LITMIR.BIZ

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New York, which the great author himself thought an excellent portrait; medallions of Émile Devrient and John Herchell (the latter a gift from Herchell’s daughter); and a sketch of a favorite Scotch terrier (very well known to his friends as “Charlie”), which during the last year or two has become his most constant companion at home and at the theatre. The adjoining room continues the collection of the actor’s art treasures—not the mere connoisseur’s museum of articles of virtu, but things which have a personal value and a special history associated with the art their owner loves.

      It is a frank smile that greets us as the actor enters and extends his long, thin hand. I know no one whose hand is so suggestive of nervous energy and artistic capacity as Irving’s. It is in perfect harmony with the long, expressive face, the notably æsthetic figure!

      “You want to talk shop,” he says, striding about the room, with his hands in the pockets of his loose gray coat. “Well, with all my heart, if you think it useful and interesting.”

      “I do.”

      “May I select the subject?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then I would like to go back to one we touched upon at your own suggestion some months ago.”

      “An actor on his audiences?”

      “Yes. The subject is a good one; it interests me, and in that brief anonymous newspaper sketch of a year ago you did little more than indicate the points we discussed. Let us see if we cannot revive and complete it.”

      “Agreed. I will ‘interview’ you, then, as they say in America.”

      “By all means,” replied my host, handing me a cigar, and settling himself down in an easy-chair by the fire. “I am ready.”

      “Well, then, as I think I have said before when on this subject, there has always appeared to me something phenomenal in the mutual understanding that exists between you and your audiences; it argues an active sympathy and confidence on both sides.”

      “That is exactly what I think exists. In presence of my audience I feel as safe and contented as when sitting down with an old friend.”

      “I have seen Lord Beaconsfield, when he was Mr. Disraeli, rise in the House of Commons, and begin a speech in a vein and manner evidently considered beforehand, which, proving at the moment out of harmony with the feelings of the house, he has entirely altered from his original idea to suit the immediate mood and temper of his audience. Now, sympathetic as you are with your audience, have you, under their influence in the development of a new character, ever altered your first idea during the course of the representation?”

      “You open up an interesting train of thought,” he answered. “Except once, I have never altered my original idea under the circumstances you suggest; that was in ‘Vanderdecken,’ and I changed the last scene. I can always tell when the audience is with me. It was not with me in ‘Vanderdecken’; neither was it entirely on the first night of ‘Hamlet,’ which is, perhaps, curious, considering my subsequent success. On the first night I felt that the audience did not go with me until the first meeting with Ophelia, when they changed toward me entirely. But as night succeeded night, my Hamlet grew in their estimation. I could feel it all the time, and now I know that they like it—that they are with me heart and soul. I will tell you a curious thing about my ‘Hamlet’ audience. It is the most interesting audience I play to. For any other piece there is a difficulty in getting the people seated by half-past eight. For ‘Hamlet’ the house is full and quiet, and waiting for the curtain to go up, by half-past seven. On the first night the curtain dropped at a quarter to one.”

      “In what part do you feel most at home with your audience, and most certain of them?”

      “Well, in Hamlet,” he replied, thoughtfully.

      “Has that been your greatest pecuniary success?”

      “Yes.”

      “What were the two unprecedented runs of ‘Hamlet’?”

      “The first was two hundred nights; the second, one hundred and seven; and in the country I have often played it ten times out of a twelve nights’ engagement. But, as we have moved into this line of thought about audiences, it should be remembered that, with the exception of two or three performances, I had never played Hamlet before that first night at the Lyceum. Indeed, so far as regards what is called the classic and legitimate drama, my successes, such as they were, had been made outside it, really in eccentric comedy. As a rule, actors who have appeared for the first time in London in such parts as Richard III., Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello, have played them previously for years in the country; and here comes a point about my audiences. They knew this, and I am sure they estimated the performance accordingly, giving me their special sympathy and good wishes. I believe in the justice of audiences. They are sincere and hearty in their approval of what they like, and have the greatest hand in making an actor’s reputation. Journalistic power cannot be overvalued; it is enormous; but, in regard to actors, it is a remarkable fact that their permanent reputations, the final and lasting verdict of their merits, are made chiefly by their audiences. Sometimes the true record comes after the players are dead, and it is sometimes written by men who possibly never saw them. Edmund Kean’s may be called a posthumous reputation. If you read the newspapers of the time you will find that during his acting days he was terribly mauled. Garrick’s impersonations were not much written about in his day. As to Burbage, Betterton, and other famous actors of their time, whose names are familiar to us, when they lived there were practically no newspapers to chronicle their work.”

      “You believe, then, that merit eventually makes its mark, in spite of professional criticism, and that, like Masonic rituals, the story of success, its form and pressure, may go down orally to posterity?”

      “I believe that what audiences really like they stand by. I believe they hand down the actor’s name to future generations. They are the judge and jury who find the verdict and pronounce sentence. I will give you an example in keeping with the rapid age in which we live. I am quite certain that within twelve hours of the production of a new play of any importance all London knows whether the piece is a success or a failure, no matter whether the journals have criticised it or not. Each person in the audience is the centre of a little community, and the word is passed on from one to the other.”

      “What is your feeling in regard to first-night audiences, apart from the regular play-going public? I should imagine that the sensitive nature of a true artist must be considerably jarred by the knowledge that a first-night audience is peculiarly fastidious and sophisticated.”

      “I confess I am happier in presence of what you call the regular play-going public. I am apt to become depressed on a first night. Some of my friends and fellow-artists are stimulated and excited by a sense of opposition. I fear it lowers me. I know that while there is a good, hearty crowd who have come to be pleased, there are some who have not come to be pleased. God help us if we were in the hands of the few who, from personal or other motives, come to the theatre in the hope of seeing a failure, and who pour out their malice and spite in anonymous letters!”

      “Detraction and malicious opposition are among the penalties of success. To be on a higher platform than your fellows is to be a mark for envy and slander,” I answered, dropping, I fear, into platitude, which my host cut short with a shrug of the shoulders and a rapid stride across the room.

      He handed to me a book, handsomely bound and with broad margins, through which ran a ripple of old-faced type, evidently the work of an author and a handicraftsman who love the memories both of Caxton and his immediate successors. It was entitled “Notes on Louis XI.; with some short extracts from Commines’ Memoirs,” and was dated “London, 1878—printed for the author.”

      “That book,” said my host, “was sent to me by a person I had then never seen nor heard of. It came to me anonymously. I wished to have a second copy of it, and sent to the printer with the purpose of obtaining it. He replied by telling me the work was not for sale, and referring me to the author, whose address he

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