Stage Confidences Part 2

"Oh, the well-educated idiot, isn't he delicious?"

By and by the letter started to make a tour of the gentlemen's rooms, and, unlike the rolling-stone that gathered no moss, it gathered laughter as it moved.

It was only Mr. Daly who astonished me by not laughing. He, instead, seemed quite gratified that his play had so clearly reflected a real life story.

In the business world of New York there was known at that time a pair of brothers; they were in dry-goods. The firm was new, and they were naturally anxious to extend their trade. The buyer for a merchant in the far Northwest had placed a small order with the brothers B., which had proved so satisfactory that the merchant coming himself to New York the next fall informed the brothers of his intention of dealing heavily with them. Of course they were much pleased. They had received him warmly and had offered him some hospitality, which latter he declined; but as it was late in the day, and as he was an utter stranger to the city, he asked if there was anything going on that would help pa.s.s an evening for him; and the elder Mr. B. had instantly answered, Yes; that there was a big success "on" at Daly's Theatre, right next door to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, at which the stranger was stopping. And so with thanks and bows, and a smiling promise to be at the store at ten o'clock the next morning, ready for business, the brothers and the Western merchant parted.

I happened to be in the store next morning before ten, and the elder B., who was one of my few acquaintances, was chatting to me of nothing in particular, when I saw such an expression of surprise come into his face, that I turned at once in the direction his glance had taken, and saw a man plunging down the aisle toward us, like an ugly steer. He looked a cross between a Sabbath-school superintendent and a cattle dealer. He was six feet tall and very clumsy, and wore the black broadcloth of the church and the cow-hide boots, big hat, and woollen comforter of the cattle man; while his rage was so evident that even organ-grinders and professional beggars fled from his presence. On he came, stamping and shaking his head steerlike. One expected every moment to hear him bellow. When he came up to Mr. B., it really did seem that the man must fall in a fit. When he could speak, he burst into vituperation and profanity. He d----d the city, its founders, and its present occupants. He d----d Mr. B., his ancestors, his relatives near and distant, by blood and by law; but he was exceptionally florid when he came to tell Mr. B. how many kinds of a fool he was.

When his breath was literally gone, my unfortunate friend, who had alternately flushed and paled under the attack, said:--

"Mr. Dash, if you will be good enough to explain what this is all about--"

"Explain!" howled the enraged man, "explain! in the place where I come from our jokes don't need to be explained. You ring-tail gibbering ape, come out here on the sidewalk, and I'll explain!"

Then he paused an instant, as a new thought came to him.

"Oh, yes," he cried, "and if I take you out there, to lick some of the _fun_ out of you, one of your constables will jump on to me! You're a sweet, polite lot, to play jokes on strangers, and then hide behind your constables!"

Then his voice fell, his eyes narrowed, he looked an ugly customer as he approached Mr. B., saying:--

"You thought it d----d funny to send me to that play last night, on purpose to show me you knew I had just got a divorce from my wife! And if I have divorced her, let me tell you she's a finer woman than you ever knew in your whole fool life! It was d----d funny, wasn't it, to send a lonely man--a stranger--into a playhouse to see his own misery acted out before him! Well, in New York that may be fun, and call for laughter, but at my home it would call for _bullets_--and get 'em too!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Clara Morris in "Alixe"._]

And he turned and strode out. Mr. B. had failed to mention the name of the play when he recommended it; and the Western man, whose skin seemed as sensitive as it was thick, thought that he was being made fun of, when the play of "Divorce" unfolded before him.

When "Alixe" was produced, there was one feature of the play that aroused great curiosity. Mr. Daly was called upon again and again to decide wagers, and considerable money changed hands over the question, before people could be convinced that it was I who was carried upon the stage, and not a waxen image of me.

Many people will remember that in that heart-rending play, Alixe, the innocent victim of others' wrong-doing, is carried on dead,--drowned,--and lies for the entire act in full view of the audience. Now that was the only play I ever saw before playing in it; and in Paris the Alixe had been so evidently alive that the play was quite ruined.

When I had that difficult scene intrusted to me, I thought long and hard, trying to find some way to conceal my breathing. I knew I could "make-up" my face all right--but that evident breathing. I had always noticed that the tighter a woman laced, the higher she breathed and the greater was the movement of her chest and bust. That gave me a hint. I took off my corset. Still when lying down there was movement that an opera gla.s.s would betray.

Then I tried a little trick. Alixe wore white of a soft crepy material.

I had duplicate dresses made, only one was very loose in the waist. Then I had a great big circular cloak of the same white material, quite unlined; and when I was made up for the death scene, with lilies and gra.s.ses in hand and hair, I stood upon a chair and held a corner of the great soft cloak against my breast, while my maid carefully wound the rest of it loosely about my body, round and round, right down to my ankles, and fastened it there; result: a long, white-robed figure, without one trace of waist line or bust, and beneath ample room for natural breathing, without even the tremor of a fold to betray it.

At once the question rose, was it a wax figure or was it not? One gentleman came to Mr. Daly and asked him for the artist's address, saying the likeness to Miss Morris was so perfect it might be herself, and he wanted to get a wax model of his wife. Nor would he be convinced until Mr. Daly finally brought him back to the stage, and he saw me unpin my close drapery, and trot off to my dressing-room.

The play was a great success, and often the reading of the suicide's letter was punctuated by actual sobs from the audience, instead of those from the mother. Young club-men used to make a point of going to the "Sat.u.r.day Funeral," as they called the "Alixe" matinee. They would gather afterward, opposite to the theatre, and make fun of the women's faces as they came forth with tear-streaked cheeks, red noses, and swollen eyes, and making frantic efforts to slip powder-puffs under their veils and repair damages. If glances could have killed, there would have been mourning in earnest in the houses of the club-men.

One evening, as the audience was nearly out and the lights were being extinguished in the auditorium, a young man came back and said to an usher:--

"There is a gentleman up there in the balcony; you'd better see to him, before the lights are all put out."

"A gentleman? what's he doing there, at this time, I'd like to know?"

grumbled the usher as he climbed up the stairs. But next moment he was calling for help, for there in a front seat, fallen forward, with his head on the balcony rail, sat an old man whose silvery white hair reflected the faint light that fell upon it. They carried him to the office; and after stimulants had been administered he recovered and apologized for the trouble he had caused. As he seemed weak and shaken, Mr. Daly thought one of the young men ought to see him safely home, but he said:--

"No, he was only in New York on business--he was at a hotel but a few steps away, and--and--" he hesitated. "You are thinking I had no right to go to a theatre alone," he added, "but I am not a sick man--only--only to-night I received an awful shock."

He paused. Mr. Daly noted the quiver of his firm old lips. He dismissed the usher; then he turned courteously to the old gentleman and said:--

"As it was in my theatre you received that shock, will you explain it to me?"

And in a low voice the stranger told him that he had had a daughter, an only child, a little blond, laughing thing, whom he worshipped. She was a mere child when she fell in love. Her choice had not pleased him, and looking upon the matter as a fancy merely, he had forbidden further intercourse between the lovers. "And--and it was in the summer, and--dear G.o.d, when that yellow-haired girl was carried dead upon the stage to-night, even the gra.s.s clutched between her fingers, it was a repet.i.tion of what occurred in my country home, sir, three years ago."

Then Mr. Daly gave his arm to the old stranger, and in dead silence they walked to the hotel and parted.

Once more the play had reflected real life.

_CHAPTER IV

"MISS MULTON" AT THE UNION SQUARE_

Mr. Palmer had produced "Miss Multon" at the Union Square, and we were fast settling down to our steady, regular gait, having got over the false starts and breaks and nervous shyings of the opening performance, when another missive of portentous bulk reached me.

It was one of those letters in which you can find everything except an end; and the writer was one of those men whose subjects, like an unhealthy hair, always split at the end, making at least two subjects out of one.

For instance, he started to show me the resemblance between his life and the story of the play; but when he came to mention his wife, the hair split, and instead of continuing, he branched off, to tell me she was the step-daughter of "So-and-so," that her own father, who was "Somebody," had died of "something," and had been buried "somewhere"; and then that hair split, and he proceeded to expatiate on the two fathers' qualities, and state their different business occupations, after which, out of breath, and far, far from the original subject, he had to hark back two and a half pages and tackle his life again.

Truth to tell, it was rather pathetic reading when he kept to the point, for love for his wife cropped out plainly between the lines after years of separation. Suddenly he began to adorn me with a variety of fine qualities. He a.s.sured me that I had penetration, clear judgment, and a sense of justice, as well as a warm heart.

I was staggering under these piled-up traits, when he completely floored me, so to speak, by asking me to take his case under consideration, a.s.suring me he would act upon my advice. If I thought he had been too severe in his conduct toward his wife, to say so, and he would seek her out, and humble himself before her, and ask her to return to him.

He also asked me whether, as a woman, I thought she would be influenced wholly by the welfare of her children, or whether she would be likely to retain a trace of affection for himself.

That letter was an outrage. The idea of appealing to me, who had not had the experience of a single divorce to rely upon! Even my one husband was so recent an acquisition as to be still considered a novelty. And yet I, all unacquainted with divorce proceedings, legal separations, and common law ceremonies, was called upon to make this strange man's troubles my own, to sort out his domestic woes, and say:--

"This sin" is yours, but "that sin" is hers, and "those other sins"

belong wholly to the co-respondent.

What a useful word that is! It has such a decent sound, almost respectable. We are a refined people, even in our sins, and I know no word in the English language we strive harder to avoid using in any of its forms than that word of brutal vulgarity, but terrific meaning--adultery.

The adulterer may be in our midst, but we have refinement enough to refer to him as the "So-and-So's" co-respondent.

I was engaged in saying things more earnest and warm than correct and polished--things I fear the writer of the letter could not have approved of--when I was pulled up short by the opening words of another paragraph, which said: "G.o.d! if women suffer in real life over the loss of children, husband, and home, as you suffered before my very eyes last night in the play; if my wife is tortured like that, it would have been better for me to have pa.s.sed out of life, and have left her in peace.

But I did not know that women suffered so. Help me, advise me."

I could not ignore that last appeal. What my answer was you will not care to know; but if it was brief, it was at least not flippant; and before writing it, I, in my turn, appealed for help, only my appeal was made upon my knees to the Great Authority.

On election nights it is customary for the manager to read or have read to the audience the returns as fast as they come in from various points, showing how the voting has gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Clara Morris and James Pa.r.s.elle in 3d Act of "Miss Multon"_]