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.