Charles Dickens as a Reader | Page 9

solitude, after he had
transformed his drawing-room into a stage in miniature.
* Barry Cornwall's Life of Edmund Kean, Vol. II. p. 85
"Here," says his biographer, "with a dozen candles, some on the floor,
some on the table, and some on the chimney-piece, and near the
pier-glass, he would act scene after scene: considering the emphasis,
the modulation of the verse, and the fluctuations of the character with
the greatest care." And this, remember, has relation to one who was
presumably about the most spontaneous and impulsive actor who ever
flashed meteor-like across the boards of a theatre. Whoever has the soul
of an artist grudges no labour given to his art, be he reader or actor,
author or tragedian. Charles Dickens certainly spared none to his
Readings in his conscientious endeavour to give his own imaginings
visible and audible embodiment. The sincerity of his devotion to his
task, when once it had been taken in hand, was in its way something
remarkable.
Acting of all kinds has been pronounced by Mrs. Butler--herself in her
own good day a rarely accomplished reader and a fine tragic actress--"a
monstrous anomaly."{*}
* Fanny Kemble's Journal, Vol. II. p. 130.
As illustrative of her meaning in which phrase, she then adds, "John
Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were always in earnest in what they were

about; Miss O'Neil used to cry bitterly in all her tragic parts; whilst
Garrick could be making faces and playing tricks in the middle of his
finest points, and Kean would talk gibberish while the people were in
an uproar of applause at his." Fanny Kemble further remarks: "In my
own individual instance, I know that sometimes I could turn every
word I am saying into burlesque,"--immediately observing here, in a
reverential parenthesis "(never Shakspere, by-the-bye)--and at others
my heart aches and I cry real, bitter, warm tears as earnestly as if I was
in earnest." Reading which last sentence, one might very safely
predicate that in the one instance, where she could turn her words into
burlesque, she would be certain to act but indifferently, whereas in the
other, with the hot, scalding tears running down her face, she could not
by necessity do otherwise than act to admiration.
So thorough and consistent throughout his reading career was the
sincerity of Dickens in his impersonations, that his words and looks, his
thoughts and emotions were never mere make-believes, but always, so
far as the most vigilant eye or the most sensitive ear could detect, had
their full and original significance.
With all respect for Miss O'Neil's emotion, and for that candidly
confessed to by Mrs. Butler, as having been occasionally evidenced by
herself, the true art, we should have said, subsists in the indication and
the repression, far rather than in the actual exhibition or manifestation
of the emotions that are to be represented. Better by far than the
familiar si vis me flere axiom of Horace, who there tells us, "If you
would have me weep, you must first weep yourself," is the sagacious
comment on it in the Tatler, where (No. 68) the essayist remarks, with
subtle discrimination: "The true art seems to be when you would have
the person you represent pitied, you must show him at once, in the
highest grief, and struggling to bear it with decency and patience. In
this case," adds the writer, "we sigh for him, and give him every groan
he suppresses." As for the extravagant idea of any artist, however great,
identifying himself for the time being with the part he is enacting, who
is there that can wonder at the snort of indignation with which Doctor
Johnson, talking one day about acting, asked Mr. Kemble, "Are you, sir,
one of those enthusiasts who believe yourself transformed into the very

character you represent?" Kemble answering, according to Boswell,
that he had never himself felt so strong a persuasion--"To be sure not,
sir," says Johnson, "the thing is impossible." Adding, with one of his
dryly comical extravagances: "And if Garrick really believed himself to
be that monster Richard the Third, he deserved to be hanged every time
he performed it." What Dickens himself really thought of these wilder
affectations of intensity among impersonators, is, with delicious
humour, plainly enough indicated through that preposterous
reminiscence of Mr. Crummies, "We had a first-tragedy man in our
company once, who, when he played Othello, used to black himself all
over! But that's feeling a part, and going into it as if you meant it; it
isn't usual--more's the pity." Thoroughly giving himself up to the
representation of whatever character he was endeavouring at the
moment to portray, or rather to impersonate, Charles Dickens so
completely held his judgment the while in equipoise, as master of his
twofold craft--that is, both as creator and