Life on the Stage Part 13

"(What in h--ll!) My little one! (you double d----n fool!) My bird, what brings you here? (Yes, what the blankety, blankety, blanknation does bring you here, crummie girl?) Get back to your nest, dearie! (and stay there, d----n you!)" as he gently pushed me off the stage. Next day when the prompter showed him his error he admitted it at once.

He knew much sorrow and trouble, and before that last long streak of good fortune came to him, in New York, in "Hazel Kirke," he knew a time of bitter poverty. Eliza had died--a sweet and n.o.ble woman--and the loss was terrible to him. I was just winning success in the East when I was dumfounded one day at seeing Mr. Couldock standing, bowed and broken, before me, asking me for help.

A star--dear G.o.d! could such things happen to a star? I was so hurt for him, for his broken pride. When I could speak, I simply told him my salary, and that two (my mother and myself) were trying to live on it.

"Oh!" he cried, "crummie girl, why don't you demand your rights; your name is on everyone's lips, yet you are hungry! Shall I speak for you?"

Poor old gentleman, I could not let him go empty away. I took one-half of my rent-money and handed it to him. I dared not ask my landlady to favor me further than that. His face lighted up radiantly--it might have been hundreds from his look. "Dearie!" he said, "I'll pay this back to the penny. You can ill spare it, I see that, crummie girl, but, oh, my la.s.s, it's worse to see another hungry than it is to hunger yourself. I'll pay it back!" His eyes filled, he paused long, then he said, pathetically: "Some time, crummie girl, some time!"

My landlady granted me grace. Months pa.s.sed away--many of them--waves went over me sometimes, but they receded before my breath was quite gone.

Things were bettering a little, and then one day, when I came home from work, a man had called in my absence--an old man, who had left this little packet, and, oh! he had been so anxious for its safety!

I opened it to find $25, all in bills of ones and twos. Such a pathetic story those small bills told--they were for the crummie girl, "With the thanks of the obliged, Charles W. Couldock."

He had kept his word; he was the only man in this profession who ever repaid me one dollar of borrowed money. Mr. Couldock was like some late-ripening fruit that requires a touch of frost for its sweetening. In his old age he mellowed, he became chaste of speech, his acting of strong, lovable old men was admirable. He was honored by his profession in life and honestly mourned in death--he would not have asked more.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH

I Come to a Turning-Point in my Dramatic Life--I play my First Crying Part with Miss Sallie St. Clair.

We were in Columbus; things were moving along smoothly and quietly, when suddenly that incident occurred which had the power to change completely my dramatic prospects, while at the same time it convinced the people about me, in theatrical parlance, my head was "well screwed on," meaning it was not to be turned by praise.

Miss Sallie St. Clair was the star of the week, and she was billed to appear on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights in an adaptation of "La Maison Rouge." I am not certain as to the t.i.tle she gave it, but I think it was "The Lone House on the Bridge." She was to play the dual characters--a count and a gypsy boy. The leading female part Mrs. Ellsler declined, because she would not play second to a woman. The young lady who had been engaged for the juvenile business (which comes between leading parts and walking ladies) had a very poor study, and tearfully declared she simply _could_ not study the part in time--"No--no! she co--co--could not, so now!"

There, then, was Blanche's chance. The part was sentimental, tearful, and declamatory at the last, a good part--indeed, what is vulgarly known to-day as a "fat" part, "fat" meaning lines sure to provoke applause.

Mrs. Bradshaw, who was herself ever ready to oblige her manager, could not serve him in this instance, as the part was that of a very young heroine, but she gladly offered her daughter's services in the emergency.

So sending for her to come to the theatre, the mother awaited her arrival. She was very ambitious for Blanche, who had absolutely no ambition for herself, outside of music, and here was the double opportunity of playing a leading part, next to the star, and of obliging the manager just at the time when contracts for the next season were in order of consideration. No girl could help grasping at it eagerly, and while Blanche studied the part, she, the mother, would baste up some breadths of satin she had by her into a court dress. As she thus happily planned it all Blanche sauntered in to inform her mother and her manager that she would not do the part. _Would_ not, mind you; she did not condescend to claim she _could_ not. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw drew her heavy veil over her face with a shaking hand and moved silently away, only waiting to reach the friendly privacy of her own room before yielding to the tears caused by this cruel indifference to her wishes and to their mutual welfare.

Mr. Ellsler then tried, in vain, to induce Blanche to undertake the part.

He tried to bribe her, promising certain gifts. He tried to arouse her pride--he absolutely commanded her to take the part.

"Oh, very well, if you like," she answered, "but I'll spoil the play if I do, you know!" And indeed he did "know" what she was capable of in the line of mischief; and, knowing, gave her up in angry despair. There was then but one chance left for the production of the play, to give the part to one of the ballet-girls.

And Mr. Ellsler, who felt a strong friendship for the brave, hard-working, much-enduring Miss St. Clair and her devoted if eccentric husband, said, gently: "I'm sorry, Sallie, but it's no fault of mine; you know I can't give memories to these two women, who say they can't study the part. The girl I want to offer it to now will speak the words perfectly to the last letter, and that's all we can expect of her, but that's better than changing the bill."

Then I was called. I adored Miss St. Clair, as everyone else did. I heard, I saw the long part, but instead of the instant smiling a.s.sent Mr.

Ellsler expected, I shook my head silently. Miss St. Clair groaned, Mr.

Barras snuffled loudly, and stammered: "W--what did you expect, if the others can't study it, how can she?"

"Oh," I answered, "I can study the lines, Mr. Barras, but," big tears came into my eyes, I was so sorry to disappoint the lovely blond star, "it's--it's a crying part--a great lady and a crying part! I--I--oh, if you please, I can't cry. I can laugh and dance and sing and scold, but I don't know how to cry; and look here," I caught up the part and fluttered over the leaves and pointed to the oft-repeated word "weeps--weeps,"

"and, Miss St. Clair," I excitedly finished, "I can't weep, and I won't have a st.i.tch of clothes for her back either!"

All three hearers burst out laughing. Miss St. Clair was in radiant good-humor in an instant. She dried my eyes, and said: "Child, if you really can study that long part, and just walk through it after only one rehearsal, you will be a very clever little girl. You need not try to act, just give me the lines and hold a handkerchief to your eyes when tears are called for. You shall have one of my prettiest dresses for the court scene, and I guess you have a white muslin of your own for the garden scene, have not you?"

I had, yes, and so I went home, heavy-hearted, to undertake the study of my first crying part.

Good heavens! In spite of this memory, I catch myself wondering was there ever a _first one_--did I ever do anything else. For it seems to me I have cried steadily through all the years of my dramatic life. Tears gentle, regretful; tears petulant, fretful; tears stormy, pa.s.sionate; tears slow, despairing; with a light patter, now and then, of my own particular brand, kept for the expression of my own personal troubles--very bitter, briny tears they are, and I find that a very few answer my purpose nicely.

Miss St. Clair, who was tall as well as fair, had measured the length of my skirt in front, so that she might have one of her dresses shortened for me during the afternoon, thus leaving me all the time possible for study. After I had learned the words by heart, I began to study out the character. It was an excellent acting part, very sweet and tenderly pathetic in the first act, very pa.s.sionate and fierce in the second, and the better I understood the requirements of the part, the greater became my terror of it. My room-mate tried to comfort me. "Think," she cried, "of wearing one of Miss St. Clair's own dresses! I'll wager it will be an awful nice one, too, since you are obliging her, and she is always kind, anyway."

But that leaden weight at my heart was too great for gratified vanity to lift. "Bother the tears," she added; "I heard Mr. Barras say the tears of all actresses were in their handkerchiefs."

"Oh, yes, I heard him, too," I answered, "but he was just talking for effect. There must be something else, something more. You can't move anyone's heart by showing a handkerchief."

"Well," she exclaimed, a bit impatiently, "what do you _want_ to do? You don't expect to shed real tears, do you?"

"N-n-no!" I hesitated, "not exactly that, but there's a tone--a--Hattie, last Wednesday, when you quarrelled with young Fleming--I was not present, you know--but that night, a half-hour after our light was out, you spoke to me in the darkness, and I instantly asked you why you were crying and if you had been quarrelling, though you had not even reached the sobbing stage yet. Now how did I know you were crying?"

"I don't know--anyway I had no handkerchief," she laughed; "you heard it maybe in my voice."

"Yes," I answered, eagerly, "that was it. That curious veiling of the voice. Oh, Hattie, if I could only get that tone, but I can't, I've tried and tried!"

"Why," she exclaimed, "you've got it now--this very moment!"

"Yes," I broke in impatiently, and turning to her a pair of reproachful, tear-filled eyes, "yes, but why? because I'm really crying, with the worry and the disappointment, and, oh, Hattie, the fright!"

And the landlady, a person who always lost one shoe when coming up-stairs, announced dinner, and I shuddered and turned my face away.

Hattie went down, however, and bringing all her blandishments to bear upon the head of the establishment, secured for me a cup of coffee--that being my staff in all times of trouble or of need, and then we were off to the theatre, Hattie kindly keeping at my side for companionship or help, as need might be.

I did not appear in the first act, so I had plenty of time to receive my borrowed finery--to try it on, and then to dress in my own white muslin, ready for my first attempt at a crying part. It was a moonlit scene. Miss St. Clair, tall, slender, elegant, looked the young French gallant to the life in her black velvet court dress. I had to enter down some steps from a great stone doorway. I stood, ready to go on. I wore a mantilla with my muslin. I held a closed fan in my hand. My heart seemed to suffocate me--I thought, stupidly, "Why don't I pray?" but I could not think of a single word. I heard the faint music that preceded my entrance--a mad panic seized me. I turned and dashed toward the street-door. Mr. Ellsler, who had just made his exit, caught me by the skirts. "Are you mad, girl?"

he cried; "go back--quick--quick! I tell you--there's your cue!"

Next moment, tremulous but smiling, I was descending the steps to meet the counterfeit lover awaiting me. My head was on his breast and my arm stealing slowly about his neck before I knew that the closed fan in my hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood showing between my clinched fingers. My first lines were simply recited, without meaning, then the tender words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. The glamour of the stage was upon me. The frightened actress ceased to exist--I was the Spanish girl whose long-mourned lover had returned to her; and there was something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the voice, some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. There was more of ardor, less of tenderness than before. My lips trembled; suddenly I heard the veiled, pathetic tone I had all day striven for in vain, and curiously enough it never struck me that it was my voice--no! it was the Spanish girl who spoke. My heart leaped up in my throat with a great pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell upon my cheeks. There was applause--of course, was not Miss St. Clair there? Suspicion arose in my mind--grew. I bethought me of the saving of my life on that stolen day pa.s.sed in the forest long ago. I took my lover's hand and with pretty wiles drew him into the moonlight. Then swiftly stripping up the lace ruffles, showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, and with the cry: "You are not Pascal de la Garde!" stood horror-stricken.

The moment the curtain fell Miss St. Clair sprang to me, and taking my face between her hands, she cried: "You would move a heart of stone!" She wiped her eyes, and turning to her husband, said: "Good G.o.d! she's a marvel!"

"No, no!" he snuffled, "not yet, Sallie; but she's a marvel in embryo!"

He patted me on the shoulder. "You have a fortune somewhere between your throat and your eyes, my girl--you have, indeed!"

And then I rushed to don my borrowed robes for the next act, and stared stupidly when Hattie said: "What lovely applause you got, Clara, and you so frightened; you shook all over when you went on, we could see you."

But I was too excited over what was yet to be done really to comprehend her words. When I saw myself in the gla.s.s I was delighted. The open robe of pale blue satin, brocaded with silver, was lifted at the sides with big bunches of blush and deep-pink roses over a white satin petticoat. I wore a high Spanish comb, a white mantilla, a pink rose over the ear, after the national fashion, and a great cl.u.s.ter of roses at my breast, and for the first time I felt the subtle joy that emanates from beautiful and becoming garments. The fine softness of the rich fabric was pleasant to my touch--its silken rustle was music to my ear. Miss St. Clair had lent me of her best, and as I saw it all reflected there, I thought how easy it must be for the rich to be good and happy, never dreaming that the wealthy, who to escape _ennui_ and absolute idleness sometimes did wrong simply because there was nothing else to do, might think in turn, ah! how easy it must be for the poor to be good and happy.

But the overture ended abruptly. I gathered up my precious draperies and ran to the entrance to be ready for my cue. The first speeches were cold, haughty, and satirical. The gypsy who was personating my dead lover had deceived everyone else, even the half-blind old mother had accepted him as her son, though declaring him greatly changed in temper and in manner.

But I, the sweetheart, was not convinced, and ignoring the advice of the highest at the court, was fighting the adventurer with the courage of despair.

As the scene went on, the stage hands (carpenters, gas-men, scene-shifters, etc.) began to gather in the entrances, always a sign of something unusual going on. I saw them--an ugly thought sprang up in my mind. Ah, yes, they are there waiting to see the ballet-girl fail in a leading part! An unworthy suspicion, I am sure, but it acted as a spur would have done upon an already excited horse, and with the same result, loss of self-control.

In the denunciation of the adventurer as a murderer and a personator of his own victim my pa.s.sion rose to a perfect fury. I swept the stage, storming, raging, fearing nothing under heaven but the possible escape of the wretch I hated! Vaguely I noted the manager reaching far over a balcony to see me--I didn't care even for the manager. The audience burst into tremendous applause; I didn't care for that either, I only wanted to see a rapier through the heart of the pale, sneering man before me. It was momentary madness. People were startled--the star twice forgot her lines. It was not correct, it was not artistic work. She, the part, was a great lady, and even her pa.s.sion should have been partially restrained; but I, who played her, a ballet-girl, earning $5 a week, what could you expect, pray, for the price? Certainly not polish or refinement. But the genuine feeling, the absolute sincerity, and the crude power lavished upon the scene delighted the audience and created a very real sensation.

The curtain fell. Miss St. Clair took me into her kind arms and, without a word, kissed me heartily. The applause went on and on. She caught my hand and said, "Come!" As she led me to the curtain, I suddenly realized her intention, and a very agony of bashfulness seized upon me. I struggled frantically. "Oh, don't!" I begged. "Oh, please, I'm n.o.body, they won't like it, Miss St. Clair."

She motioned the men to pull back the curtain, and she dragged me out before it with her. The applause redoubled. Shamed and stupid, I stood there, my chin on my breast. Then I heard the laugh I so admired (Miss St. Clair had a laugh that the word merry describes perfectly), her arm went about my neck, while her fingers beneath my chin lifted my face till I met her smiling glance and smiled back at her. Then the audience burst into a great laugh, and bowing awkwardly to them and to her, I backed off, out of sight, as quickly as I could; she, bowing like a young prince, followed me. But again they called, and again the generous woman took me with her.

And that was the first time I ever experienced the honor of going before the curtain with a star. I supposed I had received the highest possible reward for my night's work; I forgot there were such things as newspapers in the town, but I was reminded of their existence the next day.