In his latter
day he became an oracle, as far as the science of acting was concerned;
and, what is far more rare, he really got to know _something_ about it.
This was owing to two circumstances: first, he ceased to run blindfold in
a groove behind the scenes; second, he became a frequenter of the first
row of the pit, and that is where the whole critic, and two-thirds of the
true actor, is made.
On one point, to his dying day, his feelings guided his judgment. He
never could see an actress equal to his Woffington. Mrs. Abington was
grace personified, but so was Woffington, said the old man: and
Abington's voice is thin, Woffington's was sweet and mellow. When Jordan
rose, with her voice of honey, her dewy freshness, and her heavenly
laugh, that melted in along with her words, like the gold in the quartz,
Triplet was obliged to own her the goddess of beautiful gayety; but still
he had the last word: "Woffington was all _she_ is, except her figure.
Woffington was a Hebe; your Nell Jordan is little better than a dowdy."
Triplet almost reached the present century. He passed through great
events, but they did not excite him; his eye was upon the arts. When
Napoleon drew his conquering sword on England, Triplet's remark was: "Now
we shall be driven upon native talent, thank Heaven!" The storms of
Europe shook not Triplet. The fact is, nothing that happened on the great
stage of the world seemed real to him.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222