A Guest at the Ludlow, and Other Stories

  A SINGULAR "HAMLET"

  IX

  The closing debut of that great Shakespearian humorist and emotionalass, Mr. James Owen O'Connor, at the Star Theater, will never beforgotten. During his extraordinary histrionic career he gave hisindividual and amazing renditions of Hamlet, Phidias, Shylock, Othello,and Richelieu. I think I liked his Hamlet best, and yet it was apleasure to see him in anything wherein he killed himself.

  Encouraged by the success of beautiful but self-made actresses, andhoping to win a place for himself and his portrait in the great soap andcigarette galaxy, Mr. O'Connor placed himself in the hands of somemisguided elocutionist, and then sought to educate the people of NewYork and elocute them out of their thralldom up into the glorious lightof the O'Connor school of acting.

  The first week he was in the hands of the critics, and they spoke quiteserenely of his methods. Later, it was deemed best to place his meritsin the hands of a man who would be on an equal footing with him. WhatO'Connor wanted was one of his peers, who would therefore judge himfairly. I was selected because I know nothing whatever about acting andwould thus be on an equality with Mr. O'Connor.

  After seeing his Hamlet I was of the opinion that he did wisely inchoosing New York for debutting purposes, for had he chosen Denver,Colorado, at the end of the third act kind hands would have removed himfrom the stage by means of benzine and a rag.

  I understand that Mr. O'Connor charged Messrs. Henry E. Abbey and HenryIrving with using their influence among the masses in order to prejudicesaid masses against Mr. O'Connor, thus making it unpleasant for him toact, and inciting in the audience a feeling of gentle but evidenthostility, which Mr. O'Connor deprecated very much whenever he couldget a chance to do so. I looked into this matter a little and I do notthink it was true. Until almost the end of Mr. O'Connor's career,Messrs. Abbey and Irving were not aware of his great metropolitansuccess, and it is generally believed among the friends of the twoformer gentlemen that they did not feel it so keenly as Mr. O'Connor wasled to suppose.

  But James Owen O'Connor did one thing which I take the liberty ofpublicly alluding to. He took that saddest and most melancholy bit ofbloody history, trimmed with assassinations down the back and looped upwith remorse, insanity, duplicity and unrequited love, and he filled itwith silvery laughter and cauliflower and mirth, and various othergroceries which the audience throw in from time to time, thus making itmore of a spectacular piece than under the conservative management ofsuch old-school men as Booth, who seem to think that Hamlet should besoaked full of sadness.

  I went to see Hamlet, thinking that I would be welcome, for mysympathies were with James when I heard that Mr. Irving was picking onhim and seeking to injure him. I went to the box office and explainedwho I was, and stated that I had been detailed to come and see Mr.O'Connor act; also that in what I might say afterwards my instructionswere to give it to Abbey and Irving if I found that they had tamperedwith the audience in any way.

  The man in the box office did not recognize me, but said that Mr. Foxwould extend to me the usual courtesies. I asked where Mr. Fox could befound, and he said inside. I then started to go inside, but ran againsta total stranger, who was "on the door," as we say. He was feeding redand yellow tickets into a large tin oven, and looking far, far away. Iconversed with him in low, passionate tones, and asked him where Mr. Foxcould be found. He did not know, but thought he was still in Europe. Iwent back and told the box office that Mr. Fox was in Europe. He saidNo, I would find him inside. "Well, but how shall I get inside?" I askedeagerly, for I could already, I fancied, hear the orchestra beginningto twang its lyre.

  "Walk in," said he, taking in $2 and giving back 50 cents in change to aman with a dead cat in his overcoat pocket.

  I went back, and springing lightly over the iron railing while thegatekeeper was thinking over his glorious past, I went all around overthe theater looking for Mr. Fox. I found him haggling over the price ofsome vegetables which he was selling at the stage door and which hadbeen contributed by admirers and old subscribers to Mr. O'Connor at aprevious performance.

  When Mr. Fox got through with that I presented to him my card, which isas good a piece of job work in colors as was ever done west of theMissouri river, and to which I frequently point with pride.

  Mr. Fox said he was sorry, but that Mr. O'Connor had instructed him toextend no courtesies whatever to the press. The press, he claimed, hadsaid something derogatory to Mr. O'Connor as a tragedian, and while hepersonally would be tickled to death to give me two divans and afolding-bed near the large fiddle, he must do as Mr. O'Connor hadbid--or bade him, I forget which; and so, restraining his tears withgreat difficulty, he sent me back to the entrance and although I wasalready admitted in a general way, I went to the box office andpurchased a seat. I believe now that Mr. Fox thought he had virtuallyexcluded me from the house when he told me I should have to pay in orderto get in.

  I bought a seat in the parquet and went in. The audience was not largeand there were not more than a dozen ladies present.

  Pretty soon the orchestra began to ooze in through a little openingunder the stage. Then the overture was given. It was called "Egmont."The curtain now arose on a scene in Denmark. I had asked an usher totake a note to Mr. O'Connor requesting an audience, but the boy hadreturned with the statement that Mr. O'Connor was busy rehearsing hissoliloquy and removing a shirred egg from his outer clothing.

  He also said he could not promise an audience to any one. It was all hecould do to get one for himself.

  So the play went on. Elsinore, where the first act takes place, is infront of a large stone water tank, where two gentlemen armed withlong-handled hay knives are on guard.

  All at once a ghost who walks with an overstrung Chickering action andstiff, jerky, Waterbury movement, comes in, wearing a dark mosquito netover his head--so that harsh critics can not truly say there are anyflies on him, I presume. When the ghost enters most every one enjoys it.Nobody seems to be frightened at all. I knew it was not a ghost as quickas I looked at it. One man in the gallery hit the ghost on the head witha soda cracker, which made him jump and feel of his ear; so I knew thenthat it was only a man made up to look like a presence.

  One of the guards, whose name, I think, was Smith, had a droop to hislegs and an instability about the knees which were highly enjoyable. Hewalked like a frozen-toed hen, and stood first on one foot and then onthe other, with almost human intelligence. His support was about aspoor as O'Connor's.

  After awhile the ghost vanished with what is called a stately tread, butI would regard it more as a territorial tread. Horatio did quite well,and the audience frequently listened to him. Still, he was about theonly one who did not receive crackers or cheese as a slight testimonialof regard from admirers in the audience.

  Finally, Mr. James Owen O'Connor entered. It was fully five minutesbefore he could be heard, and even then he could not. His mouth movednow and then, and a gesture would suddenly burst forth, but I did nothear what he said. At least I could not hear distinctly what he said.After awhile, as people got tired and went away, I could hear better.

  Mr. O'Connor introduced into his Hamlet a set of gestures evidentlyintended for another play. People who are going to act out on the stagecan not be too careful in getting a good assortment of gestures thatwill fit the play itself. James had provided himself with a set ofgestures which might do for Little Eva, or "Ten Nights in a Bar-room,"but they did not fit Hamlet. There is where he makes a mistake. Hamletis a man whose victuals don't agree with him. He feels depressed andtalks about sticking a bodkin into himself, but Mr. O'Connor gives him alight, elastic step, and an air of persiflage, _bonhomie_, and frisk,which do not match the character.

  Mr. O'Connor sought in his conception and interpretation of Hamlet togive it a free and jaunty Kokomo flavor--a nameless twang of tansy anddried apples, which Shakespeare himself failed to sock into his greatdrama.

  James did this, and more. He took the wild-eyed and morbid Blackwell'sIsland Hamlet, and made him
a $2 parlor humorist who could be the lifeof the party, or give lessons in elocution, and take applause orcrackers and cheese in return for the same.

  There is really a good lesson to be learned from the pitiful andpathetic tale of James Owen O'Connor. Injudicious friends, doubtless,overestimated his value, and unduly praised his Smart Aleckutionarypowers. Loving himself unwisely but too extensively, he was led awayinto the great, untried purgatory of public scrutiny, and the generalindictment followed.

  The truth stands out brighter and stronger than ever that there is nocut across lots to fame or success. He who seeks to jump from mediocrityto a glittering triumph over the heads of the patient student, and theearnest, industrious candidate who is willing to bide his time, getswhat James Owen O'Connor received--the just condemnation of those whoare abundantly able to judge.

  In seeking to combine the melancholy beauty of Hamlet's deep and earnestpathos with the gentle humor of "A Hole in the Ground," Mr. O'Connorevidently corked himself, as we say at the Browning Club, and it was butjustice after all. Before we curse the condemnation of the people andthe press, let us carefully and prayerfully look ourselves over, and seeif we have not overestimated ourselves.

  There are many men alive to-day who do not dare say anything withoutfirst thinking how it will read in their memoirs--men whom we can not,therefore, thoroughly enjoy until they are dead, and yet whose graveswill be kept green only so long as the appropriation lasts.