How often we hear people say, "Oh, that's only a play!" or "That could
only happen in a play!" and yet it's surprising how often actors receive
proof positive that their plays are reflecting happenings in real life.
When Mr. Daly had "L'Article 47" on, at the 5th Avenue Theatre, for
instance, the key-note of the play was the insanity of the heroine. In
the second, most important act, before her madness had been openly
proclaimed, it had to be indicated simply by manner, tone, and gesture;
and the one action of drawing the knee up into her clasping arms, and
then swaying the body mechanically from side to side, while muttering
rapidly to herself, thrilled the audience with the conviction of her
affliction more subtly than words could have done. One night, when that
act was on, I had just begun to sway from side to side, when from the
auditorium there arose one long, _long_, agonizing wail, and that wail
was followed by the heavy falling of a woman's body from her chair into
the centre aisle.
In an instant all was confusion, every one sprang to his feet; even the
musicians, who were playing some creepy, incidental music, as was the
fashion then, stopped and half rose from their places. It was a dreadful
moment! Somehow I kept a desperate hold upon my strained and startled
nerves and swayed on from side to side. Mr. Stoepel, the leader, glanced
at me. I caught his eye and said quick and low, "Play! play!"
[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "L'Article 47"_]
He understood; but instead of simply resuming where he had left off,
from force of habit he first gave the leader's usual three sharp taps
upon his music desk, and then--so queer a thing is an audience--those
people, brought to their feet in an agony of terror, of fire, panic, and
sudden death by a woman's cry, now at that familiar tap, tap, tap, broke
here and there into laughter. By sixes and sevens, then by tens and
twenties, they sheepishly seated themselves, only turning their heads
with pitying looks while the ushers removed the unconscious woman.
When the act was over, Mr. Daly--a man of few words on such
occasions--held my hands hard for a moment, and said, "Good girl, good
girl!" and I, pleased, deprecatingly remarked, "It was the music, sir,
that quieted them," to which he made answer, "And it was you who ordered
the music!"
Verily, no single word could be spoken on his stage without his
knowledge. Later that evening we learned that the lady who had cried out
had been brought to the theatre by friends who hoped to cheer her up
(Heaven save the mark!) and help her to forget her dreadful and recent
experience of placing her own mother in an insane asylum. Learned, too,
that her very first suspicion of that poor mother's condition had come
from finding her one morning sitting up in bed, her arms embracing her
knees, while she swayed from side to side unceasingly, muttering low and
fast all the time.
Poor lady! no wonder her worn nerves gave way when all unexpectedly that
dread scene was reproduced before her, and worse still before the
staring public.
Then Mr. Charles Matthews, the veteran English comedian, came over to
act at Mr. Daly's. His was a graceful, polished, volatile style of
acting, and he had a high opinion of his power as a maker of fun; so
that he was considerably annoyed one night when he discovered that one
of his auditors would not laugh. Laugh? would not even smile at his
efforts.
Mr. Matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable,--and, well,
just a wee bit _cranky_; and when the play was about half over, he came
"off," angrily talking to himself, and ran against Mr. Lewis and me, as
we were just about "going on." Instantly he exclaimed, "Look here! look
here!" taking from his vest pocket a broad English gold piece and
holding it out on his hand, then added, "And look there! look there!"
pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box.
"Do you see that stupid dolt over there? Well, I've toiled over him till
I sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh--he won't; smile--he won't."
I remarked musingly, "He looks like a graven image"; while Lewis
suggested cheerfully, "Perhaps he is one."
"No, no!" groaned the unfortunate star, "I'm afraid not! I'm--I'm
almost certain I saw him move once. But look here now, you're a deucedly
funny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene. I'll protect you
from Daly,--do anything you like,--and the one who makes that wooden man
laugh, wins this gold piece."
It was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope of
succeeding where the star had failed. I seized one moment in which to
notify old man Davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent part
in the coming scene, and then we were on the stage.
The play was "The Critic," the scene a burlesque rehearsal of an
old-time melodrama. Our opportunities were great, and Heaven knows we
missed none of them. New York audiences are quick, and in less than
three minutes they knew the actors had taken the bit between their teeth
and were off on a mad race of fun. Everything seemed to "go." We three
knew one another well. Each saw another's idea and caught it, with the
certainty of a boy catching a ball. The audience roared with laughter;
the carpenters and scene-shifters--against the rule of the
theatre--crowded into the entrances with answering laughter; but the man
in the box gave no sign.
Worse and worse we went on. Mr. Daly, white with anger, came behind the
scene, gasping out, "Are they utterly mad?" to the little Frenchman whom
he had made prompter because he could not speak English well enough to
prompt us; who, frantically pulling his hair, cried, "Oui! oui! zey are
all mad--mad like ze dog in ze summer-time!"
Mr. Daly stamped his feet and cleared his throat to attract our
attention; but, trusting to Mr. Matthews's protection, we grinned
cheerfully at him and continued on our downward path. At last we reached
the "climax," and suddenly I heard Mr. Matthews say, "She's got
him--look--I think she's won!"
I could not help it--I turned my head to see if the "graven image" could
really laugh. Yes, he was moving! his face wore some faint expression;
but--but he was turning slowly to the laughing audience, and the
expression on his face was one of _wonder!_
Matthews groaned aloud, the curtain fell, and Daly was upon us. Matthews
said the cause of the whole business was that man in the box; while Mr.
Daly angrily declared, "The man in the box could have nothing to do with
the affair, since he was _deaf_ and _dumb_, and had been all his life."
I remember sitting down very hard and very suddenly. I remember that
Davidge, who was an Englishman, "blasted" a good many things under his
breath; and then Mr. Matthews, exclaiming with wonder, told us he had
been playing for years in a farce where this very scene was enacted, the
whole play consisting in the actors' efforts to win the approbation of a
man who was a deaf mute.
So once more a play was found to reflect a situation in real life.
[Illustration: _Charles Matthews_]
_CHAPTER III