From the "Wild West" I Enter the Eastern "Parlor of Home Comedy"--I
Make my First Appearance in "Man and Wife."
The original Fifth Avenue Theatre was a tiny affair, with but small
accommodation for the public and none at all for the actor, unless he
burrowed for it beneath the building; and indeed the deep, long basement
was wonderfully like a rabbit-warren, with all its net-work of narrow
passageways, teeming with life and action. The atmosphere down there was
dreadful--I usually prefer using a small word instead of a large one, but
it would be nonsense to speak of the "air" in that green-room, because
there was none. Atmosphere was there stagnant, heavy, dead, with not even
an electric fan to stir it up occasionally, and the whole place was
filled with the musty, mouldy odor that always arises from carpets spread
in sunless, airless rooms. Gas, too, burned in every tiny room, in every
narrow slip of passageway, and though it was all immaculately clean, it
was still wonderful how human beings endured so many hours imprisonment
there.
It was on a very hot September morning that the company was called
together in the green-room of the Fifth Avenue Theatre. This first "call"
of the season is generally given over to greetings after the vacation, to
chattings, to introductions, to welcomes, and a final distribution of
parts in the first play, and a notification to be on hand promptly next
morning for work. With a heavily throbbing heart I prepared for the
dreaded first meeting with all these strange people, and when I grew
fairly choky, I would say to myself, "What nonsense, Mr. Daly or the
prompter will be there, and in the general introductions you will, of
course, be included, and after that you will be all right--a smile, a
bow, or a kind word will cost no more in a New York theatre than in any
other one," which goes to prove what a very ignorant young person I was
then. In looking back to that time, I often drop into the habit of
considering myself as another person, and sometimes I am sorry for the
girl of that day, and say: "You poor thing, if you had only known!" or
again, "What wasted trust--what needless sorrow, too!" But I was then
like the romping, trusting, all-loving puppy-dog who believes every
living being his friend, until a kick or a blow convinces him to the
contrary.
I had two dresses, neither one really fit for the occasion, but I put on
the best one, braided my mass of hair into the then proper _chatelaine_
braids, and found comfort in them, and encouragement in a fresh,
well-fitting pair of gloves. At half-past ten o'clock I entered the
underground green-room. Two young men were there before me. I slightly
bent my head, and one responded doubtfully, but the other, with the
blindness of stone in his eyes, bowed not at all. I sat down in a
corner--the stranger always seeks a corner; can that be an instinct, a
survival from the time when a tribe fell upon the stranger, and with the
aid of clubs informed him of their strength and power? Anyway, as I said,
I sat in a corner. There was the carpet, the great mirror, the cushioned
bench running clear around the room, and that was all--oh, no! on the
wall, of course, there hung that shallow, glass-covered frame or cabinet
called, variously, "the call-board," the "call-case," or even the
"call-box." It is the official voice of the manager--when the "call-case"
commands, all obey. There, in writing, one finds the orders for next
day's rehearsal; there one finds the cast of characters in the plays;
there, too, the requests for the company's aid, on such a day, for such a
charity benefit appears. Ah, a great institution is the "call-case,"
being the manager's voice, but not his ears, which is both a comfort and
an advantage at times to all concerned.
That day I glanced at it; it was empty. The first call and cast of the
season would be put up presently. I wondered how many disappointments it
would hold for me. Then there was a rustle of skirts, a tapping of heels,
a young woman gayly dressed rushed in, a smile all ready for--oh! she
nodded briefly to the young men, then she saw me--she looked full at me.
The puppy-dog trust arose in me, I was a stranger, she was going to bow,
perhaps smile! Oh, how thankful I am that I was stopped in time, before I
had betrayed that belief to her. Her face hardened, her eyes leisurely
scorched up and down my poor linen gown, then she turned frowningly to
the glass, patted her bustle into shape, and flounced out again. I felt
as though I had received a blow. Then voices, loudly laughing male
voices, approached, and three men came in, holding their hats and mopping
their faces. They "bah-Joved" a good deal, and one, big and noisy, with a
young face topped with perfect baldness, bowed to me courteously, the
others did not see me.
Where, I thought, was the manager all this time? Then more laughter, and
back came my flouncy young woman and two of her kind with her; pretty,
finely dressed, badly bred women, followed by one whom I knew instantly.
One I had heard much of, one to whom I had a letter of introduction--I
have it still, by the way. She was gray even then, plain of feature, but
sweet of voice and very gentle of manner. I lifted my head higher. Of
course she would not know me from sole-leather, but she would see I was a
stranger and forlornly alone, and besides, being already secure in her
position in the company--she was its oldest member--and therefore, in a
certain measure, a hostess, and as my mere presence in the green-room
showed I was a professional of some sort or quality, both authority and
kindness would prompt her to a bow, a smile, perhaps a pleasant word. I
looked hungrily at her, her bright, small eyes met mine, swept swiftly
over me, and then she slowly turned her black silk back upon me, the
stranger in her gate; and as I swallowed hard at the lump Mrs. Gilbert's
gentle indifference had brought to my throat, my old sense of fun came
uppermost, and I said to myself: "No morning is lost in which one learns
something, and I have discovered that covering a club neatly in velvet
improves its appearance, without in the least detracting from the force
of its blow."
And then the passage resounded with laughter and heel-taps, the small
room filled full; there was a surging of silken gowns, a mingling of
perfumes and of voices, high and excited, and, I must add, affected; much
handshaking, many explosive kisses, and then, down the other passageway,
came more gentlemen. They were a goodly crowd--well groomed, well
dressed, manly fellows, and all in high good-humor, except Mr. Davidge,
but, in mercy's name! who ever saw, who would have wished to see "rare
old Bill" in a good humor?
Such gay greetings as were exchanged around about and even over me, since
my hat was twice knocked over my eyes by too emphatic embracings in such
crowded quarters--and still no manager, no prompter. When they quieted
down a bit, everyone took stock of me. It would have been a trying
position even had I been properly gowned, but as it was the
ill-suppressed titters of two extravagantly gowned nonentities and the
swift, appraising glances of the others kept me in agony.
Suddenly a quick step was heard approaching. I nearly laughed aloud in
all my misery at their lightning-quick change of manner. Silence, as of
the grave, came upon them. They all faced toward the coming
steps--anxious-eyed, but with smiles just ready to tremble on to their
lips at an instant's notice. Never had I seen anything so like
trick-poodles. They were ready to do "dead dog," or jump over a chair, or
walk on two legs--ready, too, for either the bone or the blow. I knew
from their strained attitude of attention who was coming, and next
moment, tall and thin and dour, Mr. Daly stood in the doorway. He neither
bowed nor smiled, but crossly asked: "Is Miss Morris here?"
Everyone looked reproachfully at everyone else for not being the desired
person. Then as the managerial frown deepened, from my corner I lifted a
rather faint voice in acknowledgment of my presence, saying: "Yes, sir, I
am here," and he gave that peculiar "huh!" of his, which seemed to be a
combination of groan and snort, and instantly disappeared again.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I had felt myself uncomfortable before, but now? It
was as if I had sprung up and shouted: "Say! I'm Miss Morris!" Everyone
gazed at me openly now, as if I were a conundrum and they were trying to
guess me. I honestly believe I should have broken down under the strain
in a moment more, but fortunately a slender little man made his silent
appearance at one of the doors and took off his immaculate silk hat,
revealing the thin, blond hair, the big, pale blue pop-eyes of James
Lewis. Twenty minutes ago my heart would have jumped at sight of him, but
I had had a lesson. I expected no greeting now, even from a former
friend. I sat quite still, simply grateful that his coming had taken the
general gaze from my miserable face. He shook hands all round, glanced at
me and passed by, then looked back, came back, held out his hand, saying:
"You stuck-up little brute, I knew you in aprons and pig-tails, and now
you ain't going to speak to me; how are you, Clara?"
While I was huskily answering him, a big woman appeared at the door. Her
garments were aggressively rich, and lockets (it was a great year for
lockets) dangled from both wrists, from her watch-chain, and from her
neck-chain. She glittered with diamonds--in a street-dress which might
also have answered for a dinner-dress. I laughed to myself as I thought
what a prize she would be for pirates. Then I looked at her handsome face
and, as our eyes met, we recognized each other perfectly, but my lesson
being learned I made no sign, I had no wish to presume, and she--looked
over my head.
M. Benot, the Frenchman who died in harness early in the season, poor
little gentleman! came in then with the MSS. and the parts of the play,
"Man and Wife." Silence came upon the company. As M. Benot called Mr. or
Miss So-and-so, he or she advanced and received the part assigned to
them. "Miss Clara Morris!" I rose stiffly--I had sat so long in my
corner--and received rather a bulky part. I bowed silently and resumed my
seat, but the place was for a moment only a black, windy void; I had seen
the name on my part--I was cast for _Blanche_, a comedy part!
As I came back to my real surroundings, M. Benot was saying: "Eleven
o'clock sharp to-morrow, ladies and gentlemen, for rehearsal."
People began hurrying out. I waited a little, till nearly all were gone,
whispering "Miss Ethel for _Anne_, Miss Ethel for _Anne_" when the
handsome "Argosy of wealth" sailed up to me, and, in a voice of sweet
uncertainty, said: "I wonder if you can possibly recognize me?"
"Oh, yes," I answered, smiling broadly, "we recognized each other at the
moment you entered, Miss Newton."
She reddened and stammered something about "not being quite sure--and out
West, and now here," and as she was even prettier than when I had last
seen her, I told her so, and--we were happy ever after.
Then I slipped out of the theatre and crossed to Twenty-first Street
safely, but could control my grief and pain, my mortification and my
disappointment, no longer. Tears would have their way, and I held my
sunshade low before my tear-washed, grieving face. Those little
ill-suppressed smiles at my clothes, those slightly lifted eyebrows, and
there was not even a single introduction to shelter me to-morrow, and as
to _Blanche_, oh, I thought "let her wait till I get home!"
At last mother opened the door for me. I flung the hat from my aching
head, and as she silently tied a wet handkerchief about my throbbing
temples, I blurted out three words: "_A comedy part!_" and fell face
downward on the bed, and cried until there was not a tear left in me, and
considering my record as a shedder of tears, that's saying a good deal.
Afterward I knelt down and hid my shamed face in the pillow and asked
forgiveness from the ever-pitiful and patient One above, and prayed for a
clear understanding of the part entrusted to me. Oh, don't be shocked. I
have prayed over my work all my life long, and I can't think the Father
despises any labor that is done to His honor. And I humbly gave over my
further thought of _Anne_, and praying pardon for the folly of "kicking
against the pricks" and wasting my scant strength in useless passion, I
retired, at peace with myself, the world, and even _Blanche_.
Next morning a curious thing happened. I heard, or thought I heard, the
words: "The first shall be last and the last shall be first," and I
called from my bed: "Did you speak to me, mother?" and she answered,
"No."
As I sat over my coffee and rolls, I said, absently: "The first shall be
last, and the _last_ shall be first."
"What do you mean?" mother asked.
"Nothing," I said. "The words were in my ears when I awoke, and they keep
coming back to me."
I rose and dressed for rehearsal. As I drew on my gloves I heard a
hurried voice asking for me in the hall. I recognized it as M. Benot's.
My heart sank like lead--was even the comedy part to be taken from me? I
opened the door. Out of breath, the little man gasped: "I so come quite
quick for Monsieur Da-_lay_. He make me to ask you right away, very
quick, can you play that part of _Anne_?"
My breath came in gasps, I might have been the runner! I answered,
briefly: "Yes!"
"Then," said he, "here give you to me that other part, _Blanche_."