"Help! help, ho! help!"
ran off shouting,
"The Moor has killed my mistress!"
then, taking breath, gave the long-sustained, ever-rising, blood-curdling
cry:
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
One hand up, and one long clanging peal of a bell.
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
One hand up and bell.
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"
Both hands up, and pandemonium broken loose--and, oh, joy! the audience
applauding furiously.
"One--two--three--four," I counted with closed lips, then with a fresh
breath I burst upon the stage, followed by armed men, and with one last
long full-throated cry of "Murder! the Moor has killed my mistress!"
stood waiting for the applause to let me go on. A trick? yes, a small
trick--a mere pretence to more breath than I really had, but it aroused
the audience, it touched their imagination. They saw the horror-stricken
woman racing through the night--waking the empty streets to life by that
ever-thrilling cry of "Murder!" A trick if you like, but on the stage
"success" justifies the means, and that night, under cover of the
applause of the house, there came to me a soft clapping of hands and in
muffled tones the words: "Bravo--bravo!" from _Othello_.
When the curtain had fallen and Mr. Davenport had been before it, he
came to me and holding out his hands, said: "You splendid-lunged
creature--I want to apologize to you for the thoughts I harbored against
you this morning." I smiled and glanced uneasily at the clock--he went
on:
"I have always fancied my wife in _Emilia_, but, my girl, your readings
are absolutely new sometimes, and your strength is--what's the matter? a
farce yet? well, what of it? you, _you_ have to go on in a farce after
playing Shakespeare's _Emilia_ with E. L. Davenport? I'm damned if I
believe you!"
And I gathered up my cotton-velvet gown and hurried to my room to don
calico dress, white cap and apron, and then rush down to the
"property-room" for the perambulator I had to shove on, wondering what
the star would think if he knew that his _Emilia_ was merely walking on
in the farce of "Jones's Baby," without one line to speak, the second and
speaking nursemaid having very justly been given to one of the other
girls. But the needless sending of me on, right after the noble part of
_Emilia_, was evidently a sop thrown by my boldly independent manager to
his ballet--Cerberus.
Heretofore stars had advised or chided me privately, but, oh, dear, oh,
dear! next morning Mr. Davenport attacked Mr. Ellsler for
"mismanagement," as he termed it, right before everybody. Among other
things, he declared that it was a wound to his personal dignity as a star
to have a girl who had supported him, "not acceptably, but brilliantly,"
in a Shakespearian tragedy, sent on afterward in a vulgar farce. Then he
added: "Aside from artistic reasons and from justice to her--good Lord!
John, are you such a fool you don't understand her commercial value? Here
you have a girl, young and pretty" (always make allowances for the warmth
of argument), "with rare gifts and qualifications, who handles her
audience like a magician, and you cheapen her like this? Placing her in
the highest position only to cast her down again to the lowest. If she is
only fit for the ballet, you insult your public by offering her in a
leading part; if she's fit for the leading part, you insult her by
lowering her to the ballet; but anyway I'm damned if I ever saw a
merchant before who deliberately cheapened his own wares!"
If the floor could have opened I would have been its willing victim, and
I am sure if Mr. Davenport had known that I would have to pay for every
sharp word spoken, he would have restrained his too free speech for my
sake--even though he was never able to do so for his own.
And what a pity it was, for he not only often wounded his friends, but
worse still, he injured himself by flinging the most boomerang-like
speeches at the public whenever he felt it was not properly appreciating
him. He was wonderfully versatile, but though versatility is a requisite
for any really good actor, yet for some mysterious reason it never meets
with great success outside of a foreign theatre. The American public
demands specialists--one man to devote himself solely to tragedy, another
to romantic drama and duels, another to dress-suit satire. One woman to
tears, another to laughter, and woe betide the star who, able to act both
comedy and tragedy, ventures to do so; there will be no packed house to
bear witness to the appreciation felt for such skill and variety of
talent.
Mr. Davenport's vogue was probably waning when I first knew him. He had a
certain intellectual following who delighted in the beautiful precision
and distinctness of his reading of the royal Dane. He always seemed to me
a _Hamlet_ cut in crystal--so clear and pure, so cold and hard he was.
The tender heart, the dread imaginings, the wounded pride and love, the
fits and starts, the pain and passion that tortures _Hamlet_ each in
turn, were utterly incompatible with the fair, highbrowed, princely
philosopher Mr. Davenport presented to his followers. And after that
performance I think he was most proud of his "horn-pipe" in the play of
"Black-Eyed Susan"; and he danced it with a swiftness, a lightness, and a
limberness of joint that were truly astonishing in a man of his years.
Legend said that in London it had been a great "go," had drawn--oh,
fabulous shillings, not to mention pounds--but I never saw him play
_William_ to a good house, never--neither did I ever see the dance
_encored_. The people did not appreciate versatility, and one night,
while before the curtain in responding to a call, he began a bitter
tirade against the taste of the public--offering to stand there and count
how many there were in the house, and telling them that next week that
same house would not hold all who would wish to enter, for there would be
a banjo played by a woman, and such an intellectual treat was not often
to be had, but they must not spend all their money, he was even now
learning to swallow swords _and_ play the _banjo_; he was an old dog now,
but if they would have a little patience he would learn their favorite
tricks for them, even though he could not heartily congratulate them on
their intelligence, etc., etc. Oh, it was dreadful taste and so unjust,
too, to abuse those who were there for the fault of those who remained
away.
However, during the week's engagement of which I have been speaking, I
had two nights in the ballet, then again I was cast for an important
part. It was a white-letter day for me, professionally, for, thanks to
Mr. Davenport, I learned for the first time the immense value of
"business" alone, an action unsustained perhaps by a single word. I am
not positive, but I believe the play was "A Soldier of Fortune" or "The
Lion of St. Mark"--anyway it was a romantic drama. My part was not very
long, but it had one most important scene with the hero. It was one of
those parts that are talked about so much during the play that they gain
a sort of fictitious value. At rehearsal I could not help noticing how
fixedly Mr. Davenport kept gazing at me. His frown grew deeper and deeper
as I read my lines, and I was growing most desperately frightened, when
he suddenly exclaimed: "Wait a minute!" I stopped; he went on roughly,
still staring hard at me, "I don't know whether you are worth breaking a
vow for or not."
Naturally I had nothing to say. He walked up the stage; as he came down,
he said: "I've kept that promise for ten years, but you seem such an
honest little soul about your work--I've a good mind, yes, I have a
mind----"
He sat down on the edge of the prompt-table, and though he addressed
himself seemingly to me alone, the whole company were listening
attentively.
"When I first started out starring I honestly believed I had a mission to
teach other less experienced actors how to act. I had made a close study
of the plays I was to present, as well as of my own especial parts in
them, and I actually thought it was my duty to impart my knowledge to
those actors who were strange in them. Yes, that's the kind of a fool I
was. I used to explain and describe, and show how, and work and sweat,
and for my pains I received behind my back curses for keeping them so
long at rehearsals, and before my face stolid indifference or a thinly
veiled implication that I was grossly insulting them by my minute
directions. Both myself and my voice were pretty well used up before I
realized that my work had been wasted, my good intentions damned, that I
had not been the leaven that could lighten the lump of stupid
self-satisfaction we call the 'profession'; and I took solemn oath to
myself never again to volunteer any advice, any suggestion, any hint as
to reading, or business, or make-up to man or woman in any play of mine.
If they acted well, all right; if they acted ill, all right too. If I
found them infernal sticks, I'd leave them sticks. I'd demand just one
thing, my _cue_. As long as I got the word to speak on, all the rest
might go to the devil! Rehearsals shortened, actors had plenty of time
for beer and pretzels; and as I ceased to try to improve their work, they
soon called me a good fellow. And now you come along, willing to work,
knowing more than some of your elders, yet actually believing there is
still something for you to learn. Ambitious, keenly observant, you tempt
me to teach you some business for this part, and yet if I do I suppose
what goes in at one ear will go out of the other!"
Embarrassed silence on my part.
"Well," he went on, whimsically, "I see this is not your day for making
protestations, but I'm going to give you the business, and if you choose
to ignore it at night--why, that will serve me right for breaking my
promise."
"Mr. Davenport," I said, "I always try to remember what is told me, and I
don't see why I should not remember what you say; goodness knows you
speak plainly enough," at which, to my troubled surprise, everyone, star
and all, burst out laughing, but presently he returned to the play.
"See here," he said, "you, the adventuress, are worsted in this scene.
You sit at the table. I have forced you to sign this paper, yet you say
to me: 'You are a fool!' Now, how are you going to say it?"
"I don't know yet," I answered, "I have not heard the whole play
through."
"What's that got to do with it?" he asked, sharply.
"Why," I said, "I don't know the story--I don't know whether she is
really your enemy, or only injures you on impulse; whether she truly
loves anyone, or only makes believe love."
"Good!" he cried, "good! that is sound reasoning. Well, you _are_ my
enemy, you love no one, so you see your 'fool' is given with genuine
feeling. It's years since the line has drawn fire, but you do this
business, and see. You sit, I stand at the opposite side of the table.
You write your name--you are supposed to be crushed. I believe it and
tower triumphantly over you. The audience believes it too. Now you lay
down your pen--but carefully, mind you, carefully; then close the
inkstand, and with very evident caution place it out of danger of a fall.
Be sure you take your time, there are places where deliberation is as
effective as ever rush and hurry can be. Then with your cheek upon your
hand, or your chin on your clasped hands--any attitude you fancy will
do--look at me good and long, and _then_ speak your line. Have you
thought yet how to deliver it?"
"Well," I answered, hesitatingly, "to call you a fool in a colloquial
tone would make people laugh, I think, and--and the words don't fit a
declamatory style. I should think a rather low tone of sneering contempt
would be best," and he shouted loudly: "You've hit it square on the head!
Now let's see you do it to-night. Don't look so frightened, my girl, only
take your time, don't hurry. I've got to stand there till you speak, if
you take all night. Be deliberate; you see, you have played all the rest
so fiercely fast, the contrast will tell."
The night came. Cornered, check-mated, I slowly signed the paper, wiped
the pen, closed the inkstand, and set it aside. He stood like a statue.
The silence reached the house. I stretched out my arms and rested my
crossed hands lightly on the table. I met his glance a moment, then, with
a curling lip, let my eyes sweep slowly down length of body to boot-tip
and back again, rose slowly, made a little "pouf" with lips and wave of
hand, and contemptuously drawled: "My friend, you are a fool!" while,
swift and sharp, came the applause Mr. Davenport at least had
anticipated. The act ended almost immediately, and I hurried to him,
crying: "Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Davenport. I never, never could have
found applause in a speech like that."
"Ah, it was the business, child, not the speech. Always try to find good
business."
"Suit the action to the word?" I laughed.
"Yes," he answered, "and remember, Miss, actions speak louder than words,
too! But, my dear, it's a comfort to teach you anything; and when I saw
you trying so carefully to follow directions to-night, I swear I almost
prayed for the applause you were so honestly earning. You are a brick, my
girl! oh, I don't mean one of those measly little common building
bricks--I mean a great lovely Roman tile!"
And when, in God's good time, success came to me, as I entered the
green-room at the Fifth Avenue one evening, a tall man in a gray suit
released himself from a bevy of pretty women, and coming over to me, held
out his hands, saying: "Did I ever make any remarks to you about building
materials?" and, laughingly, I answered: "Yes, sir, you said something
about bricks some years ago."
And while I ran away to change, he called after me: "Say, 'Jones's Baby'
isn't on to-night, is it?" and immediately began to tell about _Emilia_,
and such is the power of imagination that he declared "She raged up and
down behind the scenes crying 'Murder,' till the very house broke loose,
and _right through all the pealing of the bells high and clear, you heard
her voice topping everything_!"
I was resting and getting breath while the bell clanged, remember, but so
much for human memory.
It is strange how often the merest accident or the utterance of a chance
word may harden wavering intentions into a fixed resolve. Though I am not
aggressive, there is in me a trace of bull-dog tenacity, made up of
patient endurance and sustained effort. Rather slow to move, when I am
aroused I simply _cannot_ let go my hold while breath is in me, unless I
have had my will, have attained my object.
Perhaps people may wonder why I retained my anomalous position in that
theatre--why I did not follow the advice of some of the lady stars, who
gave me a kindly thought and word now and then. And at the risk of giving
them a poor opinion of my wisdom, I present the reason that actuated me.
One day at rehearsal, while waiting for the stage to be reset, several of
the actresses gossiped about theatrical matters. One had a letter from a
friend who announced her advance to "first walking lady," which turned
the talk to promotion generally, and laughingly she asked me: "What line
of business shall you choose, Clara, when your turn comes?" but before I
could reply, the eldest woman present sneered: "Oh, she can save herself
the trouble of choosing; if she's ever advanced it will be in some other
city than this."
I was astonished; I had just made one of my small hits, and had a nice
little notice in the paper, but it did not occur to me that _envy_ could
sustain itself, keeping warm and strong and bitter on such slight
nourishment as that. And then, she of the letter, answered: "Why, Clara's
getting along faster than anyone else in the company, and I shall expect
to see her playing leading business before so very many seasons pass by."
"Leading business here?" cried the other, "I guess not!"
"Oh," laughed the first, "I see, you mean that Mrs. Ellsler will claim
the leading parts as long as she lives? Well, then, I shall expect to see
Clara playing the leading juveniles."
"Well, you go right on expecting, and your hair will be as gray as mine
is, when she gets into any line of business in this town!"
Unspeakably wounded, I asked, timidly: "But if I work hard and learn to
act well, can't I hold a position as well as anyone else?"
She looked contemptuously at me, and then answered: "No, you must be a
fool if you suppose that after standing about in the ballet for months on
end that Cleveland will ever accept you in a respectable line of
business. You've got to go to some other place, where you are not known,
and then come back as a stranger, if you want to be accepted here."
A dull anger began to burn in me--there was something so suggestive of
shame in the words, "Some other place, where you are not known." I had
nothing to hide. I could work, and by and by I should be able to act as
well as any of them--better perhaps. I felt my teeth come together with a
snap, the bull-dog instinct was aroused. I looked very steadily at the
sneering speaker and said: "I shall never leave this theatre till I am
leading woman." And they all laughed, but it was a promise, and all these
provoking years I was by way of keeping it. The undertaking was hard,
perhaps it was foolish, but of the group of women who laughed at me that
day every one of them lived to see my promise kept to the letter. When I
left Cleveland it was to go as leading woman to Cincinnati, one season
before I entered New York.
But after I had at last escaped the actual ballet, and was holding a
recognized position, I was still treated quite _en haut--en bas_ by the
management. Mr. and Mrs. Ellsler had acquired the old-shoe habit. I was
the easy old dramatic slipper, which it was pleasant to slip on so
easily, but doubly pleasant to be able to shake off without effort.
That you may thoroughly understand, I will explain that I was an
excellent _Amelia_ in "The Robbers" when a rather insignificant star
played the piece, but when a Booth or some star of like magnitude
appeared as _Charles de Moor_, then the easy slipper was dropped off, and
Mrs. Ellsler herself played _Amelia_. Any part belonging to me by right
could be claimed by that lady, if she fancied it, and if she wearied of
it, it came back to me. When we acted in the country in the summer-time,
at Akron or Canton, where there were real theatres, she played
_Parthenia_ or _Pauline_ in the "Lady of Lyons," or any other big part;
but if the next town was smaller, I played _Parthenia_ or _Pauline_ or
what not. Because I had once been in the ballet I had become an old pair
of dramatic slippers, to be slipped on or kicked off at will--rather
humiliating to the spirit, but excellent training for the growing
actress, and I learned much from these queer "now-you're-in-it and now
you're-not-in-it" sort of casts, and having much respect and admiration
for Mr. Ellsler, I fortunately followed in his wake, rather than in that
of any woman. He was one of the most versatile of actors. _Polonius_ or
_Dutchy_ (the opposite to Chanfrau's _Mose_), crying old men or broad
farce-comedy old men. Often he doubled _King Duncan_ and _Hecate_ in
"Macbeth," singing any of the witches when a more suitable _Hecate_ was
on hand--acquainted with the whole range of the "legitimate," his
greatest pleasure was in acting some "bit" that he could elaborate into a
valuable character. I remember the "switch-man" in "Under the
Gaslight"--it could not have been twenty lines long, yet he made of him
so cheery, so jolly, so kindly an old soul, everyone was sorry when he
left the stage. He always had a good notice for the work, and a hearty
reception ever after the first night. It was from him I learned my
indifference to the length of my parts. The value of a character cannot
always be measured by the length and number of its speeches, but I think
the only word of instruction he ever gave me was: "Speak loud--speak
distinctly," which was certainly good as far as it went. He was the most
genial of men, devotedly fond of children, he was "Uncle John" to them
all, and while never famous for the size of the salaries he paid, he was
so good a friend to his people that he often had trouble in making
desirable changes, and the variegated and convoluted falsehoods he
invented in order to get rid of one excessively bad old actor with an
affectionate heart, who wished to stay at a reduced salary, must lay
heavy on his conscience to this hour.
I used to wonder why he had never taken to starring, but he said he had
not had enough self-assertion. He was a hard-working man, but he seemed
to lack resolution. He had opinions--not convictions. He was always
second in his own theatre--often letting "I dare not wait upon I would."
After years of acquaintanceship, not to say friendship, when my ambition
had been aroused, and I turned hopeful eyes toward New York, Mr. Ellsler
opposed me bitterly, telling me I must be quite mad to think that the
metropolis would give me a hearing. He said many pleasant and encouraging
things, or wrote them, since I was in Cincinnati then. Among them I find:
"The idea of your acting in New York; why, better actresses than you are,
or can ever hope to be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage.
Do you suppose you could tie the shoe of Eliza Logan, one of the greatest
actresses that ever lived--but yet not good enough for New York? How
about Julia Dean, too? Go East, and be rejected, and then see what
manager will want you in the West."
Verily not an encouraging friend. Again I find: "Undoubtedly you are the
strongest, the most original, and the youngest leading lady in the
profession--but why take any risk? why venture into New York, where you
may fail? at any rate, wait _ten years_, till you are surer of yourself."
Good heavens! If I was original and strong in the West, why should I wait
ten years before venturing into the East?