonely place; you don’t have many guests staying here?’

“‘Not at this time o’ the year,’ he replied; ‘only just chance customers.’

“I filled his glass again before he went for the cheese. When he came back I took up a fork, and expressed some surprise that his master should, in these thieving days, entrust his guests with real silver plate.

“‘I dinna bring it oot for everybody,’ he replied; ‘but for a pairty o’ gentlemen like yoursels, it’s a defferent thing.’

“‘Is the salver there,’ asked Toole, taking up the running and pointing to the sideboard, ‘real silver?’

“‘Indeed it is, and all the plate aboot is silver, and I ken they dinna mak’ sich silver nowadays.’

“‘Bring us a little whiskey!—a pint in a decanter; a drop of the best,’ I said.

“Having planted the right kind of seed in his mind for the working of a little jest I had in my own, my companions and myself entered into a conspiracy against the peace of this harmless Scotchman. Invited to take a nip of whiskey, he readily complied, and just as readily took a seat. We drew him out about all the robberies and murders he could remember, and then deftly got from him the statement that his master had gone to bed, leaving up only himself, the bar-maid, and his wife. Presently the doctor looked at his watch, and said it would soon be time for us to go. ‘I think you had better get our bill, Sandy,’ I said, for by this time I was quite on familiar terms with him, and he with me. ‘You need not be in a hurry; let us have it in about a quarter of an hour,’ added Toole, somewhat mysteriously. ‘We are not quite ready to go yet.’

“‘Vary weel, and thank ye,’ he said, at the same time making us a bow which was quite a study of manner, combining independence and servility. He was a fine old fellow, straight as a poplar, but with a face full of wrinkles, and a characteristic gait that some people would call a mannerism.

“The moment he left the room each of us seized a piece of plate until we had cleared up every bit of silver in the room. We noted the exact places from which we took every piece; then we opened the window. It was a very dark night, but we had noticed that close by the window there were some thick shrubs. We put out the gas, but left alight two candles on the table, so that we could see from our hiding-place what Sandy’s face would look like when it should dawn upon him that we were a pack of thieves—perhaps part of the gang of swell mobsmen who had become the terror of the district.

“I shall never forget the bewildered expression of the poor fellow’s face as he stared at the empty room. Amazement gave place to fear, and fear to indignation, when he discovered that the silver had been carried off.

“‘Great heevens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thieves! berglers! robbers! An’ if the rogues hae nae carried off the plate and gan awa’ wi’out payin’ their score into the bargain, my name is nae Sandy Blake!”

“He rushed to the open window and peered wildly out into the darkness.

“‘The scoundrels were just fooling me, like any softy.’

“Then he began to shout ‘Thieves!’ and ‘Murder!’ and ran off, as we hoped and expected he would, to alarm the house. We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind, relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. We could hear Sandy, at the top of his voice, telling the story of the robbery; and in a few minutes we heard, evidently the entire household, coming pell-mell to the dining-room. Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon us, suddenly paused _en masse_, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel, weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’

“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door; but we could hear how both master and wife abused poor Sandy, who did nothing but call upon his Maker and declare, if he had to die that minute, when he went into the room it was empty of both guests and silver. He was told to go to bed and sleep off his drunk, and thank his stars that his long service saved him from instant dismissal.

“We rang the bell. The landlord himself answered it. We asked for an explanation of the hubbub. It was nothing, he said, only that his man had got drunk and made a fool of himself. Was that all, we asked. Well, yes, except that he was very sorry to have so disturbed us. To have all the house burst in upon us, we said, was such a strange proceeding, that we begged he would explain it. He said he did not like to do so. It was the first time Sandy had ever been known to get so drunk as to lose his senses, and all he could do was to express his regret that his servant had made a fool of himself; but he would not insult his guests by telling them how great an ass the fellow was. We coaxed him, however, to explain the entire business; and at last, with many apologies, he told us how the drunken fool had mistaken us for a pack of thieves, and swore we had run off without paying our bill and taken the plate with us. We humored the landlord for a time, and when he was at last in a genial temper we told him the true story, and he enjoyed the joke as well as any of us. Then we had him send for Sandy, who was so glad to discover that he had not lost his wits that a couple of sovereigns left him, at our departure, just as happy and contented a man as he was before making the acquaintance of ‘a parcel of actors,’ who are still regarded in some remote corners of Great Britain as the ‘rogues and vagabonds’ they are proclaimed in our ancient statute-books.”

V.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE PLAY.

The Vividness of First Impressions—New York Hotels—On the Elevated Road with “Charlie”—Trotting Horses—Audiences on both Sides of the Atlantic—“A Man knows best what he can do”—“Americanisms,” so called—A Satirical Sketch, entitled “Bitten by a Dog “—Louis and the Duke of Stratford-on-Avon—Macready and the Forrest Riots.

I.

“A JOURNALIST from Chicago is anxious to have your opinion of New York, and some suggestions about your feelings in regard to your first appearance in America,” I said; “and if you will talk to him I have undertaken to collaborate with him in writing the interview, so that I may revise and adopt it for our book of impressions.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he has come over a thousand miles for the purpose, and his chief is an old friend of mine, the proprietor of ‘The Daily News.’”

“I am quite willing,” he said, “if you think my impressions are of sufficient importance to record, after only a week of New York.”

“First impressions of a new country are always the most vivid. I believe in first impressions, at all events, in your case. It is another matter when one comes to treat them as a basis for philosophical argument. Your friend, Mr. Matthew Arnold, was not backward in discussing the American people, their cities, their institutions, their manners and customs, before he had crossed the Atlantic at all.”

“Well, let us talk to Chicago then, if you wish it.”

“So far, are you satisfied with your reception in this country?”

“More than satisfied; I am delighted, I might say amazed. It is not only the press and the public who have shown me so much attention, but I have received many courtesies privately,—some from American friends whom I have met in London, some from gentlemen whom I have never seen.”

“What is your general impression of New York, its theatres, hotels, streets, and its social life?”

“I think Wallack’s, or the Star, as it is called, one of the most admirable theatres I have ever seen, so far as the auditorium is concerned, and, in some respects, as to the stage. The appointments behind the foot-lights are rather primitive; but, as a whole, it is a fine house.”

“Is it as good as your own in London?”

“Better, in many respects. As for the hotels, they are on a far larger scale, and seem more complete in their arrangements than ours. The Brevoort is, I am told, more like an English house than any other in the city. The genial proprietor evidently desires to make his guests think so. Portraits of Queen Victoria, the late Prince Consort, and pictorial reminiscences of the old country, meet you at every turn. As for social life in New York, what I have seen of it is very much like social life in London—a little different in its forms and ceremonies, or, I might say, in the absence of ceremony—with this exception, that there does not appear to be what you would call an idle class here,—a class of gentlemen who have little else to do but to be amused and have what you call ‘a good time.’ Everybody seems to be engaged in business of some kind or another.”

“Is this your first visit to America?”

“Yes; though I seem to have known it for a long time. American friends in London have for years been telling me interesting things about your country. I had heard of the elevated road, Brooklyn bridge, and the splendid harbor of New York. But they are all quite different to what I had imagined them. The elevated railway is a marvellous piece of work. I rode down-town upon the Sixth-avenue line yesterday. They compelled me to carry my dog Charlie; and I notice, by the way, a remarkable absence of dogs in the streets. You see them everywhere, you know, in London. Charlie, an old friend of mine, attracted great attention on the cars.”

“More than you did?”

“Oh, yes, much more. He’s a well-bred little fellow, and one gentleman, who took a great interest in him, tried to open negotiations to buy him from me. Poor Charlie!—he is getting old and blind, though he looks sprightly enough. He has travelled with me in Europe and Africa, and now in America; some day we hope to see Asia together.”

“Does he go with you to the theatre?”

“Always; and he knows the pieces I play. I suppose he knows them by the color of the clothes I wear. During some plays he sniffs about all night—during the long ones he settles quietly down. When Hamlet is played he is particularly sedate. He hates the ‘Lyons Mail,’ because there is shooting in it. When the murder scene comes he hides away in the furthermost corner he can find.”

“You are fond of animals?”

“Yes, very; and the most characteristic thing I believe I have yet seen in America is your trotting-horse. I have been twice upon the track beyond the park; it is a wonderful sight.”

“Have you no trotting-horses in England?”

“Nothing like yours, and no light vehicles such as yours. I could only think of the old chariot-races as I watched the teams of magnificent trotters that rushed by me like the wind. I hear you have a fine race-course at Chicago. Our friend Hatton told me long ago about seeing the famous Maud S. make her great time there.”

“Oh, yes. I remember how astonished he was. Maud S. and our fire-engine service captured his fancy. He described the racing in ‘To-day in America.’ You are coming to Chicago?”

“Yes. I am informed that I shall strike quite a different civilization in your city to that of New York; that public life with you is even more ardent than it is in the Empire city, and that the spirit of your commerce is more energetic. I can hardly understand that; but I long to see your wonderful streets and your city boundaries that daily push their way into the prairie. John McCullough, I remember, once gave me a startling description of Chicago.”

“I see that Mr. Sala, in the ‘Illustrated London News,’ warns you to expect our press to attack you. Is Mr. Sala a friend of yours?”

“Yes; and a dear friend and a very remarkable man. But we are wandering a little from the subject you came to talk about.”

“Not much. May I ask if you have any nervousness as to your first appearance?”

“Yes, the natural nervousness that is part of an actor’s first appearances everywhere. I cannot think that the taste for the drama is any different in New York and Chicago from Dublin, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham, or London, in my own country.”

“Very much is expected of you. It would be hardly possible for you to realize the exaggerated ideas of some people. If you were a god you could not satisfy their expectations.”

“Nor, if I were a demon, could I achieve the attitudes and poses of my caricaturists. Between the two there is hope.”

“You feel that it is a great ordeal any way?”

“Yes.”

“Some of your methods are new, more particularly as to Shakespearian productions?”

“I believe so. In my early days I had little opportunity to see other actors play Shakespeare, except on the stage where I acted with them, and then I was so occupied with my own work that I had little time to observe theirs. I had, consequently, to think for myself. It does not follow, of course, that I have always done the right thing, but my principle has been to go straight to the author. I have not taken up the methods of other actors, nor modelled my work on this or that tradition. A man knows best what he can do; and it seems to me just as absurd for one actor to imitate another, to recite this speech, or impersonate that action, as he has seen some other actor recite or impersonate, as it would be for a writer to print a historical incident just as some other had done, or for a modern novelist to write his stories on the lines of Fielding, Richardson, or Thackeray, without giving play to his own talents, or reins to his own imagination and conception of character.”

“I will not weary you by going over the old ground concerning your alleged mannerisms; but I see that a New York paper has already taken you to task for jesting about the Pilgrim fathers. Did you notice that?”

“Oh, yes; you mean as to the Pilgrim mothers. I had no intention to jest about Plymouth rock. I only repeated a story told me by an American friend, the point of which was that the austerity of the Pilgrim fathers must have made them trying persons for the Pilgrim mothers. A very harmless bit of fun. One of my interviewers makes me speak of ‘Americanisms’ too. The word should have been ‘mannerisms.’ In regard to the so-called Americanisms of American actors, all I have heard in that way have fallen from the lips of Raymond and Florence, just as you would hear cockneyisms from our humorous comedians, Toole and Brough. The accent of your great actors does not strike me as different to our own; though a reporter on board the ‘Britannic,’ last Sunday, told me he had understood I had a very strange accent, and was surprised to find that I spoke English as well as he did.”

II.

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!’”

III.

“GOOD-NIGHT,” I said, “and good luck! When next we say good-night New York will have pronounced its verdict.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” he answered. “It will be all right. But it seems strange, after all our talks of America, that to-morrow night I am to act here in New York. How everything comes to an end! Next year at this time, all being well, we shall be looking back upon the whole tour, recalling incidents of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore, Washington; and I dare say it will appear very much like a dream. It was not far from this hotel where Macready found refuge from the mob, in a friend’s house. During this week several persons who were present have mentioned the riots to me, and they all blame Forrest. I told them Forrest had some reason to believe that Macready had set Forster against him, which, no doubt, helped to embitter Forrest’s mind. They say, however, that Forrest’s hatred of English actors amounted to something like a mania. He must have been a remarkable and great actor in many parts.”[7]

Irving little thought that in the reminiscences of a past, which had yet to come, would be an incident that should inseparably link his own name with the Forrest-Macready riots.

VI.

THE BELLS.

A Stormy Night in New York—Ticket-Speculators at Work—A First-night Audience—Mathias received with Enthusiasm—Behind the Scenes—Lighting the Stage—Returning Thanks—Criticism of the Crowd—John Gilbert’s Opinion—Actor and Audience—English Playgoers and Londoners—Laughter and Applause—An Artistic Triumph.

I.

TORRENTS of rain without, and a great fashionable crowd within the Star Theatre, inaugurated Irving’s first appearance on the American stage.

The electric lights, away up among the wet clouds that emptied themselves over Union square, flashed coldly on untended roadways, which vehicles of all kinds churned into rivers of mud. The architectural surroundings of the place and the well-appointed carriages that dashed along to the Star Theatre and the opera were singularly out of keeping with the broken streets and the everlasting telegraph poles of the American continent.

It was a night on which London would have hesitated to turn out of its comfortable homes to greet even the most illustrious stranger; for the rain was tropical in its density. It splashed on the pavements in great drops, or, taken hold of by the wind, came at you in sheets of water. Carriage-horses were protected with “rubber cloths,” and the people who stepped out of the cars at the top of Broadway, or were driven to the door of the theatre in the public stages, were enveloped in “water-proofs.” Nevertheless, the moment they alighted they were mobbed by a band of ticket-speculators, who followed or preceded them into the broad vestibule of the theatre, hawking seats even under the box-office windows. In appearance these energetic dealers were the counterpart of the betting men you may see on any English race-course,—the same in manner, and almost in voice. They were warmly and well clad, had satchels strapped to their shoulders; but, instead of shouting, “Two to one, bar one!” “I’ll bet on the field!” and other similar invitations to do business, they announced, in hoarse tones, “I have seats in the front row!” “Orchestra seats, third row!” “I have the best seats in the orchestra!” These New York speculators held in one hand a thick bundle of notes, and a packet of tickets in the other. They had change ready for any note you might offer them, and their tickets were frequently what they represented them to be, “for the choicest locations.”

For some time a notable crowd of persons, distinguished in New York society, pushed their way to seats which they had already secured, many of them at a premium of one hundred per cent. beyond the box-office rates.[8] A large number of persons waited in the vestibule until the curtain should go up, in the hope that the speculators would, for a moderate consideration, relax their grip on “choice seats.” Many tickets were sold, however, in the street, and in the vestibule of the theatre, for sums varying from five to ten dollars. Later in the evening, during the first and second acts of the play, the speculators parted with the balance of their property at box-office rates, which they readily obtained.

The entire floor of an American theatre is devoted to stall seats. Ladies and gentlemen who occupied the back seats had to submit to constant arrivals all through the first and second acts. The doors at the Star Theatre open right upon the audience. They were swinging backwards and forwards during the first half hour of the piece. It is a universal habit in America not to be seated at the time announced for the curtain to go up. Add to this the obstruction of the ticket-speculators, and the premium they offer to late comers. Supplement these disturbing elements with a wet night, the natural annoyance of individuals who have paid large premiums for their seats, the prejudice against Irving which had been persistently promoted by his few but active enemies; and you will understand the severity of the ordeal of this first appearance in the United States.

II.

A ROUND of applause greeted the rise of the curtain upon the first scene of “The Bells.” The audience thus testified their desire to be kindly; but, as the first part of the story was told, there was a certain impatience even in their recognition of the artistic simplicity of the scene. “The Bells” opens more like a novel than a play; and yet the suggestiveness of the narrative at the table, as the topers chat and drink, is singularly dramatic. On this first night the play seemed to drag, and the audience were on the tiptoe of expectation. Those who were comfortably seated were anxious for the appearance of Irving; those who poured in to fill vacant seats at the back, and the hundreds who pushed in to stand behind them, created an uncomfortable sensation of disquiet. Had the Star been a London theatre, the patience of the people who were seated would have been so seriously taxed that they would hardly have permitted the play to proceed until order had been secured in all parts of the house.

At last the door of the burgomaster’s homelike inn is flung open, and Irving stands there in his snow-sprinkled furs, his right hand raised above his head in the action of greeting his family, his left hand grasping his whip. His entrance was never more natural, never more picturesque. The audience hardly heard his opening words,—“It’s I!” They greeted him with thunders of applause, and shouts of welcome. He presently stepped forward from the door. Those who knew him would not fail to detect an effort to control his emotions, when he bowed his acknowledgments of a greeting as spontaneous as it was hearty. I had seen him in his dressing-room only a short time before. He was anxious, but firm as a rock; not in doubt of his own powers, but impressed, as any man might be, under similar circumstances, with the knowledge of how high the expectations of the people had been raised; how great the task of even approaching the standard of their excited hopes.

And now that the audience, touched by the artistic novelty of his appearance, and moved by their sentiments of hospitality, had given vent to their feelings, they settled down to allow the actor, of whose methods they had heard so much, to conquer their favorable opinion if he could. Despite the prejudices of some, and the annoyance of those who had been victimized by the speculators, auditors were willing to be captured,—nay, were desirous, if they could honestly do so, to endorse the verdict of their cousins of England, as to the place which Henry Irving holds in dramatic art.

“The Bells” is a weird play. Its lines are simple; it never halts. Mathias is an inn-keeper. He murders his guest, a Polish Jew, murders him on the highway for his gold, and is forever haunted by his crime. The jangle of the sleigh-bells, as the Jew’s horse gallops away after its master’s death, is continually in the assassin’s ears. Their sad music trickles through the story like the ripple of a rising stream through stubble-fields in autumn. It sweeps over the dramatic narrative like the sighing of the wind in “chill October.” Remorse takes possession of the criminal; he dreams he is being tried for his life.

This scene affords special opportunities for illustrating Irving’s dramatic magnetism. The judicial court of his dreamland forces him to submit to the operations of a mesmerist. Under this influence he makes confession of his crime by reënacting it. Nothing more weirdly suggestive can be imagined. Before an audience as breathless as the court, the actor went through the pantomime of stopping the Jew’s horse, cutting down the Jew with an axe, plundering the body and thrusting it into a lime-kiln. Then, convicted and condemned, the murderer dies under the violent shock to his nerves of this retributive force of imagination,—dies while the church-bells are ringing for his daughter’s marriage,—his last agonizing words, “Take the rope from my throat!”

Only a daring artist would undertake such a part; only a great one could succeed in it. Most of the second and last acts is a monologue; and, in a country like America, which is accustomed to rapidity of thought and action, Irving was courageous in risking the result of so serious a strain upon the mind of a highly strung audience. The experiment, however, was entirely a triumph, notwithstanding the previously-mentioned discomforts attending an overcrowded house, and the rain that stormed without.

III.

THE curtain having fallen on the first act, Irving received the honor of a triple call, after which I went to his room, and found him reading some of the numerous cables and telegrams from home, and from several distant American and Canadian cities, wishing him success.

“How kind everybody is!” he exclaimed, as he handed me a bundle of despatches. “You should have seen the hundreds of telegrams and letters that were sent to me on board the steamer as I was leaving Liverpool!”

“You are pleased?”

“More than pleased,” he said. “What an audience! I never played to a more sympathetic lot of people in my life. They respond to every movement and point of the scene with a marvellous promptitude.”

“You still feel that you are among friends?”

“I do, indeed.”

“I believe you played that first act to-night better than ever you played it in London.”

“Do you think so? ‘Art is long and life is fleeting.’”

There was in the atmosphere behind the foot-lights something of the electricity of a first night at the Lyceum,—no fuss, but a suppression of feeling, a kind of setting of the teeth and a girding up of the loins. The fine “property” horse of the vision scene, covered with snow that would not melt, had been dragged to the rear, and the stage was being set for the trial scene. Mr. Frank Tyars had donned his ermine as the judge, the mesmerist was ready at the wing, the last nail was being driven into the judicial bench. The local stage-hands and supers were at last evidently impressed with the importance of attention to some little matter of detail which they had daily tried to shirk at rehearsal. There had even been difficulties, on the stage and off, in regard to the regulation of the lights. Prominent gas-brackets had been removed from the auditorium, but the lowering of the lights down nearly to darkness for the last act of “The Bells” had been resisted. Later, however, Mr. Loveday found his New York collaborators in this respect willing allies; and within the first week the man who had charge of the calcium lights said, “I have seen them all; every one of the great actors and stage-managers; and they don’t begin to know as much about lighting the stage as this Mr. Henry Irving has forgotten!”

A breathless silence testified to the impressiveness of the last act. You might almost have fancied you heard, in the car-bells of the streets, faint echoes of the sleigh-bells that jangled in the ears of Mathias. I remember the first night of “The Bells,” at the Lyceum. The stillness in this New York house, as Mathias died of imaginary strangulation, reminded me of the London theatre on that occasion. The sensation in the two houses was the same. Nobody moved until the thud of the drop-curtain roller emphatically announced the end. Then the Star audience, as the Lyceum audience had done before them, gave vent to their enthusiasm.

Called and recalled, Irving appeared before the curtain. Then there was a cry of “Speech!” “Speech!” whereupon, he said:—

“Ladies and Gentlemen,—I believe it is a custom with you to allow an actor to thank you for the pleasure you have given to him; and I will avail myself of that custom now, to say that I thank you with all my heart and soul. It seems to me that the greatness of your welcome typifies the greatness of your nation. I thank you, and, ‘beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.’ Let me say that my comrades are also deeply sensible of your kindness, and let me add that I hope you will give a warmer welcome, if such were possible, than I have received, to my associate and friend, Miss Ellen Terry, who will have the honor of appearing before you to-morrow night. And, finally, if it be not a liberty, will you allow me to express the hope ‘that our loves may increase even as our days do grow.’”

As the audience left the theatre, the opinions expressed accentuated the reality of the actor’s success. “The things that have been said about his mannerisms are shameful”; “Why, he has no more mannerisms than Booth!” “I never was more agreeably surprised”; “He speaks like an educated American”; “And in the street looks like a Yale or Harvard professor”; “Never saw anything finer”; “Most awfully impressive scene, that last act”; “Stage magnetism in the highest degree”; “Guess he is safe for the biggest run of popularity of any actor or any man who has ever come to this country”; “Oh, he is immense!” “Did you hear Tony Pastor say it’s the intensest acting he’s ever seen,—that’s a compliment, from what you may call a low comedian”; “Madame Nilsson,—wasn’t she delighted?” “Yes, she wouldn’t sing to-night; would have a box to come and see Irving.” These were some of the remarks one caught as the audience left the theatre, and the most practical criticism is often heard as one leaves a theatre among the crowd.

Coming upon a group of critics and others I learn that the critic of “The Telegram” says, “Irving is, indeed, a revelation!” while Mr. Oakey Hall, of “Truth,” thanks God he has lived to see such an actor. Several members of the Press Club join in the chorus of praise. Buck and Fiske, of “The Spirit of the Times,” smile quietly, as much as to say, “We told you so.” The famous critic of the “Tribune” goes out saying, “Yes, it is great; there is no denying it.” Mr. Wallack, who, too ill to walk, had been carried to his box, expresses his hearty admiration of the actor whom for so many years he had longed to see; and Mr. Gilbert,[9] the veteran comedian and stage-manager at Wallack’s, is “impressed beyond expression, especially with the business of counting the dowry.”

There is a rush of critics, reporters, correspondents, “down-town” to chronicle the night’s success. One or two writers, whose eccentricities give a commercial value to their work, go away to maintain their lively reputations; but, on the whole, it is evident that everybody, press men and public, is greatly pleased. Many American journals in distant States were represented at the theatre by their own critics and by correspondents. Long telegraphic despatches were wired to the leading cities of the Union; the Associated Press sent out special messages; the London journals were in evidence, and a new Anglo-French paper in Paris had commissioned its New York correspondent to cable some thousand or more words of Irving’s opening night. Since the Forrest-Macready riot no theatrical event had created so general an interest as the first appearance of Irving in America.

IV.

GOING behind the scenes, after the play, I found a representative of the “Herald” already ensconced in Mr. Irving’s dressing-room. He was pressing the actor for his views of the audience, and for some contrasts of his sensations under the influence of this audience and others before whom he had played in England. At first Irving seemed inclined to say no more than to express satisfaction at his success. But the “Herald” representative was a quiet, cultivated, and experienced journalist. Evidently a gentleman of education, a travelled man, and discreet, he led the actor into the conversational direction he desired him to go, and the result was a pleasant and instructive interview:—

“When I first stepped into view of the audience, and saw and heard the great reception it gave me, I was filled with emotion. I felt that it was a great epoch in my life. The moment I faced the people I felt that we were friends. I knew that they wished to like me, and would go away, if I disappointed them, saying, ‘Well, we wanted to like him; but we couldn’t.’ Who could stand before such an audience, on such an occasion, and not be deeply moved? All I can say is, that it was a glorious reception, and typical of your great people.”

“But as to the merits of the audience,—theatre-goers will judge your acting,—what is your opinion of them?”

“The audience was a fine one. Apart from the marks of intelligence, which could be read with the naked eye, it was a fine assembly. I never played before a more responsive or sympathetic audience. It did not miss a point. I could tell all through the play that every motion I made was being closely watched; that every look, gesture, and tone was carefully observed. It is stimulating to an actor to feel that he has won his audience.”

“You felt confident that you had made an impression upon the audience, and that there was no flattery in the applause?”

“After the first burst of welcome was over, yes. I had not been on the stage five minutes before I knew that I had control of my hearers, and that I could make every point in the play tell. Then the silence of the people—the greatest compliment that could be paid to one in such a play—was always succeeded by genuine applause at the end of the act!”

“Did you get such a reception when you appeared as Mathias first before a London audience?”

“Oh, no. Don’t you see, I was comparatively little known then.”

“Mr. Irving, an English newspaper, a few days ago, expressed a hope that you would be judged by your merits, independent of anything that had previously been said or written about you, and that Americans in this case would not slavishly echo English opinion.[10] Was there any trace of independence in the manner of the audience?”

“Yes, yes,—there was, certainly,” said the actor, rising and pacing the room. “It is not presumption in me to say that I am sure I was judged solely on my merits, and that the audience went away pleased with me. There were times to-night when I could feel the sympathy of my hearers,—actually feel it.”

“The audience was quiet in the first act. The interest is worked up to the climax so smoothly and gradually that there was no opportunity for applause until the end?”

“There, now, you have found one of the differences between the judgment of my audience to-night and those I have played to in London. In the first part of the play the English audiences laughed a great deal; quite boisterously, in fact, at some of the comedy scenes. But the absence of this to-night, I think, was due to the fact that the people were straining to get the exact run of the play, and were laboring under anxiety—it is not presumption if I say so—to see me.

“Was there any other feature of this kind that you noticed?”

“Yes; when Christian yields to my demand for a promise that he will never leave the village while I am alive, I say, ‘It was necessary!’ This point has generally provoked laughter in England. To-night it evoked earnest applause. On the other hand, for the first time I heard the audience laugh at ‘Now the dowry to be given to our dear son-in-law in order that our dear son-in-law may love us.’”

“Are you willing to be judged as an actor by tonight’s performance, Mr. Irving?”

“For that character, yes.”

“Is Mathias not your greatest rôle?”

“My best? Well, now, that’s hard to say. There is no ground for comparison,—Charles the First is so different; he is full of qualities that are foreign to Mathias. I cannot name a character in which I feel I am best. They afford opportunities for the display of different powers. I am fond of the part of Mathias, it is true.”

“Did your company play up to the standard of their work in the Lyceum?”

“Well, you have not seen them all; you have not seen Miss Terry or Mr. Howe.”

“But did those of the company who were in the cast to-night do as well as usual?”

“They were rather slower, but quite good. Of course every one was excited, more or less. There is only one strong part in the play, and that is mine. Mr. Terriss was excellent. Don’t you think he is a fine fellow?”

Suiting the action to the word, Irving unconsciously dropped into a military attitude, stretched his hand out and threw back his head,—a perfect fac-simile of Mr. Terriss’ impersonation of Christian.

“Is the scenery the same that was used in the Lyceum?”

“Exactly the same. You prompt me to mention a particular point, now. Did you notice how little the scenery had to do with the play? I have it so on purpose. Why, there is practically no scenery. I try to get as near truth as possible, as Caleb Plummer says. I have sometimes heard that I rely on scenery. So far I do: if it were the hovel of King Lear I would have a hovel, and if it were the palace of Cleopatra I would make it as gorgeous as the possibilities of art would allow.”

“Do you look upon your reception to-night as a success?”

“In every way. One of your greatest actors told me that American audiences are proverbially cold on first nights. He was trying to save me from a possible disappointment. In addition to this, ‘The Bells’ is not a play for applause, but for earnest, sympathetic silence. Need I say that the demonstrations, which burst forth on every occasion that good taste would allow, are the best evidences that to-night I have won an artistic triumph?”

VII.

“RED LETTER DAYS.”

Miss Ellen Terry’s First Appearance in New York—The Press on Charles and the Queen—A Professional Matinée—An Audience of Actors to See Louis XI.—How they Impressed the Actor, and what they Thought of Him—A Visit to Henry Ward Beecher—At Church and at Home—Mrs. Beecher and Miss Terry—Reminiscences—Studies of Death, Physiological and Idealistic—Louis’ Death and Hamlet’s—A Strange Story.

I.

NEW YORK received Miss Terry, on her first appearance before an American audience, as cordially as it had welcomed Irving. It was as Henrietta Maria that she spoke her first words on the stage of the New World.[11] There is no more tenderly poetic play in the repertoire of the modern drama than “Charles the First.” The story in Irving’s hands is told with a truthful simplicity that belongs to the highest form of theatrical art. All the leading critics recognized this. The effect of the well-known Hampton Court cloth was so perfect in its way and so new to some of them, that it was regarded as a cut cloth, with “raking” and water pieces. The “Tribune” interpreted the general opinion of the audience, when it said, “what most impressed them was Irving’s extraordinary physical fitness to the accepted ideal of Charles Stuart, combined with the passionate earnestness and personal magnetism that enable him to create and sustain a perfect illusion”; while it may be said to have just as happily expressed the views of another class in the words, “To the student Mr. Irving’s Charles is especially significant, as indicative of the actor’s method in applying what is termed ‘natural’ treatment to the poetic drama.”

“Louis XI.,” “The Merchant of Venice,” “The Lyons Mail,” and “The Belle’s Stratagem,” were the other pieces produced during the four weeks in New York. The theatre was crowded nightly, and on the Saturday _matinées_. The speculators found it easier to dispose of their tickets, as the weeks wore on, even than during the first five or six days of the engagement. Nothing damped the public ardor. The opera war between Mapleson and Abbey, as representatives of two great parties of wealthy art patrons, had no apparent influence on the receipts at the Star Theatre. One of the greatest nights of the month marked the first appearance of Patti at the Academy of Music. Inclement weather, abnormal charges for seats, strong counterattractions at the other houses, including the two grand Italian Opera Companies, might have been expected to discount the financial success of any rival entertainment. They made no difference to Irving. He was the talk, not of New York, but of America; and after her appearance as Portia, Miss Ellen Terry was almost as much written about as he himself. Unrivalled in the higher walks of comedy, at home or abroad, Miss Terry is as new to the American public in the naturalness of her methods, as Irving himself.