Stage Confidences Part 3

An election was just over, when one evening a small incident occurred during a performance of "Miss Multon" that we would gladly have dispensed with. In the quarrel scene between the two women, the first and supposedly dead wife, in her character of governess to her own children, is goaded by the second wife into such a pa.s.sion that she finally throws off all concealment and declares her true character and name.

The scene was a strong one, and was always looked forward to eagerly by the audience.

On the evening I speak of the house was packed almost to suffocation.

The other characters in the play had withdrawn, and for the first time the two women were alone together. Both keyed up almost to the breaking point, we faced each other, and there was a dead, I might almost say a _deadly_ pause before either spoke.

It was very effective--that silence before the storm. People would lean forward and fairly hold their breath, feeling there was a death struggle coming. And just at that very moment of tensest feeling, as we two women silently measured each other, a man's voice clearly and exultantly declared:--

"Well, _now_, we'll get the returns read, I reckon."

In one instant the whole house was in a roar of laughter. Under cover of the noise I said to my companion, who was showing her annoyance, "Keep still! keep still!"

And as we stood there like statues, utterly ignoring the interruption, there was a sudden outbreak of hissing, and the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had burst out, and our scene went on, receiving even more than its usual meed of applause. But when the curtain had fallen, I had my own laugh; for _it was_ funny, very funny.

In Boston there was an interruption of a different nature. It was at a matinee performance. There were tear-wet faces everywhere you looked.

The last act was on. I was slipping to my knees in my vain entreaty to be allowed to see my children as their mother, not merely as their dying governess, when a tall, slim, black-robed woman rose up in the parquet. She flung out her arms in a superb gesture, and in a voice of piercing anguish cried:--

"For G.o.d's sake, let her have her children! I've lived through such loss, but she can't; it will kill her!"

Tears sprang to the eyes of every one on the stage, and there was a perceptible halt in the movement of the play. And when, at the death scene, a lady was carried out in a faint, we were none of us surprised to hear it was _she_ who had so far forgotten where she was as to make that pa.s.sionate plea for a woman whose suffering was probably but a faint reflection of her own.

_CHAPTER V

THE "NEW MAGDALEN" AT THE UNION SQUARE_

One night at the Union Square Theatre, when the "New Magdalen" was running, we became aware of the presence of a distinguished visitor--a certain actress from abroad.

As I looked at the beautiful woman, magnificently dressed and jewelled, I found it simply impossible to believe the stories I had heard of her frightful poverty, in the days of her lowly youth.

Her manner was listless, her expression bored; even the conversation which she frequently indulged in seemed a weariness to the flesh; while her applause was so plainly a mere matter of courtesy as almost to miss being a courtesy at all.

When, therefore, in the last act, I approached that truly dreadful five-page speech, which after a laconic "Go on!" from the young minister is continued through several more pages, I actually trembled with fear, lest her _ennui_ should find some unpleasant outward expression.

However, I dared not balk at the jump, so took it as bravely as I could.

As I stood in the middle of the stage addressing the minister, and my lover on my left, I faced her box directly. I can see her now. She was almost lying in her chair, her hands hanging limply over its arms, her face, her whole body suggesting a repressed yawn.

I began, slowly the words fell, one by one, in low, shamed tones:--

"I was just eight years old, and I was half dead with starvation."

Her hands closed suddenly on the arms of her chair, and she lifted herself upright. I went on:--

"I was alone--the rain was falling." (She drew her great fur cloak closely about her.) "The night was coming on--and--and--I begged--_openly_--LOUDLY--as only a hungry child can beg."

She sat back in her seat with a pale, frowning face; while within the perfumed furry warmth of her cloak she shivered so that the diamonds at her ears sent out innumerable tiny spears of colour.

The act went on to its close; her attention never flagged. When I responded to a call before the curtain, she gravely handed me her bunch of roses.

A few moments later, by a happy accident, I was presented to her; when with that touch of bitterness that so often crept into her voice she said:--

"You hold your gla.s.s too steadily and at too true an angle to quite please me."

"I do not understand," I answered.

She smiled, her radiantly lovely smile, then with just a suspicion of a sneer replied, "Oh, yes, I think you do; at all events, I do not find it amusing to be called upon to look at too perfect a reflection of my own childhood."

At which I exclaimed entreatingly, "Don't--please don't--"

I might have found it hard to explain just what I meant; but she understood, for she gave my hand a quick, hard pressure, and a kind look shone from her splendid eyes. Next moment she was sweeping superbly toward her carriage, with her gentlemen in waiting struggling for the opportunity to do her service. So here, again, was the play reflecting real life.

But surely I have given instances enough in ill.u.s.tration of my original claim that the most dramatic scenes in plays are generally the mere reflections of happenings in real life; while the recognition of such scenes often causes a serious interruption to the play, though goodness knows there are plenty of interruptions from other causes.

One that comes often to my mind occurred at Daly's. He once tried to keep the theatre open in the summer-time--that was a failure. Two or three plays were tried, then he abandoned the scheme. But while "No Name" was on, Mr. Parks was cast for a part he was utterly unsuited for.

He stamped and stammered out his indignation and objection, but he was not listened to, so on he went.

During the play he was found seated at a table; and he not answering a question put to him, his housekeeper knelt at his side, lifted his hand, and let it fall, heavily, then in awed tones exclaimed, "He is dead!"

Now there is no use denying that, clever actor as he was, he was very, _very_ bad in that part; and on the third night, when the housekeeper let his hand fall and said, "He is dead!" in clear and hearty response from the gallery came the surprising words, "Thank G.o.d!"

The laughter that followed was not only long-continued, but it broke out again and again. As one young woman earnestly remarked next day: "You see he so perfectly expressed all our feelings. We were all as thankful as the man in the gallery, but we didn't like to say so."

Parks, however, was equal to the occasion. He gravely suggested that Mr.

Daly would do well to engage that chap, as he was the only person who had made a hit in the play.

Parks was, by the way, very droll in his remarks about theatrical matters. One day Mr. Daly concluded he would "cut" one of the acts we were rehearsing, and it happened that Parks's part, which was already short, suffered severely. He, of course, said nothing, but a little later he introduced a bit of business which was very funny, but really did not suit the scene. Mr. Daly noticed it, and promptly cut that out too. Then was Parks wroth indeed.

After rehearsal, he and Mr. Lewis were walking silently homeward, when they came upon an Italian street musician. The man ground at his movable piano, the wife held the tambourine, while his leggy little daughter danced with surprising grace on the stone walk. As she trotted about gathering her harvest of pennies, Parks put his hand on her shoulder and said solemnly:--

"You ought to be devilish glad you're not in Daly's company; he'd cut that dance out if you were."

One evening in New Orleans, when we were playing "Camille," a coloured girl, who had served me as dressing-maid, came to see me, and I gave her a "pa.s.s," that she might see from the "front" the play she had so often dressed me for. She went to the gallery and found herself next to a young black man, who had brought his sweetheart to see her first play.

The girl was greatly impressed and easily moved, and at the fourth act, when Armand hurled the money at me, striking me in the face, she turned to her young man, saying savagely, "You, Dave, you got ter lay for dat white man ter night, an' lick der life outen him."

Next moment I had fallen at Armand's feet. The curtain was down and the girl was excitedly declaring, I was dead! while Dave a.s.sured her over and over again, "No, honey, she carn't be dead yit, 'cause, don' yer see, der's anudder act, an' she just nacherly's got ter be in it."

When, however, the last act was on, it was Dave himself who did the business. The pathetic death scene was almost over, when applause broke from the upper part of the house. Instantly a mighty and unmistakable negro voice, said: "Hush--hush! She's climin' der golden stair dis time, shure--keep still!"

My devoted "Nannine" leaned over me to hide my laughing face from the audience, who quickly recovered from the interruption, while for once Camille, the heart-broken, died with a laugh in her throat.

In the same city I had, one matinee, to come down three steps on to the stage. I was quite gorgeous in one of my best gowns; for one likes to dress for Southern girls, they are so candidly pleased with your pretty things. My skirt caught on a nail at the very top step, so that when I reached the stage my train was stretched out full length, and in the effort a scene-hand made to free it, it turned over, so that the rose-pink lining could be plainly seen, when an awed voice exclaimed, "For de Lor's sake, dat woman's silk lin'd clear frou!" and the performance began in a gale of laughter.