DEATHS ON THE STAGE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3105, 17 September 1913, Page 87

DEATHS ON THE STAGE.

LAST WORDS OF FAMOUS ACTORS.

(Copyright.)

“Ring down the curtain,” cried Rabelais, “the farce is ended.” So the famous writer passed, facing the dread moment of death, carelessly cynical. Cynical because even though all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, life is something more than a farce, and the fall of the curtain marks the conclusion of something which might have been made more worthy.

The Shakespearean simile with reference to the world’s being a stage with men and women merely players has a curiously appropriate interest when coupled with the subject of this article. For mock tragedy in the theatre has on several occasions been turned to the real thing. And sudden death is doubly dramatic when it happens on the stage; its tragedy is intensified by the presence of a multitude, acrowd swiftly moved from the makebelieve to the real cud, and as occasionally has been the case, sometimes mistaking the one for the other.

The passing of an actor while at work is dying in harness just as is the death of a soldier on the field of battle, even if the circumstances are less heroic. There have been some truly remarkable examples of how famous people have died while engaged in their life-work. Geoffrey Chaucer died while making a ba'lad entitled “A Ballad made by Geoffrey Chaucer on Iris deathbed, Iving in great anguish”; Dickens virtually died at his desk murmuring ‘‘My books, my books’_; Herder, the German philosopher, in his last moments wrote the last line of an ode to the Deity, and Mozart passed while engaged on his famous work, “Requiem, saying, ‘‘Bet me hear once more those notes, so long my soul’s delight.” Two among physicians died amid dramatic coincidences. William Hunter, the famous Scot, had always thought his end wou’d come during the excitement of controversy, and, as a matter of fact, while he was being heckled during a hospital lecture, his heart suddenly failed, and he died instantaneously. His namesake the great anatomist, died while writing, and as he passed through the gates of death he expressed regret he had not the strength to write, “How easy and pleasant a thing it is to die.” WAITING AND WATCHING.

It was while feeling his Pwn pulse that Haller, the great physician, noted that its beats were gradually ceasing. Slower and slower, faint and more faint, became the pu’se. “My friend, the artery ceases to beat,” said Haller to a brother doctor—and fell back dead !

Lord Chief Justice Tenterden died in harness. He insisted on proceeding with a protracted and intricate law case, though (as he knew) he was sick unto death. Then, having summed up. he said, “Gentlemen of the jury, you may now retire.’ They were his last words. He fell back unconscious, and death took place shortly afterwards.

It is no rare thing for actors to die in harness. The world still remembers that William Terriss was killed just as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre, and has not forgotten how the death of the great Henry Irving followed with suddenness the conclusion of his performance of “Becket. In some cases it is probable that actors and actresses have been so wiPught upon bv the feeling engendered by their parts that they have not only lost consciousness of their own individualities, but suffered mentally and physically. Madame Sarah Bernhardt has declared’ for instance, that she never plavs Phedre without fainting or spitting blood, and that, after killing MarceTus in “Theodora” she has a fit of hysteria, or. at least, gives way to tears. CWzelto was always unnerved after going through the poisoning scene in “Lc Sphinx.” and indeed many other French actresses have similarly been the prey of their emotions in similar circumstances. TRAGIC RESULTS.

But this excess of dramatic feeling has had tragic results on occasions. Edmund Kean's death appears to he a case in point. He was playing the part of Othello, and had just uttered the words “Oh! now, for ever, farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!” when he broke down. His effort to continue was futile. Then he gasped to his son. “Speak to them, Charles. I am dying.” It was true. “I am dying” were the last words he spoke. Talking of death, according to his part, Moody, the tragedian, massed awav. He was playing the role of Claudio in “Measure for Measure,” and in his performance on that occasion surpassed himself. In due course he came to the lines, “Ay, hpt to die and go we know not where!” As soon as the words were spoken he reeled and fell. In a few moments his spirit had passed. Remarkable also was the coincidence of phrase to be noted in the case of John Palmer, for whom, it is said, Sheridan wrote “The School for Scandal.” It was in “The Stranger” that he made his last appearance, and his last words were, “There is another and a better world,” words ho uttered with unusual pathos. But no sooner were they said than he staggered and was caught by his fellow actor, Whitefield, who in a few moments discovered that Palmer had indeed gone to another world. THE RULINCx PASSION. A well-known singer whose work at festivals and concerts had made him nonu-

lar in many parts of country, died recently in circumstances allied to those to which we have referred already. had been engaged to sing as Valentine in “Faust,” but was too ill to appear. His mind, however, was dwelling on the part, and in the delirium of his last, moments he sang the intensely dramatic passages in which Valentine, as he lies dying after his duel with Faust, curses his erring sister.

That was a further instance, not only of the ruling passion strong in, death, but of remarkable coincidence of death and appropriate phrase. Another case may be quoted. The Rev. E. T. Griffiths, vicar of Cam, and rural dean of Gloucestershire, died suddenly while preaching. He had selected as his text the words “He that findeth his life shall lose it ; and he that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it.” He had referred to the death of the intrepid Antarctic explorer, Captain Scott, and his men, at the post of duty, when his voice failed and he fell dead in the pulpit. He, too, died in harness and at the post of duty. A GRIM CONCEIT.

The ruling passion strong in death. That was indicated by the last words of the handsome Danton, who, with a curious conceit, asked the executioner to show his head to the spectators at his execution after the guillotine had done its deadly work. “It will be a long time before they see its like,” he said. Lord Chesterfield, essence of politeness, said “Give Day roles a chair,” as lie lay dying. Napoleon murmured “The head of the army,” and Paul Scarron, who had given amusement to so many, said, “Ah, my friends, you will never cry so much for me as I have made you laugh.” The last thoughts of several famous generals were of martial matters. Blucher said :“I know I shall die. lam not sorry for it seeing that I am no longer of any use” ; and, centuries earlier Ziska, the Bohemian patriot, the blind general who led his armies with such success, ordered in his last words that, after death, bis skin be made into drum heads in order that the enemy might be frightened. Very few great men have been afraid to die—afraid, that is, when death was near. Nature seems to make the passing easy, and the state of mind of most men lias been similar to that of Schiller, who with his last breath said, “Many things are growing clear to my understanding.”