Life on the Stage Part 11

It was an awful sight! I looked at them as they descended, and for the fraction of a second they seemed to be suspended in the air. They were all upside down. They all, without turning or twisting, fell straight as plummets--the horse, the same as the man and woman, had its feet straight in the air. Ugh! the striking--ugh!--never mind details! The curtain had been rushed down. Miss Cutler had been picked up, dazed, stunned, but without a mark. Mr. Carroll had crept away unaided amid the confusion, the sorrow, and tears, for the splendid Queen was doomed and done for!

Though Mr. Miles had risked his own life in an awful leap to save her from falling through a trap, he could not save her life, and the almost human groan with which she dropped her lovely head upon her master's shoulder, and his streaming eyes as he tenderly wiped the blood from her velvety nostrils, made even the scene-shifters rub their eyes upon the backs of their hands. While the Queen was half carried and half crept to the fire-engine house next door (her stable was so far away), someone was going before the curtain, a.s.suring the audience that the accident was very slight, and the lady and gentleman would both be before them presently, and the audience applauded in a rather doubtful manner, for several ladies had fainted, and the carrying out of a helpless person from a place of amus.e.m.e.nt always has a depressing effect upon the lookers-on. Meantime Mr. Carroll was getting his wrist bandaged and a cut on his face strapped up, while a basket of sawdust was hurriedly procured that certain cruel stains might be concealed. The orchestra played briskly and the play went on. That's the one thing we can be sure of in this world--that the play will go on. That night, late, the beautiful Queen died with her head resting on her master's knee.

Now "Mazeppa" was billed for the next night, and there were many consultations held in the office and on the stage. "The wild horse of Tartary" was gone. It was impossible to find a new horse in one day.

"Change the bill!" said Mr. Miles.

"And have an empty house," answered Mr. Ellsler.

"But what can I do for a horse?" asked R. E. J. M.

"Use old Bob," answered Mr. Ellsler.

"Good Lord!" groaned Bob's master. They argued long, but neither wanted to lose the good house, so the bill was allowed to stand, and "Mazeppa"

was performed with old white Bob as the "Wild Horse of Tartary." Think of it, that ingratiating old Bob! That follower of women and playmate of children! Why, even the great bay blotches on his white old hide made one think of the circus, paper hoops, and _training_, rather than of wildness. Meaning to make him at least impatient and restless, he had been deprived of his supper, and the result was a settled gloom, an air of melancholy that made Mr. Miles swear under his breath every time he looked at him. There was a ring, known I believe as a Spanish ring, made with a sharp little spike attachment, and used sometimes by circus-men to stir up horses to a show of violence or of high spirits, and when a whip was not permissible. It could be resorted to without arousing any suspicion of cruelty, since the spike was on the under side and so out of sight. The man with the ring on his finger would stand by a horse, and resting his hand on the animal's neck, just at the most sensitive spot of his whole anatomy--the root or end of his mane--would close the hand suddenly, thus driving the spike into the flesh. It must have caused exquisite pain, and naturally the tormented animal rears and plunges.

Sometimes they get effect enough by p.r.i.c.king the creatures on the shoulder only. On that night, Mr. Miles, after gazing at the mild and melancholy features of his new "Wild Horse of Tartary," went to his room and dug up from some trunk a Spanish ring. Calling one of the men who used to be dragged and thrashed about the stage by the black wild horse, he explained to him its use, ending with: "I hate to hurt the old fellow, so try him on the shoulder first, and if he dances about pretty lively, as I think he will, you need not p.r.i.c.k his mane at all."

The play moved along nicely, the house was large, and seemed pleased.

_Mazeppa_ fell into his enemy's hands, the sentence was p.r.o.nounced, and the order followed: "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!"

The women began to draw close to their escorts; many of them remembered the biting, kicking entrance of the black, and were frightened beforehand. The orchestra responded with incidental creepy music, but--that was all. Over in the entrance, old Bob, surrounded by the four men who were supposed to restrain him, stood calmly. But those who sat in the left box heard "get-ups!" and "go-ons!" and the cluckings of many tongues. The mighty Khan of Tartary (who could not see that entrance) thought he had not been heard, and roared again: "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!" Another pause, the house t.i.ttered, then some one hit old Bob a crack across the rump with a whip, at which he gave a switch of his tail and gently ambled on the stage, stopping of his own accord at centre, and, lowering his head, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the leader of the orchestra, precisely as a dog sniffs at a stranger. It was deliciously ridiculous. We girls were supposed to scream with terror at the "wild horse," and, alas! we were only too obedient, crowding down at right, clinging together in att.i.tudes of extremest fright, we shrieked and screeched until old Bob c.o.c.ked up his ears and looked so astonished at our conduct that the audience simply rocked back and forth with laughter, and all the time _Mazeppa_ was saying things that did not seem to be like prayers. Finally he gave orders for the men to surround Bob, which they did, and then the ring was used--the ring that was to make him dance about pretty lively. It p.r.i.c.ked him on the shoulder, and the "wild horse" stood and switched his tail. It p.r.i.c.ked him again--he switched his tail again. The men had by that time grown careless, and when the ring was finally used at his mane, he suddenly kicked one of them clear off the stage, and then resumed his unruffled calm. The public thought it was having fun all this time, but pretty soon it knew it. Nothing under heaven could disturb the gentle serenity of that dog-like old horse. But when _Mazeppa_ was brought forward to be bound upon his back, instead of pulling away, rearing, and fighting against the burden, his one and only quick movement was his violent effort to break away from his tormentors to welcome _Mazeppa_ joyously.

"Oh!" groaned Miles, "kill him, somebody, before he kills me!"

While he was being bound on the wild horse's back, our instructions were to scream, therefore we screamed as before, and being on the verge of insanity, _Mazeppa_ lifted his head from the horse's back, and said: "Oh, shut up--do!" The audience heard, and--well, it laughed some more, and then it discovered, when the men sprang away and left the horse free to dash madly up the mountain, that _Mazeppa_ had kept one foot unbound to kick his horse with--and truly it did seem that the audience was going into convulsions. Such laughter, pierced every now and then by the shrill scream of hysteria. Then old Bob ambled up the first run all right, but, alas! for poor _Mazeppa_, as he reached the first turn-table, a woman pa.s.sed on the way to her room, and hungry Bob instantly stopped to negotiate a loan in sugar. Oh, it was dreadful, the wait, and when finally he reappeared, trotting--yes, trotting up the next run, Mr.

Miles's foot could be plainly seen, kicking with the regularity of a piston-rod, while his remarks were--well, they were irregular in the extreme.

Of course the play was hopelessly ruined; the audience laughed at the slightest mention of the "wild horse," and when, broken and exhausted, the shepherds find them both lying at the foot of the mountain, the house seemed to shake with laughter.

When the play was at last over, old white Bob walked over to his master and mumbled his hand. Mr. Miles pushed him away with pretended anger, crying: "You infernal old idiot, I'd sell you for a three-cent stamp with gum on it!"

Bob looked hard at him a moment, then he calmly crossed behind him and mumbled his other hand, and Mr. Miles pulled his ears, and said that "he himself was the idiot for expecting an untrained, unrehea.r.s.ed horse to play such a part," and old Bob agreeing with him perfectly, they were, as always, at peace with each other.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH

I perform a Remarkable Feat, I Study _King Charles_ in One Afternoon and Play Without a Rehearsal--Mrs. D. P. Bowers makes Odd Revelation.

Already in that third season my position had become an anomalous one, from that occasion when, because of sickness, I had in one afternoon studied, letter perfect, the part of _King Charles_ in "Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady," and played it in borrowed clothes and without any rehearsal whatever, other than finding the situations plainly marked in the book. It was an astonishing thing to do, and nearly everyone had a kind word for me. The stage manager, or rather the prompter, for Mr.

Ellsler was his own stage manager, patted me on the shoulder and said: "'Pon my soul, girl, you're a wonder! I think pretty well of my own study, but you can beat me. You never missed a word, and besides that I've seen the part played worse many a time. I don't know what to say to you, my dear, but a girl that can do that can do most anything."

Ah, yes! and that was just what the powers that were seemed to think--that I could do almost anything, for from that day I became a sort of dramatic scape-goat, to play the parts of the sick, the halt, the cross, the tricky, for whenever an actor or actress turns up with a remarkable study--the ability to learn almost any part in a given time--he or she is bound to be "put upon." Sickness will increase, tempers will get shorter, airs of superiority will be a.s.sumed, all because there is someone ready to play the obnoxious part, someone ready to rush into the breach and prevent the changing of the "bill."

So often was I playing parts, thus leaving only two in the ballet, that another girl was engaged. Thus to Hattie, Annie, and Clara there was added Mary. And lo! in this young woman I recognized a friend of my youth. I had known her but two days, but I could never forget the only child I had ever had a play with. She had parted from me in wrath because, after playing house-keeping all morning in the yard, I had refused to eat a clay dumpling she had made, with a nice green clover-leaf in its middle. She threw the dumpling at me, roaring like a little bull calf, and twisting a dirty small fist into each dry eye, she waddled off home, leaving me, finger in mouth, gazing in pained amazement after her, until my fat little legs suddenly gave way, as was their wont in moments of great emotion, and sat me unwillingly but flatly down upon the ground, where I remained, looking gravely at them and wondering what they did it for--and now here we were together again.

Of course this playing of many parts was, in a certain way, an advantage to me, and I appreciated it; but there can be too much even of a good thing. That I got little pay for all this work was nothing to me, I was glad to do it for the experience it gave me, but when I was forced to appear ridiculous through my inability to dress the parts correctly I suffered cruelly. Once in a while, as in the case of _King Charles_, I could get a costume from the theatre wardrobe, where the yellow plush breeches lived when not engaged in desolating my young life, but, alas!

here, as everywhere, the man is the favored party, and the theatre wardrobe contains only masculine garments; the women must provide everything for themselves. Then, too, one is never too young or too insignificant to feel an injustice.

I recall, very distinctly, having to go on for _Lady Anne_ in "Richard III.," with a rather unimportant star. Now had I "held a position," as the term goes, that part would, out of courtesy, have belonged to me for the rest of the season, unless I chose to offer it back to the woman I had obliged; but being only a ballet-girl I did well enough for the _Lady Anne_ of an unimportant star, but when a more popular _Richard_ appeared upon the scene, _Lady Anne_ was immediately reclaimed, and I traipsed again behind the coffin, and with the rest of the ballet was witness to that most savage fling of Shakespeare against a vain, inconsequential womanhood as personified in _Lady Anne_, who, standing by her coffined, murdered dead, eagerly drinks in the flattery offered by the murderer's self. It is a courtship all dagger-pierced and reeking with innocent blood--monstrous and revolting! One would like to know who the woman was whose incredible vanity and levity so worked upon the master's mind that he produced this tragic caricature. Who was the woman who inspired great Shakespeare's one unnatural scene? Come, antiquaries, _cherchez la femme_!

I suffered most when I had to play some lady of quality, for what, in heaven's name, had I to dress a lady in? Five dollars a week to live on, to dress myself on, and to provide stage wardrobe! Many a bitter tear I shed. And then there was the surprise of the stars, when after playing an important part one night, they suddenly recognized me the next standing in the crowd of peasants or seated at _Macbeth's_ disheartening banquet.

Their comments used to be very caustic sometimes, and they almost, without exception, advised me to rebel, to go and demand freedom from the ballet, or at least salary enough to dress the parts given me to play.

But those long years of childish thraldom had left their mark--I could not a.s.sert myself, an overwhelming shame came upon me, even at the thought of asking to be advanced. So I went on playing boys and second old women, singing songs when forced to it, going on for poor leading parts even, for the leading lady being the manager's wife rarely played parts with women stars, and then between times dropping back into the ballet and standing about in crowds or taking part in a village dance.

It was a queer position and no mistake. Many stars had grown to know me, and often on Monday morning he or she would come over to our group and shake hands kindly, to my great pleasure. One morning, while we were rehearsing "Lady Audley's Secret," Mrs. Bowers, whom I greatly admired, came over to me, and remarked: "You hard-hearted little wretch! I've been watching you; you are treating that boy shamefully! Don't you know Murdoch is a gentleman?"

I was surprised, and rather quickly answered: "Well, have I treated him as if he were not a gentleman?"

She was called just then, but when the act was over she came to me again, and taking my hand in her right, she began beating it up and down upon her left: "You are not vexed, are you?" she asked. "Don't be; I only wonder how you can do it, and you are so young! Why," she sighed, from her very soul it seemed to me, "Why," she went on, "ever since I was fourteen years old I have been loving some man who has not loved me!"

Tears rose thickly into her eyes. "I am always laying my heart down for some man to trample on!" She glanced toward Mr. McCollom (he who was six feet tall and handsome), a little smile trembled on her lips. I caught her fingers on a swift impulse and squeezed them, she squeezed back answeringly; we understood each other, she was casting her heart down again, unasked. Her eyes came back to me. "Yours is the best way, but I'm too old to learn now, I shall have to go on seeking--always seeking!"

"And finding, surely finding!" I answered, honestly, for I could not imagine anyone resisting her.

"Do you think so?" she said, eagerly; then, rather sadly, she added: "Still it would be nice to be sought once, instead of always seeking."

Poor woman! Charming actress as she was, she did not exaggerate in declaring she was always casting her heart before someone. She married Mr. McCollom, and lived with him in adoring affection till death took him.

The last time I saw her she was my guest here at "The Pines," and as I fastened a great hibiscus flower above her ear, in Spanish fashion, she remarked:

"How little you have changed in all these years! I'll wager your heart is without a scar, while if you could only see mine," she laughed, "it's like an old bit of tinware--so battered, and bent, and dented!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH

Through Devotion to my Friend, I Jeopardize my Reputation--I Own a Baby on Shares--Miss Western's Pathetic Speech.

I had at that time a friend--a rare possession that. "The ideal of friendship," says Madame Switchine, "is to feel as one while remaining two," which is a precise description of the condition of mind and feeling of Mrs. Mollie Ogden and myself. She did not act, but her husband did, and I saw her every night, nearly every morning, and when work permitted we visited one another in the afternoons. There was but one kind of cake on the market that I liked, and that cake, with coffee, was always offered for my refreshment when I was her guest. When she was mine the festal board was furnished forth with green tea, of which she was inordinately fond, and oysters stewed in their own can and served in two mugs; the one announcing, in ostentatious gold letters, that I was "a good girl," was naturally at the service of my guest, while the plain stone-china affair, from the toilet-table, answered my purposes. With what happy eagerness we prepared for those absurd banquets, which we heartily enjoyed, since we were boarders, and always hungry--and how we talked! Of what? Why, good heaven! did I not hold a membership in the library, and were we not both lightning-quick readers? Why, we had the whole library to talk over; besides, there was the country to save! and as Mollie didn't really know one party from the other, she felt herself particularly fitted for the task of settling public questions.

Then, suddenly, she began to expect another visitor--a _wee_ visitor, whom we hoped would remain permanently, and, goodness mercy! I nearly lost my reputation through the chambermaid finding in my work-basket some half-embroidered, tiny, tiny jackets. Whereupon she announced to the servants, in full a.s.sembly, that I had too soft a tongue, and was deeper than the sea, but _she_ had her eyes open, and, judging from what she found in my work-basket, I was either going to buy a monkey for a pet, or I had thrown away my character completely.

Mrs. Ogden was with me when the landlady, stony-eyed and rattling with starch and rect.i.tude, came to inquire into the contents of my work-basket. Her call was brief, but satisfactory, and shortly after her exit we heard her, at the top of her lungs, giving me a clean bill of health--morally speaking--and denouncing the prying curiosity of the maids. But we had had a scare, and Mollie implored me either not to help her any more or to lock up my work-basket.

"Oh, no," I said, "I'll rest my head upon the chambermaid's breast and confide all my intentions to her, then surely my character will be safe."

However, when the _wee_ stranger arrived, she might well have wondered whom she belonged to. At all events she "goo-gooed and gurgled," and smiled her funny three-cornered smile at me as readily as at her mother, and my friendly rights in her were so far recognized by others that questions about her were often put to me in her mother's very presence, who laughingly declared that only in bed with the light out did she feel absolutely sure that the baby was hers.

Mollie used to say the only really foolish thing she ever caught me in was "Protestantism." It was a great grief to us all that I could not be G.o.dmother, but though baby had a Protestant father, the Church flatly refused to wink at a G.o.dmother of that forsaken race.

When, in G.o.d's good time, a tiny sister came to baby, she was called Clara, but my friend had made a solemn vow before the altar, at the ripe age of seven years, to name her first child Genevieve, and she, to quote her husband, "being a Roman Catholic as well as a little idiot,"

faithfully kept her vow, and our partnership's baby was loaded up with a name that each year proved more unsuitable, for a more un-Genevieve-like Genevieve never lived. All of which goes to prove how unwise it is to a.s.sume family cares and duties before the arrival of the family.

Miss Lucille Western was playing an engagement in Cleveland when "our baby" was a few months old. My friend and I were both her ardent admirers. I don't know why it has arisen, this fashion to sneer more or less openly at Miss Western's work. If a woman who charms the eye can also thrill you, repel you, touch you to tears, provoke you to laughter by her acting, she surely merits the term "great actress." Well, now, who can deny that she did all these things? Why else did the people pack her houses season after season? It was not her looks, for if the perfect and unblemished beauty of her lovely sister Helen could not draw a big house, what could you expect from the inspired irregularity of Lucille's face?