Chapter 9 ALIXE. THE TRAGEDY OF THE GOOSE GREASE

During the run of "Alixe," at Daly's Theatre, I had suffered from a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, and before I was well the doctor was simply horrified to learn that Mr. Daly had commanded me to play at the Saturday performance, saying that if the work made me worse, the doctor would have all day Sunday to treat me in. He really seemed to think that using a carriage did away with all possible danger in passing from a warm room, through icy streets, to a draughty theatre. But certain lesions that I carry about with me are proofs of his error.

However, I dared not risk losing my engagement, so I obeyed. My chest, which had been blistered and poulticed during my illness, was excruciatingly tender and very sensitive to cold; and the doctor, desiring to heal, and at the same time to protect it from chill, to my unspeakable mortification anointed me lavishly with goose grease and swathed me in flannel and cotton wadding.

That I had no shape left to me was bad enough; but to be a moving abomination was worse, and of all vile, offensive, and vulgar odours commend me to that of goose grease. With cheeks wet from tears of sheer weakness, I reached the theatre resolved to keep as silent as the grave on the subject of my flamboyant armour of grease and flannel. But the first faint muttering of the coming storm reached me even in my dressing-room, when the theatre maid (I had none of my own yet) entered, and frowningly snapped out: "I'd like to know what's the matter with this room? It never smelled like this before. Just as soon as you go out, Miss Morris, I'll hunt it over and see what the trouble is."

I had been pale, but at that speech one might have lighted matches at my scarlet face. While in the entrance I had to be wrapped up in a great big shawl, through which the odour could not quite penetrate, so no one suspected me when making kindly inquiries about my health; but when it was thrown off, and in my thin white gown I went on the stage-oh!

In the charming little love scene, as Henri and I sat close, oh, very close together, on the garden seat, and I had to look up at him with wide-eyed admiration, I saw him turn his face aside, wrinkling up his nose, and heard him whisper: "What an infernal smell! What is it?"

I shook my head in seeming ignorance and wondered what was ahead-if this was the beginning. It was a harrowing experience; by the time the second act was on, the whole company was aroused. They were like an angry swarm of bees. Miss Dietz kept her handkerchief openly to her pretty nose; Miss Morant, in stately dudgeon, demanded that Mr. Daly should be sent for, that he might learn the condition of his theatre, and the dangers his people were subjected to in breathing such poisoned air; while right in the very middle of our best scene, Mr. Louis James, the incorrigible, stopped to whisper, "Can't we move further over and get out of this confounded stench?"

In that act I had to spend much of my time at the piano, with the result that when the curtain fell, the people excitedly declared that awful smell was worst right there, and I had the misery of seeing the prompter carefully looking into the piano and applying his long, sharp nose to its upright interior.

There had been a moment in that act when I thought James Lewis suspected me. I had just taken my seat opposite him at the chess table, when he gave a little jerk at his chair, exclaiming under his breath, "Blast that smell-there it is again!"

[Illustration: Mrs. Gilbert, Augustin Daly, James Lewis, Louis James]

I remained silent, and there I was wrong; for Lewis, knowing me well, knew my habit of extravagant speech, and instantly his blue pop eyes were upon my miserable face, with suspicion sticking straight out of them. With trembling hand I made my move at chess, saying, "Queen to Queens rook four," and he added in aside, "Seems to me you're mighty quiet about this scent; I hope you ain't going to tell me you can't smell it?"

But the assurance that "I did-oh, I did, indeed! smell a most outrageous odour," came so swiftly, so convincingly from my lips, that his suspicions were lulled to rest.

The last act came, and-and-well, as I said, it was the last act. White and rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage,-Louis James at the shoulders and George Clarke at the feet. Their heads were bent over me. James was nearest to the storm centre. Suddenly he gasped, then as we reached the centre of the stage Clarke gave vent to "phew!" They gently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and of the characters I heard from James the unfinished, half-doubting sentence, "Well, I believe in my soul it's-" But the mother (Miss Morant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called for help, for a physician; then with the wild cry, "She is dead! she is dead!" flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon my goose-grease breast. Scarcely had she touched me, however, when with a gasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, "It's you, you wretch! it's you!" and then under cover of other people's speeches, I being dead and helpless, Clarke stood at my head and James at my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mocking at me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of lime and such like disinfectants.

They would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had I not after the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, "I am so sorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but, boys, just think of me, I can't get away from myself and my goose-grease smell a single moment, and it's perfectly awful!"

"You bet it is!" they all answered, as with one voice, and they were merciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter (who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of the scenes for the cause of the offensive odour. Perhaps I may add that goose grease does not figure in my list of "household remedies."

But the next week I was able, in a measure at least, to heal their wounded feelings. Actresses used to receive a good many little gifts from admirers in the audience. They generally took the form of flowers or candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, or an ornament for the dressing-table; but Alixe's altar could boast an entirely new votive offering. I received a letter and a box. The letter was an outburst of admiration for Alixe, the "lily maid the tender, the poetical," etc. The writer then went on to tell me how she had yearned to express to me her feelings; how she had consulted her husband on the matter, and how he had said certainly to write if she wished, and send some little offering, which seemed appropriate, and "therefore she sent this"; and with visions of a copy of Keats or Shelley or a lace-trimmed pin-cushion, I opened the box and found the biggest mince pie I ever saw.

Certainly the lady's idea of an appropriate gift was open to criticism, but not so her pie. That was rich perfection. Its fruity, spicy interior was evenly warmed with an evident old French brandy,-no savagely burning cooking brandy, mind,-and when the flaky marvel had stood upon the heater for a time, even before its cutting up with a paper-knife, the odour of goose grease was lost in the "Araby the Blest" scent of mince meat.

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