With Mr. Dan. Setchell I Win Applause--A Strange Experience Comes to
Me--I Know Both Fear and Ambition--The Actress is Born at Last
My manager considered me to have a real gift of comedy, and he several
times declared that my being a girl was a distinct loss to the profession
of a fine low comedian.
It was in playing a broad comedy bit that my odd experience came to me.
Mr. Dan. Setchell was the star. He was an extravagantly funny comedian,
and the laziest man I ever saw--too lazy even properly to rehearse his
most important scenes. He would sit on the prompt table--a table placed
near the footlights at rehearsal, holding the manuscript, writing
materials, etc., with a chair at either end, one for the star, the other
for the prompter or stage manager--and with his short legs dangling he
would doze a little through people's scenes, rousing himself reluctantly
for his own, but instead of rising, taking his place upon the stage, and
rehearsing properly, he would kick his legs back and forth, and, smiling
pleasantly, would lazily repeat his lines where he was, adding: "I'll be
on your right hand when I say that, Herbert. Oh, at your exit, Ellsler,
you'll leave me in the centre, but when you come back you'll find me down
left."
After telling James Lewis several times at what places he would find him
at night, Lewis remarked, in despair: "Well, God knows where you'll find
_me_ at night!"
"Oh, never mind, old man," answered the ever-smiling, steadily kicking
Setchell, "if you're there, all right; if you're not there, no matter!"
which was not exactly flattering.
Of course such rehearsals led to many errors at night, but Mr. Setchell
cleverly covered them up from the knowledge of the laughing audience.
It is hard to imagine that lazy, smiling presence in the midst of awful
disaster, but he was one of the victims of a dreadful shipwreck while
making the voyage to Australia. Bat-blind to the future, he at that time
laughed and comfortably shirked his work in the day-time, and made others
laugh when he did his work at night.
In one of his plays I did a small part with him--I was his wife, a former
old maid of crabbed temper. I had asked Mr. Ellsler to make up my face
for me as an old and ugly woman. I wore corkscrew side curls and an awful
wrapper. I was a fearful object, and when Mr. Setchell first saw me he
stood silent a moment, then, after rubbing his stomach hard, and
grimacing, he took both my hands, exclaiming: "Oh, you hideous jewel! you
positively gave me a cramp at just sight of you! Go in, little girl, for
all you're worth! and do just what you please--you deserve the liberty
for that make-up!"
And goodness knows I took him at his word, and did anything that came
into my giddy head. Even then I possessed that curious sixth sense of the
born actress, and as a doctor with the aid of his stethoscope can hear
sounds of grim warning or of kindly promise, while there is but the
silence to the stander-by, so an actress, with that stethoscopic sixth
sense, detects even the _forming_ emotions of her audience, feeling
incipient dissatisfaction before it becomes open disapproval, or
thrilling at the intense stillness that ever precedes a burst of
approbation.
And that night, meeting with a tiny mishap, which seemed to amuse the
audience, I seized upon it, elaborating it to its limit, and making it my
own, after the manner of an experienced actor.
There was no elegant comedy of manners in the scene, understand, it was
just the broadest farce, and it consisted of the desperate effort of a
hen-pecked husband to assert himself and grasp the reins of home
government, which resolved itself at last into a scolding-match, in
which each tried to talk the other down--with what result you will know
without the telling.
The stage was set for a morning-room, with a table in the centre, spread
with breakfast for two; a chair at either side and, as it happened, a
footstool by mine. His high silk hat and some papers, also, were upon the
table. For some unexplainable cause the silk hat has always been
recognized, both by auditor and actor, as a legitimate object of
fun-making, so when I, absent-mindedly, dropped all my toast-crusts into
that shining receptacle, the audience expressed its approval in laughter,
and so started me on my downward way, for that was my own idea and not a
rehearsed one. When my husband mournfully asked if "There was not even
one hot biscuit to be had?" I deliberately tried each one with the back
of my knuckles, and remarking, "Yes, here is just one," which was the
correct line in the play, I took it myself, which was not in the play,
and so went on till the scolding-match was reached.
In my first noisy speech I meant to stamp my foot, but by accident I
brought it down upon the footstool. The people laughed, I saw a point--I
lifted the other foot and stood upon the stool. By the twinkle in Mr.
Setchell's eye, as well as by the laughter in front, I knew I was on the
right track.
He roared--he lifted his arms above his head, and in my reply, as I
raised my voice, I mounted from the stool to the seat of the chair. He
seized his hat, and with the toast-crusts falling about his face and
ears, jammed it on his head, while in my last speech, with my voice at
its highest screech, I lifted my foot and firmly planted it upon the very
breakfast-table.
It was enough--the storm broke from laughter to applause. Mr. Setchell
had another speech--one of resigned acceptance of second place, but as
the applause continued, he knew it would be an anti-climax, and he
signalled the prompter to ring down the curtain.
But I--I knew he ought to speak. I was frightened, tears filled my eyes.
"What is it?" I whispered, as I started to get down.
"Stand still," he sharply answered, then added: "It's you, you funny
little idiot! you've made a hit--that's all!" and the curtain fell
between us and the laughing crowd in front.
The prompter started for me instantly from his corner, exclaiming, in his
anger: "Well, of all the cheeky devilment I ever heard or saw--" But Mr.
Setchell had him by the arm in a second, crying: "Hold on, old man! I
gave her leave--she had my permission! Oh, good Lord! did you see that
ascent of stool, chair, and table? eh? ha! ha! ha!"
I stood trembling like a jelly in a hot day. Mr. Setchell said: "Don't be
frightened, my girl! that applause was for you! You won't be fined or
scolded--you've made a hit, that's all!" and he patted me kindly on the
shoulder and broke again into fat laughter.
I went to my room, I sat down with my head in my hands. Great drops of
sweat came out on my temples. My hands were icy cold, my mouth was dry,
that applause rang in my ears. A cold terror seized upon me--a terror of
what, the public?
Ah, a tender mouth was bitted and bridled at last! the reins were in the
hands of the public, and it would drive me--where?
The public! the public! I had never feared it before, because I had never
realized its power. If I pleased, well and good. If I displeased it, I
should be driven forth from the dramatic Eden I loved, in which I hoped
to learn so many things theatrical and to become very wise, and I should
wander all my life in the stony places of poverty and disappointment! I
clenched my hands and writhed in misery at the thought. I seemed again to
hear that applause, which had been for me--my very self! and I thrilled
at its wild sweetness. Ah, the public! it could make or it could mar my
whole life. Mighty monster, without mercy! The great many-headed
creature, all jewelled over with fierce, bright eyes, with countless ears
a-strain for error of any kind! That beat the perfumed air with its
myriad hands when pleased--when pleased! A strange, great stillness
seemed to close about me; something murmured: "In the future, in the
_dim_ future, a woman may cause this many-headed monster you fear to
think as one mind, to feel as one heart! _Then_ the bit and bridle will
be changed--that woman will hold the reins and will drive the public!" At
which I broke into shrill laughter, in spite of flowing tears. Two women
came in, one said: "Why, what on earth's the matter? Have they blown you
up for your didoes to-night? What need you care, you pleased the
audience?" But another said, quietly: "Just get a glass of water for her,
she has a touch of hysteria--I wonder who caused it?"
But I only thought of that woman of the dim future, who was to conquer
the public--who was she?
Why that round of applause should have so shattered my happy confidence I
cannot understand, but the fact remains that from that night I never
faced a new audience, or attempted a new part, without suffering a
nervous terror that sometimes but narrowly escaped collapse.