"Well, at all events, on the strength of that outburst, I ain't afraid to bet twenty good dollars that she makes pie out of Ethel's vogue!" Then, seeing me, he removed his hat hurriedly, offering his shoulder for me to lean upon as I descended the winding-stairs, and I said to myself: "Yesterday this would have been a kindly service; to-day—to-day it is not far from an humiliation."
Hitherto I had known neither clique nor cabal in a theatre; now I found myself in a network of them. The favorite—who, I had supposed, lived only in the historic novel—I now met in real life, and found her as charming, as treacherous, and as troublesome in the theatre as she could ever have been in a royal court. There was no one to explain to me the nature or progress of the game that was being played when I came upon the scene; but I soon discovered there were two factions in the theatre, Miss Agnes Ethel heading one, Miss Fanny Davenport the other. Each had a following, but Miss Ethel, who had been all-powerful, had overestimated her strength when she refused, point-blank, to play Anne Sylvester, giving as her reason "the immorality of Anne." This from the lady who had been acting all season in "Fernande" and "Frou-Frou"—as a gambler's decoy and an adulterous wife abandoning child and home—satisfactorily proved the utter absence of a sense of humor from her charming make-up.
Mr. Daly, like every other man, could be managed with a little patient finesse, but he would not be bullied in business affairs by any living creature, as he proved when, rather than change the play to please the actress he then regarded as his strongest card, he trusted a great part to the hands of an unknown, untried girl, and gave out to the newspapers that Miss Ethel had sprained her ankle, and, though in perfect health, could not walk well enough to act. And, after my momentary outburst, the anti-Ethelites suddenly placed me on one of the sixty-four squares of their chess-board; but I knew not whether I was castle, knight, bishop, or pawn, I only knew that I had become a piece of value in their game, and they hoped to move me against Ethel.
It was all very bewildering, but I had other things to think about, and more important. My money had run so low I was desperately afraid I could not get dresses for the play, and for the white mousseline necessary for the croquet-party of the first act I was forced to go to a very cheap department store, a fact the dress nightly proclaimed aloud from every inch of its surface. Shawl dresses were the novelty of that season, and at Stewart's I found a modestly priced dark-gray shawl overskirt and jacket that I could wear over a black alpaca skirt for two acts. The other two dresses I luckily had in my wardrobe, and when my new shoes, a long gray veil, and two pairs of gray gloves were laid into the dressing-room basket, I had in the whole world $2.38, on which we had to live until my first week's salary came to me. But, oh, that last awful day before the opening night. I was suffering bodily as well as mentally. I had had an alarming attack of pleurisy. My mother had rung the bell and left a message at the first house that carried a doctor's sign. He came; he was far gone in liquor; he was obstinate, almost abusive—to be brief, he blistered me shockingly; another doctor had to be called to dress and treat the hideous blisters the first had produced; and the tight closing of dress-waists about me was an agony not yet forgotten. But what was that to the nervous terror, the icy chill, the burning fever, the deadly nausea! I could not swallow food—I could not! My mother stood over me while, with tear-filled eyes, I disposed of a raw, beaten egg, and then she was guilty of the dreadful extravagance of buying two chops, of which she made a cup of broth, and fearing a breakdown if I attempted without food five such acts as awaited me, she almost forced me to swallow it to the last drop after my hat was on and I was ready to start. I always kiss my mother good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff with fright that they would not move. I dropped my head for a moment upon her shoulder, she patted me silently with one hand and opened the door with the other. My little dog, escaping from the room, rushed to me, leaping against my knees. I caught her up, and she covered my troubled, veiled face with frantic kisses. I passed her to mother and crept painfully down the steps. I glanced back—mother waved her hand and innocently called: "Good luck! God bless you!"
The astonishing conjunction of superstition and orthodox faith touched my sense of the ridiculous. I laughed aloud, Bertie barked excitedly, I faced about and went forward almost gayly to meet—what? As I reached Broadway, I remember quite distinctly that I said aloud, to myself: "Well, God's good to the Irish, and at all events I was born on St. Patrick's day—so Garryowen forever!"
The pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, I was in high spirits; nor need you be surprised, for such is the acting temperament.
I had not on that first night even the comfort of a dressing-room to myself, but shared one of the tiniest closets with Mrs. Roberta Norwood, in whose chic blonde person I failed utterly to see a future friend. The terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, all brought back the memory of that far-away first night of all in Cleveland; but now there was no Mrs. Bradshaw to go to for advice or commendation. The sense of utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and I bent my head low over the buckling of my shoe that my rising tears might not be noticed.
We were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, and every seat flung down by the ushers seemed to strike a blow upon our heads, while applause shook dust into our eyes and hair. Forced occupation is the best cure for nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dressing I for the time forgot my fright. Two or three persons had come to the door to speak to Mrs. Norwood, and it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. I looked at myself in the glass, I hesitated, at last I turned and asked if I wore too much color—if I was too red, and the answer I received was: "That's a matter of taste."
Now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of business. She was familiar with the size and the lighting of the theatre, and I was not, yet either from extreme self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed me to go upon that tiny stage painted like an Indian about to take the war-path. Truly I was climbing up a thorny stem to reach the flower of success.
The overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing to the stairs for the first act. I stopped behind the dressing-room door and bent my head for one dumbly pleading moment, then muttering "Amen—amen," I, too, hurried up the stairs to face the awful first appearance before a New York audience.