When, hereafter, some chance traveller picks up this odd number of an
old magazine and opens to this very page, let him know that the
evening of Dickens's first reading in New York was bright with
moonlight veiled in a soft gray snow-cloud. The crowd at the entrance
was not large. The speculators in tickets were not troublesome,
because all the tickets had been long sold. The police, as usual, were
polite and efficient; and going up the steep staircase, and passing
through the single door, we were all quietly and pleasantly seated by
eight o'clock. The floor of Steinway Hall is level, so that the
audience is lost to itself; but it was easy for all of us to perceive,
by scanning our neighbors, that we were a very fine body of people. At
least everybody who was present said so. We all remarked that the
intelligence and distinction of the city were present, and that it
must be extremely gratifying to Mr. Dickens to be welcomed by the most
intellectual and appreciative audience that could be assembled in New
York.
The details of the arrangement upon the platform, the screen behind,
the hidden lights above and below, and the stiff little table with the
water-bottle, are familiar. But as we all sat looking at them, and at
the variously splendid toilets that rustled in, and fluttered, and
finally settled, it was not possible to escape the great thought that
in a few moments we should see at that queer, stiff table the creator
of Sam Weller, and Oliver Twist, and Micawber, and Dick Swiveller, and
the rest of the endless, marvellous company--the greatest story-teller
since Scott, one of the most famous names in literature since
Fielding. When he was here before Carlyle growled in _Past and
Present_ about "Schnauspiel, the distinguished novelist," and there
were some who laughed. But the laugh has passed by.--Look! There is a
man, who looks like somebody's "own man," who scuffles across the
stage and turns up a burner or two; and he is scarcely out of the way
when--there he comes, rapidly, in full evening dress, with a heavy
watch-chain, and a nosegay in his button-hole, the world's own man.
His reception was sober. The whole audience clapped its gloved hands.
Not a heel, not a cane, mingled with the sound, not a solitary voice.
It was a very muffled cordiality, an enthusiasm in kid gloves. The
Easy Chair, for one, longed to rise and shout. Heaven has given us
voices, brethren, with which to welcome and salute our friends, and if
ever a long, long cheer should have rung from the heart, it was when
the man who has done so much for all of us stood before us. But it was
useless. The steady clapping was prolonged, and Dickers stood calmly,
bowing easily once or twice, and waiting with the air of one ready to
begin business.
The instant there was silence he did begin: "Ladies and gentlemen, I
am to have the honor of reading to you this evening the trial-scene
from Pickwick, and a Christmas Carol in a prelude and three scenes.
Scene first, Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead, to begin with." These
words, or words very similar, were spoken in a husky voice, not
remarkable in any way, and with the English cadence in articulation, a
rising inflection at the end of every few words. They were spoken with
perfect simplicity, and the introductory description was read with
good sense, and conveyed a fine relish upon the reader's part of the
things described. There was nothing formal, no effort of any kind. The
left hand held the book, the right hand moved continually, slightly
indicating the action described, as of putting on a muffler, or
whatever it might be. But the moment Scrooge spoke the drama began.
Every character was individualized by the voice and by a slight change
of expression. But the reader stood perfectly still, and the instant
transition of the voice from the dramatic to the descriptive tone was
unfailing and extraordinary. This was perfection of art. Nor was the
evenness of the variety less striking. Every character was indicated
with the same felicity. Of course the previous image in the hearer's
mind must be considered in estimating the effect. The reader does not
create the character, the writer has done that; and now he refreshes
it into unwonted vividness, as when a wet sponge is passed over an old
picture. Scrooge, and Tiny Tim, and Sam Weller and his wonderful
father, and Sergeant Buzfuz, and Justice Stareleigh have an intenser
reality and vitality than before. As the reading advances the spell
becomes more entrancing. The mind and heart answer instantly to every
tone and look of the reader. In a passionate outburst, as in Bob
Cratchit's wail for his lost little boy, or in Scrooge's prayer to be
allowed to repent, the whole scene lives and throbs before you. And
when, in the great trial of Bardell against Pickwick, the thick, fat
voice of the elder Weller wheezes from the gallery, "Put it down with
a wee, me Lerd, put it down with a wee," you turn to look for the
gallery and behold the benevolent parent.
Through all there is a striking sense of reserved power, and of
absolute mastery of the art. There is no straining for points, no
exaggeration, no extravagance, but an instinctive and adequate outlay
of means for every effect, and a complete preservation of personal
dignity throughout. The enjoyment is sincere and unique; and when the
young gentleman before us remarks to the flossy young woman at his
side that "any clever actor can do the thing as well," we congratulate
him inwardly upon his experience of the theatre. Perhaps, also, the
flossy young woman is of opinion that any clever author can write as
well as this reader.
There is a serious drawback to this first evening's enjoyment,
however, and that is that fully a third of those present hear very
imperfectly. Nothing can surpass the air of mingled indignation,
chagrin, and disappointment with which a severe lady just behind
declares that she did not hear a word, and adds, caustically, that the
spectacle alone is hardly worth the money. Not worth the money? Dear
Madam, the Easy Chair would willingly pay more than the price of
admission merely to see him. And just as he is thinking so another
friend leans forward and says, in a decided tone of utter
disappointment, "Just let me take your glass, will you? I can't hear a
word, but I should like to see how the man looks." As the Easy Chair
passes out of the door he encounters Mr. and Mrs. Sealskin, sailing
smoothly and silently out. "How delightful!" exclaims the innocent and
unwary Chair. "Didn't hear a word," says Mr. Sealskin, sententiously,
and without pausing in his course; and Madam upon his arm raises her
eyebrows and looks emphatically "not a word!" So the Easy Chair
gradually discovers that there has been a very wide and lamentable
disappointment, and that a large part of the throng has been
tantalized through the evening in the vain effort to hear--catching a
few words and losing the point of the joke. No wonder they are very
sober, and sail out of the hall very steadily, with an air of thinking
that they have been victims, but also with the plain wish to think as
well of Mr. Charles Dickens as circumstances will allow. Still, they
evidently hold him, upon the whole, responsible, just as an audience
assembled to hear a lecture, and obliged to go unlectured away, holds
the lecturer--chafing in a snow-bank upon the railroad fifty miles
away--responsible for its disappointment. It is pleasant for the
Sealskins to read, as the Easy Chair did the next morning, in the
ever-veracious and independent press, that Mr. Dickens's voice is
heard with ease in every part of the hall.
But let them feel as they may, those who did not hear are sure to go
again, and if they hear the next time, again and again. Let the future
reader of this odd number of a magazine learn further that such was
the popular eagerness to attend these readings that people gathered
before light to stand in the line of the ticket-office. One historic
boy is said to have passed the night in the cold waiting for the
opening of the office, and to have sold his prize for thirty dollars
in gold to "a Southerner." Another person was offered twenty dollars
for his place in the line, with merely a chance of getting a ticket
when his turn came at the office.
The interest was unabated to the end, and under the personal spell of
the enchanter that old ill-feeling towards the author of _American
Notes_ and the creator of Chuzzlewit melted away. And why not? Do we
not all know our Yankee brother of whom Dickens told us, who has a
huge note of interrogation in each eye, and can we blame the
Englishman for using his own eyes? Is not that silent traveller whom
he saw still to be seen in every train sucking the great ivory head of
his cane and taking it out occasionally and looking at it to see how
it is getting on? If we had been a little angry with Lemuel Gulliver
or Robinson Crusoe, could our anger have survived hearing one of them
tell his story of Liliput, or the other the tale of the solitary
island?
After his little winter tour Dickens returned to New York to take
leave of the American public. On the Saturday evening before the final
reading the newspaper fraternity gave him a dinner at Delmonico's,
which was then at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street,
formerly the hospitable house of Moses H. Grinnell. At this dinner Mr.
Greeley presided, and that the bland and eccentric teetotaler, who was
not supposed to be versed in what Carlyle called the "tea-table
proprieties," should take the chair at a dinner to so roistering a
blade--within discreet limits--and so skilled an artist of all kinds
of beverages as Dickens, was a stroke of extravaganza in his own way.
The dinner was in every way memorable and delightful, but the
enjoyment was sobered by the illness of the guest from one of the
attacks which, as was known soon afterwards, foretold the speedy end.
It was, indeed, doubtful if he could appear, but after an hour he came
limping slowly into the room on the arm of Mr. Greeley.
In his speech, with great delicacy and feeling, Dickens alluded to
some possible misunderstanding, now forever vanished, between him and
his hosts, and declared his purpose of publicly recognizing that fact
in future editions of his works. His words were greeted with great
enthusiasm, and on the following Monday evening he read, at Steinway
Hall, for the last time in this country, and sailed on Wednesday. He
was still very lame, but he read with unusual vigor, and with deep
feeling. As he ended, and slowly limped away, the applause was
prodigious, and the whole audience rose and stood waiting. Reaching
the steps of the platform he paused, and turned towards the hall;
then, after a moment, he came slowly and painfully back again, and
with a pale face and evidently profoundly moved, he gazed at the vast
audience. The hall was hushed, and in a voice firm, but full of
pathos, he spoke a few words of farewell. "I shall never recall you,"
he said, "as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of personal
friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and
consideration. God bless you, and God bless the land in which I leave
you!" The great audience waited respectfully, wistfully watching him
as he slowly withdrew. The faithful Dolby, his friend and manager,
helped him down the steps. For a moment he turned and looked at the
crowded hall. It was full of hearts responding to his own. There was a
common consciousness that it was a last parting, and his fervid
benediction was silently reciprocated.--Then the door closed behind
him.