_MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT_
Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love of
her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie
Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike
of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late
Comers—The _Matinée_ Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night
of _Hamlet_—Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of _Hamlet_—Yorick’s
Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearian Library.
It is not every one who cares to erect his own mausoleum during his
life.
There are some quaint and weird people who prefer to do so, however:
whether it is to save their friends and relations trouble after their
demise, whether from some morbid desire to face death, or whether
for notoriety, who can tell? Was it not one of our dukes who built
a charming crematorium for the benefit of the public, and beside it
one for himself, the latter to be given over to general use after he
himself had been reduced to spotless ashes within its walls? He was a
public benefactor, for his wise action encouraged cremation, a system
which for the sake of health and prosperity is sure to come in time.
Madame Sarah Bernhardt has not erected a crematorium, but on one of
the highest spots of the famous _Père Lachaise_ Cemetery in Paris
she has placed her tomb. It is a solid stone structure, like a large
sarcophagus, but it is supported on four arches, so that light may
be seen beneath, and the solidity of the slabs is thereby somewhat
lessened. One word only is engraven on the stone:
BERNHARDT.
This is the mausoleum of one of the greatest actresses the world has
ever known. What is lacking in the length of inscription is made up by
the size of the lettering.
Upon the tomb lay one enormous wreath on the _Jour des Morts_, 1902,
and innumerable people paid homage to it, or stared out of curiosity at
the handsome erection.
Though folk say Madame Bernhardt courts notoriety, there are moments
when she seeks solitude as a recreation, and she has a great love of
the sea.
Every year for two months she disappears from theatrical life. She
forgets that such a thing as the stage exists, she never reads a play,
and as far as theatrical matters are concerned she lives in another
sphere. That is part of her holiday. It is not a holiday of rest, for
she never rests; it is a holiday because of the change of scene, change
of thought, change of occupation. Her day at her seaside home is really
a very energetic one.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street._
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.]
At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, country boots,
and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in
shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic
eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly.
Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes
and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water
shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she
does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly
enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled
fish at _déjeuner_. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian
dogs before that mid-day meal.
Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are
everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for
she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she
not have all she loves best close at hand?
After _déjeuner_ the guests, of whom there are never more than two or
three, such as M. Rostand (author of _Cyrano de Bergerac_) and his
wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open
air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son.
This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’
holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in
this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins,
much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even
in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and
have a fire. She can never be too warm apparently. Her own rooms are
kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally.
How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her
lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world,
for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant
of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their
grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets
up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into
their young lives as she does into everything else.
About 3.30 _au tennis_ is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one
has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot,
but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an
active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she
plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at
hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished
“sett.”
She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused,
or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the
enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose
during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do,
and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going
on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch
camp for the night somewhere along the coast.
Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the glories of a Parisian
_chef_, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food
necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess”
games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit
the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor _décolleté_ frocks;
except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in
the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is
all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes
on a fine night Madame will exclaim:
“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut
in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their
nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt
water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every
morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen
throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in
hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing
energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the
small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a
devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a
vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail
its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there.
It was in 1880 that she retired from the _Comédie Française_, not
being content with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced
her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After
a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage
would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known.
Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she
was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her
country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the
_fête_ declared:
“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my
soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have
played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen
of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human
being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost
pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part
of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day
brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have
flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for
my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.”
She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those
who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment.
Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it.
Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She
can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely
drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the
reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the
simple life of the country, the repose from the world, the knowledge
that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the
country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman.
In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful
hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a _table ouverte_ for
her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her _masseuse_ and
her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for
everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find
time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well.
At 12.30 is _déjeuner_, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends
constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till
six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she
can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white,
even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of
on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters,
changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the
lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give
the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony
and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea
is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre.
The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps,
scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with
a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the
great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is
over she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris
before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day
is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it
herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different
things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems
to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has
never mastered English, although she can read it.
Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent
at a theatre behind a French _claque_. That _claque_ was terrible, but
the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat
rapt in admiration of her first night of _Hamlet_.
Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as
the _claque_, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty
it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in
their play-books.
At the _Comédie Française_ of Paris a certain individual known as the
_Chef de Claque_ had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a
monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received £12
a month, or £3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person
of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and
feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or
want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a
sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the _Chef de
Claque_ foreboded ill luck.
After performing his duties for twenty-one years with considerable
success, the _Chef de Claque_ was dismissed, and it was decided that
professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the _Chef_ was
indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the _Comédie Française_ for
30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in
the absence of the original _claque_, and gradually one theatre after
another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long.
History says that during the early days of the _claque_ there was an
equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as
_siffleurs_. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the
world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made
for the purpose, known as a _sifflet_, which was wooden and emitted a
harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without
his _sifflet_—but the _claque_ gradually clapped him away. Thus died
out the official dispensers of success or failure.
It so chanced that having bicycled through France from Dieppe along the
banks of the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris on the first
occasion of Sarah Bernhardt’s impersonation of Hamlet—that is to say,
in May, 1899. We were so anxious to see her first performance, however,
that we decided to stay an extra day. So far all was well, but not a
single ticket could be obtained. Here was disappointment indeed. Of
course our names were not on the first night list in Paris and, as in
England, it is well-nigh impossible for any ordinary member of the
public to gain admittance on such an occasion.
The gentleman in the box office became sympathetic at beholding our
distress, and finally suggested he might let us have seats upstairs.
“It is very high up, but you will see and hear everything,” he added.
We decided to ascend to the gods, where, instead of finding ourselves
beside Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we were seated immediately
behind the _claque_.
Never, never shall I forget my own personal experience of the
performance of a _claque_. Six men sat together in the centre of
the front row. The middle one had a marked book—fancy Shakespeare’s
_Hamlet_ marked for applause!—and according to that book’s instructions
the _Chef_ and his friends clapped once, twice, thrice.
On ordinary occasions the _claque_ slept or read, and only woke up to
make a noise when called upon by the _Chef_, who seemed to have free
passes for his supporters every night, and took any one he liked to
help him in his curious work. The noise those men made at _Hamlet_
was deafening. The excitement of the leader lest the play should not
go off well on a first night was terrible—and if their hands were not
sore, and their arms did not ache, it was a wonder indeed. They were so
appallingly near us, and so overpowering and disturbing, nothing but
interest in the divine Sarah could have kept us in our seats during
all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night, the piece
began at 8 p.m., and ended at 2 a.m.
Think of it, ye London first-nighters! Especially in a French theatre,
where the seats are torture racks, the heat equal to Dante’s Inferno,
and no sweet music soothes the savage breast, only long dreary
_entr’actes_ and the welcome—if melancholy—three raps French playgoers
know so well.
Two years later, when I was again in Paris, there were different
excitements in the air, one a strike of coal-miners, the other—and in
Paris apparently the more important—a strike of the orchestras at the
theatres. A few years previously there could not have been a strike,
for the sufficient reason there were no orchestras; but gradually our
plan of having music during the long waits crept in. The musicians at
first engaged as an experiment were badly paid. When they became an
institution they naturally asked for more money, which was promptly
refused.
Then came the revolt. From the first violin to the big drum all
demanded higher pay. It seems that theatre, music hall, and concert
orchestras belong to a syndicate of _Artistes Musiciens_ numbering some
sixteen hundred members. During the strike I chanced to be present at
a theatre where there was generally an orchestra—that night one small
cottage piano played by a lady usurped its place. She managed fairly
well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician, does not add to the
gaiety of a theatre although it may decrease its melancholy. When
November came, the strike ceased. The managers capitulated.
The orchestra in an English theatre is a little world to itself. The
performers never mix with the actors, they have their own band-room,
and there they live when not before the curtain. At the chief
theatres, as is well known, the performers are extremely good, and
that is because they are allowed to “deputise”; when there is a grand
concert at the St. James’s Hall or elsewhere, provided they find
some one to take their place in their own orchestra, they may go and
play. Consequently, when there is a big concert several may be away
from their own theatre. Many of these performers remain in the same
orchestra for years. For instance, Mr. Alexander told me he met a man
one day roving at the back of the stage, so he stopped and asked whom
he wanted. The man smiled and replied:
“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.”
“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed
to look at it from above, you see!”
In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a
decided advantage with most plays.
Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and
yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and
too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and
short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All
this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on
at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue
aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps.
It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s
belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or
to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before
the last act she returns with a great deal of fuss, hands over the
articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts,
one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed
by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these
irritating _ouvreuses_ demand tips _pour le service de la loge, s’il
vous plaît_, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s
feet so as to claim the _pourboires_ afterwards. The _pourboires_ of
the _vestiaire_ are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which
exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into
harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is
surprising, but they do.
The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome
plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some
theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the
expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution,
therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why,
then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most
aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their
seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands,
they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their
money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their
neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is
felt by all around, especially if the play has begun.
Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is
the meagreness of the space between the rows of stalls. There are
people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have
not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian
theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still,
when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without
inconveniencing a dozen persons _en route_.
_Matinée_ hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience
so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a
neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon
be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who
cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats
in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will
be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture
hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same
way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in
these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a
class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical
entertainment!
Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the
end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and
puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the
effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement.
But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah
appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she
looked so young and so small. This woman, who was nearly sixty,
appeared quite juvenile. This famous _tragédienne_, who had always
left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful
scenes in _La Tosca_, or _Dame aux Caméllias_, deprived of her train
appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk
stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height,
while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a
youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first
I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw
her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed
to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest,
an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed
almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her
players’ scene was a great _coup_.
On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’
scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights.
On the right there was a high raised daïs with steps leading up on
either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon
two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs.
Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a
white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow
upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the
play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was
too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very
quietly she rose from her seat, crawled round to the back, where she
gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the daïs, getting upon
a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his
excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his
hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors.
At that instant Sarah Bernhardt rose, and the two faces came close
together across the barrier in eager contemplation of each other. It
was a magnificent piece of acting, one which sent a thrill through the
whole house; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt depicted upon her
uncle’s face she gave a shriek of triumph, a perfectly fiendish shriek
of joy, once heard never to be forgotten, and springing down from her
post, rushed to the torch footlights, and seizing one in her hand stood
in the middle of the stage, her back to the audience, waving it on
high and yelling with wild exultant delight as the King and all his
courtiers slunk away, to the fall of the curtain. It was a brilliant
ending to a great act, and Sarah triumphed not only in the novelty of
her rendering, but in the manner of its execution.
Another hit that struck me as perfectly wonderful in its contrasting
simplicity, was, when she sat upon a sofa, her feet straight out before
her, a book lying idle upon her lap, and murmured, _mots, mots_, or
again, when she came in through the arch at the back of the stage, and
leaning against its pillar repeated quietly and dreamily the lines “To
be, or not to be.”
_Apropos_ of _Hamlet_, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the _Daily Telegraph_:
“Hamlet rêve quand il est seul; mais quand il y a du monde il
parle; il parle pour cacher sa pensée....
“On me reproche, dans la scène de l’Oratoire, de m’approcher trop
près du Roi; mais, si Hamlet veut tuer le Roi, il faut bien qu’il
s’approche de lui. Et quand il l’entend prier des paroles de
repentir, il pense que s’il le tue il l’enverra au ciel, et il ne
tue pas le Roi; non pas parcequ’il est irrésolu et faible, mais
parcequ’il est tenace et logique; il veut le tuer dans le péché,
non dans le repentir, car il veut qu’il aille en enfer, et pas
au ciel. On veut absolument voir, dans Hamlet, une âme de femme,
hésitante, imponderée; moi, j’y vois l’âme d’un homme, résolue mais
refléchie. Aussitôt que Hamlet voit l’âme de son père et appréhend
le meurtre, il prend la résolution de le venger; mais, comme il
est le contraire d’Othello, qui agit avant de penser, lui, Hamlet,
pense avant d’agir, ce qui est le signe d’une grande force, d’une
grande puissance d’âme.
“Hamlet aime Ophélie! il renonce à l’amour! il renonce à l’étude!
il renonce à tout! pour arriver à son but! Et il y arrive! Il
tue le Roi quand il est pris dans le péché le plus noir, le plus
criminel; mais il ne le tue que lorsqu’il est absolument sûr.
Lorsqu’on l’envoie en Angleterre, à la première occasion qu’il
rencontre il bondit tout seul sur un bateau ennemi et il se nomme
pour qu’on le fasse prisonnier, sûr qu’on le ramenera. Il envoie
froidement Rosencrantz et Guildenstern à la mort. Tout cela est
d’un être jeune, fort et résolu!
“Quand il rêve: c’est à son projet! c’est à sa vengeance! Si Dieu
n’avait pas défendu le suicide, il se tuerait par dégoût du monde!
mais, puisqu’il ne peut pas se tuer, il tuera!
“Enfin, Monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que Shakespeare,
par son génie colossal, appartient à l’Univers! et qu’un cerveau
Français, Allemand, ou Russe a le droit de l’admirer et de le
comprendre.
“SARAH BERNHARDT.
“LONDRES, _le 16 Juin, 1899_.”
Madame Bernhardt made Hamlet a man, and a strong man—there was nothing
of the halting, hesitating woman about her performance, one which she
herself loves to play.
It was a fine touch also when she went into her uncle’s room, where,
finding him on his knees, she crept up close behind, and taking out
her dagger, prepared to kill him. She said nothing, but her play
was marvellous, her expression of hatred and loathing, her pause to
contemplate, and final decision to let the man alone, were done in such
a way as only Sarah Bernhardt could render them.
Another drama took place on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two
famous men when discussing whether Hamlet ought to be fat or thin,
struck one another in the face and finally arranged a duel—a duel
fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life.
Opposite is the programme of the first night of Sarah Bernhardt’s
Hamlet.
LA TRAGIQUE HISTOIRE D’
HAMLET
PRINCE DE DANEMARK
Drame en 15 Tableaux de =William SHAKESPEARE=
_Traduction en prose de_ MM. EUGÈNE MORAND et MARCEL SCHWOB
Mᵐᵉ SARAH BERNHARDT
_HAMLET_
MM.
BREMONT Le Roi
MAGNIER Laertes
CHAMEROY Polonius
DENEUBOURG Horatio
RIPERT Le Spectre
SCHUTZ Premier fossoyeur
LACROIX Deuxième „
TESTE Le Roi Comédien
SCHELER Osric
JEAN DARAV Rosencrantz
JAHAN Voltimand
COLAS Bernardo
KRAUSS Marcellus
LAURENT Guildenstern
BARBIER Fortinbras
STEBLER Deuxᵐᵉ comédien
CAUROY Francesco
LAHOR Un Prêtre
BARY Cornélius
CAILLERE Troisᵐᵉ comédien
BERTAUT Un Gentilhomme
MMᵐᵉˢ
MARTHE MELLOT Ophélie
MARCYA La Reine Gertrude
BOULANGER La reine comédienne
_Prêtres, Comédiens, Marins, Officiers, Soldats, etc._
There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s
skull, which is in the possession of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, of
Philadelphia.
Dr. Furness is one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day.
Dr. Georg Brandes, of Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee, of London, and he
probably know more of the work of this great genius than any other
living persons.
When I was in America I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr.
Furness’s delightful home at Wallingford, on the shores of the Delaware
River. The place might be in England, from its appearance—a low,
rambling old house with wide balconies, creeper-grown with roses, and
honey-suckle hugging the porch. The dear old home was built more than a
century ago, by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and one sees the love
of those ancestors for the old English style manifest at every turn.
The whole interior bespeaks intellectual refinement.
He stood on the doorstep to welcome me, a grey-headed man of some
sixty-eight years, with a ruddy complexion, and closely cut white
moustache. His manner was delightful; no more polished gentleman ever
walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American
writer. His father was an intimate friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson,
whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by
the doctor’s brother; so young Horace was brought up amid intellectual
surroundings.
At the back of the house is the world-renowned iron-proof Shakespearian
library, the collection of forty ardent years. It is a veritable
museum with its upper galleries, its many tables, and its endless cases
of treasures. The books which line the walls were all catalogued by
the doctor himself. He has many of the earlier editions of Shakespeare
besides other rare volumes. Some original MSS. of Charles Lamb,
beautifully written and signed Elia, are there; a delightful sketch
of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit)
own acting editions of the parts she played marked by herself; and
in a special glass case lie a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly
embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself when an
actor. If I remember rightly they came from David Garrick, and the card
of authenticity is in the case. Then there are Garrick’s and Booth’s
walking-sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull
handled in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have
visited Philadelphia, and signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern,
etc.
I never spent a more delightful evening than one in October, 1900, when
the family went off to Philadelphia to see the dramatisation of one of
Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr.
Furness for some hours.
What a charming companion. What a fund of information and humour,
what a courtly manner, what a contrast to the ruggedness of Ibsen,
or the wild energy of Björnsen. Here was repose and strength. Not an
originator, perhaps, but a learned disciple. How he loved Shakespeare,
with what reverence he spoke of him. He scoffed at the mere mention
of Bacon’s name, and was glad, very glad, so little was known of the
private life of Shakespeare.
“He was too great to be mortal; I do not want to associate any of
Nature’s frailties with such a mind. His work is the thing, for the
man as a man I care nothing.” This was unlike Brandes, whose brilliant
books on Shakespeare deal chiefly with the man.
There was something particularly delightful about Horace Furness and
his home. Even the dinner-table appointments were his choice. The
soup-plates were of the rarest Oriental porcelain, and the meat-plates
were of silver with mottoes chosen by himself round the borders.
“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation
I looked about for something that could not break—solid and plain, like
myself, eh?” he chuckled. The mottoes were well chosen and the idea as
original as everything else about Dr. Furness.
It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first awakened his love for
Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he gave up law and
devoted himself to writing; much the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when
he exchanged business for authorship.
Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and thoroughly enjoys his well-chosen
library; but still an Englishwoman cannot help hoping that when he
has done with them, he will bequeath his treasures to the Shakespeare
Museum at Stratford-on-Avon.