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 mothb.a.l.l.s 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 Pa.r.s.eLLE _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 pa.s.sion of love. "My G.o.d 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 pa.s.s his hand across his brow and exclaim, in suppressed tones: "My G.o.d!" 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. Pa.r.s.elle, 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 Pa.r.s.elle 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--G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOURTH

"Miss Multon" Put in Rehearsal--Our Squabble over the Manner of her Death--Great Success of the Play--Mr. Palmer's Pride in it--My _Au Revoir_.

The other day, in recalling to Mr. Palmer a long list of such successful productions of his as "Led Astray," "The Two Orphans," "Camille," "Miss Multon," "The Danicheffs," "The Celebrated Case," etc., he surprised me by emphatically declaring that the performance of "Miss Multon" came nearer to absolute perfection than had any other play he had ever produced; and to convince me of that, he simply brought forward the cast of the play to help prove the truth of his a.s.sertion. As we went over the characters one by one, I was compelled to admit that from the leading part to the smallest servant, I had never seen one of them quite equaled since. Mr. Palmer's pride in this production seemed the more odd at first, because of its slight demands upon the scenic-artist, the carpenter, and upholsterer. It needs just two interior scenes--a busy doctor's study in London and a morning-room in a French country-house--that's all. "But," he will enthusiastically cry, "think of that performance, recall those people," and so, presently, I will obey him and recall them every one.

The play had twice failed in Paris, which was, to say the least, discouraging. When it was read to me I thought the tremendous pa.s.sion of maternity ought to touch the public heart--others there were, who said no, that s.e.xual love alone could interest the public. Mr. Palmer thought the French play had needed a little brightening; then, too, he declared the people wanted to see the actual end of the heroine (one of Mr. Daly's fixed beliefs, by the way), therefore he had Mr. Cazauran write two additional short acts--a first, to introduce some brightness in the children's Christmas-tree party and some amus.e.m.e.nt in the old bachelor doctor and his old maid sister; and a last for the death of _Miss Multon_.

After brief reflection I concluded I would risk it, and then, just by way of encouragement, Mr. Cazauran, who had always been at pains to speak as kindly of my work as that work would allow, when he was critic on the different papers, declared that all my acquired skill and natural power of expressing emotion united would prove useless to me--that _Miss Multon_ was to be my Waterloo, and to all anxious or surprised "whys?"

sapiently made answer: "No children." His argument was, that not being a mother in reality, I could not be one in imagination.

Always lacking in self-confidence, those words made my heart sink physically, it seemed to me, as well as figuratively; but the ever-ready jest came bravely to the fore to hide my hurt from the public eye, and at next rehearsal I shook my head mournfully and remarked to the little man: "Bad--bad! Miss Cushman must be a very bad _Lady Macbeth_--I don't want to see her!"

"What?" he exclaimed, "Cushman not play _Lady Macbeth_--for heaven's sake, why not?"

"No murderess!" I declared, with an air of authority recognized by those about me as a fair copy of his own. "If Miss Cushman is not a murderess, pray how can she act _Lady Macbeth_--who is?" And the laugh that followed helped a little to scare away the bugaboo his words had raised in my mind.

Then, ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, the question of dress proved to be a snag, and there was any amount of backing and filling before we could get safely round it.

"What are you going to wear, Miss Morris?" asked Mr. Cazauran one day after rehearsal--and soon we were at it, and the air was thick with black, brown, gray, purple, red, and blue! I starting out with a gray traveling-dress, for a reason, and Mr. Cazauran instantly and without reason condemned it. He thought a rich purple would be about the thing.

Mr. Palmer gave a small contemptuous "Humph"! and I cried out, aghast: "Purple? the color of royalty, of pomp, of power? A governess in a rich purple? Your head would twist clear round, hind side to, with amazement, if you saw a woman crossing from Calais to Dover attired in a royal purple traveling-suit."

Mr. Palmer said: "Nonsense, Cazauran; purple is not appropriate;" and then, "How would blue--dark blue or brown do?" he asked.

"For just a traveling-dress either one would answer perfectly," I answered; "but think of the character I am trying to build up. Why not let me have all the help my gown can give me? My hair is to be gray--white at temples; I have to wear a dress that requires no change in going at once to cars and boat. Now gray or drab is a perfect traveling-gown, but think, too, what it can express--gray hair, white face, gray dress without relief of tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, does it not suggest the utterly flat, hopeless monotony of the life of a governess in London? Not hunger, not cold, but the very dust and ashes of life? Then, when the woman arrives at the home of her rival and tragedy is looming big on the horizon, I want to wear red."

"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed Cazauran; and really red was so utterly unworn at that time that I was forced to buy furniture covering, reps, in order to get the desired color, a few days later.

"Yes, red," I persisted. "Not too bright, not impudent scarlet, but a dull, rich shade that will give out a gleam when the light strikes it; that will have the force of a threat--a menacing color, that white collar, cuffs and black lace shoulder wrap will restrict to governess-like primness, until, with mantle torn aside, she stands a pillar of fire and fury. And at the last I want a night-dress and a loose robe over it of a hard light blue, that will throw up the ghastly pallor of the face. There--that's what I want to wear, and why I want to wear it."

Mr. Palmer decided that purple was impossible and black too conventional, while the proposed color-scheme of gray, red, and blue seemed reasonable and characteristic. And suddenly that little wretch, Cazauran, laughed as good-naturedly as possible and said he thought so, too, but it did no harm to talk things over, and so we got around that snag, only to see a second one looming up before us in the question of what was to kill _Miss Multon_.

I asked it: "Of what am I to die?"

"Die? how? Why, just die, that's all," replied Cazauran.

"But _of_ what?" I persisted; "what kills me? _Miss Multon_ at present dies simply that the author may get rid of her. I don't want to be laughed at. We are not in the days of 'Charlotte Temple'--we suffer, but we live. To die of a broken heart is to be guyed, unless there is an aneurism. Now what can _Miss Multon_ die from? If I once know that, I'll find out the proper business for the scene."

"Perhaps you'd have some of the men carry knives," sneered Cazauran, "and then she could be stabbed?"

"Oh, no!" I answered; "knives are not necessary for the stabbing of a woman; a few sharp, envenomed words can do that nicely--but we are speaking of death, not wounds; from what is _Miss Multon_ to die?"

Then Mr. Palmer made suggestions, and Miss Morris made suggestions, and Mr. Cazauran triumphantly wiped them out of existence. But at last Cazauran himself grudgingly remarked that consumption would do well enough, and Mr. Palmer and I, as with one vengeful voice, cried out, _Camille!_ And Cazauran said some things like "Nom de Dieu!" or "Dieu de Dieu!" and I said: "Cha.s.sez a droite," but the little man was vexed and would not laugh.

Someone proposed a fever--but I raised the contagion question. Poison was thought of, but that would prevent the summoning of the children from Paris, by _Dr. Osborne_. We parted that day with the question unanswered.

At next rehearsal I still wondered how I was to die, hard or easy, rigid or limp, slow or quick. "Oh," I exclaimed, "I must know whether I am to die in a second or to begin in the first act." And in my own exaggerated, impatient words I found my first hint--"why _not_ begin to die in the first act?"

When we again took up the question, I asked, eagerly: "What are those two collapses caused by--the one at the mirror, the other at the school-table with the children?"

"Extreme emotion," I was answered.

"Then," I asked, "why not extreme emotion acting upon a weak heart?"

Mr. Palmer was for the heart trouble from the first--he saw its possibilities, saw that it was new, comparatively speaking at least--I suppose nothing is really new--and decided in its favor; but for some reason the little man Cazauran was piqued, and the result was that he introduced just one single line, that could faintly indicate that _Miss Multon_ was a victim of heart disease--in the first act, where, after a violent exclamation from the lady, _Dr. Osborne_ said: "Oh, I thought it was your heart again," and on eight words of foundation I was expected to raise a superstructure of symptoms true enough to nature to be readily recognized as indicating heart disease; and yet oh, difficult task! that disease must not be allowed to obtrude itself into first place, nor must it be too poignantly expressed. In brief, we decided I was to show to the public a case of heart disease, ignored by its victim and only recognized among the characters about her by the doctor.

And verily my work was cut out for me. Why, when I went to the Doctors Seguin to be coached, I could not even locate my heart correctly by half a foot. Both father and son did all they could to teach me the full horror of _angina pectoris_, which I would, of course, tone down for artistic reasons. And to this day tears rise in my eyes when I recall the needless cruelty of the younger Seguin, in running a heart patient up a long flight of stairs, that I might see the gasping of the gray-white mouth for breath, the flare and strain of her waxy nostrils. Then, in remorseful generosity, though heaven knows her coming was no act of mine, I made her a little gift, and as she was slipping the bill inside her well-mended glove, her eye caught the number on its corner, and, she must have been very poor, her tormented and tormenting heart gave a plunge and sent a rush of blood into her face that made her very eyeb.a.l.l.s pinken; and then again the clutching fingers, the flaring nostrils, the gasping for air, the pleading look, the frightened eyes! Oh, it is unforgettable!

poor soul! poor soul!

Well, having my symptoms gathered together, they yet had to be sorted out, toned down, and adapted to this or that occasion. But at least the work had not been thrown away, for on the first night Dr. Fordyce Barker--a keen dramatic critic, by the way--occupied with a friend a private box. He had rescued me from the hands of the specialists in Paris, and I had at times been his patient. He applauded heartily after the first two acts, but looked rather worried. At the end of the third act a gentleman of his party turned and looked at him inquiringly. The doctor threw up his hands, while shaking his head disconsolately. The friend said: "Why, I'm surprised--I thought Miss Morris suffered from her spine?"

"So she does--so she does," nodded Dr. Barker.

"But," went on the friend, "this thing isn't spine--this looks like heart to me."

"I should say so," responded the doctor. "I knew she wasn't strong--just a thing of nerves and will--but I never saw a sign of heart trouble before. But it's here now, and it's bad; for, by Jove, she can't go through another attack like that and finish this play. Too bad, too bad!"