BIRTH AND EDUCATION.
Seldom has a more charming story been written than that of Mary Anderson's
childhood and youth to the time when, a beautiful girl of sixteen, she
made her _debut_ in what has ever since remained her favorite _role_,
Juliet--and the only Juliet who has ever played the part at the same age
since Fanny Kemble.
There was nothing in her home surroundings to guide in the direction of a
dramatic career; indeed her parents seemed to have entertained the not
uncommon dread of the temptations and dangers of a stage life for their
daughter, and only yielded at last before the earnest passionate purpose
to which so much of Mary Anderson's after success is due. They bent wisely
at length before the mysterious power of genius which shone out in the
beautiful child long before she was able fully to understand whither the
resistless promptings to tread the "mimic stage of life" were leading her.
In the end the New World gained an actress of whom it may be well proud,
and the Old World has been fain to confess that it has no monopoly of the
highest types of histrionic genius.
Mary Anderson was born at Sacramento, on the Pacific slope, on the 28th of
July, 1859, but removed with her parents to Kentucky, when but six months
old. German and English blood are mingled in her veins, her mother being
of German descent, while her father was the grandson of an Englishman. On
the outbreak of the civil war he joined the ranks of the Southern armies,
and fell fighting under the Confederate flag before Mobile. When but three
years old Mary Anderson was left fatherless, and a year or two afterward
she and her little brother Joseph found almost more than a father's love
and care in her mother's second husband, Dr. Hamilton Griffin, an old
Southern planter, who had abandoned his plantations at the outbreak of the
war, and after a successful career as an army surgeon, established himself
in practice at Louisville.
Mary Anderson's early years were characteristic of her future. She was one
of those children whose wild artist nature chafes under the restraints of
home and school life. Generous to a fault, the life and soul of her
companions, yet to control her taxed to their utmost the parental
resources; and it must be admitted she was the torment of her teachers.
Her wild exuberant spirits overleaped the bounds of school life, and
sometimes made order and discipline difficult of enforcement. She was
never known to tell an untruth, but at the same time she would never
confess to a fault. Imprisoned often for punishment in a room, she would
steadfastly refuse to admit that she had done wrong, and, maternal
patience exhausted, the mutinous little culprit had commonly to be
released impenitent and unconfessed. Indeed her wildness acquired for her
the name of "Little Mustang;" as, later on, her fondness for poring over
books beyond her childish years that of "Little Newspaper." At school, the
confession must be made, she was refractory and idle. The prosaic routine
of school life was dull and distasteful to the child, who, at ten years of
age, found her highest delight in the plays of Shakespeare. Many of her
school hours were spent in a corner, face to the wall, and with a book on
her head, to restrain the mischievous habit of making faces at her
companions, which used to convulse the school with ill-suppressed
laughter. She would sally forth in the morning with her little satchel,
fresh and neat as a daisy, to return at night with frock in rents, and all
the buttons, if any way ornamental, given away in an impulsive generosity
to her schoolmates. It soon became evident that she would learn little or
nothing at school; and on a faithful promise to amend her ways if she
might only leave and pursue her studies at home, Mary Anderson was
permitted, when but thirteen years of age, to terminate her school career.
But instead of studying "Magnall's Questions," or becoming better
acquainted with "The Use of the Globes," she spent most of her time in
devouring the pages of Shakespeare, and committing favorite passages to
memory. To her childish fancy they seemed to open the gates of dreamland,
where she could hold converse with a world peopled by heroes, and live a
life apart from the prosaic everyday existence which surrounded her in a
modern American town. Shakespeare was the teacher who replaced the "school
marm," with her dull and formal lessons. Her quick perceptive mind grasped
his great and noble thoughts, which gave a vigor and robustness to her
mental growth. Since those days she has assimilated rather than acquired
knowledge, and there are now few women of her age whose information is
more varied, or whose conversation displays greater mental culture, and
higher intellectual development. Strangely enough, it was the male
characters of Shakespeare which touched Mary Anderson's youthful fancy;
and she studied with a passionate ardor such parts as Hamlet, Romeo, and
Richard III. With the wonderful intuition of an art-nature, she seems to
have felt that the cultivation of the voice was a first essential to
success. She ransacked her father's library for works on elocution, and
discovering on one occasion "Rush on the Voice," proceeded, for many weeks
before it became known to her parents, to commence under its guidance the
task of building up a somewhat weak and ineffective organ into a voice
capable of expressing with ease the whole gamut of feeling from the
fiercest passion to the tenderest sentiment, and which can fill with a
whisper the largest theater.
The passion for a theatrical career seems to have been born in the child.
At ten she would recite passages from Shakespeare, and arrange her room to
represent appropriately the stage scene. Her first visit to the theater
was when she was about twelve, one winter's evening, to see a fairy piece
called "Puck." The house was only a short distance from her home at
Louisville, and she and her little brother presented themselves at the
entrance door hours before the time announced for the performance. The
door-keeper happened to observe the children, and thinking they would
freeze standing outside in the wintry wind, good naturedly opened the door
and admitted Mary Anderson to Paradise--or what seemed like it to her--the
empty benches of the dress circle, the dim half-light, the mysterious
horizon of dull green curtain, beyond which lay Fairyland. Here for two or
three hours she sat entranced, till the peanut boy made his appearance to
herald the approach of the glories of the evening. From that date the die
of Mary Anderson's destiny was cast. The theater became her world. She
looked with admiring interest on a super, or even a bill-sticker, as they
passed the windows of her father's house; and an actor seen in the streets
in the flesh filled her with the same reverent awe and admiration as
though the gods had descended from their serene heights to mingle in the
dust with common mortals. We are not sure that she still retains this
among the other illusions of her youth!
The person who seems to have fixed Mary Anderson's theatrical destiny was
one Henry Woude. He had been an actor of some distinction on the American
stage, which he had, however, abandoned for the pulpit. Mr. Woude happened
to be one of her father's patients, and the conversation turning one day
upon Mary's passion for a theatrical career, the older actor expressed a
wish to hear her read. He was enthusiastic in praise of the power and
promise displayed by the self-trained girl, and declared to the astonished
father that in his youthful daughter he possessed a second Rachel. Mr.
Woude advised an immediate training for a dramatic career; but the
parental repugnance to the stage was not yet overcome, and Mary remained a
while longer to pursue, as best she might, her dramatic studies in her own
home, and with no other teachers than the artistic instinct which had
already guided her so far on the path to eventual triumph and success.
When in her fourteenth year, Mary Anderson saw for the first time a really
great actor. Edwin Booth came on a starring tour to Louisville, and she
witnessed his Richard III., one of the actor's most powerful
impersonations. That night was a new revelation to her in dramatic art,
and she returned home to lie awake for hours, sleepless from excitement,
and pondering whether it were possible that she could ever wield the same
magic power. She commenced at once the serious study of "Richard III." The
manner of Booth was carefully copied, and that great artist would
doubtless have been as much amused as flattered to note the servility with
which his rendering of the part was adhered to. A preliminary rehearsal
took place in the kitchen before a little colored girl, some years Mary
Anderson's senior, who had that devoted attachment to her young mistress
often found in the colored races to the whites. Dinah was so much
terrified by the fierce declamation that she almost went into hysterics,
and rushing up-stairs begged the mother to come down and see what was the
matter with "Miss Mami," as she was affectionately called at home. Consent
was at length obtained to a little drawing-room entertainment at home of
"Richard III.," with Miss Mary Anderson for the first and last time in the
title _role_. For some months the young _debutante_ had carefully saved
her pocket money for the purchase of an appropriate costume, and,
resisting, as best she might, the attractions of the sweetmeat shop,
managed to accumulate five dollars. With her mother's help a little
costume was got up--a purple satin tunic, green silk cape, and plumed
hat--and wearing the traditional hump, the youthful, representative of
Richard appeared for the first time before an audience in the Tent Scene,
preceded by the Cottage Scene from "The Lady of Lyons." The back
drawing-room was arranged as a stage; her mother acting as prompter,
though her help was little needed; and, judged by the enthusiastic
applause of friends and neighbors, the performance was a great success.
The young actress received it all with even more apparent coolness than if
she had trodden the boards for years, and made her exits with the calm
dignity which she had observed to be Edwin Booth's manner under similar
circumstances. Indeed, Booth became to her childish fancy the divinity who
could open to her the door of the stage she longed so ardently to reach.
She confided to the little colored girl a plan to save their money, and
fly to New York to Mr. Booth, and ask him to place her on the stage. Dinah
entered heartily into the affair, and at one time they had managed to
hoard as much as five dollars for the carrying out of this romantic
scheme. Some years afterward when the wish of her heart had been long
accomplished, Mary Anderson made Mr. Booth's acquaintance, and recounting
to him her childish fancy asked what he would have done if she had
succeeded in presenting herself to him in New York. "Why, my child, I
should have taken you down to the depot, bought a couple of tickets for
Louisville, and given you in charge of the conductor," was the rather
discouraging answer of the great tragedian.
Not long afterward Mary Anderson's dramatic powers were submitted to the
critical judgment of Miss Cushman. That great actress, then in the zenith
of her fame, was residing not far distant at Cincinnati. Accompanied by
her mother, Mary presented herself at Miss Cushman's hotel. They happened
to meet in the vestibule. The veteran actress took the young aspirant's
hand with her accustomed vigorous grasp, to which Mary, not to be outdone,
nerved herself to respond in kind; and patting her at the same time
affectionately on the cheek, invited her to read before her on an early
morning. When Miss Cushman had entered her waiting carriage, Mary
Anderson, with her wonted veneration for what pertained to the stage,
begged that she might be allowed to be the first to sit in the chair that
had been occupied for a few moments by the great actress. Miss Cushman's
verdict was highly favorable. "You have," she said, "three essential
requisites for the stage; voice, personality, and gesture. With a year's
longer study and some training, you may venture to make an appearance
before the public." Miss Cushman recommended that she should take lessons
from the younger Vandenhoff, who was at the time a successful dramatic
teacher in New York. A year from that date occurred the actress' lamented
death, almost on the very day of Mary Anderson's _debut_.
Returning home thus encouraged, her dramatic studies were resumed with
fresh ardor. The question of the New York project was anxiously debated in
the family councils. It was at length decided that Mary Anderson should
receive some regular training for the stage; and accompanied by her mother
she was soon afterward on her way to the Empire City, full of happiness
and pride that the dream of her life seemed now within reach of
attainment. Vandenhoff was paid a hundred dollars for ten lessons, and
taught his pupil mainly the necessary stage business. This was, strictly
speaking. Mary Anderson's only professional training for a dramatic
career. The stories which have been current since her appearance in
London, as to her having been a pupil of Cushman, or of other
distinguished American artists, are entirely apocryphal, and have been
evolved by the critics who have given them to the world out of that
fertile soil, their own inner consciousness. There is certainly no
circumstance in her career which reflects more credit on Mary Anderson
than that her success, and the high position as an artist she has won thus
early in life, are due to her own almost unaided efforts. Well may it be
said of her--
"What merit to be dropped on fortune's hill?
The honor is to mount it."