Life on the Stage Part 32

At the theatre I think everyone liked me well enough, save Mr. Daly. He disliked me because I simply could not learn to treat him with reverence.

I had the greatest admiration for him, I showed him respect by obeying him implicitly, but if he was funny I laughed, if he gave me an opportunity to twist his words absurdly I accepted it as gleefully as if he had been the gas-man.

But two things happened, and lo! my manager's att.i.tude toward me changed completely. Mr. Daly was convinced that no man or woman could bear decently a sudden success. He was positive that no head could stand it.

When I made no demand for my promised increase of salary, but went pinching along as best I could, he only said to himself: "She will be all the worse when her head does begin to turn."

One day a certain newspaper man looked in at his office, and said: "Oh, I have something here about the play, and I've given a few pretty good lines to your _find_ (Clara Morris): do you want to look at them?"

"I want them cut out!" sharply ordered Mr. Daly.

"Cut out?" repeated the surprised man. "Why, she's the play--or mighty near it. I thought you'd want her spoken of most particularly?"

And then Mr. Daly made his famous speech: "I don't want individual successes, sir, in my theatre! I want my company kept at a level. I put them all in a line, and then I watch, and if one head begins to bob up above the others, I give it a crack and send it down again!"

I had heard that story in several forms, when one day I spoke of it to Mr. Daly, and he calmly acknowledged the speech, as I have given it above, adding the words: "And next week I'm going to give Mr. Crisp's head a crack, he's bobbing up, I see!"

The play of "Saratoga," by Mr. Bronson Howard, had been read to the company, and, after the custom of actors the world over, they began to cast the characters themselves--such a part for Lewis, such a one for Miss Davenport. The splendid Irish part for Amy Ames (of course, with her wonderful brogue), etc.; almost everyone remarking that there was nothing for me. Lewis said: "Well, Clara, you're out of this play, sure. Will you study Greek or the Rogue's Vocabulary? for I'll wager a hat to a hair-pin you'll be turning a good head of hair gray over some nonsense of the kind--good Lord!"

For M. Benot was holding toward me a thin little part, saying: "For you, Miss Morris."

Mr. Daly stood at the far end of the room; he was watching me. The part was a walking lady of second quality. It was an indignity to give it to me. Like lightning I recalled the terms of my contract--I realized my helplessness.

I rolled up the small part, calmly rose, and smiling a comprehending smile into Mr. Daly's disappointed eyes, for which he could have choked me, I sauntered out of the room. At home I wept bitterly. It was undeserved! I had borne so much from grat.i.tude, and here I was being treated just as a fractious, brain-turned, presuming person might have been treated for a punishment. However, my tears were only seen at home.

At the theatre I rehea.r.s.ed faithfully and good-temperedly, and writhed smilingly at the expressions of surprise over the cast, and for one hundred nights I was thus made to do penance for having made a success in "Man and Wife." Truly I had got a good "crack" for bobbing up; still my patient, uncomplaining acceptance of the part had made an impression on Mr. Daly, and he often expressed his regret, later on, for the error he made as to the possible turning of my head.

Then came the second happening. To Mr. Daly a confidant was an absolute necessity of existence. If they had tastes in common, so much the happier for Mr. Daly, but such tastes were not imperatively demanded, neither was s.e.x of importance--male or female would answer; but the one great, indispensable, and essential quality was the ability to respect a confidence, the power to hold a tongue.

In the early weeks of the season he had been drifting into a friendship with a man in the company, and had told him, in strictest confidence, of a certain plan he was forming, and twenty-four hours later he heard that plan being discussed in one of the dressing-rooms. It had traveled by way of husband to wife, wife to friend, friend to her husband, and husband No. 2 was busy in explaining it to all and sundry.

That ended the career of one gentleman as friend and confidant to Mr.

Daly. One day after rehearsal I was detained on the stage to discuss a fashion-plate he was tearing from a magazine. A short poem caught his eye. He glanced at it carelessly, then looked more closely at the lines, and began to mumble the words:

"She of the silver foot--fair G.o.ddess--"

His brows were knit, his eyes looked away, dreamily. Again he repeated the words, adding, impatiently: "I can't place that silver foot--the bow, the lyre, yes; but the foot? Oh, probably it's a mere figure of speech,"

and he turned to the plate again, when I said: "Perhaps it means _Thetis_, you know, silver-footed queen--daughter of old sea-G.o.d."

His whole face lit up with pleasure. "That's it," he said, "that's whom it means; but are you sure the word 'queen' belongs right there?"

"No," I laughed, "I have grave doubts about my 'queen,' but I'm solid as a rock on the rest of the line."

Then he repeated, with lingering enjoyment: "'Thetis, silver-footed, _silver-footed_, daughter of old sea-G.o.d.' Do you know I often wonder why someone does not make a play of mythological characters--a play after the modern method I mean."

"Oh," I broke in, "then I shall have a rest, for I am not beautiful enough for even a walking-lady divinity."

"Ah," he said, kindly, "you are not going to do any more walking ladies--divine or human. I have already in my possession a play with a great part for you. Boucicault wrote it, and----"

He stopped suddenly, all the brightness went out of his face. He played nervously with his watch-guard. He started out with: "Miss Morris, I wish--" stopped, frowned; then impatiently took up the picture-plate, pointed out which dress he wanted me to wear, and curtly dismissed me.

I understood him perfectly. In a genial moment he had unintentionally given me some information which he now regretted, though he would not stoop to ask my silence; and he felt sure that I would at once boast of the great part that was to be mine; and I went home, one broad smile of malicious satisfaction, for in spite of my seemingly-careless speech, I had, by long and careful training, acquired the fine art of holding my tongue about other people's affairs, even though I ascended to the roof to babble to the city of my own; and Mr. Daly would be again disappointed, as he had been the day I accepted, without protest, the walking-lady part.

That night he barely nodded in silent recognition of my "Good-evening, sir." Next morning he kept his eyes averted from me when he gave me any stage directions; but whenever or wherever we women formed a little group to chat, there Mr. Daly, like a jack-in-the-box, suddenly sprang into evidence. It was very funny--he was simply waiting for me to repeat my interesting information.

Two, three days pa.s.sed, then a certain kindness began to show in his manner toward me. Quite suddenly, and of course unasked, he gave me a dressing-room to myself. I was delighted! Hesitatingly, I tapped at the door of his office. I had never stood there before, save by order. I said: "I will not come in, Mr. Daly, I only wished to thank you for the room you have given me. It will be a great comfort, for we are terribly crowded in the other one."

But he rose, took my hand, and said: "You deserve anything and everything this theatre can provide for you." Drawing me to a chair, he placed me in it, while still speaking: "And I am proud of you. You are a girl in ten thousand! For you can respect a confidence."

I was very much embarra.s.sed by such unexpected warmth, and laughing nervously I said: "Even when the confidence was unintentional and deeply regretted?"

"Ah!" he answered, "you saw that, did you? Well, I've been listening and waiting to hear about the 'new play' ever since, but not a word have you dropped, and I did not ask for silence either. You are a woman worth talking to, and I shall never be afraid to tell you things I am going to do, and----"

And straightway he told me all about the new play--its good points, its bad ones, and where he feared for it; and to show you how true was his judgment, the play, which later on gave me a great personal success, was itself a failure from the very causes he then indicated.

And so it came about that Mr. Daly, putting aside his dislike for me--coming to enjoy my sense of the ridiculous, instead of resenting it--confided many, many plans and dreams, likes and dislikes, hates and loves to me. We quarreled spitefully over politics, fought furiously over religion, wickedly bowed down and worshipped before odds and ends of lovely carvings or precious _cloisonne_, to whose beauty I first introduced him, and hung in mutual rapture over rare old engravings.

Thus I came to know him fairly well. A man with unbounded ambition, a man of fine and delicate tastes, with a pa.s.sionate love of beauty--in form, color, sound. I have known him to turn a sentence, exquisitely, word by word, slowly repeating the line, as though he were tasting its beauty, as well as hearing it. Interested in the occult and the inscrutable--a man of many tastes, but of one _single purpose_--every power and acquirement were brought to the service of the stage.

In love he was mutability personified. In friendship, always exigent. Now sullenly silent, now rapidly talkative, whimsical, changeable, he was ever lavishly generous and warm-hearted. And it is a comfort to know that in one respect at least I proved satisfactory during the friendship that lasted as long as I remained in the theatre, since I never, even by chance, betrayed his confidence.

When we had finally parted, a man one day mentioned me to Mr. Daly, expecting to bring forth some disparaging remark. There was a pause while my former manager gazed out at the heavily falling rain, then he said, quietly: "When you drop a thing in a well, it can go no further. Clara Morris is a sort of human well, what you confide to her goes no further.

Some people call that 'discretion,' I call it loyalty. I--I guess you'll get a wetting on the way home." And acting on that hint the surprised gentleman withdrew. He told me himself of the occurrence, and I confess that Mr. Daly's words gave me a thrill of pleasure.

After those two occurrences I found my theatrical life pleasanter, for I love my kind and wish to live at peace with them--and Mr. Daly's dislike had disturbed and distressed me; therefore, when that had been conquered, great was my contentment. A sympathetic word, a comprehending glance, a friendly smile, proving ample indemnification for former injuries.

Nor could I be made to accept at full value the cruel gibes, the bitter sarcasms reported to me as coming from Miss Agnes Ethel. For some reason there was a distinct effort made to arouse in me an enmity against that lady. Unpleasant stories had been repeated to me during the run of "Man and Wife"; some of them had wounded me, but I had only listened silently.

Then one night I met her--a slender, auburn-haired, appealing creature, with clinging fingers, sympathetic voice, and honest eyes--a woman whose charming and cordial manner not only won my admiration, but convinced me she was incapable of the brutalities charged to her.

So when "Jezebel" was announced, and it was known that Mr. Daly desired Miss Ethel and me both to appear in it, great interest was aroused, only to be crushed by Miss Ethel's refusal to play the part allotted to her. I think she was in error, for the two parts were perfectly balanced. Mine was the wicked, even murderous adventuress; hers the gentle, sweet, and triumphant wife. I had the first act; she was not in that, but Mr.

Daly's idea was that her victory in the last act--where I was simply pulverized for my sins--evened things up. But Miss Ethel listened to the advice of outside friends. Her relations with Mr. Daly were already strained, and her second refusal of a part was the beginning of the end.

Mr. Daly himself informed me that she said her part was secondary, but that the real difficulty sprang from an earlier wrangle between them, with which I had nothing to do. Yet there were persons who, with great indignation, informed me that Miss Ethel had positively "refused to appear upon the stage in any play with me--a mere vulgar outsider!"

But "vulgar outsider" was just a touch too strong; "malice had o'erleaped self" and fallen on the other side. The silly story even reached some of the papers, but that did not increase my belief in its truth.

Mr. Daly and Miss Ethel parted company before, or at, the end of the season, and while I never worked with her, later on I privately received such gracious courtesies from her kindly hands that the name of Agnes Ethel must ever ring pleasantly in my ears.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH

A Study of Stage-Management--I Am Tricked into Signing a New Contract.

Before I came under the management of Mr. Daly, I may say I never really knew what stage-management meant. He was a young man then; he had had, I believe, his own theatre but one season before I joined his forces, yet his judgment was as ripe, his decisions were as swift and sure, his eye for effect was as true, his dramatic instinct as keen as well could be.

We never exchanged so much as a frown, let alone a hasty word, over work.

I realized that he had the entire play before his "mind's eye," and when he told me to do a thing, I should have done it, even had I not understood why he wished it done. But he always gave a reason for things, and that made it easy to work under him.