At the theatre I think everyone liked me well enough, save Mr. Daly. He disliked me because I simply could not learn to treat him with reverence. I had the greatest admiration for him, I showed him respect by obeying him implicitly, but if he was funny I laughed, if he gave me an opportunity to twist his words absurdly I accepted it as gleefully as if he had been the gas-man.
But two things happened, and lo! my manager's attitude toward me changed completely. Mr. Daly was convinced that no man or woman could bear decently a sudden success. He was positive that no head could stand it. When I made no demand for my promised increase of salary, but went pinching along as best I could, he only said to himself: "She will be all the worse when her head does begin to turn."
One day a certain newspaper man looked in at his office, and said: "Oh, I have something here about the play, and I've given a few pretty good lines to your find (Clara Morris): do you want to look at them?"
"I want them cut out!" sharply ordered Mr. Daly.
"Cut out?" repeated the surprised man. "Why, she's the play—or mighty near it. I thought you'd want her spoken of most particularly?"
And then Mr. Daly made his famous speech: "I don't want individual successes, sir, in my theatre! I want my company kept at a level. I put them all in a line, and then I watch, and if one head begins to bob up above the others, I give it a crack and send it down again!"
I had heard that story in several forms, when one day I spoke of it to Mr. Daly, and he calmly acknowledged the speech, as I have given it above, adding the words: "And next week I'm going to give Mr. Crisp's head a crack, he's bobbing up, I see!"
The play of "Saratoga," by Mr. Bronson Howard, had been read to the company, and, after the custom of actors the world over, they began to cast the characters themselves—such a part for Lewis, such a one for Miss Davenport. The splendid Irish part for Amy Ames (of course, with her wonderful brogue), etc.; almost everyone remarking that there was nothing for me. Lewis said: "Well, Clara, you're out of this play, sure. Will you study Greek or the Rogue's Vocabulary? for I'll wager a hat to a hair-pin you'll be turning a good head of hair gray over some nonsense of the kind—good Lord!"
For M. Bènot was holding toward me a thin little part, saying: "For you, Miss Morris."
Mr. Daly stood at the far end of the room; he was watching me. The part was a walking lady of second quality. It was an indignity to give it to me. Like lightning I recalled the terms of my contract—I realized my helplessness.