Joe Jefferson is also impressed with the magical potency of old clothes. He has never changed his first "Rip Van Winkle" suit, but he has been forced to have it patched and renovated. His hat, wig, beard and "trick" rifle—the one that falls to pieces after his long sleep—are the same that he used when he made his great success in the part in London fifteen years ago. He mislaid this gun last season, just before he played at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, and was forced to get another. That engagement was his first failure, and a bad one. He has found the old rifle, and, the charm being now complete again, he has opened the season with a very successful week in Brooklyn. Joe would break an engagement in any theatre if a dog were to walk across the stage at the first rehearsal. That is a sure sign of death, loss, or fire, as every actor knows. A cat parading the coulisses or walking with dainty tread across the scene, however (even at an evening performance), would be hailed by him and colleagues with delight as an unfailing sign of prosperity, health and renown.
Sothern felt that he was sure to fail with his audience if his valet, by an accident, handed him his wig before his coat was on, while, if he put it on his head at the last moment, and not before the voices of the call-boy was heard summoning all on for his first scene, he had "got 'em dead to rights."
Florence, like Raymond, carries a lucky $5 gold piece, and believes the charm of his popularity reposes in the fact that he always puts on his costumes in a never-varying order, and never changes his old brushes and articles of "make-up." He, too, is afraid of the necromantic powers of the evil-omened dog, and believes in the magic spells of fairy grimalkin. If the orchestra plays a waltz between the first and second acts of his piece, success is more likely than ever to seal his efforts of the evening.
Mrs. Florence, on the contrary, does not believe in old clothes, but quite the reverse. She thinks, however, that birds (canaries, or any other variety) are sure to bring bad luck, and will not play in the company where there is a cross-eyed girl. The cross-eyed man doesn't count. If the prompter should tear a page of manuscript accidentally, or, moreover, if the page should contain the name or a speech of the character she is acting, there is no use in hoping for a great furor that evening, for there will be nothing but disappointments in the making of points and contretemps in the management of the stage. If the prompter turns out the foot-lights or a row of border-lights, swift disaster is sure to come on the theatre. This was never known to fail in her experience.
Booth will never go on the stage, no matter how late or hurried he may be, without first pacing three time across the green-room, mumbling over not the first, but the very last speech of the piece he is to play that night. Then he walks on, sure of his triumph. If he should fail in his formula, the audience would be cold and unappreciative. It has been his custom to have Desdemona's couch set in the second entrance on the stage, left in the last scene of "Othello." According to the old style, the couch should be set in the centre door, behind curtains, exactly in front of the audience. Booth believes in signs, however, and should he consent to have Desdemona slumber in any other place than U. E. L. he would lose his charm in the character of Iago.
CHANFRAU.
Frank Chanfrau believes in the efficacy of old clothes. He has only one suit in Kit, and his success is unvarying in that piece. He hates dogs on the stage, believes in cats, knows birds are bad luck, is convinced that a house decorated in a prevailing hue of decided blue is sure of ill-fortune, and shudders at the mere mention of the Macbeth music. He has steered clear of all these evil influences during his stage career, and has been uniformly successful.
Oliver Doud Byron has a special claim in addition to the regular superstitions of his class. He has a certain tattoo mark of India ink on his right forearm. When he rolls up his sleeves for his "terrible combat" in the last act of "Across the Continent," he must uncover that mark without looking at it, or his fetich is not complete, and the charm of his prosperity will be broken.
Charles Thorne believes his success lies in the fact that he always steps on the stage in the first scene with his right foot foremost, and keeps it in advance until he has delivered his first speech. This done, he is safe and sure of a "walk over" before his critics. Once or twice he has inadvertently stepped out with his left, and on these occasions he has failed, or the piece has fallen flat. Such an accident happened him on the first night of "Lost Children." Manager Palmer, of the Union Square, who has also become a victim of stage superstitions, is fearful of Thorne stepping out with his terrible left foot on a first night, just out of retaliation for some slight or disagreement. Thorne, possessing this magic power for good or evil, not at his fingers' ends, but at the ends of his toes, is a terror to the establishment, and on first nights is treated with distinguished consideration by the entire company. No one gets in his way when he is about to make his stage entrance on a first night, lest he may be thrown out of step and advance with sinister effect upon the scene. Thorne's right foot once put forward, every one breathes freer and plays with greater vim. The critical point of every new play, therefore, lies, though the critics may not think it, in the malign or favorable magic of Thorne's feet, according as he puts them forward.
Adelaide Neilson was as superstitious as all actresses are. Her evenly-balanced beauty and brains did not free her from the slavery of omens. She carried about with her, ever since her first London success in Juliet, a lucky silken rag—a dingy, straw-colored drapery—which she insisted upon hanging over the railing of the balcony when Juliet breathes her complaints to the moon. Without this, the fair Adelaide was sure she could not succeed in the scene in any part of the world. She brought the silken rag across the water with her again and again. The drapery was somewhat faded and tattered from long service in the two worlds, but she still clung fondly to it, and said it was possessed of all its olden magic.
Lotta sleeps three hours by daylight, but if she should wake up ten minutes before the usual time (just the time to rush to the theatre) the fates are against her, and she will not do well that evening. If any one whistles in a dressing-room within her hearing while she is donning her costume, she is sure the person is "whistling away her luck," and the house is going to be bad.
Fanny Davenport would not, for any consideration, miss rearranging her wig before the green-room mirror just previous to going on the stage. She has a regular, unvarying formula to go through to guarantee success. She first presses her hands to the sides of her head to be sure the springs are firmly fixed (although she has just had her dresser make that sure in her dressing-room), then gives the "bang" three smart tugs, puffs up the frizzes with a nervous twitch of her fingers, presses the entire wig down from the top of her head, gives her silken trail a final kick to induce it to unfold itself, and then rushes pell mell to the stage in answer to the alarming cry of "stage waiting." Without this formality she would not be herself the whole evening.
FANNY DAVENPORT.
Clara Morris believes in the efficacy of a small medicine vial, which she carries (empty) through every scene, she says, through habit, though it is fair to presume, through superstition. Without the vial she could not get along.
Neilson also had a vial—a special one—which she insisted should only be used for Romeo's poison potion. She would handle no other, and has been known to have the bill changed because the vial was mislaid, and would not allow "Romeo and Juliet" to be put up for performance until it was found.
Frank Mayo thinks his magic lies in an old fur cap and a hare's foot, for rouging, which he had ever since he has been on the stage.
DION BOUCICAULT.
Boucicault trembles and is sure of failure for any one of his pieces which is greeted with commendation by all the actors without a dissenting voice. If the players condemn his piece at the rehearsals, he is sure the audience will like it.