Was it right? was it wrong? were questions of higher moment. My respect for the opinions of "Mrs. Grundy" had slowly melted away since I discovered that, with that respectable representative of the world. in general, success sanctified all things; nothing was reprehensible but failure. I should never have adopted the stage as a matter of expediency alone, however great the temptation. What I did was not done lightly and irresponsibly. I reviewed my whole past life, and saw, that, from earliest childhood, my tastes, studies, pursuits had all combined to fit me for this end. I had exhibited a passion for dramatic performances when I was little more than an infant. I had played plays before I ever entered a theatre. I had written plays from the time that I first witnessed a performance. My love for the drama was genuine, for it was developed at a period when the theatre was an unknown place, and actors a species of mythical creatures. I determined to fulfil the destiny which seemed visibly pointed out by the unerring finger of Providence in all the circumstances, associations, and vicissitudes of my life, in my intellectual tastes and habits, and the sympathies of my emotional nature. I would become an actress. Mr. Mowatt's appreciation of the drama was, I think, even greater than my own. My wishes met with a ready response from him. His only fear was, that I had not physical strength to endure the excitement and fatigue of an arduous vocation. This had to be tested. The consent of one other person was all I required; it was that of my father. I had not courage personally to communicate my intentions. Mr. Mowatt, in a private.interview with him, explained the state of his own affairs, the theatrical propositions I had received, and my resolves, should these resolutions meet with his sanction. After they had conversed for some time I could endure the suspense no longer, and entered the room. My father spoke but two words as I silently put my arms about his neck. They were, "Brave girl!” Talismanic words were they to me; and ever after, when my spirits flagged, they sounded in my ears, and cheered me, and stimulated me, and made me "braye." His consent, though not withheld, was given with some reluctance. But he had greater fears for my health than for my success. He assured me - and my ready ears drank in the words of promise — that, if I had sufficient self-possession to act in public as he had seen me perform in private, my success was certain. Before I had contemplated the possibility of becoming an actress, I had partly engaged to write another comedy for the Park Theatre. The managers desired that the hero should be a young instead of an old man, as in Fashion. The part was to be adapted to the abilities of their leading juvenile comedian, Mr. C. This gentleman's performance of the Count, in Fashion, had won him much well-deserved applause. Mr. C— was consulted concerning the character which I purposed writing for him, and paid us several visits. The play was abandoned, in consequence of my determination to enter the profession; and this change was at once communicated to him. I desired to make my first appearance in some of the cities of the Union where I was not personally known, and to study and practise my profession before I made my début in New York. Mr. C, however, con vinced us that this course would be unwise. The Park was the one theatre in the Union that could give the stamp of legitimacy - my début must be made there. I could afterwards travel and gain experience before I accepted a second engagement in New York. He also represented to us that I needed an instructor to make me acquainted with the traditionary "stage business of old-established plays; one who could, at the same time, sustain opposite characters to me, and who would relieve me from the fatigue of directing rehearsals. He assured us that he had played the whole range of youthful heroes with Miss Faucitt and other English stars of note, and had been well drilled in the duties of stage manager in English and Scottish theatres. Before I even made my début he had entered into the following contract with Mr. Mowatt: I was to appear on the closing night of the season, at the Park Theatre, for his benefit. He was to travel with us and play opposite parts to me for one year, sharing equally the proceeds of every engagement. He was to assist in conducting the business arrangements, superintend all rehearsals, and afford me all the dramatic instruction in his power. It was soon represented to us by managers that this arrangement was hardly a fair one; but Mr. Mowatt was too honorable not to adhere to a contract once made, however disadvantageous it might prove. The instant my projected appearance was announced, I had to encounter a flood of remonstrances from relatives and friends - opposition in every variety of form. But tears, entreaties, threats, supplicating letters. could only occasion me much suffering they could not shake my resolution. CHAPTER XII. Preparations for Début. First Rehearsal with the Company. A distressing Incident. - Indignation of an Audience.— Painful Discovery. Conclusion of Engagement. Fashion performed for Mr. Blake's Benefit.- First Appearance as Gertrude. THE day of my début was fixed. It was in the month of June, 1845. I had three weeks only for preparation. Incessant study, training,-discipline of a kind which the actor-student alone can appreciate, were indispensable to perfect success. I took fencing lessons, to gain firmness of position and freedom of limb. I used dumb bells, to overcome the constitutional weakness of my arms and chest. I exercised my voice during four hours every day, to increase its power. I wore a voluminous train for as many hours daily, to learn the graceful management of queenly or classic robes. I neglected no means that could fit me to realize my beau ideal of Campbell's lines: "But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come; The day before my début, it was necessary that I should rehearse with the company. I found this a severer ordeal than performing before the public. Once more I stood upon the dimly-lighted, gloomy stage, not now in the position of an author, to observe, to criticize, to suggest, but to be observed, to be criticized, very possibly nay, very probably to be ridiculed, if I betrayed the slightest ignorance of what I attempted. There is always a half-malicious curiosity amongst actors to witness the shortcomings of a novice. They invariably experience strong inclinations to prophesy failure. No wonder; for they know best the nice subtleties of their own art - the unexpected barriers that start up between the neophyte and his goal. Only those actors who are engaged in the scene rehearsed are permitted to occupy the stage. The play was the Lady of Lyons. Mrs. Vernon, as Madame Deschapelles, and I, as Pauline, took our seats to open the first scene. The actors crowded around the wings, eager to pass judgment on the trembling débutante. The stage manager, seated at his table, scanned her with cold and scrutinizing eyes. The pale prompter laid his book upon his knee, that he might stare at her more deliberately. Even the sleepy little call boy, regardless of the summons in his hand, put on the sapient look and attitude of a critic. “If I could but shut out all these eyes! " I said to myself. But, turn whatever way I would, they met - hemmed me in on all sides - girdled me with freezing influences. After we had taken our seats, there was a moment's awful silence. It was broken by Mr. Barry's dignified (he was alarmingly dignified) "Commence, if you please." Mrs. Vernon spoke the first lines of the play. By a resolute effort, forcing myself into composure, I replied. |