a real stage. Casually calling with Dr. Griffin at the theatre one
day, Mary was astonished and delighted to be asked to play Juliet at
a special performance, but two nights later. She knew the part well,
joyfully accepted, and literally ran home to tell the news to her
mother. The published announcement ran as follows:
Saturday evening, November 27, 1875, Miss Mary Anderson, a
young lady of this city, will make her first appearance on any
stage as Juliet in Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_; Milnes
Levick as Mercutio, and a powerful cast of characters.
There was but one rehearsal, on the day before; and on this occasion
Mary’s ideals suffered their first severe blow. The other actors
regarded her as an unpromising, awkward upstart, and were markedly
unhelpful and even hostile.
At this time she was sixteen; the train of her gown was the first
she had ever worn; she had never before faced a real audience from a
real stage; she had had but one imperfect rehearsal with her fellow
actors; yet she roused the house to genuine enthusiasm. This cordial
reception was partly due to the first appearance of a townswoman, and
her impersonation was certainly not without its crudities; yet the
newspaper accounts of the evening contain such comments as these: “We
are sure that last night saw the beginnings of a career which will shed
radiance on the American stage”; “Her achievement last night may be
fairly classed as remarkable”; “With but little further training and
experience she will stand among the foremost actresses.” The audience
was thrilled by her rich and powerful voice, and impressed by her
beauty and vigor.[152]
Mary Anderson’s career was thus suddenly and on the whole auspiciously
begun. It was the old story of being prepared when the opportunity
presented itself.[153] After waiting three months, during which she
learned new parts, she was offered a week at the Louisville Theatre, in
which she was to act, besides Juliet, Bianca in _Fazio_, Julia in _The
Hunchback_, Evadne in the play of that name, and Pauline in _The Lady
of Lyons_. This week was a disappointment, for the Louisville public
did not turn out in the numbers anticipated to see their young actress.
But in the week in St. Louis which soon followed she was moderately
successful. Then came two weeks in New Orleans. Miss Anderson’s
reputation had not reached so far, and the house had to be heavily
“papered” the first night to insure a respectably sized audience. The
business steadily improved, however, and by the end of the two weeks
her success was almost overwhelming,[154] coming as it did in a strange
city and on the heels of moderate fortune at home. The students of the
Military College showered her with flowers, she was made an honorary
member of the famous Washington Artillery Battalion, and as she rode
away from the city in the special car which the railroad had placed
at her disposal, Generals Beauregard and Hood and other distinguished
Southerners were at the station to bid her farewell.
But if the New Orleans engagement was little less than a triumph, her
next important venture, in San Francisco, was nothing more than a
disaster. It is an example of the heart-breaking trials that come to
the most successful actors that Mary Anderson, phenomenally fortunate
so far, failed dismally in San Francisco with both public and press.
The engagement was at John McCullough’s theatre, and it was only on the
last two nights that she made the anticipated favorable impression.
Much of this trouble originated with the indifference or worse of her
fellow actors, the members of the resident stock company. In those
days a traveling “star,” instead of taking with him on his tours his
own company, as at present, went practically alone and depended for
support on the permanent stock company in each town--a system which
did not make for artistic excellence, and which often gave occasion to
just such jealousy and hostility as helped to make Mary Anderson’s stay
in San Francisco unhappy. There was one bright spot, however. Edwin
Booth was in the city, and she met him for the first time. When she was
tempted to quit the stage disheartened, he said to her: “I have sat
through two of your performances from beginning to end--the first time
I have done such a thing in years--and I have not only been interested
but impressed and delighted. You have begun well. Continue, and you are
sure of success in the end.” The words were of immense encouragement.
There followed a tour of the South. In contrast to the venture in the
state of her birth, Miss Anderson was successful everywhere. She grew
fond of the South and made in Washington and elsewhere several of those
friendships for which her career was noteworthy. There was a quality in
Mary Anderson that attracted and held the interest and affection of the
people best worth knowing. In Grant she found a modest simplicity which
she greatly liked; in Sherman, a hearty personality and an interest in
what directly interested her--the stage. General Sherman was a good
enough friend, indeed, to consider himself entitled to correct the
growing girl’s tendency to stoop, and her illegible handwriting.
Still in her ’teens, Mary Anderson was by now firmly established
in her chosen profession. The period just past had been full of
discouragements and difficulties, as well as triumphs. Plunging as she
did, without any training to speak of, at once into the impersonation
of leading parts was an ordeal bound to result in occasional failure.
She afterwards said that she would not wish her dearest enemy to
pass through the uncertainties and despondencies of these early
years--circumstances which she left out of account on that sleepless
night after seeing Booth in _Richelieu_. She had come through the San
Francisco ordeal, which was enough to crush the spirit of a girl of
seventeen. She still suffered from want of systematic training, she
was still painfully conscious of the crudities of her own work, and
she lacked even the experience of seeing others in the rôles in which
the public compared her with tried favorites. She had seen Charlotte
Cushman as Meg Merriles, but as for Juliet, Evadne and Bianca, her own
feelings had been almost her sole resource. Like that of Fanny Kemble
and Garrick, her novitiate, had, after all, been extraordinarily brief.
There followed extensive tours which took her throughout the South and
Middle West, to Canada and finally to the goal of American actors,
the larger Eastern cities, Philadelphia, Boston, New York. In New
York she profited by the expert advice of Dion Boucicault and William
Winter, and the friendship of her elders in the profession--Lawrence
Barrett, Edwin Booth, Joseph Jefferson and Clara Morris. In Boston she
formed another of her invaluable friendships--with Longfellow. The old
poet and the young girl-artist delighted in each other’s company and
after her engagement was over, they went several times to the opera
together. Her professional success in the Eastern cities was such that
she could now feel that the ordeal was passed--that she had attained
fame. Not that she was by any means universally admired and approved;
a part of the public and some of the critics were not won over. Such,
while admitting her beauty and her promise, suspected her success. It
was, they said, too triumphant, too easy. Yet the undoubted fact was
that she had won her public. The Boston engagement was unmistakably
successful and in New York she enjoyed a “run” of six weeks.[155]
When she was nineteen Mary Anderson went abroad, not to appear
professionally, but for a vacation. In England she went the round
of conventional sight-seeing, much like any other tourist, but
in Paris she saw something of the French theatre and its actors.
Herself accustomed to the broad effects in acting, she was at first
disappointed by the restraint and _finesse_ of the French method.
Bernhardt, then in her early prime, received her cordially, saw much of
her, and even invited her to play Juliet in Paris; but Miss Anderson,
commendably conscious of her own as yet imperfect technique, declined.
Now a privileged visiting artist behind the scenes of the _Comédie
Française_, she recalled the days, not many years before, when she
and her small brother felt so privileged when allowed to sit before
the curtain of the old theatre in Louisville. Ristori, another great
actress, was friendly to Miss Anderson; but her greatest pleasure she
found in the treasures of the Louvre.
She returned to America refreshed in spirit and broadened in outlook.
She was now in her twentieth year. One of the recognized stars of the
day, her name and her acting became increasingly familiar.[156] There
came invitations from various English managers to appear in London, but
Miss Anderson did not yet feel ready to face such a test of her powers.
She contented herself with starring tours which took her here and there
in the United States and Canada. The artistic success of these years
was a varying quantity. As we shall see, she never succeeded, in some
eyes, in attaining great heights. For herself, she felt that her work
had accomplished some good, that her dream of early girlhood was to a
degree fulfilled. One great satisfaction was that she was often assured
in letters from young men and women that her Ion or Evadne or Parthenia
had helped them over crises of despondency and temptation. It speaks
well for her nobility of nature that in such tributes she found her
most gratifying applause. She had no reason to be dissatisfied with her
measure of success. Yet stage life had already begun in some ways to be
distasteful to her. She disliked the constant travel; she sadly missed
the home comforts at the command of the humblest in her audiences; the
lack of ideals in those with whom she had to work was often a keen
disappointment; and above all she was acquiring a keen distaste for the
extreme publicity of stage life--the necessity of constantly submitting
herself to the public gaze. She began to long for the quiet of domestic
life, but the die was cast; it was too late to alter the tenor of her
life, and she bent all her energies toward success in a new opportunity
that presented itself.
This was an invitation that came when she was twenty-four, to act in
London, at Henry Irving’s own theatre, the Lyceum. Henry E. Abbey had
taken the house for eight months and relied upon Miss Anderson to keep
it open all that time--a formidable task for an American actress new
to London. She was extremely apprehensive as to the outcome. Arriving
in England in the summer of 1883, she passed some time quietly in the
country before going up to London. Rural England charmed and rested
her. At Stratford she studied her Shakespeare in Shakespeare’s own
house, and spent many happy hours in the scenes familiar to the poet
so long her idol. She arrived in London three months before the date
of her first appearance. She faced the greatest trial of her career
with a foreboding that was not decreased by seeing the great acting of
Irving and Terry. When she chose _Ingomar_ for the opening bill, she
heard predictions of failure on every hand--the play had not been seen
in London for years and was called old-fashioned and stilted. But Miss
Anderson had wisely followed the sound advice of William Winter in
choosing Parthenia for her first London part, as she thereby avoided
awkward and possibly unfriendly comparison with English favorites.
When the opening night came the thought that almost on the scene of
the triumphs of Siddons, Garrick and Kean she was to venture before a
strange audience, filled her with dread. She found in her dressing-room
flowers from actor friends and telegrams from Booth, McCullough,
Lawrence Barrett, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry and other cordial
well-wishers. When she made her first entrance she was greeted with the
longest and heartiest burst of applause that she had ever received.
The first scenes past, and her apprehension and despondency somewhat
allayed by such encouraging cordiality, her feelings made it difficult
for her to speak loudly. A kindly voice from the pit called out, “Mary,
please speak up a bit!” Her nervousness then fled, and by the time the
play was over it was plain that Mary Anderson had scored a brilliant
success. Her youth and beauty, her admirable vigor, and her eight years
of patient, hard-working acquirement of her art, had their reward. The
Lyceum was crowded nightly, and Mr. Abbey, who was prepared to close
the theatre in case the venture was a failure, kept it open for eight
months. There were a few weeks of _Ingomar_ and _The Lady of Lyons_
and then for the remaining time _Pygmalion and Galatea_. On one of the
first nights the Prince and Princess of Wales asked to be presented to
the actress.
During the first months of her stay in London she made her home--with
her mother and stepfather, who were with her constantly--in Maida
Vale, a secluded spot where she was free from intrusion and noise.
She made many quick expeditions to scenes made famous by Dickens, and
went again to Stratford. After a while, however, she moved to a larger
house in Kensington, and here London society, at its best, began to
find her out. As in America, the choicest spirits seemed naturally to
gravitate toward her. To her informal Sunday afternoon receptions came
artists, literary men, and statesmen. The “little bent figure with
its great kind heart” of the novelist Wilkie Collins became familiar;
Alma-Tadema, the artist, was another; W. S. Gilbert of Gilbert and
Sullivan, and author of _Pygmalion and Galatea_, naturally took a
personal interest in that play, and wrote for Miss Anderson a new
“curtain-raiser” for it, _Comedy and Tragedy_. Browning she frequently
met and he seemed to her more like one of the old-school Southern
gentlemen than a mystic poet. Either during this first season or the
next she numbered among her friends Mrs. Humphrey Ward, James Russell
Lowell, then American ambassador, Edmund Gosse, Lord Lytton, the artist
Watts, Gladstone, the novelist William Black, Cardinal Newman, and
Tennyson. She enjoyed to the full the art galleries of London, the
opportunities to hear the best music, and all the various activities
and interests which make London the capital of the English-speaking
world.
Mary Anderson’s success in London was duplicated when she appeared
elsewhere in the British Isles. She was enthusiastically received in
Edinburgh and in Manchester. In Dublin, the good-natured crowd every
night took the horses from her carriage and dragged it through the
streets, while those running alongside shouted “Hurrah for America!”
and “God bless our Mary!” It was in Dublin, too, that the ingenious
“gallery gods” sent baskets of flowers down to the stage over a rope.
_Romeo and Juliet_ was the play determined upon for the next season in
London. A trip to Verona in quest of local data and sketches was to
occupy the summer. “What!” exclaimed James Russell Lowell when he heard
of this, “going into that glorious country for the first time, and in
the flush of youth! I am selfish enough to envy you.” While visiting
in Paris Miss Anderson had a charming interview with Victor Hugo, who
proposed a reception in her honor. But she pressed on to Verona, and,
like many another before and since, found the old city irresistible.
The Mary Anderson production of _Romeo and Juliet_ at the Lyceum in
1884 was lavish. So much of her time indeed was taken by the details
of the preparation of scenery and other accessories that she had
scant opportunity for re-studying her own part. But her excellent
memory helped her immensely. Once, after _Ion_ had been dropped from
her repertoire for three or four years, she rehearsed her entire long
part without in the meantime reading it, and with hardly a mistake.
The circumstances of the dress rehearsal of this production of _Romeo
and Juliet_ show how far the stagecraft of the day had departed from
the Elizabethan custom. The scenes were so many and so elaborate that
though the rehearsal began at seven in the evening, at five in the
morning Romeo, Juliet and Friar Laurence were still waiting for the
last act to be set. At eight in the evening the public would be there.
Discouraged and weary, Miss Anderson could not sleep; when she came
to the theatre to face the “first nighters,” she was tired in mind
and body and unfit for her work. The strain of that performance was
nerve-racking. Yet the audience was unaware that Juliet had all she
could do to get through her lines, and the cumbersome scenery was
set with amazing rapidity. The play was over at half after eleven, a
great success; yet to the actress herself her work that night was more
painfully unsatisfactory than any other she ever did. But she was hard
to please where her own impersonations were concerned. In her fourteen
years before the public, she was satisfied with her acting only once as
Bianca, once as Ion, never as Perdita and only once as Hermione. _Romeo
and Juliet_ ran, however, for a hundred nights. Mary Anderson became
so imbued with the sufferings of Juliet that she continually spoke of
them in her sleep. It is typical of her that, profoundly dissatisfied
with her impersonation, she constantly restudied and remodeled it until
she liked it better. The brother Joe, who used to gaze with Mary on
the green curtain of the Louisville Theatre, was the Tybalt of this
production.
At this time (1885) it was proposed that Mary Anderson play _As You
Like It_ in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford, and she
gladly accepted. She had never played Rosalind, and she studied the
character carefully. The occasion aroused great interest, and the
usually placid village was a gay place. The journalists were there
from London, people came from far and near for the play, the stage was
decorated with flowers from Shakespeare’s own garden. The audience was
distinguished and appreciative. The dean of American critics, William
Winter, was present, and, in his words, “It was for her [Miss Anderson]
that the audience reserved its enthusiasm, and this, when at length she
appeared as Rosalind, burst forth in vociferous plaudits and cheers, so
that it was long before the familiar voice, so copious, resonant, and
tender, rolled out its music upon the eager throng and her action could
proceed. Before the night ended she was continually cheered.” After
a provincial tour ending in Dublin, where her admirers gathered in
thousands under her window and sang _Come Back to Erin_, Miss Anderson
in September, 1885, returned to her own country after an absence of two
years.
The accounts that preceded her of the remarkable scene that took
place in the Lyceum on her last night in London added interest to her
reappearance in America. One who was present that night wrote: “During
the evening it was manifest from the fervor of the applause with which
she was favored during the performance of _Pygmalion and Galatea_ and
_Comedy and Tragedy_ that the audience was exceptionally sympathetic,
but no idea of the scenes which followed the descent of the curtain
even entered the wildest dreams of any one present. The audience had
been all the evening quivering with emotion. As the curtain fell Miss
Anderson was loudly called for, and after the storm of applause which
greeted her presence had subsided to some extent, the lady, who was
transfigured with the excitement of the moment, said: ‘Ladies and
gentlemen--the dreaded last night has come--dreaded at least by me.
I have to part with you who have been so kind to me. The delight I
naturally feel at the prospect of returning to my native country is
tempered with a great regret, saddened by the thought that I must leave
you. I little imagined when I came before you for the first time, a
stranger feeling very helpless, tremblingly wondering what your verdict
on my poor efforts would be, how soon I should find friends among
you or what pain it would cost me to say, as I must say to-night,
“good-bye” to you. You have been very, very good. I have tried hard
to deserve your goodness. Please do not quite forget me. I can never
forget you or your goodness to me. I hope I am not saying good-bye to
you forever. I want to come back to you. [Tumultuous applause and cries
of ‘Do! Do!’ ‘Why leave at all?’] Dare I hope you will be a little glad
to see me. [Loud cries ‘We will!’ ‘Yes!’ etc.] I shall be very glad
to see you. [Immense cheers.] Until I do, good-bye. I thank you again
and again.’ At the conclusion of the speech the cheering and applause
continued without interruption until Miss Anderson--down whose cheeks
tears were pouring--had again come eight times before the curtain.
The audience, which by this time was on its feet in every part of the
house, and wildly waving handkerchiefs and hats, seemed struck by one
thought, and the first strain of _Auld Lang Syne_ seemed to burst
simultaneously from stalls and gallery. People who had never met before
seized and wrung each other’s hands. Ladies wept and flourished their
handkerchiefs hysterically. It is impossible to describe the scene.
When I tell you that it lasted for fully half an hour, you will get an
idea of what the Englishman, whom you Yankees call phlegmatic, can do
in the way of enthusiasm when you touch his heart. It was an ovation
which might have affected a monarch.”
The American tour that followed, in the season of 1885–6, took Miss
Anderson and her company (the custom by now was that of the traveling
organization) not only to New York, Boston, and the other cities in
the East and South, but to the Pacific coast. New York did not take to
_As You Like It_, but _Romeo and Juliet_ was a brilliant success. A
public reception in Sacramento proved the affection for Mary Anderson
of the city of her birth, but, strange to say, in the single night
she played there, the people of Sacramento provided her with only a
meagre audience. In San Francisco the warmth of her reception was very
different from the crushing disappointment she experienced there a
dozen years before.
Now came an entire year of rest. Offers to play in Spain, Germany,
France and Australia were refused. The glamour of stage life was
a thing of the past with Mary Anderson. By no means blind to the
artistic possibilities of the drama, and with still a high faith in
its moral function, a stage life for herself was becoming more and
more repugnant. She felt the need of calm, of normal life away from
the glare of the footlights. The winter of 1886–7 she spent in Paris,
in general study and particularly with her French and music. It is
characteristic of her that with a chance for recreation and social
life, and with all her triumphs behind her, she still sought to mend an
education she knew to be faulty.
The Lyceum in London was engaged for the following year (1887–8).
After casting about for some time for a suitable new play,[157] she
again fell back on Shakespeare and decided to give _The Winter’s Tale_,
“doubling” Perdita and Hermione--that is, playing both parts. It was
not an easy task. To Tennyson she mentioned her fear that the critics
would not receive the venture well. His reply was: “Thank God the time
is past for the _Quarterly_ or the _Times_ to make or mar a poem, play
or artist! Few original things are well received at first. People
must grow accustomed to what is out of the common before adopting
it. Your idea, if carried out as you feel it, will be well received
generally--and before long.”
_The Winter’s Tale_ was not enthusiastically received on its first
night. But if it was not at once a critical success, it was a popular
one, for it ran a hundred and sixty-four nights and could have
continued longer. This was the only time that Mary Anderson acted the
same play throughout a season. It is worth mentioning that the Leontes
of this production was J. Forbes-Robertson.[158]
It was during this London engagement that Miss Anderson saw much of
Tennyson. She visited him in his Surrey home, and on the Isle of Wight;
she joined him in long walks, rain or shine, in the country; he read
and talked to her for hours together at his own fireside. He prepared
for her a play _The Foresters_, a version of his pastoral _Robin
Hood_, and they visited the New Forest together in search of ideas for
scenery; but the play she never produced.