[19th Century Actor] AUTOBIOGRAPHY(十九世纪男演员自传)

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Edited by GEORGE ILES

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

PREFACE

A good play gives us in miniature a cross-section of life, heightened by

plot and characterisation, by witty and compact dialogue. Of course we

should honour first the playwright, who has given form to each well knit

act and telling scene. But that worthy man, perhaps at this moment

sipping his coffee at the Authors' Club, gave his drama its form only; its

substance is created by the men and women who, with sympathy,

intelligence and grace, embody with convincing power the hero and

heroine, assassin and accomplice, lover and jilt. For the success of many

a play their writers would be quick to acknowledge a further and initial

debt, both in suggestion and criticism, to the artists who know from

experience on the boards that deeds should he done, not talked about, that

action is cardinal, with no other words than naturally spring from action.

Players, too, not seldom remind authors that every incident should not

only be interesting in itself, but take the play a stride forward through the

entanglement and unravelling of its plot. It is altogether probable that the

heights to which Shakespeare rose as a dramatist were due in a measure to

his knowledge of how a comedy, or a tragedy, appears behind as well as in

front of the footlights, all in an atmosphere quite other than that

surrounding a poet at his desk.

This little volume begins with part of the life story of Joseph Jefferson,

chief of American comedians. Then we are privileged to read a few

personal letters from Edwin Booth, the acknowledged king of the tragic

stage. He is followed by the queen in the same dramatic realm, Charlotte

Cushman. Next are two chapters by the first emotional actress of her day

in America, Clara Morris. When she bows her adieu, Sir Henry Irving

comes upon the platform instead of the stage, and in the course of his

thoughtful discourse makes it plain how he won renown both as an actor

and a manager. He is followed by his son, Mr. Henry Brodribb Irving,

clearly an heir to his father's talents in art and in observation. Miss Ellen

Terry, long Sir Henry Irving's leading lady, now tells us how she came to

join his company, and what she thinks of Sir Henry Irving in his principal

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

roles. The succeeding word comes from Richard Mansfield, whose

untimely death is mourned by every lover of the drama. The next pages

are from the hand of Tommaso Salvini, admittedly the greatest Othello and

Samson that ever trod the boards. A few words, in closing, are from

Adelaide Ristori, whose Medea, Myrrha and Phaedra are among the great

traditions of the modern stage. From first to last this little book sheds

light on the severe toil demanded for excellence on the stage, and reveals

that for the highest success of a drama, author and artist must work hand

in hand.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

JOSEPH JEFFERSON

HOW I CAME TO PLAY RIP VAN WINKLE

The hope of entering the race for dramatic fame as an individual and

single attraction never came into my head until, in 1858, I acted Asa

Trenchard in "Our American Cousin"; but as the curtain descended the

first night on that remarkably successful play, visions of large type, foreign

countries, and increased remuneration floated before me, and I resolved to

be a star if I could. A resolution to this effect is easily made; its

accomplishment is quite another matter.

Art has always been my sweetheart, and I have loved her for herself

alone. I had fancied that our affection was mutual, so that when I failed

as a star, which I certainly did, I thought she had jilted me. Not so. I

wronged her. She only reminded me that I had taken too great a liberty,

and that if I expected to win her I must press my suit with more patience.

Checked, but undaunted in the resolve, my mind dwelt upon my vision,

and I still indulged in day-dreams of the future.

During these delightful reveries it came up before me that in acting

Asa Trenchard I had, for the first time in my life on the stage, spoken a

pathetic speech; and though I did not look at the audience during the time I

was acting--for that is dreadful--I felt that they both laughed and cried. I

had before this often made my audience smile, but never until now had I

moved them to tears. This to me novel accomplishment was delightful,

and in casting about for a new character my mind was ever dwelling on

reproducing an effect where humour would be so closely allied to pathos

that smiles and tears should mingle with each other. Where could I get

one? There had been many written, and as I looked back into the

dramatic history of the past a long line of lovely ghosts loomed up before

me, passing as in a procession: Job Thornberry, Bob Tyke, Frank Ostland,

Zekiel Homespun, and a host of departed heroes "with martial stalk went

by my watch." Charming fellows all, but not for me, I felt I could not do

them justice. Besides, they were too human. I was looking for a myth--

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

something intangible and impossible. But he would not come. Time

went on, and still with no result,

During the summer of 1859 I arranged to board with my family at a

queer old Dutch farmhouse in Paradise Valley, at the foot of Pocono

Mountain, in Pennsylvania. A ridge of hills covered with tall hemlocks

surrounds the vale, and numerous trout-streams wind through the

meadows and tumble over the rocks. Stray farms are scattered through

the valley, and the few old Dutchmen and their families who till the soil

were born upon it; there and only there they have ever lived. The valley

harmonised with me and our resources. The scene was wild, the air was

fresh, and the board was cheap. What could the light heart and purse of a

poor actor ask for more than this?

On one of those long rainy days that always render the country so dull

I had climbed to the loft of the barn, and lying upon the hay was reading

that delightful book "The Life and Letters of Washington Irving." I had

gotten well into the volume, and was much interested in it, when to my

surprise I came upon a passage which said that he had seen me at Laura

Keene's theater as Goldfinch in Holcroft's comedy of "The Road to Ruin,"

and that I reminded him of my father "in look, gesture, size, and make."

Till then I was not aware that he had ever seen me. I was comparatively

obscure, and to find myself remembered and written of by such a man

gave me a thrill of pleasure I can never forget. I put down the book, and

lay there thinking how proud I was, and ought to be, at the revelation of

this compliment. What an incentive to a youngster like me to go on.

And so I thought to myself, "Washington Irving, the author of 'The

Sketch-Book,' in which is the quaint story of Rip Van Winkle." Rip Van

Winkle! There was to me magic in the sound of the name as I repeated it.

Why, was not this the very character I wanted? An Ameri can story by an

American author was surely just the theme suited to an American actor.

In ten minutes I had gone to the house and returned to the barn with

"The Sketch-Book." I had not read the story since I was a boy. I was

disappointed with it; not as a story, of course, but the tale was purely a

narrative. The theme was interesting, but not dramatic. The silver

Hudson stretches out before you as you read, the quaint red roofs and

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

queer gables of the old Dutch cottages stand out against the mist upon the

mountains; but all this is descriptive. The character of Rip does not

speak ten lines. What could be done dramatically with so simple a sketch?

How could it he turned into an effective play?

Three or four bad dramatisations of the story had already been acted,

but without marked success, Yates of London had given one in which the

hero dies, one had been acted by my father, one by Hackett, and another

by Burke. Some of these versions I had remembered when I was a boy,

and I should say that Burke's play and performance were the best, but

nothing that I remembered gave me the slightest encouragement that I

could get a good play out of any of the existing materials. Still I was so

bent upon acting the part that I started for the city, and in less than a week,

by industriously ransacking the theatrical wardrobe establishments for old

leather and mildewed cloth and by personally superintending the making

of the wigs, each article of my costume was completed; and all this, too,

before I had written a line of the play or studied a word of the part.

This is working in an opposite direction from all the conventional

methods in the study and elaboration of a dramatic character, and certainly

not following the course I would advise any one to pursue. I merely

mention the out-of-the-way, upside-down manner of going to work as an

illustration of the impatience and enthusiasm with which I entered upon

the task, I can only account for my getting the dress ready before I studied

the part to the vain desire I had of witnessing myself in the glass, decked

out and equipped as the hero of the Catskills.

I got together the three old printed versions of the drama and the story

itself. The plays were all in two acts. I thought it would be an

improvement in the drama to arrange it in three, making the scene with the

spectre crew an act by itself. This would separate the poetical from the

domestic side of the story. But by far the most important alteration was

in the interview with the spirits. In the old versions they spoke and sang.

I remembered that the effect of this ghostly dialogue was dreadfully

human, so I arranged that no voice but Rip's should be heard. This is the

only act on the stage in which but one person speaks while all the others

merely gesticulate, and I was quite sure that the silence of the crew would

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

give a lonely and desolate character to the scene and add its to

supernatural weirdness. By this means, too, a strong contrast with the

single voice of Rip was obtained by the deathlike stillness of the "demons"

as they glided about the stage in solemn silence. It required some

thought to hit upon just the best questions that could be answered by a nod

and shake of the head, and to arrange that at times even Rip should

propound a query to himself and answer it; but I had availed myself of so

much of the old material that in a few days after I had begun my work it

was finished.

In the seclusion of the barn I studied and rehearsed the part, and by the

end of summer I was prepared to transplant it from the rustic realms of an

old farmhouse to a cosmopolitan audience in the city of Washington,

where I opened at Carusi's Hall under the management of John T.

Raymond. I had gone over the play so thoroughly that each situation was

fairly engraved on my mind. The rehearsals were therefore not tedious to

the actors; no one was delayed that I might consider how he or she should

be disposed in the scene. I had by repeated experiments so saturated

myself with the action of the play that a few days seemed to perfect the

rehearsals. I acted on these occasions with all the point and feeling that I

could muster. This answered the double purpose of giving me freedom

and of observing the effect of what I was doing on the actors. They

seemed to be watching me closely, and I could tell by little nods of

approval where and when the points hit.

I became each day more and more interested in the work; there was in

the subject and the part much scope for novel and fanciful treatment. If the

sleep of twenty years was merely incongruous, there would be room for

argument pro and con; but as it is an impossibility, I felt that the audience

would accept it at once, not because it was an impossibility, but from a

desire to know in what condition a man's mind would be if such an event

could happen. Would he be thus changed? His identity being denied

both by strangers, friends, and family, would he at last almost accept the

verdict and exclaim, "Then I am dead, and that is a fact?" This was the

strange and original attitude of the character that attracted me.

In acting such a part what to do was simple enough, but what not to do

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

was the important and difficult point to determine. As the earlier scenes

of the play were of a natural and domestic character, I had only to draw

upon my experience for their effect, or employ such conventional methods

as myself and others had used before in characters of that ilk. But from

the moment Rip meets the spirits of Hendrik Hudson and his crew I felt

that all colloquial dialogue and commonplace pantomime should cease.

It is at this point in the story that the supernatural element begins, and

henceforth the character must be raised from the domestic plane and lifted

into the realms of the ideal.

To be brief, the play was acted with a result that was to me both

satisfactory and disappointing. I was quite sure that the character was

what I had been seeking, and I was equally satisfied that the play was not.

The action had neither the body nor the strength to carry the hero; the

spiritual quality was there, but the human interest was wanting. The final

alterations and additions were made five years later by Dion Boucicault.

"Rip Van Winkle" was not a sudden success. It did not burst upon the

public like a torrent. Its flow was gradual, and its source sprang from the

Hartz Mountains, an old German legend, called "Carl the Shepherd,"

being the name of the original story. The genius of Washington Irving

transplanted the tale to our own Catskills. The grace with which he

paints the scene, and, still more, the quaintness of the story, placed it far

above the original. Yates, Hackett, and Burke had separate dramas

written upon this scene and acted the hero, leaving their traditions one to

the other. I now came forth, and saying, "Give me leave," set to work,

using some of the before-mentioned tradition, mark you. Added to this,

Dion Boucicault brought his dramatic skill to bear, and by important

additions made a better play and a more interesting character of the hero

than had as yet been reached. This adaptation, in my turn, I interpreted

and enlarged upon. It is thus evident that while I may have done much to

render the character and the play popular, it has not been the work of one

mind, but both as its to narrative and its dramatic form has been often

moulded, and by many skilful hands. So it would seem that those

dramatic successes that "come like shadows, so depart," and those that are

lasting, have ability for their foundation and industry for their

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

superstructure. I speak now of the former and the present condition of

the drama. What the future may bring forth it is difficult to determine.

The histrionic kaleidoscope revolves more rapidly than of yore and the

fantastic shapes that it exhibits are brilliant and confusing; but under all

circumstances I should be loath to believe that any conditions will render

the appearance of frivolous novices more potent than the earnest design of

legitimate professors.

THE ART OF ACTING

Acting has been so much a part of my life that my autobiography

could scarcely be written without jotting down my reflections upon it, and

I merely make this little preparatory explanation to apologise for any

dogmatic tone that they may possess, and to say that I present them merely

as a seeker after truth in the domain of art.

In admitting the analogy that undoubtedly exists between the arts of

painting, poetry, music, and acting, it should be remembered that the first

three are opposed to the last, in at least the one quality of permanence.

The picture, oratorio, or book must bear the test of calculating criticism,

whereas the work of an actor is fleeting: it not only dies with him, but,

through his different moods, may vary from night to night. If the

performance be indifferent it is no consolation for the audience to hear that

the player acted well last night, or to be told that he will act better to-

morrow night; it is this night that the public has to deal with, and the

impression the actor has made, good or bad, remains as such upon the

mind of that particular audience.

The author, painter, or musician, if he be dissatisfied with his work,

may alter and perfect it before giving it publicity, but an actor cannot rub

out; he ought, therefore, in justice to his audience, to be sure of what he is

going to place before it. Should a picture in an art gallery be carelessly

painted we can pass on to another, or if a book fails to please us we can

put it down. An escape from this kind of dulness is easily made, but in a

theatre the auditor is imprisoned. If the acting be indifferent, he must

endure it, at least for a time. He cannot withdraw without making himself

conspicuous; so he remains, hoping that there may be some improvement

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

as the play proceeds, or perhaps from consideration for the company he is

in. It is this helpless condition that renders careless acting so offensive.

PREPARATION AND INSPIRATION

I have seen impulsive actors who were so confident of their power that

they left all to chance. This is a dangerous course, especially when

acting a new character. I will admit that there are many instances where

great effects have been produced that were entirely spontaneous, and were

as much a surprise to the actors who made them as they were to the

audience who witnessed them; but just as individuals who have exuberant

spirits are at times dreadfully depressed, so when an impulsive actor fails

to receive his inspiration he is dull indeed, and is the more disappointing

because of his former brilliant achievements.

In the stage management of a play, or in the acting of a part, nothing

should be left to chance, and for the reason that spontaneity, inspiration, or

whatever the strange and delightful quality may be called, is not to be

commanded, or we should give it some other name. It is, therefore, better

that a clear and unmistakable outline of a character should be drawn

before an actor undertakes a new part. If he has a well-ordered and an

artistic mind it is likely that he will give at least a symmetrical and

effective performance; but should he make no definite arrangement, and

depend upon our ghostly friends Spontaneity and Inspiration to pay him a

visit, and should they decline to call, the actor will be in a maze and his

audience in a muddle.

Besides, why not prepare to receive our mysterious friends whether

they come or not? If they fail on such an invitation, we can at least

entertain our other guests without them, and if they do appear, our

preconceived arrangements will give them a better welcome and put them

more at ease.

Acting under these purely artificial conditions will necessarily be cold,

but the care with which the part is given will at least render it inoffensive;

they are, therefore, primary considerations, and not to be despised. The

exhibition, however, of artistic care does not alone constitute great acting.

The inspired warmth of passion in tragedy and the sudden glow of humour

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY1AUTOBIOGRAPHYEditedbyGEORGEILESAUTOBIOGRAPHY2PREFACEAgoodplaygivesusinminiatureacross-sectionoflife,heightenedbyplotandcharacterisation,bywittyandcompactdialogue.Ofcourseweshouldhonourfirsttheplaywright,whohasgivenformtoeachwellknitactandtellingscene.Butthatworthyman,perhapsatthismomen...

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[19th Century Actor] AUTOBIOGRAPHY(十九世纪男演员自传)

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