And verily my work was cut out for me. Why, when I went to the Doctors Seguin to be coached, I could not even locate my heart correctly by half a foot. Both father and son did all they could to teach me the full horror of angina pectoris, which I would, of course, tone down for artistic reasons. And to this day tears rise in my eyes when I recall the needless cruelty of the younger Seguin, in running a heart patient up a long flight of stairs, that I might see the gasping of the gray-white mouth for breath, the flare and strain of her waxy nostrils. Then, in remorseful generosity, though heaven knows her coming was no act of mine, I made her a little gift, and as she was slipping the bill inside her well-mended glove, her eye caught the number on its corner, and, she must have been very poor, her tormented and tormenting heart gave a plunge and sent a rush of blood into her face that made her very eyeballs pinken; and then again the clutching fingers, the flaring nostrils, the gasping for air, the pleading look, the frightened eyes! Oh, it is unforgettable! poor soul! poor soul!
Well, having my symptoms gathered together, they yet had to be sorted out, toned down, and adapted to this or that occasion. But at least the work had not been thrown away, for on the first night Dr. Fordyce Barker—a keen dramatic critic, by the way—occupied with a friend a private box. He had rescued me from the hands of the specialists in Paris, and I had at times been his patient. He applauded heartily after the first two acts, but looked rather worried. At the end of the third act a gentleman of his party turned and looked at him inquiringly. The doctor threw up his hands, while shaking his head disconsolately. The friend said: "Why, I'm surprised—I thought Miss Morris suffered from her spine?"
"So she does—so she does," nodded Dr. Barker.
"But," went on the friend, "this thing isn't spine—this looks like heart to me."
"I should say so," responded the doctor. "I knew she wasn't strong—just a thing of nerves and will—but I never saw a sign of heart trouble before. But it's here now, and it's bad; for, by Jove, she can't go through another attack like that and finish this play. Too bad, too bad!"
And his honest sympathy for my new affliction spoiled his evening right up to the point of discovery that it was all in the play. Then he enjoyed the laugh against himself almost as much as I enjoyed his recognition of my laboriously acquired symptoms.
And now for Mr. Palmer's beloved cast.
With what a mixture of pleasure and grief I recall Sara Jewett, the loveliest woman and the most perfect representative of a French lady of quality I have ever seen in the part of Mathilde.
Mr. James O'Neil's success in Maurice de la Tour was particularly agreeable to me, because I had earnestly called attention to him some time before he was finally summoned to New York. His fine work in Chicago, where I had first met him, had convinced me that he ought to be here, and that beautiful performance fully justified every claim I had made for him in the first place. The part is a difficult one. Some men rant in it, some are savagely cruel, some cold as stone. O'Neil's Maurice bore his wound with a patient dignity that made his one outbreak into hot passion tremendously effective, through force of contrast; while his sympathetic voice gave great value to the last tender words of pardon.
And that ancient couple—that never-to-be-forgotten pair, Mr. Stoddard and Mrs. Wilkins! The latter's husband, belonging to the English bar, had been Sergeant Wilkins, a witty, well-living, popular man, who quite adored his pretty young wife and lavished his entire income upon their ever-open house, so that his sudden taking off left her barely able to pay for a sea of crape—with not a pound left over for a life-preserver or raft of any kind. But on her return to the stage, her knowledge of social amenities, the dignity and aplomb acquired by the experienced hostess, remained with her, in a certain manner, an air of suave and gentle authority, that was invaluable to her in the performance of gentlewomen; while the good-fellowship, the downright jollity of her infectious laugh were the crown of her comedy work. Who can forget the Multon tea-table scene between Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Stoddard. How the audience used to laugh and laugh when, after his accusing snort: "More copperas!" he sat and glared at her pretty protesting face framed in its soft white curls. He was so ludicrously savage I had to coin a name for him; and one night when the house simply would not stop laughing, I remarked: "Oh, doesn't he look like a perfect old Sardonyx?"