Fechter died in America in 1879. His last years were sad. But a decade or so before, the idol of the playgoing public, the compeer of all distinguished in the arts, the welcome guest of Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill, he died beyond the seas neglected, friendless, almost forgotten. Few actors at their zenith have held greater sway; few could compare with him in romantic parts; fewer still could claim to have stirred two nations of playgoers in different tongues; but such is the fleeting nature of our work, so faint the record of it left behind, that one might ask how many now can speak of Fechter as he really was, how few will even know his name? "Out, out, brief candle!" His talent was not confined to the stage, as a spirited bust of himself, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show.
Salvini
Later on, there came the eminent Italian actor, Salvini, whose visit to this country in 1875 may still be remembered by a dwindling few. He was the greatest tragedian I have seen—he was never a tenor trying to sing a bass song. On the stage the Italians, to my mind, have the advantage over other actors in being beyond question the finest pantomimists in the world—they can say so much without speaking. Those two great actresses, Ristori and Duse, made masterly use of this gift.
At an afternoon performance of Othello by Salvini, specially given at Drury Lane Theatre to the leading representatives of the English Stage, who chiefly composed the vast assemblage, I was present. Salvini's superbly delivered address to the Senate at once convinced the remarkable audience that no ordinary actor was before them—so calm, so dignified, so motionless—broken only by the portrayal of love as he caught sight of Desdemona entering on the scene. No ovation that I have taken part in equalled in enthusiasm the reception from his up-standing comrades at the close of the third act. His death scene I took exception to as being too shocking, too realistic, too like an animal dying in the shambles or on a battle-field. There I thought the Italian was surpassed by the Irishman, G. V. Brooke, the only actor I have seen who shared Salvini's natural gifts of voice and bearing, and who, but for his unfortunate intemperate habits, might have achieved lasting fame upon the stage. His death in Othello seemed to me as poetic in conception as it was pathetic in execution. Acting, although not speaking, the closing words, "Killing myself, to die upon a kiss," he staggered towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of it, which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of pall, disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona. I agree with the great Frenchman who said: "Even when it assassinates, even when it strangles, tragedy remembers that it wears the crown and carries a sceptre."
In a little letter to my wife, Salvini wrote:
"CHÈRE MADAME,—Que vous êtes aimable! Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau comme un doux souvenir de votre sincère amitié. Ce sera un précieux talisman qui suivra le reste de ma carrière artistique, et qui, je suis sûr, m'apportera du bonheur."
The perfect Hamlet
In a conversation I had with Salvini, he modestly said his nationality and Southern blood made it comparatively easy for him to play the jealous Moor, while they stood in his way when he attempted the part of the Northern moody Dane, to which his robust physique was not suited. Salvini's performance, however, of Hamlet has left me memories almost as keen as those bequeathed by Fechter. In his arrangement of the play he acted the long speech of his father's ghost. You only heard, and hardly saw the Phantom. His scene with his mother was very fine: his management of the foils in the fight with Laertes as superb as it was original: his death the most touching I can recall: it was the "Kiss me, Hardy" of Nelson; he felt for Horatio's head and drew it down to his face as the spirit fled. To make a perfect Hamlet I should weld together ever to be remembered portions from the performances of Fechter, Salvini, Irving and Forbes-Robertson.
It is interesting to read what Macready, the greatest of the Victorian classic actors, said of this complex, fascinating character:
"It seems to me as if only now at fifty-one years of age, I thoroughly see and appreciate the artistic power of Shakespeare in this great human phenomenon: nor do any of the critics, Goethe, Schlegel, or Coleridge, present to me, in their elaborate remarks, the exquisite artistical effects which I see in this work, as long meditation, like long straining after light, gives the minutest portion of its excellence to my view."