CHAPTER XIII THE Boltons, where we next lived, is, to me, one of the prettiest parts of London. There is a peace about the square, with its little church, around which the houses circle, that makes the town seem very far away, and enables one to play at being in the country. Jenny Lind (Madame Goldschmidt) lived a few doors from us, and that charming woman and artist, Madame Albani, across the square. However, "make believe" as one would, The Boltons was not quite the country, and in our first spare weeks we hurried away to Windermere's beautiful hills and glades. From our little cottage in the Kirkstone Pass we frequently walked to Ambleside and Rydall; stopping at Grasmere, lingering in its churchyard to read some favourite poem by Wordsworth while sitting at his grave; rowing on the lake where memories of poor Shelley crowded upon us; then on again to Ravenscrag, halting for a moment at the Keswick* parish church to pay a passing tribute to Southey's tomb; arriving at Derwentwater, wholesomely tired after a long day's walk. On our first visit to this, the most beautiful of England's lakes, my brother and I found that, in our usual careless way, we had arrived with insufficient means to pay our hotel expenses. The necessary articles for our night's stay we carried on our shoulders, and we had literally nothing else to offer. Our dilemma was serious. The next morning my brother began nervously to explain our difficulty to the landlord, when, to his intense relief, that personage remarked, "Too happy, sir, to have Miss Anderson here; you can pay whenever you like." My profession has helped me out of many emergencies of this kind, for I have never been known to have the necessary penny about me. John T. Raymond used to say that a well-known actor has always a strong hold upon those who have seen The old sexton there was so pleased with our interest in the poet and the place that he became communicative. His father, he said, had lived in Southey's house as a domestic, and as a lad he himself had seen Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey all sitting together in that same church. Coleridge was the one he liked best. "He always had a smile even for the likes of me. Wordsworth, he was preachy." him upon the stage, which " gets him in ahead of most individuals." He enjoyed telling how he was once at the end of a long line of senators waiting, like himself, to get at the desk of a certain Washington Hotel to engage their rooms. One of the clerks who had seen him as Colonel Sellars winked, quietly beckoned, and at once led him to one of the best apartments in the house, while the weighty makers of the law had patiently to await their respective turns. The actor has undoubtedly the advantage over most people; for those who have laughed and cried with him, feel a certain intimacy though they may not know him personally. John McCullough told me he had frequently been accosted in public places with "How are you, John? Come and have a drink,” from persons he had never seen, who, when he informed them in dignified tones that he knew them not, readily answered, "Ah! but I know you! I saw you play Virginius last night; so do come along and have a drink." This feeling of friendliness on the part of strangers is often complimentary and convenient, but more frequently it is embarrassing and annoying. I have had people bolt into my private sitting or dining-room on the pretext of wishing to buy tickets for the theatre, or my photograph. I remember two well-dressed women, to all appearances ladies, boldly entering the room while I was at breakfast, seating themselves, and calmly requesting me to continue my meal. Their sole excuse for their cool invasion and rude questions was that they had seen me as Galatea the night before, and wished to know how I looked off the stage. One night my maid had to return unexpectedly from the theatre for something she had left at the Hotel. She found my room filled with young ladies, who, having bribed the chambermaid to open the door with her key, were rummaging about amongst my effects. Their embarrassment on being discovered was, I think, a sufficient punishment for their idle curiosity. Indeed the number of such impertinences that well-known actors are subjected to is beyond credence. During one of our visits to Stratford, Mr. Flower took me over the Memorial Theatre, and requested that I should act there. I liked the idea, resolved to do so, and soon began to study the part of Rosalind for the purpose. To make oneself acquainted with a character, the chief difficulty lies, not in memorising the lines, but in determining by the closest study how different characters act in situations common to all. Rosalind may be madly in love with Orlando; yet she can jest, be merry, and have a mock marriage; while the gentle Imogen, under the same conditions, would droop and fade away. Desdemona may be separated from her love; yet she does not fret nor mourn at his absence. Absence to Juliet is death.* Queen Constance goes mad, raves, and tears her hair at the loss of her son. Hermione, on hearing of the death of Mamilius, swoons like one dead, revives, and after living for sixteen years away from those she loves best, suddenly comes back into their midst without any outward sign of great emotion. These are all noble women, to whom their love is their life; and yet how differently each expresses what she feels! Fortunately, Shakespeare always gives a keynote to the nature of most of his characters. For instance, Hermione, when * How clearly Juliet shows this in the following lines!—Act iii. scene 2: "Tybalt is dead and Romeo-banished; That-banished, that one word-banished, Romeo is banished-to speak that word |