/IIP* ^r YjjsesOO ’ jJgfjSSSK** 7 I N the third act of a play produced some time ago before a critical New York audience a fussy old bachelor decided to dash out into the cold night air a noble act. As he rushes off the stage he cries: "Where is my shawl? Where is my shawl? 1 cant go out without a shawl. Ah!" The "Ah!” indicates his satisfaction at finding the desired article. Then he leaves the stage. At one performance of*the play the property- man neglected to put the shawl in its proper place, and when the bachelor uttered the word "Ah!” he was embarrassed to find that there was no shawl in sight. He cast a hasty glance about him, hoping that it might be found, but after what must have been to him a long and painful wait he turned up his coat collar, and so went out to brave the storm. Now this hitch in the performance, apparent as it was, remained unde tected by all but two or three in the large audience. The other spectators showed no sign of suspecting that something had gone w rong, even w^hen the bachelor returned later with the shawl around his shoulders. Such hitches occur often enough in the best managed plays, yet per haps only one person in 500 ever de tects them. It would be a mistake to conclude from this that audiences, however critical they may be, are unob servant. It is a case not of lack of power of observation but of an over abundance of faith. The fact is that they have become so accustomed to absolute perfection in the produc tion of plays that it seems almost in conceivable to then that an actor should be found wanting or that the smoothness of a performance should be hindered by human fallibility. This faith in the absolute perfection Df the machinery of the theater has resulted in a delicate but powerful form of tyranny which has, unknown to the audiences that exercise it, caused pain and terror and grief innumerable performers. Slaves of this relentless tyranny, they have been compelled to appear as usual in spite of tragedies and ailments un suspected by the public. Sometimes the circumstances have been tragic and at times they have been rather comical. Last summer Jack Norworth, the husband of Nora Bayes, was taken seriously ill and the doctors sent him off to Europe in ba6te. While her husband was racing with death across the seas Nora Bayes was obliged to go on with her performance at the New Brighton theater, where the pair had been appearing When seen by the writer a few minutes before her act she was almost in a state of col lapse from anxiety and grief. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes were red with crying, and she seemed a wreck. A few minutes later she ap peared before the audience, gayly be decked and smiling as though she . were the happiest woman in the world. It happened that many in the audi * J tifire zi54e<3 stocks sfcuee 7&>mr jy