THE ACTOR'S DOUBLE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIV, Issue VII, 16 February 1895, Page 158

THE ACTOR'S DOUBLE.

/A Pl rE were talking about spirit manifestations at 111 f the Thirty-nine Club, and retailing the usual 11 Al f second or third-hand accounts of deceased 11/1 / ladies and gentlemen showing themselves to I / 1/ their sorrowing relatives. V V * It is strange the tricks which our brains will sometimes play ns,’ said Doctor Macpherson. * I remember once seeing a ghost myself, and I can tell you that the sensation is a very curious one. It was a good many years ago, in my examination days, and I had been sitting up until the early hours “cramming.” Everybody in the house had long since gone to bed, where I ought to have been myself, so I was rather surprised when I glanced up from my book to see somebody sitting at the table where I myself bad been a few moments before writing. I felt quite startled for an instant, until I recognised the intruder. He was a little hazy, but I conld see plainly enough who it was.’ * A dead relative ?’ asked Major Dennett, who was a firm believer in the good old fashioned ghost. Macpherson answered in his peculiarly qniet way. * No. it was myself. The experience of seeing one’s own ghost is not altogether unusual, I believe.’ * Now, I do not think your experience was half so remarkable as one of mine,’ said Gilbert Dane, the wellknown actor and manager of the Howard Theatre, who happened to be there that night. Dane is not a member of the Thirty-nine, but had come with Macpherson. Most of the brain specialist’s friends are in the profession, a fact which is perhaps due to the year which he himself spent on the stage as a young man. * My story begins prosaically,’ said the actor, when we begged to hear it. * I lost the latch-key with which I let myself into the theatre, and took somebody else’s to the locksmith’s to have a duplicate made. I agreed to call for it the following morning as I was going up to town for rehearsal. I was living at Putney then, and we were actively preparing a play which deserved a better fate than it received, if thought and preparation go for anything, for I came near making myself ill over it. I was feeling out of sorts on the morning that I called for the latch-key, and when the locksmith swore positively that he had given me the thing already—that less than ten minutes previously I had come in for the key, paid for it, and taken it away with me, I will confess that I lost my temper, and stormed at the fellow ; but I conld not get him to budge a line from his story. He seemed to have an idea that I was playing a practical joke, and the only result of my talking was that I nearly lost my train to Waterloo. It was moving when I reached the platform, and I had to run for the only compartment of which the door was open, near the end of the train. * The compartment contained two other passengers, but if I glanced at them at all, I noticed nothing except that each was pretty well hidden behind a daily paper. I had fortunately bought my own paper before calling at the locksmith’s, and I speedily followed their example. So far the story is painfully commonplace. Now comes the truly remarkable experience which has stamped the doings of that day indelibly on my memory.’ The actor paused to strike a match and relight his cheroot, which he had allowed to go out, and we all watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. Macpherson only had the air of a man who had heard the story before. * I had become rather interested in my paper,’ Dane went on, when the cigar was alight again, * and did not notice my companions talking, until one of them started telling an anecdote. Then it gradually dawned upon me that the story he was telling was one that I consider my own particular property, and when I listened, it struck me that the story was being told, not only in my exact words, but also in my own voice. They say that a man does not recognise his own voice—when he hears it in the phonograph, for instance ; bnt that is possibly the fault of the phonograph, and, at any rate, I know that I recognised mine instantly. * The story and the voice startled me, but it is difficult to describe my feelings when I put down my paper to glance at the narrator. ’ * It was yourself ?’ asked Major Dennett, excitedly, as the actor paused -, and Dane nodded. * Yes, gentlemen, I saw seated at the other end of the compartment by the window, opposite his companion, a figure that was an exact fac simile of the reflection which I see in my glass every day when I have dressed for the part of a respectable citizen. It was myself complete in eveiy detail of face and attire.’ * An optical delusion, I suppose?’ I suggested ; and the actor shook his head. * No ; that was the first idea that occurred to me—that I had been working and worrying too much over the new play, and my brain had played me a trick. The unconcerned way in which the third man glanced at me encouraged me in the belief, for tbe likeness, unless I was imagining it, was enough to attract instant attention. I wondered whether there was actually a man sitting and talking where I had seen and heard my facsimile ; for tbe third man, an ordinary, everyday individual, had not spoken a word to him, and might from his expression have been listening to his anecdote or simply thinking. I was relieved when he laughed at tbe point when “ my double,” as I began to call his companion came to the joke of tbe story, bnt when he opened bis mouth it was only to increase the mystery of the affair, for it showed me that “ my double ” possessed my name, as well as my voice, my dress, my face and figure. * I began to wonder then, not whether the man at the window was a reality, but whether I was reality myself, and it really would not have surprised me if I had looked in a mirror at that moment and found it reflect back a face that was strange to me. It is strange how quickly a single phenomenon will sometimes change all one’s fixed opinions on the subject of the supernatural I felt that I must speak to the men if only to prove whether I was awake or dreaming, and I seized the opportunity of introducing myself offered by bearing “ my double” called by my name. ■ ** Excuse me, I said, addressing him, “ bnt I beard your friend just now call you * Mr Dane.’ I wonder whether we are related at all, for that happens to be my name, and we seem to bear a striking similarity to one another." * ** My double ” turned and surveyed me through his single eyeglass in exactly the same manner as that with which I should have surveyed a stranger who addressed me in the train. * “ I really do not know whether.we are related,” he said,

in the voice I use when I wish to be slightly patronising. “I am Gilbert Dane, of the Howard Theatre," and he actually handed me one of my own earth. * There was something in the substantial nature of the familiar bit ot pasteboard that brought back a little of my commonsense, and relieved me from the state of stupefaction into which the phenomenon had driven me. * “ Come, this is a very clever trick,* I said, with a smile which, lam afraid, was rather feeble. “You have certainly succeeded in startling me. Now I should like your own card, so that I may know whom to congratulate on a very clever performance." * * And what did the Mystery do f I inquired with interest when the actor paused. * He did exactly what I should have done, if a stranger addressed me in the same manner. He became angry, and asked me what I meant, and who I called myself. * “ Well! until to day I have been in the habit of calling myself Gilbert Dane, of the Howard Theatre ” I was beginning, keeping as cool as I could, when “ my double” interrupted me in a tone which I still recognised perfectly as my own: * “ Well f you had better not do so any more,” he said, sharply, “ or you will find yourself in the hands of the police. I see that you have been imitating my dress, too, which I cannot help, but the use of my name is another thing. ’ * We had just reached Vauxhall, our first stopping-place, as he spoke, and a ticket collector who knows me by sight came to the door. “My double ” caught his eye first. * “ I wish you would tell this gentleman who I am,' he said* and the man answered promptly : * “ Certainly, sir, you are Mr Dane, the actor.” * He looked startled when I asked him the same question. ' “ I should call you a very good imitation,” he said, when he bad recovered from his surprise. * This was becoming decidedly uncomfortable, and I began to wonder how I could prove to anybody that I was not a very good imitation of myself. The ticket-collector’s ready acceptance of my double as the real “Mr Dane ” showed me how helpless I should be in an appeal to anyone who did not know me well. But I felt that it would not do for two Gilbert Danes to remain at large ; the question which one was to surrender the title must be settled at once. It struck me that the easiest way to do it would be to go together to the theatre, and submit the question to the company assembled for the rehearsal. I suggested this course to my facsimile, and he surprised me by accepting it readily. ‘ “ I warn you that 1 shall detain you when it is settled, and send for the police,” he said in my haughtiest voice. * It was what I was intending to do with him.’ The actor paused to light another cheroot * And did you both go back ?’ somebody asked. Dane nodded. * Yes, together. The third man left ns at Waterloo,’ he said. • You may not believe it, but I felt rather uneasy as I approached the stage door, and the fact that 1 bad no latch-key to open it for myself seemed a calamity. My double calmly prodnced bis, and marched me into my own theatre with the air of a proprietor. Then he closed the door behind him, and, changing his voice and manner, suddenly turned towards me and said quietly : ‘And now, Mr Dane, I will puzzle you no more, but apologise for giving you so much trouble, which I hope you will think repaid by the enjoyment of a unique sensation. The fact is that lam very anxious to go on the stage under your auspices, and I thought that this would be the best way to obtain an introduction to you, and at the same time, show you a specimen of my acting in the part of your understudy. You will admit at least that I understand the art of making up. Now, are you going to give me an engagement—or to send for the police!’ * And you gave him the engagement, I suppose ?’ I asked. * Yes ; I have always regretted that he threw it up before the year was up, and returned to his former profession, that of a medical man.’ ‘ It was he, of course, who called for the latch-key in the morning ?’ * Yes ; he had been in the shop when I ordered it, and the fact finally det ermined him to carry out the affair, which he had been pondering some time.’ ‘ But he must have haunted you like a shadow beforehand,’ put in Major Dennett, • to learn all your gestures and that. I should hardly think the result was worth the trouble.’ Macpherson, who had been sitting quietly in the background, surprised us by replying for his friend. * Excuse me. Major,’ he said, in his usual quiet way, • but you make a mistake there. Any man would have been glad to give a hundred ponnds down for the engagement which Dane offered me straight away. It cost me less than ten pounds for clothes, and about a month of study ; and my time was not worth ninety ponnds a month then, or I should not have thought of giving up medicine and taking to the stage. ’ Herbert Flowerdew.