"Divorce" had just settled down for its long run, when one evening I
received a letter whose weight and bulk made me wonder whether the
envelope contained a "last will and testament" or a "three-act play." On
opening it I found it perfectly correct in appearance, on excellent
paper, in the clearest handwriting, and using the most perfect
orthography and grammar: a gentleman had nevertheless gently, almost
tenderly, reproached me for using _the story of his life_ for the play.
He said he knew Mr. Daly's name was on the bills as author; but as I
was an Ohio woman, he of course understood perfectly that I had
furnished Mr. D. with _his_ story for the play. He explained at great
length that he forgave me because I had not given Mr. Daly his real
name, and also remarked, in rather an aggrieved way, that _he_ had two
children and only one appeared in the play. He also seemed considerably
surprised that Mr. Harkins (who played my husband) did not wear a large
red beard, as every one, he said, knew _he_ had not shaved for years.
My laughter made its way over the transom, and in a moment my neighbour
was at the dressing-room door, asking for something she did not need,
that she might find out the why and wherefore of the fun; and when the
red beard had started her off, another came for something she knew I
didn't own, and she too fell before the beard; while a third writhed
over the forgiveness extended to me, and exclaimed:--
"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 pass 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!"
[Illustration: _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 glass would betray.
Then I tried a little trick. Alixe wore white of a soft crépy 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
grasses 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 "Saturday 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 God, when that yellow-haired girl was carried dead upon the
stage to-night, even the grass clutched between her fingers, it was a
repetition 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 assured 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,
assuring 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: "God! 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 passed 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.
[Illustration: _Clara Morris and James Parselle in 3d Act of "Miss
Multon"_]
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 passion 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 God'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 passionate plea for a woman whose suffering was probably but a
faint reflection of her own.
_CHAPTER V