Life on the Stage Part 39

But he wanted me to keep to the small salary and let him "make it up to me," meaning by that, his paying for the stage costumes and occasional gifts, etc. But that was not only unbusiness-like and unsatisfactory--though he undoubtedly would have been generous enough--but it was a bit humiliating, since it made me dependent on his whims and, worst of all, it opened the door to possible scandal, and I had but one tongue to deny with, while scandal had a thousand tongues to accuse with.

It was a queer whim, but he insisted that he could not give me the really modest salary I would remain for, though, in his own words, I should have "three times its value." Finally we agreed that I should give him three months of the season every year as long as he might want my services, and the rest of the season I should be free to make as much money as I could, starring. He told me to go ahead and make engagements at once to produce "L'Article 47" or "Alixe"--I to pay him a heavy nightly royalty for each play, and when my engagements were completed to bring him the list, that he might not produce "Alixe" with his company before me in any city that I was to visit. I did as he had requested me. I was bound in every contract to be the first to present "L'Article 47" or "Alixe" in that city. I was then to open in Philadelphia. I had been announced as a coming attraction, when I received startling telegrams and threats from the local manager that "Mr. Daly's Fifth Avenue Company" was announced to appear the week before me in "Alixe," in an opposition house. Thus Mr.

Daly had most cruelly broken faith with me. I went to him at once. I reproached him. I said: "These people will sue me!"

"Bah!" he sneered, "they can't take what you have not got!"

"But," I cried, "they will throw over my engagement!"

His face lit up with undisguised pleasure. He thrust his hand into the open desk-drawer. "Ah," he smiled, "I have a part here that might have been written for you. It is great--honestly great, and with this starring business disposed of, we can get at it early!"

I rose. I said: "Mr. Daly, you have done an unworthy thing, you have broken faith with me. If you produce 'Alixe' next week, I will never play for you again!"

"You will have to!" he threatened. "I have broken the verbal part of our contract, but you cannot prove it, nor can you break the written part of the contract!"

I repeated: "I shall play for you no more!"

And he hotly answered: "Well, don't you try playing for anyone else. I give you fair warning--I'll enjoin you if you do! The law is on my side, remember."

"My dear sir," I said, "the law was not specially created for you to have fun with, and it has an odd way of protecting women at times. I shall at all events appeal to it to-morrow morning."

Next morning my salary was sent to me. I took from it what was due me for two nights' work I had done early in the week, and returned the rest, saying: "As I am not a member of the company, no salary need be sent me."

And eleven o'clock found me in the office of ex-Judge William Fullerton.

He declared that my mind showed a strong legal bent, and he congratulated me upon my refusal of the proffered salary. "If," said he, "you receive a desirable offer in the way of an engagement, take it at once and without fear. Mr. Daly will threaten you, of course, but I can't believe his lawyers will permit him to take this matter into court. In attacking you he will attack every young, self-supporting woman in New York, in your person. The New York man will sympathize with you. Public opinion is a great power, and no manager wishes to see it arrayed against him."

And thus it happened that I was not legally quite off with the old manager when I was on with the new--in the person of Mr. A. M. Palmer, my sometime manager and still my honored friend. Our relations were always kindly, yet to this hour I squirm mentally when I recall our first meeting. I was taking some chocolate at a woman's restaurant on Broadway, and a common friend brought the "Union Square" manager in and introduced him, simply as a friend, for whatever my secret hope, there had been no open word spoken about business in connection with this interview. But, given a meeting between an idle actress and an active manager, a Barkis-like willingness to talk business is sure to develop.

Looking up and seeing Mr. Harriott advancing toward my table with a strange gentleman in tow, I gave a nervous swallow and fixed my attention upon the latter. His rigid propriety of expression, the immaculately spotless and creaseless condition of his garments made me expect each moment to hear the church-bells clang out an invitation to morning service. Being presented, he greeted me with a gentle coldness of manner--if I may use the expression--that sent my heart down like lead.

Now extreme nervousness on my part nearly always expresses itself in rapid, almost reckless speech, and directly I was off at a tangent, successfully sharing with them the fun of various absurdities going on about us; until, in an evil moment, my eye fell upon the smug face of a young rural beau, whose terrified delight in believing himself a very devil of a fellow was so ludicrously evident, that one wept for the presence of a d.i.c.kens to embalm him in the amber of his wit.

"Oh!" I said, egged on by one of those imps who hover at the elbow of just such women as I am, "can't you see he is a minister's son? He has had more religion given to him than he can digest. He's taking a sniff of freedom. He has kicked over the traces and he has not quite decided yet whether he'll go to the demnition bow-wows entirely, or be moderately respectable. He's a minister's son fast enough, but he doesn't know yet whether he will manage a theatre in New York or run away with the Sunday-school funds; and that red-haired young person oppo--opposite----"

And I trailed off stupidly, for judging by the ghastly silence that had fallen upon my hearers and the stricken look upon Mr. Harriott's face, I knew I had set my foot deep in some conversational mora.s.s. I turned a frightened glance upon Mr. Palmer's face, and I have always been glad that I was in time to catch the twinkling laughter in his cool, hazel eyes. Then he leaned toward me and gently remarked: "I am the son of a minister, Miss Morris, and the manager of a theatre, but upon my word the Sunday-school funds never suffered at my hands."

"Oh!" I groaned. And I must have looked just as a pet dog does when it creeps guiltily to its mistress's foot and waits to be smacked. I _really_ must, because he suddenly broke into such hearty laughter. Then presently he made a business proposition that pleased me greatly, but I felt I must tell him that Mr. Daly promised to get out an injunction to prevent my appearance anywhere, and he would probably not care to risk any trouble. And then there came a little squeeze to Mr. Palmer's lips and a little glint in his eye, as he remarked: "You accept my offer and I'll know how to meet the injunction."

And I can't help it--being born on St. Patrick's Day and all that--if people _will_ step on the tail of one's coat, why of course they must expect "ructions." And to tell the honest truth, Mr. Palmer's perfect willingness to fight that injunction filled me with unholy glee; which combined beautifully with grat.i.tude for his quick forgiveness of my _faux pas_--and I signed a contract with Mr. Sheridan Shook and Mr. A. M.

Palmer and was announced to appear in "The Wicked World" at the Union Square Theatre, and I was pursued day and night by slim young men with black curly hair, who tried to push folded papers into my unwilling hands; while life behind the scenes grew more and more strenuous, as scene-s.h.i.+fters, property-men, and head carpenters, armed with braces and screw-eyes, charged any unknown male creature that looked as if he could define the word injunction.

The night came, and with it an equinoctial gale of perfect fury. Whether the people were blown in by the storm or fought their way in by intention, I can't decide. I only know they were there and in numbers sufficient to crowd the bright and ruddy auditorium. They were a trifle damp about the ankles and disordered about the hair, but their hands were in prime working order, their hearts were warm, their perceptions quick--what more could the most terrified actress pray for in an audience?

The play was one of Gilbert's deliciously poetic satires--well cast, beautifully produced, after the manner of Union Square productions generally, and Success shook the rain off her wings and perched upon our banners, and we were all filled with pride and joy, in spite of the young men with folded white papers who swirled wildly up and down Fourth Avenue in the storm, and of those other young men who came early and strove diligently to get seats within reaching distance of the foot-lights, only to find that by some strange accident both those rows of chairs were fully occupied when the doors were first throw open. Yes, in spite of all those disappointed young men, we had a success, and I was not enjoined.

Yet there were two rather long managerial faces there that night. For unless my out-of-town managers threw me overboard, because of the trouble about "Alixe," I could remain in this charming play of "The Wicked World" but two short weeks. And no manager can be expected to rejoice over the forced withdrawal of a success.

And right there Mr. Palmer saw fit to do a very gracious thing. After the first outburst of anger and disappointment from Mr. Thomas Hall (my Philadelphia manager), instead of breaking his engagement with me, as he had every right to do, he stood by his contract to star me and at the same terms, if I could provide a play--any play to fill the time with. I had nothing of course but the Daly plays, so my thanks and utter abandonment of the engagement were neatly packed within the regulation ten telegraphic words, when Mr. Palmer offered me the use of his play, "The Geneva Cross," written by George Fawcett Rowe. In an instant my first telegram changed into a joyous acceptance. I was studying my part at night, my mother was ripping, picking out and pressing at skirts and things by day. Congratulating myself upon my good fortune in having once seen the play in New York, I went to Philadelphia, and after just one rehearsal of this strange play, I opened my starring engagement. Can I ever forget the thrill I felt when I received my first thousand dollars?

I counted it by twenties, then by tens, but I got the most satisfaction out of counting it by fives--it seemed so much more that way. I was spending it with the aid of a sheet of foolscap paper and a long pencil until after two o'clock in the morning. My mother to this day declares that that was the very best black silk dress she has ever owned--that one out of that first thousand she means, and on the wall here beside me hangs a fine and rare engraving of the late Queen Victoria in her coronation robes that I gave myself as a memento of that first wonderful thousand. That, when the other managers saw that Mr. Hall kept faith with me, and had apparently not lost by his action, they followed suit and all my engagements were filled--thanks to Mr. Palmer's kindness and Mr.

Hall's pluck as well as generosity.

CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD

We Give a Charity Performance of "Camille," and Are Struck with Amazement at our Success--Mr. Palmer Takes the Cue and Produces "Camille" for Me at the Union Square.

Then came the great "charity benefit," and "Camille"--that "Ninon de l'

Enclos" of the drama, who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers at her feet.

It is amazing how much accident has to do with the career of actors.

Shakespeare says:

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will."

And heaven knows I "rough-hewed" the "Camille" proposition to the best of my power. I came hurrying back to New York, specially to act at the mighty benefit, given for the starving poor of the city. Every theatre was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket purchased was good at any one of them. I had selected "Love's Sacrifice," an old legitimate play, for that occasion and Mr. Palmer had cast it, when an actress suddenly presented herself at his office declaring she had made that play _her_ property, by her own exceptional work in it in former years, at another theatre. Threatening hysterics often prove valuable weapons in a manager's office, where, strangely enough, "a scene" is hated above all things.

I was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was anybody's property, and at once withdrew in the interest of peace. But what then was to be done for the benefit? Every play proposed had some drawback.

Mr. Palmer suggested "Camille," and all my objections crowding to my lips at once, I fairly stammered and spluttered over the expression of them: I hated! hated! hated! the play! The people who had preceded me in it were too great! I should be the merest pigmy beside them. I did not think _Camille_ as vulgar and coa.r.s.e as one great woman had made her--nor so chill and nun-like as another had conceived her to be. And the critics would fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. They would justly cry "Presumption," and--and--I had no clothes! no, not one st.i.tch had I to wear (of course you will make the usual allowance for an excited woman and not take that literally!) and then, oh, dear! I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself, but to tell the exact truth, I wept--for the first and only time in my life--I wept from anger!

We all fumed--we, meaning Mr. Palmer, Mr. Cazauran, that ferret-faced, mysterious little man, whose clever brain and dramatic instincts made him so valuable about a theatre; and the big, silently observant Mr. Shook, and I. Cazauran said he knew all the business of the play and could tell me it, and began with certain things Miss Heron (the greatest _Camille_ America had had) had done, and I indignantly declared I would leave a theatre before I would do as much. I argued it was unnecessary. _Camille_ was not brutal--she had a.s.sociated with gentlemen, members of the n.o.bility, men who were acquainted with court circles. She would have learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutalities would have shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted _Armand_. Her very disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment.

If she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of the world. She allured men by the very refinement of her vice. And as I paused to take breath, Mr. Shook's ba.s.s voice was heard for the first time, as he asked, conclusively: "Whom can we get for _Armand_ on such short notice?"

I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer: "The critics"--I gasped and stopped. He smiled rea.s.suringly and said: "Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best and remember it's only for once."

"Dear Lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks I made my way home, with a copy of the detested play in my hand. Late that evening I was notified that Mr. Mayo would play _Armand_.

I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I should look like a school-mistress in one act and a stage _ingenue_ in another. I had a ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. I should only be correct when I got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. Actress fas.h.i.+on, I got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string of amber beads to study--I never learn anything so quickly as when I have something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has a.s.sisted me over many and many an hour of mental labor--a pleasanter custom than that of walking and studying aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to one's near neighbors.

The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. We went over two acts on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day, and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of hammering and sawing, of running and ordering--for every stage was filled at the rear with rus.h.i.+ng carpenters and painters. Yet those were the only rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance, and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and I remember I spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the handsome young English woman who did _Olympe_ to keep out of my chair and to go to and from the piano at the right moment.

The house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what was then called "The Lyceum," which Charles Fechter had just been having remodeled, and the police discovering that day that the floor of the balcony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, very cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming message in the ear of a person here, there, and yonder, who would nod, rise, and step quietly out, returning a moment later to smilingly motion their party out with them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic being caused, though it made one feel rather sick and faint afterward to note the depth to which the floor had sagged under the feet of that tightly packed audience.

James Lewis used to say to me: "Clara is the biggest fraud of a first-nighter the profession can show. There she'll stand s.h.i.+vering and shaking, white-sick with fright, waiting for her cue, and when she gets it, she skips on and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for a year at least. No wonder Mr. Daly calls her his best first-nighter."

So at that first performance of "Camille," as Frank Mayo touched my icy hand and burning brow, and saw the trembling of my limbs, as with fever-dried lips I waited for the curtain's rise, he said: "G.o.d! but you suffer! I reckon you'll not act much to-day, little woman!" And a few minutes later, as I laughed and chatted gayly through the opening lines of the play, I distinctly heard Frank say: "Well, of all the sells! Why confound her, I'm twice as nervous as she is!"

The first act went with a sort of dash and go that was the result of pure recklessness. The house was delighted. The curtain had to go up twice. We all looked at one another, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. The second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot pa.s.sion between _Armand_ and _Camille_ that when _De Varville's_ torn letter was cast to _Nanine_ as _Camille's_ answer, and the lovers leaped to each others'

arms, the house simply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up and down, Mayo gasped in amazement: "Well, I'm d.a.m.ned!" But I made answer: "No, you're not--but you _will_ be if you hammer my poor spine in another act as you have in this. Go easy, Frank; I can't stand it!"

The third act went beautifully. Many women sobbed at times. I made my exit some little time before the end of the act, and of course went directly to my room, which was beneath the stage, and there began to dress for the ball-room scene, and lo! after _Armand_ had had two or three calls for his last speech, something set them on to call for _Camille_. And they kept at it, too, till at last a mermaid-like creature--not exactly half fish and half woman, but half ball-gown train and half d.i.n.ky little dressing-sack--came bobbing to the curtain side, delighting the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of the illusion of the play.

In the fourth act Mr. Mayo played base-ball with me. He batted me and hurled me and sometimes I had a wild fear that he would kick me. Finally, he struck my head so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my scalp and I found a few moments' rest in truly fainting from fatigue, fright, and pain.

But it all went. Great heaven! how it went! For Mayo was a great actor, and it was but intense excitement that made him so rough with me.

Honestly we were so taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew what to make of the frantic demonstrations--whether it was just the result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, or whether we were giving an extremely good performance.

The last act I can never forget. I had cut out two or three pages from the dialogue in the book. I felt there was too much of it. That if _Camille_ did not die, her audience would, and had built up a little scene for myself. Never would I have dared do such a thing had it been for more than one performance. That scene took in the crossing of the room to the window, the looking-gla.s.s scene, and the return to the bed.