It was in "Camille," one Friday night, in Baltimore, that for the only
time in my life I wished to wipe an animal out of existence. I love
four-footed creatures with extravagant devotion, not merely the finely
bred and beautiful ones, but the poor, the sick, the halt, the maimed,
the half-breeds or the no breeds at all; and almost all animals quickly
make friends with me, divining my love for them. But on this one
night--well! it was this way. In the last act, as Camille, I had
staggered from the window to the bureau and was nearing that dread
moment when in the looking-glass I was to see the reflection of my
wrecked and ruined self. The house was giving strained attention,
watching dim-eyed the piteous, weak movements of the dying woman; and
right there I heard that (----h!) quick indrawing of the breath startled
womanhood always indulges in before either a scream or a laugh. My heart
gave a plunge, and I thought: What is it? Oh, what is wrong? and I
glanced down at myself anxiously, for really I wore so very little in
that scene that if anything should slip off--gracious! I did not know
but what, in the interest of public propriety, the law might interfere.
But that one swift glance told me that the few garments I had assumed in
the dressing-room still faithfully clung to me. But alas! there was the
dreaded titter, and it was unmistakably growing. What was it about? They
could only laugh at me, for there was no one else on the stage. Was
there not, indeed! In an agony of humiliation I turned half about and
found myself facing an absolutely monstrous cat. Starlike he held the
very centre of the stage, his two great topaz eyes were fixed roundly
and unflinchingly upon my face. On his body and torn ears he carried the
marks of many battles. His brindled tail stood straightly and
aggressively in the air, and twitched with short, quick twitches, at its
very tip, truly as burly an old buccaneer as I ever saw.
No wonder they giggled! But how to save the approaching death scene from
total ruin? All was done in a mere moment or two; but several plans were
made and rejected during these few moments. Naturally my first thought,
and the correct one, was to call back "Nannine," my faithful maid, and
tell her to remove the cat. But alas! my Nannine was an unusually
dull-witted girl, and she would never be able to do a thing she had not
rehearsed. My next impulse was to pick up the creature and carry it off
myself; but I was playing a dying girl, and the people had just seen me,
after only three steps, reel helplessly into a chair; and this cat might
easily weigh twelve pounds or more; and then at last my plan was formed.
I had been clinging all the time to the bureau for support, now I
slipped to my knees and with a prayer in my heart that this fierce old
Thomas might not decline my acquaintance, I held out my hand, and in a
faint voice, called "Puss--Puss--Puss! come here, Puss!"
It was an awful moment: if he refused to come, if he turned tail and
ran, all was over; the audience would roar.
"Puss--Puss!" I pleaded. Thomas looked hard at me, hesitated, stretched
out his neck, and working his whiskers nervously, sniffed at my hand.
"Puss--Puss!" I gasped out once more, and lo! he gave a little "meow,"
and walking over to me, arched his back amicably, and rubbed his dingy
old body against my knee. In a moment my arms were about him, my cheek
on his wicked old head, and the applause that broke forth from the
audience was as balm of Gilead to my distress and mortification. Then I
called for Nannine, and when she came on, I said to her, "Take him
downstairs, Nannine, he grows too heavy a pet for me these days," and
she lifted and carried Sir Thomas from the stage, and so I got out of
the scrape without sacrificing my character as a sick woman.
My manager, Mr. John P. Smith, who was a wag, and who would willingly
give up his dinner, which he loved, for a joke, which he loved better,
was the next day questioned about this incident. One gentleman, a music
dealer, said to him: "Mr. Smith, I wish you to settle a question for me.
My wife and I are at variance. We saw 'Camille' last night, and my wife,
who has seen it several times in New York, insisted that that beautiful
little cat-scene belongs to the play and is always done; while I am
sure I never saw it before, and several of my customers agree with me,
one lady declaring it to have been an accident. Will you kindly set us
right?"
"Certainly," heartily replied Mr. Smith; "your wife is quite right, the
cat scene is always done. It is a great favourite with Miss Morris, and
she hauls that cat all over the country with her, ugly as he is, just
because he's such a good actor."
_CHAPTER IX
"ALIXE." THE TRAGEDY OF THE GOOSE GREASE_
During the run of "Alixe," at Daly's Theatre, I had suffered from a
sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, and before I was well the
doctor was simply horrified to learn that Mr. Daly had commanded me to
play at the Saturday performance, saying that if the work made me worse,
the doctor would have all day Sunday to treat me in. He really seemed to
think that using a carriage did away with all possible danger in passing
from a warm room, through icy streets, to a draughty theatre. But
certain lesions that I carry about with me are proofs of his error.
However, I dared not risk losing my engagement, so I obeyed. My chest,
which had been blistered and poulticed during my illness, was
excruciatingly tender and very sensitive to cold; and the doctor,
desiring to heal, and at the same time to protect it from chill, to my
unspeakable mortification anointed me lavishly with goose grease and
swathed me in flannel and cotton wadding.
That I had no shape left to me was bad enough; but to be a moving
abomination was worse, and of all vile, offensive, and vulgar odours
commend me to that of goose grease. With cheeks wet from tears of sheer
weakness, I reached the theatre resolved to keep as silent as the grave
on the subject of my flamboyant armour of grease and flannel. But the
first faint muttering of the coming storm reached me even in my
dressing-room, when the theatre maid (I had none of my own yet) entered,
and frowningly snapped out: "I'd like to know what's the matter with
this room? It never smelled like this before. Just as soon as you go
out, Miss Morris, I'll hunt it over and see what the trouble is."
I had been pale, but at that speech one might have lighted matches at my
scarlet face. While in the entrance I had to be wrapped up in a great
big shawl, through which the odour could not quite penetrate, so no one
suspected me when making kindly inquiries about my health; but when it
was thrown off, and in my thin white gown I went on the stage--oh!
In the charming little love scene, as Henri and I sat close, oh, very
close together, on the garden seat, and I had to look up at him with
wide-eyed admiration, I saw him turn his face aside, wrinkling up his
nose, and heard him whisper: "What an infernal smell! What is it?"
I shook my head in seeming ignorance and wondered what was ahead--if
this was the beginning. It was a harrowing experience; by the time the
second act was on, the whole company was aroused. They were like an
angry swarm of bees. Miss Dietz kept her handkerchief openly to her
pretty nose; Miss Morant, in stately dudgeon, demanded that Mr. Daly
should be sent for, that he might learn the condition of his theatre,
and the dangers his people were subjected to in breathing such poisoned
air; while right in the very middle of our best scene, Mr. Louis James,
the incorrigible, stopped to whisper, "Can't we move further over and
get out of this confounded stench?"
In that act I had to spend much of my time at the piano, with the result
that when the curtain fell, the people excitedly declared that awful
smell was worst right there, and I had the misery of seeing the prompter
carefully looking into the piano and applying his long, sharp nose to
its upright interior.
There had been a moment in that act when I thought James Lewis suspected
me. I had just taken my seat opposite him at the chess table, when he
gave a little jerk at his chair, exclaiming under his breath, "Blast
that smell--there it is again!"
[Illustration: _Mrs. Gilbert, Augustin Daly, James Lewis, Louis James_]
I remained silent, and there I was wrong; for Lewis, knowing me well,
knew my habit of extravagant speech, and instantly his blue pop eyes
were upon my miserable face, with suspicion sticking straight out of
them. With trembling hand I made my move at chess, saying, "Queen to
Queens rook four," and he added in aside, "Seems to me you're mighty
quiet about this scent; I hope you ain't going to tell me you can't
smell it?"
But the assurance that "I did--oh, I did, indeed! smell a most
outrageous odour," came so swiftly, so convincingly from my lips, that
his suspicions were lulled to rest.
The last act came, and--and--well, as I said, it was the last act. White
and rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage,--Louis James at
the shoulders and George Clarke at the feet. Their heads were bent over
me. James was nearest to the storm centre. Suddenly he gasped, then as
we reached the centre of the stage Clarke gave vent to "phew!" They
gently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and of
the characters I heard from James the unfinished, half-doubting
sentence, "Well, I believe in my soul it's--" But the mother (Miss
Morant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called for
help, for a physician; then with the wild cry, "She is dead! she is
dead!" flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon my
goose-grease breast. Scarcely had she touched me, however, when with a
gasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, "It's
you, you wretch! it's _you_!" and then under cover of other people's
speeches, I being dead and helpless, Clarke stood at my head and James
at my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mocking
at me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of lime
and such like disinfectants.
They would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had I not
after the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, "I am so
sorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but,
boys, just think of me, I can't get away from myself and my goose-grease
smell a single moment, and it's perfectly awful!"
"You bet it is!" they all answered, as with one voice, and they were
merciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter
(who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of the
scenes for the cause of the offensive odour. Perhaps I may add that
goose grease does not figure in my list of "household remedies."
But the next week I was able, in a measure at least, to heal their
wounded feelings. Actresses used to receive a good many little gifts
from admirers in the audience. They generally took the form of flowers
or candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, or
an ornament for the dressing-table; but Alixe's altar could boast an
entirely new votive offering. I received a letter and a box. The letter
was an outburst of admiration for Alixe, the "lily maid the tender, the
poetical," etc. The writer then went on to tell me how she had yearned
to express to me her feelings; how she had consulted her husband on the
matter, and how he had said certainly to write if she wished, and send
some little offering, which seemed appropriate, and "therefore she sent
_this_"; and with visions of a copy of Keats or Shelley or a
lace-trimmed pin-cushion, I opened the box and found the biggest mince
pie I ever saw.
Certainly the lady's idea of an appropriate gift was open to criticism,
but not so her pie. That was rich perfection. Its fruity, spicy interior
was evenly warmed with an evident old French brandy,--no savagely
burning cooking brandy, mind,--and when the flaky marvel had stood upon
the heater for a time, even before its cutting up with a paper-knife,
the odour of goose grease was lost in the "Araby the Blest" scent of
mince meat.
_CHAPTER X