Cursed in the Act Read Online Free

would stand in the wings, dressed appropriately for the part being played by the Guv’nor, and mouth the words as Mr. Irving uttered them onstage. He even made gestures as he mimed the character. Then he would hurry off to his dressing room to change for the next scene and return to stand beside the prompt and continue his solitary work, just in case the Guv’nor should collapse in mid-performance.
    Peter Richland was the only understudy employed as such. Other parts were understudied by other players—minor characters ready to take over for major players if necessary. Peter Richland had nothing else to occupy his time. I could see how that could wear on a man. Especially when Mr. Irving might meet with some slight injury—or even a major setback, as with this poisoning—and then, just as Peter Richland believed his chance at glory had come, the Guv’nor would shake off the pain and, in true theatre tradition, go on to give his usual outstanding performance, leaving Richland once again standing in the wings.
    Mr. Stoker called the cast together onstage an hour or so before the next performance. Along with front of house staff and stagehands, I sat down in the front row of the stalls and listened to what he had to say. Above me, the gaslit chandeliers burned in wine-colored shades. The auditorium and front of house were still lit by gas; only the stage lighting had been changed over to the new electricity. I was surrounded by the myrtle green and cream and purple background of the gilt moldings, frescoes, and medallions. A truly beautiful auditorium giving an atmosphere of great luxury, it seemed to me. I was always impressed by it, as I’m sure were most of the patrons.
    I was not a little surprised to see Mr. Henry Irving himself stride onto the stage. His face was pale, but then it was always pale without his makeup. He held himself up straight, as though to prove that he was not affected by the poison. I did, however, notice that he carried a tumbler of water, from which he sipped repeatedly.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” he said, his face turning to look directly at his loyal cast. He always appeared to me to be acting a part, even when just being himself. He could be very dramatic on the most ordinary of occasions. But this was no ordinary occasion. “You have by now, I am sure, heard of the passing of our fellow thespian Mr. Peter Richland, a stalwart member of our company for some time. Some of you may not be aware of the fact that this good fellow served his time in theatres about this great country of ours, his formative years spent with the late, great Mr. Ronald Foxit’s Shakespearean Company.”
    We all knew that Foxit’s company was a ramshackle affair that operated on a threadbare budget and played only the smallest of provincial theatres. Mr. Irving made it sound as though it had been grand and noteworthy. I thought I saw some of the people onstage—John Saxon for one and Guy Purdy for another—smirking and winking at their neighbors. Mr. Irving seemed not to notice.
    â€œHow did he die, Henry?”
    Miss Ellen Terry had joined the cast onstage, unnoticed by most, and now she stepped forward. Brought into the Lyceum to be Mr. Irving’s principal actress when Mrs. Bateman left as manager, she had distinguished herself in the classical dramas. She was loved and adored by all: her fellow thespians, the Lyceum audiences, and even the critics. I had heard Mr. Stoker comment on her beautiful voice and claim that she was “endowed with one of those magnetically sympathetic natures, the rarest and most precious quality a performer can have.” She now stood quietly, in a simple white dress with her long blond hair piled up on her head, and looked directly at the Guv’nor.
    â€œHe was run down by a carriage,” said Irving, tossing off the line as though part of a theatrical scene. “I need not distress you with details of the trauma he