In these years Edwin Booth spent the summer at his pretty red-roofed
villa, “Boothden,” on Indian Avenue. It was then a quiet and retired
part of the island of Rhode Island, yet within easy reach of Newport.
The house was placed so near the rocky shore that the ocean breezes
might have been too boisterous had not awnings screened the wide
piazzas. A large and pleasant boat-house equipped with a sitting- or
lounging-room stood on the shore.
“Boothden” was only four miles from “Oak Glen,” so that we were country
neighbors of Mr. Booth and his charming daughter. We had the pleasure of
seeing them from time to time. When we were invited to take luncheon at
their villa, to meet Joseph Jefferson, his wife and daughter, and
William Warren, the veteran comedian of the Boston Museum, it seemed too
wonderful to be true.
Miss Edwina Booth (whom I remembered as Baby Booth) received us with a
grace and charm that vividly recalled her lovely young mother, dead many
years before. The resemblance to Mrs. Booth was almost startling. It
seemed as if the beloved wife, young and fair as of old, had returned to
this earth. We saw the same slender figure, the same movements, as I
fancied. What a strange thing is the inheritance of gesture! There could
have been no conscious imitation, for Miss Booth could not have
remembered her mother.
The three distinguished actors had rashly gone for a sail in Mr. Booth’s
yacht. It is always rash to go out in a sail-boat if you expect to
return at any particular hour.
When they finally arrived their entrance was like a scene upon the
stage. Their behavior was not at all theatrical, but they were mariners
returning from a stormy trip. A good stiff breeze had blown them all
about, the waves had given them a good wetting, while Mr. Jefferson had
lost his hat overboard.
They took all these small mishaps in the best possible humor, as a part
of life’s comedy. Joe Jefferson had substituted a red bandanna
handkerchief for the lost hat and treated the whole affair as a
delightful joke. Presently we all sat down to a luncheon elegant and
elaborate, after the fashion of the time, the table being faultless in
its service and appointments.
Joseph Jefferson was brilliant and delightful, evidently enjoying the
conversation. The geniality and cheeriness of his stage characters were
but a reflection of his own sunny disposition. If he had stood in the
shoes of Rip Van Winkle, Caleb Plummer, or Bob Acres, he would have
taken life as cheerfully as they did. After seeing him in private life I
understood better the spirit of his acting. The Jefferson of the parlor
was the Jefferson of the stage, save that the man himself was more
brilliant, more original than the men of a simple type whom he
habitually portrayed. He possessed that highest form of art which
conceals itself. At the Booth luncheon he talked of many things—of art,
his pictures, the proper light for the stage, his children, his farm in
Florida, his delight in roaming through the woods with his fishing-rod.
We enjoyed hearing many theatrical anecdotes which gave us peeps behind
the scenes. Mr. Jefferson told us of a mistake he once made in “Lend Me
Five Shillings.” Forgetting that he had already delivered certain lines,
he repeated them—no applause followed! Just as he was wondering what the
matter was, the actress with whom he was playing whispered, “You have
repeated your lines.” William Warren confessed that he had had a
somewhat similar experience in “Our American Cousin,” when he struck a
match by the right end, lighting it, to his horror and surprise.
According to the play, he should have struck the wrong end—and the
mistake drove his part out of his head for a moment, when a fellow-actor
gave him his lines, in a stage whisper! William Warren, “the Boston
favorite,” was a relative of Joseph Jefferson or of Mrs. Jefferson. They
called him “Uncle William,” and all treated him with the most
affectionate respect. He was the eldest of the three actors, and already
in failing health. Hence he was grave and quiet in manner when we saw
him in private life, although inimitably funny on the stage. It seldom
happens that so excellent an actor is content to remain all his life a
member of a stock company, performing in a single city—but this was
Warren’s choice. The strong affection in which he was held was doubtless
a compensation to this inimitable actor for the loss of a wider fame. He
died not long after this time.
We found our hospitable and kindly host, Edwin Booth, little changed
from the old days when we had so devoutly admired him. There were the
same charm and simplicity of manner, the same sense of humor. His eyes
still had the old fire, while the cheerful serenity of middle life
replaced the buoyant happiness of his younger days. He spoke very simply
of the time when he was a young man. I did not like to think that Edwin
Booth ever could grow old. He was still in the prime of life, handsome
and vigorous.
Of his profession, of the stage and of Shakespeare, he liked to talk,
and we liked only too well to listen. He had recently brought home from
Germany some of the tokens of intense admiration that were showered upon
him there—wreaths of silver, and perhaps of gold, also.
What to do with these he did not know. Mantel lambrequins then afflicted
the world. I fear it was I who suggested that the classic garlands might
be sewn on these with decorative effect!
Edwin Booth was too reserved and too kind-hearted to play the habitual
mimic, yet he could, upon occasion, imitate to the life the person
described. Once, when telling us of an experience in the far West while
he was traveling with his father, he suddenly became a knock-kneed,
shambling man. In a moment he was again Edwin Booth, grave and
dignified.
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