THE GRIP OF THE STAGE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2562, 24 July 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE GRIP OF THE STAGE.

DEATH-BED SCENES OF ACTRESSES.

(By Clara Morris, in “Munsey’s

Magazine.”)

“Is not that the strangest thing Hoav can you explain it?” asked my friend, excitedly. I lifted questioning eyas. She glanced back, over a letter in her hand. “Out home, an ex-actress, in private life for years and years, has just died, and her very last Avords were about the theatre. Did you ever hear of such a thing?” At that challenge my thoughts Avcnt drifting back through the past, picking up a memory here and another yonder, until I had six or seven recollections of Avomen upon whom the grip of the theatre was so strong that at the very last, when facing the “open door” into another life, the haunting memory of their working years possessed them. The costumes, the wigs, all the relics of the old masquerade long since laid aside, the tradition remained. Instead of looking forward, their minds Avent back to the - gas-lit boards, and the final Avoids, spoken with slow, death-clogged tongues, showed that they were dying as actresses. Tho Avorld at large knows the theatre’s glitter and glamor, its compelling charm for the outsider; but fcAV realise the strength of its grip upon its followers. Acting, as a profession, is worthy, artistic, generous. Many people enter it from sorrow and great need; and they find there brightness, lightness, hard Avork that is vivid and intense, a feeling of fraternity, a seeming equality. Above and beyond all else is tlie ecstacy of tlie applause won, sweeter to the ears of an actress than could be the music of the spheres—applause that lifts one to the altitude of the ' gods—applause whose echo never dies in the memory of the applauded. It was in Cleveland that an old, old actress lay dying. She had been a star but had fallen from favor, and dropped into obscurity. A cruel disease harried her mercilessly. She was poor; only one person Avas at her side. He lifted her higher on the pilloAv, and saAV how near she Avas to the end. “You are not afraid?” lie whispered, anxiously. She lifted her wrinkled hand to brush back a troublesome strand of hair, and muttered imnaticntly: “No, no; I’m not afraid; but, oh, I wish I could have played “Rosalind” better ! But I Avas always too sad —too cold and sad!”

And with that just criticism on her own work, she passed into silence. Her physical torture, her poverty, were ignored. Her mind busy with the old ambition ‘she, with her shrivelled skin, her white hair, thought only of that veritable red rose of English girlhood—wilful, sweet Rosalind. “IT IS THE LAST CURTAIN.”

It was quite a young actress and singer whose five final words destroyed an illusion and cast into tho dust of unbelief tho mythical death-scene of tho stage novel. She Avas not beautiful, but she was blythe, bright, and sue-, cessful. Only recently a cruel blow had fallen upon her. SAviftly, Avithout warning, death had snatched from her her husband whom she had married in private life, and whom she loved immeasurably. Generously considerate of her company’s welfare, loyal to tho managers Avith Avhom she had contracts, she held bravely on, trying to fill out tho season for tlieir sakes, and hoping that Avhen it was over she might abandon herself to the very luxury of grief. She stumbled forAvard, _ ever growing weaker and Arbiter. until, like a flash, she was down, and struggling desperately for each quick, slialknv breatn.

From the very first they believed her doomed, for she had neither strength nor desire to fight the enemy. “Her last words will bo of him,” one said positively, with filling eyes. “Or,rather for him,” suggested the most sentimental woman present. “She may see him at last, or think so, her constant thoughts being of him.” As the end approached, and she lay wordless, with closed eyes, the doctor drew near and spoke low but distinctly to her. Her fever-parched lips smiled faintly. Feebly 6lie raised her forefinger in the old lamiliar gesture, warning to silence. He spoke again, and with a smile deepening almost to a ghastly roguishness, she murmured: “S-s-sli! "Wait, wait —it is the last curtain!” And it was. for her. The traditional death-bed scene had not materialised; before she was wife or widow she had been an actress, and in spite of her great loss and deep grief, her mind was back in the theatre, where, with her last thought, her last word, her last smile, she contentedly waited the fall of the “last curtain.” A SLAVE OF THE THEATRE.

Presenting these memories just in the order in which my grouping mind recovered them from the past, I come now upon one that is painful because this woman’s relation to the theatre had become that of an unfortunate treadmill. Like a splendid rocket, she bad made a blazing rush across the theatrical sky. and then, almost as suddenly, the fire dead, like a burnt and blackened stick she had fallen to the ground. That figure of speech does not imply that her success was in any way meretricious or artificial; on the contrary, it was honestly Avon by her vivid and poAverful acting. Tlie term “emotional,” coined for one who fo’loAved in her Avakc, might avoll liaA r e boon applied to her, but she Avas called a “sensational” actress. Without one beautiful feature, slie yet pleased the eye . Her scarlet mouth, her glowing eyes, her masses of dark hair, and a certain picturesque quality, made her more fascinating than mere beauty could ha\ r o done. She dreAV packed houses; for some seasons she habitually turned croAvds grumbling away. She Avas one of the Avomen aa t lio Avork Avith a kind of divine fury, wearing themselves out utterly—and yet, and yet, often for nearly a Aveek at a time she saAv not one dollar of all her great earnings. For slie had a husband ; she loved him Avith a blind affection, sclfsacrificing to its object—and lie gambled.

In a feAV years he Avas gone—but alas, too late! The plastic nature of the wife had received the impress of his evil habits. She greAV less attractive; she took on coarser p»ays; she came into encounter Avith the law in her advertisements and street-posting. Then, poor, broken in health homeless, childless, she staggered desperately through plays of killing hard Avork. “Stop, or die!” Avarned the doctor. “Stop, and I must die!” she retorted grim.lv and Avith a certain bitter humor, she added: “I saw a Avoak, Avorn old horse die in harness once on Broadway, and I neA-or guessed I Avas reading my OAvn future. Thanks, doctor, for the advice I cannot folloiv. Good-by!” And then one dreadful day she had simply crept through the matinee, and dazed in a half-stupor, had been helped to her comfortless hotel room, where she seemed to collapse utterly. Her leading man, who was also her agent, hurried back to the theatre to Avarn them to change tho m.i for the night. He Avas urged to try and push the star through one more performance. 'You can’t push an unconscious Avoman through even such a wild play as this,” he replied. He then sent for the doctor, and hurried back to the unfortunate woman, avlio lay as she had fallen, on tho lounge." still in her street garments. Tlie room was in deep dusk. “You Avill not haA'c to act to-night,” he said. “You shall rest all day tomorroAV, too.” There Avas no ans Aver. He felt her hands ; they were cold. Anxiously he struck a match and lighted a whistling gas-jet. He say that her hat and veil were still on. At his removing them, she started up, Avide-eyed. “Is it time to go?" she asked. “i\V you are to rest.” “Oh*!” she sighed, and let her head fall again. And just then, from someAvhcre, a clock began striking. She struggled un instantly. “Why, it’s theatre time — soa'ch o’clock 1 I can’t bear to be late!” And she felt blindly, with both hands. “Give me my bag!” she demanded, and, lifting herself by his shoulder, she kept saying: “1 must go ! I must go!” She stood a moment, then foil and spoke no more. The woman in her ruined —the artist in her dead —at tho cruel last she Avas still the driven slave of the theatre, AA T hose call she obeyed, Avith her last breath of life!

A SEAMSTRESS WHO DIED A STAR No case that I know of more perfectly illustrates "the mysterious hold of the theatre upon tho mind and memory of its people than one of a Avoman who quite recently passed aAvay at an advstneed ago, and who spoke in her last moments Avords that Avcre as Greek to the kindly, commonplace neighbors Avho had watched her through her weary illness.

Many years ago she had aroused much curiosity in theatrical circles, because she Avas the first star knoAvn to have a financial backer. The profession, as a body were shocked, for our early theatre Avas reared by merit. Actors used to become stars because of some unusual ability, and a mere moneybought starship was looked upon as derogatory in tho extreme. At that time she Avas perhaps tAventy-eiglit years old, what an Englishman might call “a fine figure of a Avoman,” Avith cold, classic, regular features, a strong A-oicc, and a declamatory style. Thanks to her backer, her wardrobe extinguished e\ r ery gown worn by others, just as her posters dazzled the public eye; but she invariably. played cold lialf-empty houses. This was Avhcrc tho backer failed her. He could dress her, adA’ertise her, pay her losses, but ho could not force; the public to acquire a taste for her. And so slie stalked her Avay, complaining ever and ever more: “Hoav cold the house is!” “What a dull chilly public is yours!” “What a dull audience to-night 1” And yet she clung to the empty signs and symbols of stardom; her name in two-foot type on tlie bill-boards, her lithographs croAvding tlie shop AvindoAvs, and “star” painted in black on the door of her dressing-room. Verily she fed on husks, yet she never wearied of her diet. Thou the friendly backer dropped suddenly from his place among the living,. Dependent upon her actual drawing poAver, she mot ruin Ayithin a month, and abandoned her toAir.

Still she clung to theatrical life, and for a season or two acted as leading Avoman in a stock company. But slio could not forget that she had been a star, nor Avould slie permit anyone else to forget it; and she “rubbed in” her past honors Avith an insistence that

proved demoralising, alike to peace and stage dicipline. Finally managers locked tlieir stage doors against her, and she retired, dropped her stage name, resumed her oavh commonplace cognomen, and finally reached bed-rock as a dressmaker for humble people, avlio only had their Sunday gowns made by other hands than their own.

A dull,, hard life Avas hers, and a long one. Through all tlie years she held proudly aloof, utterly silent as to that comparatively brilliant past, and forgotten save by a few contemporaries who Avondcred, now and then, Avhen and Avherc she died. Then at last she took off her thimble, the badge of her long servitude, wound up her bobbins and her spools, put her Avorktable in order, and took silently to her bed. The doctor know and she knew, that there avus nothing to do but Avait. Her neighbors Avere sympathetic and kind—poor neighbors always are, God bless them ! and they took turns to Avatcli Avith her never wearying, though they Avere hard workers; and the waiting Avas very long. One hot night, Avith AvindoAVs stretched Avide and fans Avaving, tAVo • tired women sat and av-u tolled a third, avlio lay as she had lain for long hours, motionloss. One of the watchers, noting the dryness of the sick lips, passed a bit of orange over them, and fell back to fanning. Suddenly tho Avaiting one opened her eyes Avidely. She looked straight forA\ r ard, and seemed to boAV three times—to the right, to loft, to front. Then, alter a moment’s pause, she spoke, in a fretful, complaining tone: “Hoav very cold the house is!” The Avatcliers stared in amazement. What could she mean? One tapped her The Avoman in the bed spoke again. Slie shrugged her shoulders, and murmured :

“We’re too dimly lighted!” and then sharply, suddenly, and imperative.y, she commanded: “Turn up the lights—full!”

For forty years a humble seamstress, slie died—a "star! Can the fascination of any other profession outlast that forty years’ grip of the theatre noon a Avoman’s imagination, mind, and mernoiw ?

A DEATH-BED VIOLA. One other memory I think I may offer because of the intensely practical nature of the Avoman in question. She had great beauty, with a perfection of feature that lasted far into age. Avhen her dainty bloom had faded. Absolutely Avithout sensibility or delicacy of ieeling she Avas laughingly called the “Avatcr-liorse,” because her friends said she had the skin of a rhinoceros, and that no barb could pierce her. She had boon married, very young, to an actor. He died, and slie married again. She had been for at least ten years a joint star Avith lier first husband ; after his death she headed a company of her own. AVl ic n she ceased to draw, she shed no tears, lost no sleep, but, remarking that she “must keep the children in their convent-school,” calmly sought and obtained a position as leading lady. Years later, Avhen she became too stout to find her OAvn Avaist-line unassisted, slie engaged tor old Avomen, ate all she AA'anted, and laughed in her sleeve at the commercial stars —"fact-ory-made,” she preferred to call them —whom she supported heartily and cordially. Probably her first husband’s name had not passed her lips for thirty years: perhaps she had ne\-cr thought of him. She had long been AvidoAvod a second time Avhen rheumatism attacked her, and she Avas obliged to retire finally from the stage. She went to live with a married daughter, and devoted her entire attention to lacemaking, planning enough work to blind a dozen pairs of eyes. The word theatre never passed her lips. “Does she ever miss it?” repeated the daughter. “Did you ever knoAv mother to have one grain of sentiment about anything or anybody ? I belkwe slic’d feel ashamed if she caught herself remembering the dead. She is so aAvfullv practical—once done with a thing, she’s even done with the memorv of it.”

And so the handsome old woman had some years of comfortable private life, and Avas still twisting her needle in and out of threads, making dainty weft of lace, Avhen her summons came. As usual she Avas practical. She decided who should have her seal-skin cloak, and avlio her diamond rings. She directed that lier Avardrobe should be gh-en to any poor actress wlio could make use of it.

“Not a spark of sentiment!” sobbed lier daughter. But slie was not gone yet—she Avas a trifle light-headed. Then came a sharp sinking-spell: a stimulant Avas administered, and, lying in apparent comfort, she closed her eyes. Presently her lips began to move. Then Avords wore murmured—apparently repeated over and oA'or again. At last, more plainly formed, came tho lilies: Tlie lionorablo lady of the house, Avliich is she?

Then more distinctly enunciated: Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatcliable beauty, I pray you tell me if this be the lady of tho house, for I noA-er saw her.

The daughters Avere dumfounded, stunned—and at last it dawned upon them. The old actress Avas -studying again her far-off girlish triumph. “Viola.” Then she broke off to say, holding out her hand to one whom she alone could see:

“Come, Harry, let’s start early, dear, for you knoAV everything I Avear tonight is neAv!” And with a shiver and a smile she slipped from this Avorld into the next. So, once more, the theatre claimed its meed of remembrance from a dying de-A-otcc. The A-oice tli-at called across the years reached her dull hearing because it avus SAveet Avith the triumph of her early youth; and her last responsive backward look Avas reAvarded Avitli a vision of the long-dead lover husband. And that Avas tho passing of an intensely practical woman.