go on a spree about once a year. With the fatality peculiar to such men,
his weakness took possession of him on a night of “The Lyon’s Mail”—a
play in which the leading character must make so rapid a change that
quick and sober hands must assist him. Just as the change was impending
poor John stole into the theatre and stood in the wings with comb, brush
and other necessary articles hugged to his breast, though he was plainly
incompetent to use them. He cut a ludicrous figure, though the time was
not one for fun—not for the star. Mr. Irving grasped the situation;
almost any other actor in similar circumstances would have grasped the
valet also and shaken the life out of him. Irving merely said mildly—very
mildly:
“John, you’re tired. Go home.”
Almost any man possessing a sense of humor has one and only one way of
manifesting it, but in humor as on the stage Mr. Irving is protean. In
the course of a long chat which he and Richard Mansfield had one night
at the Garrick Club, Mansfield spoke of his noted Jekyll-and-Hyde part,
which was very long yet called for but two notes of his voice—a severe
physical strain, and he said:
[Illustration: “John, you’re tired.”]
“You know, Mr. Irving, it is longer than your great speech in Macbeth. I
have been advised by our New York physicians not to do it.”
Irving looked thoughtful for a moment or two, which is a long period of
silence for an eloquent man. Then he asked:
“My boy, why _do_ you do it?”
Members of the Dramatists’ Club (New York) still recall with delight a
story he once told them and which promised a brilliant climax that they
could distinctly foresee. The end was quite as effective as they had
imagined, yet it was entirely different and consisted of but two words.
Irving can turn even his peculiarities to account in story-telling.
Like any other man of affairs he had sudden and long periods of
absent-mindedness—which means that his mind is for the time being not
only not absent but on the contrary is entirely present and working at
the rate of an hour a minute. One day while we were driving together he
turned to me and said:
“Marshall, I have a story you can add to your repertoire—a very quaint
one.” Then he went into deep thought and we had gone fully a block before
he spoke again; then he said:
“And you know——”
Then we went another block, then farther, but suddenly he asked:
“Now wasn’t that droll?” It certainly was, no matter what it was, if
he said so, but he still owes me the story, for he had told it only to
himself.
Such details of Irving’s thoughtfulness—almost fatherly solicitude, for
other members of his profession, as have become generally known are but
a small fraction of what might be told had not the beneficiaries been
begged to hold their tongues. But here is one that was made public by
my friend, E. S. Willard, an English actor already referred to and very
popular in America. To realize its significance, one must imagine himself
an American manager with an appreciative eye for Lyceum successes. At a
dinner given at Delmonico’s by Willard to Irving, Mr. Willard said:
“When he heard of my first venture into the United States, Mr. Irving,
without telling me of it, wrote a lot of friends over here that I was
not a bad sort of chap, and they might look after me a bit. He gathered
around me the night before I left London, a lot of his friends whom he
knew I would like to meet. When I was about to leave the room he took me
aside and said:
“‘If you find when you get to the other side that your plays don’t carry,
or that the American people don’t take to them, just cable me one word.
Here is my new play at the Lyceum, a beautiful success, and you shall
have it—words, music and all, as soon as the steamer can get it to you.’”
[Illustration: “My boy, why _do_ you do it?”]
It is not generally known that before being knighted Sir Henry Irving had
twice refused a title, and accepted only after he had been convinced,
by men prominent in other professions, that his “elevation,” as the
English call it, would redound to the benefit of the profession at large.
Personally the rank could have placed him no higher socially than he
already was, for ever since he became known he has been surrounded by an
aristocracy of brains. He will not and cannot be patronized, and, through
the lasting respect which he has earned, he has done wonders for the
dignity of the actors’ calling. His title has not changed his manner in
any way. His great dinners on the stage of the Lyceum and his lunches at
the Beefsteak Club are matters of history. His social engagements are as
numerous as ever; often he does not retire until three or four o’clock
in the morning, generally to arise in time to conduct a rehearsal at
ten, so his duties require an executive genius equal in degree to his
artistic endowment.
It is strange to many people that a man of Mr. Irving’s business ability
and personal popularity should be in comparatively poor circumstances
instead of having acquired a fortune. He lives plainly, in hired
rooms, not indulging in the luxury of a house of his own, with horses,
carriages, etc. He spends money freely for books, and professionally for
anything that may enhance the effect of his art and that of his theatre.
But the few incidents cited above, are illustrations of the manner in
which thousands of pounds have leaked from his pockets and show that it
is bigness of heart that keeps Henry Irving from being a rich man.
XVIII
LONDON THEATRES AND THEATRE-GOERS
Why English and American Plays do Best at Home.—The Intelligent
Londoner Takes the Theatre Seriously.—Play-going as a Duty.—The
High-class English Theatre a Costly Luxury.—American Comedies
Too Rapid of Action to Please the English.—Bronson Howard’s
“Henrietta” Not Understood in London.—The Late Clement Scott’s
Influence and Personality.
I believe I can explain why most English plays have failed to please
American audiences, and that I have discovered the reason of the
appalling apathy with which Londoners usually receive an American play.
When I say “Londoners” I refer to the better class. The common people
flock to the comedies, farces and burlesques, of which London is full;
they laugh at whatever is placed before them and demand a lot more of
the same kind. But the educated, well-bred Englishman makes a serious
matter of theatre-going. He goes to the play with the same face that he
displays in “the city,” as the business section of London is called. He
changes his clothes, for it is bad form not to be in evening dress when
one goes to a London theatre of the better class. But he does not change
his face. Play-going is as much a duty with him, as business is, and I am
inclined to believe it is quite as much of a bore. However that may be,
it is a matter of his serious daily routine. He goes to the theatre to
think; goes as solemnly as an American on his way to church.
Indeed, the talk one overhears in the lobby and stalls of a high class
English theatre recall some church experiences to an American. The play
is analyzed; so are its parts, as if the whole thing were a matter of
conscience or morals, as occasionally it is. A “problem” play which would
drive Americans out of a theatre, unless in Boston, where they would doze
through the performance, trusting to the morning papers for points enough
to talk about, will make its way to the profoundest depths of the English
heart and head.
It must not be inferred that English gentlemen and ladies do not enjoy
good comedies. They are grateful for anything that is humorous and witty,
but they regard such performances as mere relishes or dessert; the _pièce
de rêsistance_ must be solid.
The best London audiences are drawn from the fashionable set—the “smart
set,” all members of which attend the theatre whenever their evenings are
unoccupied by social duties. There are no matinées—by name; the English
say “morning performance,” which means the same thing; and of course
“morning” means afternoon, for the fashionable set turn night into day so
successfully, that the old fashioned morning is gone before they get out
of bed.
[Illustration: “He reads what the papers say about it.”]
Only a man of good income can afford steady theatre-going on the English
plan. His seat costs him about $2.75, and his program twenty-five cents
more; to these expenses must be added cab fares both ways, for your
Londoner won’t walk more than a block after dark, if he can help it.
After he has seen and heard the performance he talks a lot about it,
and thinks it over, and next day reads what the papers say about it, and
these say as much and say it as seriously as if the playhouses were of as
much importance as the House of Parliament. Only recently have American
literary weeklies taken up the theatres, but the Englishman has seen
solemn critiques of plays in the _Athenæum_ and _Academy_ ever since he
began to read those papers.
The well-to-do American wants change, relaxation and fun when he goes to
the theatre. He is fully as intellectual as his English cousin and has
quite as keen comprehension of the best dramatic work; this is proved by
his enthusiastic support of all productions of Shakespeare. But a coldly
correct drama with a sad end does not appeal to him, no matter how good
the acting.
American plays are usually too compact and too rapid of action to succeed
on the English stage. Bronson Howard’s brilliant “Henrietta” was highly
praised by the London press and Londoners loyally try to like whatever
their newspaper tells them to. Yet “The Henrietta” did not quite suit.
The audience simply could not understand the character of “Bertie” the
millionaire’s indolent, cheery, stupid son who pretended to be a devil of
a fellow at his club, but really had no head for liquor and tobacco nor
any heart for the society of chorus girls. London society has many young
men with some one of Bertie’s peculiarities, but the combination—why, as
one Londoner said: “No chap can be so many things, don’t you know.”
Even Mr. J. L. Shine, the accomplished actor who played the part, did
not seem to understand it. Another mistake was with “The little English
Lord,” as he was called in the play—a lordling whom a rich American girl
had married. Here he was a fussy little fellow, an undersized dude—a
caricature, in fact, and made no end of fun, but on the London stage he
was the real thing, and taken seriously. The management seemed to be
afraid to travesty so sacred a personage as a noble lord. I imagine this
was a mistake, for at least a portion of the British people had been so
far emancipated as to appreciate fun poked at the “hupper classes.”
I have mentioned London’s respect for dramatic criticism. Let us admit
for a moment that London is the centre of the universe—the great wheel
that sets all the rest in motion, and that what is successful there ought
to succeed everywhere else—even if it doesn’t. Then, in logical sequence,
let us understand that the greatest critic of the metropolis can make or
break any “attraction,” and that this commanding position was held by the
late Clement Scott,—poet, _littérateur_ and playwright, for more than a
quarter of a century and have we not practically admitted that Mr. Scott
was theatrical dictator of the universe?
Even logic is sometimes at fault. I remember being taught at school
that dry bread was better than heaven, because dry bread is better than
nothing and nothing is better than heaven—see? This is not cited to imply
that what I have said of Clement Scott is wrong, but to convince the
skeptical that all men cannot be expected to reason alike.
There was no doubt of the greatness of the London _Daily Telegraph’s_
critic, for nothing was easier of comprehension. He was a master of
word-painting; the grace and truthfulness of his word-pictures were
evident to the most careless reader. There was nothing vulgar or flippant
in anything he wrote, and irrelevant witticisms, such as many would-be
critics indulge in, were entirely lacking in his work. Slow to condemn,
when he corrected a player the work was done with gracious gentleness,
although his satire, when needed, was biting and deep. In the righting of
wrongs he proved himself utterly fearless, and regardless of consequences
to himself. By this course he made many friends and more enemies. Indeed,
one of his peculiarities was his readiness to make an enemy, if by so
doing he could win a friend.
Mr. Scott was truly a friend to the friendless, a helper of the helpless
and a clever adviser to all. Both he and his wife were very active in
charitable work, but his greatest energies seemed to have been exerted in
securing employment for needy actors and aiding aspiring ones by word and
deed, for he did so much for both classes that his friends wondered how
he found time for anything else. His kindness knew no bounds of nation
or tongue, and the antagonism supposed to exist between Englishmen and
Americans found no echo in his big heart.
In appearance Mr. Scott resembled a rugged oak-tree that has grown so
vigorously in all directions that any part seems fully as strong as any
other. He was rather tall, with broad shoulders that drooped slightly,
and was quite fleshy although not obese. His ears were set far back on
his head and his face, though intellectual, was largely modeled—high
forehead, heavy eyebrows, kind and thoughtful gray eyes, a large nose and
mouth and in his later years a white moustache. His hands, though large,
were so shapely as to command attention.
In manner he was emphatic but never dogmatic, as some members of his
profession are. His prominence was greater than can be imagined in the
United States, where the people seldom know the names of the dramatic
critics whose work they most admire, yet he was as modest and unaffected
as any of his admirers. There was nothing of the _ergo ego_ about him,
nor anything pretentious. Yet there lurked behind his mild, quiet manner
an enthusiasm for work and a scholarly application to work, that were
absolutely remarkable. At the theatre he was the last man whom a stranger
would suspect of being a critic, for the bored look and the feigned
weariness that some of the dramatic reviewers affect were entirely
lacking in him. He did not even make notes on his programme. Men like
Scott do not have to affect wisdom or the resigned look that is supposed
to result from it. I know a young whipper-snapper with a nice, fast-black
bored look that cost years of effort to cultivate. He is said to wrap it
in a silk handkerchief and keep it in a bureau drawer when not in use,
but he never forgets to dust it and have it properly adjusted when he
calls on a lady or attends the theatre.
Clement Scott was not that kind of man. He had some little peculiarities,
like all men of genius but they were neither affected nor obtrusive. The
most noticeable of these was a habit of saying “yes, yes,” and “what?”
continually. Some of his gestures were a bit odd and he had an amusing
way of belittling his own work. He said to me one day,
“I make no money from my books. It is all I can do to give them away.”
[Illustration: “A nice fast-black bored look that cost years of effort to
cultivate.”]
He had the coziest possible little home at 15 Woburn Square, London,
and a wife who would reflect honor on any mansion in the land. Her
portrait hangs before me while I write—the face of an intelligent,
refined, charming English lady, and on its margin is written “Yours in
all faith, Margaret Clement Scott.” That describes her perfectly—“in all
faith” she was the best possible helper to her husband, aiding him in
his correspondence, taking proper care of his memoranda, writing at his
dictation and assisting him in many other ways.
In Mr. Scott’s study were many hundred valuable books, some of which
are very rare, and a great collection of curios. One of the walls was
hung with old prints of noted theatrical people of earlier generations;
another with fine china. The room was richly furnished and had an air
of oriental luxury which, combined with picturesque disorder, was more
than charming—it was bewilderingly bewitching. In one corner was an
interesting souvenir in a frame; his first letter of credential as
dramatic critic, and was given by the _Sunday Times_, with which he was
first connected; he went to the _Telegraph_ in 1872.
Mr. Scott was playwright as well as critic and had several plays
successfully produced—“Tears, Idle Tears,” an adaptation from Marcel;
“Peril,” taken from Sardou’s “Nos Intimes,” “Diplomacy,” written in
collaboration with B. C. Stephenson; “Sister Mary,” of which Wilson
Barrett was part author; “Jack in the Box” (with George R. Sims); “The
Cape Mail,” “Serge Panine,” adapted from Georges Ohnet for Mrs. Langtry,
“The Swordsman’s Daughter,” in which Brandon Thomas had a hand and
“Denise,” in collaboration with Sir Augustus Harris. Among his published
books are “Round About the Islands”; “Poppyland”; “Pictures of the
World”; “Among the Apple Orchards”; “Over the Hills and Far away”; “The
Land of Flowers”; “Thirty Years at the Play”; “Dramatic Table Talk”; “The
Wheel of Life”; “Lays of a Londoner”; “Lays and Lyrics”; “Theatrical
Addresses” and his famous “Patriot Songs.”
XIX
TACT
An Important Factor of Success.—Better than Diplomacy.—Some
Noted Possessors of Tact.—James G. Blaine.—King Edward
VII.—Queen Alexandra.—Henry Ward Beecher.—Mme. Patti.—Mrs.
Ronalds.—Mrs. Cleveland—Mrs. Langtry.—Colonel Ingersoll.—Mrs.
Kendall.—General Sherman.—Chauncey M. Depew.—Mrs. James Brown
Potter.—Mme. Nordica.
I have had the good fortune to meet a great many distinguished people,
and the misfortune of hearing many of these talked of afterward as
if human greatness was merely a machine, which had some peculiar
secret of motion. I don’t like to listen to analyses of my friends and
acquaintances; it is too much like vivisection; it is unkind to the
subject and hardens whoever conducts the operation.
Besides, I have a theory of my own as to greatness. It is that tact is
generally the secret. Almost all famous men and women admit that certain
other people are superior to them at their own special work. They will
attribute some of their success to luck and some to accident, but the
close observer can usually see that tact has had far more influence than
either, for success depends largely on getting along well with other
people, and nothing but tact can assure this.
Diplomacy alone cannot take the place of tact, for it comes only from
the head; tact is from the heart. The prominent people to whom I refer
did not lack great qualities of head; they would have failed without
them, but these alone would have been insufficient without the softer
sense—“The inmost one,” as Hawthorne named it; the quality to which
Oliver Wendell Holmes referred when he said—“I am getting in by the side
door.” Diplomacy, as distinguished from tact, is something with a string
to it: or playing for a place; tact is a subtle, timely touch from the
heart.
A few years ago I returned from Europe on the steamer with Mr. James G.
Blaine. Every one on board wanted to talk with him and learn of things
which taste and prudence forbade his mentioning. Yet Mr. Blaine was so
tactful throughout this ordeal, that no one suffered a rebuff and every
one became his friend. He went further by discovering the good but
shrinking people who in a great ship became isolated, and bringing them
into the general company and conversation. Yet all the while he was a
model to many other married men on board by his constant and knightly
courtesy to his own wife.
I have referred elsewhere to the tact of King Edward VII of Great
Britain, the most popular sovereign in Europe. This quality is not
restricted to public purposes; his acquaintances know that it is
untiringly exercised for the benefit of Queen Alexandra, of whose
deafness he is never unmindful. Often, when I had the honor to entertain
the royal family and their friends, it was my duty to face the King (then
Prince of Wales). Sometimes this placed me—embarrassingly too, with my
back to the greater part of the audience. But the Prince was regardless
of custom and his own royal prerogative, when his consort’s enjoyment was
endangered; on one occasion when he saw that the Princess was not hearing
me distinctly, he said softly to me, “Mr. Wilder, kindly turn your face
toward the Princess!”
And Her Royal Highness is as tactful as he. The audience at a special
entertainment given the Shah of Persia in London included the most
distinguished and wealthy people in the city. I was among those
engaged to entertain the Shah, beside whom sat the Princess (now Queen
Alexandra). As His Persian Majesty was ignorant of the English language
it was not strange that he held his programme upside down. This might
have occasioned a laugh and caused the Shah some mortification had not
the Princess deftly turned her own programme upside down and kept it so
during the performance.
[Illustration: “The Shah held His Program Upside Down.”]
One of the “nerviest” illustrations of tact is to the credit of Henry
Ward Beecher. After the war, he made a lecture tour of the South and
appeared at Mozart Hall, Richmond, with an address entitled, “The
North and The South.” He was rather doubtful as to the reception he
would have but he knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. No
applause welcomed him as he appeared on the platform, but a few hisses
were heard in the gallery. In the better rows of seats were some grim
ex-Confederates—General Fitzhugh Lee, General Rosser, ex-Governor Smith,
Governor Cameron and others. Beecher fixed his eye directly on Lee and
said—(I quote a newspaper report of the incident):
“I have seen pictures of General Fitzhugh Lee, sir, and I assume you are
the man. Am I right?”
The General, slightly taken back by this direct address, nodded stiffly,
while the audience bent forward, breathless with curiosity as to what was
going to follow.
“Then,” said Mr. Beecher, his face lighting up, “I want to offer you
this right hand, which, in its own way, fought against you and yours,
years ago, but which I would now willingly sacrifice to make the sunny
South prosperous and happy. Will you take it, General?” There was a
moment’s hesitation, a moment of deathlike stillness in the hall, and
then Fitzhugh Lee was on his feet, his hand was extended across the
footlights and was quickly met by the warm grasp of the preacher’s. At
first there was a murmur, half of surprise and half of doubtfulness
from the audience, then there was a hesitating clapping of hands, and
before Beecher had unloosed the hand of Robert E. Lee’s nephew, there
were cheers such as were never before heard in old Mozart, though it had
been the scene of many a war and political meeting. But this was only
the beginning of the enthusiasm. When the noise subsided, Mr. Beecher
continued,
“When I go back home, I shall proudly tell that I have grasped the hand
of the nephew of the great Southern Chieftain; I shall tell my people
that I went to the Confederate capital with a heart full of love for the
people whom my principles once obliged me to oppose and that I was met
half-way by the brave Southerners, who can forgive as well as they can
fight.”
Five minutes of applause followed, and then, Mr. Beecher, having gained
the hearts of his audience, began his lecture and was applauded to the
echo. That night, he entered his carriage and drove to his hotel amid
shouts such as have never greeted a Northern man in Richmond since the
war.