"Of course I do!" I answered.
"Ah!" he cried, "you don't guess well, Miss Morris, but you've the heart
of a good comrade, and now I'm sure you will do as I ask you, and play
_Alixe_ for me?"
I sprang to my feet with a bound. "_Alixe?_" I cried. "I to play that
child? oh, impossible! No--no! I should be absurd! I--I--I know too
much--oh, you understand what I mean! She is a little convent-bred bit of
innocence--a veritable baby of sixteen years! Dear Mr. Daly don't you
see, I should ruin the play?"
He answered, rather coldly: "You are not given to ruining plays. The part
does not amount to much. Good heavens! I admit it does not suit you, but
think of my position; give me the benefit of your name as _Alixe_ for one
single week, and on the second Monday night Miss Jewett shall take the
part off your hands."
"But," I whimpered, "the critics will make me the butt of their ridicule,
for I can't make myself look like an _Alixe_."
"Oh, no they won't!" he answered, sharply. "Of course you won't expect a
success, but you need fear no gibes for trying to help me out of a
dramatic hole. Will you help me?" And of course there was nothing to do
but swallow hard and hold out my hand for the unwelcome part.
Imagine my surprise when, on my way to rehearsal, I saw posters up,
announcing the production of the play of "Alixe." I met Mr. Daly at the
door and said: "Why this play was always called 'The Countess of
Somerive.'"
"Yes," he replied, "I know--but 'Alixe' looks well, it's odd and
pretty--and well, it will lend a little importance to the part!"--which
shows how heavy were the scales upon our eyes while we were rehearsing
the new play.
Everyone sympathized with me, but said a week would soon pass, and I
groaned and ordered heelless slippers, and flaxen hair parted simply and
waved back from the temples to fall loosely on the shoulders, to avoid
the height that heels and the fashionable chignon would give me, while a
thin, white nun's veiling gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, over a
low-cut white silk lining, buttoned at the back and finished with a pale
blue sash and little side pocket, completed the costume, I prepared for
the character. I was beginning to understand, as I studied her, and
shamefacedly--to love!
Oh, yes, one often feels dislike or liking for the creature one is trying
to represent. Just at first I said to myself, here is a modern _Ophelia_,
but I was soon convinced that the innocence of _Alixe_ was far more
perfect than had been that of Shakespeare's weakling, who, through the
training of court life, the warnings of a shrewd brother, and the
admonitions of a tricky father, had learned many things--was ductile in
stronger hands and could play a part; could lead a lover on to speech,
without giving slightest hint of the hateful watching eyes she knew were
upon him.
Poor "Rose of May," whose sweetness comes to us across the ages! As the
garden-spider's air-spun silken thread is cast from bough to twig across
the path, so her fragile thread of life looped itself from father to
lover, to brother, to queen, and all the web was threaded thick with
maiden's tears, made opalescent by rosy love, green hope, and violet
despair. But each one she clung to raised a hand to brush the fragile
thing aside, and so destroyed it utterly. Yet that tangled wreck of
beauty, sweetness, and "a young maid's wits," remains one of the world's
dearest possessions--the fair _Ophelia_!
But this modern maid was yet unspotted by the world. She found all earth
perfect, as though God had just completed it, and loved ardently and
without shame, as the innocent do love. For this pure flower of crime
was ignorant, to the point of bliss, of evil in the world about her.
While her adored mother was to her as the blessed Madonna herself.
More and more convincing, as I carefully studied the part, became that
perfect innocence. Not cold or reserved, but alive with faith, quivering,
too, with girlish mirth, yet innocent. And as with roots deep in rankest,
blackest ooze and mud, the lily sends up into the sunlit air its
stainless, white-petaled blossom, to float in golden-hearted beauty upon
the surface of the stream, so all sweet and open-hearted _Alixe_ floated
into view.
And I was expected to act a part like that! I worried day and night over
it. Should I do this, should I do that? No--no! she was not
coy--detestable word. I recalled the best _Ophelia_ I had ever seen--a
German actress. Would she do for a model? Perhaps--no! she was mystic,
strange, aloof!
Oh, dear! and then, by merest accident, my mind wandered away to the
past, and I said to myself, it should not be so hard. Every woman has
been innocent. I was innocent enough when my first sweetheart paused at
my side to say to me the foolish old words that never lose sweetness and
novelty. I recalled with what open pleasure I had listened, with what
honest satisfaction I accepted his attention. With a laugh I exclaimed:
"I didn't even have sense enough to hide my gratification and pride, or
to _pretend the least bit_." I stopped suddenly--light seemed to come
into my mind. Innocence is alike the world over, I thought; it only
differs in degree. I sprang to my feet! I cried joyously: "I have caught
the cue, I do believe--_I won't act at all!_ I'll just speak the lines
sincerely and simply and leave the effect to Providence."
The scales loosened a trifle over Mr. Daly's eyes at the last rehearsal
but one. He was down in the orchestra speaking to the leader when I came
to the end of the act, and the words: "The mother whom I have insulted?
That young girl, then, is my sister--the sister whose happiness I have
stolen? whose future I have shattered? What--is--there--left--for--me to
live for?"
Mr. Daly glanced up, and said, sharply: "What's that? 'er, Miss Morris,
what are you going to do there as the curtain falls? I--I haven't noticed
that speech before. Go back a bit, Mr. Fisher, Miss Morant, back to the
Count's entrance; let me hear that again."
We went over the scene again: "H-e-m-m!" said Mr. Daly; "you've not
answered my question, Miss Morris. What do you do at the fall of the
curtain?"
"Nothing, sir," I answered, "just stare dazedly at space, I
think--swaying a little perhaps."
"I want you to fall!" he declared.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "please, don't you think that would be rather
melodramatic? If she could stand while receiving that awful shock about
her mother's shame she would hardly fall afterward, from mere horror of
her own thoughts?"
"I know all that, but let me tell you there's always great effect in a
falling body. At any rate you can sink into a chair--and so get the
suggestion of collapse."
"There is no chair," I answered, cheerfully.
"Well," he replied, testily, "there can be one, I suppose. Here, boy,
bring a large chair and place it behind Miss Morris."
"Mr. Daly," I argued, "if I fall heavily, as I must, for effect, the
chair will jump, and that will be funny--see."
I fell--it did start backward, but Mr. Daly was equal to the emergency.
"Take off the castors and place the chair hard against the end of the
piano; now try!"
I did; the chair was firm as a rock. It was settled; I did as I was told,
and fell at the end of the act ever after. And Mr. Daly came and patted
me on the back, and said, kindly: "Don't fret; I honestly believe there's
something in the little part after all. That speech made me feel creepy."
But the scales on my own eyes were still firm and tight, and all I could
see in the play was the strength, power, and passion of the scenes
between the _Count_ and _Countess_, and the probable hit of Mr. Louis
James in his part of the _Duc de Mirandol_. The fate of this play rested
in other hands than mine, thank goodness, and I rejoiced in the freedom
from responsibility my small part gave me, and planned what I would do
when Miss Jewett took _Alixe_.
The great night came. Another small auditorium awaited the coming of our
patrons. There was a smell of scarce dried paint in front of the curtain
and of scrubbing-soap behind it; but all was bright and fresh, and the
house was soon packed with a brilliant audience. As the play to be
produced had but a small cast, and as Mr. Daly was anxious that the
entire company should share in this house-warming, he had invited Mr.
John Brougham to write a sort of prologue, giving a few apt lines to
every member of the company, and then to proceed to the play. This was
done--but, alas! Mr. Brougham's work was utterly unworthy of him. There
was not one flash of his wonderful wit. He confined himself to comments
upon the fire, after this manner; I spoke, saying:
"I can't remember half the things I lost, I fear----"
_Mr. Lewis_ (breaking in). "One article you have not lost----"
_C. M._ "What?"
_Lewis._ "'L'Article 47,' my dear."
Then Miss Jewett came forward to exclaim:
"My lovely 'peau de soie,'
The sweetest thing in silk I ever saw!"
It was only spoken one night. But the audience was so heartily kind to us
all that many of us had tears of sheer gratitude in our eyes. We were in
evening dress and were formed in a crescent-like line from box to box, as
the heavy red curtains parted revealing us, and Mr. Daly was very proud
of his family of manly-looking men and gracious women, and the audience
greeted the assembled company heartily. But that was nothing to the
welcome given as each favorite actor or actress stepped forward to
speak--and I was happy, happy, happy! when I found myself counted in as
one of them, with the welcome to the beautiful Davenport, Jewett, Dietz,
to the ever-favored Mrs. Gilbert, no longer, no heartier than my own! And
as I bowed low and gratefully, for just one moment I could not help
wishing that I had an important part to play, instead of the childish
thing awaiting me.
The prologue being over, Mr. Daly, with a frowning, disappointed face,
told those of the play to make all possible haste in changing their
dresses, that they might get to work and rub out the bad impression
already made.
Every important occasion seems to have its touch of the ridiculous, and
so had this one. The "bustle"--the big wire affair, extending to the
bottom of the skirt, had reached its hideous apogee of fashion at that
time, yet what possible relation could there be between that teetering
monstrosity and grace or sentiment or tragedy? Surely, I thought, this
girl-pupil, brought straight from convent-school to country-home, might
reasonably be bustleless--and I should look so much smaller--so much more
graceful! But--Mr. Daly? Never--never! would he consent to such a breach
of propriety! Fashion his soul loved! He pored over her plates! he bowed
to her mandates!
My courage having failed me, when I hurried to my room I put on the
obnoxious structure; but one glimpse of that camel-like hump on the back
of _Alixe_, and the thought of the fall in the chair made me desperate. I
tore the mass of wire off, and decided to keep out of sight till the last
moment, and then make a rush for the stage.
"Ready, Miss Morris?"
"Ready!" I answered, as the question was asked from door to door.
In a few moments the call-boy came back again: "Are you ready? Everyone
is out there but you."
"Oh, yes!" I said, showing myself to him, but still not leaving the
shelter of my room; and I heard him saying: "Yes, sir, she's all ready, I
saw her."
The curtain rose. Only a few lines were spoken before my entrance. I
dared wait no longer--heavens! no! for there was Mr. Daly coming for me.
I gathered up my skirts as bunchily as I could and ran out; but I could
not deceive Mr. Daly. In an instant he missed the necessary camel's hump.
"Good heaven and earth!" he shouted, "you've left your bustle!"
I broke into a run. "Wait!" he cried, loudly. He dashed into my open
room, caught the big bustle up, and dragging it like a great cage behind
him, came plunging down the entrance to me, crying: "Wait--wait!" and
waving the other hand commandingly above his head.
I heard my music; I sprang to the platform I had to enter from. "That's
me!" I cried. "Wait!" he ordered and reached out to catch me. I evaded
his grasp and skipped through the door, leaving but a fold of my skirt in
his hand. I was on the stage--and joy, oh, joy! I was without a bustle!
Mr. Daly did not like being laughed at, but when he glanced down and saw
the thing he was dragging behind him, after the manner of a baby's tin
wagon, he had to laugh, and verily there were others who laughed with
him, while the scandalized dresser carried the rejected article back to a
decent seclusion.
There is no manager, star, or agent alive whose experience will enable
him to foresee the fate of an untried play. A very curious thing is that
what is called an "actor's" play--one, that is, that actors praise and
enjoy in the rehearsing, is almost always a failure, while the managerial
judgment has been reversed so often by the public, that even the most
enthusiastic producer of new plays is apt "to hedge" a bit, with: "Unless
I deceive myself, this will prove to be the greatest play," etc.; while
the mistakes made by actors and managers both anent the value of certain
parts are illustrated sufficiently by E. H. Sothern, C. W. Couldock,
Joseph Jefferson--all three of whom made immense hits in parts they had
absolutely refused to accept, yielding only from necessity or
obligingness, and to their own astonishment finding fame in presenting
the unwelcome characters. And to the misjudged _Lord Dundreary_, _Asa
Trenchard_, etc., that night was added the name of _Alixe_.
Refined, intensely modern, the play was nevertheless a dread tragedy, and
being French it almost naturally dealt with the breaking of a certain
great commandment. And now--see: we actors thought that the stress and
power of the play would be shown in the confession of the wife and in the
scene of wild recrimination between her and the _Comte de Somerive_, when
they met after eighteen years of separation. But see, how different was
the view the public took. In the very first place then, when I escaped
the bustle, and entered, straight, and slim, art had so reduced my usual
height and changed my coloring, that until I spoke I was not recognized.
The kindly welcome then given me calmed my fears, and I said to myself:
"I can't be looking ridiculous in the part, or they would not do that!"
And women, at least, can understand how my very soul was comforted by the
knowledge. And just then a curious sense of joy seemed to bubble up in my
heart. The sudden relief, the feeling of irresponsibility, the
first-night excitement. Perhaps one, perhaps all together caused it. I
don't know--I only know that meaning no disrespect, no irreverence, I
could have sung aloud from the Benedicite: "_Omnia opera Domini!_" "Bless
ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him forever!"
And the audience accepted the joyous little maid almost from the first
girlish, love-betraying words she spoke, and yet--so sensitive is an
audience at times--while still laughing over her sweet ignorance, they
thrilled with a nameless dread of coming evil. They seemed to see the
blue sky darkening, the threatening clouds piling up silently behind the
white-robed child, whose perfect innocence left her so alone! Before the
first act ended we discovered that the tragedy was shifting from the
sinful mother and was settling down with crushing weight upon the
shoulders of the stainless child. Indeed, the whole play was like a
dramatization of the awful words: "The sins of the fathers shall be
visited upon the children!"
As the play went on and the impetuous grief of the child changed into
proud self-restraint, while her agonizing jealousy of her adored mother
developed, Mr. Daly, with wide, bright eyes, exclaimed: "I must have been
blind--stone-blind! Why _Alixe_ is the bone and marrow, the heart and
soul of this play!"
Certainly the audience seemed to share his belief, for it called and
called and called again for that misunderstood young person, in addition
to the hearty approval bestowed upon the other more prominent characters.
It was a very fine cast, Miss Fanny Morant making a stately and powerful
_Comtesse de Somerive_, while Mr. Louis James gave a performance of the
_Duc de Mirandol_ that I never saw even approached again. Every other
actor made of him either a fool or a brute, while James made of him a
delightful enigma--a sort of well-bred simpleton, rattle-brain, and
braggart, who at the last moment shows himself, beneath all disguise, a
brave and loyal gentleman.
But the greatest triumph for _Alixe_ followed in that act--the last--in
which she does not speak at all. She had been able to bear loss, sorrow,
renunciation, but as in olden times poison-tests were kept, crystal cups
of such rare purity they shattered under contact with an evil liquid--so
her pure heart broke at contact with her mother's shame. Poor, loving,
little base-born! Pathetic little marplot! Seeing herself as only a
stumbling-block to others, she sought self-effacement beneath the gentle
waters of the lily-pond. And early in that last act, as her drowned body,
carried in the arms of the two men who had loved her, was laid before the
starting eyes of the guilty mother, and the loving, forgiving, pleading
letter of the suicide was read above her, actual sobs rose from the front
of the house. It _was_ a heart-breaking scene.
But when the curtain fell, oh! what a very whirlwind broke loose in that
little theatre! The curtain shot up and down, up and down, and then, to
my amazement, Mr. Daly signaled for me to go before the curtain, and I
couldn't move. He stamped his foot and shouted: "Come over here and take
this call!" and I called back: "I can't! I am all pinned up, so I can't
walk!"
For, that my skirts might not fall away from my ankles, when I was being
carried across the stage, I had stood upon a chair and had my garments
tightly wound about me and securely fastened, and unfortunately the pins
were behind--and I all trussed up, nice and tight and helpless.
Mr. Daly came tearing over to me, and down he went upon his knee to try
to free me, but a muttered "D----n!" told me that he could not find the
pins, and the applause, oh, the precious applause that was being wasted
out there! Suddenly he rose--tossed that extraordinary hat of his off,
picked me up in his arms and carried me like a big property doll to the
curtain's side, signaled it up, and, with his arm about me, supported me
on to the stage. Oh, but I was proud to stand there with him, for in
those days he would not make the simplest speech; would not show himself
even. Why, at the banquet of his own giving, he hid behind a big floral
piece and made Mr. Oakey Hall speak for him. And yet he had been pleased
enough with my work to bring me there himself. I saw his hand upon my
shoulder, and suddenly I stooped my head and kissed it, in purest
gratitude.
Afterward, when I had been unpinned, as we walked through the entrance
together, he said, with a gleeful laugh: "This is the third and greatest,
but we share it."
"The third what?" I asked.
"The third surprise," he answered. "First you surprised the town in 'Man
and Wife'; second, you surprised _me_ in 'L'Article 47'; now 'Alixe'--the
greatest of all--surprises you as well as me!"
He stopped, stepped in front of me and asked: "What do you most wish
for?"