Life on the Stage Part 38

but she laboriously answered: "Non! I haiv' not of ze shame to be supe for you, Mademoiselle!" It was a charming compliment, but more than a bit overwhelming to its recipient.

Well, Mr. Daly having originated, as I believe, these splendid and lengthy benefit performances, was, as a result, able to place a goodly sum of money at the service of the Asylum authorities, and naturally he received warm thanks from his Church.

Then, when "Madeline Morel" came along, with the great cathedral scene, we all stood aghast at what I was called upon to say and do. Everyone was on the stage, and nearly everyone whispered: "Sacrilege!" I stopped stock-still, in sheer fright. Mr. Daly pulled nervously at the lapel of his coat for a moment, and then said, sharply, "Go on!" I obeyed, but right behind me someone said: "And he calls himself a Catholic!"

It was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and impressive act. As a "sister" who had served the "novitiate," I had just taken the life vows and had been invested with the black veil. Then the wedding procession and the Church procession, coming from opposite sides and crossing before the altar, like a great "X," brought the bridegroom and the black nun face to face, in dreadful recognition, and in the following scene I had to drag from my head the veil and swathing white linen--had to tear from my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, stretch my arms to Heaven and, with upraised face, cry: "I call down upon my guilty soul the thunders of a curse, that none may hear and live!" and then fall headlong, as though my challenge had been accepted.

Nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and those of the company who were Catholics were particularly excited, and they cried: "Why, if we find it so repellant, what on earth will an audience think of it?"

Some prophesied hisses, some that the people would rise and leave the theatre. That Mr. Daly was uneasy about its effect he did not attempt to hide, and one day he said to me: "I think I'll call on Father X---- (his confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his--well--his opinion on this matter." But, unfortunately, rumors had already reached churchly ears, and the reverend gentleman came that same day to inquire of Mr.

Daly concerning them. I say "unfortunately," because Mr. Daly was a masterful man and resented anything like interference. Had he been permitted to introduce the matter himself, no doubt a few judicious words from the priest would have induced him to tone down the objectionable speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him the wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy in him. He described the play, however, a.s.sured his old friend there were no religious arguments, no homilies in it, but when he came to _the_ scene, the Father shook his head: "No--no! my son!" said he, "I do not see how that can be sanctioned."

Mr. Daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded; but though it evidently hurt the good man to refuse, since he was greatly attached to his son in the church, he still shook his head and at last declared it was a serious matter, and he would have to bring it to the Bishop's attention. But that was just what Mr. Daly did not want. "Can you not see, Father," he said, "these lines are spoken in a frenzy? They come from the lips of a woman mad with grief and trouble! They have not the value or the consequence of words spoken by a sane person!"

The priest shook his head. Suddenly Mr. Daly ceased his arguments and persuasions. After a little silence, he said: "You cannot sanction this scene, then, Father?"

A positive shake of the head. Mr. Daly looked pensively out of the window.

"Too bad!" he sighed, "too bad!"

The kind old man sighed too, companionably.

"You see, if that scene is not done, the play cannot be done."

"Dear, dear!" murmured the priest.

"And if the play is not done, having nothing else at hand, I shall have to close the season with the old play, and naturally that will mean bad business."

"Too bad, too bad!" muttered the voice, comfortably.

"And if the season ends badly, why, of course, there can be no charity benefit."

"What?" sharply exclaimed the erstwhile calm voice. "No benefit for our poor? Why--why--'er--I--dear me! and the Asylum needs help so badly!--'er--a 'frenzy' you said, my son? Spoken in madness?--'er--I--well--I will give the matter serious thought, and I'll acquaint you with my conclusion," and evidently much disturbed he retired.

And when Mr. Daly told me this, he added, with a twinkle in his eye: "He will get the benefit, surely enough." And when he saw my bewilderment, he added: "Don't you see? I had my doubts about the Bishop, but dear old Father X---- will be so anxious about his orphans that he will make things right for me with him, for their sakes." A view of the matter that proved to be correct. Verily a clever man was our manager.

Day after day we rehea.r.s.ed, and day after day I hoped that the dreadful bit of business might be toned down. At last my nerves gave way completely, and after a particularly trying rehearsal I rushed to the managerial office, and, bursting into tears, begged hard to be excused from trampling the cross under foot.

"Surely," I sobbed, "it's bad enough to have to tear off the veil--and--and--I'm afraid something will happen!"

"And," said Mr. Daly, "to tell you the truth, I'm afraid, too!"

He gave me a gla.s.s of water, and waiting a moment for me to conquer my tears, he went on: "I'm glad you have come in, I was just about sending for you."

"Oh!" I interrupted, "you are going to cut something out?" But he answered, gravely: "No! I shall cut nothing out! But look here, you are a brave girl, and forewarned is forearmed, you know, so I am going to speak quite plainly. I don't know how the public may receive that bit of business; perhaps with dead silence; perhaps with hisses."

I sprang to my feet. "Sit down!" he said, "and listen. You shall not be held responsible, in the slightest degree, for the scene, I promise you that. If anything disagreeable happens it shall be fairly stated that you played under protest. It is, of course, possible that the scene may go along all right, but I want to warn you that you may prepare yourself for the storm, should it come. I don't want you to be taken unawares and have you faint or lose your nerve. So, now whenever you go over your part and reach that point, say to yourself: 'Here they hiss!' Don't look so pale.

I'm sorry you have to bear the brunt alone, but you will be brave, won't you?"

And I rose, and after my usual habit, tried to jest, as I answered: "Since you alone gave me my opportunity of being _applauded_ in New York, I suppose it's only fair that I should accept this opportunity of being _hissed_."

Excited and miserable I went home. Faithfully I followed Mr. Daly's suggestion. But no matter how often I went over the scene, whenever I said: "Here they hiss," my face went white, my hands turned cold as stone. 'Twas fortunate the first performance was near, for I could not have borne the strain long. As it was, I seemed to wear my nerves on the outside of my clothes until the dreaded night was over.

The play had gone finely; most of the people were well cast. Miss Morant, Miss Davenport, Miss Jewett, Miss Varian especially so; while Fisher, Lewis, Lemoyne, Crisp, Clark, and James did their best to make a success and close in glory the season that had been broken in half by the burning of the home theatre. The end of the third act had been mine. The pa.s.sionate speech of renunciation and farewell had won the favor of the house, and call after call followed. As I had played the scene alone, I should have been proud and happy--should have counted the calls with a miser's gloating satisfaction. But instead my blood was already chilling with dread of the coming act.

"Good Lord, child!" said Mr. Daly, "your face is as long as my arm! Don't antic.i.p.ate evil--take the good the G.o.ds send you. You are making a hit and you're losing all the pleasure of it. I'm ashamed of you!"

But he wrung my fingers hard, even as he spoke, and I knew that his words were, what the boys call a "bluff."

Then the curtain was rising. The cathedral scene won a round of applause, and kneeling at the altar, as children say, "I scringed" at the sound.

Then after a little I was coming down the stage and the audience, recognizing _Madeline_ in the nun, applauded long and heartily, and I fairly groaned aloud. After that the act proceeded really with stately dignity, but to my terrified eyes it seemed indecent haste; and as I fell into line with the Church procession of sisters, of novices, of priests and acolytes, I felt myself a morsel in a kaleidoscopic picture of bright colors, the churchly purple and its red and white, the brilliant gowns of the women of fas.h.i.+on, the golden organ-pipes, the candles burning star-like upon the altar, the ma.s.sed flowers, and over all, giving a touch of floating unreality to everything, the clouds of incense.

Then suddenly, out of the bluish haze, there gleamed the white, set face, for love of which I was to sacrifice my very soul! The scene was on, swift, pa.s.sionate, and furious, and almost before I could realize it, the dreadful words had been spoken--and with my foot upon the cross, I stood in a silence the like of which I had never known before! I had not fallen--stricken absolutely motionless with terror I stood--waiting.

In that crowded building even breathing seemed suspended. There reigned a silence, like to death itself! It was awful! Then without changing my att.i.tude by the movement of a finger, I pitched forward, falling heavily at the feet of the dismayed lover and the indignant priest. And suddenly, sharply as by a volley of musketry, the silence was broken by applause.

Yes, actually by applause, and beneath its noise I heard a voice behind me gasp: "Well, I'll be blest!"

When all was ended, and after the final courtesies had been extended and gratefully accepted, there was an outburst of excited comment, and more than one experienced actor declared that never again would they even try to antic.i.p.ate the conduct of an audience. Old Mr. Fisher told Mr. Daly he had felt the rising hiss and he was positive it was regard for the woman that had restrained its expression.

Mr. Daly patted the old gentleman on the shoulder and answered: "Perhaps--perhaps! but if for her sake the public has swallowed that scene one night, the public have got to go on swallowing it every night--and that's the important point for us."

Very shamefacedly I apologized for not falling at the proper time, and as I hurriedly promised to do so the next night, to my surprise Mr. Daly stopped me with a quick: "No! no! change nothing! I was in front, and that pause, staring straight up into heaven, was tremendously effective.

It was as if G.o.d offered you a moment to repent in--then struck you down!

Change nothing, and to-morrow you shall have your heart's desire."

I gazed at him in amazement. He laughed a bit maliciously and said: "Old heat-registers and things carry voices. I hear many things. I have heard, for instance, about a man named Dovey and a wonderful toy terrier that weighs by ounces. I wouldn't open my eyes any wider, if I were you; they might stay that way. Well, will you show me the way to Dovey's by eleven to-morrow?"

"But," I faltered, "I'm afraid of the price----"

"That's my affair," he answered curtly, then added, more kindly, "Good-night! you have behaved well, Miss Morris, and if I can give you a pleasure--I shall be glad."

And next day I owned the tiniest dog in New York, who slept in a collar-box, by my pillow, that I might not hurt it in the night. Whose bark was like a cambric needle, and who, within five minutes after her arrival, challenged to deadly combat my beloved Bertie, who weighed good four pounds.

CHAPTER FORTY-SECOND

I am Engaged to Star part of the Season--Mr. Daly Breaks his Contract--I Leave him and under Threat of Injunction--I meet Mr. Palmer and make Contract and appear at the Union Square in the "Wicked World."

The third season in New York was drawing to its close, and by most desperate struggling I had managed just to keep my head above water--that was all. I not only failed to get ahead by so much as a single dollar, but I had never had really enough of anything. We were skimped on clothes, skimped on food, indeed we were skimped on everything, except work and hope deferred. When, lo! a starring tour was proposed to me.

After my first fright was over I saw a possibility of earning in that way something more than my mere board, though, truth to tell, I was not enraptured with the prospect of joining that ever-moving caravan of homeless wanderers, who barter home, happiness, and digestive apparatus for their percentage of the gross, and the doubtful privilege of having their own three-sheet posters stare them out of countenance in every town they visit. Yet without the brazen poster and an occasional lithograph hung upside down in the window of a German beer saloon, one would lack the proof of stardom.

No, I had watched stars too long and too closely to believe theirs was a very joyous existence; besides, I felt I had much to learn yet, and that New York was the place to learn it in; so, true to my promise, off I went and laid the matter before Mr. Daly--and he _did_ take on, but for such an odd reason. For though he paid me the valued compliment of saying he could not afford to lose me, his greatest anger was aroused by what he called the "demoralization" my act would bring into his company.

"You put that bee in their bonnets and its buzzing will drown all commands, threats, or reasons. Every mother's son and daughter of them will demand the right to star! Why, confound it! Jimmie Lewis, who has had one try at it, is twisting and writhing to get at it again--even now; and as for Miss Davenport, she will simply raise the dead over her effort to break out starring, and Ethel--oh, well, she's free now to do as she likes. But you star one week and you'll see how quick she will take the cue, while Miss--oh, it's d.a.m.nable! You can't do it! it will set everyone on end!"

"If you will give me a salary equal to that of other people, who do much less work than I do, I will stay with you," I said.