The hope of entering the race for dramatic fame as an individual and
single attraction never came into my head until, in 1858, I acted Asa
Trenchard in "Our American Cousin"; but as the curtain descended the
first night on that remarkably successful play, visions of large type,
foreign countries, and increased remuneration floated before me, and I
resolved to be a star if I could. A resolution to this effect is
easily made; its accomplishment is quite another matter.
Art has always been my sweetheart, and I have loved her for herself
alone. I had fancied that our affection was mutual, so that when I
failed as a star, which I certainly did, I thought she had jilted me.
Not so. I wronged her. She only reminded me that I had taken too
great a liberty, and that if I expected to win her I must press my
suit with more patience. Checked, but undaunted in the resolve, my
mind dwelt upon my vision, and I still indulged in day-dreams of the
future.
During these delightful reveries it came up before me that in acting
Asa Trenchard I had, for the first time in my life on the stage,
spoken a pathetic speech; and though I did not look at the audience
during the time I was acting--for that is dreadful--I felt that they
both laughed and cried. I had before this often made my audience
smile, but never until now had I moved them to tears. This to me
novel accomplishment was delightful, and in casting about for a new
character my mind was ever dwelling on reproducing an effect where
humour would be so closely allied to pathos that smiles and tears
should mingle with each other. Where could I get one? There had been
many written, and as I looked back into the dramatic history of the
past a long line of lovely ghosts loomed up before me, passing as in a
procession: Job Thornberry, Bob Tyke, Frank Ostland, Zekiel Homespun,
and a host of departed heroes "with martial stalk went by my watch."
Charming fellows all, but not for me, I felt I could not do them
justice. Besides, they were too human. I was looking for a
myth--something intangible and impossible. But he would not come.
Time went on, and still with no result,
During the summer of 1859 I arranged to board with my family at a
queer old Dutch farmhouse in Paradise Valley, at the foot of Pocono
Mountain, in Pennsylvania. A ridge of hills covered with tall
hemlocks surrounds the vale, and numerous trout-streams wind through
the meadows and tumble over the rocks. Stray farms are scattered
through the valley, and the few old Dutchmen and their families who
till the soil were born upon it; there and only there they have ever
lived. The valley harmonised with me and our resources. The scene
was wild, the air was fresh, and the board was cheap. What could the
light heart and purse of a poor actor ask for more than this?
On one of those long rainy days that always render the country so dull
I had climbed to the loft of the barn, and lying upon the hay was
reading that delightful book "The Life and Letters of Washington
Irving." I had gotten well into the volume, and was much interested
in it, when to my surprise I came upon a passage which said that he
had seen me at Laura Keene's theater as Goldfinch in Holcroft's comedy
of "The Road to Ruin," and that I reminded him of my father "in look,
gesture, size, and make." Till then I was not aware that he had ever
seen me. I was comparatively obscure, and to find myself remembered
and written of by such a man gave me a thrill of pleasure I can never
forget. I put down the book, and lay there thinking how proud I was,
and ought to be, at the revelation of this compliment. What an
incentive to a youngster like me to go on.
And so I thought to myself, "Washington Irving, the author of 'The
Sketch-Book,' in which is the quaint story of Rip Van Winkle." Rip
Van Winkle! There was to me magic in the sound of the name as I
repeated it. Why, was not this the very character I wanted? An Ameri
can story by an American author was surely just the theme suited to an
American actor.
In ten minutes I had gone to the house and returned to the barn with
"The Sketch-Book." I had not read the story since I was a boy. I was
disappointed with it; not as a story, of course, but the tale was
purely a narrative. The theme was interesting, but not dramatic. The
silver Hudson stretches out before you as you read, the quaint red
roofs and queer gables of the old Dutch cottages stand out against the
mist upon the mountains; but all this is descriptive. The character
of Rip does not speak ten lines. What could be done dramatically with
so simple a sketch? How could it he turned into an effective play?
Three or four bad dramatisations of the story had already been acted,
but without marked success, Yates of London had given one in which the
hero dies, one had been acted by my father, one by Hackett, and
another by Burke. Some of these versions I had remembered when I was
a boy, and I should say that Burke's play and performance were the
best, but nothing that I remembered gave me the slightest
encouragement that I could get a good play out of any of the existing
materials. Still I was so bent upon acting the part that I started
for the city, and in less than a week, by industriously ransacking the
theatrical wardrobe establishments for old leather and mildewed cloth
and by personally superintending the making of the wigs, each article
of my costume was completed; and all this, too, before I had written a
line of the play or studied a word of the part.
This is working in an opposite direction from all the conventional
methods in the study and elaboration of a dramatic character, and
certainly not following the course I would advise any one to pursue.
I merely mention the out-of-the-way, upside-down manner of going to
work as an illustration of the impatience and enthusiasm with which I
entered upon the task, I can only account for my getting the dress
ready before I studied the part to the vain desire I had of witnessing
myself in the glass, decked out and equipped as the hero of the
Catskills.
I got together the three old printed versions of the drama and the
story itself. The plays were all in two acts. I thought it would be
an improvement in the drama to arrange it in three, making the scene
with the spectre crew an act by itself. This would separate the
poetical from the domestic side of the story. But by far the most
important alteration was in the interview with the spirits. In the
old versions they spoke and sang. I remembered that the effect of
this ghostly dialogue was dreadfully human, so I arranged that no
voice but Rip's should be heard. This is the only act on the stage in
which but one person speaks while all the others merely gesticulate,
and I was quite sure that the silence of the crew would give a lonely
and desolate character to the scene and add its to supernatural
weirdness. By this means, too, a strong contrast with the single
voice of Rip was obtained by the deathlike stillness of the "demons"
as they glided about the stage in solemn silence. It required some
thought to hit upon just the best questions that could be answered by
a nod and shake of the head, and to arrange that at times even Rip
should propound a query to himself and answer it; but I had availed
myself of so much of the old material that in a few days after I had
begun my work it was finished.
In the seclusion of the barn I studied and rehearsed the part, and by
the end of summer I was prepared to transplant it from the rustic
realms of an old farmhouse to a cosmopolitan audience in the city of
Washington, where I opened at Carusi's Hall under the management of
John T. Raymond. I had gone over the play so thoroughly that each
situation was fairly engraved on my mind. The rehearsals were
therefore not tedious to the actors; no one was delayed that I might
consider how he or she should be disposed in the scene. I had by
repeated experiments so saturated myself with the action of the play
that a few days seemed to perfect the rehearsals. I acted on these
occasions with all the point and feeling that I could muster. This
answered the double purpose of giving me freedom and of observing the
effect of what I was doing on the actors. They seemed to be watching
me closely, and I could tell by little nods of approval where and when
the points hit.
I became each day more and more interested in the work; there was in
the subject and the part much scope for novel and fanciful treatment.
If the sleep of twenty years was merely incongruous, there would be
room for argument pro and con; but as it is an impossibility, I felt
that the audience would accept it at once, not because it was an
impossibility, but from a desire to know in what condition a man's
mind would be if such an event could happen. Would he be thus
changed? His identity being denied both by strangers, friends, and
family, would he at last almost accept the verdict and exclaim, "Then
I am dead, and that is a fact?" This was the strange and original
attitude of the character that attracted me.
In acting such a part what to do was simple enough, but what not to do
was the important and difficult point to determine. As the earlier
scenes of the play were of a natural and domestic character, I had
only to draw upon my experience for their effect, or employ such
conventional methods as myself and others had used before in
characters of that ilk. But from the moment Rip meets the spirits of
Hendrik Hudson and his crew I felt that all colloquial dialogue and
commonplace pantomime should cease. It is at this point in the story
that the supernatural element begins, and henceforth the character
must be raised from the domestic plane and lifted into the realms of
the ideal.
To be brief, the play was acted with a result that was to me both
satisfactory and disappointing. I was quite sure that the character
was what I had been seeking, and I was equally satisfied that the play
was not. The action had neither the body nor the strength to carry
the hero; the spiritual quality was there, but the human interest was
wanting. The final alterations and additions were made five years
later by Dion Boucicault.
"Rip Van Winkle" was not a sudden success. It did not burst upon the
public like a torrent. Its flow was gradual, and its source sprang
from the Hartz Mountains, an old German legend, called "Carl the
Shepherd," being the name of the original story. The genius of
Washington Irving transplanted the tale to our own Catskills. The
grace with which he paints the scene, and, still more, the quaintness
of the story, placed it far above the original. Yates, Hackett, and
Burke had separate dramas written upon this scene and acted the hero,
leaving their traditions one to the other. I now came forth, and
saying, "Give me leave," set to work, using some of the
before-mentioned tradition, mark you. Added to this, Dion Boucicault
brought his dramatic skill to bear, and by important additions made a
better play and a more interesting character of the hero than had as
yet been reached. This adaptation, in my turn, I interpreted and
enlarged upon. It is thus evident that while I may have done much to
render the character and the play popular, it has not been the work of
one mind, but both as its to narrative and its dramatic form has been
often moulded, and by many skilful hands. So it would seem that those
dramatic successes that "come like shadows, so depart," and those that
are lasting, have ability for their foundation and industry for their
superstructure. I speak now of the former and the present condition
of the drama. What the future may bring forth it is difficult to
determine. The histrionic kaleidoscope revolves more rapidly than of
yore and the fantastic shapes that it exhibits are brilliant and
confusing; but under all circumstances I should be loath to believe
that any conditions will render the appearance of frivolous novices
more potent than the earnest design of legitimate professors.