The late John E. Owens, while acting in Cincinnati, had a severe cold.
He was feverish, and fearing for his throat, which was apt to give him
trouble, he had his physician, an old friend, come to see him back of
the scenes. The doctor brought with him an acquaintance, and Mr. Owens
asked them to wait till the next act was over to see how his throat was
going to behave.
It's always a dangerous thing to turn outsiders loose behind the
scenes; for if they don't fall into traps, or step into paint pots, they
are sure to pop on to the stage.
Mr. Owens supposed the gentlemen would stop quietly in his room, but not
they. Out they wandered on discovery intent. A well-painted scene caught
the doctor's eye. He led his friend up to it, to take a better look;
then as only part of it was visible from where they stood, they followed
it along.
Mr. Owens and I were on the stage. Suddenly his eyes distended. "What in
the devil?" he whispered. I looked behind me, and at the same moment the
audience burst into shouts of laughter; for right into the centre of the
stage had walked, with backs toward the audience, two tall gentlemen,
each with a shining bald head, each tightly buttoned in a long black
overcoat, and each gesticulating with a heavy cane.
I whispered to Mr. Owens, "The two Dromios"; but he snapped out, "Two
blind old bats."
When they heard the roar behind them, they turned their heads, and then
a funnier, wilder exit I never saw than was made by these two dignified
old gentlemen; while Owens added to the laughter by taking me by the
hand, and when we had assumed their exact attitude, singing "Two
wandering boys from Switzerland."
I am reminded that the first performance I ever saw in my life had one
of the most grotesque interruptions imaginable. At a sort of country
hotel much frequented by driving parties and sleighing parties, a
company of players were "strapped,"--to use the theatrical term,
stranded,--unable either to pay their bills or to move on. There was a
ballroom in the house, and the proprietor allowed them to erect a
temporary stage there and give a performance, the guests in the house
promising to attend in a body.
One of the plays was an old French farce, known to English audiences as
"The Hole in the Wall." The principal comedy part was a clerk to two
old misers, who starved him outrageously.
I was a little, stiffly starched person, and I remember that I sat on
some one's silk lap, and slipped and slipped, and was hitched up and
immediately slipped again until I wished I might fall off and be done
with it. Near me sat a little old maiden lady, who had come in from her
village shop to see "the show." She wore two small, sausage curls either
side of her wrinkled cheeks, large glasses, a broad lace collar, while
three members of her departed family gathered together in one fell group
on a mighty pin upon her tired chest. She held a small bag on her knee,
and from it she now and then slid a bit of cake which, as she nibbled
it, gave off a strong odour of caraway seed.
[Illustration: _John E. Owens_]
Now the actor was clever in his "make-up," and each time he appeared he
looked thinner than he had in the scene before. Instead of laughing,
however, the old woman took it seriously, and she had to wipe her
glasses with her carefully folded handkerchief several times before
that last scene, when she was quite overcome.
His catch phrase had been, "Oh! oh! how hungry I am!" and every time he
said it, she gave a little involuntary groan; but as he staggered on at
the last, thin as a bit of thread paper, hollow-cheeked, white-faced,
she indignantly exclaimed, "Well now, _that's_ a shame!"
The people laughed aloud; the comedian fixed his eyes upon her face, and
with hands pressed against his stomach groaned, "O-h! how hungry I am!"
and then she opened that bag and drew forth two long, twisted, fried
cakes, rose, stood on her tip-toes, and reaching them up to him
tearfully remarked:--
"Here, you poor soul, take these. They are awful dry; but it's all I've
got with me."
The audience fairly screamed; but poor and stranded as that company was,
the comedian was an artist, for he accepted the fried cakes, ate them
ravenously to the last crumb, and so kept well within the character he
was playing, without hurting the feelings of the kind-hearted, little
old woman.
It's pleasant to know that that clever bit of acting attracted the
attention and gained the interest of a well-to-do gentleman, who was
present, and who next day helped the actors on their way to the city.
A certain foreign actor once smilingly told me "I was a crank about my
American public." I took his little gibe in good part; for while he knew
foreign audiences, he certainly did _not_ know American ones as well as
I, who have faced them from ocean to ocean, from British Columbia to
Florida. Two characteristics they all share in common,--intelligence and
fairness,--otherwise they vary as widely, have as many marked
peculiarities, as would so many individuals. New York and Boston are
_the_ authorities this side of "the Great Divide," while San Francisco
sits in judgment by the blue Pacific.
One never-to-be-forgotten night I went to a fashionable theatre in New
York City to see a certain English actress make her début before an
American audience, which at that time was considered quite an
interesting event, since there were but one or two of her countrywomen
over here then. The house was very full; the people were of the
brightest and the "smartest." I sat in a stage box and noted their
eagerness, their smiling interest.
The curtain was up, there was a little dialogue, and then the stage door
opened. I dimly saw the actress spreading out her train ready to "come
on," the cue was given, a figure in pale blue and white appeared in the
doorway, stood for one single, flashing instant, then lurched forward,
and with a crash she measured her full length upon the floor.
The shocked "O-h-h" that escaped the audience might have come from one
pair of lips, so perfect was its spontaneity, and then dead and perfect
silence fell.
The actress lay near but one single piece of furniture (she was alone in
the scene, unfortunately), and that was one of those frail, useless,
gilded trifles known as reception chairs. She reached out her hand, and
lifting herself by that, had almost reached her knee, when the chair
tipped under her weight, and they both fell together.
It was awful. A deep groan burst from the people in the parquet. I saw
many women hide their eyes; men, with hands already raised to applaud,
kept the attitude rigidly, while their tight-pressed lips and frowning
brows showed an agony of sympathy. Then suddenly an arm was thrust
through the doorway; I knew it for the head carpenter's. Though in a
shirt sleeve, it was bare to the elbow, and not over clean, but strong
as a bough of living oak. She seized upon it and lifting herself, with
scarlet face and neck and breast, she stood once more upon her feet. And
then the storm broke loose; peal on peal of thunderous applause shook
the house. But four times in my life have I risked throwing flowers
myself; but that night mine were the first roses that fell at her feet.
She seemed dazed; quite distinctly I heard her say "off" to some one in
the entrance, "But what's the matter?"
At last she came forward. She was plump almost to stoutness, but she
moved most gracefully. Her bow was greeted with long-continued applause.
Sympathy, courtesy, encouragement, welcome--all were expressed in that
general and enthusiastic outburst.
"Why," said she after all was over, "at home they would have hissed me,
had that happened there."
"Oh!" exclaimed one who heard, "never; they could not be so cruel."
"Oh, yes," she answered, "_afterward_ they might have applauded, but
not at first. Surely they would have hissed me."
And with these words ringing in my ears, no wonder that, figuratively
speaking, I knelt at the feet of a New York audience and proudly kissed
its hand.
_CHAPTER XI