No better instance of patient good-nature, backed by a woful lack of culture, can be had than in the performances given at two New York theatres by a couple of society women—we beg pardon: we should say "ladies." Mrs. Potter kills Cleopatra in the first act of "Antony and Cleopatra," by Shakespeare, Bacon, or somebody else; and Mrs. Langtry does to Lady Macbeth what Don Cæsar de Bazan found so objectionable in hanging. "Hanging," cried the immortal Bohemian of aristocratic birth, "is horrible. It not only kills a man, it makes him ridiculous." Mrs. Langtry's Lady Macbeth should be relegated to things which amuse. The audiences leave these burlesques with the query put in the mouth of an English sailor at an exhibition of pantomime and fireworks, who, being blown over the adjacent property, got up and asked, "What'll the cussed fool do next?"
These are the days when there is a dearth of real dramatic art; when a tarnished reputation, superb costumes—or lack of costume—are considered indispensable adjuncts to the star actress; when real water, miniature conflagrations that choke the audience with smoke, or startling electrical novelties, are relied upon as the chief attractions of a new play; when the stage panders to the lowest tastes; when the spectacular supplants art. The question no longer is, "What is the play? What are the lessons it teaches, the ideal thoughts it presents to us?"—but rather, "Who is the actress? What is the latest scandal concerning her? How far does she outstrip her rivals in exhibitions of nudity?" Hence we see such alterations of plan on the part of theatrical managers as the withdrawal of that witty play, "The Yeomen of the Guard," to make room at the Casino for the "leg-show" of "Nadjy."
Of course some of the blame for this state of things must rest on the small and noisy portion of the public who manage to control access to the ears of proprietors and playwrights, such as, in the instance mentioned, the dudes and dudelets of the "Casino crowd," who had grown weary of a play whose sparkling humor was above their comprehension. A greater measure of blame rests upon the professional critics, who, with a few very honorable exceptions, gauge praise or blame according to the length of the paid advertisements in their respective journals, or to the favors extended to them at the box-office. Not a score of years ago an actor of very moderate attainments actually bought his way into prominence by giving elaborate dinners to his critics, and keeping open house, with free-lunch counter and bar attachments, for the benefit of every reporter whom he could form acquaintance with. Such methods in a short time placed him on a pedestal of notoriety, and he no doubt hoped to stay there; but a new sensation came, and his star declined. This is a fair statement of the condition of theatrical art in America. We have lost the freshness of originality, and we have not yet attained to the depth of culture and breadth of criticism of the literary centres of England and the Continent. We are very much inclined to pay homage to a name, no matter by what means such a name has been acquired.
Mrs. Langtry's performance of Lady Macbeth is an instance of this tendency to hero-worship. It is said in her favor that her characterization of the part shows deep study and hard work. But these are the very things that, were she possessed of real dramatic genius, would never be allowed to show. The height of art is in imitating, refining, and subliming nature. But if you allow all the secret wheels and springs to appear, it becomes no art at all. Mrs. Langtry's effort is a painstaking one, but the effort is too apparent. She attains no high ideal. When she appeared as Lady Macbeth at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, after weeks of preparation and puffery, it was expected that she would give us something new, but the result has been only her usual mediocrity.
The character is a combination of a great degree of unscrupulous ambition and a share of wifely devotion. Lady Macbeth's crime is partly due to a desire for her husband's advancement; but the chief motive clearly is, that through his advancement she may attain power. It is this determination to stop at nothing which may forward her ambitious schemes that makes the character one of the most terrible of Shakspere's creations. Charlotte Cushman probably came nearer to the great poet's ideal than any actress before or since. Ellen Terry makes the part ridiculous; Mrs. Langtry makes it commonplace. But there is one scene for which she deserves great credit—the sleep-walk, where she emerges from her room in a night-dress that looks like a shroud, her hair entirely concealed by a nightcap that is bound around her chin, her face pallid and expressionless. Then she begins her soliloquy, no longer Mrs. Langtry, no longer Lady Macbeth, but a remorseful somnambulist, her words all delivered in the same dull monotone, without emphasis or expression, like the voice of a soulless corpse. It makes one shiver to hear her. But that is the only redeeming feature of her characterization.
The support is by no means good, but the scenery and costumes are well brought out and historically accurate. Mr. Charles Coghlan is a fair reader of his lines, but falls far short of the ideal Macbeth. In fact, by far the best acting is that of Mr. Joseph Wheelock as Macduff. He plays the character with all the vim and enthusiasm that it demands, and he deservedly receives the largest share of applause from the audience.
While Mrs. Langtry has been reaching out her long, voluptuous arms in an utterly futile attempt to touch the hem of Lady Macbeth's garment, Mrs. Potter, arrayed like a queen of burlesque, and behaving like a tipsy grisette at a mask-ball, has been insulting the traditions of Egypt's queen. The performance of "Antony and Cleopatra" at Palmer's Theatre was, indeed, little better than a farce. It would be hard to say which was worse, Mrs. Potter's Cleopatra or Mr. Kyrle Bellew's Antony. As Brutus was the noblest, so it may be said that Mr. Bellew's Antony is the most insignificant, Roman of them all. It would be a waste of time and space to attempt a serious criticism of either of the two impersonations. In a mere spectacular sense the production was pleasing to the eye; but, historically, the scenery and accessories were absurdly inaccurate. To import the archaic architecture of ancient Thebes in Upper Egypt into a city so purely Greek in its buildings, population, language, and customs as Alexandria was from its very foundation, is about as ignorant a blunder as it is possible for a scenic artist to make. And what business Hindoo nautch-girls had in the Alexandria of Cleopatra is a conundrum which only a New York stage-manager can answer. We give it up. Mrs. Potter, too, seems to be unaware that Cleopatra was Greek, not Egyptian; otherwise she would hardly mispronounce the initial consonantal sound of the name of her Greek attendant, Charmian, as she invariably does mispronounce it. Possibly her attention is so deeply absorbed by the fascinations of Worth's millinery that she has no time to spare for such trivial matters as elocution and orthoepy.
Outside of Mrs. Langtry's and Mrs. Potter's characterizations there has been little of novelty. Nat Goodwin has dropped farce and buffoonery, and essays a higher style of comedy, appearing as Gringoire in "A Royal Revenge," an adaptation of Theodore de Banville's play. The character has recently been made familiar by Coquelin. Mr. Goodwin becomes interesting as the starving poet, and his personation gives promise of better things. The Grand Opera House was filled with Nobles of the Mystic Shrine to welcome Mr. Goodwin's reappearance. At the Fifth Avenue Theatre, in March, he will produce a new three-act comedy called "A Gold Mine," by Brander Matthews and George H. Jessop. The latter author, in collaboration with Horace Townsend, has produced for W. J. Scanlan a new Irish play entitled "Myles Aroon," brought out at the Fourteenth Street Theatre. Lady Glover's head-gardener, Myles Aroon, is accused of stealing his mistress' bracelet. He falls in love with her daughter, proves his innocence, and exposes the thief, who happens to be his rival. This threadbare plot is treated with Scanlan's inimitable Irish humor, and the play receives the popular appreciation it deserves. Of a similar character is the play "Running Wild," which was brought out at the Star Theatre, and offers abundant opportunity to Mr. John Wild's versatile comic talents.
Farquhar's comedy, "The Inconstant," recently played at Daly's Theatre, is an excellent revival of a good old English comedy. Ada Rehan was at her best as Oriana. At Daly's one is always sure of finding good plays, well acted. The company is a very even one, consisting not of one or two stars and all the rest sticks, but of fair actors well used to each other and to the plays they bring out. "The Runaway Wife," produced at Niblo's, is a play that is not wanting in dramatic merit, but it is somewhat spasmodic and jerky. Its authors, McKee Rankin and Fred G. Maeder, have aimed at creating a series of dramatic climaxes rather than a smoothly-running play. Daniel Bandmann has made a success as the Comte de Maurienne in "Austerlitz," a revival of Tom Taylor's drama, "Dead or Alive." Marie Wainwright presented us with a very girlish Rosalind at the Star Theatre, Mr. Louis James playing Orlando very effectively. "Said Pacha," a three-act comic opera, composed by Richard Stahl of San Francisco, has met with success in the few cities where it has yet been played. The music at times is suggestive of Strauss and Offenbach. Herr August Junkermann, who has been delighting our German fellow-citizens at the Amberg Theatre, proved himself a character actor of quite a superior order, and has earned a reputation which will insure him crowded houses whenever he appears in New York.
The best all-round performance given at any theatre this season is Pinero's comedy of "Sweet Lavender" at the Lyceum. The play is as sweet and pure as a bunch of the fragrant old-fashioned flowers whose name it bears. The dialogue sparkles with wit and repartee of the most delightful sort, and the acting is as charming as the piece itself. Miss Georgie Cayvan may have acted more important characters, but never one in which she offered a more agreeable picture. There is a ring of sweet womanliness through her performance, which, like the delicate ferns and mosses that hide a violet, makes the fragrant blossom more precious. Miss Louise Dillon is so sweet that she is a little cloying. She clings about Mr. Henry Miller, who enacts her lover, in a limp and boneless fashion that is somewhat irritating to one who remembers that a spine and a few muscles go to make up the human anatomy, as well as a heart. Mrs. Whiffen's performance is most agreeable, being all the more admirable from the fact that in the earlier scenes she is, by the exigencies of the piece, somewhat acid and acrid. Now everybody knows that for Mrs. Whiffen to be either one or the other of these things must be clever acting. Mrs. Walcot is far less satisfactory; she does not dress to the level of her character, and she is artificial, mincing, and sour. Lemoyne's work is simply beyond praise. But little finer acting has ever been seen than his portrayal of Richard Phenyl. Very good, too, is Mr. Kelcey's performance of a breezy young American; and of almost equal merit is the rendering of the manly young lover by Mr. Miller. A thoroughly disappointing performance is that of Mr. Walcot. His get-up of a prosperous, jovial English banker is admirable. But all cause for admiration began and ended there; his acting never for one moment reached his make-up. When the scene called for feeling, he had none—he was merely feeble and flaccid; in short, Mr. and Mrs. Walcot were the only blots upon an otherwise perfect performance.