CHAPTER FORTY-FIRST
Trouble about Obnoxious Lines in "Madeline Morel"—Mr. Daly's Manipulation of Father X: In Spite of our Anxiety the Audience accepts the Situation and the Play—Mr. Daly gives me the smallest Dog in New York.
The last and fourth success that was granted to me under Mr. Daly's management was in "Madeline Morel." Of course I played in many plays, sometimes small, comparatively unimportant parts, sometimes, as in the two-hundred-night run of "Divorce," I played a long, hard-working part, that was without any marked characteristic or salient feature to make a hit with.
But I only mention "Madeline Morel" because of a couple of small incidents connected with its production. First of all, let me say that I believe Mr. Daly, who was an ardent Catholic, was not the first manager to give benefits to the Orphan Asylums, for I think that had long been a custom, but he was the first to arrange those monster programmes, which included the names of every great attraction in the city—bar none. The result was not merely an Academy of Music literally packed, but crowds turned from its doors. I remember what excitement there was over the gathering together in one performance of such people as Fechter, Sothern, Adelaide Neilson, Aimée, and Mr. and Mrs. Barney Williams. I first saw the beautiful Mary Anderson at one of these benefits, as well as those two clever English women, Rose Coghlan and Jeffreys Lewis. Later on, when I was under Mr. Palmer's management, I had an experience at a benefit that I am not likely to forget. I had consented to do the fourth act of "Camille" (the ball-room scene), and when I swept through the crowd of "guests," every word was wiped clean out of my memory, for as they faced me I recognized in the supposed supers and extras all the various stars—the leading ladies and gentlemen who had had a place on the lengthy programme. Working hard, giving of their best, they had all laughingly joined in this gracious whim of playing supernumeraries in Dumas's ball-scene. And I remember that Mademoiselle Aimée was particularly determined to be recognized as she walked and strolled up and down. Once I whispered imploringly to her: "Turn your back, Madame!" but she laboriously answered: "Non! I haiv' not of ze shame to be supe for you, Mademoiselle!" It was a charming compliment, but more than a bit overwhelming to its recipient.
Well, Mr. Daly having originated, as I believe, these splendid and lengthy benefit performances, was, as a result, able to place a goodly sum of money at the service of the Asylum authorities, and naturally he received warm thanks from his Church.
Then, when "Madeline Morel" came along, with the great cathedral scene, we all stood aghast at what I was called upon to say and do. Everyone was on the stage, and nearly everyone whispered: "Sacrilege!" I stopped stock-still, in sheer fright. Mr. Daly pulled nervously at the lapel of his coat for a moment, and then said, sharply, "Go on!" I obeyed, but right behind me someone said: "And he calls himself a Catholic!"
It was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and impressive act. As a "sister" who had served the "novitiate," I had just taken the life vows and had been invested with the black veil. Then the wedding procession and the Church procession, coming from opposite sides and crossing before the altar, like a great "X," brought the bridegroom and the black nun face to face, in dreadful recognition, and in the following scene I had to drag from my head the veil and swathing white linen—had to tear from my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, stretch my arms to Heaven and, with upraised face, cry: "I call down upon my guilty soul the thunders of a curse, that none may hear and live!" and then fall headlong, as though my challenge had been accepted.
Nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and those of the company who were Catholics were particularly excited, and they cried: "Why, if we find it so repellant, what on earth will an audience think of it?"
Some prophesied hisses, some that the people would rise and leave the theatre. That Mr. Daly was uneasy about its effect he did not attempt to hide, and one day he said to me: "I think I'll call on Father X—— (his confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his—well—his opinion on this matter." But, unfortunately, rumors had already reached churchly ears, and the reverend gentleman came that same day to inquire of Mr. Daly concerning them. I say "unfortunately," because Mr. Daly was a masterful man and resented anything like interference. Had he been permitted to introduce the matter himself, no doubt a few judicious words from the priest would have induced him to tone down the objectionable speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him the wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy in him. He described the play, however, assured his old friend there were no religious arguments, no homilies in it, but when he came to the scene, the Father shook his head: "No—no! my son!" said he, "I do not see how that can be sanctioned."
Mr. Daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded; but though it evidently hurt the good man to refuse, since he was greatly attached to his son in the church, he still shook his head and at last declared it was a serious matter, and he would have to bring it to the Bishop's attention. But that was just what Mr. Daly did not want. "Can you not see, Father," he said, "these lines are spoken in a frenzy? They come from the lips of a woman mad with grief and trouble! They have not the value or the consequence of words spoken by a sane person!"