Then came the great "charity benefit," and "Camille"—that "Ninon de l' Enclos" of the drama, who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers at her feet.
It is amazing how much accident has to do with the career of actors.
Shakespeare says:
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
And heaven knows I "rough-hewed" the "Camille" proposition to the best of my power. I came hurrying back to New York, specially to act at the mighty benefit, given for the starving poor of the city. Every theatre was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket purchased was good at any one of them. I had selected "Love's Sacrifice," an old legitimate play, for that occasion and Mr. Palmer had cast it, when an actress suddenly presented herself at his office declaring she had made that play her property, by her own exceptional work in it in former years, at another theatre. Threatening hysterics often prove valuable weapons in a manager's office, where, strangely enough, "a scene" is hated above all things.
I was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was anybody's property, and at once withdrew in the interest of peace. But what then was to be done for the benefit? Every play proposed had some drawback. Mr. Palmer suggested "Camille," and all my objections crowding to my lips at once, I fairly stammered and spluttered over the expression of them: I hated! hated! hated! the play! The people who had preceded me in it were too great! I should be the merest pigmy beside them. I did not think Camille as vulgar and coarse as one great woman had made her—nor so chill and nun-like as another had conceived her to be. And the critics would fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. They would justly cry "Presumption," and—and—I had no clothes! no, not one stitch had I to wear (of course you will make the usual allowance for an excited woman and not take that literally!) and then, oh, dear! I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself, but to tell the exact truth, I wept—for the first and only time in my life—I wept from anger!
We all fumed—we, meaning Mr. Palmer, Mr. Cazauran, that ferret-faced, mysterious little man, whose clever brain and dramatic instincts made him so valuable about a theatre; and the big, silently observant Mr. Shook, and I. Cazauran said he knew all the business of the play and could tell me it, and began with certain things Miss Heron (the greatest Camille America had had) had done, and I indignantly declared I would leave a theatre before I would do as much. I argued it was unnecessary. Camille was not brutal—she had associated with gentlemen, members of the nobility, men who were acquainted with court circles. She would have learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutalities would have shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted Armand. Her very disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment. If she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of the world. She allured men by the very refinement of her vice. And as I paused to take breath, Mr. Shook's bass voice was heard for the first time, as he asked, conclusively: "Whom can we get for Armand on such short notice?"
I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer: "The critics"—I gasped and stopped. He smiled reassuringly and said: "Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best and remember it's only for once."
"Dear Lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks I made my way home, with a copy of the detested play in my hand. Late that evening I was notified that Mr. Mayo would play Armand.
I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I should look like a school-mistress in one act and a stage ingénue in another. I had a ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. I should only be correct when I got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. Actress fashion, I got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string of amber beads to study—I never learn anything so quickly as when I have something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has assisted me over many and many an hour of mental labor—a pleasanter custom than that of walking and studying aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to one's near neighbors.