GOING behind the scenes, after the play, I found a representative
of the “Herald” already ensconced in Mr. Irving’s dressing-room. He
was pressing the actor for his views of the audience, and for some
contrasts of his sensations under the influence of this audience
and others before whom he had played in England. At first Irving
seemed inclined to say no more than to express satisfaction at his
success. But the “Herald” representative was a quiet, cultivated, and
experienced journalist. Evidently a gentleman of education, a travelled
man, and discreet, he led the actor into the conversational direction
he desired him to go, and the result was a pleasant and instructive
interview:—
“When I first stepped into view of the audience, and saw and heard
the great reception it gave me, I was filled with emotion. I felt that
it was a great epoch in my life. The moment I faced the people I felt
that we were friends. I knew that they wished to like me, and would go
away, if I disappointed them, saying, ‘Well, we wanted to like him;
but we couldn’t.’ Who could stand before such an audience, on such an
occasion, and not be deeply moved? All I can say is, that it was a
glorious reception, and typical of your great people.”
“But as to the merits of the audience,—theatre-goers will judge your
acting,—what is your opinion of them?”
“The audience was a fine one. Apart from the marks of intelligence,
which could be read with the naked eye, it was a fine assembly. I never
played before a more responsive or sympathetic audience. It did not
miss a point. I could tell all through the play that every motion I
made was being closely watched; that every look, gesture, and tone was
carefully observed. It is stimulating to an actor to feel that he has
won his audience.”
“You felt confident that you had made an impression upon the audience,
and that there was no flattery in the applause?”
“After the first burst of welcome was over, yes. I had not been on the
stage five minutes before I knew that I had control of my hearers, and
that I could make every point in the play tell. Then the silence of the
people—the greatest compliment that could be paid to one in such a
play—was always succeeded by genuine applause at the end of the act!”
“Did you get such a reception when you appeared as Mathias first before
a London audience?”
“Oh, no. Don’t you see, I was comparatively little known then.”
“Mr. Irving, an English newspaper, a few days ago, expressed a hope
that you would be judged by your merits, independent of anything that
had previously been said or written about you, and that Americans in
this case would not slavishly echo English opinion.[10] Was there any
trace of independence in the manner of the audience?”
“Yes, yes,—there was, certainly,” said the actor, rising and pacing
the room. “It is not presumption in me to say that I am sure I was
judged solely on my merits, and that the audience went away pleased
with me. There were times to-night when I could feel the sympathy of my
hearers,—actually feel it.”
“The audience was quiet in the first act. The interest is worked up to
the climax so smoothly and gradually that there was no opportunity for
applause until the end?”
“There, now, you have found one of the differences between the judgment
of my audience to-night and those I have played to in London. In the
first part of the play the English audiences laughed a great deal;
quite boisterously, in fact, at some of the comedy scenes. But the
absence of this to-night, I think, was due to the fact that the people
were straining to get the exact run of the play, and were laboring
under anxiety—it is not presumption if I say so—to see me.
“Was there any other feature of this kind that you noticed?”
“Yes; when Christian yields to my demand for a promise that he will
never leave the village while I am alive, I say, ‘It was necessary!’
This point has generally provoked laughter in England. To-night it
evoked earnest applause. On the other hand, for the first time I heard
the audience laugh at ‘Now the dowry to be given to our dear son-in-law
in order that our dear son-in-law may love us.’”
“Are you willing to be judged as an actor by tonight’s performance, Mr.
Irving?”
“For that character, yes.”
“Is Mathias not your greatest rôle?”
“My best? Well, now, that’s hard to say. There is no ground for
comparison,—Charles the First is so different; he is full of qualities
that are foreign to Mathias. I cannot name a character in which I feel
I am best. They afford opportunities for the display of different
powers. I am fond of the part of Mathias, it is true.”
“Did your company play up to the standard of their work in the Lyceum?”
“Well, you have not seen them all; you have not seen Miss Terry or Mr.
Howe.”
“But did those of the company who were in the cast to-night do as well
as usual?”
“They were rather slower, but quite good. Of course every one was
excited, more or less. There is only one strong part in the play, and
that is mine. Mr. Terriss was excellent. Don’t you think he is a fine
fellow?”
Suiting the action to the word, Irving unconsciously dropped into a
military attitude, stretched his hand out and threw back his head,—a
perfect fac-simile of Mr. Terriss’ impersonation of Christian.
“Is the scenery the same that was used in the Lyceum?”
“Exactly the same. You prompt me to mention a particular point, now.
Did you notice how little the scenery had to do with the play? I have
it so on purpose. Why, there is practically no scenery. I try to get as
near truth as possible, as Caleb Plummer says. I have sometimes heard
that I rely on scenery. So far I do: if it were the hovel of King Lear
I would have a hovel, and if it were the palace of Cleopatra I would
make it as gorgeous as the possibilities of art would allow.”
“Do you look upon your reception to-night as a success?”
“In every way. One of your greatest actors told me that American
audiences are proverbially cold on first nights. He was trying to save
me from a possible disappointment. In addition to this, ‘The Bells’ is
not a play for applause, but for earnest, sympathetic silence. Need I
say that the demonstrations, which burst forth on every occasion that
good taste would allow, are the best evidences that to-night I have won
an artistic triumph?”