I Rehearse Endlessly--I Grow Sick with Dread--I Meet with Success in
_Anne Sylvester_.
Up-stairs I found a bare stage, as is often the case for a first mere
reading of parts, and most of the company sitting on camp-stools,
chatting and laughing. Already M. Benot had announced the change in the
cast, and people looked at me in perfect stupefaction: "Good heavens!
what a risk he is taking! Who on earth is she, anyway?" and I cleared my
throat in mercy to the speaker, who didn't know I stood behind her.
That morning I was introduced to a number of the ladies and gentlemen,
but it was a mere baptism of water, not of the spirit. I was not one of
them. Understand, no one was openly rude to me, everyone bowed a
"good-morning," but, well, you can bow a good-morning over a large iron
fence with a fast-locked gate in it. That my dresses of gray linen or of
white linen struck them as being funny in September is not to be wondered
at, yet they must have known that necessity forced me to wear them, and
that their smiles were not always effaced quickly enough to spare me a
cruel pang. And my amazement grew day by day at their own extravagance of
dress. Some of the ladies wore a different costume each day during the
entire rehearsal of the play. How, I wondered, could they do it? Two of
them, Miss Kate Claxton and Miss Newton, had husbands to pay their bills,
I found, and Miss Linda Dietz--the gentlest, most sweetly-courteous
creature imaginable--had parents and a home; but the magnificence of the
others remained an unsolvable mystery.
Another thing against me was, I could not act even the least bit at
rehearsal. Foreign actors will act in cold blood at a daylight rehearsal,
but few Americans can do it. I read my lines with intelligence, but gave
no sign of what I intended to do at night. Of course that made Mr. Daly
suffer great anxiety, but he said nothing, only looked at me with such
troubled, anxious eyes that I felt sorry for him. One gentleman, however,
decided that I was--not to put too fine a point upon it--"a lunk-head."
He treated me with supercilious condescension, varied occasionally with
overbearing tyranny. Just one person in the theatre knew that I was
really a good actress, of considerable experience, and that was James
Lewis; and from a tricksy spirit of mischief he kept the silence of a
graven image, and when Mr. Dan Harkins took me aside to teach me to act,
Lewis would retire to a quiet spot and writhe with suppressed laughter.
One day he said to me: "Say, you ain't cooking up a huge joke on these
gas-balloons, are you, Clara? And upon my soul you are doing it well--you
act as green as a cucumber."
And never did I succeed in convincing him that I had not engineered a
great joke on the company by deceptive rehearsing. One tiny incident
seemed to give Mr. Daly a touch of confidence in me. In the "Inn scene" a
violent storm was raging, and at a critical moment the candle was
supposed to be blown out by a gust of wind from the left door, as one of
the characters entered. They were using a mechanical device for
extinguishing the candle, and it was tried several times one morning, and
always, to my surprise, from the _right_ side of the stage. No one seemed
to notice anything odd, though the flame streamed out good and long in
the wrong direction before going out. At last I ventured, as I was the
principal in the scene: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is it not the
wind from the open door that blows that light out?"
Then, quick and sharp, mine enemy was upon me: "This is _our_ affair,
Miss Morris."
"Yes," I answered, "but the house will laugh if the candle goes out
_against_ the storm," and Mr. Daly sprang up, and, smiling his first
kindly smile at me, said: "What the deuce have we all been thinking
of--you're right, the candle must be extinguished from the _left_," and
as I glanced across the stage I saw Lewis doing some neat little dancing
steps all by himself.
The rehearsals were exhausting in the extreme, the heat was unnatural,
the walk far too long, and, well, to be frank, I had not nearly enough to
eat. My anxiety was growing hourly, my strength began to fail, and at the
last rehearsals, white as wax from weakness, I had to be carried up the
stairs to the stage. Having such a quick study, requiring but few
rehearsals, I was from the fourth day ready at any moment to go on and
play my part. Fancy, then, what a waste of strength there was in forcing
me, day after day, to go over long, important scenes--three, five, even
seven times of a morning for the benefit of one amateur actress, who
simply could not remember to-day what she had been told yesterday. It was
foolish, it was risking a breakdown, when they had no one to put in my
place. Mr. William Davidge was the next greatest sufferer, and as an
experienced old actor he hotly resented being called back to go over a
scene, again and again, "that a 'walking vanity' might be taught her
business at his expense!"
And though I liked and admired the "walking vanity" (who did not in the
least deserve the name), I did think the manner of her training was
costly and unjust, and one morning, just before the production of the
play, I--luckily as it would seem--lost my self-control for a moment, and
created a small sensation. In my individual case, fainting is always
preceded by a moment of total darkness, and that again by a sound in my
ears as of a rushing wind. That morning, as I finished the sixth
repetition of _Anne's_ big scene with _Lady Glenarm_, the warning whir
was already in my ears, when the order came to go over it again, "that
_Mrs. Glenarm_ might be quite easy." It was too much--a sudden rage
seized upon me: "_Mrs. Glenarm_ will only be quite easy when the rest of
us are dead!" I remarked as I took my place again, and when I received my
cue I whirled upon her with the speech: "Take care, _Mrs. Glenarm_, I am
not naturally a patient woman, trouble has done much to tame my temper,
but endurance has its limits!"
It was given with such savage passion that Miss Dietz burst into
frightened tears and forgot utterly her lines, while a silence that
thrilled, absolute, dead, came upon the company for a moment. Hastily I
controlled myself, but there were whispers and amazed looks everywhere.
Mr. George Brown, who played the pugilist, said aloud to a group: "She's
done the whole crowd--she's an actress to the core!"
Mr. Daly sat leaning forward at the prompt-table, white as he could well
be. His eyes were wide and bright, and, to my surprise, he spoke quite
gently to me as he said: "Spare yourself--just murmur your lines, Miss
Morris." And Miss Dietz said: "Oh, Mr. Daly, I am so glad I am prepared;
I should have fallen in my tracks if she had done that to me at night,
without warning."
When I left the stage, one of the ladies swept her dress aside, and said:
"Sit here by me; how tired you must be!" It was the first friendly
advance made to me. Before rehearsal ended I overheard the young man with
the bald head saying: "She has sold us all, and I bet she will completely
change the map of the Fifth Avenue Theatre."
"Oh, no, she won't," answered Lewis, shortly, "she's not that type of
woman!"
"Well, at all events, on the strength of that outburst, I ain't afraid to
bet twenty good dollars that she makes pie out of Ethel's vogue!" Then,
seeing me, he removed his hat hurriedly, offering his shoulder for me to
lean upon as I descended the winding-stairs, and I said to myself:
"Yesterday this would have been a kindly service; to-day--to-day it is
not far from an humiliation."
Hitherto I had known neither clique nor cabal in a theatre; now I found
myself in a network of them. The _favorite_--who, I had supposed, lived
only in the historic novel--I now met in real life, and found her as
charming, as treacherous, and as troublesome in the theatre as she could
ever have been in a royal court. There was no one to explain to me the
nature or progress of the game that was being played when I came upon the
scene; but I soon discovered there were two factions in the theatre, Miss
Agnes Ethel heading one, Miss Fanny Davenport the other. Each had a
following, but Miss Ethel, who had been all-powerful, had overestimated
her strength when she refused, point-blank, to play _Anne Sylvester_,
giving as her reason "the immorality of _Anne_." This from the lady who
had been acting all season in "Fernande" and "Frou-Frou"--as a gambler's
decoy and an adulterous wife abandoning child and home--satisfactorily
proved the utter absence of a sense of humor from her charming make-up.
Mr. Daly, like every other man, could be managed with a little patient
_finesse_, but he would not be bullied in business affairs by any living
creature, as he proved when, rather than change the play to please the
actress he then regarded as his strongest card, he trusted a great part
to the hands of an unknown, untried girl, and gave out to the newspapers
that Miss Ethel had sprained her ankle, and, though in perfect health,
could not walk well enough to act. And, after my momentary outburst, the
anti-Ethelites suddenly placed me on one of the sixty-four squares of
their chess-board; but I knew not whether I was castle, knight, bishop,
or pawn, I only knew that I had become a piece of value in their game,
and they hoped to move me against Ethel.
It was all very bewildering, but I had other things to think about, and
more important. My money had run so low I was desperately afraid I could
not get dresses for the play, and for the white mousseline necessary for
the croquet-party of the first act I was forced to go to a very cheap
department store, a fact the dress nightly proclaimed aloud from every
inch of its surface. Shawl dresses were the novelty of that season, and
at Stewart's I found a modestly priced dark-gray shawl overskirt and
jacket that I could wear over a black alpaca skirt for two acts. The
other two dresses I luckily had in my wardrobe, and when my new shoes, a
long gray veil, and two pairs of gray gloves were laid into the
dressing-room basket, I had in the whole world $2.38, on which we had to
live until my first week's salary came to me. But, oh, that last awful
day before the opening night. I was suffering bodily as well as mentally.
I had had an alarming attack of pleurisy. My mother had rung the bell and
left a message at the first house that carried a doctor's sign. He came;
he was far gone in liquor; he was obstinate, almost abusive--to be brief,
he blistered me shockingly; another doctor had to be called to dress and
treat the hideous blisters the first had produced; and the tight closing
of dress-waists about me was an agony not yet forgotten. But what was
that to the nervous terror, the icy chill, the burning fever, the deadly
nausea! I could not swallow food--I _could_ not! My mother stood over me
while, with tear-filled eyes, I disposed of a raw, beaten egg, and then
she was guilty of the dreadful extravagance of buying two chops, of which
she made a cup of broth, and fearing a breakdown if I attempted without
food five such acts as awaited me, she almost forced me to swallow it to
the last drop after my hat was on and I was ready to start. I always kiss
my mother good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff with
fright that they would not move. I dropped my head for a moment upon her
shoulder, she patted me silently with one hand and opened the door with
the other. My little dog, escaping from the room, rushed to me, leaping
against my knees. I caught her up, and she covered my troubled, veiled
face with frantic kisses. I passed her to mother and crept painfully down
the steps. I glanced back--mother waved her hand and innocently called:
"Good luck! God bless you!"
The astonishing conjunction of superstition and orthodox faith touched my
sense of the ridiculous. I laughed aloud, Bertie barked excitedly, I
faced about and went forward almost gayly to meet--what? As I reached
Broadway, I remember quite distinctly that I said aloud, to myself:
"Well, God's good to the Irish, and at all events I was born on St.
Patrick's day--so Garryowen forever!"
The pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, I was in high spirits;
nor need you be surprised, for such is the acting temperament.
I had not on that first night even the comfort of a dressing-room to
myself, but shared one of the tiniest closets with Mrs. Roberta Norwood,
in whose chic blonde person I failed utterly to see a future friend. The
terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, all brought back the
memory of that far-away first night of all in Cleveland; but now there
was no Mrs. Bradshaw to go to for advice or commendation. The sense of
utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and I bent my head low over the
buckling of my shoe that my rising tears might not be noticed.
We were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, and every seat flung
down by the ushers seemed to strike a blow upon our heads, while applause
shook dust into our eyes and hair. Forced occupation is the best cure for
nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dressing I for the time
forgot my fright. Two or three persons had come to the door to speak to
Mrs. Norwood, and it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. I
looked at myself in the glass, I hesitated, at last I turned and asked if
I wore too much color--if I was too red, and the answer I received was:
"That's a matter of taste."
Now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of business. She was
familiar with the size and the lighting of the theatre, and I was not,
yet either from extreme self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed
me to go upon that tiny stage painted like an Indian about to take the
war-path. Truly I was climbing up a thorny stem to reach the flower of
success.
The overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing to the stairs for
the first act. I stopped behind the dressing-room door and bent my head
for one dumbly pleading moment, then muttering "Amen--amen," I, too,
hurried up the stairs to face the awful first appearance before a New
York audience.
I had always been rehearsed to enter with the crowd of guests. The cue
came, and as I stepped forward, a strong hand caught my arm. Mr. Daly had
suddenly changed his mind, he held me fast till all were on, then let me
go, whispering, "Now--now," and I went on alone.
I had to retire to the back of the stage and wait a few moments till
spoken to. Never shall I forget the sort of horror the closeness of the
audience caused me, I felt I should step upon the upturned faces; I
wanted to put out my hands and push the people back, and their use of
opera-glasses filled my eyes with angry tears. Suddenly I understood the
meaning of the lightly painted faces. I raised my handkerchief and wiped
some of the red from my cheeks, while somewhat bitterly, I am afraid, I
thought that "love ye one another" and "thy neighbor as thyself" had been
relegated to the garret with "God bless our home."
Then the astonishing beauty of the women on the stage struck me with
dismay; their exquisite lacy dresses, their jewel-loaded fingers. Oh! I
thought, how can I ever hope to stand with them. I grew sick and cold.
Then there dully reached my ears the words of _Lady Lundy_: "I
choose--Anne Sylvester." It was my cue. I came slowly down; no one knew
me, no one greeted me. I opened my lips, but no sound came. I saw a
frightened look on Miss Newton's face; I tried again, and in a husky
whisper, answered: "Thank you; I'd rather not play."
Out in front one actor friend, John W. Norton, watched and prayed for a
success for me; when he heard the hoarse murmur, he dropped his head and
groaned: "A failure--total and complete!" But I also had noted that
hoarse croak, and it had acted like a mighty spur. I was made desperate
by it. I threw up my head, and answered my next cue with: "No, Lady
Lundy, nothing is the matter; I am not very well, but I will play if you
wish it."
I gave the words so bell-clear and with so much insolent humility that a
round of applause of lightning quickness followed them. It was the first
bit of genuine hearty kindness I had received in the city of New York. In
my pleasure I forgot the character of _Anne_ completely, and turned to
the audience a face every feature of which, from wide, surprised eyes to
more widely-smiling lips, radiated such satisfaction and good-fellowship
that they first laughed aloud and then a second time applauded.
At last! I was starting fair, we had shaken hands, my audience and I; my
nerves were steady, my heart strong, the "part" good. I would try hard, I
would do my best. I made my whispered appointment to meet _Geoffrey_, and
when I returned and stood a moment, silently watching him, there came
upon the house the silence that my soul loves--the silence that might
thrill a graven image into acting, and I was not stone.
Our scene began. _Anne_, striving desperately to restrain her feelings,
said: "You are rich, a scholar, and a gentleman; are you something else
besides all these--_are you a coward and a villain, sir?_"
Clear and distinct from the right box, in suppressed tones, came the
words: "Larmes de la voix! larmes de la voix!" Many glanced at the box, a
few hissed impatiently at the new mayor, Oakey Hall, who had spoken. Our
interview was interrupted by _Lady Lundy_ (Miss Newton) and _Sir Patrick
Lundy_ (Mr. Lewis). I was dismissed by the first and left the stage.
Applause broke forth--continued. Mr. Lewis and Miss Newton began to
speak--the applause redoubled. I turned angrily. "What bad manners!" I
said. Mr. Daly ran up to me, waving his hands: "Go on! go on! It's you,
you fool!"
"I know it," I replied, "but I'm not going to insult any actor by taking
a call in the middle of his scene."
"Confound you!" he said, "will you do as I tell you?" He caught me,
whirled me about and, putting his hand between my shoulders, literally
pitched me on to the stage, where I stood ashamed and mortified by what I
honestly felt to be a slight to those two waiting to proceed.
After that the evening's triumph, like the rolling snowball, grew as it
advanced. At the end of the quarrel act with _Mrs. Glenarm_ the curtain
was raised on the stage picture--once, twice, three times. Then M. Benot
said to Mr. Daly: "They want her," and Mr. Daly answered, sharply: "I
know what they want, and I know what I don't want--ring up again!"
He did so; no use, the applause went on. Then Mr. Daly said to me: "Take
_Mrs. Glenarm_ on with you, and acknowledge this call."
We went on together; retired; more applause. Again we went on together;
no use, the applause _would_ not stop. "Oh, well, ring up once more,"
said Mr. Daly, "and here, you, take it yourself."
I went on alone, and the audience rose as one individual. I saw them,
all blurred through happy tears. I held my hands out to them, with a very
passion of love. The house blossomed with white waving handkerchiefs in
answer. The curtain fell and, before I moved, rose once more, and then,
as I live by bread! I saw pass between me and those applauding people a
little crying child carrying a single potato in her hand. Of course that
was nerves; but I saw her, I tell you I saw her! and surely I should know
myself!
In the fourth act, which was a triumph for all concerned in it--and that
meant nearly everyone in the cast--I received a compliment that I prize
still. There is a certain tone which should be reserved for short
important speeches only in strong and exciting scenes, where, by force of
contrast, it has a great effect; so, in tones low, level, clear and cold
as ice, _Anne_ had scarcely taken her solemn oath: "I swear it, on my
honor as a Christian woman, sir!" when from end to end of their railed-in
semicircle the musicians broke into swift applause. Catching the effect,
their foreign impetuosity made them respond more quickly than could the
Americans who seconded their action, while mere recognition from these
play-worn, _blase_ men was to me veritable incense. In the last act, Mrs.
Gilbert, as _Hester Detheridge_, the supposed dumb woman, proved herself
an artist to the fingertips. Later I saw many _Hesters_, but never one to
equal hers.
At last, and late, far too late, the play ended in a blaze of glory. The
curtain was raised for final compliments. All the actors in the play had
been summoned--we all stood in line, a bowing, smiling, happy
line--facing a shouting, hat, handkerchief, or cane-waving crowd of
pleased, excited people. As I saw how many eyes were turned my way, with
a leap of the heart I repeated: "If you make a favorable impression I
will--yes, I will double that salary."
Surely, I thought, no one can doubt that I have made a favorable
impression, and, oh, mother, we will be so happy! Just then I caught the
eye of a young girl--I could have touched her outstretched hand, she was
so close--she gave me a lovely smile, and taking from her bosom a bunch
of scarlet carnations she threw them herself. They fell on the stage.
One of the actors picked them up and, turning, handed them to _Blanche_.
I heard the disappointed "Oh!" and caught her eye again, when,
regardless of all the rules and regulations forbidding communication
with the audience, I smiled and kissed my hand to her. As the curtain
fell, in an instant everyone was talking with everyone else. I had begun
alone--well, I must end alone. I slipped down the staircase least used,
and at its foot met Mr. George Brown, who was waiting for me. He took my
hands in his and gave me both commendation and congratulation, though
they were stayed and braced with unconscious profanity; and I squeezed
his hands hard and said: "You are so good, oh! you are so good! but
please take care, I'm afraid you'll get forfeited." When he cried:
"D----n the forfeit, it's worth a few dollars to speak as you feel
sometimes, so good-night!"
I scrambled into my street-clothes, caught up the inevitable bag, and
fairly rushed from the theatre, and as I came up from that place of
mouldy smell and burnt-out air, and lifted my face to the stupendous
beauty of the heavens, sniffing delightedly at the cool, pure night air,
suddenly I thought how delicious must have been the first long breath
young Lazarus drew when, obeying the Divine command, he "came forth" from
the tomb.
Tired, excited, I hurried to carry the news to the two who awaited me--my
mother and my dog. At the corner of Twenty-third Street and Broadway I
had to pass around a party of ladies and gentlemen who stood talking
there, and a lady said as I passed: "No, no! it's Morris, I tell you;
see, here it is--Clara Morris." She held up a folded programme, pointing
out the name to a gentleman beside her. I laughed happily. Odd bits of
the evening's happenings kept appearing before me like pictures.
Sometimes I saw the unknown young girl's smiling face--and the scarlet
flowers I failed to receive. Sometimes 'twas Mr. Daly's angry one as he
pitched me on to the stage to acknowledge a compliment I did not want,
great as it was. Most often I saw the faces of the lovely women of the
company. What a galaxy of beauty they made! The stately Newton, the
already full-blown, buxom Davenport, the tall, slender, deer-eyed Dietz,
the oriental Volmer, the auburn-haired Claxton, the blond Norwood! There
were just two women in that company who were not beauties--Mrs. Gilbert
and Miss Morris; even they were wholesome, pleasant women, who did not
frighten horses by any means, but still if you speak of beauty--why,
next! please!
At last I saw the lighted windows that told me home was near. Then up the
stairs, where there bounded upon my breast the little black-and-tan
bundle of love and devotion, called Bertie the loyal, whose fervid
greetings made the removal of my hat so difficult a job that it was
through the tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling dog I cried at last: "It's
all right, Mumsey--a success! Lots and lots of 'calls,' dear! and, oh! is
there anything to eat--_I am so hungry!_"
So, while the new actress's name was floating over many a dainty
restaurant supper, its owner sat beneath one gas-jet, between mother and
pet, eating a large piece of bread and a small piece of cheese; and,
thankful for both, she talked to her small circle of admirers, telling
them all about it, and winding up supper and talk with the declaration:
"Mother, I believe the hearts are just the same, whether they beat
against Western ribs or Eastern ribs!"
Then, supper over, I stumbled through my old-time "Now I lay me," and
adding some blurred words of gratitude (God must be so well used to sleep
thanks, but very wide-awake entreaties!) I fell asleep, knowing that
through God's mercy and my own hard work I was the first Western actress
who had ever been accepted by a New York audience, and as I drowsed off,
I murmured to myself: "And I'll leave the door open, now that I have
opened it--I'll leave it open for all others."