“Although amongst his friends, and such of the outside world as had been
admitted to the private performances of the Tavistock House theatricals,
Mr. Dickens was known to possess much dramatic power, it was not until
within the last few weeks {353b} that he found scope for its exhibition
on the platform. Although the characters in his previous readings had
each a distinct and defined individuality—and in true artistic spirit the
comparatively insignificant characters have as much finish bestowed upon
their representation as the heroes and heroines, _e.g._ the fat man on
’Change who replies ‘God knows,’ to the query as to whom Scrooge had left
his money—a bit of perfect Dutch painting—one could not help feeling that
the personation was but a half-personation given under restraint; that
the reader was ‘underacting,’ as it is professionally termed, and one
longed to see him give his dramatic genius full vent. That wish has now
been realised. When Mr. Dickens called round him some half-hundred of
his friends and acquaintances on whose discrimination and knowledge of
public audiences he had reliance, and when, after requesting their frank
verdict on the experiment, he commenced the new reading, ‘Sikes and
Nancy,’ until, gradually warming with excitement, he flung aside his book
and acted the scene of the murder, shrieked the terrified pleadings of
the girl, growled the brutal savagery of the murderer, brought looks,
tones, gestures simultaneously into play to illustrate his meaning, there
was no one, not even of those who had known him best, or who believed in
him most, but was astonished at the power and the versatility of his
genius.
“Grandest of all the characters stands out Fagin, the Jew. The voice is
husky and with a slight lisp, but there is no nasal intonation; a bent
back, but no shoulder shrug; the conventional attributes are omitted, the
conventional words are never spoken; and the Jew fence, crafty and
cunning even in his bitter vengeance, is there before us, to the life.
“Next comes Nancy. Readers of the old editions of ‘Oliver Twist’ will
doubtless recollect how desperately difficult it was to fight against the
dreadful impression which Mr. George Cruikshank’s picture of Nancy left
upon the mind, and how it required all the assistance of the author’s
genius to preserve interest in the stunted, squab, round-faced trull whom
the artist had depicted. Accurately delineating every other character in
the book, and excelling all his previous and subsequent productions in
his etching of ‘Fagin in the Condemned Cell,’ Mr. Cruikshank not merely
did not convey the right idea of Nancy, which would have been bad enough,
but conveyed the wrong one, which was worse. No such ill-favoured slut
would have found a protector in Sikes, who amongst his set and in his
profession was a man of mark. We all know Nancy’s position; but just
because we know it we are certain she must have had some amount of
personal comeliness, which Mr. Cruikshank has entirely denied her. In
the reading we get none of the common side of her character, which peeps
forth occasionally in the earlier volumes. She is the heroine, doing
evil that good may come of it—breaking the trust reposed in her that the
man she loves and they amongst whom she has lived may be brought to
better lives. With the dread shadow of impending death upon her, she is
thrillingly earnest, almost prophetic. Thus, in accordance with a
favourite custom of the author, during the interview on the steps at
London Bridge, not only does the girl’s language rise from the tone of
everyday life and become imbued with dramatic imagery and fervour, but
that eminently prosaic old person, Mr. Brownlow, becomes affected in the
same manner, saying, ‘before this river wakes to life,’ and indulging in
other romantic types and metaphors. This may be scarcely life-like, but
it is very effective in the reading, enchaining the attention of the
audience and forming a fine contrast to the simple pathos of the dialogue
in the murder-scene, every word of which is in the highest degree natural
and well-placed. It is here, of course, that the excitement of the
audience is wrought to its highest pitch, and that the acme of the
actor’s art is reached. The raised hands, the bent-back head, are good;
but shut your eyes, and the illusion is more complete. Then the cries
for mercy, the ‘Bill! dear Bill! for dear God’s sake!’ uttered in tones
in which the agony of fear prevails even over the earnestness of the
prayer, the dead, dull voice as hope departs, are intensely real. When
the pleading ceases, you open your eyes in relief, in time to see the
impersonation of the murderer seizing a heavy club, and striking his
victim to the ground.
“Artistically speaking, the story of Sikes and Nancy ends at the point
here indicated. Throughout the entire scene of the murder, from the
entrance of Sikes into the house until the catastrophe, the silence was
intense—the old phrase ‘a pin might have been heard to drop,’ could have
been legitimately employed. It was a great study to watch the faces of
the people—eager, excited, intent—permitted for once in a life-time to be
natural, forgetting to be British, and cynical, and unimpassioned. The
great strength of this feeling did not last into the concluding five
minutes. The people were earnest and attentive; but the wild excitement
so seldom seen amongst us died as Nancy died, and the rest was somewhat
of an anti-climax.
“No one who appreciates great acting should miss this scene. It will be
a treat such as they have not had for a long time, such as, from all
appearances, they are not likely to have soon again. To them the
earnestness and force, the subtlety, the _nuances_, the delicate lights
and shades of the great dramatic art, will be exhibited by one of the
first—if not the first—of its living masters; while those of far less
intellectual calibre will understand the vigour of the entire
performance, and be specially amused at the facial and vocal dexterity by
which the crafty Fagin is, instantaneously changed into the
chuckle-headed Noah Claypole.”
* * * * *
Mr. Dickens, as a reader, is an artist of the very first rank; and to say
that his reading of the choicest portions of his own works is actually as
fine in its way as the works themselves in theirs, is a compliment at
once exceedingly high and richly deserved.
During his late visit to America, the great men of the land travelled
from far and near to be present at the readings; the poet Longfellow went
three nights in succession, and he afterwards declared to a friend that
they were “the most delightful evenings of his life.”