Charles Dickens Live!
Buffalo
Morning Express, March 13, 1868Mr.
Dickens Readings
Mr. Dickens visit to Buffalo has developed two circumstances which greatly redound to the credit of our citizens. Possibly, to the wretched weather yesterday and the depopulated condition of outdoors in general, may be largely owing the fact that our distinguished guest, whose countenance admirably portrayed, has looked out from the shop windows for the past week, until it has been legibly impressed upon the memories of thousands, was allowed to stroll along the streets unannoyed by the impertinent curiosity which would seem to lie in wait for greatness on all occasions; but the weather can claim no credit for the other fact that for the first time within the recollection of any now living, a certain class which enter largely into all fashionable audiences in cities, so far in the presence of Genius forget self as to forego the exquisite delight which springs from display and with heroic modesty, neglected to divide with the artist the attention of those unfashionable beings who are ordinarily willing to begin a play with act 1, scene 1, and who regard the prompter's bell in the light of a monition to those before as well as behind the curtain. Certain it is that at about the same time last evening, as if by a common impulse, everybody who intended to be present was within sight of St. James Hall and several minutes before the hour named the entire audience was quietly seated in anxious expectancy.
While they wait for the coming of Mr. Dickens they glance at the arrangements of the stage, which are so artistic and tasteful as to merit as passing word. At the rear as if to form a background to the picture in which Mr. Dickens was to be the principal figure, was a screen of maroon, before which stood the reading table covered with crimson velvet. On one corner was placed a desk which served to hold the book, while on the other side was a shelf containing a carafe of water and a glass. In from of the who, stood a frame of light, the footlights being the base, the upper portion a line of jets, and on either side argand burners. In all the appointments the hand of the artist was apparent.
Promptly at eight o'clock Mr. Dickens stepped upon the stage and walked briskly toward the desk. A slight murmur of applause floats up to him but sinks and dies at the sound of his voice. There is nothing of the traditional foppery of the younger Dickens about his attire. Black and white, with no glaring gleam of jewelry to catch the eye, the whole is lighted only by the dash of color that comes from a rich crimson rose bud, grounded in a dark emerald leaf, and set in his button hole.
The "Christmas Carol" which he carried in both hands, is placed upon the desk and a moment later the audience having learned that "Marley was dead" was face to face with the shadow of a grievous disappointment.
For surely the simplest could see at once that the voice which was passing through the silence in the hall was not cutting it's way through with the keen ring which we love to hear. It was a voice neither rich or melodious in itself, and as sentence after sentence fell from the lips of the reader, each ending in a steadily rising inflection which those who had heard ordinary elocutionists, but knew not Dickens, feared must are long, develop not a dreary monotone, the shadow seemed to deepen.
But another moment dispelled it. These were the obstacles which in one shape or another, even the highest genius has to overcome. From this point forward until Mr. Dickens brought Scrooge to witness the festivities at Mr. Fezziwig's, he gained steadily upon the sympathies of his breathless listeners, and at length as his whole face fairly roared with laughter when he described the memorable Sir Roger d'Coverly the audience burst into a clamor of applause which for a moment seemed hardly born to die.
This was not a reading they saw. It was acting in it's highest and noblest sense. There was no trick or sham, no aiming at an effect and falling short through want of art; all was plain straightforward and simple. And yet there was Scrooge, gruff, cynical and brutal, poor pleading Bob Crachet, Tiny Tim and the rest in perfect voice, action and feature, every changing mood as vivid as though they stood before us.
Certainly the stage affords no parallel to the power of Mr. Dickens when dealing with pathos and humor. His only failure seemed be in the more tragic parts. When Scrooge pleads with the ghost, on fails to feel the terror under which the old miser is laboring, and the scene as presented by the reader, falls below that which the writer depicts. On the other hand when Mr. Fezziwig "winks with his legs" the whole picture is so wrought up by every aid that voice, intonation, facial play and gesture can can give, that the audience can longer restrain their laughter, and when in broken tones the fancied death of Tiny Tim is told, and the heart stricken father inarticulately murmurs of his visit to the little grave, there are few dry eyes among those who listen.
If the reading of the trial scene from Pickwick gave less scope of variety it afforded no less opportunity for a display of Mr. Dickens' power as a mime. Sam Weller, Mr. Winlkle, Sergeant Buzfuz were all living realities, but the most artistic touch of the whole was the portrayal of the judge. Some one has spoken of him as sour and dry. As Mr. Dickens painted him, he was neither, for both characteristics faded out of sight in the utter imbecility of the man. It was the most perfect picture of stupidity imaginable, and when he solemnly informed Sam that the opinion of the soldier was not admissible in evidence unless he could be sworn, the sublime gravity with which Mr. Dickens announced the ralling of the court, raised a roar of laughter which not only convulsed the audience but seemed to react upon the reader, and a gleam in his eye and a quiver of the lip gave proof of the difficulty with which he refrained from joining in the laugh himself had raised.
Hardly less novel as a characterization was the elder Mr. Weller. No description could do justice to Mr. Dickens as a facial artist. No range of character seems to be beyond his reach, and the changes from boy to man, from stage driver to judge, from man to woman are almost as marvelous in their rapidity and completeness.
From the outset, the idea of mere reading was lost sight of, the book playing the very slightest part in the evenings entertainment. In fact Mr. Dickens referred to it but once or twice, having the entire part committed to memory, and frequently interpolating and varying the text.
