We Give a Charity Performance of "Camille," and Are Struck with
Amazement at our Success--Mr. Palmer Takes the Cue and Produces
"Camille" for Me at the Union Square.
Then came the great "charity benefit," and "Camille"--that "Ninon de l'
Enclos" of the drama, who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers
at her feet.
It is amazing how much accident has to do with the career of actors.
Shakespeare says:
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
And heaven knows I "rough-hewed" the "Camille" proposition to the best of
my power. I came hurrying back to New York, specially to act at the
mighty benefit, given for the starving poor of the city. Every theatre
was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket purchased was
good at any one of them. I had selected "Love's Sacrifice," an old
legitimate play, for that occasion and Mr. Palmer had cast it, when an
actress suddenly presented herself at his office declaring she had made
that play _her_ property, by her own exceptional work in it in former
years, at another theatre. Threatening hysterics often prove valuable
weapons in a manager's office, where, strangely enough, "a scene" is
hated above all things.
I was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was anybody's
property, and at once withdrew in the interest of peace. But what then
was to be done for the benefit? Every play proposed had some drawback.
Mr. Palmer suggested "Camille," and all my objections crowding to my lips
at once, I fairly stammered and spluttered over the expression of them: I
hated! hated! hated! the play! The people who had preceded me in it were
too great! I should be the merest pigmy beside them. I did not think
_Camille_ as vulgar and coarse as one great woman had made her--nor so
chill and nun-like as another had conceived her to be. And the critics
would fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. They would justly
cry "Presumption," and--and--I had no clothes! no, not one stitch had I
to wear (of course you will make the usual allowance for an excited woman
and not take that literally!) and then, oh, dear! I'm dreadfully ashamed
of myself, but to tell the exact truth, I wept--for the first and only
time in my life--I wept from anger!
We all fumed--we, meaning Mr. Palmer, Mr. Cazauran, that ferret-faced,
mysterious little man, whose clever brain and dramatic instincts made him
so valuable about a theatre; and the big, silently observant Mr. Shook,
and I. Cazauran said he knew all the business of the play and could tell
me it, and began with certain things Miss Heron (the greatest _Camille_
America had had) had done, and I indignantly declared I would leave a
theatre before I would do as much. I argued it was unnecessary. _Camille_
was not brutal--she had associated with gentlemen, members of the
nobility, men who were acquainted with court circles. She would have
learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutalities would have
shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted _Armand_. Her very
disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment.
If she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of
the world. She allured men by the very refinement of her vice. And as I
paused to take breath, Mr. Shook's bass voice was heard for the first
time, as he asked, conclusively: "Whom can we get for _Armand_ on such
short notice?"
I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer: "The critics"--I gasped and stopped. He
smiled reassuringly and said: "Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they
will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best
and remember it's only for once."
"Dear Lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks I made my way home, with
a copy of the detested play in my hand. Late that evening I was notified
that Mr. Mayo would play _Armand_.
I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I should look like a
school-mistress in one act and a stage _ingenue_ in another. I had a
ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. I should only be correct
when I got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. Actress
fashion, I got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string
of amber beads to study--I never learn anything so quickly as when I have
something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has assisted
me over many and many an hour of mental labor--a pleasanter custom than
that of walking and studying aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to
one's near neighbors.
The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. We went over two acts
on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day,
and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of
hammering and sawing, of running and ordering--for every stage was filled
at the rear with rushing carpenters and painters. Yet those were the only
rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance,
and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and
I remember I spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the
handsome young English woman who did _Olympe_ to keep out of my chair and
to go to and from the piano at the right moment.
The house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what
was then called "The Lyceum," which Charles Fechter had just been having
remodeled, and the police discovering that day that the floor of the
balcony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, very
cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming message in the ear of a
person here, there, and yonder, who would nod, rise, and step quietly
out, returning a moment later to smilingly motion their party out with
them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic being caused,
though it made one feel rather sick and faint afterward to note the depth
to which the floor had sagged under the feet of that tightly packed
audience.
James Lewis used to say to me: "Clara is the biggest fraud of a
first-nighter the profession can show. There she'll stand shivering and
shaking, white-sick with fright, waiting for her cue, and when she gets
it, she skips on and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for
a year at least. No wonder Mr. Daly calls her his best first-nighter."
So at that first performance of "Camille," as Frank Mayo touched my icy
hand and burning brow, and saw the trembling of my limbs, as with
fever-dried lips I waited for the curtain's rise, he said: "God! but you
suffer! I reckon you'll not act much to-day, little woman!" And a few
minutes later, as I laughed and chatted gayly through the opening lines
of the play, I distinctly heard Frank say: "Well, of all the sells! Why
confound her, I'm twice as nervous as she is!"
The first act went with a sort of dash and go that was the result of pure
recklessness. The house was delighted. The curtain had to go up twice. We
all looked at one another, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. The
second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot passion between
_Armand_ and _Camille_ that when _De Varville's_ torn letter was cast to
_Nanine_ as _Camille's_ answer, and the lovers leaped to each others'
arms, the house simply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up
and down, Mayo gasped in amazement: "Well, I'm damned!" But I made
answer: "No, you're not--but you _will_ be if you hammer my poor spine in
another act as you have in this. Go easy, Frank; I can't stand it!"
The third act went beautifully. Many women sobbed at times. I made my
exit some little time before the end of the act, and of course went
directly to my room, which was beneath the stage, and there began to
dress for the ball-room scene, and lo! after _Armand_ had had two or
three calls for his last speech, something set them on to call for
_Camille_. And they kept at it, too, till at last a mermaid-like
creature--not exactly half fish and half woman, but half ball-gown train
and half dinky little dressing-sack--came bobbing to the curtain side,
delighting the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of the
illusion of the play.
In the fourth act Mr. Mayo played base-ball with me. He batted me and
hurled me and sometimes I had a wild fear that he would kick me. Finally,
he struck my head so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my
scalp and I found a few moments' rest in truly fainting from fatigue,
fright, and pain.
But it all went. Great heaven! how it went! For Mayo was a great actor,
and it was but intense excitement that made him so rough with me.
Honestly we were so taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew
what to make of the frantic demonstrations--whether it was just the
result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, or whether we were
giving an extremely good performance.
The last act I can never forget. I had cut out two or three pages from
the dialogue in the book. I felt there was too much of it. That if
_Camille_ did not die, her audience would, and had built up a little
scene for myself. Never would I have dared do such a thing had it been
for more than one performance. That scene took in the crossing of the
room to the window, the looking-glass scene, and the return to the bed.
Dear heaven! it's good to be alive sometimes! to feel your fingers upon
human hearts, to know a little pressure hurts, that a little tighter
pressure will set tears flowing. It was good, too, when that madly-rushed
performance was at last over, to lie back comfortably dead, and hear the
sweet music that is made by small gloved hands, violently spatted
together. "Yes, it was 'werry' good."
And Mr. Palmer, standing in his box, looking at the pleased, moist-eyed
people in front, took up the cue they offered, so promptly that within
twenty-four hours I had been engaged to play _Camille_ at the Union
Square, as one of a cast to be ever proud of, in a handsome production
with sufficient rehearsals and correct gowns and plenty of extra ladies
and gentlemen to "enter all!" at the fourth act. And more still, the new
play that was then in preparation was called in and packed away with
mothballs to wait until the old play had had its innings.
Such a cast! Just look at it!
_M. Armand Duval_ MR. CHARLES R. THORNE
_Comte de Varville_ MR. MCKEE RANKIN
_M. Duval (Pere)_ MR. JOHN PARSELLE
_M. Gustave_ MR. CLAUDE BURROUGHS
_M. Gaston_ MR. STUART ROBSON
_Mademoiselle Olympe_ MISS MAUDE GRANGER
_Mademoiselle Nichette_ MISS KATE CLAXTON
_Mademoiselle Nanine_ MISS KATE HOLLAND
_Madame Prudence_ MISS EMILY MESTAYER
If Mr. Palmer ever eats opium or hashish and has beauteous visions, I am
sure he will see himself making out those splendid old casts again.
Every theatre-goer knows it's difficult for a stout, romantic actor to
make his love reach convincingly all the way round, and it is almost as
difficult for an actor who has attained six feet of height to make his
love include his entire length of anatomy. But Charles R. Thorne was the
most satisfactory over-tall lover I ever saw. He really seemed entirely
possessed by the passion of love. "My God Thorne" he was nicknamed
because of his persistent use of that exclamation. Of course it did
often occur in plays by authority of their authors, but whenever Thorne
was nervous, confused, or "rattled," as actors term it, or uncertain of
the next line, he would pass his hand across his brow and exclaim, in
suppressed tones: "My God!" and delicious creepy chills would go up and
down the feminine spine out in the auditorium--the male spine is not so
sensitive, you know. A fine actor, hot-tempered, quick to take offence,
equally quick to repent his too hasty words; as full of mischief as a
monkey, he was greatly beloved by those near to him. I worked with him in
perfect amity, albeit I do not think he ever called me anything but
_Johnny_, the name Lou James bestowed upon me at Daly's; and his death
found me shocked and incredulous as well as grieved. He should have
served his admiring public many a year longer, this most admirable
_Armand_.
And Mr. Parselle, what a delight his stage presence was. He had unction,
jollity, tenderness, dignity, but above all a most polished courtesy. It
was worth two dollars to see John Parselle in court dress, and his
entrance and salutation as _Duval Pere_ in the cottage scene of "Camille"
was an unfailing gratification to me--he was a dramatic gem of great
value.
Mr. Stuart Robson, by expressing a genuine tenderness of sympathy for the
dying woman in the last act, amazed and delighted everyone. It had not
been suspected that a trained comedian, who hopped about and lisped and
squeaked through the other acts, could lay aside those eccentricities and
show real gentleness and sincerity in the last--a very memorable _Gaston_
was Mr. Stuart Robson.
But oh, how many of these names are cut in marble now! Poor Claude
Burroughs! with his big eyes, his water curls, and his tight-waisted
coats. We would not have poked so much fun at him, had we known how
terrible was the fate approaching him.
And little Katie Holland--she of the knee-reaching auburn locks, the
gentlest of living creatures--God in His wisdom, which finite man may not
understand, has taken and held safe, lo! these many years.
As an ex-votary of pleasure, _Prudence_ is always more convincing if she
can show some remnant of past beauty; so the statuesque regularity of
feature the Mestayer family was famous for, told here, and the _Prudence_
of Miss Emily Mestayer was as handsome and heartless a harpy as one ever
saw.
Then, too, there were the gorgeous Maude Granger, the ruddy-haired
Claxton, and the piratically handsome Rankin; their best opportunities
were yet to come to all three. And with that cast Mr. Palmer achieved a
great success, with the play that, old then, shows to this day the most
astounding vitality.
The only drawback was to be found in its impropriety as an entertainment
for the ubiquitous "young person," in the immorality of _Camille's_ life,
which was much dwelt upon. Now--oh, the pity of it!--now _Camille_ is, by
comparison with modern plays, absolutely staid. It is the adulteries of
wives and husbands that the "young person" looks unwinkingly upon to-day.
Worse still--the breaking of the Seventh Commandment no longer leads to
tragic punishment, as of yore, but the thunders that rolled about Mount
Sinai at the promulgation of that awful warning: "Thou shalt not commit
adultery!" are answered now by the thunders of laughter that greet the
taking in adultery of false wives and husbands in milliners' many-doored
rooms, or restaurants' _cabinet particulier_. Alas, that the time should
come that this passion for the illicit should so dominate the stage!
One more delightful production at the Union Square Theatre I shared in,
and then my regular company days were over.