I See an Actress Dethroned--I Make Myself a Promise, for the World Does
Move.
To be discarded by the public, that is the _bete noire_, the
unconquerable dread and terror of the actor. To fail in the great
struggle for supremacy is nothing compared to the agony of falling after
the height has once been won.
Few people can think of the infamous casting down of the great column
Vendome without a shiver of pain--the smashing of the memorial tablet,
the shattering of the statue, these are sights to shrink from, yet what
does such shrinking amount to when compared to the pain of seeing a human
being thrust from the sunlight of public popularity into the darkness of
obscurity?
I was witness once to the discrowning of an actress, and if I could
forget the anguish of her eyes, the pallor beneath her rouge, I would be
a most grateful woman.
She had been handsome in her prime, handsome in the regular-featured,
statuesque fashion so desirable for an actress of tragic parts; but Mrs.
P---- (for I shall call her only by that initial, as it seems to me that
naming her fully would be unkind) had reached, yes, had passed, middle
age and had wandered far into distant places, had known much sorrow, and,
alas, for her, had not noticed that her profession, like everything
alive, like the great God-made world itself, moved, moved, moved! So not
noticing, she, poor thing, stood still in her method of work, loyally
doing her best in the style of acting that had been so intensely admired
in her triumphant youth.
She had most successfully starred in Cleveland years before, but at the
time I speak of she was returning from distant parts, widowed and poor,
yet quite, quite confident of her ability to please the public, and with
plans all made to star two, possibly three, years, long enough to secure
a little home and tiny income, when she would retire gracefully from the
sight of the regretful public. Meantime she entreated Mr. Ellsler, if
possible, to give her an engagement, that she might earn money enough to
carry her to New York and see the great agents there.
By some unlooked-for chance the very next week was open, and rather
tremulously as manager, but kind-heartedly as man, Mr. Ellsler engaged
her for that week.
The city was billed accordingly: "Mrs. P----, the Queen of
Tragedy!"--"The celebrated Mrs. P----, Cleveland's great
favorite!"--"Especial engagement of Mrs. P----!" etc., etc.
I had a tiny part in the old Grecian tragedy she opened in. I came early,
as was my wont, and when dressed went out to look at the house--good
heavens! I gasped. Poor? it was worse than poor. Bad? it was worse than
bad. My heart sank for her as I recalled how, that morning, she had
asked, with a little nonchalant air of: "It doesn't really matter, of
course, but do the people here throw their flowers still, or do they send
them up over the footlights?" Flowers? Oh, poor Mrs. P----!
The overture had ended before she came out of her dressing-room, so she
had no warning of what the house was like. She was all alight with
pleasant anticipation. At a little distance she looked remarkably well;
her Grecian robes hung gracefully, her hair was arranged and filleted
correctly and becomingly, her movements were assured; only looking at the
deeply drawn lines about her mouth, made one regret that her opening
speeches referred so distinctly to her "dewy youth"; but Cleveland was
well used to that sort of contradiction, and I might have taken heart of
grace for her if only she had not looked so very pleased and happy.
The opening scene of the old-fashioned play was well on when the star
appeared, and smiling graciously--faced the almost empty house. She
halted--she gave the sort of sudden gasp that a dash of icy water in the
face might cause. The humiliating half-dozen involuntary hand-claps that
had greeted her fell into silence as she came fully into view, where she
stood dismayed, stricken--for she was an old actress and she read the
signs aright, she knew this was the great _taboo_.
Her face whitened beneath her rouge, her lips moved silently. One moment
she turned her back squarely upon the audience, for she knew her face was
anguished, and moved by the same instinct that makes an Indian draw the
blanket across his dying face, or the wounded animal seek deepest
solitude, she sought to hide _her_ suffering from the coldly observant
few.
With the light stricken from her eyes they looked dull and sunken, while
every nerve and muscle of her poor face seemed a-quiver. It was a
dreadful moment for us who looked on and understood.
Presently she clinched her hands, drew a long breath, and facing about,
took up the burden of the play, and in cold, flat tones began her part.
She did her best in the old, stilted declamatory style, that was as dead
as many of the men and women were who used to applaud it. Once only the
audience warmed to her a trifle, and as she accepted their half-hearted
"call," her sad eyes roved over the empty spaces of the house, a faint,
tired smile touched her lips, while two great tears coursed down her
cheeks. It was the moment of renunciation! They denied her right to the
crown of popularity, and she, with that piteous smile, bowed to their
verdict, as an actress must.
At the curtain's final fall her stardom was over. She went very quietly
to Mr. Ellsler and gave him back the engagement he had granted her,
saying, simply: "They do not want me any longer."
A short time after that, she sat one evening in Mr. Ellsler's family box,
and with wide, astonished eyes gazed at the packed house which greeted
the jig, the clog, the song, the banjo of Miss Lotta, whose innocent
deviltries were bringing her a fortune, and when, in response to a
"call," instead of appearing, Miss Lotta thrust her foot and ankle out
beyond the curtain and wriggled them at the delighted crowd, poor Mrs.
P---- drew her hand across her forehead and said, in bewildered tones:
"But--I don't understand!"
No, she could not understand, and Miss Lotta had not yet faced New York,
hence John Brougham, the witty, wise, and kindly Irish gentleman, had not
yet had his opportunity of summing up the brilliant and erratic star, as
he did later on in these words: "Act, acting, actress? what are you
thinking of? she's no actress, she's--why, she's a little dramatic
cocktail!" which was a delicious Broughamism and truthful withal.
But that sad night, when Mrs. P---- first set her feet in the path of
obscurity, I took to myself a lesson, and said: "While I live, I will
move. I will not stand still in my satisfaction, should success ever come
to me--but will try to keep my harness bright by action, in at least an
effort to keep abreast with the world, for verily, verily, it does
move!"