"HIS CANON 'GAINST SELF-SLAUGHTER."

Western Star, Issue 2253, 4 November 1898, Page 7

"HIS CANON 'GAINST SELF-SLAUGHTER."

NTHONY ' LANGsabalone | \ in his lodgings j —alone with his own thoughts. And these were I no b who 11 y w pleasant. For if I life had not H held much for Is him before, it H held loss now. If he might nobpossess the woman to whom he had eriven the whole love of hi? lonely existence what good was life to him ? As he asked himself this question, over and over again, with wearisome iteracion, the whole soul of him rose up in wild revolt against the refined and systematic torture which should always permit happiness, even in little measure, to pass him by on the other side. To pass him by what time it grave to others —the mere slush of humanity, the people who stayed not to think of aught save their own passions and pleasures—all that they listed and he lacked. Verily, fate was a wanton thing, hg thought bitterly. Lang was thirty-two, and an actor by persuasion. He had drifted into the much maligned profession as do eo many of those who are designed for something widely different. The home influence that had su.Tounded him were the direct antitheses of these influences. He had kicked against the pricks, and had not altogebher regretted having adopted the stage for a piofession. For by the time he was thirty he had played many parts, and played them well, until he came to be regarded as one destined to make his mark. So he would have made his murk but for the incidence of Millie Abherton.

She was leading lady of the touring company to which Lang belonged, in a round of Shakespearian plays. Lang had never cherished any more belief in Shakespearian performances as a money-making means, than in Ibsenite performances—rather less, perhaps. But whether it was his Hamlet, his Othello or her Dosdemona, his Macbeth or her Lady Macineth—whatever it was, the tour prospered amazingly and " went " exceedingly well. And Anthony fell in love with Millie. . timates had dubbed him of late, mused deeply on life generally and Millie particularly. Was death worth dying? he wondered. He did not know, but he desired to try. And if it was worth dying what then ? Did his profession, his hopes, and aspirations, count lor nothing ? For next to nothing, he told himself with a groan athisown idiotcy. It is not given to many men to love as Lang loved Millie Atherton. I almost think,, had Millie known the length and breadth of his heartbreak, she would have felt tempted to reconsider her decision. She had a sweet, kind heart, poor girl, warped by the fierce determination, possessed by so many young actresses, to subordinate everything to success in her profession, She yearned for nothing but the ineffable joy, the proud delight of talking to crowded audiences across the dancing footlights. That was all.

His landlady wondered why " the hacting gent " did not ring for tea, as he was wont to do quite late in the afternoon. Land had picked up his revolver—and a photograph—and was examining both of them attentively, even critically. He was thinking, thinking

Hamlefc was the play that evening. The fussy little stage-manager, was here, there, and everywhere, as is the practice of fussy little stage-managers. It was likely to be a big night, and he wanted to impress the good folk of Haystack worth. It is not every provincial theatre that boasts a green room. This populous city's Theatre Royal did possess one, and several members of the company were foregathered therein discussing the " Era," the "Stage" and the characters of common friends—especially the latter. tTesenbly the conversation assumed a more general turn. Somebody's apropos of nothing—or apropos of stage suicides, which is the same thing —propounded the heresy that those good people who prate incessantly about the " cowardice "of self-murder, don't know what thev are talking about. " I maintain," said the speaker, " that in nine cases out of ten the poov beggar needs all the courage he can call up. Cowardice be hanged ! It's only fools, who know nothing of humanity, who talk like that. I've generally observed," here he looked around, as though challenging contradiction, " that the average murdorer is much less an artist when it comes to putting his own light onb, than in giving his victim the ' quietum.' "

There was a little chorus of dissent from the ladies, but young Stanforth —he was cast for Laertes, I may tell you -broke in approvintrly. " Agreed," he said, " but I would go further. I would say that save in exceptional instances it is not even ' wicked '— what an inane term that is ; by the way—to pub an end to oneself. In certain circumstances it is noble ; and in all circumstances a man's life's his own to do as he chooses with, isn't it ?" "It occurs to me that you're a bit of a freethinking Anarchisb, young Stanforth," interpolated Bantoft, who liked to pose as the funny man both "on the stage and off." " Take an opium pill, dear boy, take an opium pill, if ever you feel inclined to shuffle yourself off this vale of tears. It's easy, ib'a inexpensive, and bettor than oil, it doesn't make a nasty mess. Those are three excellent reasons for suiciding—and better reasons than any you can give, Han forth, or you Haysman."

"For Heaven's sake don't talk so horribly gentlemen," exclaimed Miss Atherton, suppressing a slight shiver. " I think it's about time some of us went to our dressing rooms. Mr. Lang is late this evening," she added. Somehow, the people in that little crowd always smiled astutely when Miss Atherton referred to Lang by name, or vico versa. They had a sort of impression that the two understood each other. That was where people deceived themselves. " All the same," rejoined Ban toft, who had inaugurated the brief discussion about " killing no self-murder," " speaking for myself, I don't believe I'd ever take my own life for love of a woman. A man's a fool who does that, anyhow- -except behind the footlightp, you know." They laughed gaily ab the reservation, as they trooped off to their rooms. Their

hearts were light to-night, for were they not nearing the end of a long and successful

tour? Time sped and the call-boy made his customary rounds, but still Lang did not put in an appearance. In the provinces seven-thirty is the commencing hour. It wa« now, and the house was packed with what the reporters call "a rovvded and appreciative audience." The stage-manager was in a fever. It was fully time to ring up,—and no Hamlet, besides, Lang had got to dress when he did arrive. " Mr. Sandys is fearfully angry," whispered MissTalboys to Mrs. Masters, as the last-named lady—the Queen of Denmark—added the finishing touches to what, to say the least, was scarcely an artistic make-up. "He dislikes a stage-wait of all things." "I fancy he'll have to get over his dislike, then," responded t'he good-natured Mrs. Masters, complacently surveying her faded charms in the glass. " Mr. Lang is not a man to be trifled with, late or not late. He can aftord to come late occasionally, though I will say for him that he's rarely late at rehearsal." " You must ring up, you must ring up !" cried the little manager, who was by this time in a perfect agony of mind. " Where," he added, with an outburst of viciousness, " where is that confounded Lang." Even as he spoke, the stage-door opened and Anthony Lang, looking ghastly pale, entered. He was wrapped in a long black cloak, which being removed, revealed the sable habiliments in which it is usual to clothe the figure of the ill-starred Prince of Denmark. The people in the pit and gallery were loudly clamouring for the beginning of things. Hurrying to his dressing room for a moment—and nobody in that agony of haste, thought to remark it as singular that he should come down to the theatre ready dressed for the part (for that matter, he was always '"singular")—Lang stood at the wings ready to go on, and the play commenced. Until he was on the stage he spoke not a word to anyone. That night, Hamlet, surpassed himself. In the familiar scenes with Ophelia particularly, he spoke his lines in a manner which showed how intensely he was feeling the part. The audience " rose at him "at the close of each act, everyone agreeing that nothing to equal his performance had been seen at the Theatre Royal, Haystackworth, since the occurrence of a stray visit, many years ago, from the great Macready. All went well—more than well—until the combat. And then, as Kipling says " a strange thing happened." Laertes suddenly gave a piercing cry that echoed through the crowded playhouse, and dropped senseless on the stage ! The curtain was rung down, as the reporteresque English of the local broadsheets expressed lit next day, " amid a scene of the utmost confusion."

Everybody thoughtthatHamlet had accidentally stabbed Laertes to the heart. But everybody was wrong. Presently the manager came before the curtain to intimate, with the usual string of regrets, that both Mr. Lang and Mr. Stunforth were too seriously indisposed to finish the scene. He asked the audience, to believe, however, that neither gentleman had sustained the slightest personal injury. Here, however, Mr. Sandys did not speak by the card. For as soon as Stanforth rallied sufficently to explain the reason of hiss sudden collapse, it was a curious story that he had to impart—a story that touched an intimate friend of theirs (actors like other folk do love each other so much!) nearly.He said :

" Lang hasn't acted like a thing of flesh and blood to-night. Such acting is too great for anything ;ib is supernatural. I had thought his manner strange all the evening; but in tho middle of the duel, when I made a lunge at him,my sword passed completely through his body without seeming bo encounber any obsbacle. He had been fencing like a demon ; bub this terrible incident so completely unnerved me bhab I fell in a dead fainb I can remember nobbing ab this moment save"—and ho passed his hand shudderingly across his eyes—" the terrible expression of Lang's face. What has como to the man ?"

His auditors felb too much unnerved themselves to laugh at his remarkable story. They looked at each other in silence—and then they looked round for Anthony Lang. Ho was no longer in bhe theatre.

At thatmomenb a messenger from Lang's lodgings was ushered inbo the green room. Mr. Lang had shob himself with a revolver at a quarter past eight o'clock that evening.

What was the solution of bhe mystery ? On bhe face of it, ib appears vague.obscure, foolish impossible. Bub bhe fact remains, that if you care to undertake 0 pilgrimage to Haystackworbh today -or any daythuy will toll you the story pretty much as I have told ib. Their " Theatre Royal " has been superseded by a palatial structure and other changes have taken place, as changes will and do. But the good citizens still cell, with baled breath, how an actor named Anthony Lang played Hamleb for an hour and forty minutes by tho clock after ho had shot himself to death.