First Visit to Europe.
In the summer of 1879, was paid Mary Anderson’s first visit to Europe. It had long been eagerly anticipated. In the lands of the Old World was the cradle of the Art she loved so well, and it was with feelings almost of awe that she entered their portals. She had few if any introductions, and spent a month in London wandering curiously through the conventional scenes usually visited by a stranger. Westminster Abbey was among her favorite haunts; its ancient aisles, its storied windows, its thousand memories of a past which antedated by so many centuries the civilization of her native land, appealed deeply to the ardent imagination of the impassioned girl. Here was a world of which she had read and dreamed, but whose over-mastering, living influence was now for the first time felt. It seemed like the first glimpse of verdant forest, of enameled meadow, of crystal stream, of pure sky to one who had been blind. It was another atmosphere, another life. Brief as was her visit, it gave an impulse to those germs which lie deep in every poetic soul. She saw there was an illimitable world of Art, whose threshold as yet she had hardly trodden—and she went home full of the inspiration caught at the ancient fountains of Poetry and Art. From that time an intellectual change seems to have passed over her. Her studies took new channels, and her impersonations were mellowed and glorified from her personal contact with the associations of a great past.
A visit to Stratford-on-Avon was one of the most delightful events of the trip. It seemed to Mary Anderson the emblem of peace and contentment and quiet; and though as a stranger she did not then enjoy so many of the privileges which were willingly accorded her during the present visit to this country, she still looks back to the day when she knelt by the grave of Shakespeare as one of the most eventful and inspiring of her life.
Much of the time of Mary Anderson’s European visit was spent in Paris. Through the kindness of General Sherman she obtained introductions to Ristori and other distinguished artists, and, to her delight, secured also the entree behind the scenes of the Theatre Francais. Its magnificent green-room, the walls lined with portraits of departed celebrities of that famous theater, amazed her by its splendor; and to her it was a strange and curious sight to see the actors in “Hernani” come in and play cards in their gorgeous stage costumes at intervals in the performance. On one of these occasions she naively asked Sarah Bernhardt why her portrait did not appear on the walls? The great artist replied that she hoped Mary Anderson did not wish her dead, as only under such circumstances could an appearance there be permitted to her. “Behind the scenes” of the Theatre Francais was a source of never-wearying interest, and Mary Anderson thought the effects of light attained there far surpassed anything she had witnessed on the English or American stage.
The verdict of Ristori, before whom she recited, was highly favorable, and the great tragedienne predicted a brilliant career for the young actress, and declared she would be a great success with an English company in Paris, while the “divine Sarah” affirmed that she had never seen greater originality. On the return journey from Paris a brief stay was made at the quaint city of Rouen. Joan of Arc’s stake, and the house where, tradition has it, she resided, were sacred spots to Mary Anderson; and the ancient towers, the curious old streets, overlooking the fertile valley through which the Seine wanders like a silver thread, are memories which have since remained to her ever green. During her first visit to England Mary Anderson never dreamt of the possibility that she herself might appear on the English stage. Indeed the effect of her first European tour was depressing and disheartening. She saw only how much there was for her to see, how much to learn in the world of Art. A feeling of home-sickness came over her, and she longed to be back at her seaside home where she could watch the wild restless Atlantic as it swept in upon the New Jersey shore, and listen to the sad music of the weary waves. This was the instinct of a true artist nature, which had depths capable of being stirred by the touch of what is great and noble.
In the following year, however, there came an offer from the manager of Drury Lane to appear upon its boards. Mary Anderson received it with a pleased surprise. It told that her name had spread beyond her native land, and that thus early had been earned a reputation which commended her as worthy to appear on the stage of a great and famous London theater. But her reply was a refusal. She thought herself hardly finished enough to face such a test of her powers; and the natural ambition of a successful actress to extend the area of her triumph seemed to have found no place in her heart.
Chapter VI.
Second Visit to Europe.—Experiences on the English Stage.
The interval of five years which elapsed between Mary Anderson’s first and second visits to Europe was busily occupied by starring tours in the States and Canada. Mr. Henry Abbey’s first proposal, in 1883, for an engagement at the Lyceum was met with the same negative which had been given to that of Mr. Augustus Harris. But, happening some time afterward to meet her step-father, Dr. Griffin, in Baltimore, Mr. Abbey again urged his offer, to which a somewhat reluctant consent was at length given. The most ambitious moment of her artist-life seemed to have arrived at last. If she attained success, the crown was set on all the previous triumphs of her art; if failure were the issue, she would return to America discredited, if not disgraced, as an actress. The very crisis of her stage-life had come now in earnest. It found her despondent, almost despairing; at the last moment she was ready to draw back. She had then none of the many friends who afterward welcomed her with heartfelt sincerity whenever the curtain rose on her performance. She saw Irving in “Louis XI.” and “Shylock.” The brilliant powers of the great actor filled her at once with admiration and with dread, when she remembered how soon she too must face the same audiences. She sought to distract herself by making a round of the London theaters, but the most amusing of farces could hardly draw from her a passing smile, or lift for a moment the weight of apprehension which pressed on her heart. The very play in which she was destined first to present herself before a London audience was condemned beforehand. To make a debut as Parthenia was to court certain failure. The very actors who rehearsed with her were Job’s comforters. She saw in their faces a dreary vista of empty houses, of hostile critics, of general disaster. She almost broke down under the trial, and the sight of her first play-bill which told that the die was irrevocably cast for good or evil made her heart sink with fear. On going down to the theater upon the opening night she found, with mingled pleasure and surprise, that on both sides of the Atlantic fellow artists were regarding her with kindly sympathizing hearts. Her dressing-room was filled with beautiful floral offerings from many distinguished actors in England and America, while telegrams from Booth, McCullough, Lawrence Barrett, Irving, Ellen Terry, Christine Nilsson, and Lillie Langtry, bade her be of good courage, and wished her success. The overture smote like a dirge on her ear, and when the callboy came to announce that the moment of her entrance was at hand, it reminded her of nothing so much as the feeling of mourners when the sable mute appears at the door, as a signal to form the procession to the tomb. But in a moment the ordeal was safely passed, and passed forever so far as an English audience is concerned. Seldom has any actress received so warm and enthusiastic a reception. Mary Anderson confesses now that never till that moment did she experience anything so generous and so sympathetic, and offered to one who was then but “a stranger in a strange land.” Mary Anderson’s Parthenia was a brilliant success. Her glorious youth, her strange beauty, her admirable impersonation of a part of exceptional difficulty, won their way to all hearts. A certain amount of nervousness and timidity was inevitable to a first performance. The sudden revulsion of feeling, from deep despondency to complete triumphant success, made it difficult, at times, for the actress to master her feelings sufficiently to make her words audible through the house. One candid youth in the gallery endeavored to encourage her with a kindly “Speak up, Mary.” The words recalled her in an instant to herself, and for the rest of the evening she had regained her wonted self-possession.
From that time till Mary Anderson’s first Lyceum season closed, the world of London flocked to see her. The house was packed nightly from floor to ceiling, and she is said to have played to more money than the distinguished lessee of the theater himself. Among the visitors with whom Mary Anderson was a special favorite were the prince and princess. They witnessed each of her performances more than once, and both did her the honor to make her personal acquaintance, and compliment her on her success. So many absurd stories have been circulated as to Mary Anderson’s alleged unwillingness to meet the Prince of Wales, that the true story may as well be told once for all here. On one of the early performances of “Ingomar,” the prince and princess occupied the royal box, and the prince caused it to be intimated to Mary Anderson that he should be glad to be introduced to her after the third act. The little republican naively responded that she never saw any one till after the close of the performance. H.R.H. promptly rejoined that he always left the theater immediately the curtain fell. Meanwhile the manager represented to her the ungraciousness of not complying with a request which half the actresses in London would have sacrificed their diamonds to receive. And so at the close of the third act Mary Anderson presented herself, leaning on her father’s arm, in the anteroom of the royal box. Only the prince was there, and “He said to me,” relates Mary Anderson, “more charming things than were ever said to me, in a few minutes, in all my life. I was delighted with his kindness, and with his simple pleasant manner, which put me at my ease in a moment; but I was rather surprised that the princess did not see me as well.” The piece over, and there came a second message, that the princess also wished to be introduced. With her winning smile she took Mary Anderson’s hand in hers, and thanking her for the pleasure she had afforded by her charming impersonation, graciously presented Mary with her own bouquet.
The true version of another story, this time as to the Princess of Wales and Mary Anderson, may as well now be given. One evening Count Gleichen happened to be dining tete-a-tete with the prince and princess at Marlborough House. When they adjourned to the drawing-room, the princess showed the count some photographs of a young lady, remarking upon her singular beauty, and suggesting what a charming subject she would make for his chisel. The count was fain to confess that he did not even know who the lady was, and had to be informed that she was the new American actress, beautiful Mary Anderson. He expressed the pleasure it would give him to have so charming a model in his studio, and asked the princess whether he was at liberty to tell Mary Anderson that the suggestion came from her, to which the princess replied that he certainly might do so. Three replicas of the bust will be executed, of which Count Gleichen intends to present one to her royal highness, another to Mary Anderson’s mother, while the third will be placed in the Grosvenor Gallery. This is really all the foundation for the story of a royal command to Count Gleichen to execute a bust of Mary Anderson for the Princess of Wales.
Among those who were constant visitors at the Lyceum was Lord Lytton, or as Mary Anderson loves to call him, “Owen Meredith.” Her representation of his father’s heroine in “The Lady of Lyons” naturally interested him greatly, and it is possible he may himself write for her a special play. Between them there soon sprung up one of those warm friendships often seen between two artist natures, and Lord Lytton paid Mary Anderson the compliment of lending her an unpublished manuscript play of his father’s to read. Tennyson, too, sought the acquaintance of one who in his verse would make a charming picture. He was invited to meet her at dinner at a London house, and was her cavalier on the occasion. The author of “The Princess” did not in truth succeed in supplanting in her regard the bard of her native land, Longfellow; but he so won on Mary’s heart that she afterward presented him with the gift—somewhat unpoetic, it must be admitted—of a bottle of priceless Kentucky whisky, of a fabulous age!
If Mary Anderson was a favorite with the public before the curtain, she was no less popular with her fellow artists on the stage. Jealousy and ill-will not seldom reign among the surroundings of a star. It is a trial to human nature to be but a lesser light revolving round some brilliant luminary—but the setting to adorn the jewel. But Mary Anderson won the hearts of every one on the boards, from actors to scene-shifters. And at Christmas, in which she is a great believer, every one, high or low, connected with the Lyceum, was presented with some kind and thoughtful mark of her remembrance. And when the season closed, she was presented in turn, on the stage, with a beautiful diamond suit, the gift of the fellow artists who had shared for so long her triumphs and her toils.
Mary Anderson’s success in London was fully indorsed by the verdict of the great provincial towns. Everywhere she was received with enthusiasm, and hundreds were nightly turned from the doors of the theaters where she appeared. In Edinburgh she played to a house of £450, a larger sum than was ever taken at the doors of the Lyceum. The receipts of the week in Manchester were larger than those of any preceding week in the theatrical history of the great Northern town. Taken as a whole, her success has been without a parallel on the English stage. If she has not altogether escaped hostile criticism in the press, she has won the sympathies of the public in a way which no artist of other than English birth has succeeded in doing before her. They have come and gone, dazzled us for a time, but have left behind them no endearing remembrance. Mary Anderson has found her way to our hearts. It seems almost impossible that she can ever leave us to resume again the old life of a wandering star across the great American continent. It may be rash to venture a prophecy as to what the future may bring forth; but thus much we may say with truth, that, whenever Mary Anderson departs finally from our shores, the name of England will remain graven on her heart.
Chapter VII.
Impressions of England.
Almost every traveler from either side of the Atlantic, with the faintest pretensions to distinction, bursts forth on his return to his native shores in a volume of “Impressions.” Archæologists and philosophers, novelists and divines, apostles of sweetness and light, and star actors, are accustomed thus to favor the public with volumes which the public could very often be well content to spare. It is but natural that we should wish to know what Mary Anderson thinks of the “fast-anchored isle” and the folk who dwell therein. I wish, indeed, that these “Impressions” could have been given in her own words. The work would have been much better done, and far more interesting; but failing this, I must endeavor, following a recent illustrious example, to give them at second hand. During the earlier months of her stay among us, she lived somewhat the life of a recluse. Shut up in a pretty villa under the shadow of the Hampstead Hills, she saw little society but that of a few fellow artists, who found their way to her on Sunday afternoons. Indeed, she almost shrank from the idea of entering general society. The English world she wished to know was a world of the past, peopled by the creations of genius; not the modern world, which crowds London drawing-rooms. She saw the English people from the stage, and they were to her little more than audiences which vanished from her life when the curtain descended. From her earliest years she had been, in common with many of her countrymen, a passionate admirer of the great English novelist, Dickens. Much of her leisure was spent in pilgrimages to the spots round London which he has made immortal. Now and then, with her brother for a protector, she would go to lunch at an ancient hostelry in the Borough, where one of the scenes of Dickens’ stories is laid, but which has degenerated now almost to the rank of a public-house. Here she would try to people the place in fancy with the characters of the novel. “To listen to the talk of the people at such places,” she once said to me, “was better than any play I ever saw.”
Stratford-on-Avon too, was, of course, revisited, and many days were spent in lingering lovingly over the memorials of her favorite Shakespeare. She soon became well known to the guardians of the spot, and many privileges were granted to her not accorded on her first visit, four years before, when she was regarded but as a unit in the crowd of passing visitors who throng to the shrine of the great master of English dramatic art. On one occasion when she was in the church of Stratford-on-Avon, the ancient clerk asked her if she would mind being locked in while he went home to his tea. Nothing loath she consented, and remained shut up in the still solemnity of the place. Kneeling down by the grave of Shakespeare, she took out a pocket “Romeo and Juliet” and recited Juliet’s death scene close to the spot where the great master, who created her, lay in his long sleep. But presently the wind rose to a storm, the branches of the surrounding trees dashed against the windows, darkness spread through the ghostly aisles, and terror-stricken, Mary fled to the door, glad enough to be released by the returning janitor.
Rural England with its moss-grown farmhouses, its gray steeples, its white cottages clustering under their shadow, its tiny fields, its green hedgerows, garrisoned by the mighty elms, charmed Mary Anderson beyond expression, contrasting so strongly with the vast prairies, the primeval forests, the mighty rivers of her own giant land. These were the boundaries of her horizon in the earlier months of her stay among us; she knew little but the England of the past, and the England as the stranger sees it, who passes on his travels through its smiling landscapes. But a change of residence to Kensington brought Mary Anderson more within reach of those whom she had so charmed upon the stage, and who longed to have the opportunity of knowing her personally. By degrees her drawing-rooms became the scene of an informal Sunday afternoon reception. Artists and novelists, poets and sculptors, statesmen and divines, journalists and people of fashion crowded to see her, and came away wondering at the skill and power with which this young girl, evidently fresh to society, could hold her own, and converse fluently and intelligently on almost any subject. If the verdict of London society was that Mary Anderson was as clever in the drawing-room as she was attractive on the stage, she, in her turn, was charmed to speak face to face with many whose names and whose works had long been familiar to her. It was a new world of art and intellect and genius to which she was suddenly introduced, and which seemed to her all the more brilliant after the somewhat prosaic uniformity of society in her own republican land. To say that she admires and loves England with all her heart may be safely asserted. To say that it has almost succeeded in stealing away her heart from the land of her birth, she would hardly like to hear said. But we think her mind is somewhat that of Captain Macheath, in the “Beggars’ Opera”—
“How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away.”
One superiority, at least, she confesses England to have over America. The dreadful “interviewer” who has haunted her steps for the last eight years of her life with a dogged pertinacity which would take no denial, was here nowhere to be seen. He exists we know, but she failed to recognize the same genus in the quite harmless-looking gentleman, who, occasionally on the stage after a performance, or in her drawing-room, engaged her in conversation, when leading questions were skillfully disguised; and, then, much to her astonishment, afterward produced a picture of her in print with materials she was quite unconscious of having furnished. She failed, she admits now, to see the conventional “note-book,” so symbolical of the calling at home, and thus her fears and suspicions were disarmed.
One instance of Mary Anderson’s kind and womanly sympathy to some of the poorest of London’s waifs and strays should not be unrecorded here. It was represented to her at Christmas time that funds were needed for a dinner to a number of poor boys in Seven Dials. She willingly found them, and a good old-fashioned English dinner was given, at her expense, in the Board School Room to some three hundred hungry little fellows, who crowded through the snow of the wintry New Year’s Day to its hospitable roof. Though she is not of our faith, Mary Anderson was true to the precepts of that Christian Charity which, at such seasons, knows no distinction of creed; and of all the kind acts which she has done quietly and unostentatiously since she came among us, this is one which commends her perhaps most of all to our affection and regard.
Chapter VIII.
The Verdict of the Critics.
“Quot homines, tot sententiæ.”
It may, perhaps, be interesting to record here some of the criticisms which have appeared in several of the leading London and provincial journals on Mary Anderson’s performances, and especially on her debut at the Lyceum. Such notices are forgotten almost as soon as read, and except for some biographical purpose like the present, lie buried in the files of a newspaper office. It is usual to intersperse them with the text; but for the purpose of more convenient reference they have been included in a separate chapter.
Standard, 3d September, 1883.
“The opening of the Lyceum on Saturday evening, was signalized by the assembly of a crowded and fashionable audience to witness the first appearance in this country of Miss Mary Anderson as Parthenia in Maria Lovell’s four-act play of ‘Ingomar.’ Though young in years, Miss Anderson is evidently a practiced actress. She knows the business of the stage perfectly, is learned in the art of making points, and, what is more, knows how to bide her opportunity. The wise discretion which imposes restraint upon the performer was somewhat too rigidly observed in the earlier scenes on Saturday night, the consequence being that in one of the most impressive passages of the not very inspired dialogue, the little distance between the sublime and the ridiculous was bridged by a voice from the gallery, which, adopting a tone, ejaculated ‘A little louder, Mary.’ A less experienced artist might well have been taken aback by this sudden infraction of dramatic proprieties. Miss Anderson, however, did not loose her nerve, but simply took the hint in good part and acted upon it. There is very little reason to dwell at any length upon the piece. Miss Anderson will, doubtless, take a speedy opportunity of appearing in some other work in which her capacity as an actress can be better gauged than in Maria Lovell’s bit of tawdry sentiment. A real power of delineating passion was exhibited in the scene where Parthenia repulses the advances of her too venturesome admirer, and in this direction, to our minds, the best efforts of the lady tend. All we can do at present is to chronicle Miss Anderson’s complete success, the recalls being so numerous as to defy particularization.”
The Times, 3d September, 1883.
“Miss Mary Anderson, although but three or four and twenty, has for several years past occupied a leading position in the United States, and ranks as the highest of the American ‘stars,’ whose effulgence Mr. Abbey relies upon to attract the public at the Lyceum in Mr. Irving’s absence. Recommendations of this high order were more than sufficient to insure Miss Anderson a cordial reception. They were such as to dispose a sympathetic audience to make the most ample allowance for nervousness on the part of the debutante, and to distrust all impressions they might have of an unfavorable kind, or at least to grant the possession of a more complete knowledge of the lady’s attainments to those who had trumpeted her praise so loudly. That such should have been the mood of the house, was a circumstance not without its influence on the events of the evening. It was manifestly owing in some measure to the critical spirit being subordinated for the time being to the hospitable, that Miss Anderson was able to obtain all the outward and visible signs of a dramatic triumph in a role which intrinsically had little to commend it…. Usually it is the rude manliness, the uncouth virtues, the awkward and childlike submissiveness of that tamed Bull of Bashan [Ingomar] that absorbs the attention of a theatrical audience. On Saturday evening the center of interest was, of course, transferred to Parthenia. To the interpretation of this character Miss Anderson brings natural gifts of rare excellence, gifts of face and form and action, which suffice almost themselves to play the part; and the warmth of the applause which greeted her as she first tripped upon the stage expressed the admiration no less than the welcome of the house. Her severely simple robes of virgin white, worn with classic grace, revealed a figure as lissome and perfect of contour as a draped Venus of Thorwaldsen, her face seen under her mass of dark brown hair, negligently bound with a ribbon, was too mignonne, perhaps, to be classic, but looked pretty and girlish. A performance so graced could not fail to be pleasing. And yet it was impossible not to feel, as the play progressed, that to the fine embodiment of the romantic heroine, art was in some degree wanting. The beautiful Parthenia, like a soulless statue, pleased the eye, but left the heart untouched. It became evident that faults of training or, perhaps, of temperament, were to be set off against the actress’ unquestionable merits. The elegant artificiality of the American school, a tendency to pose and be self-conscious, to smirk even, if the word may be permitted, especially when advancing to the footlights to receive a full measure of applause, were fatal to such sentiment as even so stilted a play could be made to yield. It was but too evident that Parthenia was at all times more concerned with the fall of her drapery than with the effect of her speeches, and that gesture, action, intonation—everything which constitutes a living individuality were in her case not so much the outcome of the feeling proper to the character, as the manifestation of diligent painstaking art which had not yet learnt to conceal itself. The gleam of the smallest spark of genius would have been a welcome relief to the monotony of talent…. It must not be forgotten, however, that a highly artificial play like ‘Ingomar’ is by no means a favorable medium for the display of an actress’ powers, though it may fairly indicate their nature. Before a definite rank can be assigned to her among English actresses, Miss Anderson must be seen in some of her other characters.”
Daily News, 3d September, 1883.
“It will be recollected that Mr. Irving, in his farewell speech at the Lyceum Theater, on the 28th of July, made a point of bespeaking a kindly welcome for Miss Mary Anderson on her appearance at his theater during his absence, as the actress he alluded to was a lady whose beauty and talent had made her the favorite of America, from Maine to California. It would not perhaps be unfair to attribute to this cordial introduction something of the special interest which was evidently aroused by Miss Anderson’s debut here on Saturday night. English playgoers recognize but vaguely the distinguishing characteristics of actors and actresses, whose fame has been won wholly by their performances on the other side of the Atlantic. It was therefore just as well that before Miss Anderson arrived some definite claim as to her pretensions should be authoritatively put forward. These would, it must be confessed, have been liable to misconception if they had been judged solely by her first performance on the London stage. ‘Ingomar’ is not a play, and Parthenia is certainly not a character, calculated to call forth the higher powers of an ambitious actress. As a matter of fact, Miss Anderson, who began her histrion career at an early age, and is even now of extremely youthful appearance, has had plenty of experience and success in roles of much more difficulty, and much wider possibilities. Her modest enterprise on Saturday night was quite as successful as could have been anticipated. There is not enough human reality about Parthenia to allow her representative to interest very deeply the sympathy of her hearers. There is not enough poetry in the drama to enable the actress to mar our imagination by calling her own into play. What Miss Anderson could achieve was this: she was able in the first place to prove, by the aid of the Massilian maiden’s becoming, yet exacting attire, that her personal advantages have been by no means overrated. Her features regular yet full of expression, her figure slight but not spare, the pose of her small and graceful head, all these, together with a girlish prettiness of manner, and a singularly refined bearing, are quite enough to account for at least one of the phases of Miss Anderson’s popularity. Her voice is not wanting in melody of a certain kind, though its tones lack variety. Her accent is slight, and seldom unpleasant. Of her elocution it is scarcely fair to judge until she has caught more accurately the pitch required for the theater. For the accomplishment of any great things Miss Anderson had not on Saturday night any opportunity, nor did her treatment of such mild pathos and passion as the character permitted impress us with the idea that her command of deep feeling is as yet matured. So far as it goes, however, her method is extremely winning, and her further efforts, especially in the direction of comedy and romantic drama, will be watched with interest, and may be anticipated with pleasure.”
Morning Post, 3rd September, 1883.
“Lyceum Theater.
“This theater was reopened under the management of Mr. Henry Abbey on Saturday evening, when was revived Mrs. Lovell’s play called ‘Ingomar,’ a picturesque but somewhat ponderous work of German origin, first produced some thirty years ago at Drury Lane with Mr. James Anderson and Miss Vandenhoff as the principal personages. The interest centers not so much in the barbarian Ingomar as in his enchantress, Parthenia, of whom Miss Mary Anderson, an American artist of fine renown, proves a comely and efficient representative. In summing up the qualifications of an actress the Transatlantic critics never fail to take into account her personal charms—a fascinating factor. Borne on the wings of an enthusiastic press, the fame of Miss Anderson’s loveliness had reached our shores long before her own arrival. The Britishers were prepared to see a very handsome lady, and they have not been disappointed. Miss Anderson’s beauty is of Grecian type, with a head of classic contour, finely chiseled features, and a tall statuesque figure, whose Hellenic expression a graceful costume of antique design sets off to the best advantage. You fancy that you have seen her before, and so perhaps you have upon the canvas of Angelica Kauffman. For the rest, Miss Anderson is very clever and highly accomplished. Her talents are brilliant and abundant, and they have been carefully cultivated to every perfection of art save one—the concealment of it. She has grace, but it is studied, not negligent grace; her action is always picturesque and obviously premeditated; everything she says and does is impressive, but it speaks a foregone conclusion. Her acting is polished and in correct taste. What it wants is freshness, spontaneity, abandon. Among English artists of a bygone age her style might probably find a parallel in the stately elegance and artificial grandeur of the Kembles. It has nothing in common with the electric verve and romantic ardor of Edmund Kean. Of the feu sacre which irradiated Rachel and gives to Bernhardt splendor ineffable, Miss Anderson has not a spark. She is not inspired. Hers is a pure, bright, steady light; but it lacks mystic effulgence. It is not empyreal. It is not ‘the light that never was on sea or land—the consecration and the poet’s dream.’ It is not genius. It is talent. In a word, Miss Anderson is beautiful, winsome, gifted, and accomplished. To say this is to say much, and it fills to the brim the measure of legitimate praise. She is an eminently good, but not a great artist.”
Daily Telegraph, 3rd September, 1883.
“There was a natural desire to see, nay, rather let us say to welcome Miss Mary Anderson, who made her debut as Parthenia in ‘Ingomar’ on Saturday evening last. The fame of this actress had already preceded her. An enthusiastic climber up the rugged mountain paths of the art she had elected to serve … an earnest volunteer in the almost forlorn cause of the poetical drama: a believer in the past, not merely because it is past, but because in it was embodied much of the beautiful and the hopeful that has been lost to us, Miss Mary Anderson was assured an honest greeting at a theater of cherished memories…. It has been said that the friends of Miss Anderson were very ill-advised to allow her to appear as Parthenia in the now almost-forgotten play of ‘Ingomar.’ We venture to differ entirely with this opinion. That the American actress interested, moved, and at times delighted her audience in a play supposed to be unfashionable and out of date, is, in truth, the best feather that can be placed in her cap…. There must clearly be something in an actress who cannot only hold her own as Parthenia, but in addition dissipate the dullness of ‘Ingomar.’… And now comes the question, how far Miss Mary Anderson succeeded in a task that requires both artistic instinct and personal charm to carry it to a successful issue. The lady has been called classical, Greek, and so on, but is, in truth, a very modern reproduction of a classical type—a Venus by Mr. Gibson, rather than a Venus by Milo; a classic draped figure of a Wedgwood plaque more than an echo from the Parthenon…. The actress has evidently been well taught, and is both an apt and clever pupil; she speaks clearly, enunciates well, occasionally conceals the art she has so closely studied, and is at times both tender and graceful…. Her one great fault is insincerity, or, in other words, inability thoroughly to grasp the sympathies of the thoughtful part of her audience. She is destitute of the supreme gift of sensibility that Talma considers essential, and Diderot maintains is detrimental to the highest acting. Diderot may be right, and Talma may be wrong, but we are convinced that the art Miss Anderson has practiced is, on the whole, barren and unpersuasive. She does not appear to feel the words she speaks, or to be deeply moved by the situations in which she is placed. She is forever acting—thinking of her attitudes, posing very prettily, but still posing for all that…. She weeps, but there are no tears in her eyes; she murmurs her love verses with charming cadence, but there is no throb of heart in them…. These things, however, did not seem to affect her audience. They cheered her as if their hearts were really touched…. These, however, are but early impressions, and we shall be anxious to see her in still another delineation.”
Standard, 10th December, 1883.
“Lyceum Theater.
“Miss Mary Anderson has won such favor from audiences at the Lyceum, that anything she did would attract interest and curiosity. Galatea, in Mr. W.S. Gilbert’s mythological comedy, ‘Pygmalion and Galatea,’ has, moreover, been spoken of as one of the actress’ chief successes, and a crowded house on Saturday evening was the result of the announcement of its revival. An ideal Galatea could scarcely be realized, for there should be in the triumph of the sculptor’s art, endowed by the gods with life, a supernatural grace and beauty. The singular picturesqueness of Miss Anderson’s poses and gestures, the consequences of careful study of the best sculpture, has been noted in all that she has done, and this quality fits her peculiarly for the part of the vivified statue. In this respect it is little to say that Galatea has never before been represented with so near an approach to perfection.”
Daily News, 10th December, 1883.
“The part of Galatea, in which Miss Anderson made her first appearance in England at the Lyceum Theater on Saturday evening, enables this delightful actress to exhibit in her fullest charms the exquisite grace of form and the simple elegance of gesture and movement by virtue of which she stands wholly without a rival on the stage. Whether in the alcove, where she is first discovered motionless upon the pedestal, or when miraculously endued with life, she moves, a beautiful yet discordant element in the Athenian sculptor’s household. The statuesque outline and the perfect harmony between the figure of the actress and her surroundings, were striking enough to draw more than once from the crowded theater, otherwise hushed and attentive, an audible expression of pleasure. Rarely, indeed, can an attempt to satisfy by actual bodily presentment the ideal of a poetical legend have approached so nearly to absolute perfection.”
The Morning Post, 10th December, 1883.
“‘Pygmalion and Galatea,’ a play in which Miss Mary Anderson is said to have scored her most generally accepted success in her own country, has now taken at the Lyceum the place of ‘The Lady of Lyons,’ a drama certainly not well fitted to the young actress’ capabilities. Mr. Gilbert’s well-known fairy comedy is in many respects exactly suited to the display of Miss Anderson’s special merits. Its heroine is a statue, and a very beautiful simulation of chiseled marble was sure to be achieved by a lady of Miss Anderson’s personal advantages, and of her approved skill in artistic posing. Moreover, the sub-acid spirit of the piece rarely allows its sentiment to go very deep, and it is in the expression—perhaps, we should write the experience—of really earnest emotion, that Miss Anderson’s chief deficiency lies. Galatea is moreover by no means the strongest acting part in the comedy, affording few of the opportunities for the exhibition of passion, which fall to the lot of the heart-broken and indignant wife, Cynisca. Although in 1871, on the original production of the play, Mrs. Kendall made much of Galatea’s womanly pathos, there is plenty of room for an effective rendering of the character, which deliberately hides the woman in the statue. Such a rendering is, as might have been expected, Miss Anderson’s. Even in her ingenious scenes of comedy with Leucippe and with Chrysos, there is no more dramatic vivacity than might be looked for in a temporarily animated block of stone. Her love for the sculptor who has given her vitality is perfectly cold in its purity. There is no spontaneity in the accents in which it is told, no amorous impulse to which it gives rise. This new Galatea, however, is fair to look upon—so fair in her statuesque attitudes and her shapely presence, that the infatuation of the man who created her is readily understood. By the classic beauty of her features and the perfect molding of her figure she is enabled to give all possible credibility to the legend of her miraculous birth. Moreover, the refinement of her bearing and manner allows no jarring note to be struck, and although, when Galatea sadly returns to marble not a tear is shed by the spectator, it is felt that a plausible and consistent interpretation of the character has been given.”
The Times, 10th December, 1883.
“Mr. Gilbert’s play ‘Pygmalion and Galatea,’ is a perversion of Ovid’s fable of the Sculptor of Cyprus, the main interest of which upon the stage is derived from its cynical contrast between the innocence of the beautiful nymph of stone whom Pygmalion’s love endows with life, and the conventional prudishness of society. Obviously the purpose of such a travesty may be fulfilled without any call upon the deeper emotions—upon the stress of passion, which springs from that ‘knowledge of good and evil’ transmitted by Eve to all her daughters. It is sufficient that the living and breathing Galatea of the play should seem to embody the classic marble, that she should move about the stage with statuesque grace and that she should artlessly discuss the relations of the sexes in the language of double intent. Miss Anderson’s degree of talent, as shown in the impersonations she has already given us, and her command of classical pose, have already suggested this character as one for which she was eminently fitted. It was therefore no surprise to those who have been least disposed to admit this lady’s claim to greatness as an actress that her Galatea on Saturday night should have been an ideally beautiful and tolerably complete embodiment of the part. If the heart was not touched, as, indeed, in such a play it scarcely ought to be, the eye was enabled to repose upon the finest tableau vivant that the stage has ever seen. Upon the curtains of the alcove being withdrawn, where the statue still inanimate rests upon its pedestal, the admiration of the house was unbounded. Not only was the pose of the figure under the lime-light artistic in the highest sense, but the tresses and the drapery were most skillfully arranged to look like the work of the chisel. It is significant of the measure of Miss Anderson’s art, that in her animated moments subsequently she should not have excelled the plastic grace of this first picture. At the same time, to her credit it must be said, that she never fell much below it. Her movements on the stage, her management of her drapery, her attitudes were full of classic beauty. Actresses there have been who have given us much more than this statuesque posing, who have transformed Galatea into a woman of flesh and blood, animated by true womanly love for Pygmalion as the first man on whom her eyes alight. Sentiment of this kind, whether intended by the author or not, would scarcely harmonize with the satirical spirit of the play, and the innocent prattle which Miss Anderson gives us in place of it meets sufficiently well the requirements of the case dramatically, leaving the spectator free to derive pleasure from his sense of the beautiful, here so strikingly appealed to, from the occasionally audacious turns of the dialogue in relation to social questions, from the disconcerted airs of Pygmalion at the contemplation of his own handiwork, and from the real womanly jealousy of Cynisca.”
The Graphic, 14th December, 1883.
“Never, perhaps, have the playgoing public been so much at variance with the critics as in the case of the young American actress now performing at the Lyceum Theater. There is no denying the fact that Miss Anderson is, to use a popular expression, ‘the rage;’ but it is equally certain that she owes this position in very slight degree to the published accounts of her acting. From the first she has been received, with few exceptions, only in a coldly critical spirit; and yet her reputation has gone on gathering in strength till now, the Lyceum is crowded nightly with fashionable folk whose carriages block the way; and those who would secure places to witness her performances are met at the box offices with the information that all the seats have been taken long in advance. How are we to account for the fact that this young lady who came but the other day among us a stranger, even her name being scarcely known, and who still refrains from those ‘bold advertisements,’ which in the case of so many other managers and performers usurp the functions of the trumpet of fame, has made her way in a few short months only to the very highest place in the estimation of our play going public? We can see no possible explanation save the simple one that her acting affords pleasure in a high degree; for those who insinuate that her beauty alone is the attraction may easily be answered by reference to numerous actresses of unquestionable personal attractions who have failed to arouse anything approaching to the same degree of interest. As regards the unfavorable critics, we are inclined to think that they have been unable to shake off the associations of the essentially artificial characters—Parthenia and Pauline—in which Miss Anderson has unfortunately chosen to appear. Further complaints of artificiality and coldness have, it is true, been put forth a propos of her first appearance on Saturday evening in Mr. Gilbert’s beautiful mythological comedy of ‘Pygmalion and Galatea;’ but protests are beginning to appear in some quarters, and we are much mistaken if this graceful and accomplished actress is not destined yet to win the favor of her censors. The statuesque beauty of her appearance and the classic grace of all her movements and attitudes, as the Greek statue suddenly endowed with life, have received general recognition; but not less remarkable were the simplicity, the tenderness, and, on due occasion, the passionate impulse of her acting, though the impersonation is no doubt in the chastened classical vein. It is difficult to imagine how a realization of Mr. Gilbert’s conception could be made more perfect.”
The World, 12th December, 1883.
“The revival of ‘Pygmalion and Galatea’ at the Lyceum on Saturday last, with Miss Mary Anderson in the part of the animated statue, excited considerable interest and drew together a large and enthusiastic audience. Without attempting any comparison between Mrs. Kendal and the young American actress, it may at once be stated, that the latter gave an interesting and original rendering of Galatea. As the velvet curtain drawn aside disclosed the snowy statue on its pedestal, in a pose of classic beauty, it seemed hard to believe that such sculptural forms, the delicate features, the fine arms, the graceful figure, could be of any other material than marble. The gradual awakening to life, the joy and wonder of the bright young creature, to whom existence is still a mystery, were charmingly indicated; and when Miss Anderson stepped forward slowly in her soft clinging draperies, with her pretty brown hair lightly powdered, she satisfied the most fastidiously critical sense of beauty. Galatea, as Miss Anderson understands her, is statuesque; but Galatea is also a woman, perfect in the purity of ideal womanhood. The chief characteristics of her nature are innate modesty and refinement, which, though, perhaps, not strictly fashionable attributes, are appropriate enough in a daughter of the gods. When she loves, it is without any airs and graces. She has not an atom of self-consciousness; she cannot premeditate; she loves because she must, rather than because she will, because it is the condition of her life. Some of the naive remarks she has to utter, might in clumsy lips seem coarse. Miss Anderson delivered them with consummate grace and innocence, but her fine smile, her bright sparkling eye, proved sufficiently, that the innocence was not stupidity. The first long speech at the conclusion of which she kneels to Pygmalion was beautifully rendered, and elicited a burst of applause, which was repeated at intervals throughout the evening. Her poses were always graceful, sometimes strikingly beautiful.
“Miss Anderson has the true sense of rhythm and the clearest enunciation; she has a deep and musical voice, which in moments of pathos thrills with a sweet and tender inflection. She has seized, in this instance, upon the touching rather than the harmonious side of Galatea, the pure and innocent girl who is not fit to live upon this world. She is only not human because she is superior to human folly; she cannot understand sin because it is so sweet; she asks to be taught a fault; but the womanly love and devotion, and unselfishness, are all there, writ in clear and uncompromising characters. The first and last acts were decidedly the best; in the latter especially Miss Anderson touched a true pathetic chord, and fairly elicited the pity and sympathy of the audience. With a gentle wonder and true dignity she meets the gradual dropping away of her illusion, the crumbling of her unreasoning faith, the cruel stings when her spiritual nature is misunderstood, and her actions misinterpreted. She is jarred by the rough contact of commonplace facts, and ruffled and wounded by the strange and cynical indifference to her sufferings of the man she loves. At last when she can bear no more, yet uncomplaining to the last, like a flower broken on its stem, shrinking and sensitive, she totters out with one loud cry of woe, the expression of her agony. Miss Anderson is a poet, she brings everything to the level of her own refined and artistic sensibility, and the result is that while she presents us with a picture of ideal womanhood, she must appeal of necessity rather to our imaginations than to our senses, and may by some persons be considered cold. Once or twice she dropped her voice so as to became almost inaudible, and occasionally forced her low tones more than was quite agreeable; but whether in speech, in gesture, or in delicate suggestive byplay, her performance is essentially finished. One or two little actions may be noted, such as the instinctive recoil of alarmed modesty when Pygmalion blames her for saying ‘things that others would reprove,’ or her expression of troubled wonder to find that it is ‘possible to say one thing and mean another.’”
Daily Telegraph, 10th December, 1883.
“‘Pygmalion and Galatea.’
“It is the fashion to judge of Miss Anderson outside her capacity and competency as an actress. Ungraciously enough she is regarded and reviewed as the thing of beauty that is a joy forever, and her infatuated admirers view her first as a picture, last as an artist. If, then, public taste was agitated by the Parthenia who lolled in her mother’s lap and twisted flower garlands at the feet of her noble savage Ingomar; if society fluttered with excitement at the sight of the faultless Pauline gazing into the fire on the eve of her ill-fated marriage, how much more jubilation there will be now that Miss Mary Anderson, a lovely woman in studied drapery, stands posed at once as a statue, and as a subject for the photographic pictures which will flood the town. Unquestionably Miss Anderson never looked so well as a statue, both lifeless and animated, never comported herself with such grace, never gave such a perfect embodiment of purity and innocence. In marble she was a statue motionless; in life she was a statue half warmed. There are those who believe, or who try to persuade themselves, that this is all Galatea has to do—to appear behind a curtain as a ‘pose plastique,’ to make an excellent ‘tableau vivant,’ and to wear Greek drapery, as if she had stepped down from a niche in the Acropolis. All this Miss Mary Anderson does to perfection. She is a living, breathing statue. A more beautiful object in its innocent severity the stage has seldom seen. But is this all that Galatea has to do? Those who have studied Mr. Gilbert’s poem will scarcely say so. Galatea descended from her pedestal has to become human, and has to reconcile her audience to the contradictory position of a woman, who, presumably innocent of the world and its ways, is unconsciously cynical and exquisitely pathetic. We grant that it is a most difficult part to play. Only an artist can give effect to the comedy, or touch the true chord of sentiment that underlies the idea of Galatea. But to make Galatea consistently inhuman, persistently frigid, and monotonously spiritual, is, if not absolutely incorrect, at least glaringly ineffective. If Galatea does not become a breathing, living woman when she descends from her pedestal, a woman capable of love, a woman with a foreshadowing of passion, a woman of tears and tenderness, then the play goes for nothing…. Miss Anderson reads Galatea in a severe fashion. She is a Galatea perfectly formed, whose heart has not yet been adjusted. She shrinks from humanity. She wants to be classical and severe, and her last cry to Pygmalion, instead of being the utterance of a tortured soul, is ‘monotonous and hollow as a ghost’s.’ It is with no desire to be discourteous that we venture any comparison between the Galatea of Miss Anderson and of Mrs. Kendal. The comparison should only be made on the point of reading. Yet surely there can be no doubt that Mrs. Kendal’s idea of Galatea, while appealing to the heart, is more dramatically effective. It illumines the poem.”
The Times, 28th January, 1884.
“Lyceum Theater.
“Those who have suspected that Miss Mary Anderson was well advised in clinging to the artificial class of character hitherto associated with her engagement at the Lyceum—characters, that is to say, making little call upon the emotional faculties of their exponent—will not be disposed to modify their opinion from her ‘creation’ of the new part of distinctly higher scope in Mr. Gilbert’s one act drama, ‘Comedy and Tragedy,’ produced for the first time on Saturday night. Though passing in a single scene, this piece furnishes a more crucial test of Miss Anderson’s powers than any of her previous assumptions in this country. Unfortunately it also assigns limits to those powers which few actresses of the second or even third rank need despair of attaining. Such a piece as this, it will be seen, makes the highest demands upon an actress. Tenderly affectionate, and true with her husband, when she arranges with him the plan upon which so much depends: heartless and insouciante in manner while she receives her guests; affectedly gay and vivacious while her husband’s fate is trembling in the balance; deeply tragic in her anguish when her fortitude has broken down; and finally overcome with joy as her husband is restored to her arms; she has to pass and repass, without a pause, from one extreme of her art to the other. There is probably no actress but Sarah Bernhardt who could render all the various phases of this character as they should be rendered. There is only one phase of it that comes fairly within Miss Anderson’s grasp. Of vivacity there is not a spark in her nature; a heavy-footed impassiveness weighs upon all her efforts to be sprightly. The refinement, the subtlety, the animation, the ton, of an actress of the Comedie Francaise she does not so much as suggest. Womanly sympathy, tenderness, and trust, those qualities which constitute a far deeper and more abiding charm than statuesque beauty, are equally absent from an impersonation which in its earlier phases is almost distressingly labored. While the actress is entertaining her guests with improvised comedy, moreover, no undercurrent of emotion, no suggestion of suppressed anxiety is perceptible. It is not till this double role, which demands a degree of finesse evidently beyond Miss Anderson’s range, is exchanged for the unaffected expression of mental torture that the actress rises to the occasion, and here it is pleasing to record, she displayed on Saturday night an earnestness and an intensity which won her an ungrudging round of applause. Miss Anderson’s conception of the character is excellent, it is her powers of execution that are defective; and we do not omit from these the quality of her voice, which at times sinks into a hard and unsympathetic key.”
Morning Post, 28th January, 1884.
“A change effected in the programme at the Lyceum Theater on Saturday night makes Mr. Gilbert responsible for the whole entertainment of the evening. His fairy comedy of ‘Pygmalion and Galatea,’ is now supplemented by a new dramatic study in which, under the ambitious title ‘Comedy and Tragedy,’ he has been at special pains to provide Miss Mary Anderson with an effective role. This popular young actress has every reason to congratulate herself upon the opportunity for distinction thus placed in her way, for Mr. Gilbert has accomplished his task in a thoroughly workmanlike manner. In the course of a single act he has demanded from the exponent of his principal character the most varied histrionic capabilities, for he has asked her to be by turns the consummate actress and the unsophisticated woman, the gracious hostess and the vindictive enemy, the humorous reciter and the tragedy queen. Nor has he done this merely by inventing plausible excuses for a succession of conscious assumptions, such as those of the entertainer who appears first in one guise and then in another, that he may exhibit his deft versatility. There is a genuine dramatic motive for the display by the heroine of ‘Comedy and Tragedy’ of quickly changing emotions and accomplishments. She acts because circumstances really call upon her to act, and not because the showman pulls the strings of his puppet as the whim of the moment may suggest. The question is, how far Miss Anderson is able to realize for us the mental agony and the characteristic self-command of such a woman as Clarice in such a state as hers. The answer, as given on Saturday by a demonstrative audience, was wholly favorable; as it suggests itself to a calmer judgment the kindly verdict must be qualified by reservations many and serious. We may admit at once that Miss Anderson deserves all praise for her exhibition of earnest force, and for the nervous spirit with which she attacks her work. It is a pleasant surprise to see her depending upon something beyond her skill in the art of the tableau vivant. The ring of her deep voice may not always be melodious, but at any rate it is true, and the burst of passionate entreaty carries with it the genuine conviction of distress. What is missing is the distinction of bearing that should mark a leading member of the famous troupe of players, grace of movement as distinguished from grace of power, lightening of touch in Clarice’s comedy, and refinement of expression in her tragedy. At present the impersonation is rough and almost clumsy whilst, at times, the vigorous elocution almost descends to the level of ranting. Many of these faults may, however, have been due to Miss Anderson’s evident nervousness, and to the whirlwind of excitement in which she hurried through her task; and we shall be quite prepared to find her performance improve greatly under less trying conditions.”
The Scotsman, 28th April, 1884.
“Last night the young American actress, who has, during the past few months, acquired such great popularity in London, made her first appearance before an Edinburgh audience in the same character she chose for her Metropolitan debut—that of Parthenia in ‘Ingomar.’ The piece itself is essentially old-fashioned. It is one of that category of ‘sentimental dramas’ which were in vogue thirty or forty years ago, but are not sufficiently complex in their intrigue, or subtle in their analysis of emotion, to suit the somewhat cloyed palates of the present generation of playgoers. Yet, through two or three among the long list of plays of this type, there runs like a vein of gold amid the dross, a noble and true idea that preserves them from the common fate, and one of these few pieces is ‘Ingomar.’ Its blank verse may be stilted, its action often forced and unreal; but the pictures it presents of a daughter’s devotion, a maiden’s purity, a brave man’s love and supreme self-sacrifice, are drawn with a breadth and a simplicity of outline that make them at once appreciable, and they are pictures upon which few people can help looking with pleasure and sympathy. We do not say that Miss Anderson could not possibly have chosen a better character in which to introduce herself to an Edinburgh audience; but certainly it would be difficult to conceive a more charming interpretation of Parthenia than she gave last night. To personal attractions of the highest order she adds a rich and musical voice, capable of a wide range of accent and inflection, a command of gesture which is abundantly varied, but always graceful and—what is, perhaps, of more moment to the artist than all else—an unmistakable capacity for grasping the essential significance of a character, and identifying herself thoroughly with it. Her delineation is not only exquisitely picturesque; it leaves behind the impression of a thoughtful conception wrought out with consistency, and developed with real dramatic power. The lighter phases of Parthenia’s nature were, as they should be, kept generally prominent, but when the demand came for stronger and tenser emotions the actress was always able to respond to it—as for instance in Parthenia’s defiance of Ingomar, when his love finds its first uncouth utterance, in her bitter anguish when she thinks he has left her forever, and in her final avowal of love and devotion. These are the crucial points in the rendering of the part; and they were so played last night by Miss Anderson as to prove that she is equal to much more exacting roles. She was excellently supported by Mr. Barnes as Ingomar, and fairly well by the representatives of the numerous minor personages who contribute to the development of the story, without having individual interest of their own. Miss Anderson won an enthusiastic reception at the hands of a large and discriminating audience, being called before the curtain at the close of each act.”
Glasgow Evening Star, 6th May, 1884.
“Miss Anderson at the Royalty.
“No modern actress has created such a furore in this country as Miss Anderson. Coming to us from America with the reputation of being the foremost exponent of histrionic art in that country, it was but natural that her advent should be regarded with very critical eyes by many who thought that America claimed too much for their charming actress. Thus predisposed to find as many faults as possible in one who boldly challenged their verdict on her own merits alone, it is not surprising that Metropolitan critics were almost unanimous in their opinion that Miss Anderson, although a clever actress and a very beautiful woman, was not by any means a great artist. They did not hesitate to say, moreover, that much of her success as an actress was due to her physical grace and beauty. We have no hesitation in stating a directly contrary opinion.”
Glasgow Herald, 6th May, 1884.
“Miss Anderson at the Royalty Theater.
“Since ‘Pygmalion and Galatea’ was produced at the Haymarket Theater, fully a dozen years ago, when the part of Galatea was created by Mrs. Kendal, quite a number of actresses have essayed the character. Most of them have succeeded in presenting a carefully thought-out and intelligently-executed picture; few have been able to realize in their intensity, and give adequate embodiment to, the dreamy utterances of the animated statue. It is a character which only consummate skill can appropriately represent. The play is indeed a cunningly-devised fable; but Galatea is the one central figure on which it hangs. Its humor and its satire are so exquisitely keen that they must needs be delicately wielded. That a statue should be vivified and endowed with speech and reason is a bold conception, and it requires no ordinary artist to depict the emotion of such a mythical being. For this duty Miss Anderson last night proved herself more than capable. Her interpretation of the part is essentially her own; it differs in some respects from previous representations of the character, and to none of them is it inferior. In her conception of the part, the importance of statuesque posing has been studied to the minutest detail, and in this respect art could not well be linked with greater natural advantages than are possessed by Miss Anderson. When, in the opening scene, the curtains of the recess in the sculptor’s studio were thrown back from the statue, a perfect wealth of art was displayed in its pose; it seemed indeed to be a realization of the author’s conception of a figure which all but breathes, yet still is only cold, dull stone. From beginning to end, Miss Anderson’s Galatea is a captivating study in the highest sphere of histrionic art. There is no part of it that can be singled out as better than another. It is a compact whole such as only few actresses may hope to equal.”
Dublin Evening Mail, 22d March, 1884.
“Mary Anderson at the Gaiety.
“Notwithstanding all that photography has done for the last few weeks to familiarize Dublin with Miss Anderson’s counterfeit presentment, the original took the Gaiety audience last night by surprise. Her beauty outran expectation. It was, moreover, generally different from what the camera had suggested. It required an effort to recall in the brilliant, mobile, speaking countenance before us the classic regularity and harmony of the features which we had admired on cardboard. Brilliancy is the single word that best sums up the characteristics of Miss Anderson’s face, figure and movements on the stage. But it is a brilliancy that is altogether natural and spontaneous—a natural gift, not acquisition; and it is a brilliancy which, while it is all alive with intelligence and sympathy, is instinct to the core with a virginal sweetness and purity. In ‘Ingomar’ the heroine comes very early and abruptly on the scene before the audience is interested in her arrival, or has, indeed, got rid of the garish realities of the street. But Miss Anderson’s appearance spoke for itself without any aid from the playwright. The house, after a moment’s hesitation, broke out into sudden and quickly-growing applause, which was evidently a tribute not to the artist, but to the woman. She understood this herself, and evidently enjoyed her triumph with a frank and girlish pleasure. She had conquered her audience before opening her lips. She is of rather tall stature, a figure slight but perfectly modeled, her well-shaped head dressed Greek fashion with the simple knot behind, her arms, which the Greek costume displayed to the shoulder, long, white, and of a roundness seldom attained so early in life, her walk and all her attitudes consummately graceful and expressive. A more general form of disparagement is that which pretends to account for all Miss Anderson’s popularity by her beauty. It is her beauty, these people say, not her acting, that draws the crowd. We suspect the fact to be that Miss Anderson’s uncommon beauty is rather a hindrance than a help to the perception of her real dramatic merits. People do not easily believe that one and the same person can be distinguished in the highest degree by different and independent excellences. They find it easier to make one of the excellences do duty for both. Miss Anderson, it may be admitted, is not a Sarah Bernhardt. At the same time we must observe that at twenty-three the incomparable Sarah was not the consummate artist that she is now, and has been for many years. We are not at all inclined to rank Miss Anderson as an actress at a lower level than the very high one of Miss Helen Faucit, of whose Antigone she reminded us in several passages last night. Miss Faucit was more statuesque in her poses, more classical, and, perhaps, touched occasionally a more profoundly pathetic chord. But the balance is redeemed by other qualities of Miss Anderson’s acting, quite apart from all consideration of personal beauty.
“‘Ingomar,’ it must be said, is a mere melodrama, and as such does not afford the highest test of an actor’s capacity. The wonder is that Miss Anderson makes so much of it. In her hands it was really a stirring and very effective play.”
Dublin Daily Express, 28th March, 1884.
“Miss Anderson as Galatea.
“Nothing that the sculptor’s art could create could be more beautiful than the still figure of Galatea, in classic pose, with gracefully flowing robes, looking down from her pedestal on the hands that have given her form, and it is not too much to say that nothing could be added to render more perfect the illusion. The whole pose—her aspect, the contour of her head, the exquisite turn of the stately throat, the faultless symmetry of shoulder and arms—everything is in keeping with the realization of the most perfect, most beautiful, and most illusive figure that has ever been witnessed on the stage. Miss Anderson indeed is liberally endowed with physical charms, so fascinating that we can understand an audience finding it not a little difficult to refrain from giving the rein to enthusiasm in the presence of this fairest of Galateas. From these remarks, however, it is not intended to be inferred that the young American is merely a graceful creature with a ‘pretty face.’ Miss Anderson is unquestionably a fine actress, and the high position which she now deservedly occupies amongst her sister artists, we are inclined to think, has been gained perhaps less through her personal attractions than by the sterling characteristics of her art. Each of her scenes bears the stamp of intelligence of an uncommon order, and perhaps not the least remarkable feature in her portraiture of Galatea is that her effects, one and all, are produced without a suspicion of straining. Those who were present in the crowded theater last night, and saw the actress in the role—said to be her finest—had, we are sure, no room to qualify the high reputation which preceded the impersonation.”