might like to smoke, Jamie sent for Parsons’s poems and read
them some of the finest. Of course the talk was wittier and
quicker as the time came to separate, but I cannot report
upon it. The impression the two actors left upon me, however,
was rather that of men who enjoyed coming up to the surface
to breathe a natural air seldom vouchsafed to them than of
men sparring with their wits—they are affectionate, gentle,
subdued gentlemen and a noble contrast to the self-opinionated
ignorance which we often meet in society. Dr. Holmes was,
however, the wit of the occasion, as he always is, and
everybody richly enjoyed his sallies. They stayed until the
last moment—indeed I do not see how they got to their two
theatres in time to dress. It must have been, as they say of
eggs, a “hard scrabble.” _We_ went afterward—we four—to see a
new actor, Raymond, play “Colleen Bawn” at the Globe—pretty
play, though very touching and melodramatic, by Boucicault.
I must confess to dislike such plays where your feelings are
wrought to the highest pitch for nothing.
[Illustration: JEFFERSON IN THE BETROTHAL SCENE OF “RIP VAN WINKLE”]
The name of Fechter is familiar to the middle-aged through the memory
of fathers, to the young through that of grandfathers. Readers of these
pages will recall that Dickens, soon after reaching America in 1867,
spoke of him in terms which caused Mrs. Fields to look forward with
confidence to a new friendship. His coming to America was specifically
heralded by an article, “On Mr. Fechter’s Acting,” contributed by Dickens
to the “Atlantic” for August, 1869. When Fechter was in Boston, warmly
received as Dickens’s friend, he often appears in the journals of Mrs.
Fields, in conjunction with others.
_Friday, February 25, 1870._—Mr. Fechter came to lunch with Mr.
Longfellow, Mr. Appleton, Mr. and Mrs. Dorr. He talked freely
about his Hamlet, so different from all other impersonations.
His audience here he finds wonderfully good, better than any
other; fine points which have never been applauded before
bring out a round of applause. On the whole he appears to
enjoy new hearers—does not understand the constant comparison
between himself and Booth. They are already great friends.
Booth was in the house the last night of his performance there;
afterward he did not come to speak to him, and Fechter felt it;
but a letter came yesterday saying he was so observed that he
slipped away as soon as possible, and could not come on Sunday
because visitors prevented him. Better late than never; it was
pleasant to Fechter to hear from Booth—with one exception:
he enclosed a notice from some newspaper, cutting up himself
horribly and praising Fechter. “Ah! that won’t do; I shall send
it back to him and tell him why. We are totally unlike in our
Hamlets, and neither should be praised at the other’s expense.”
Mr. Fechter described minutely Mr. Dickens’s attack of
paralysis last year, and, the year before, his prompt
appearance in the box of the theatre at the last performance of
“No Thoroughfare,” which he said he should do; but as Fechter
had not heard of his return from America, it was a great shock.
“If it had been ‘Hamlet,’ or any difficult play, I could not
have gone on! He should not have done such a thing.” He told us
a strange touching story of M’lle Mars, during her last years.
She came upon the stage one night to give one of the youthful
parts in which she had once been so famous. When she appeared,
some heartless wretch threw her a wreath of immortelles, as if
for her grave. She was so shocked that the drops stood on her
brow, the rouge fell from her cheeks, and she stood motionless
before the audience, a picture of age and misery. She could not
continue her part.
[Illustration: A NAST CARTOON OF DICKENS AND FECHTER]
He spoke with intense enthusiasm of Frédérick Lemaître, much
as I have heard Mr. Dickens do. “The second-class actors were
always arguing with him (only second-class people argue) and
saying, ‘Why do you wish me to stand here, Frédérick?’ ‘I don’t
know,’ he would say, ‘only do it.’”
Mr. Appleton was deeply interested in the fact that Shakespeare
proved himself such a believer in ghosts, as “Hamlet” shows,
and would like to push the subject farther, Mr. Fechter
evidently finding much to say on this topic also. Mr.
Longfellow was interested to ask about the Dumas, _père et
fils_. Mr. Fechter has known them well and has many queer
stories to tell of their relation to each other. _Le fils_
calls _mon père_, “my youngest child born many years ago,” and
the father usually introduces the son as M. Dumas, _mon père_.
The motto on Fechter’s note paper is very curious and a type
of the man—“_Faiblesse vaut vice_.” Mr. Longfellow spoke again
of Mr. Dickens’s restlessness, of his terrible sadness. “Yes,
yes,” said Fechter, “all his fame goes for nothing.” ...
Jamie is so weak that he went to sleep almost as soon as they
were gone. God knows what it all means; I do not.
It is odd that Fechter’s eyes should be brown after all. They
look so light in the play. He is a round little man, naturally
friendly, spontaneous. We do not know what his life has been,
and we will not ask; that does not rest with us; but he is a
very fine artist. His imitation of Mr. Dickens, as he sat on
the lawn watching him at work, or as he joined him coming from
his desk at lunchtime with tears on his cheek and a smile on
his mouth, was very close to the life and delightful.
Mr. Longfellow did not talk much, not as much as the last time
he was here, but he was lovely and kind.[29] He brought a
coin of the French Republic which had been touched by French
wit, _Liberté_ x (point), _Egalité_ x (point), _Fraternité_ x
(point). And more to the same effect, without altering the coin.
Appleton has just bought a new Troyon, which he says he shall
lend me for a week.
At the end of the following August there is a record of a talk with
Fechter on the boat from Boston to Nahant, where he and the Fieldses
dined with Longfellow. Dickens had died in the June just past, and
Fechter had much to say of him and his family life. “Day by day,” wrote
Mrs. Fields, “I am grateful to think of him at rest.” The little party at
Nahant is described.
We found dear Longfellow looking through a glass to espy our
approach, and all his dear little girls and Ernest and his wife
and Appleton, who whisked me away from the dinner-table to his
studio where he had some really good sketches. The conversation
at table was half French, Longfellow and Appleton both finding
it agreeable to recall the foreign scenes by the foreign
tongue. But except a queer imitation of John Forster, by
Fechter, I do not remember any quotable talk. F. said Forster
always looked at everybody as if regarding their qualifications
for a lunatic asylum (he is commissioner of lunacy), saying to
himself, “Well, I’ll let you off _today_, but tomorrow you must
certainly go and be shut up.” He describes Forster’s present
state of health as something very precarious and wretched.
_November 14, 1870._—Monday night went to see Fechter in
“Claude Melnotte.” Longfellow and his daughter Edith sat in
the box adjoining ours. It was the stage box where they were
sheltered from observation; ours was the box next it, to be
sure, but accessible to all eyes. During the curtain Longfellow
came into our box; Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Andrew were with me,
both plain ladies dressed in mourning. His advent caused a
little rustle of curiosity to ripple over the house. Longfellow
was never looking finer than he is today. His white hair and
deep blue eyes and kind face make his presence a benediction
wherever he goes—of such men one cannot help feeling what
Dr. Putnam so well expressed last Sunday in speaking of the
presence of our Lord at a feast. “He rewarded the hospitality
of his friends by his presence.”
Longfellow brought an illegible scrawl in his hand which
Parsons had written from London to Lunt. He told me also of
having lately received a photograph from Virginia of a young
woman, and written under it were the words, “What fault can be
found with this?” He said he thought of replying, “The fault of
too great youth.” It certainly could not be agreeable to him
to sit in the eye of the audience as he did; but he was very
talkative and pleasant, expressed his disappointment at not
having us at his Nilsson dinner, but his family were too many
for him; said how he liked her for her frankness; told me of
the old impressario Garrett, the Jew, coming without invitation
and certainly without being wanted (as it sent “his children
upstairs to dine”); and then, as the play was about to begin,
he withdrew. He was much amused and disgusted by the platitudes
of the play. Returned to his own box, Jamie said he laughed
immoderately over the absurdities of it as it continued. He
tooted as the instruments tooted and spouted as the second-rate
actors spouted, all of which was highly amusing to Edith, who
was weeping over the unhappy lovers, utterly absorbed in the
play. Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Andrew, too, were full of tears, and
I found it no use attempting to say anything more during the
evening.
Fechter was indeed marvellous. He raised the play into
something human, something exquisite whenever he was upon the
stage. His terrible earnestness sweeps the audience utterly
away. But he is not the player for the million.
_Sunday evening, December 11, 1870._—Went to Mr. Bartol’s and
met Mr. Collyer. He was pleased to hear what Fechter said of
him Saturday night (by the by we met Fechter at Mrs. Dorr’s
dinner on Saturday), that he singled him out, found him a
capital audience, and played to him. It was a fine house on
Saturday and Fechter played “Don Cæsar.” It was never played
better. Curtis was there, and fine company. Fechter was
graceful and saucy too in talk at dinner—just right for the
occasion.
_Monday, December 19._—I have just returned from seeing Fechter
in “Ruy Blas.” The public has just received the news that he
is to leave the Globe Theatre and Boston in four weeks. The
result was an enormous house, and the most fashionable house I
have seen this season. He played with great fire and ease, but
he has a wretched cold and his pronunciation was so thick and
French (as it is apt to be when he is excited) that I could
often hardly catch a word. But his audience was determined to
be pleased and they caught and applauded all his good points.
I saw but one dissenting spirit, that was a spoiled queen of
fashion just returned from Europe, who saw nobody and nothing
but herself....
_Saturday, January 7, 1871_.—Dined at Mr. Longfellow’s with
Mr. Fechter. The poet welcomed us with a cordiality peculiar
to himself and his children, with a simple glad-to-see written
over their faces which is worth a world of talk. We had a
merry table-talk although Fechter was laboring under the
unnatural excitement of his position in having lost his season
at the Globe, broken with the proprietor Cheney who was his
friend, and finding himself without an engagement for the time.
Also, so mischance held the day, Miss Leclercq, his only fit
support, injured herself in the afternoon and their superb
audience went away disappointed. However, the dinner went off
beautifully, as it always must with Longfellow at the helm.
There was some talk of poetry and the drama and J. amused
them too with anecdotes. Then we adjourned to the room of
Charles the East-India man, where we saw many curiosities and
had a very pleasant hour before leaving. Passing through the
dressing-room of our dear Longfellow, I was struck with seeing
how like the house of a German student it was—a Goethean aspect
of simplicity and largeness everywhere—books too are put on all
the walls. It is surely a most attractive house.
_January 13, 1871._—Today Jamie lunched with Appleton. We
passed the evening at Mrs. Quincy’s. It is the great benefit to
Fechter, but in consequence of the tickets being sold unjustly
at auction, we shall not go. Unhappily there are rumors about
town that Fechter is to be insulted in the theatre. I wish I
could get word to him. I shall wait until J. gets home and then
ask him to drive up to put F. on his guard.
_January 23._—It proved an unnecessary alarm! The evening went
off well enough but unenthusiastically, and at last Fechter
gave all the money to the poor!
When Mrs. Fields first met that representative of the once alluring art
of “elocution,” James E. Murdoch, he was already a veteran who had twice,
at an interval of nearly twenty years, retired from the stage. Two notes
about him recall his robust personality.
_January 13, 1867._—I never met James E. Murdoch, the actor,
to hear any talk until Sunday night. The knowledge of his
patriotism, of his son who died in the war, and of the weary
miles the father had travelled to comfort the soldiers by
reading to them, and afterwards the large sums of money he
had given to the country’s cause gathered up laboriously
night by night by public “readings”—all this I had known. Of
course no introduction could have been better, yet I liked
the man even more than I had fancied was possible. He was so
modest and talked in such a free generous way, purely for the
entertainment of others, I fancied, because we saw he had a
severe cold on his chest. The way too in which he recited
“Sheridan’s Ride” and anything else for the children which he
thought they would like was quite beautiful to see in a man
of his years, who must have had quite enough of that kind of
thing to do. His hobby is elocution. He is about to establish
a school or college or something of that description, whatever
its honorable title will be, at the West[30] (the money having
been granted in part by legislature, the other half to be
made by his own public efforts) for the purpose of educating
speakers and teaching men and women how to read. He has known
Grant and Sheridan well, lived in camp with them at the same
mess-table, and has the highest opinion of the patriotism and
probity of both of them. There is no mistake about one thing.
Mr. Murdoch made himself a power during the war, and now that
is over does not cease to work, nor does he allow himself to
presume upon the laurels he has won nor to brag of his own work.
_Saturday morning, November 13, 1875._—After a western
journey, left for home. Sunday met James E. Murdoch in the
cars at Springfield. It was about six o’clock A.M., but he was
bound for Newton. He came in therefore with us, and talked
delightfully until we parted. He is an old man but as full of
nerve, vigor, and ripened intellect as anyone whom I have seen.
His talk of the stage, of his disgust for Macready’s book, his
disgust at the manner in which Forrest treated his wife, his
account of his own experiences, when he was glad to play for
$35 a week, were deeply interesting. The better side of Forrest
he understood and appreciated thoroughly.
[Illustration: JAMES E. MURDOCH AND WILLIAM WARREN]
The hospitalities of Charles Street were by no means confined to the men
of the theatrical and kindred professions. In later years Miss Ellen
Terry, Lady Gregory, and those other ladies associated with the stage who
so surely found their way to Mrs. Fields’s door when they visited Boston,
were but carrying on the traditions of the earlier decades. As the
visitors came and went, the diary in the sixties and seventies recorded
their exits and their entrances. A few passages are typical of many.
A portion of the notes relating to Charlotte Cushman will be the better
understood for a preliminary remark upon a Boston event of huge local
moment in the autumn of 1863. This was the dedication of the Great Organ,
that wonder of the age, in Music Hall. The first public performance
on the organ, at the ceremonies on the evening of November 2, were
preceded by Charlotte Cushman’s reading of a dedicatory ode, contributed,
according to the “Advertiser” of the next day, by an “anonymous lady of
this city.” The secret of Mrs. Fields’s authorship of this poem, which
the “Advertiser” found somewhat too long in spite of its merits, must
have been shared by some of her friends, though it was temporarily kept
from the public.
_Sunday, September 20, 1863._—In the evening Charlotte Cushman
and her niece, Dr. Dewey and Miss McGregor, Miss Mears and Mr.
W. R. Emerson, passed a few hours with us. Charlotte, always
of athletic but prejudiced mind, talked busily of people and
events. She is a Seward-ite in politics and called Dr. Howe
and Judge Conway “ass-sy” because they said Charles Sumner
had prevented thus far a war with England. She has made money
during the war, but believes apparently not at all in the
patriotism of the people. She is to give one performance for
“the Sanitary” in each of the four northern seacoast cities,
also for fun and fame. She can’t endure to give up the stage.
She is a woman of effects. She lives for effect, and yet doing
always good things and possessed of most admirable qualities.
She has warm friends. Mrs. Carlyle is extremely fond of her,
gives her presents and says flattering things to her. “Cleverer
than her husband,” says Miss Cushman. I put this quietly into
my German pipe and puff peacefully.
_Saturday Evening, September 26, 1863._—Charlotte Cushman
played Lady Macbeth for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission
to a large audience. Her reading of the letter when she first
appears is one of her finest points. She moves her feet
execrably and succeeds in developing all the devilish nature
in the part, but discovers no beauty. Yet it is delightful
to hear the wondrous poetry of the play intelligently and
clearly rendered. It would be impossible to say this of the
man who played Macbeth, who talked of “encarnardine,” and
“heat-oppre_st_ brain,” for “oppressèd,” besides innumerable
other faults and failures, which he mouthed too much for me
to discover. Charlotte in the sleeping scene was fine—that
deep-drawn breath of sleep is thrilling....
There has been an ode written to be spoken at the organ
opening. No one is to know who wrote it. Miss Cushman will
speak it if they are speedy enough in their finishing. This
is of interest to many. I trust they will be ready for Miss
Cushman.
[Illustration: FROM A CRAYON PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN]
_Monday, November 2, 1863._—Miss Dodge and Una Hawthorne
came to dine. At 7 o’clock we all started for the Music Hall.
Miss Cushman read my ode in a most perfect manner. She was
very nervous about it and skipped something, but what she did
read was perfect. Her dress and manner too were dignified and
beautiful. It was a night never to be forgotten. Afterward we
had a little supper. Dr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Ogden of New
York, Dr. Upham[31] and Judge Putnam and Mrs. Howe were added
to our other guests. Charlotte Cushman left early the next day
and Gail Hamilton and I sat down and took a long delicious
draught of talk.
_April 27, 1871._—Charlotte Cushman came to see us yesterday.
Her full brain was brimming over, and her rich sympathetic
voice is ringing now in my ears. She does not overestimate
herself, that woman, which is part of her greatness, for the
word _does_ apply to her in a certain way because she grows
nearer to it every day. J. de Maistre refused the epithet
“grand” to Napoleon because he lacked more stature—but this
hand-to-hand fight with death over herself (loving life clearly
as she does) has strengthened her hold upon her affection for
life, insensibly. She grows daily wiser and nobler.
_November 13, 1871._—We all went together to Charlotte
Cushman’s début in Queen Katherine at the Globe Theatre. A
house filled with her friends and a noble piece of acting. She
spoke to every woman’s heart there; by this I felt the high art
and the noble sympathetic nature far above art which was in
the woman and radiates from her. Much of the play beside was
poor, but Mrs. Hunt was very amusing and we laughed and laughed
at her sallies until I was quite ashamed. J. went behind the
scenes and talked with C. C. She was in first-rate condition.
For other contacts with the stage, three brief passages may speak:—
_November 8, 1866._—Went to see Ristori’s “Pia dei Tolomei” in
the evening. It was pure and beautiful. Being R.’s benefit,
she made a short speech, and exquisitely simple as it was, her
fine voice and the slight difficulty of enunciating the English
words made her speech one of the most touching features of the
time.
_Saturday._—Morning at home. Went to see Ristori for the last
time, as Elizabeth, perhaps her finest characterization.
Longfellow and Whittier had both promised to go with us, but
the courage of both failed at the last moment. The house was
crowded. Mr. Grau asked Mr. Fields to go and speak with the
great actress, but he excused himself.
Whittier had never been inside of a theatre and could not quite
feel like breaking the bonds now—besides he said it would cost
him many nights of sleep. Longfellow does not face high tragedy
before a crowd.
[Illustration: RISTORI AND FANNY KEMBLE
_The photograph of Mrs. Kemble was taken in Philadelphia in 1863_]
_January 16, 1868._—Fanny Kemble read “The Merchant of Venice”
in Boston last night—the old way of losing her breath when she
appeared, as if totally overcome by the audience. We could
not doubt that she felt her return deeply and sincerely,
but—however, the feeling was undoubtedly real if short-lived,
and we will give her credit for it. Her voice is sadly faded
since the brilliant readings of ten years ago; she has had much
sorrow since then and shows the marks of it. It is interesting
to compare her work with Mr. Dickens’s; he is so much the
greater artist! You can never mistake one of his characters for
another, nor lose a syllable of his perfectly enunciated words.
She speaks much more slowly usually, and there is a grand
intonation as the verses sway from her lips, but one cannot
be sure always if Jessica or Nerissa be speaking, Antonio or
Bassanio. Her face is marvellous in tender passages, a serenity
falls upon it born of immortal youth. It is beautiful enough
for tears. She enjoys the wit too herself thoroughly, and
brought out Launcelot Gobbo with great unction. An enormous and
enthusiastic audience gave her hearty welcome. Longfellow could
not come. His wife in the old days enjoyed this play too well
when they used to go together for him to trust himself to hear
it again.
_Monday, May 18, 1868._—Raining like all possessed again
today. I was to have done my gardening today but there is
no chance yet. Walked over to Roxbury with J. yesterday and
found everything gay with the coming loveliness. It has
scarcely come, however. Jamie was much entertained by tales
Mrs. Kemble’s agent told him of that lady: how she watched an
Irish scrubbing woman dawdle over her work, who was paid by
the hour, and finally called her to her (she was sitting at
her own reading-desk in the hall), and said in her stately
fashion, “I fear, madam, if you exert yourself so much over
your work you will make yourself ill. Your health is seriously
endangered by your severe efforts.” The woman, not seeing
the sarcasm, replied in the strongest possible brogue to the
effect that nothing short of the direst necessity would compel
such dreadful labor. Whereat Mrs. Kemble, with a look not to
be reproduced, and a wink to Mr. Pugh, withdrew. She read
“Midsummer Night’s Dream” on Saturday P.M. We went, but found
the place entirely without air and left after the first part.
She did not begin with much spirit, but her voice was exquisite
and her fun also, and her dress was an æsthetic pleasure, as a
lady’s dress should always be, but alas! so seldom is, in this
country.
_Wednesday, November 9, 1870._—We have had a reception today
for Miss Nilsson. Longfellow and Henry Ward Beecher were
here, beside Perabo and many excellent or talented people,
nearly sixty in all. It was a curious fact to give out seventy
invitations and have sixty (or nearly that) present.