“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.