THE night before Irving’s first appearance at the Star Theatre was
spent at a quiet little supper, given to a few private friends, at the
Manhattan Club. The conversation turned chiefly upon English actors.
“I was once at a dinner of a theatrical fund, over which a famous old
actor presided,” said Irving. “His proposal of the first toast of the
evening was a pathetic incident. His mind was wandering back to his
early days. After alluding to the loyalty of all classes of Englishmen,
and of actors in particular, he raised his glass and said, ‘Gentlemen,
I beg to give you the health of His Majesty King George the Third!’”
Somebody suggested that the ocean trip had done Irving a great deal of
good.
“It was the most perfect rest I ever remember to have had,” he said;
“nothing to do, nothing to think of, no letters to answer—none to
receive, for that matter; nothing to do but to rest. I took plenty of
exercise, also, on deck. I must have walked many miles a day.”
Later in the evening, over a last cigar, he said to me, “But I did a
little writing on board the ‘Britannic.’ I think it will amuse you.
Watson asked me to send him something for the Christmas number of his
newspaper,—an anecdote, or sketch of some kind. Shortly before I left
Liverpool there appeared in the journals a paragraph to the effect that
I had been bitten by a dog at some aristocratic house. It occurred to
me on the ‘Britannic’ that this would make a good little story. You
were telling me last night about my estate and palace on the Thames;
and yet, I don’t suppose any man leads a quieter life than I do. I call
my story ‘Bitten by a Dog.’”
He read as follows, and, like all good humorists, was tickled with
his own fun, laughing now and then with real enjoyment at the
suggestiveness of his satirical references to newspaper gossips, who,
not knowing him personally, or being in any way acquainted with his
habits, undertake to describe his inner life:—
“We regret to hear that Mr. Henry Irving, while on a visit near——,
was severely bitten by a favorite dog, belonging to his host. He bled
profusely, but we sincerely hope that he will not seriously suffer
from this occurrence.—_Newspaper Paragraph._
“The circumstance thus recorded was somewhat novel to me, and having
received several telegrams and letters of condolence upon my sad
misfortune, I thought I would attempt, during my leisure upon the good
ship ‘Britannic,’ to tell this little story of ‘The Bite of a Dog,’
with a veracity equalling that of the inventor of the above-quoted
paragraph.
“Seated in one of the suite of rooms which I invariably occupy in
the hotels of the United Kingdom during my provincial tours,—which
have become alike the wonder and amazement of the entire dramatic
profession,—I was gazing into one of the many mirrors before which it
is my regular habit to study grace of pose and poetry of expression.
I was surrounded by the secretaries without whom I never travel; some
telegraphing to the four corners of the globe the astounding success
and enormous profit which accompany all my undertakings; others
translating some of those essays on dramatic art which have done so
much to regenerate the British drama; others copying in manifold
certain not uncomplimentary criticisms of my own composition upon the
most subtle and sublime of my impersonations; for, with Garrick, I
agree that the actor should ever embrace the opportunity of becoming
the critic of his own performances.
“In the midst of this multitudinous work a messenger was announced from
the Duke of Stratford-upon-Avon. With a thrill of pleasure I sprang
to my feet, and, greeting the messenger with a fascinating smile,
begged him to be seated. Then throwing myself with a careless ease upon
the velvet-pile sofa which adorned my room (a present from one of my
admirers, and which I always carry with me, as I do my many mirrors), I
crossed my graceful right over my still more graceful left leg, broke
the duke’s seal, and perused his letter.
“It was an invitation to sojourn from Saturday to Monday at the duke’s
feudal home, some fifteen miles from the town I was then appearing in.
Throughout my life it has been my practice to solicit the favor and
patronage of the great; for it is my firm belief that, to elevate
one’s art, one should mix as much as possible with the nobility and
gentry.
“‘To grovel to the great is no disgrace,
For nothing humble can be out of place.’
“This social opportunity was not to be lost; hesitation there was none;
the invitation was accepted.
“On the night of my visit to His Grace, the theatre was crammed from
floor to ceiling with an audience attracted by that cold curiosity
which characterizes the public with regard to my performances. The play
was ‘Louis XI.,’ and the difficult feat which I had to accomplish was
to catch a train after the performance, in order to present myself at
the mansion of my noble host in time to participate in the ducal supper.
“Throughout the play I labored with all heart and earnestness to cut
short the performance by every means in my power. I was determined to
sleep under the roof of the Stratford-upon-Avons that night, come what
come would.
“The curtain fell only five minutes before the time of the train
starting; so, throwing on my overcoat of sable furs (a handsome adjunct
to my American expedition), and, still attired as King Louis,—for I
had no time to change my costume,—I rushed into the brougham, ready at
the stage-door, and, followed by my _valet_, drove frantically to the
station.
“I was thrust immediately through the open door of the nearest
compartment—the door was locked—the whistle shrieked—away sped the
train—and, panting and breathless, I was left to my meditations.
“‘Ah, horror! most dreadful thought; too dreadful to relate! I have
left the theatre without my teeth,—my beautiful teeth!’
“In order to heighten the realism of the impersonation when I first
acted Louis, I had several teeth extracted by one of our most eminent
dentists, who has offered, as an advertisement, to take out any others
in the like liberal manner.[6] In my insane hurry to catch the train I
had left my teeth in a glass on my dressing-room table.
“But regrets are useless; the train has stopped, and I enter the duke’s
chariot, in waiting at the station, and through the broad woodlands
soon reach the duke’s home.
“I alight from the ancestral coach and enter the ancestral hall, in
which a cheerful fire is blazing upon the ancestral hearth.
“Suddenly I find myself in the presence of my host, surrounded by many
scions of the nobility of ‘England, Home, and Beauty.’ The oddness of
my position (dressed as I was, and minus my teeth), and the natural
inferiority which I always feel when in the presence of the real
aristocrat, robbed me for the moment of my self-possession, and I
unconsciously permitted two of the gentlemen in powder to divest me of
my overcoat, and there I stood revealed as that wicked monarch Louis XI.
“Now, this character I have long had an idea of abandoning, for in art
the eye must be pleased; and though it is commendable to follow nature
and truth, yet, if this can only be accomplished at the cost of one’s
personal appearance, nature and truth should certainly give way. But to
resume.
“Surprise at my aspect was in every face. There was a painful pause,
and then a burst of laughter.
“‘What is it?’ whispered one.
“‘Who is it?’ whispered another.
“‘Irving,’ said a third.
“‘Who’s Irving?’ asked a fourth.
“‘What! don’t you know?—the actor—Irving, the actor—I’ve seen him at
the Gaiety!’
“I was profoundly relieved by the duke coming to my rescue and
graciously suggesting that I might, before supper, wish to see my room.
I thanked His Grace with the dignity with which nature has endowed
me, and strode like Marshal Stalk across the marble vestibule, when
a fierce sanguinary Blenheim spaniel flew from the lap of a dowager
duchess, and, with a terrific howl, buried its fangs in the calf of my
beautiful left leg.
“Consternation and pallor were in every countenance; the dowager ran
to seize her pet; but, to the dismay of all, the dog’s hold would not
relax. They pulled and pulled again, and ‘Fido’ howled at every pull.
His teeth, unlike mine, would not be extracted.
“There was a pause of painful silence. Mingled fear and compassion sat
on every brow. The dowager was on the point of swooning in the arms
of the duke, when the dignity and distinction which sometimes support
me in emergencies came to my aid. Turning to the gentle assembly,
with a seraphic smile upon my noble features, I said, as well as my
articulation would permit me:—
“‘Be not alarmed, fair ladies; be not alarmed! The dog has not torn my
leg, he has only torn my paddings!’”