Among my early memories of “Green Peace” is a large daguerreotype of
Charlotte Cushman. It was probably lost in one of the many movings of
the Howe family.
When Miss Cushman’s furniture and personal effects were sold at Newport,
many years after her death, a portrait of my mother and one of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning were still hanging in her bedroom! A photograph of the
great actress, taken about the time of the Civil War, I still possess.
My parents were early interested in Charlotte Cushman’s acting, as they
were in that of Edwin Booth, at the beginning of his career. They
invited guests to meet her at “Green Peace,” and asked their friends in
other cities to extend to her social recognition.
In the summer of 1850 they were her fellow-passengers on the voyage to
England. Sister Laura was then an infant. Seeing her gnaw her little
fist, the actress exclaimed that babies were funny things, at the same
time mimicking exactly the child’s action.
Like Sally Battle, Charlotte Cushman believed in the rigor of the game.
She and my mother were engaged one day in a game of whist when a
gentleman was rash enough to talk to the latter and to keep on talking.
Charlotte Cushman bore it as long as she could, then turned to the
offender and said, in her great, deep voice, “Remember, this is whist.”
The hint was sufficient.
Another story we had from my mother was of a certain holiday performance
when the theater was crowded. Miss Cushman was acting with her sister,
the play being, as I think, “Romeo and Juliet.” In the midst of the
tender love-making a small boy called out from the gallery, “Oh, my
stummick!” The sister was nearly convulsed with laughter, when Charlotte
gave her a shake and brought her to herself with the words, “_Remember
where you are_.”
On another occasion, when Miss Cushman came bounding upon the stage as
Meg Merrilies, she trod upon a needle, dropped there by some careless
actress, and had to be helped from the stage in an agony of pain.
She had already grown quite gray when I first remember her, in the Civil
War period. Such a wonderfully expressive face could not be called
altogether homely, although her retreating mouth prevented it from being
handsome. Her teeth were small and insignificant, while the blue of her
eyes contrasted well with the gray hair. She was built on a generous
scale, her figure tall and commanding. As Queen Katherine in “Henry the
Eighth” she was at her best. One of her great points was in the trial
scene. When the insignificant Cardinal Campeius addressed her she turned
to Wolsey, with splendid gesture, looking every inch a queen, as she
gave with noble emphasis the lines, “My lord cardinal, to you I speak.”
In 1915–16 I again saw this play, after an interval of fifty years, with
Sir Beerbohm Tree as the cardinal. Anne Boleyn was graceful and
charming, making one understand as never before how Henry was won from
Katharine. Bluff King Hal was extremely well portrayed. Cardinal Wolsey
was magnificent in his vivid scarlet raiment, the costumes and scenery
all beautiful. The whole was a feast of color for the eye. But the one
great figure that had dominated the performance of early years I sadly
missed. The actress who played Queen Katharine did not even attempt to
make Charlotte Cushman’s great point in the trial scene. In the last sad
scene Miss Cushman vividly portrayed for us the discarded queen, sick
and suffering unto death.
I saw her also in “London Assurance,” when she took the part of Lady Gay
Spanker. She was gay and rollicking enough, although her gray hair
seemed a little incongruous in the part of a young woman. It was out of
keeping also in “Fazio,” where she took the rôle of Bianca.
Charlotte Cushman possessed wigs, for these were sold, with the rest of
her theatrical wardrobe, one being still in curl papers! When I saw her
on the stage, however, she appeared with her own gray hair.
It will be remembered that she had intended to go on the operatic stage,
but, owing to the loss of her singing-voice, was obliged to give this
up. The mishap may have been a blessing in disguise. For the perfect
development of Miss Cushman’s great dramatic talent the legitimate stage
was the best agent.
I had the pleasure of hearing her sing, on the occasion of a visit to
Lawton’s Valley. It was a wonderful performance. It was not like any
other singing, but rather a species of chanting or weird crooning, in
which she gave us the simple and moving story of “Mary, go and call the
cattle home, across the sands o’ Dee.” The deep tones of her voice
intensified the effect.
My mother also was accustomed to sing this pathetic ballad, to a tune of
her own composition. With her high, clear voice the effect was very
different from that produced by Charlotte Cushman; yet she, too, made
her hearers feel the deep pathos of the ballad.
In the Newport days of which I speak we often saw Miss Cushman and her
intimate friend, Emma Stebbins, the sculptress. The latter modeled the
bronze statue of Horace Mann which stands in front of the State House in
Boston, opposite that of Daniel Webster.
I do not think this proximity to the former idol of the Massachusetts
Whigs was much relished by them. But my father had a way of putting
through what he undertook. As an intimate friend and co-worker with
Horace Mann, he was chairman of the committee for the erection of the
memorial. I fancy it was he who gave the commission to Miss Stebbins and
arranged for the contribution of their pennies by the school-children of
Boston. Doubtless he persuaded those in power that Mann’s splendid
services to the cause of education deserved this recognition from the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In the twentieth century my father’s
views—he was usually some fifty years ahead of his time—have come to
prevail.
It is sad to remember that Charlotte Cushman’s last years were clouded
by an incurable disease—cancer. She made a splendid fight against it,
keeping on with her work almost to the end of her life. She would not
give it up until she had made a handsome provision for those near and
dear to her.
I remember with pleasure a visit to Fanny Kemble—Mrs. Frances Anne
Kemble, to give her her full name. My father took me as a little girl to
see her at the Tremont House, where she received us very graciously and
kindly. I also heard her read one of Shakespeare’s plays. This she did
without any help of scenery or special costume. We saw only a
middle-aged, rather stout lady, dressed quietly in black and seated at a
table. Although there was much to admire in her character, she possessed
a stormy temper. It was said that she once insisted so vehemently on
having her washing brought to her without delay that the tub containing
the wet garments in the suds was finally set down before her!
In these early days she did not admire the acting of Edwin Booth. At one
of his performances she was seen “sniffing,” as the story went, her
countenance showing her lack of approbation. He was already a favorite
with the public, but certain friends of Mrs. Kemble followed her
opinion. Vehement were the arguments which we as enthusiastic admirers
of Booth had with the Kembelites among our young friends.
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