Trouble about Obnoxious Lines in "Madeline Morel"--Mr. Daly's
Manipulation of Father X: In Spite of our Anxiety the Audience accepts
the Situation and the Play--Mr. Daly gives me the smallest Dog in New
York.
The last and fourth success that was granted to me under Mr. Daly's
management was in "Madeline Morel." Of course I played in many plays,
sometimes small, comparatively unimportant parts, sometimes, as in the
two-hundred-night run of "Divorce," I played a long, hard-working part,
that was without any marked characteristic or salient feature to make a
hit with.
But I only mention "Madeline Morel" because of a couple of small
incidents connected with its production. First of all, let me say that I
believe Mr. Daly, who was an ardent Catholic, was not the first manager
to give benefits to the Orphan Asylums, for I think that had long been a
custom, but he was the first to arrange those monster programmes, which
included the names of every great attraction in the city--bar none. The
result was not merely an Academy of Music literally packed, but crowds
turned from its doors. I remember what excitement there was over the
gathering together in one performance of such people as Fechter, Sothern,
Adelaide Neilson, Aimee, and Mr. and Mrs. Barney Williams. I first saw
the beautiful Mary Anderson at one of these benefits, as well as those
two clever English women, Rose Coghlan and Jeffreys Lewis. Later on, when
I was under Mr. Palmer's management, I had an experience at a benefit
that I am not likely to forget. I had consented to do the fourth act of
"Camille" (the ball-room scene), and when I swept through the crowd of
"guests," every word was wiped clean out of my memory, for as they faced
me I recognized in the supposed supers and extras all the various
stars--the leading ladies and gentlemen who had had a place on the
lengthy programme. Working hard, giving of their best, they had all
laughingly joined in this gracious whim of playing supernumeraries in
Dumas's ball-scene. And I remember that Mademoiselle Aimee was
particularly determined to be recognized as she walked and strolled up
and down. Once I whispered imploringly to her: "Turn your back, Madame!"
but she laboriously answered: "Non! I haiv' not of ze shame to be supe
for you, Mademoiselle!" It was a charming compliment, but more than a bit
overwhelming to its recipient.
Well, Mr. Daly having originated, as I believe, these splendid and
lengthy benefit performances, was, as a result, able to place a goodly
sum of money at the service of the Asylum authorities, and naturally he
received warm thanks from his Church.
Then, when "Madeline Morel" came along, with the great cathedral scene,
we all stood aghast at what I was called upon to say and do. Everyone was
on the stage, and nearly everyone whispered: "Sacrilege!" I stopped
stock-still, in sheer fright. Mr. Daly pulled nervously at the lapel of
his coat for a moment, and then said, sharply, "Go on!" I obeyed, but
right behind me someone said: "And he calls himself a Catholic!"
It was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and impressive act. As a
"sister" who had served the "novitiate," I had just taken the life vows
and had been invested with the black veil. Then the wedding procession
and the Church procession, coming from opposite sides and crossing before
the altar, like a great "X," brought the bridegroom and the black nun
face to face, in dreadful recognition, and in the following scene I had
to drag from my head the veil and swathing white linen--had to tear from
my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, stretch my arms to
Heaven and, with upraised face, cry: "I call down upon my guilty soul
the thunders of a curse, that none may hear and live!" and then fall
headlong, as though my challenge had been accepted.
Nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and those of the
company who were Catholics were particularly excited, and they cried:
"Why, if we find it so repellant, what on earth will an audience think of
it?"
Some prophesied hisses, some that the people would rise and leave the
theatre. That Mr. Daly was uneasy about its effect he did not attempt to
hide, and one day he said to me: "I think I'll call on Father X---- (his
confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his--well--his opinion
on this matter." But, unfortunately, rumors had already reached churchly
ears, and the reverend gentleman came that same day to inquire of Mr.
Daly concerning them. I say "unfortunately," because Mr. Daly was a
masterful man and resented anything like interference. Had he been
permitted to introduce the matter himself, no doubt a few judicious
words from the priest would have induced him to tone down the
objectionable speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him the
wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy in him. He described
the play, however, assured his old friend there were no religious
arguments, no homilies in it, but when he came to _the_ scene, the
Father shook his head: "No--no! my son!" said he, "I do not see how that
can be sanctioned."
Mr. Daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded; but though it evidently hurt
the good man to refuse, since he was greatly attached to his son in the
church, he still shook his head and at last declared it was a serious
matter, and he would have to bring it to the Bishop's attention. But that
was just what Mr. Daly did not want. "Can you not see, Father," he said,
"these lines are spoken in a frenzy? They come from the lips of a woman
mad with grief and trouble! They have not the value or the consequence of
words spoken by a sane person!"
The priest shook his head. Suddenly Mr. Daly ceased his arguments and
persuasions. After a little silence, he said: "You cannot sanction this
scene, then, Father?"
A positive shake of the head. Mr. Daly looked pensively out of the
window.
"Too bad!" he sighed, "too bad!"
The kind old man sighed too, companionably.
"You see, if that scene is not done, the play cannot be done."
"Dear, dear!" murmured the priest.
"And if the play is not done, having nothing else at hand, I shall have
to close the season with the old play, and naturally that will mean bad
business."
"Too bad, too bad!" muttered the voice, comfortably.
"And if the season ends badly, why, of course, there can be no charity
benefit."
"What?" sharply exclaimed the erstwhile calm voice. "No benefit for our
poor? Why--why--'er--I--dear me! and the Asylum needs help so
badly!--'er--a 'frenzy' you said, my son? Spoken in
madness?--'er--I--well--I will give the matter serious thought, and I'll
acquaint you with my conclusion," and evidently much disturbed he
retired.
And when Mr. Daly told me this, he added, with a twinkle in his eye: "He
will get the benefit, surely enough." And when he saw my bewilderment, he
added: "Don't you see? I had my doubts about the Bishop, but dear old
Father X---- will be so anxious about his orphans that he will make
things right for me with him, for their sakes." A view of the matter that
proved to be correct. Verily a clever man was our manager.
Day after day we rehearsed, and day after day I hoped that the dreadful
bit of business might be toned down. At last my nerves gave way
completely, and after a particularly trying rehearsal I rushed to the
managerial office, and, bursting into tears, begged hard to be excused
from trampling the cross under foot.
"Surely," I sobbed, "it's bad enough to have to tear off the
veil--and--and--I'm afraid something will happen!"
"And," said Mr. Daly, "to tell you the truth, I'm afraid, too!"
He gave me a glass of water, and waiting a moment for me to conquer my
tears, he went on: "I'm glad you have come in, I was just about sending
for you."
"Oh!" I interrupted, "you are going to cut something out?" But he
answered, gravely: "No! I shall cut nothing out! But look here, you are a
brave girl, and forewarned is forearmed, you know, so I am going to speak
quite plainly. I don't know how the public may receive that bit of
business; perhaps with dead silence; perhaps with hisses."
I sprang to my feet. "Sit down!" he said, "and listen. You shall not be
held responsible, in the slightest degree, for the scene, I promise you
that. If anything disagreeable happens it shall be fairly stated that you
played under protest. It is, of course, possible that the scene may go
along all right, but I want to warn you that you may prepare yourself for
the storm, should it come. I don't want you to be taken unawares and have
you faint or lose your nerve. So, now whenever you go over your part and
reach that point, say to yourself: 'Here they hiss!' Don't look so pale.
I'm sorry you have to bear the brunt alone, but you will be brave, won't
you?"
And I rose, and after my usual habit, tried to jest, as I answered:
"Since you alone gave me my opportunity of being _applauded_ in New York,
I suppose it's only fair that I should accept this opportunity of being
_hissed_."
Excited and miserable I went home. Faithfully I followed Mr. Daly's
suggestion. But no matter how often I went over the scene, whenever I
said: "Here they hiss," my face went white, my hands turned cold as
stone. 'Twas fortunate the first performance was near, for I could not
have borne the strain long. As it was, I seemed to wear my nerves on the
outside of my clothes until the dreaded night was over.
The play had gone finely; most of the people were well cast. Miss Morant,
Miss Davenport, Miss Jewett, Miss Varian especially so; while Fisher,
Lewis, Lemoyne, Crisp, Clark, and James did their best to make a success
and close in glory the season that had been broken in half by the burning
of the home theatre. The end of the third act had been mine. The
passionate speech of renunciation and farewell had won the favor of the
house, and call after call followed. As I had played the scene alone, I
should have been proud and happy--should have counted the calls with a
miser's gloating satisfaction. But instead my blood was already chilling
with dread of the coming act.
"Good Lord, child!" said Mr. Daly, "your face is as long as my arm! Don't
anticipate evil--take the good the gods send you. You are making a hit
and you're losing all the pleasure of it. I'm ashamed of you!"
But he wrung my fingers hard, even as he spoke, and I knew that his words
were, what the boys call a "bluff."
Then the curtain was rising. The cathedral scene won a round of applause,
and kneeling at the altar, as children say, "I scringed" at the sound.
Then after a little I was coming down the stage and the audience,
recognizing _Madeline_ in the nun, applauded long and heartily, and I
fairly groaned aloud. After that the act proceeded really with stately
dignity, but to my terrified eyes it seemed indecent haste; and as I fell
into line with the Church procession of sisters, of novices, of priests
and acolytes, I felt myself a morsel in a kaleidoscopic picture of bright
colors, the churchly purple and its red and white, the brilliant gowns of
the women of fashion, the golden organ-pipes, the candles burning
star-like upon the altar, the massed flowers, and over all, giving a
touch of floating unreality to everything, the clouds of incense.
Then suddenly, out of the bluish haze, there gleamed the white, set face,
for love of which I was to sacrifice my very soul! The scene was on,
swift, passionate, and furious, and almost before I could realize it, the
dreadful words had been spoken--and with my foot upon the cross, I stood
in a silence the like of which I had never known before! I had not
fallen--stricken absolutely motionless with terror I stood--waiting.
In that crowded building even breathing seemed suspended. There reigned a
silence, like to death itself! It was awful! Then without changing my
attitude by the movement of a finger, I pitched forward, falling heavily
at the feet of the dismayed lover and the indignant priest. And suddenly,
sharply as by a volley of musketry, the silence was broken by applause.
Yes, actually by applause, and beneath its noise I heard a voice behind
me gasp: "Well, I'll be blest!"
When all was ended, and after the final courtesies had been extended and
gratefully accepted, there was an outburst of excited comment, and more
than one experienced actor declared that never again would they even try
to anticipate the conduct of an audience. Old Mr. Fisher told Mr. Daly
he had felt the rising hiss and he was positive it was regard for the
woman that had restrained its expression.
Mr. Daly patted the old gentleman on the shoulder and answered:
"Perhaps--perhaps! but if for her sake the public has swallowed that
scene one night, the public have got to go on swallowing it every
night--and that's the important point for us."
Very shamefacedly I apologized for not falling at the proper time, and as
I hurriedly promised to do so the next night, to my surprise Mr. Daly
stopped me with a quick: "No! no! change nothing! I was in front, and
that pause, staring straight up into heaven, was tremendously effective.
It was as if God offered you a moment to repent in--then struck you down!
Change nothing, and to-morrow you shall have your heart's desire."
I gazed at him in amazement. He laughed a bit maliciously and said: "Old
heat-registers and things carry voices. I hear many things. I have heard,
for instance, about a man named Dovey and a wonderful toy terrier that
weighs by ounces. I wouldn't open my eyes any wider, if I were you; they
might stay that way. Well, will you show me the way to Dovey's by eleven
to-morrow?"
"But," I faltered, "I'm afraid of the price----"
"That's my affair," he answered curtly, then added, more kindly,
"Good-night! you have behaved well, Miss Morris, and if I can give you a
pleasure--I shall be glad."
And next day I owned the tiniest dog in New York, who slept in a
collar-box, by my pillow, that I might not hurt it in the night. Whose
bark was like a cambric needle, and who, within five minutes after her
arrival, challenged to deadly combat my beloved Bertie, who weighed good
four pounds.