The impression left upon my mind by my curious and intensely dramatic
encounter with Zola was of so theatric a nature that I resolved to get
back to conventional ground once more through the medium of the stage. I
was keyed up to a high pitch of nervous excitement by my unexpected
meeting with an unsuspected step-mother, and the easiest return to my
norm of equanimity, it seemed to me, lay through the doors of the
greenroom. Hence I sought out London's only actor, Sir Henry Irving.
I found him a most agreeable gentleman. He received me cordially on the
stage of his famous theatre. There was no setting of any kind. All
about us were the bare cold walls of the empty stage and it was
difficult to believe that this very same spot, the night before, had
been the scene of brilliant revels.
"How do you do, Miss Witherup?" said Sir Henry, as I arrived, advancing
with his peculiar stride, which reminds me of dear old Dobbin on my
father's farm. "It is a great pleasure to welcome to England so fair a
representative of so fine a press."
"I wished to see you, 'at home,' Sir Henry," I replied, not desiring to
let him see how completely his cordiality had won me, and so affecting a
coldness I was far from feeling.
"That is why I have you _here_, madam," he replied. "The stage is my
home. The boards for me; the flare of the lime-lights; the pit; the
sweet family circle; the auditorium in the dim distance; the
foot-lights--ah, these are the inspiring influences of _my_ life! The
old song 'Home Is Where the Heart Is' must, in my case, be revised to
favor the box-office, and instead of the 'Old Oaken Bucket,' the song I
sing is the song of the 'Old Trap Door.' Did you ever hear that
beautiful poem, 'The Song of the Old Trap Door'?"
"No, Sir Henry, I never did," said I. "I hope to, however."
"I will do it now for you," he said; and assisting me over the
foot-lights into a box, he took the centre of the stage, ordered the
calcium turned upon him, and began:
"How dear to my heart are the scenes of my triumphs,
In Hamlet, Othello, and Shylock as well!
Completely confounding the critics who cry 'Humphs!'
And casting o'er others a magical spell!
How dear to my soul are the fond recollections
Of thunderous clappings and stampings and roars
As, bowing and scraping in many directions,
I sink out of sight through the old trap doors!
The old trap doors, the bold trap doors,
That creaking and squeaking sink down thro' the floors!"