Part 10

Unless Aldabella is irresistibly lovely, as well as wicked, there is no accounting for the conduct of Fazio. My own idea of her, as well as Milman's description, is every thing that can be conceived of splendid in beauty, sparkling in wit, graceful in deportment, gorgeous in apparel, and deep and dangerous in crafty wiliness; in short, the old serpent in the shape of Mrs. ----. I wish Mrs. ---- would act that part: I could act it well enough, but she would both act and look it, to the very life. After rehearsal, walked about the town in quest of some _coques de perle_ for my Bianca dress: could not procure any. I like this town extremely: there is a look of comfort and cleanliness, and withal of age about it, which pleases me. It is quieter, too, than New York, and though not so gay, for that very reason is more to my fancy; the shops, too, have a far better appearance. New York always gave me the idea of an irregular collection of temporary buildings, erected for some casual purpose, full of life, animation, and variety, but not meant to endure for any length of time; a fair, in short. This place has a much more substantial, sober, and city-like appearance. Came home at half-past two. In the hall met Mr. ----, who is grown ten years younger since I saw him last: it always delights me to see one of my fellow-passengers, and I am much disappointed in not finding ---- here. Dined at three; after dinner, read my father some of my journal; went on with letter to ----, and then went and dressed myself. Took coffee, and adjourned to the theatre. The house was very full, but not so full as the Park on the first night of his acting in New York, which accounts for the greater stillness of the audience. I watched my father narrowly through his part to-night with great attention and some consequent fatigue, and the conclusion I have come to is this: that though his workmanship may be, and is, far finer _in the hand_ than that of any other artist I ever saw, yet its very minute accuracy and refinement renders it unfit for the frame in which it is exhibited. Whoever should paint a scene calculated for so large a space as a theatre, and destined to be viewed at the distance from which an audience beholds it, with the laborious finish and fine detail of a miniature, would commit a great error in judgment. Nor would he have the least right to complain, although the public should prefer the coarser yet far more effective work of a painter, who, neglecting all refinement and niceness of execution, should merely paint with such full colouring, and breadth and boldness of touch, as to produce in the wide space he is called upon to fill, and upon the remote senses he appeals to, the _effect_ of that which he intends to represent. Indeed he is the better artist of the two, though probably not the most intellectual man. For it is the part of such a one to know exactly what will best convey to the mass of mind and feeling to which he addresses himself the emotions and passions which he wishes them to experience.[36] Now the great beauty of all my father's performances, but particularly of Hamlet, is a wonderful accuracy in the detail of the character which he represents; an accuracy which modulates the emphasis of every word, the nature of every gesture, the expression of every look; and which renders the whole a most laborious and minute study, toilsome in the conception and acquirement, and most toilsome in the execution. But the result, though the natural one, is not such as he expects, as the reward of so much labour. Few persons are able to follow such a performance with the necessary attention, and it is almost as great an exertion to see it _understandingly_, as to act it. The amazing study of it requires a study in those who are to appreciate it, and, as I take it, this is far from being what the majority of spectators are either capable or desirous of doing; the actor loses his pains, and they have but little pleasure. Those who perform, and those who behold a play, have but a certain proportion of power of exciting, and capability of being excited. If, therefore, the actor expends his power of exciting, and his audience's power of being excited, upon the detail of the piece, and continues through five whole acts to draw from both, the main and striking points, those of strongest appeal, those calculated most to rouse at once, and gratify the emotions of the spectator, have not the same intensity or vigour that they would have had, if the powers of both actor and audience had been reserved to give them their fullest effect. A picture requires light and shadow; and the very relief that throws some of the figures in a fine painting into apparent obscurity, in reality enhances the effect produced by those over which the artist has shed a stronger light. Every note in the most expressive song does not require a peculiar expression; and an air sung with individual emphasis on each note would be utterly unproductive of the desired effect. All things cannot have all their component parts equal, and "nothing pleaseth but rare accidents." This being so, I think that acting the best which skilfully husbands the actor's and spectator's powers, and puts forth the whole of the one, to call forth the whole of the other, occasionally only; leaving the intermediate parts sufficiently level, to allow him and them to recover the capability of again producing, and again receiving, such impressions. It is constant that our finest nerves deaden and dull from over-excitement, and require repose, before they regain their acute power of sensation. At the same time, I am far from advocating that most imperfect conception and embodying of a part which Kean allows himself: literally acting detached passages alone, and leaving all the others, and the entire character, indeed, utterly destitute of unity, or the semblance of any consistency whatever. But Kean and my father are immediately each other's antipodes, and, in adopting their different styles of acting, it is evident that each has been guided as much by his own physical and intellectual individuality, as by any fixed principle of art. The one, Kean, possesses particular physical qualifications; an eye like an orb of light, a voice, exquisitely touching and melodious in its tenderness, and in the harsh dissonance of vehement passion terribly true; to these he adds the intellectual ones of vigour, intensity, amazing power of concentrating effect; these give him an entire mastery over his audience in all striking, sudden, impassioned passages, in fulfilling which he has contented himself, leaving unheeded what he probably could not compass, the unity of conception, the refinement of detail, and evenness of execution.[37] My father possesses certain physical defects, a faintness of colouring in the face and eye, a weakness of voice; and the corresponding intellectual deficiencies, a want of intensity, vigour, and concentrating power: these circumstances have led him (probably unconsciously) to give his attention and study to the finer and more fleeting shades of character, the more graceful and delicate manifestations of feeling, the exquisite variety of all minor parts, the classic keeping of a highly-wrought whole; to all these, polished and refined tastes, an acute sense of the beauty of harmonious proportions, and a native grace, gentleness, and refinement of mind and manner, have been his prompters; but they cannot inspire those startling and tremendous bursts of passion, which belong to the highest walks of tragedy, and to which he never gave their fullest expression. I fancy my aunt Siddons united the excellences of both these styles. But to return to my father's Hamlet: every time I see it, something strikes me afresh in the detail. Nothing in my mind can exceed the exquisite beauty of his last "Go on--I follow thee," to the ghost. The full gush of deep and tender faith, in spite of the awful mystery, to whose unfolding he is committing his life, is beautiful beyond measure. It is distinct, and wholly different from the noble, rational, philosophic conviction, "And for my soul, what can it do to that?" It is full of the unutterable fondness of a believing heart, and brought to my mind, last night, those holy and lovely words of scripture, "Perfect love casteth out fear:" it enchanted me.[38] There is one thing in which I do not believe my father ever has been, or ever will be, excelled; his high and noble bearing, his gallant, graceful, courteous deportment; his perfect good-breeding on the stage; unmarked alike by any peculiarity of time, place, or self (except peculiar grace and beauty). He appears to me the beau ideal of the courtly, thorough-bred, chivalrous gentleman, from the days of the admirable Crichton down to those of George the Fourth. Coming home after the play, the marble buildings in the full moonlight reminded me of the Ghost in Hamlet: they looked like pale majestic spirits, cold, calm, and colourless.

_Thursday, 11th._

Rose rather late. After breakfast, wrote journal; at twelve, went to rehearsal.

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After rehearsal, came home, habited, and went to the riding-school to try some horses. _Merci de moi!_ what quadrupeds! How they did wallop and shamble about; poor half-broken dumb brutes! they know no better; and as the natives here are quite satisfied with their shuffling, rollicking, mongrel pace, half trot, half canter, why it is not worth while to break horses in a christian-like fashion for them.[39] I found something that I think my father can ride with tolerable comfort, but must go again to-morrow and see after something for myself. Came home: the enchanting Mr. Head has allowed me a piano-forte; but in bringing it into the room, the stupid slave broke one of its legs off, whereat I was like to faint, for I thought Mr. Head would wish me hanged therefor. Nothing can exceed the civility of the people here, and the house is extremely well kept, quiet, and comfortable. Came home in high delight with this Quaker city, which is indeed very pretty and pleasant. Played on the piano: dressed for dinner. After dinner, practised till tea-time, finished journal, discussed metaphysics with D----, for which I am a fool; wrote to-day's journal, and now to bed. I have a dreadful cold and cough, and have done nothing but hack and snivel the whole day long: this is a bad preparation for to-morrow's work. Howsoever----

_Friday, 12th._

Rose at eight. After breakfast, sat writing journal and letter to ----. At half-past eleven, went to rehearsal. Afterwards walked down to the riding-school with my father. The horse I was to look at had not arrived; but my father saw the grey. We were there for some time; and during that whole some time a tall, thin, unhappy-looking gentleman, who had gotten up upon a great hulking rawboned horse, kept trotting round and round, with his legs dangling down, _sans_ stirrups, at the rate of a mile and a quarter an hour; occasionally ejaculating in the mildest of tones, "keome--keome up;" whereat the lively brute, nothing persuaded, proceeded in the very same pace, at the very same rate; and this went on till I wondered at the man and the beast. Came home and put out things for the theatre. My cold and cough are dreadful. After dinner, practised: invented and executed a substitute for the _coques de perle_ in my Bianca dress; and lay down to rest a little before my work. At six, went to the theatre: the house was very full; and D---- and my father say that I was extremely ungracious in my acknowledgment of their greeting. I cannot tell; I did not mean to be so; I made them three courtesies, and what could woman do more? Of course, I can neither feel nor look so glad to see them as I am to see my own dear London people: neither can I be as profound in my obeisance, as when my audience is civil enough to rise to me: "there is differences, look you."

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My Fazio had a pair of false black whiskers on, which distilled a black stripe of trickling cement down his cheeks, and kept me in agony every time he had to embrace me. My voice was horrible to hear; alternately like Mrs. ---- and ----, and every now and then it was all I could do to utter at all. This audience is the most unapplausive I ever acted to, not excepting my _excitable_ friends north of the Tweed. They were very attentive, certainly, but how they did make me work! 'Tis amazing how much an audience loses by this species of hanging back, even where the silence proceeds from unwillingness to interrupt a good performance: though in reality it is the greatest compliment an actor can receive, yet he is deprived by that very stillness of half his power. Excitement is reciprocal between the performer and the audience: he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them; and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself begets. I know that my aunt Siddons has frequently said the same thing. And besides the above reason for applause, the physical powers of an actor require, after any tremendous exertion, the rest and regathering of breath and strength, which the interruption of the audience affords him; moreover, as 'tis the conventional mode of expressing approbation in a theatre, it is chilling and uncomfortable to go toiling on, without knowing whether, as the maidservants say, "one gives satisfaction or no." They made noise enough, however, at the end of the play. Came home, supped, and to bed; weary to death, and with a voice like a cracked bagpipe.

_Saturday, 13th._

Rose at half-past eight. After breakfast, wrote journal; practised for an hour; got things ready for to-morrow; put on my habit, which I had no sooner done than the perverse clouds began to rain. The horses came at two, but the weather was so bad that I sent them away again. Practised for another hour, read a canto in Dante, and dressed for dinner. After dinner, worked and practised. Came to my own room, and tried to scribble something for the Mirror, at my father's request; the editors having made an especial entreaty to him that I might write something for them, and also sit to some artist for them. I could not accomplish any thing, and they must just take something that I have by me: as for my physiognomy, that they shall certainly not have with my own good leave. I will never expend so much useless time again as to sit for my picture; nor will I let any unhappy painter again get abused for painting me as I am, which is any thing but what I look like. Lawrence alone could do it: there is no other that could see my spirit through my face; and as for the face without that, the less that is seen of it the better. Came down to tea, and found a young gentleman sitting with my father; one Mr. ----.

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He was a pretty-spoken _genteel_ youth enough: he drank tea with us, and offered to ride with me. He is, it seems, a great fortune; consequently, I suppose (in spite of his inches), a great man. Now I'll go to bed: my cough's enough to kill a horse.

_Sunday, 14th._

Rose late; so late that, by the time I had breakfasted, it was no longer time to go to church.

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Finished my first letter to ----. Mr. ---- called, and told us that he was going about _agitating_, and that Jackson was certainly to be re-elected.

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At three o'clock D---- and I sallied forth to go to church. Following the silver voices of the Sabbath bells, as they called the worshippers to the house of prayer, we entered a church with a fine simple façade, and found ourselves in the midst of a Presbyterian congregation. 'Tis now upwards of eight years since, a school girl, I used to attend a dissenters' chapel. The form of worship, though displeasing to me in itself, borrowed a charm to-day from old association. How much of the past it did recall!

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Came home and dressed for dinner. After dinner, half-killed myself with laughter over an Irish version of Fazio, ycleped Grimaldi, from which the author swears Milman has shamefully filched the plot, characters, and even the language, I believe, of his drama. A gentleman of the press, by name ----, paid us an evening visit. He seems an intelligent young man enough; and when he spoke of the autumnal woods, by the Oneida lake, his expressions were poetical and enthusiastic; and he pleased me.[40] He seems to think much of having had the honour of corresponding with sundry of the small literati of London. _Je lui en fais mon compliment._ When he was gone, wrote another letter to ----; journal, and now to bed.

_Monday, 15th._

Rose at eight; took a hot bath. The more I read of Grahame, the better I like him and his history. Those early settlers in Massachusetts were fine fellows, indeed; and Cotton, one of the finest samples of a Christian priest imaginable. After breakfast, went to rehearsal. The day was cold, but beautifully bright and clear. The pure, fresh, invigorating air, and gay sunlight, together with the delightfully clean streets, and pretty mixture of trees and buildings in this nice town, caused me to rejoice, as I walked along.[41] After rehearsal, saw Sinclair and his wife. So--we are to act the Gamester here. Went and ordered a dress for that same, my own being at New York. Came home, put out things for the theatre, practised an hour; dined at three. After dinner, read a canto in Dante: he is my admiration!--great, great master!--a philosopher profound, as all poets should be; a glorious poet, as I wish all philosophers were. Sketched till dark. Chose a beautiful claret-coloured velvet for Mrs. Beverley, which will cost Miss Kemble eleven guineas, by this living light. At six, went to the theatre. I never beheld any thing more gorgeous than the sky at sunset. Autumn is an emperor here, clothed in crimson and gold, and canopied with ruddy glowing skies. Yet I like the sad russet cloak of our own autumnal woods; I like the sighing voice of his lament through the vaporous curtain that rises round his steps; I like the music of the withered leaves that rustle in his path; and oh, above all, the solemn thoughts that wait upon him, as he goes stripping the trees of their bright foliage, leaving them like the ungarlanded columns of a deserted palace. The play was Romeo and Juliet. My father was the "youngest of that name," for want of a better, or, rather, of a worse. How beautiful this performance must have been, when the youthful form made that appear natural which now seems the triumph of art over nature. Garrick said, that to act Romeo required a grey head upon green shoulders. Indeed, 'tis difficult! Oh, that our sapient judges did but know half how difficult. It is delightful to act with my father. One's imagination need toil but little, to see in him the very thing he represents; whereas, with all other Romeos, although they were much younger men, I have had to do double work with that useful engine, my fancy: first, to get rid of the material obstacle staring me in the face, and then to substitute some more congenial representative of that sweetest vision of youth and love. Once, only, this was not necessary.

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The audience here are, without exception, the most disagreeable I ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or my father's scene with the friar: they are literally immovable. They applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal at the end of the play; but they are, nevertheless, intolerably dull; and it is all but impossible to act to them.

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The man who acted Capulet did it better than any Capulet I ever acted with; and the nurse, besides looking admirably, acted her part very well: and 'tis hard to please me, after poor dear old Mrs. Davenport. The house was literally crammed from floor to ceiling. Came home tired and hoarse; though my voice was a good deal better to-day. Mr. ---- supped with us. My father expected a visit from the haggling Boston manager, and chose to have a witness to the conference.

_Tuesday, 16th._

Rose at nine. After breakfast, read a canto in Dante; wrote journal; practised for an hour. The Boston manager, it seems, does not approve of our terms; and after bargaining till past two o'clock last night with my father, the latter, wearied out with his illiberal trafficking, and coarse vulgarity of manner, declined the thing altogether: so, unless the gentleman thinks better of the matter, we shall not go to Boston this winter.[42] At one o'clock, habited; and at two, rode out with my father. The day was most enchanting, mild, bright, and sunny; but the roads were deplorable, and the country utterly dull. My horse was a hard-mouthed half broken beast, without pace of any christian kind soever; a perfect rack on hoofs: how it did jog and jumble me! However, my bones are young, and my courage good, and I don't mind a little hard work; but the road was so villanously bad, and the surrounding country so weary, dull, stale, and unprofitable, that I was heartily sick of my ride, when we turned towards Fairmount, the site of some large water-works on the Schuylkill, by which Philadelphia is supplied with water. On our right I descried, over some heights, a castellated building of some extent, whose formidable appearance at least bespoke an arsenal; but it was the entrance to the Penitentiary instead: and presently the river, bright, and broad, and placid as a lake, with its beautiful banks, and rainbow-tinted woods, opened upon us. We crossed a covered wooden bridge, and followed the water's edge. The rich colours of the foliage cast a warm light over the transparent face of the mirror-like stream; and, far along the winding shores, a mingled mantle of gorgeous glowing tints lay over the woody banks, and was reflected in the still sunny river. Indeed, it was lovely! But our time was growing short, and we had to turn home; which we did by a pleasant and more direct path. My horse, towards the end of the ride, got more manageable; and I doubt whether it would not be wiser to continue to ride it than try another, which may be just as bad, and, moreover, a _stranger_. My riding-cap seemed to excite universal marvel wherever we passed. We came in at five o'clock; dressed, and dined. Just as I had finished dinner, a most beautiful, fragrant, and delicious nosegay was brought to me, with a very laconic note from a Philadelphia "_friend_," dashed under, as though from a Quaker. Whoever 'tis from, Jew or Gentile, Puritan or Pagan, he, she, or it hath my most unbounded gratitude. Spent an ecstatic half hour in arranging my flowers in glasses; gave orders about my Mrs. Beverley's gown, and began marking journal; while doing so, a card was brought up.

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