I suspect now that I had not taken
enough pains to get word-perfect. I know I had five new parts to study
between November 21 and December 26.
Stage fright is like nothing else in the world. You are standing on the
stage apparently quite well and in your right mind, when suddenly you
feel as if your tongue had been dislocated and was lying powerless in
your mouth. Cold shivers begin to creep downwards from the nape of your
neck and all up you at the same time, until they seem to meet in the
small of your back. About this time you feel as if a centipede, all of
whose feet have been carefully iced, has begun to run about in the roots
of your hair. The next agreeable sensation is the breaking out of a cold
sweat all over. Then you are certain that some one has cut the muscles
at the back of your knees. Your mouth begins to open slowly, without
giving utterance to a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jump
out of your head over the footlights. At this point it is as well to get
off the stage as quickly as you can, for you are far beyond human help.
Whether everybody suffers in this way or not I cannot say, but it
exactly describes the torture I went through in "The Governor's Wife." I
had just enough strength and sense to drag myself off the stage and
seize a book, with which, after a few minutes, I reappeared and
ignominiously read my part.
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