The Season Reopens--I meet the Yellow Breeches and become a Utility
Man--Mr. Murdock Escapes Fits and my "Luck" Proves to be Extra Work.
The exuberance of my joy over the opening of the new season was somewhat
modified by my close relations with a certain pair of knee-breeches--and
I wish to say right here that when Gail Hamilton declared inanimate
things were endowed with powers of malice and general mischievousness,
she was not exaggerating, but speaking strictly by the card.
Some men think her charge was made solely against collar-buttons, whose
conduct the world admits is detrimental to good morals; but they are
wrong; she included many things in her charge. Consider the
innocent-looking rocking-chair, for instance. When it strikes does not
the rocker always find your ankle-joint? In darkness or in light did it
ever miss that exact spot? Never! And then how gently it will sway, while
you rear and stamp, and, with briny eyes, say--well, things you should
not say, things you would not say but for the malice of an inanimate
thing.
Perhaps the quickest way to win your sympathy is to tell you at once that
those knee-breeches were made of yellow plush, bright yellow--I thought
that would move you! There was a coat, too--yes, things can always be
worse, you see; and when I was crowded into that awful livery I felt like
hopping about in a search for hemp-seed, I looked so like an enormous
canary that had outgrown its cage.
Had Gail Hamilton known those breeches she would have said: "Here is
total depravity in yellow plush!"
You see, the way they got their grip on me originally was this. There had
been two utility men engaged for the company, but one of them was taken
sick and could not come to the city at all, and the other one made the
manager sick, and was discharged for utter incompetency, and that very
night there was required a male servant who could in the first act summon
the star to the presence of his employer, with a name hard to pronounce;
and in the last act, when the star had become the boss of the whole
affair, could announce the coming of his carriage.
"Could I do those two lines?"
"Oh, yes!" I joyfully announced my ability and my willingness; "but I had
no clothes."
And then, instead of turning the part into a girl attendant, in an evil
moment the manager bethought himself of some wardrobe he had purchased
from a broken up or down opera manager, and search discovered the
yellow-plush breeches, coat, and white wig. I put them on--the canary was
hatched!
I played the part of two announcements; I walked out clear from the hip,
like a boy--and I became the utility man of the company, and the
tormented victim of the yellow breeches.
I was a patient young person and willing to endure much for art's sake,
but that wig was too much. Built of white horse-hair mounted upon linen,
its heat and weight were fearful. It had evidently been constructed for a
big, round, perfectly bumpless head. It came down to my very eyebrows on
top, and at the sides, instead of terminating just at the hair-line above
the ear, it swallowed up my ears, covered my temples, and extended clear
to my eyes, giving me the appearance of being harnessed up in large white
blinders--like a shying horse. In common humanity the manager released me
from the wig and let me wear powder, but the clutch of the yellow
breeches remained unbroken.
As in their opera days (I don't know what they sang, but they were
probably in the chorus) they had wandered through the world, knowing all
continental Europe and the South Americas, so now they wandered through
dramatic literature. One night accompanying me on to deliver a note to
Madame de Pompadour, the next night those same yellow breeches and I
skipped back to Louis XIV., and admitted many lords and ladies, with
tongue-tying names, to that monarch's presence, only to skip forward
again, in a few days, to bring in mail-bags to snuffy rural gentry, under
almost any of the Georges. Though the lace ruffles and jabots of the
French period might give place to a plain red waistcoat for the Georgian
English household, the canary breeches were always there, ready to burst
into song at any moment, to basely fire off a button or break a buckle
just at the moment of my entrance-cue, treacherously suggesting, by their
easy wrinkling while I stood, that I might just as well sit down and rest
my tired feet, and the moment I attempted to lower myself to a chair,
beginning such a mad cracking and snapping in every seam as brought me
upright with a bound and the settled conviction that weariness was
preferable to public shame.
I am glad to this day that the stage-door was always kept locked, for,
had it been open, heaven only knows where those cosmopolitan breeches
might have taken me--they were such experienced travellers that a trip to
Havana or to the City of Mexico would have struck them as a nice little
jaunt.
My pleasantest moments as utility man came to me when, in a very brief
white cotton Roman shirt and sandals, I led the shouts for the _supers_,
who are proverbially dumb creatures before the audience, though noisy
enough behind the scenes. So all the furious and destructive mobs of that
season were led on by a little whipper-snapper who yelled like a demon
with a copper-lined throat and then stood about afterward peacefully
making tatting.
It must not be thought that I had in the first place a monopoly of the
small parts; far from it, but the company being rather short of utility
people, if the ballet-girls could play speaking servants, it not only
saved a salary or two to the manager, but it was of immense advantage to
the girls themselves. Then, too, Mr. Ellsler was particularly anxious to
avoid any charge of favoritism; so in the earliest days these little
parts were given out turn and turn about, without choice or
favor--indeed, two or three times my short dress caused me to be passed
over in favor of long dresses and done-up hair. But a few disasters,
caused by failure of memory or loss of nerve on the part of these
competitors, gave the _pas_ to me, and it must be remembered that these
lapses and mishaps, though amusing to recall, were absolutely disastrous
at the time, ruining, as they did, the scene, if not the entire act, in
which they occurred.
With special vividness I recall the first one of these happenings. "Romeo
and Juliet" was the play, and _Balthazar_ the part. I longed for it
because, aside from his fine speech, he was really quite important and
had to show tenderness, anxiety, and determination during the time
_Romeo_ addressed him. I pleaded with my eyes, but I could not, dared not
speak up and ask for the part, as did Annie, who was older than I. The
star and prompter exchanged a few low-spoken sentences. I caught the
condemnatory word "child," and knew my fate was sealed--long skirts and
turned-up hair had won. However, my wound was salved when the page to
_Paris_ was given me with two lines to speak.
Now there is no one but _Romeo_ on the stage when _Balthazar_ enters,
which, of course, gives him great prominence. His first speech, of some
fifty or fifty-six words, is simply expressed, not at all involved, yet
from the moment Annie received the part she became a broken,
terror-stricken creature. Many people when nervous bite their nails, but
Annie, in that state of mind, had a funny habit of putting her hand to
the nape of her neck and rubbing her hair upward. She had a pretty dress
of her own, but she had to borrow a wig, and, like all borrowed wigs, it
failed to fit; it was too small, and at last, when the best had been
done, its wobbly insecurity must have been terrifying.
The girl's figure was charming, and as she stood in the entrance in her
boy's costume, I remarked: "You look lovely, Annie!"
Silently she turned her glassy, unseeing eyes toward me, while she
shifted her weight swiftly from one foot to the other, opening and
shutting her hands spasmodically. _Romeo_ was on, and he joyously
declared:
"My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne!"
He then described his happy dream--I heard the words:
"When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!"
And there Annie staggered forward on to the stage.
"News from Verona!" cried _Romeo_: "How now, Balthazar?"
Oh, well might he ask "How now?" for, shifting from foot to foot, this
stricken _Balthazar_ was already feeling at the nape of her neck, and
instead of answering the questions of _Romeo_ about _Juliet_ with the
words:
"Then she is well, and nothing can be ill,
Her body sleeps in Capets' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives;
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir,"
these were the startling statements he made in gulps and gasps:
"O-Oh, y-yes! Sh-e's very well--and nothing's wrong;
[titter from audience, and amazement on _Romeo's_ face]
H-her immortal parts are in a vault,
I--I saw them laid there, and come to tell you!"
Perhaps she would have got to the right words at last, but just there the
wig, pushed too hard, lurched over on one side, giving such a piratical
look to the troubled face that a very gale of laughter filled the house,
and she retired then and there, though in the next speech she should have
refused to leave _Romeo_:
"Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus:
Your looks are pale and wild,"
yet now, because his looks were red and wild, she left without
permission, and the enraged instead of grieving _Romeo_ had no one to
receive his order:
"----get me ink and paper,
And hire post horses."
So when, in his confusion, he went on continuing his lines as they were
written, and, addressing empty space, fiercely bade _Balthazar_:
"----get thee gone!"
and in unintentionally suggestive tones promised:
"----I'll be with thee straight!"
the audience laughed openly and heartily at the star himself.
"Yes, sir," he snorted later on to Mr. Ellsler, "by heaven, sir! they
laughed at me--AT ME! I have been made ridiculous by your measly little
_Balthazar_--who should have been a man, sir! Yes, sir, a man, whom I
could have chastised for making a fool of himself, sir! and a d----d
fool of me, sir!"
For the real tragedy of that night lay in the wound given to the dignity
of Mr. F. B. Conway, who played a measured and stately _Romeo_ to the
handsome and mature _Juliet_ of his wife.
We had no young _Juliets_ just then, they were all rather advanced,
rather settled in character for the reckless child of Verona. But every
lady who played the part declared at rehearsal that Shakespeare had been
foolish to make _Juliet_ so young--that no woman had learned enough to
understand and play her before middle age at least.
Mrs. Bradshaw, one day, said laughingly to me: "By your looks you seemed
to disagree with Mrs. Ellsler's remarks this morning. She, too, thinks a
woman is not fit for _Juliet_ until she has learned much of nature and
the world."
"But," I objected, lamely, "while they are learning so much about the
world they are forgetting such a lot about girlhood!"
Her laughter confused and distressed me. "I can't say it!" I cried, "but
you know how very forward _Juliet_ is in speech? If she _knew_, that
would become brazen boldness! It isn't what she _knows_, but what she
_feels_ without knowing that makes the tragedy!" And what Mrs. Bradshaw
meant by muttering, "Babes and sucklings--from the mouths of babes and
sucklings," I could not make out; perhaps, however, I should say that my
mate Annie played few blankverse parts after _Balthazar_.
Then, one Saturday night, we were all corralled by the prompter before we
could depart for home, and were gravely addressed by the manager--the
whole thing being ludicrously suggestive of the reading of the riot act;
but after reminding us that Mr. James E. Murdoch would begin his
engagement on Monday night, that the rehearsals would be long and
important, he proceeded to poison the very source of our Sunday's rest
and comfort by fell suggestions of some dire mishap threatening the
gentleman through us. We exchanged wondering and troubled glances. What
could this mean?
Mr. Ellsler went on: "You all know how precise Mr. Murdoch has always
been about your readings; how exacting about where you should stand at
this word or at that; how quickly his impatience of stupidity has burst
into anger; but you probably do not know that since his serious sickness
he is more exacting than ever, and has acquired the habit, when much
annoyed, of--of--er--well, of having a fit."
"O-h!" it was unanimous, the groan that broke from our oppressed chests.
Stars who _gave us_ fits we were used to, but the star who went into fits
himself--good heavens! good heavens!
Rather anxiously, Mr. Ellsler continued: "These fits, for all I know, may
spell apoplexy--anyway, he is too frail a man to safely indulge in them;
so, for heaven's sake, do nothing to cross him; be on time, be
perfect--dead letter-perfect in your parts; write out all his directions
if necessary; grin and bear anything, so long as he doesn't have a fit!
Good-night."
The riot act had been read, the mob dispersed, but the nerve of the most
experienced was shaken by the prospect of acting a whole week with a
gentleman who, at any moment, might get mad enough to have a fit.
Think, then, what must have been the state of mind of my other
ballet-mate, Hattie, who, in her regular turn, had received a small part,
but of real importance, and who had to address her lines to Mr. Murdoch
himself. Poor girl, always nervous, this new terror made her doubly so.
She roused the star's wrath, even at rehearsal.
"Speak louder!" (imperatively). "_Will_ you speak louder?" (furiously).
"Perhaps, in the interest of those who will be in front to-night, I may
suggest that you speak loud enough to be heard by--say--the first row!"
(satirically). Now a calmly controlled body is generally the property of
a trained actress, not of a raw ballet-girl, and Hattie's restless
shifting about and wriggling drove him into such a rage that, to the
rest of us, he seemed to be trembling with inchoate fits, and I saw the
property man get his hat and take his stand by the stage-door, ready to
fly for the doctor, or, as he called him, "the fit sharp."
She, too, was to appear as a page. She was to enter hurriedly--always a
difficult thing for a beginner to do. She was to address Mr. Murdoch in
blank verse--a _more_ difficult thing--and implore him to come swiftly to
prevent bloodshed, as a hostile meeting was taking place between young
Count So-and-so and "your nephew, sir!"
This news was to shock the uncle so that he would stand dazed for a
moment, when the page, looking off the stage, should cry:
"Ah, you are too late, sir, already their blades are out!
See how the foils writhe," etc.
With a cry, the uncle should recover himself, and furiously order the
page to
"----call the watch!"
Alas! and alas! when the night, the play, the act, the cue came, Hattie,
as handsome a boy as you could wish to see, went bravely on, as quickly,
too, as her terror-chilled legs could carry her, but when she got there
had no word to say--no, not one!
In a sort of icy rage, Mr. Murdoch gave her her line, speaking very low,
of course:
"My lord--my lord! I do beseech you haste,
Else here is murder done!"
But the poor girl, past prompting properly, only caught wildly at the
_sense_ of the speech, and gasped out:
"Come on, quick!"
She saw his foot tapping with rage--thought his fits might begin that
way, and madly cried, at the top of her voice:
"Be quick--see--see! publicly they cross their _financiers_!"
then, through the laughter, rushed from the stage, crying, with streaming
tears: "I don't care if he has a dozen fits! He has just scared the words
out of my head with them!"
And truly, when Mr. Murdoch, trembling with weakness, excitement, and
anger, staggered backward, clasping his brow, everyone thought the
dreaded fit had arrived.
Next day he reproachfully informed Mr. Ellsler that he could not yet see
blank verse and the King's English (so he termed it) murdered without
suffering physically as well as mentally from the shocking spectacle.
That he was an old man now, and should not be exposed to such tests of
temper.
Yes, as he spoke, he was an old man--pallid, lined, weary-faced; but that
same night he was young _Mirabel_--in spirit, voice, eye, and movement.
Fluttering through the play, "Wine Works Wonders," in his satins and his
laces--young to the heart--young with the immortal youth of the true
artist.
Both these girls spoke plain prose well enough, and always had their
share of the parts in modern plays; but, as all was grist to my
individual mill, most of the blankverse and Shakespearean small
characters came to me. Nor was I the lucky girl they believed me; there
was no luck about it. My small success can be explained in two
words--extra work. When they studied their parts they were contented if
they could repeat their lines perfectly in the quiet of their rooms, and
made no allowance for possible accidents or annoyances with power to
confuse the mind and so cause loss of memory and ensuing shame. But I was
a careful young person, and would not trust even my own memory without
first taking every possible precaution. Therefore the repeating of my
lines correctly in my room was but the beginning of my study of them. In
crossing the crowded street I suddenly demanded of myself my lines. At
the table, when all were chatting, I again made sudden demand for the
same. If on either occasion my heart gave a jump and my memory failed to
present the exact word, I knew I was not yet perfect, and I would repeat
those lines until, had the very roof blown off the theatre at night, I
should not have missed one. Then only could I turn my attention to the
acting of them--oh, bless you, yes! I quite thought I was acting, and at
all events I was doing the next best thing, which was trying to act.
But a change was coming to me, an experience was approaching which I
cannot explain to myself, neither has anyone else explained it for me;
but I mention it because it made such a different thing of dramatic life
for me. Aye, such a difficult thing as well. Looking back to that time I
see that all my childhood, all my youth, was crowded into that first year
on the stage. There I first knew liberty of speech, freedom of motion.
There I shared in the general brightness and seemed to live by right
divine, not by the grudging permission of some task-mistress of my
mother. I had had no youth before, for in what should have been babyhood
I had been a troubled little woman, most wise in misery. In freedom my
crushed spirits rose with a bound. The mimicry, the adaptability of
childhood asserted themselves--I pranced about the stage happily but
thoughtlessly.
It seems to me I was like a blind puppy, born into warmth and comfort and
enjoying both, without any fear of the things it could not see. As I have
said before, I knew no fear, I had no ambition, I was just happy, blindly
happy; and now, all suddenly, I was to exchange this freedom of
unconsciousness for the slavery of consciousness.