Mr. R. E. J. Miles--His two Horses, and our Woful Experience with the
Substitute "Wild Horse of Tartary."
But there, just as I start to speak of my third season, I seem to look
into a pair of big, mild eyes that say: "Can it be that you mean to pass
me by? Do you forget that 'twas I who turned the great sensation scene of
a play into a side-splitting farce?" And I shake my head and answer,
truthfully: "I cannot forget, I shall never forget your work that night
in Columbus, when you appeared as the 'fiery, untamed steed' (may Heaven
forgive you) in 'Mazeppa.'"
Mr. Robert E. J. Miles, or "All the Alphabet Miles," as he was frequently
called, was starring at that time in the Horse Drama, doing such plays as
"The Cataract of the Ganges," "Mazeppa," "Sixteen-String Jack," etc.
"Mazeppa" was the favorite in Columbus, and both the star and manager
regretted they had billed the other plays in advance, as there would have
been more money in "Mazeppa" alone. Mr. Miles carried with him two
horses; the one for the "Wild Horse of Tartary" was an exquisitely
formed, satin-coated creature, who looked wickedly at you from the tail
of her blazing eye, who bared her teeth savagely, and struck out with her
fore-feet, as well as lashed out with the hind ones. When she came
rearing, plunging, biting, snapping, whirling, and kicking her way on to
the stage, the scarlet lining of her dilating nostrils and the foam
flying from her mouth made our screams very natural ones, and the women
in front used to huddle close to their companions, or even cover their
faces.
One creature only did this beautiful vixen love--R. E. J. Miles. She
fawned upon him like a dog; she did tricks like a dog for him, but she
was a terror to the rest of mankind, and really it was a thrilling scene
when _Mazeppa_ was stripped and bound, his head tail-ward, his feet
mane-ward, to the back of that maddened beast. She seemed to bite and
tear at him, and when set free she stood straight up for a dreadful
moment, in which she really endangered his life, then, with a wild neigh,
she tore up the "runs," as if fiends pursued her, with the man stretched
helplessly along her inky back. The curtain used to go up again and
again--it was so very effective.
For a horse to get from the level stage clear above the "flies," under
the very roof, the platforms or runs he mounts on have to zig-zag across
the mountain background.
At each angle, out of sight of the audience, there is a railed platform,
large enough for the horse to turn upon and make the next upward rush.
The other horse travelling with Mr. Miles was an entirely different
proposition. He would have been described, according to the State he
happened to be in, as a pie-bald, a skew-bald, a pinto, or a calico
horse. He was very large, mostly of a satiny white, with big, absurdly
shaped markings of bright bay. He was one of the breed of horses that in
livery stables are always known as "Doctor" or "Judge." Benevolence
beamed from his large, clear eyes, and he looked so mildly wise, one half
expected to see him put on spectacles. The boy at the stable said one
day, as he fed him: "I wouldn't wunder if this ol' parson of 'er a hoss
asked a blessin' on them there oats--I wouldn't!"
I don't know whether old Bob--as he was called--had any speed or not, but
if he had it was useless to him, for, alas! he was never allowed to reach
the goal under any circumstances. He was always ridden by the villain,
and therefore had to be overtaken, and besides that he generally had to
carry double, as the desperado usually fled holding the fainting heroine
before him. Though old Bob successfully leaped chasms thus heavily
handicapped--for truly he was a mighty jumper--nevertheless he was
compelled to accept defeat, as Mr. Miles always came rushing up on the
black horse to the rescue. He was very lucky indeed, if he didn't have to
roll about and die, and he was a very impatient dead horse, often amusing
the audience by lifting his head to see if the curtain was not down yet,
and then dropping dead again with a sigh the whole house could hear.
By the way, "the house" is a theatrical term, meaning, on an actor's
lips, "the audience." "The house did thus or so," "the house is behaving
beautifully," "it's the most refined house you ever saw," "what a cold
house"; and so on. I have but rarely heard either actor or actress refer
to the "audience"--and after steadily using any term for years it is very
hard to lay it aside, and I shall long remember the grim moment that
followed on my remarking to my rector, "What a good house you had
yesterday--it must have been a pleasure to pla--to, to--er, er, to
address such an audi--er, that is, I mean congregation!" There was a
moment of icy silence, then, being a human being as well as a wearer of
the priestly collar, he set back his head and laughed a laugh that was
good to hear.
Anyway, being continually pushed back into second place and compelled to
listen to the unearned applause bestowed upon the beautiful black seemed
to rob old Bob of all ambition professionally, and he simply became a
_gourmet_ and a glutton. He lived to eat. A woman in his eyes was a sort
of perambulating store-house of cake, crackers, apples, sugar, etc.; only
his love for children was disinterested. The moment he was loose he went
off in search for children, no matter whose, so long as he found some;
then down he would go on his knees, and wait to be pulled and patted. His
silvery tail provided hundreds of horse-hair rings--and his habit of
gathering very small people up by their back breadths and carrying them a
little way before dropping them, only filled the air with wild shrieks of
laughter. In the theatre he walked sedately about before rehearsal began,
and though we knew his attentions were entirely selfish, he was so
urbane, so complaisant in his manner of going through us, that we could
not resist his advances, and each day and night we packed our pockets and
our muffs with such provender as women seldom carry about in their
clothes. All our gloves smelled as though we worked at a cider-mill.
While the play was going on old Bob spent a great part of his time
standing on the first of those railed platforms, and as he was on the
same side of the stage that the ladies' dressing-rooms were on, everyone
of us had to pass him on our way to dress, and he demanded toll of all.
Fruits, domestic or foreign, were received with gentle eagerness. Cake,
crackers, and sugar, the velvety nose snuffed at them approvingly, and if
a girl, believing herself late, tried to pass him swiftly by, his look of
amazement was comical to behold, and in an instant his iron-shod foot was
playing a veritable devil's tattoo on the resounding board platform, and
if that failed to win attention, following her with his eyes, he lifted
up his voice in a full-chested "neigh--hay--hay--_ha-ay_!" that brought
her back in a hurry with her toll of sugar. And that pie-bald hypocrite
would scrunch it with such a piteously ravenous air that the girl quite
forgot the basilisk glare and satirical words the landlady directed
against her recently-acquired sweet-tooth. My own landlady had, as early
as Wednesday, covered the sugar-bowl and locked the pantry, but she left
the salt-bag open, and I took on a full cargo of it twice a day, and old
Bob showed such an absolute carnality of enjoyment in the eating of it
that Mr. Miles became convinced that it had long been denied to him at
the stables.
Then, late in the week, there came that dreadful night of disaster. I
don't recall the name of the play, but in that one piece the beautiful,
high-spirited black mare had to carry double up the runs. John Carroll
and Miss Lucy Cutler were the riders. Mr. Carroll claimed he could ride a
little, and though he was afraid he was ashamed to say so. Mr. Miles said
in the morning: "Now, if you are the least bit timid, Mr. Carroll, say
so, and I will fasten the bridle-reins to the saddle-pommel and the Queen
will carry you up as true as a die and as safe as a rock of her own
accord; but if you are going to hold the bridle, for God's sake be
careful! If it was old Bob, you could saw him as much as you liked and he
would pay no attention, and hug the run for dear life; but the Queen, who
has a tender mouth, is besides half mad with excitement at night, and a
very slight pressure on the wrong rein will mean a forty or fifty-foot
fall for you all!"
Miss Cutler expressed great fear, when Mr. Miles, surprisedly, said:
"Why, you have ridden with me twice this week without a sign of fear?"
"Oh, yes," she answered, "but _you_ know what you are doing--you are a
horseman."
It was an unfortunate speech, and in face of it Mr. Carroll's vanity
would not allow him to admit his anxiety. "He could ride well enough--and
he would handle the reins himself," he declared.
During the day his fears grew upon him. Foolishly and wickedly he
resorted to spirits to try to build up some Dutch courage; and then, when
the scene came on, half blind with fear and the liquor, which he was not
used to, as he felt the fierce creature beneath them rushing furiously up
the steep incline, a sort of madness came upon him. Without rhyme or
reason he pulled desperately at the nigh rein and in the same breath
their three bodies were hurling downward, like thunderbolts.
It was an awful sight! I looked at them as they descended, and for the
fraction of a second they seemed to be suspended in the air. They were
all upside down. They all, without turning or twisting, fell straight as
plummets--the horse, the same as the man and woman, had its feet straight
in the air. Ugh! the striking--ugh!--never mind details! The curtain had
been rushed down. Miss Cutler had been picked up, dazed, stunned, but
without a mark. Mr. Carroll had crept away unaided amid the confusion,
the sorrow, and tears, for the splendid Queen was doomed and done for!
Though Mr. Miles had risked his own life in an awful leap to save her
from falling through a trap, he could not save her life, and the almost
human groan with which she dropped her lovely head upon her master's
shoulder, and his streaming eyes as he tenderly wiped the blood from her
velvety nostrils, made even the scene-shifters rub their eyes upon the
backs of their hands. While the Queen was half carried and half crept to
the fire-engine house next door (her stable was so far away), someone was
going before the curtain, assuring the audience that the accident was
very slight, and the lady and gentleman would both be before them
presently, and the audience applauded in a rather doubtful manner, for
several ladies had fainted, and the carrying out of a helpless person
from a place of amusement always has a depressing effect upon the
lookers-on. Meantime Mr. Carroll was getting his wrist bandaged and a cut
on his face strapped up, while a basket of sawdust was hurriedly procured
that certain cruel stains might be concealed. The orchestra played
briskly and the play went on. That's the one thing we can be sure of in
this world--that the play will go on. That night, late, the beautiful
Queen died with her head resting on her master's knee.
Now "Mazeppa" was billed for the next night, and there were many
consultations held in the office and on the stage. "The wild horse of
Tartary" was gone. It was impossible to find a new horse in one day.
"Change the bill!" said Mr. Miles.
"And have an empty house," answered Mr. Ellsler.
"But what can I do for a horse?" asked R. E. J. M.
"Use old Bob," answered Mr. Ellsler.
"Good Lord!" groaned Bob's master. They argued long, but neither wanted
to lose the good house, so the bill was allowed to stand, and "Mazeppa"
was performed with old white Bob as the "Wild Horse of Tartary." Think of
it, that ingratiating old Bob! That follower of women and playmate of
children! Why, even the great bay blotches on his white old hide made one
think of the circus, paper hoops, and _training_, rather than of
wildness. Meaning to make him at least impatient and restless, he had
been deprived of his supper, and the result was a settled gloom, an air
of melancholy that made Mr. Miles swear under his breath every time he
looked at him. There was a ring, known I believe as a Spanish ring, made
with a sharp little spike attachment, and used sometimes by circus-men to
stir up horses to a show of violence or of high spirits, and when a whip
was not permissible. It could be resorted to without arousing any
suspicion of cruelty, since the spike was on the under side and so out of
sight. The man with the ring on his finger would stand by a horse, and
resting his hand on the animal's neck, just at the most sensitive spot of
his whole anatomy--the root or end of his mane--would close the hand
suddenly, thus driving the spike into the flesh. It must have caused
exquisite pain, and naturally the tormented animal rears and plunges.
Sometimes they get effect enough by pricking the creatures on the
shoulder only. On that night, Mr. Miles, after gazing at the mild and
melancholy features of his new "Wild Horse of Tartary," went to his room
and dug up from some trunk a Spanish ring. Calling one of the men who
used to be dragged and thrashed about the stage by the black wild horse,
he explained to him its use, ending with: "I hate to hurt the old fellow,
so try him on the shoulder first, and if he dances about pretty lively,
as I think he will, you need not prick his mane at all."
The play moved along nicely, the house was large, and seemed pleased.
_Mazeppa_ fell into his enemy's hands, the sentence was pronounced, and
the order followed: "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!"
The women began to draw close to their escorts; many of them remembered
the biting, kicking entrance of the black, and were frightened
beforehand. The orchestra responded with incidental creepy music,
but--that was all. Over in the entrance, old Bob, surrounded by the four
men who were supposed to restrain him, stood calmly. But those who sat in
the left box heard "get-ups!" and "go-ons!" and the cluckings of many
tongues. The mighty Khan of Tartary (who could not see that entrance)
thought he had not been heard, and roared again: "Bring forth the fiery,
untamed steed!" Another pause, the house tittered, then some one hit old
Bob a crack across the rump with a whip, at which he gave a switch of his
tail and gently ambled on the stage, stopping of his own accord at
centre, and, lowering his head, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the
leader of the orchestra, precisely as a dog sniffs at a stranger. It was
deliciously ridiculous. We girls were supposed to scream with terror at
the "wild horse," and, alas! we were only too obedient, crowding down at
right, clinging together in attitudes of extremest fright, we shrieked
and screeched until old Bob cocked up his ears and looked so astonished
at our conduct that the audience simply rocked back and forth with
laughter, and all the time _Mazeppa_ was saying things that did not seem
to be like prayers. Finally he gave orders for the men to surround Bob,
which they did, and then the ring was used--the ring that was to make him
dance about pretty lively. It pricked him on the shoulder, and the "wild
horse" stood and switched his tail. It pricked him again--he switched his
tail again. The men had by that time grown careless, and when the ring
was finally used at his mane, he suddenly kicked one of them clear off
the stage, and then resumed his unruffled calm. The public thought it was
having fun all this time, but pretty soon it knew it. Nothing under
heaven could disturb the gentle serenity of that dog-like old horse. But
when _Mazeppa_ was brought forward to be bound upon his back, instead of
pulling away, rearing, and fighting against the burden, his one and only
quick movement was his violent effort to break away from his tormentors
to welcome _Mazeppa_ joyously.
"Oh!" groaned Miles, "kill him, somebody, before he kills me!"
While he was being bound on the wild horse's back, our instructions were
to scream, therefore we screamed as before, and being on the verge of
insanity, _Mazeppa_ lifted his head from the horse's back, and said: "Oh,
shut up--do!" The audience heard, and--well, it laughed some more, and
then it discovered, when the men sprang away and left the horse free to
dash madly up the mountain, that _Mazeppa_ had kept one foot unbound to
kick his horse with--and truly it did seem that the audience was going
into convulsions. Such laughter, pierced every now and then by the shrill
scream of hysteria. Then old Bob ambled up the first run all right, but,
alas! for poor _Mazeppa_, as he reached the first turn-table, a woman
passed on the way to her room, and hungry Bob instantly stopped to
negotiate a loan in sugar. Oh, it was dreadful, the wait, and when
finally he reappeared, trotting--yes, trotting up the next run, Mr.
Miles's foot could be plainly seen, kicking with the regularity of a
piston-rod, while his remarks were--well, they were irregular in the
extreme.
Of course the play was hopelessly ruined; the audience laughed at the
slightest mention of the "wild horse," and when, broken and exhausted,
the shepherds find them both lying at the foot of the mountain, the house
seemed to shake with laughter.
When the play was at last over, old white Bob walked over to his master
and mumbled his hand. Mr. Miles pushed him away with pretended anger,
crying: "You infernal old idiot, I'd sell you for a three-cent stamp with
gum on it!"
Bob looked hard at him a moment, then he calmly crossed behind him and
mumbled his other hand, and Mr. Miles pulled his ears, and said that "he
himself was the idiot for expecting an untrained, unrehearsed horse to
play such a part," and old Bob agreeing with him perfectly, they were, as
always, at peace with each other.