  It was back in the early nineties that an invitation was extended to me to appear in an all-star performance of "Richard the Third" in a monster benefit for some charitable institution. (My friends, the critics, permit me to play tragedy—for charity!) With my acceptance of the invitation I also sent word I should appreciate it if a "bit" (a small part) were given to my valet to play. This valet of mine was the most woefully stage-struck individual I ever saw. It was his only fault. Otherwise he was without a blemish as a valet. He had begged me for months to let him go on in one of my productions but I had never had an opportunity until now. The messenger sent from Richmond through Lord Stanley to Richard on the field of battle was the part my valet was to play and his line was "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond." For weeks prior to the benefit matinee that valet repeated his line aloud! If I asked for my slippers he brought them mumbling, "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond." No matter what I said to him he prefaced his answer with this line. It got on my nerves to such an extent I told him I'd dismiss him if he said it again in my hearing. It was no use. Every time I turned my head I saw my valet repeating "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond." We put in a long rehearsal session the morning of the matinee. I was so much occupied with my own performance I paid no attention to the valet. I forgot even to inform him about the costume he should wear. As I was finishing my make-up and within a moment or two of the rise of the curtain my valet appeared in the doorway of my dressing-room with a request that I look him over. What I saw sent me into a paroxysm of laughter. There he was, 250 pounds of him, in a green hauberk extending only to the top of his stomach! (It should have covered him to his knees.) Blue tights pulled over the generous paunch met the lingering and deficient hauberk. Scarlet boots were fitted with spurs so huge as to stagger any tragedian! The helmet whose side chains should have touched his shoulders sat atop his head like a chestnut on an apple with the side chains tickling the tops of his ears! As a finish he had the largest sword I ever saw strapped to his side! There was no time to change so I suppressed my laughter and told him for the fiftieth time to go to the left first entrance and when he saw my back toward him and heard me say, "Off with his head, so much for Buckingham," to rush on and with all his vigor shout his line. The valet promptly began, "A gentleman called—" but I stopped him and he started off as proud as a peacock and as confident as possible. The moment came. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the valet waiting in his place. In his eagerness he was like a tiger ready to spring on his prey. I gave the cue. On came the valet! Then I turned and with all the force at my command snarled, "How now?" The valet began to fall backwards! Nearer and nearer the footlights he tottered until his feet became entangled in the spurs—and down he went flat on his back! Picking himself up he managed to rescue the funny little helmet from the footlights trough, put it on Of course everybody died! It was really my fault. I had omitted telling him that in tragedy actors save their voices at rehearsal and of course my rage was altogether unexpected by him as I had previously said "How now?" in a conversational tone. Of course every one of my friends insisted my valet was not to blame inasmuch as he had been making just announcements every day of his life to either John Mason or me in our little flat in the West thirties! But I always set it down as the best proof in the world that valets are born and not made. Tragedy is the husband of humor; comedy the child. Many comedians either make you laugh or frighten you to death. |
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