The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. We went over two acts on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day, and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of hammering and sawing, of running and ordering—for every stage was filled at the rear with rushing carpenters and painters. Yet those were the only rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance, and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and I remember I spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the handsome young English woman who did Olympe to keep out of my chair and to go to and from the piano at the right moment.
The house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what was then called "The Lyceum," which Charles Fechter had just been having remodeled, and the police discovering that day that the floor of the balcony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, very cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming message in the ear of a person here, there, and yonder, who would nod, rise, and step quietly out, returning a moment later to smilingly motion their party out with them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic being caused, though it made one feel rather sick and faint afterward to note the depth to which the floor had sagged under the feet of that tightly packed audience.
James Lewis used to say to me: "Clara is the biggest fraud of a first-nighter the profession can show. There she'll stand shivering and shaking, white-sick with fright, waiting for her cue, and when she gets it, she skips on and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for a year at least. No wonder Mr. Daly calls her his best first-nighter."
So at that first performance of "Camille," as Frank Mayo touched my icy hand and burning brow, and saw the trembling of my limbs, as with fever-dried lips I waited for the curtain's rise, he said: "God! but you suffer! I reckon you'll not act much to-day, little woman!" And a few minutes later, as I laughed and chatted gayly through the opening lines of the play, I distinctly heard Frank say: "Well, of all the sells! Why confound her, I'm twice as nervous as she is!"
The first act went with a sort of dash and go that was the result of pure recklessness. The house was delighted. The curtain had to go up twice. We all looked at one another, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. The second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot passion between Armand and Camille that when De Varville's torn letter was cast to Nanine as Camille's answer, and the lovers leaped to each others' arms, the house simply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up and down, Mayo gasped in amazement: "Well, I'm damned!" But I made answer: "No, you're not—but you will be if you hammer my poor spine in another act as you have in this. Go easy, Frank; I can't stand it!"
The third act went beautifully. Many women sobbed at times. I made my exit some little time before the end of the act, and of course went directly to my room, which was beneath the stage, and there began to dress for the ball-room scene, and lo! after Armand had had two or three calls for his last speech, something set them on to call for Camille. And they kept at it, too, till at last a mermaid-like creature—not exactly half fish and half woman, but half ball-gown train and half dinky little dressing-sack—came bobbing to the curtain side, delighting the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of the illusion of the play.
In the fourth act Mr. Mayo played base-ball with me. He batted me and hurled me and sometimes I had a wild fear that he would kick me. Finally, he struck my head so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my scalp and I found a few moments' rest in truly fainting from fatigue, fright, and pain.
But it all went. Great heaven! how it went! For Mayo was a great actor, and it was but intense excitement that made him so rough with me. Honestly we were so taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew what to make of the frantic demonstrations—whether it was just the result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, or whether we were giving an extremely good performance.
The last act I can never forget. I had cut out two or three pages from the dialogue in the book. I felt there was too much of it. That if Camille did not die, her audience would, and had built up a little scene for myself. Never would I have dared do such a thing had it been for more than one performance. That scene took in the crossing of the room to the window, the looking-glass scene, and the return to the bed.
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."