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[During
his American tour of 1882-1883, Salvini played in Boston.
One of his auditors, Henry James, the distinguished novelist, in
the Atlantic Monthly for March, 1883, gave a detailed criticism
of the performances. Of
Salvini's Othello he said: ...
"What an immense impression--simply as an impression--the actor
makes on the spectator who sees him for the first time as the turbaned
and deep-voiced Moor! He
gives us his measure as a man: he acquaints us with that luxury of
perfect confidence in the physical resources of the actor which is not
the most frequent satisfaction of the modern play-goer.
His powerful, active, manly frame, his noble, serious, vividly
expressive face, his splendid smile, his Italian eye, his superb,
voluminous voice, his carriage, his ease, the assurance he instantly
gives that he holds the whole part in his hands and can make of it
exactly what he chooses,--all this descends upon the spectator's mind
with a richness which immediately converts attention into faith, and
expectation into sympathy. He
is a magnificent creature, and you are already on his ride.
His generous temperament is contagious; you find yourself looking
at him, not so much as an actor, but as a hero....
The admirable thing in this nature of Salvini's is that his
intelligence is equal to his material powers, so that if the exhibition
is, as it were, personal, it is not simply physical.
He has a great imagination: there is a noble intention in all he
does. The
pages which now follow, taken from Salvini's Autobiography, are
presented with the permission of his publishers, the Century Company,
New York.--ED.] Editor
of e-book:
Tommaso Salvini Italian tragedian, born in
Milan, Italy, 1 January, 1830. His father and mother were actors of
ability. He performed children's parts at the age of thirteen, later
joined the troupe of Adelaide Ristori, and shared her triumphs. After
fighting in the Italian war for independence in 1849, he returned to the
stage, and, by his impersonation of the title-roles of Giuseppe
Nicolini's "Edipo" and Vittorio Alfieri's "Saul,"
achieved an European reputation. He was also successful as Orosmane in
Voltaire's "Zaire," first essayed Othello in 1857, created the
part of Conrad in " La morte eivile," and added to his
repertoire Romeo, Hamlet, Ingomar, Paolo in Silvio Pellico's
"Francesca di Rimini." which he played at the Dante
celebration in 1865, and the Gladiator in Alexandre Soumet's tragedy of
that name, Sullivan in "David Garrick," Torquato Tasso,
Samson, Essex in "Elizabeth," Maxime Odiot in the
"Romance of a Poor Young Man," and other characters. In 1871
he visited South America, and in 1873-'4 he made a tour in the United
States, giving 128 performances, besides 28 in Havana. In New York city
Edwin Booth played the ghost to his Hamlet. In 1881 he again visited the
United States. Edited Appletons
Encyclopedia, Copyright © 2001 VirtualologyTM The
Bon and Berlaffa Company, in which my father was engaged, alternated in
its repertory between the comedies of Goldoni and the tragedies of
Alfieri. One
evening the "Donne Curiose" by Goldoni was to be given, but
the actor who was to take the harlequin's part, represented in that
piece by a stupid slave called Pasquino, fell sick a few hours before
the curtain was to rise. The
company had been together for a few days only, and it was out of the
question to substitute another play.
It had been decided to close the theatre for that night, when
Berlaffa asked: "Why
couldn't your Tom take the part?"
My father said that there was no reason why he shouldn't, but
that Tom had never appeared in public, and he didn't know whether he had
the courage. The
proposition was made to me, and I accepted on the spot, influenced to no
little extent by a desire to please the managers, who in my eyes were
people of great importance. Within
three hours, with my iron memory, I had easily mastered my little part
of Pasquino, and, putting on the costume of the actor who had fallen
ill, I found myself a full-fledged if a new performer.
I was to speak in the Venetian dialect; that was inconvenient for
me rather than difficult, but at Forte, where we were, any slip of
pronunciation would hardly be observed. It
was the first time that I was to go on the stage behind the dazzling
footlights, the first time that I was to speak in an unaccustomed
dialect, dressed up in ridiculous clothes which were not my own; and I
confess that I was so much frightened that I was tempted to run back to
my dressing-room, to take off my costume, and to have nothing more to do
with the play. But my
father, who was aware of my submissive disposition toward him, with a
few words kept me at my post.
The
conscript who is for the first time under fire feels a sense of fear.
Nevertheless, if he has the pride of his sex, and the dignity of
one who appreciates his duty, he stands firm, though it be against big
will. So it was with me
when I began my part. When
I perceived that some of Pasquino's lines were amusing the audience, I
took courage, and, like a little bird making its first flight, I arrived
at the goal, and was eager to try again.
As it turned out, my actor's malady grew worse, so that he was
forced to leave the company, and I was chosen to take his place. I
must have had considerable aptitude for such comic parts as those of
stupid servants, for everywhere that we went I became the public's
Benjamin. I made the people
laugh, and they asked for nothing better. All were surprised that, young
and inexperienced as I was, I should have so much cleverness of manner
and such sureness of delivery. My
father was more surprised than anybody, for he had expected far less of
my immaturity and total lack of practice.
It is certain that from that time I began to feel that I was
somebody. I had become
useful, or at least I thought I had, and, as a consequence, in my manner
and bearing I began to affect the young man more than was fitting in a
mere boy. I sought to
figure in the conversation of grown people, and many a time I had the
pain of seeing my elders smile at my remarks. It was my great ambition
to be allowed to walk alone in the city streets; my father was very
loath to grant this boon, but he let me go sometimes, perhaps to get a
sample of my conduct. I don't remember ever doing anything at these times which
could have displeased him; I was particularly careful about it, since I
saw him sad, pensive, and afflicted owing to the misfortune which had
befallen him, and soon he began to accord me his confidence, which I was
most anxious to gain. Often
he spoke to me of the principles of dramatic art, and of the mission of
the artist. He told me that
to have the right to call one's self an artist one must add honest work
to talent, and he put before me the example of certain actors who had
risen to fame, but who were repulsed by society on account of the
triviality of their conduct; of others who were brought by dissipation
to die in a hospital, blamed by all; and of still others who had fallen
so low as to hold out their hands for alms, or to sponge on their
comrades and to cozen them out of their money for unmerited
subscriptions--all of which things moved me to horror and deep
repugnance. It was with
good reason that my father was called "Honest Beppo" by his
fellows on the stage. The
incorruptibility and firmness of principle which he cultivated in me
from the time that I grew old enough to understand have been my spur and
guide throughout my career, and it is through no merit of my own that I
can count myself among those who have won the esteem of society; I
attribute all the merit to my father. He was conscientious and honest to a scruple; so much so
that of his own free will he sacrificed the natural pride of the
dramatic artist, and denounced the well-earned honour of first place in
his own company to take second place with Gustavo Modena, whose artistic
merit he recognised as superior to his own, in order that I might profit
by the instruction of that admirable actor and sterling citizen.
My father preferred his son's advantage to his own personal
profit. The
parts in which I won the most sympathy from the Italian public were
those of Oreste in the tragedy of that name, Egisto in "Merope,"
Romeo in "Giulietta e Romeo," Paolo in "Francesca da
Rimini," Rinaldo in "Pia di Tolommei," Lord Bonfield in
"Pamela," Domingo in the "Suonatrice d 'Arpa," and
Gian Galeazzo in "Lodovico il Moro."
In all these my success was more pronounced than in other parts,
and I received flattering marks of approval.
I did not reflect, at that time, of how great assistance to me it
was to be constantly surrounded by first-rate artists; but I soon came
to feel that an atmosphere untainted by poisonous microbes promotes
unoppressed respiration, and that in such an atmosphere soul and body
maintain themselves healthy and vigorous.
I observed frequently in the "scratch" companies, which
played in the theatres of second rank young men and women who showed
very notable artistic aptitude, but who, for lack of cultivation and
guidance, ran to extravagance, overemphasis, and exaggeration.
Up to that time, while I had a clear appreciation of the reasons
for recognising defects in others, I did not know how to correct my own;
on the other hand, I recognised that the applause accorded me was
intended as an encouragement more than as a tribute which I had earned.
From a youth of pleasing qualities (for the moment I quell my
modesty), with good features, full of fire and enthusiasm, with a
harmonious and powerful voice, and with good intellectual faculties, the
public deemed that an artist should develop who would distinguish
himself, and perhaps attain eminence in the records of Italian art; and
for this reason it sought to encourage me, and to apply the spur to my
pride by manifesting its feeling of sympathy.
By good fortune I
had enough conscience and good sense to receive this homage at its just
value. I felt the need of
studying, not books alone, but men and things, vice and virtue, love and
hate, humility and haughtiness, gentleness and cruelty, folly and
wisdom, poverty and opulence, avarice and lavishness, long-suffering and
vengeance--in short, all the passions for good and evil which have root
in human nature. I needed
to study out the manner of rendering these passions in accordance with
the race of the men in whom they were exhibited, in accordance with
their special customs, principles, and education; I needed to form a
conception of the movement, the manner, the expressions of face and
voice characteristic of all these cases; I must learn by intuition to
grasp the characters of fiction, and by study to reproduce those of
history with semblance of truth, seeking to give to every one a
personality distinct from every other.
In fine, I must become capable of identifying myself with one or
another personage to such an extent as to lead the audience into the
illusion that the real personage, and not a copy, is before them. It would then remain to learn the mechanism of my art; that
is, to choose the salient points and to bring them out, to calculate the
effects and keep them in proportion with the unfolding of the plot, to
avoid monotony in intonation and repetition in accentuation, to insure
precision and distinctness in pronunciation, the proper distribution of
respiration, and incisiveness of delivery.
I must study; study again; study always.
It was not an easy thing to put these precepts into practice. Very often I forgot them, carried away by excitement, or by
the superabundance of my vocal powers; indeed, until I had reached an
age of calmer reflection I was never able to get my artistic chronometer
perfectly regulated; it would always gain a few minutes every
twenty-four hours. In
my assiduous reading of the classics, the chief places were held among
the Greeks by the masculine and noble figures of Hector, Achilles,
Theseus, Oedipus; among the Scots by Trenmor, Fingal, Cuchullin; and
among the Romans by Caesar, Brutus, Titus, and Cato. These characters
influenced me to incline toward a somewhat bombastic system of
gesticulation and a turgid delivery.
My anxiety to enter to the utmost into the conceptions of my
authors, and to interpret them clearly, disposed me to exaggerate the
modulations of my voice like some mechanism which responds to every
touch, not reflecting that the abuse of this effort would bring me too
near to song. Precipitation
in delivery, too, which when carried too far destroys all distinctness
and incisiveness, was due to my very high impressionability, and to the
straining after technical scenic effects.
Thus, extreme vehemence in anger would excite me to the point of
forgetting the fiction, and cause me to commit involuntarily lamentable
outbursts. Hence I applied
myself to overcome the tendency to singsong in my voice, the exuberance
of my rendering of passion, the exclamatory quality of my phrasing, the
precipitation of my pronunciation, and the swagger of my motions. I
shall be asked how the public could abide me, with all these defects;
and I answer that the defects, though numerous, were so little prominent
that they passed unobserved by the mass of the public, which always
views broadly and could be detected only by the acute and searching eye
of the intelligent critic. I
make no pretence that I was able to correct myself all at once.
Sometimes my impetuosity would carry me away, and not until I had
come to mature age was I able to free myself to any extent from this
failing. Then I confirmed
myself in my opinion that the applause of the public is not all refined
gold, and I became able to separate the gold from the dross in the
crucible of intelligence. How
many on the stage are content with the dross! My
desire to improve in my art had its origin in my instinctive impulse to
rise above mediocrity--an instinct that must have been born in me,
since, when still a little boy, I used to put forth all my energies to
eclipse what I saw accomplished by my companions of like age.
When I was sixteen, and at Naples, there were in the
boarding-house, at two francs and a half a day, two young men who were
studying music and singing, and to surpass them in their own field I
practised the scales until I could take B natural.
Later on, when the tone of my voice; had lowered to the barytone,
impelled always by my desire to accomplish something, I took lessons in
music from the Maestro Terziani, and appeared at a benefit with the
famous tenor Boucarde, and Signora Monti, the soprano, and sang in a
duet from "Belisaria," the aria from "Maria di
Rohan,"and "La Settimana d'Amore," by Niccolai; and I
venture to say that I was not third best in that triad.
But I recognised that singing and declamation were incompatible
pursuits, since the method of producing the voice is totally different,
and they must therefore be mutually harmful. Financially, I was not in a
condition to be free to choose between the two careers, and I persevered
of necessity in the dramatic profession. Whether my choice was for the
best I do not know; it is certain that if my success had been in
proportion to my love of music, and I have reason to believe that it
might have been, I should not have remained in obscurity. [In
1871, Salvini organised a company for a tour in South America, On his
way thither he paused at Gibraltar, and gainfully.] At
Gibraltar I spent my time studying the Moors.
I was much struck by one very fine figure, majestic in walk, and
Roman in face, except for a slight projection of the lower lip.
The man's colour was between copper and coffee, not very dark,
and he had a slender moustache, and scanty curled hair on his chin.
Up to that time I had always made up Othello simply with my
moustache, but after seeing that superb Moor I added the hair on the
chin, and sought to copy his gestures, movements, and carriage.
Had I been able I should have imitated his voice also, so closely
did that splendid Moor represent to me the true type of the
Shakespearian hero. Othello
must have been a son of Mauritania, if we can argue from Iago's words to
Roderigo: "He goes
into Mauritania"; for what else could the author have intended to
imply but that the Moor was returning to his native land?
My
first impressions of New York were most favourable. Whether it was the benefit of a more vivifying atmosphere, or
the comfort of the national life, or whether it was admiration for that
busy, industrious, work-loving people, or the thousands of beautiful
women whom I saw in the streets, free and proud in carriage, and healthy
and lively in aspect, or whether it was the thought that these citizens
were the great-grandchildren of those high-souled men who had known how
to win with their blood the independence of their country, I felt as if
I had been born again to a new existence.
My lungs swelled more freely as I breathed the air impregnated
with so much vigour and movement, and so much liberty, and I could fancy
that I had come back to my life of a youth of twenty, and was treading
the streets of republican Rome. With
a long breath of satisfaction I said to myself: "Ah, here is
life!" Within a few
days my energy was redoubled. A lively desire of movement, not a usual thing with me, had
taken possession of me in spite of myself.
Without asking myself why, I kept going here and there, up and
down, to see everything, to gain information; and when I returned to my
rooms in the evening, I could have set out again to walk still more.
This taught me why Americans are so unwearied and full of
business. Unfortunately I
have never mastered English sufficiently to converse in that tongue; had
I possessed that privilege, perhaps my stay in North America would not
have been so short, and perhaps I might have figured on the English
stage. What an enjoyment it
would have been to me to play Shakespeare in English!
But I have never had the privilege of the gift of tongues, and I
had to content myself with my own Italian, which is understood by but
few in America. This,
however, mattered little; they understood me all the same, or, to put it
better, they caught by intuition my ideas and my sentiments.
From
New Orleans we sailed to Havana, but found in Cuba civil war, and a
people that had but small appetite for serious things, and was moreover
alarmed by a light outbreak of yellow fever.
One of my company was taken down with the disease, but I had the
pleasure of seeing him recover, Luckily he had himself treated by
Havanese physicians, who are accustomed to combat that malady, which
they know only too well. Perhaps
my comrade would have lost his life under the ministrations of an
Italian doctor. In the city
of sugar and tobacco, too, it was "Othello" which carried off
the palm. Those good
manufacturers of cigars presented me on my benefit with boxes of their
wares, which were made expressly for me, and which I dispatched to Italy
for the enjoyment of my friends. In
spite of the many civilities which were tendered to me, in spite of
considerable money profit, and of the ovations of its kind-hearted
people, I did not find Cuba to my taste.
Sloth and luxury reign there supreme. In
Paris I found a letter from the Impresario Mapleson, who proposed that I
should go to London with an Italian company, and play at Drury Lane on
the off-nights of the opera. I
was in doubt for a considerable time whether to challenge the verdict of
the British public; but in two weeks after reaching Italy, by dint of
telegrams I had got together the force of artists necessary, and I
presented myself with arms and baggage in London, in the spring of 1875. Hardly
had I arrived, when I noticed the posting, on the bill-boards of the
city, of the announcement of the seventy-second night of
"Hamlet" at the Lyceum Theatre, with Henry Irving in the
title-role. I had contracted with Mapleson to give only three plays in
my season, "Othello," "The Gladiator," and
"Hamlet," the last having been insisted upon by Mapleson
himself, who, as a speculator, well knew that curiosity as to a
Comparison would draw the public to Drury Lane. [Ebook Editor's note: Irving was the top
British actor just as Salvini was the top Italian actor of his day.] I
was very anxious to see the illustrious English artist in that part, and
I secured a box and went to the Lyceum.
I was recognised by nobody, and remaining as it were concealed in
my box, I had a good opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.
I arrived at the theatre a little too late, so that I missed the
scene of Hamlet in presence of the ghost of his father, the scene which
in my judgment contains the clue to that strange character, and from
which all the synthetic ideas of Hamlet are developed.
I was in time to hear only the last words of the oath of secrecy.
I was struck by the perfection of the stage-setting.
There was a perfect imitation of the effect of moonlight, which
at the proper times flooded the stage with its rays or left it in
darkness. Every detail was
excellently and exactly reproduced.
The scene was shifted, and Hamlet began his allusions, his
sallies of sarcasm, his sententious sayings, his points of satire with
the courtiers, who sought to study and to penetrate the sentiments of
the young prince. In this
scene Irving was simply sublime. His
mobile face mirrored his thoughts.
The subtle penetration of his phrases, so perfect in shading and
incisiveness, showed him to be a master of art.
I do not believe there is an actor who can stand beside him in
this respect, and I was so much impressed by it, that at the end of the
second act I said to myself, "I will not play Hamlet!
Mapleson can say what he likes, but I will not play it"; and
I said it with the fullest resolution.
In the monologue, "To be or not to be," Irving was
admirable; in the scene with Ophelia he was deserving of the highest
praise; in that of the Players he was moving, and in all this part of
the play he appeared to my eyes to be the most perfect interpreter of
that eccentric character. But
further on it was not so, and for the sake of art I regretted it.
From the time when the passion assumes a deeper hue, and
reasoning moderates impulses which are forcibly curbed, Irving seemed to
me to show mannerism, and to be lacking in power, and strained, and it
is not in him alone that I find this fault, but in nearly all foreign
actors. There seems to be a limit of passion within which they remain
true in their rendering of nature; but beyond that limit they become
transformed, and take on conventionality in their intonations,
exaggeration in their gestures, and mannerism in their bearing. I left my box saying to myself:
"I too can do Hamlet, and I will try it!"
In some characters Irving is exceptionally fine.
I am convinced that it would be difficult to interpret Shylock or
Mephistopheles better than he. He
is most skilful in putting his productions on the stage; and in addition
to his intelligence he does not lack the power to communicate his
counsels or his teachings. Withal
he is an accomplished gentleman in society, and is loved and respected
by his fellow-citizens, who justly look upon him as a glory to their
country. He should, however, for his own sake, avoid playing such pants
as Romeo and Macbeth, which are not adapted to his somewhat scanty
physical and vocal power. The
traditions of the English drama are imposing and glorious! Shakespeare
alone has gained the highest pinnacle of fame in dramatic art.
He has had to interpret him such great artists as Garrick, Kemble,
Kean, Macready, Siddons, and Irving; and the literary and dramatic
critics of the whole world have studied and analysed both author and
actor. At present, however,
tragedy is abandoned on almost all the stages of Europe. Actors who devote themselves to tragedy, whether classical
romantic, or historical, no longer exist. Society-comedy has overflowed
the stage, and the inundation causes the seed to rot which more
conscientious and prudent planters had sown in the fields of art. It is desirable that the feeling and taste for the works of
the great dramatists should be revived in Europe, and that England,
which is for special reasons, and with justice, proud of enjoying the
primacy in dramatic composition, should have also worthy and famous
actors. I do not understand
why the renown and prestige of the great name of Garrick do not attract
modern actors to follow in his footsteps.
Do not tell me that the works of Shakespeare are out of fashion,
and that the public no longer wants them.
Shakespeare is always new--so new that not even yet is he
understood by everybody, and if, as they say, the public is no longer
attracted by his plays, it is because they are superficially presented.
To win the approval of the audience, a dazzling and conspicuous mise-en-scene
does not suffice, as some seem to imagine, to make up deficiency in
interpretation; a more profound study of the characters represented is
indispensable. If in art
you can join the beautiful and the good, so much the better for you; but
if you give the public the alternative, it will always prefer the good
to the beautiful. In
1880 the agent of an impresario and theatre-owner of Boston came to
Florence to make me the proposal that I should go to North America for
the second time, to play in Italian supported by an American company. I
thought the man had lost his senses.
But after a time I became convinced that he was in his right
mind, and that no one would undertake a long and costly journey simply
to play a joke, and I took his extraordinary proposition into serious
consideration and asked him for explanations. "The
idea is this," the agent made answer; "it is very simple.
You found favour the last time with the American public with your
Italian company, when not a word that was said was understood, and the
proprietor of the Globe Theatre of Boston thinks that if he puts with
you English-speaking actors, you will yourself be better understood,
since all the dialogues of your supporters will be plain.
The audience will concern itself only with following you with the
aid of the play-books in both languages, and will not have to pay
attention to the others, whose words it will understand." "But
how shall I take my cue, since I do not understand English?
And how will your American actors know when to speak, since they
do not know Italian?" "Have
no anxiety about that," said the agent.
"Our American actors are mathematicians, and can memorise
perfectly the last words of your speeches, and they will work with the
precision of machines." "I
am ready to admit that," said I, "although I do not think it
will be so easy; but it will in any case be much easier for them, who
will have to deal with me alone, and will divide the difficulty among
twenty or twenty-four, than for me, who must take care of all."
I
was still dominated by my bereavement, and the thought was pleasant to
me of going away from places which constantly brought it back to my
mind. Another sky, other
customs, another language, grave responsibilities, a novel and difficult
undertaking of uncertain outcome--I was willing to risk all simply to
distract my attention and to forget.
I have never in my life been a gambler, but that time I staked my
artistic reputation upon a single card.
Failure would have been a new emotion, severe and grievous, it is
true, but still different from that which filled my mind.
I played, and I won! The
friends whom I had made in the United States in 1873, and with whom I
had kept up my acquaintance, when they learned of the confusion of
tongues, wrote me discouraging letters.
In Italy the thing was not believed, so eccentric did it seem.
I arrived in New York nervous and feverish, but not discouraged
or depressed. When
the day of the first rehearsal came, all the theatres were occupied, and
I had to make the best of a rather large concert-hall to try to get into
touch with the actors who were to support me.
An Italian who was employed in a newspaper office served me as
interpreter in cooperation with the agent of my Boston impresario. The
American artists began the rehearsal without a prompter, and with a
sureness to be envied especially by our Italian actors, who usually must
have every word suggested to them.
My turn came, and the few words which Othello pronounces in the
first scene came in smoothly and without difficulty.
When the scene with the Council of Ten came, of a sudden I could
not recall the first line of a paragraph, and I hesitated; I began a
line, but it was not that; I tried another with no better success; a
third, but the interpreter told me that I had gone wrong.
We began again, but the English was of no assistance to me in
recognising which of my speeches corresponded to that addressed to me,
which I did not understand. I
was all at sea, and I told the interpreter to beg the actors to overlook
my momentary confusion, and to say to them that I should be all right in
five minutes. I went off to
a corner of the hall and bowed my head between my hands, saying to
myself, "I have come for this, and I must carry it through." I set out to number mentally all the paragraphs of my part,
and in a short time I said. "Let
us begin again." During
the remainder of the rehearsal one might have thought that I understood
English, and that the American actors understood Italian, No further
mistake was made by either side; there was not even the smallest
hesitation, and when I finished the final scene of the third act between
Othello and Iago, the actors applauded, filled with joy and pleasure.
The exactitude with which the subsequent rehearsals of
"Othello," and those of "Hamlet," proceeded was due
to the memory, the application, and the scrupulous attention to their
work of the American actors, as well as to my own force of will and
practical acquaintance with all the parts of the play, and to the
natural intuition which helped me to know without understanding what was
addressed to me, divining it from a motion, a look, or a light
inflection of the voice. Gradually
a few words, a few short phrases, remained in my ear, and in course of
time I came to understand perfectly every word of all the characters; I
became so sure of myself that if an actor substituted one word for
another I perceived it. I
understood the words of Shakespeare, but not those of the spoken
language. In
a few days we went to Philadelphia to begin our representations. My old
acquaintances were in despair. To
those who had sought to discourage me by their letters others on the
spot joined their influence, and tried everything to overthrow my
courage. I must admit that
the nearer came the hour of the great experiment, the more my anxiety
grew and inclined me to deplore the moment when I had put myself in that
dilemma. I owe it in a
great degree to my cool head that my discouraging forebodings did not
unman me so much as to make me abandon myself wholly to despair.
Just as I was going on the stage, I said to myself:
"After all, what can happen to me?
They will not murder me. I
shall have tried, and I shall have failed; that is all there will be to
it, I will pack up my baggage and go back to Italy, convinced that oil
and wine will not mix. A
certain contempt of danger, a firm resolution to succeed, and, I am
bound to add, considerable confidence in myself, enabled me to go before
the public calm, bold, and secure. The
first scene before the palace of Brabantio was received with sepulchral
silence. When that of the
Council of Ten came, and the narration of the vicissitudes of Othello
was ended, the public broke forth in prolonged applause.
Then I said to myself, "A good beginning is half the
work." At the close of
the first act, my adversaries, who were such solely on account of their
love of art, and their belief that the two languages could not be
amalgamated, came on the stage to embrace and congratulate me,
surprised, enchanted, enthusiastic, happy, that they had been mistaken,
and throughout the play I was the object of constant demonstrations of
sympathy. From
Philadelphia we went to New York where our success was confirmed. It
remained for me to win the suffrages of Boston, and I secured them,
first having made stops in Brooklyn, New Haven, and Hartford.
When in the American Athens I became convinced that that city
possesses the most refined artistic taste.
Its theatrical audiences are serious, attentive to details,
analytical--I might almost say scientific--and one might fancy that such
careful critics had never in their lives done anything but occupy
themselves with scenic art. With
reference to a presentation of Shakespeare, they are profound, acute,
subtle, and they know so well how to clothe some traditional principle
in close logic, that if faith in the opposite is not quite unshakable in
an artist, he must feel himself tempted to renounce his own tenets. It
is surprising that in a land where industry and commerce seem to absorb
all the intelligence of the people, there should be in every city and
district, indeed in every village, people who are competent to discuss
the arts with such high authority.
The American nation counts only a century of freedom, yet it has
produced a remarkable number of men of high competence in dramatic art. Those who think of tempting fortune by displaying their
untried artistic gifts on the American stage, counting on the ignorance
or inexperience of their audience, make a very unsafe calculation. The taste and critical faculty of that public are in their
fulness of vigour. Old
Europe is more bound by traditions, more weary, more blase, in her
judgment, not always sincere or disinterested.
In America the national pride is warmly felt, and the national
artists enjoy high honour. The
Americans know how to offer an exquisite hospitality, but woe to the man
who seeks to impose on them! They
profess a cult, a veneration, for those who practise our art, whether of
their own nation or foreign, and their behaviour in the theatre is
dignified. I recall one
night when upon invitation I went to see a new play in which appeared an
actor of reputation. The
play was not liked, and from act to act I noticed that the house grew
more and more scanty, like a faded rose which loses its petals one by
one, until at the last scene my box was the only one which remained
occupied. I was more
impressed by this silent demonstration of hostility than I should have
been if the audience had made a tumultuous expression of its
disapproval. The actors
were humiliated and confounded, and as the curtain fell an instinctive
sentiment of compassion induced me to applaud. [Ebook Editor's note: Booth was the top U.S.
actor just as Salvini was the top Italian actor of his day.] The
celebrated actor Edwin Booth was at this time in Baltimore, a city
distant two hours from the capital.
I had heard so much about this superior artist that I was anxious
to see him, and on one of my off nights I went to Baltimore with my
impresario's agent. A box
had been reserved for me without my knowledge, and was draped with the
Italian colours. I regretted to be made so conspicuous, but I could not fail
to appreciate the courteous and complimentary desire to do me honour
shown by the American artist. It
was only natural that I should be most kindly influenced toward him, but
without the courtesy which predisposed me in his favour he would equally
have won my sympathy by his attractive and artistic lineaments, and his
graceful and well-proportioned figure.
The play was "Hamlet."
This part brought him great fame, and justly; for in addition to
the high artistic worth with which he adorned it, his elegant
personality was admirably adapted to it, His long and wavy hair, his
large and expressive eye, his youthful and flexible movements, accorded
perfectly with the ideal of the young prince of Denmark which now
obtains everywhere. His
splendid delivery, and the penetrating philosophy with which he informed
his phrases, were his most remarkable qualities.
I was so fortunate as to see him also as Richelieu and Iago, and
in all three of these parts, so diverse in their character I found him
absolutely admirable. I
cannot say so much for his Macbeth, which I saw one night when passing
through Philadelphia. The
part seemed to me not adapted to his nature.
Macbeth was an ambitious man, and Booth was not.
Macbeth had barbarous and ferocious instincts, and Booth was
agreeable, urbane, and courteous. Macbeth
destroyed his enemies traitorously--did this even to gain possession of
their goods--while Booth was noble, lofty-minded, and generous of his
wealth. It is thus plain
that however much art he might expend, his nature rebelled against his
portrayal of that personage, and he could never hope to transform
himself into the ambitious, venal, and sanguinary Scottish king. I
should say, from what I heard in America, that Edwin Forrest was the
Modena of America. The
memory of that actor still lives, for no one has possessed equally the
power to give expression to the passions, and to fruitful and burning
imagery, in addition to which he possessed astonishing power of voice.
Almost contemporaneously a number of most estimable actors have
laid claim to his mantle; but above them all Edwin Booth soared as an
eagle. After
a very satisfactory experience in Baltimore, I returned for the third
time to New York, and gave "Othello," "Macbeth," and
"The Gladiator," each play twice, and made the last two
appearances of my season in Philadelphia.
After playing ninety-five times in the new fashion, I felt myself
worn out, but fully satisfied with the result of my venturesome
undertaking. When I
embarked on the steamer which was to take me to Europe, I was escorted
by all the artists of the company which had cooperated in my happy
success, by my friends, and by courteous admirers, and I felt that if I
were not an Italian I should wish to be an American. [A
PDF version of the entire book is available for free download. It
is an interesting look at how little has changed for actors despite the
advance of modern technology. Acting is surly one of the oldest
professions, and the characters of those called to become actors remain,
most probably, the same as at the beginning of recorded history.
Especially interesting is the section by Edwin Booth, the top actor of
his day in the U.S., who's career took a beating when his younger
brother shot and killed President Lincoln.
Click here to open the PDF version in your Acrobat Reader. Then,
if you want a copy of it, save the book to your computer. For
information on downloading ebooks and the Acrobat Reader, see the free
lessons you can access from the bottom of my site's main
page.]
Tommaso
Salvini: from the book 'Little Masters of Autobiography: Actors
(19th Century)'
TOMMASO SALVINI
FIRST APPEARANCE
"For
shame!" said he; "a man has no right to be afraid."
A man! I was scarce
fourteen, yet I aspired to that title. A FATHER'S ADVICE
HOW SALVINI STUDIED HIS ART
FAULTS IN ACTING
THE DESIRE TO EXCEL IN EVERYTHING
A MODEL FOR OTHELLO
FIRST TRIP TO THE UNITED STATES
After
a few months of rest [after the South American tour], I resolved to get
together a new company, selecting those actors and actresses who were
best suited to my repertory. The
excellent Isolina Piamonti was my leading lady; and my brother
Alessandro, an experienced, conscientious, and versatile artist,
supported me. An Italian theatrical speculator proposed to me a tour in
North America, to include the chief cities of the United States, and
although I hesitated not a little on account of the ignorance of the
Italian language prevailing in that country, I accepted, influenced
somewhat by my desire to visit a region which was wholly unknown to me.
Previous to crossing the ocean I had several months before me, and these
served me to get my company in training. 
My
first appearance was in "Othello."
The public received a strong impression, without discussing
whether or not the means which I used to cause it were acceptable, and
without forming a clear conception of my interpretation of that
character, or pronouncing openly upon its form.
The same people who had heard it the first night returned on the
second, on the third, and even on the fourth, to make up their minds
whether the emotions they experienced resulted from the novelty of my
interpretation, or whether in fact it was the true sentiment of
Othello's passions which was transmitted to them--in short, whether it
was a mystification or a revelation. By degrees the public became convinced that those excesses of
jealousy and fury were appropriate to the son of the desert, and that
one of Southern blood must be much better qualified to interpret them
than a Northerner. The
judgment was discussed, criticised, disputed; but in the end the verdict
was overwhelmingly in my favour. When
the American has once said "Yes," he never weakens; he will
always preserve for you the same esteem, sympathy, and affection.
After New York I travelled through a number of American cities--Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington, and
Boston, which is rightly styled the Athens of America, for there
artistic taste is most refined. In
Boston I had the good fortune to become intimately acquainted with the
illustrious poet, Longfellow, who talked to me in the pure Tuscan.
I saw, too, other smaller cities, and then I appeared again in
New York, where the favour of the public was confirmed, not only for me,
but also for the artists of my company, and especially for Isolina
Piamonti, who received no uncertain marks of esteem and consideration.
We then proceeded to Albany, Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo,
Toledo, and that pleasant city, Detroit, continuing to Chicago, and
finally to New Orleans. IN CUBA
APPEARANCE IN LONDON
IMPRESSIONS OF IRVING'S "HAMLET"
THE DECLINE OF TRAGEDY
TRAGEDY IN TWO LANGUAGES
The
persevering agent, however, closed my mouth with the words, "You do
not sign yourself 'Salvini' for nothing!"
He had an answer for everything, he was prepared to convince me
at all points, to persuade me about everything, and to smooth over every
difficulty, and he won a consent which, though almost involuntary on my
part, was legalised by a contract in due form, by which I undertook to
be at New York not later than November 05, 1880, and to be ready to open
at Philadelphia with "Othello" on the 29th of the same month. AMERICAN CRITICAL TASTE
IMPRESSIONS OF EDWIN BOOTH
