from him, dated the 10th of January, he described your conception and
execution of the part in the most glowing terms. "Here Fechter is
magnificent." "Here his superb playing brings the house down." "I should
call even his exit in the last act one of the subtlest and finest things
he does in the piece." "You can hardly imagine what he gets out of the
part, or what he makes of his passionate love for Marguerite." These
expressions, and many others like them, crowded his letter.
I never did so want to see a character played on the stage as I want to
see you play Obenreizer. As the play was going when I last heard of it,
I have some hopes that I MAY see it yet. Please God, your Adelphi
dressing-room will be irradiated with the noble presence of "Never
Wrong" (if you are acting), about the evening of Monday, the 4th of May!
I am doing enormous business. It is a wearying life, away from all I
love, but I hope that the time will soon begin to spin away. Among the
many changes that I find here is the comfortable change that the people
are in general extremely considerate, and very observant of my privacy.
Even in this place, I am really almost as much my own master as if I
were in an English country town. Generally, they are very good audiences
indeed. They do not (I think) perceive touches of art to _be_ art; but
they are responsive to the broad results of such touches. "Doctor
Marigold" is a great favourite, and they laugh so unrestrainedly at "The
Trial" from "Pickwick" (which you never heard), that it has grown about
half as long again as it used to be.
If I could send you a "brandy cocktail" by post I would. It is a highly
meritorious dram, which I hope to present to you at Gad's. My New York
landlord made me a "Rocky Mountain sneezer," which appeared to me to be
compounded of all the spirits ever heard of in the world, with bitters,
lemon, sugar, and snow. You can only make a true "sneezer" when the snow
is lying on the ground.
There, my dear boy, my paper is out, and I am going to read
"Copperfield." Count always on my fidelity and true attachment, and look
out, as I have already said, for a distinguished visitor about Monday,
the 4th of May.
Ever, my dear Fechter,
Your cordial and affectionate Friend.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
BOSTON, _Tuesday, Feb. 25th, 1868._
It is so very difficult to know, by any exercise of common sense, what
turn or height the political excitement may take next, and it may so
easily, and so soon, swallow up all other things, that I think I shall
suppress my next week's readings here (by good fortune not yet
announced) and watch the course of events. Dolby's sudden desponding
under these circumstances is so acute, that it is actually swelling his
head as I glance at him in the glass while writing.
The catarrh is no better and no worse. The weather is intensely cold.
The walking-match (of which I will send particulars) is to come off on
Sunday. Mrs. Fields is more delightful than ever, and Fields more
hospitable. My room is always radiant with brilliant flowers of their
sending. I don't know whether I told you that the walking-match is to
celebrate the extinction of February, and the coming of the day when I
can say "next month."
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
BOSTON, _Thursday, Feb. 27th, 1868._
This morning at breakfast I received yours of the 11th from Palace Gate
House. I have very little news to give you in return for your budget.
The walking-match is to come off on Saturday, and Fields and I went over
the ground yesterday to measure the miles. We went at a tremendous pace.
The condition of the ground is something indescribable, from half-melted
snow, running water, and sheets and blocks of ice. The two performers
have not the faintest notion of the weight of the task they have
undertaken. I give a dinner afterwards, and have just now been settling
the bill of fare and selecting the wines.
In the first excitement of the presidential impeachment, our houses
instantly went down. After carefully considering the subject, I decided
to take advantage of the fact that next week's four readings here have
not yet been announced, and to abolish them altogether. Nothing in this
country lasts long, and I think the public may be heartily tired of the
President's name by the 9th of March, when I read at a considerable
distance from here. So behold me with a whole week's holiday in view!
The Boston audiences have come to regard the readings and the reader as
their peculiar property; and you would be at once amused and pleased if
you could see the curious way in which they seem to plume themselves on
both. They have taken to applauding too whenever they laugh or cry, and
the result is very inspiriting. I shall remain here until Saturday, the
7th, but shall not read here, after to-morrow night, until the 1st of
April, when I begin my Boston farewells, six in number.
_Friday, 28th._
It has been snowing all night, and the city is in a miserable condition.
We had a fine house last night for "Carol" and "Trial," and such an
enthusiastic one that they persisted in a call after the "Carol," and,
while I was out, covered the little table with flowers. The "True
American" has taken a fresh start, as if it were quite a novelty, and is
on the whole rather worse than ever to-day. The Cunard packet, the
_Australasian_ (a poor ship), is some days overdue, and Dolby is
anxiously looking out for her. There is a lull in the excitement about
the President, but the articles of impeachment are to be produced this
afternoon, and then it may set in again. Osgood came into camp last
night from selling in remote places, and reports that at Rochester and
Buffalo (both places near the frontier), Canada people bought tickets,
who had struggled across the frozen river and clambered over all sorts
of obstructions to get them. Some of those halls turn out to be smaller
than represented, but I have no doubt, to use an American expression,
that we shall "get along."
To-morrow fortnight we purpose being at the Falls of Niagara, and then
we shall turn back and really begin to wind up. I have got to know the
"Carol" so well that I can't remember it, and occasionally go dodging
about in the wildest manner to pick up lost pieces. They took it so
tremendously last night that I was stopped every five minutes. One poor
young girl in mourning burst into a passion of grief about Tiny Tim, and
was taken out. This is all my news.
Each of the pedestrians is endeavouring to persuade the other to take
something unwholesome before starting.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
BOSTON, _Monday, March 2nd, 1868._
A heavy gale of wind and a snowstorm oblige me to write suddenly for the
Cunard steamer a day earlier than usual. The railroad between this and
New York will probably be stopped somewhere. After all the hard weather
we have had, this is the worst day we have seen.
The walking-match came off on Saturday, over tremendously difficult
ground, against a biting wind, and through deep snow-wreaths. It was so
cold, too, that our hair, beards, eyelashes, eyebrows, were frozen hard,
and hung with icicles. The course was thirteen miles. They were close
together at the turning-point, when Osgood went ahead at a splitting
pace and with extraordinary endurance, and won by half a mile. Dolby did
very well indeed, and begs that he may not be despised. In the evening I
gave a very splendid dinner. Eighteen covers, most magnificent flowers,
such table decoration as was never seen in these parts. The whole thing
was a great success, and everybody was delighted.
I am holiday-making until Friday, when we start on the round of travel
that is to bring us back here for the 1st of April. My holiday-making
is simply thorough resting, except on Wednesday, when I dine with
Longfellow. There is still great political excitement, but I hope it may
not hurt us very much. My fear is that it may damage the farewell. Dolby
is not of my mind as to this, and I hope he may be right. We are not
quite determined whether Mrs. Fields did not desert our colours, by
coming on the ground in a carriage, and having _bread soaked in brandy_
put into the winning man's mouth as he steamed along. She pleaded that
she would have done as much for Dolby, if _he_ had been ahead, so we are
inclined to forgive her. As she had done so much for me in the way of
flowers, I thought I would show her a sight in that line at the dinner.
You never saw anything like it. Two immense crowns; the base, of the
choicest exotics; and the loops, oval masses of violets. In the centre
of the table an immense basket, overflowing with enormous bell-mouthed
lilies; all round the table a bright green border of wreathed creeper,
with clustering roses at intervals; a rose for every button-hole, and a
bouquet for every lady. They made an exhibition of the table before
dinner to numbers of people.
P. H. has just come in with a newspaper, containing a reference (in good
taste!) to the walking-match. He posts it to you by this post.
It is telegraphed that the storm prevails over an immense extent of
country, and is just the same at Chicago as here. I hope it may prove a
wind-up. We are getting sick of the sound of sleigh-bells even.
Your account of Anne has greatly interested me.
[Sidenote: M. Charles Fechter.]
SYRACUSE, U.S. OF AMERICA,
_Sunday Night, March 8th, 1868._
MY DEAR FECHTER,
I am here in a most wonderful out-of-the-world place, which looks as if
it had begun to be built yesterday, and were going to be imperfectly
knocked together with a nail or two the day after to-morrow. I am in the
worst inn that ever was seen, and outside is a thaw that places the
whole country under water. I have looked out of window for the people,
and I can't find any people. I have tried all the wines in the house,
and there are only two wines, for which you pay six shillings a bottle,
or fifteen, according as you feel disposed to change the name of the
thing you ask for. (The article never changes.) The bill of fare is "in
French," and the principal article (the carte is printed) is "Paettie de
shay." I asked the Irish waiter what this dish was, and he said: "It was
the name the steward giv' to oyster patties--the Frinch name." These are
the drinks you are to wash it down with: "Mooseux," "Abasinthe,"
"Curacco," "Marschine," "Annise," and "Margeaux"!
I am growing very home-sick, and very anxious for the 22nd of April; on
which day, please God, I embark for home. I am beginning to be tired,
and have been depressed all the time (except when reading), and have
lost my appetite. I cannot tell you--but you know, and therefore why
should I?--how overjoyed I shall be to see you again, my dear boy, and
how sorely I miss a dear friend, and how sorely I miss all art, in these
parts. No disparagement to the country, which has a great future in
reserve, or to its people, who are very kind to me.
I mean to take my leave of readings in the autumn and winter, in a final
series in England with Chappell. This will come into the way of literary
work for a time, for, after I have rested--don't laugh--it is a grim
reality--I shall have to turn my mind to--ha! ha! ha!--to--ha! ha! ha!
(more sepulchrally than before)--the--the CHRISTMAS NUMBER!!! I feel as
if I had murdered a Christmas number years ago (perhaps I did!) and its
ghost perpetually haunted me. Nevertheless in some blessed rest at
Gad's, we will talk over stage matters, and all matters, in an even way,
and see what we can make of them, please God. Be sure that I shall not
be in London one evening, after disembarking, without coming round to
the theatre to embrace you, my dear fellow.
I have had an American cold (the worst in the world) since Christmas
Day. I read four times a week, with the most tremendous energy I can
bring to bear upon it. I travel about pretty heavily. I am very resolute
about calling on people, or receiving people, or dining out, and so save
myself a great deal. I read in all sorts of places--churches, theatres,
concert rooms, lecture halls. Every night I read I am described (mostly
by people who have not the faintest notion of observing) from the sole
of my boot to where the topmost hair of my head ought to be, but is not.
Sometimes I am described as being "evidently nervous;" sometimes it is
rather taken ill that "Mr. Dickens is so extraordinarily composed." My
eyes are blue, red, grey, white, green, brown, black, hazel, violet, and
rainbow-coloured. I am like "a well-to-do American gentleman," and the
Emperor of the French, with an occasional touch of the Emperor of China,
and a deterioration from the attributes of our famous townsman, Rufus W.
B. D. Dodge Grumsher Pickville. I say all sorts of things that I never
said, go to all sorts of places that I never saw or heard of, and have
done all manner of things (in some previous state of existence I
suppose) that have quite escaped my memory. You ask your friend to
describe what he is about. This is what he is about, every day and hour
of his American life.
I hope to be back with you before you write to me!
Ever, my dear Fechter,
Your most affectionate and hearty Friend.
P.S.--Don't let Madame Fechter, or Marie, or Paul forget me!
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
SYRACUSE, _Sunday, March 8th, 1868._
As we shall probably be busy all day to-morrow, I write this to-day,
though it will not leave New York until Wednesday. This is a very grim
place in a heavy thaw, and a most depressing one. The hotel also is
surprisingly bad, quite a triumph in that way. We stood out for an hour
in the melting snow, and came in again, having to change completely.
Then we sat down by the stove (no fireplace), and there we are now. We
were so afraid to go to bed last night, the rooms were so close and
sour, that we played whist, double dummy, till we couldn't bear each
other any longer. We had an old buffalo for supper, and an old pig for
breakfast, and we are going to have I don't know what for dinner at six.
In the public rooms downstairs, a number of men (speechless) are sitting
in rocking-chairs, with their feet against the window-frames, staring
out at window and spitting dolefully at intervals. Scott is in tears,
and George the gasman is suborning people to go and clean the hall,
which is a marvel of dirt. And yet we have taken considerably over three
hundred pounds for to-morrow night!
We were at Albany the night before last and yesterday morning; a very
pretty town, where I am to read on the 18th and 19th. This day week we
hope to wash out this establishment with the Falls of Niagara. And there
is my news, except that your _last letters_ to me in America must be
posted by the Cunard steamer, which will sail from Liverpool on
_Saturday, the 4th of April_. These I shall be safe to get before
embarking.
I send a note to Katie (addressed to Mamie) by this mail. I wrote to
Harry some weeks ago, stating to him on what principles he must act in
remodelling the cricket club, if he would secure success.
[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]
_Monday Morning, 9th._
Nothing new. Weather cloudy, and town more dismal than yesterday. It
froze again last night, and thaws again this morning. Somebody sent me
an Australian newspaper this morning--some citizen of Syracuse I
mean--because of a paragraph in it describing the taking of two
freebooters, at which taking Alfred was present. Though I do not make
out that he had anything in the world to do with it, except having his
name pressed into the service of the newspaper.
BUFFALO, _Thursday, March 12th, 1868._
I hope this may be in time for next Saturday's mail; but this is a long
way from New York, and rivers are swollen with melted snow, and
travelling is unusually slow.
Just now (two o'clock in the afternoon) I received your sad news of the
death of poor dear Chauncey.[23] It naturally goes to my heart. It is
not a light thing to lose such a friend, and I truly loved him. In the
first unreasonable train of feeling, I dwelt more than I should have
thought possible on my being unable to attend his funeral. I know how
little this really matters; but I know he would have wished me to be
there with real honest tears for his memory, and I feel it very much. I
never, never, never was better loved by man than I was by him, I am
sure. Poor dear fellow, good affectionate gentle creature.
I have not as yet received any letter from Henri, nor do I think he can
have written to New York by your mail. I believe that I am--I know that
I _was_--one of the executors. In that case Mr. Jackson, his agent, will
either write to me very shortly on Henri's information of my address, or
enquiry will be made at Gad's or at the office about it.
It is difficult for me to write more just now. The news is a real shock
at such a distance, and I must read to-night, and I must compose my
mind. Let Mekitty know that I received her violets with great pleasure,
and that I sent her my best love and my best thanks.
On the 25th of February I read "Copperfield" and "Bob" at Boston. Either
on that very day, or very close upon it, I was describing his
(Townshend's) house to Fields, and telling him about the great Danby
picture that he should see when he came to London.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
ROCHESTER, _Sunday, March 16th, 1868._
I found yours of the 28th February, when I came back here last night. We
have had two brilliant sunny days at Niagara, and have seen that
wonderful place under the finest circumstances.
Enclosed I return you Homan's estimate; let all that work be done,
including the curtains.
As to the hall, I have my doubts whether one of the parqueted floors
made by Aaron Smith's, of Bond Street, ought not to be better than
tiles, for the reason that perhaps the nature of the house's
construction might render the "bed" necessary for wooden flooring more
easy to be made than the "bed" necessary for tiles. I don't think you
can do better than call in the trusty Lillie to advise. Decide with your
aunt on which appears to be better, under the circumstances. Have
estimate made for _cash_, select patterns and colours, and let the work
be done out of hand. (Here's a prompt order; now I draw breath.) Let it
be thoroughly well done--no half measures.
There is a great thaw all over the country here, and I think it has done
the catarrh good. I am to read at the famous Newhaven on Tuesday, the
24th. I hope without a row, but cannot say. The readings are running out
fast now, and we are growing very restless.
This is a short letter, but we are pressed for time. It is two o'clock,
and we dine at three, before reading. To-morrow we rise at six, and have
eleven hours' railway or so. We have now come back from our farthest
point, and are steadily working towards home.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]
SPRINGFIELD, MASS., _Saturday, March 21st, 1868._
MY DEAREST MACREADY,
What with perpetual reading and travelling, what with a "true American
catarrh" (on which I am complimented almost boastfully), and what with
one of the severest winters ever known, your coals of fire received by
the last mail did not burn my head so much as they might have done
under less excusatory circumstances. But they scorched it too!
You would find the general aspect of America and Americans decidedly
much improved. You would find immeasurably greater consideration and
respect for your privacy than of old. You would find a steady change for
the better everywhere, except (oddly enough) in the railroads generally,
which seem to have stood still, while everything else has moved. But
there is an exception westward. There the express trains have now a very
delightful carriage called a "drawing-room car," literally a series of
little private drawing-rooms, with sofas and a table in each, opening
out of a little corridor. In each, too, is a large plate-glass window,
with which you can do as you like. As you pay extra for this luxury, it
may be regarded as the first move towards two classes of passengers.
When the railroad straight away to San Francisco (in six days) shall be
opened through, it will not only have these drawing-rooms, but
sleeping-rooms too; a bell in every little apartment communicating with
a steward's pantry, a restaurant, a staff of servants, marble
washing-stands, and a barber's shop! I looked into one of these cars a
day or two ago, and it was very ingeniously arranged and quite complete.
I left Niagara last Sunday, and travelled on to Albany, through three
hundred miles of flood, villages deserted, bridges broken, fences
drifting away, nothing but tearing water, floating ice, and absolute
wreck and ruin. The train gave in altogether at Utica, and the
passengers were let loose there for the night. As I was due at Albany, a
very active superintendent of works did all he could to "get Mr. Dickens
along," and in the morning we resumed our journey through the water,
with a hundred men in seven-league boots pushing the ice from before us
with long poles. How we got to Albany I can't say, but we got there
somehow, just in time for a triumphal "Carol" and "Trial." All the
tickets had been sold, and we found the Albanians in a state of great
excitement. You may imagine what the flood was when I tell you that we
took the passengers out of two trains that had their fires put out by
the water four-and-twenty hours before, and cattle from trucks that had
been in the water I don't know how long, but so long that the sheep had
begun to eat each other! It was a horrible spectacle, and the haggard
human misery of their faces was quite a new study. There was a fine
breath of spring in the air concurrently with the great thaw; but lo and
behold! last night it began to snow again with a strong wind, and to-day
a snowdrift covers this place with all the desolation of winter once
more. I never was so tired of the sight of snow. As to sleighing, I have
been sleighing about to that extent, that I am sick of the sound of a
sleigh-bell.
I have seen all our Boston friends, except Curtis. Ticknor is dead. The
rest are very little changed, except that Longfellow has a perfectly
white flowing beard and long white hair. But he does not otherwise look
old, and is infinitely handsomer than he was. I have been constantly
with them all, and they have always talked much of you. It is the
established joke that Boston is my "native place," and we hold all sorts
of hearty foregatherings. They all come to every reading, and are always
in a most delightful state of enthusiasm. They give me a parting dinner
at the club, on the Thursday before Good Friday. To pass from Boston
personal to New York theatrical, I will mention here that one of the
proprietors of my New York hotel is one of the proprietors of Niblo's,
and the most active. Consequently I have seen the "Black Crook" and the
"White Fawn," in majesty, from an arm-chair in the first entrance, P.S.,
more than once. Of these astonishing dramas, I beg to report (seriously)
that I have found no human creature "behind" who has the slightest idea
what they are about (upon my honour, my dearest Macready!), and that
having some amiable small talk with a neat little Spanish woman, who is
the _premiere danseuse_, I asked her, in joke, to let me measure her
skirt with my dress glove. Holding the glove by the tip of the
forefinger, I found the skirt to be just three gloves long, and yet its
length was much in excess of the skirts of two hundred other ladies,
whom the carpenters were at that moment getting into their places for a
transformation scene, on revolving columns, on wires and "travellers" in
iron cradles, up in the flies, down in the cellars, on every description
of float that Wilmot, gone distracted, could imagine!
I have taken my passage for Liverpool from New York in the Cunarder
_Russia_, on the 22nd of April. I had the second officer's cabin on deck
coming out, and I have the chief steward's cabin on deck going home,
because it will be on the sunny side of the ship. I have experienced
nothing here but good humour and cordiality. In the autumn and winter I
have arranged with Chappells to take my farewell of reading in the
United Kingdom for ever and ever.
I am delighted to hear of Benvenuta's marriage, and I think her husband
a very lucky man. Johnnie has my profound sympathy under his
examinatorial woes. The noble boy will give me Gavazzi revised and
enlarged, I expect, when I next come to Cheltenham. I will give you and
Mrs. Macready all my American experiences when you come to London, or,
better still, to Gad's. Meanwhile I send my hearty love to all, not
forgetting dear Katie.