And now, having added the insult of preaching at you to the injury of disappointing you, I suppose you will accuse me of rank hypocrisy; but you will be wrong, because with outstretched hands I stand and proclaim myself your well-wisher and your friend.

CHAPTER II

THE STAGE AND REAL LIFE_

How often we hear people say, “Oh, that’s only a play!” or “That could only happen in a play!” and yet it’s surprising how often actors receive proof positive that their plays are reflecting happenings in real life.

When Mr. Daly had “L’Article 47” on, at the 5th Avenue Theatre, for instance, the key-note of the play was the insanity of the heroine.  In the second, most important act, before her madness had been openly proclaimed, it had to be indicated simply by manner, tone, and gesture; and the one action of drawing the knee up into her clasping arms, and then swaying the body mechanically from side to side, while muttering rapidly to herself, thrilled the audience with the conviction of her affliction more subtly than words could have done.  One night, when that act was on, I had just begun to sway from side to side, when from the auditorium there arose one long, long, agonizing wail, and that wail was followed by the heavy falling of a woman’s body from her chair into the centre aisle.

In an instant all was confusion, every one sprang to his feet; even the musicians, who were playing some creepy, incidental music, as was the fashion then, stopped and half rose from their places.  It was a dreadful moment!  Somehow I kept a desperate hold upon my strained and startled nerves and swayed on from side to side.  Mr. Stoepel, the leader, glanced at me.  I caught his eye and said quick and low, “Play! play!”

[Illustration:  Clara Morris in “L’Article 47"]

He understood; but instead of simply resuming where he had left off, from force of habit he first gave the leader’s usual three sharp taps upon his music desk, and then—­so queer a thing is an audience—­those people, brought to their feet in an agony of terror, of fire, panic, and sudden death by a woman’s cry, now at that familiar tap, tap, tap, broke here and there into laughter.  By sixes and sevens, then by tens and twenties, they sheepishly seated themselves, only turning their heads with pitying looks while the ushers removed the unconscious woman.

When the act was over, Mr. Daly—­a man of few words on such occasions—­held my hands hard for a moment, and said, “Good girl, good girl!” and I, pleased, deprecatingly remarked, “It was the music, sir, that quieted them,” to which he made answer, “And it was you who ordered the music!”

Verily, no single word could be spoken on his stage without his knowledge.  Later that evening we learned that the lady who had cried out had been brought to the theatre by friends who hoped to cheer her up (Heaven save the mark!) and help her to forget her dreadful and recent experience of placing her own mother in an insane asylum.  Learned, too, that her very first suspicion of that poor mother’s condition had come from finding her one morning sitting up in bed, her arms embracing her knees, while she swayed from side to side unceasingly, muttering low and fast all the time.