His attention to tiny details amazed me. One morning, after Mr. Crisp had joined the company, he had to play a love-scene with me, and the "business" of the scene required him to hold me some time in his embrace.

But Mr. Crisp's embrace did not suit Mr. Daly--no more did mine. Out he went, in front, and looked at us.

"Oh," he cried, "confound it! Miss Morris, relax--relax! lean on him--he won't break! That's better--but lean more! lean as if you needed support!

What? Yes, I know you don't need it--but you're in love, don't you see?

and you're not a lady by a mile or two! For G.o.d's sake, Crisp, don't be so stiff and inflexible! Here, let me show you!"

Up Mr. Daly rushed on to the stage, and taking Crisp's place, convulsed the company with his effort at acting the lover. Then back again to the front, ordering us to try that embrace again.

"That's better!" he cried; "but hold her hand closer, tighter! not quite so high--oh, that's too low! Don't poke your arm out, you're not going to waltz. What in ---- are you scratching her back for?"

It was too much; in spite of the awe in which Mr. Daly was held, everyone, Crisp included, screamed with laughter, while Mr. Daly fumed and fretted over the time that was being wasted.

One of my early experiences of his way of directing a rehearsal made a deep impression upon me. In the play of "Jezebel" I had the t.i.tle part.

There were a number of characters on in the scene, and Mr. Daly wanted to get me across the stage, so that I should be out of hearing distance of two of the gentlemen. Now, in the old days, the stage-director would simply have said: "Cross to the Right," and you would have crossed because he told you to; but in Mr. Daly's day you had to have a _reason_ for crossing the drawing-room, and so getting out of the two gentlemen's way--and a reason could not be found.

Here are a few of the many rejected ideas: There was no guest for me to cross to in welcoming pantomime; no piano on that side of the room for me to cross to and play on softly; ah, the fireplace! and the pretty warming of one foot? But no, it was summer-time, that would not do. The ancient fancy-work, perhaps? No, she was a human panther, utterly incapable of so domestic an occupation. The fan forgotten on the mantel-piece? Ah, yes, that was it! you cross the room for that--and then suddenly I reminded Mr. Daly that he had, but a moment before, made a point of having me strike a gentleman sharply on the cheek with my fan.

"Oh, confound it, yes!" he answered, "and that's got to stand--that blow is good!"

The old, old device of attendance upon the lamp was suggested; but the hour of the day was plainly given by one of the characters as three o'clock in the afternoon.

These six are but few of the many rejected reasons for that one cross of the stage; still Mr. Daly would not permit a motiveless action, and we came to a momentary standstill. Very doubtfully, I remarked: "I suppose a smelling-bottle would not be important enough to cross the room for?"

He brightened quickly--clouded over even more quickly: "Y-e-e-s! N-o-o!

at least, not if it had never appeared before. But let me see--Miss Morris, you must carry that smelling-bottle in the preceding scene, and--and, yes, I'll just put in a line in your part, making you ask some one to hand it to you--that will nail attention to it, you see! Then in this scene, when you leave these people and cross the room to get your smelling-bottle from the mantel, it will be a perfectly natural action on your part, and will give the men their chance of explanation and warning." And at last we were free to move on to other things.

Above all was he eager to have his stage present a home-like interior.

Never shall I forget my amazement when I first saw a piece of furniture occupying the very centre of the stage, while I with others were reduced to acting in any sc.r.a.p of room we could "scrooge" into, as children say.

Long trains were fashionable then, and it was no uncommon sight to see the lover standing with both feet firmly planted upon his lady's train while he implored her to fly with him--the poor man had to stand somewhere! Miss Davenport, in one of her comedy scenes, having to move about a good deal on the crowded stage, finally wound her trailing skirts so completely about a chair that, at her exit, the chair went with her, causing a great laugh.

One night a male character, having to say boastfully to me: "I have my hand upon a fortune!" I added in an undertone: "And both feet upon my white satin dress!" at which he lost his grip (as the boys say) and laughed aloud--said laugh costing him a forfeit of fifty cents, which really should have been paid by me, as I was the guilty cause of that disastrous effect. But the gentleman was not only gallant but well used to being forfeited, and unconcernedly paid the penalty exacted.

But really it was very distressing trying to make your way between pieces of furniture--stopping to release your skirts from first one thing and then another, and often destroying all the effect of your words by such action. One evening I petulantly observed to Mr. Daly: "I see now why one is only _woolly_ in the West--in the East one gets the wool all rubbed off on unnecessary pedestals and centre-divans."

He laughed first, then pulled up sharply, saying: "Perhaps you did not notice that your comment contained a criticism of my judgment, Miss Morris? If I think the furniture necessary, that is sufficient," and I gave him a military salute and ran down-stairs. At the foot Mr. George Brown and one of the pretty young women stood. She was saying: "Now if any of _us_ had said there was too much crowding from that rubbishy old furniture, he would have made us pay a nice forfeit for it, but Miss Morris gets off scot-free!"

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Brown, "but then she amused him first with the idea of rubbing the Western wool off here, and you can't very well laugh and then turn around and forfeit the person who made you do it."

And so I learned that if no detail was too small for Mr. Daly to consider carefully in his preparation of a play, so no detail of daily life in his theatre was too small for notice, consideration, and comment, and I resolved to try hard to curb my careless speech, lest it get me into trouble.

Early during that first week my friend, John Norton, said to me: "Have you spoken to Mr. Daly about your salary yet?"

"Good gracious, no!" I answered.

"Well, but you should," he persisted; "that is only business. You have made a great hit; he promised you to double thirty-five dollars if you made a favorable impression."

"Well," I cried, "wait till salary-day, and very likely I'll get it; he will keep his word, only, for mercy's sake, give him a chance! It would insult him were I to remind him, now, of his promise."

I was content to wait, but Mr. Norton was anxious. Monday came and, tremblingly, I opened my envelope to find thirty-five dollars--no more, no less. I knew what anyone else would do, I knew I was valuable to Mr.

Daly, but, oh, those years and years of repression--for so long a time _to be seen--not heard_, had been the law of my weary life, and now the old thrall was upon me, I simply could not demand my right.

The tears fell fast as I went home, with that miserable wage in my hand.

We were in such dreadful straits for clothing. Other needs we could hide, but not the need of outer garments. I was quite sick with disappointment and anxiety, yet I would not permit Mr. Norton to go and speak for me, as that would mean gossip as to his right to interfere.

I used to plan out exactly what I was going to say, and start a little earlier to the theatre, that I might have time to see Mr. Daly and remind him of his promise, and then, when I got there, unconquerable shame overcame me--I _could_ not!

Then one night Mr. Daly asked me to sign a contract for five years, with a certain rise in salary each year. I utterly refused. I knew that would mean absolute bondage. He said he would raise my salary now, if I would sign; and I did actually whisper, that he had not kept his promise about this year's salary.

He curtly answered: "Never mind this year--sign for five, and this season will then take care of itself!"

"No," I said, and yet again "No!" "Mr. Daly," I cried, "I shall be grateful to you all the days of my life for giving me this chance in New York--you are treating me badly, but I am grateful enough not to rebel. I will play for you every season of my life, if you want me; I will never consider an offer without first telling you of it, but you must engage me but for one season at a time."

"Then you can go!" he said. "All my people are engaged from three to five years--I will not break my rule for anyone; so now you can choose!"

"Pardon me," I answered, huskily, "you chose for me when you told me to go!" I bowed to him and went out, sore at heart and deeply wounded, for I was keeping silent as to his broken promise out of sheer grat.i.tude for the opening he had given me.

The letter-box for the company hung near his private office. One night, as he unlocked his door, he saw old man Keating (the stage-door man) sorting out letters for the various boxes. One caught Mr. Daly's eye, bearing the name of Wallack. He took it from Keating's hand; it was addressed to Clara Morris. No one ever called Mr. Daly a dull man, and when he put two and two together, even in a hurry, he knew quite well that the result would be four; and when he put the words, "Wallack's Theatre," and the address, "Clara Morris," together he knew equally well the result would be an offered engagement. Then Mr. Daly put back the letter and said sharply to the reverent Keating: "Whatever you do, don't let Miss Morris pa.s.s you when she comes in. Stop her before she takes her key. Remember, whether early or late, stop her anyway, and send her to my room. Tell her it is urgent--you understand? Before she gets her key (by the letter-box) I _must_ see her!"

Yes, he understood, for when I came in I was switched away from the key-board in a jiffy and rushed by the elbow to the governor's office, and even held there until the summons to enter answered the knock of the determined and obedient Keating.

Inside, Mr. Daly, smiling benignly, greeted me as one greets a naughty, spoiled child, and pulling me by my fingers toward his desk, showed me a contract outspread: "A contract for _one_ season," he said, giving me a light tap on my ear. "Though you must promise silence on the subject, for there would be an outcry of favoritism if it were known that I broke a rule for you! Salary? oh, the salary is only fifty-five dollars, but we will balance that by my a.s.sistance in the matter of wardrobe. Whenever you have five dresses to buy I will provide three, which will belong to me afterward, of course--and--and just sign now, for I'm in a great haste, child, as I have an appointment to keep! Oh, you don't want any time to think over an engagement of just one season! You obstinate little block! and, by the way, I'll add five dollars a week to your present salary for the rest of the season, if you sign this--yes, that's the right place!"

So pinched, so tormented were we for money that I signed instantly to secure that immediate poor little five dollars a week rise! Signed and went out to find, awaiting me in the letter-box, a better offer from Mr.

Lester Wallack.

And let me say right here that about the middle of the season I found that some young actresses, who handed me cards on the stage, and in laced caps and ap.r.o.ns appeared as maids in my service, were receiving for their arduous duties a higher salary than I received as leading woman and their play-mistress. "It's a strange world, my masters, a very strange world!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH

I Go to the Sea-sh.o.r.e--The Search for a "Scar"--I Make a Study of Insanity, and Meet with Success in "L'Article 47."

I had got safely through my first dreaded vacation. I had had two wonderful weeks at the seaside, where, with Mr. and Mrs. James Lewis and George Parkes, I had boarded with Mrs. By Baker, whom we left firmly convinced of our general insanity--harmless, but quite hopeless cases she thought us. Awed into reverent silence I had taken my first long look at the ocean; that mighty monster, object of my day-dreams all the years, lay that day outstretched, smiling, dimpling, blinking like the babe of giants, basking in the sun.

I had inhaled with delight the briny coolness of its breath, and with my friends had engaged in wild romps in its waves, all of us arrayed meanwhile in bathing dresses of hideous aspect, made from gray flannel of penitential color and scratchiness, and most malignant modesty of cut; which were yet the eminently proper thing at that time.

I almost wonder, looking at the bathing dresses of to-day, that old Ocean, who is a lover of beauty, did not dash the breath out of us, and then fling us high and dry on the beach, where the sands might quickly drift over our ugly sh.e.l.ls and hide them from view.

All this happened, and much more, before I came to the play "L'Article 47," famous for its great French court scene, and for the madness of its heroine. I am so utterly lacking in self-confidence that it was little short of cruelty for Mr. Daly to tell me, as he did, that the fate of the play hung upon that single scene; that the production would be expensive and troublesome, and its success or failure lay absolutely in my hands.

I turned white as chalk, with sheer fright, and could scarcely force myself to speak audibly, when asked if I could do the part.

I answered, slowly, that I thought it unfair for Mr. Daly first to reduce me to a state of imbecility, through fear, and then ask me to make a close study of violent madness--since the two conditions were generally reversed.

The people laughed, but there was no responsive smile on my lips, as I entered upon a period of mental misery that only ended with the triumphant first night.