I Digress, but I Return to the Columbus Engagement of Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Kean--Their Peculiarities and Their Work.
Before one has "arrived," it is astonishing how precious the simplest
word of encouragement or of praise becomes, if given by one who has
"arrived." Not long ago a lady came up to me and said: "I am Mrs. D----,
which is, of course, Greek to you; but I want to thank you now for your
great goodness to me years ago. I was in the ballet in a Chicago theatre.
You were playing 'Camille.' One day the actress who played _Olympe_ was
sick, and as I was, you said, the tallest and the handsomest of the
girls, you gave the part to me. I was wild with delight until the
nervousness got hold of me. I was not strong--my stomach failed me; the
girls thought that very funny, and guyed me unmercifully. I was surely
breaking down. You came along, ready to go on, and heard them. I could
scarcely stand. You said: 'What's the matter--are you nervous?' I tried
to speak, but only nodded. You took my hand and, stroking it, gently
said, 'Isn't it awful?' then, glancing at my tormentors, added, 'but it's
nothing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face the footlights all
your courage will come back to you, and, my dear, comfort yourself with
the knowledge that the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner
rarely attains a very high position on the stage.' Oh, if you only knew
how my heart jumped at your words. My fingers grew warmer, my nerves
steadier, and I really did succeed in getting the lines over my lips some
way. But you saved me, you made an actress of me. Ah, don't laugh! don't
shake your head, please! Had I failed that night, don't you see, I should
never have had a chance given me again; while, having got through safely,
it was not long before I was pointed out as the girl who had played
_Olympe_ with Miss Morris, and on the strength of that I was trusted with
another part, and so crept on gradually; and now I want to thank you for
the sympathy and kindness you showed me so long ago"--and though her warm
gratitude touched me deeply, I had then--have now--no recollection
whatever of the incident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before
her very handsome face. And so, no doubt, many of whom I write, who from
their abundance cast _me_ a word of praise or of advice now and again,
will have no memory of the _largesse_ which I have cherished all these
years.
Among my most treasured memories I find the gentle words and astonishing
prophecy of Mr. Charles Kean. That was the last visit to this country of
Mr. and Mrs. Kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. He had with
him two English actors, each of whom knew every line of all his parts,
and their duty was, when on the stage or off, so long as Mr. Kean was
before the house, to keep their eyes on him, and at the first sign of
hesitancy on his part one of them gave him the needed word. Once or
twice, when he seemed quite bewildered, Mr. Cathcart, turning his back to
the audience, spoke Mr. Kean's entire speech, imitating his nasal tones
to the life.
But it was off the stage that the ancient couple were most delightful.
Ellen and Charles were like a pair of old, old love-birds--a little dull
of eye, nor quite perfect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled
plumage, but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satisfaction
of their first caging. Their appearance upon the street provoked
amusement--sometimes even excitement. I often saw drivers of drays and
wagons pull up their horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at
them as they made their way toward the theatre. Mrs. Kean lived inside
of the most astounding hoop woman ever carried. Its size, its weight, its
tilting power were awful. Entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or
tables to accommodate Mrs. Kean's hoop. People scrambled or slid sideways
about her on the stage, swearing mentally all the time, while a sudden
gasp from the front row or a groan from Mr. Cathcart announced a tilt and
a revelation of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and in spite
of his dignity Charles was not above a joke on Ellen's hoop, for one
rainy day, as she strove to enter a carriage door she stuck fast, and the
hoop--mercy! It was well Mr. Kean was there to hold it down; but as a
troubled voice from within said: "I'm caught somehow--don't you see,
Charles?" With a twinkling eye Charles replied: "Yes, Ellen, my dear, I
do see--and--and I'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, too!" a
speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, with antique coquetry,
Mrs. Kean punished him by tweaking his ear when he squeezed in beside
her.
The Kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. It was a large coal-scuttle
of white leghorn and at the back there was a sort of flounce of ribbon
which she called her "bonnet-cape"; draped over it she wore a great,
bright-green barege veil. But she was not half so funny as was her
husband on the street. His short little person buttoned up tightly in a
regular bottle-green "Mantellini" sort of overcoat, loaded with frogs of
heavy cord, and lined, cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable
color, quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most experienced
student of natural history to name; while vicious little street boys at
sight of it always put searching questions as to the cost of cat-skins in
London.
As they came down the street together, Mrs. Kean, majestically towering
above her lord and master, looked like an old-time frigate with every
inch of canvas spread, while at her side Charles puffed and fretted like
a small tug. The street boys were a continual torment to him, but Mrs.
Kean appeared serenely unconscious of their existence, even when her
husband made short rushes at them with his gold-headed cane, and crying:
"Go a-way--you irreverent little brutes--go a-way!" and then puffed
laboriously back to her again as she sailed calmly on.
One day a citizen caught one of the small savages, and after boxing his
ears soundly, pitched him into the alley-way, when the seemingly enraged
little Englishman said, deprecatingly: "I--I wouldn't hurt the little
beast--he--he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, you know--poor
little beggar!" and then he dropped behind for a moment to pitch a
handful of coppers into the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side
to boast of the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received--from
which I gathered the idea that in a rage Charles would be as fierce as
seething new milk.
Everyone who knew anything at all of this actor knew of his passionate
love and reverence for his great father. He used always to carry his
miniature in _Hamlet_, using it in the "Look here, upon this picture,
then on this," scene; but I knew nothing of all that when he first
arrived to play engagements both in Cleveland and Columbus, but being
very eager to see all I could of him, I came very early to the theatre,
and as I walked up and down behind the scenes I caught two or three times
a glint of something on the floor, which might have been a bit of tinsel;
but finally I went over to it, touched it with my foot, and then picked
up an oval gold case, with handsome frame enclosing a picture; a bit of
broken ribbon still hung from the ring on top of the frame. I ran with it
to the prompter, who knew nothing of it, but said there would soon be a
hue and cry for it from someone, as it was of value. "Perhaps you'd
better take it to Mr. Kean--it might be his." I hesitated, but the
prompter said he was busy and I was not, so I started toward the
dressing-room the Keans shared together, when suddenly the door was flung
open and Mr. Kean came out in evident excitement. He bumped against me
as he was crying: "I say there--you--have you seen--oh, I--er beg your
pardon!"
I also apologized, and added: "If you please, sir, does this belong to
you? I found it behind the scenes."
He caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the dim light, then,
pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fervently: "Thank the good God!" He
held up a length of broken black ribbon, saying: "Hey, but you have
played me a nice trick!" I understood at once that he used the locket in
"Hamlet," and I ventured: "If you can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts,
could you not have a silver chain oxidized for your 'property' picture,
sir?" He chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "A good idea
that--I--I'll tell Ellen of that; but, my dear, this is no 'property'
locket--this is one of my greatest earthly treasures--it's the picture
of----"
He stopped--he looked at me for quite a moment, then he said: "You come
here to the light." I followed him obediently. "Now can you tell me who
that is a miniature of?" and he placed the oval case in my hands. I gave
a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, the broad turned-down
collar, and smilingly exclaimed: "It's Lord Byron!"
Good gracious, what was the matter with the little old gentleman! "Ha!
ha!" he cried. "Ha! ha! listen to the girl!" He fairly pranced about; he
got clear out on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the
emptiness, cried again: "Listen to the girl--Lord Byron, says she--at one
glance!"
"Well," I replied resentfully, "it _does_ look like Byron!" And he "Ha!
ha'd!" some more, and wiped his eyes and said, "I must tell Ellen this.
Come here, my dear, come here!" He took my hand and led me to the
dressing-room, crying: "It's Charles, my dear--it's Charles--and oh, my
dear, my dear, I--I have it--see now!" he held up the locket.
"Oh, how glad I am! And now, Charles, perhaps you'll give up that
miserable ribbon," and she kissed his cheek in congratulation.
But on the old gentleman went: "And, Ellen, my dear, look at this girl
here--just look at her. She found him for me, and I said, who is he--and
she up and said--Ellen, are you listening?--said she, 'It's Lord Byron!'"
"Did she now?" exclaimed Mrs. Kean, with pleased eyes.
But I was getting mad, and I snapped a bit, I'm afraid, when I said:
"Well, I don't know who it is, but it does look like Byron--I'll leave it
to anyone in the company if it doesn't!"
"Listen to her, Ellen! Hang me if she's not getting hot about it, too!"
Then he came over to me, and in the gravest, gentlest tone said, "It _is_
like Byron, my girl, but it is not him--you found the picture of my
beloved and great father, Edmund Kean," and he kissed me gently on the
forehead, and said, "Thank you--thank you!" and as Mrs. Kean came over
and put her arm about me and repeated the kiss and thanks, Charles
snuffled most distinctly from the corner where he was folding his
precious miniature within a silk handkerchief.
They were both at their very best in the tragedy of "Henry VIII." Mr.
Kean's _Wolsey_ was an impressive piece of work, and to the eye he was as
true a Cardinal as ever shared in an Ecumenical Council in Catholic Rome,
or hastened to private audience at the Vatican with the Pope himself; and
his superb robes, his priestly splendor had nothing about them that was
imitation. Everything was real--the silks, the jewelled cross and ring,
and as to the lace, I gasped for breath with sheer astonishment. Never
had I seen, even in a picture, anything to suggest the exquisite beauty
of that ancient web. Full thirty inches deep, the yellowing wonder fell
over the glowing cardinal-red beneath it. I cannot remember how many
thousands of dollars they had gladly given for it to the sisters of the
tottering old convent in the hills, where it had been created long ago;
and though it seemed so fragily frail and useless a thing, yet had it
proved strong enough to prop up the leaning walls of its old home, and
spread a sound roof above the blessed altar there--so strong sometimes is
beauty's weakness.
And Mrs. Kean, what a _Catherine_ she was! Surely nothing could have been
taken from the part, nothing added to it, without marring its perfection.
In the earlier acts one seemed to catch a glimpse of that Ellen Tree who
had been a beauty as well as a popular actress when Charles Kean had come
a-wooing. Her clear, strong features, her stately bearing were
beautifully suited to the part of _Queen Catherine_. Her performance of
the court scene was a liberal education for any young actress. Her regal
dignity, her pride, her passion of hatred for _Wolsey_ held in strong
leash, yet now and again springing up fiercely. Her address to the _King_
was a delight to the ear, even while it moved one to the heart, and
through the deep humility of her speech one saw, as through a veil, the
stupendous pride of the Spanish princess, who knew herself the daughter
of a king, if she were not the wife to one. With most pathetic dignity
she gave her speech beginning:
"Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;"
maintaining perfect self-control, until she came to the words:
"----Sir, call to mind
That I have been your wife in this obedience
Upward of twenty years and,----"
Her voice faltered, the words trembled on her lips:
"----have been blest
With many children by you."
In that painful pause one remembered with a pang that all those babes
were dead in infancy, save only the Princess Mary. Then, controlling her
emotion and lifting her head high, she went on to the challenge--if aught
could be reported against her honor. It was a great act, her passionate
cry to _Wolsey_:
"----Lord cardinal,
To _you_ I speak."
thrilled the audience, while to his:
"----Be patient yet,"
her sarcastic:
"I will, when you are humble!"
cut like a knife, and brought quick applause. But best, greatest,
queenliest of all was her exit, when refusing to obey the King's command:
"----Call her again."
for years one might remember those ringing words:
"I will not tarry: no, nor ever more,
Upon this business, my appearance make
In any of their courts."
It was a noble performance. Mr. Kean's mannerisms were less noticeable
in _Wolsey_ than in other parts, and the scenes between the Queen and
Cardinal were a joy to lovers of Shakespeare.