Life on the Stage Part 16

But it was off the stage that the ancient couple were most delightful.

Ellen and Charles were like a pair of old, old love-birds--a little dull of eye, nor quite perfect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled plumage, but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satisfaction of their first caging. Their appearance upon the street provoked amus.e.m.e.nt--sometimes even excitement. I often saw drivers of drays and wagons pull up their horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at them as they made their way toward the theatre. Mrs. Kean lived inside of the most astounding hoop woman ever carried. Its size, its weight, its tilting power were awful. Entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or tables to accommodate Mrs. Kean's hoop. People scrambled or slid sideways about her on the stage, swearing mentally all the time, while a sudden gasp from the front row or a groan from Mr. Cathcart announced a tilt and a revelation of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and in spite of his dignity Charles was not above a joke on Ellen's hoop, for one rainy day, as she strove to enter a carriage door she stuck fast, and the hoop--mercy! It was well Mr. Kean was there to hold it down; but as a troubled voice from within said: "I'm caught somehow--don't you see, Charles?" With a twinkling eye Charles replied: "Yes, Ellen, my dear, I do see--and--and I'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, too!" a speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, with antique coquetry, Mrs. Kean punished him by tweaking his ear when he squeezed in beside her.

The Kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. It was a large coal-scuttle of white leghorn and at the back there was a sort of flounce of ribbon which she called her "bonnet-cape"; draped over it she wore a great, bright-green barege veil. But she was not half so funny as was her husband on the street. His short little person b.u.t.toned up tightly in a regular bottle-green "Mantellini" sort of overcoat, loaded with frogs of heavy cord, and lined, cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable color, quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most experienced student of natural history to name; while vicious little street boys at sight of it always put searching questions as to the cost of cat-skins in London.

As they came down the street together, Mrs. Kean, majestically towering above her lord and master, looked like an old-time frigate with every inch of canvas spread, while at her side Charles puffed and fretted like a small tug. The street boys were a continual torment to him, but Mrs.

Kean appeared serenely unconscious of their existence, even when her husband made short rushes at them with his gold-headed cane, and crying: "Go a-way--you irreverent little brutes--go a-way!" and then puffed laboriously back to her again as she sailed calmly on.

One day a citizen caught one of the small savages, and after boxing his ears soundly, pitched him into the alley-way, when the seemingly enraged little Englishman said, deprecatingly: "I--I wouldn't hurt the little beast--he--he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, you know--poor little beggar!" and then he dropped behind for a moment to pitch a handful of coppers into the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side to boast of the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received--from which I gathered the idea that in a rage Charles would be as fierce as seething new milk.

Everyone who knew anything at all of this actor knew of his pa.s.sionate love and reverence for his great father. He used always to carry his miniature in _Hamlet_, using it in the "Look here, upon this picture, then on this," scene; but I knew nothing of all that when he first arrived to play engagements both in Cleveland and Columbus, but being very eager to see all I could of him, I came very early to the theatre, and as I walked up and down behind the scenes I caught two or three times a glint of something on the floor, which might have been a bit of tinsel; but finally I went over to it, touched it with my foot, and then picked up an oval gold case, with handsome frame enclosing a picture; a bit of broken ribbon still hung from the ring on top of the frame. I ran with it to the prompter, who knew nothing of it, but said there would soon be a hue and cry for it from someone, as it was of value. "Perhaps you'd better take it to Mr. Kean--it might be his." I hesitated, but the prompter said he was busy and I was not, so I started toward the dressing-room the Keans shared together, when suddenly the door was flung open and Mr. Kean came out in evident excitement. He b.u.mped against me as he was crying: "I say there--you--have you seen--oh, I--er beg your pardon!"

I also apologized, and added: "If you please, sir, does this belong to you? I found it behind the scenes."

He caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the dim light, then, pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fervently: "Thank the good G.o.d!" He held up a length of broken black ribbon, saying: "Hey, but you have played me a nice trick!" I understood at once that he used the locket in "Hamlet," and I ventured: "If you can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts, could you not have a silver chain oxidized for your 'property' picture, sir?" He chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "A good idea that--I--I'll tell Ellen of that; but, my dear, this is no 'property'

locket--this is one of my greatest earthly treasures--it's the picture of----"

He stopped--he looked at me for quite a moment, then he said: "You come here to the light." I followed him obediently. "Now can you tell me who that is a miniature of?" and he placed the oval case in my hands. I gave a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, the broad turned-down collar, and smilingly exclaimed: "It's Lord Byron!"

Good gracious, what was the matter with the little old gentleman! "Ha!

ha!" he cried. "Ha! ha! listen to the girl!" He fairly pranced about; he got clear out on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the emptiness, cried again: "Listen to the girl--Lord Byron, says she--at one glance!"

"Well," I replied resentfully, "it _does_ look like Byron!" And he "Ha!

ha'd!" some more, and wiped his eyes and said, "I must tell Ellen this.

Come here, my dear, come here!" He took my hand and led me to the dressing-room, crying: "It's Charles, my dear--it's Charles--and oh, my dear, my dear, I--I have it--see now!" he held up the locket.

"Oh, how glad I am! And now, Charles, perhaps you'll give up that miserable ribbon," and she kissed his cheek in congratulation.

But on the old gentleman went: "And, Ellen, my dear, look at this girl here--just look at her. She found him for me, and I said, who is he--and she up and said--Ellen, are you listening?--said she, 'It's Lord Byron!'"

"Did she now?" exclaimed Mrs. Kean, with pleased eyes.

But I was getting mad, and I snapped a bit, I'm afraid, when I said: "Well, I don't know who it is, but it does look like Byron--I'll leave it to anyone in the company if it doesn't!"

"Listen to her, Ellen! Hang me if she's not getting hot about it, too!"

Then he came over to me, and in the gravest, gentlest tone said, "It _is_ like Byron, my girl, but it is not him--you found the picture of my beloved and great father, Edmund Kean," and he kissed me gently on the forehead, and said, "Thank you--thank you!" and as Mrs. Kean came over and put her arm about me and repeated the kiss and thanks, Charles snuffled most distinctly from the corner where he was folding his precious miniature within a silk handkerchief.

They were both at their very best in the tragedy of "Henry VIII." Mr.

Kean's _Wolsey_ was an impressive piece of work, and to the eye he was as true a Cardinal as ever shared in an Ec.u.menical Council in Catholic Rome, or hastened to private audience at the Vatican with the Pope himself; and his superb robes, his priestly splendor had nothing about them that was imitation. Everything was real--the silks, the jewelled cross and ring, and as to the lace, I gasped for breath with sheer astonishment. Never had I seen, even in a picture, anything to suggest the exquisite beauty of that ancient web. Full thirty inches deep, the yellowing wonder fell over the glowing cardinal-red beneath it. I cannot remember how many thousands of dollars they had gladly given for it to the sisters of the tottering old convent in the hills, where it had been created long ago; and though it seemed so fragily frail and useless a thing, yet had it proved strong enough to prop up the leaning walls of its old home, and spread a sound roof above the blessed altar there--so strong sometimes is beauty's weakness.

And Mrs. Kean, what a _Catherine_ she was! Surely nothing could have been taken from the part, nothing added to it, without marring its perfection.

In the earlier acts one seemed to catch a glimpse of that Ellen Tree who had been a beauty as well as a popular actress when Charles Kean had come a-wooing. Her clear, strong features, her stately bearing were beautifully suited to the part of _Queen Catherine_. Her performance of the court scene was a liberal education for any young actress. Her regal dignity, her pride, her pa.s.sion of hatred for _Wolsey_ held in strong leash, yet now and again springing up fiercely. Her address to the _King_ was a delight to the ear, even while it moved one to the heart, and through the deep humility of her speech one saw, as through a veil, the stupendous pride of the Spanish princess, who knew herself the daughter of a king, if she were not the wife to one. With most pathetic dignity she gave her speech beginning:

"Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;"

maintaining perfect self-control, until she came to the words:

"----Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience Upward of twenty years and,----"

Her voice faltered, the words trembled on her lips:

"----have been blest With many children by you."

In that painful pause one remembered with a pang that all those babes were dead in infancy, save only the Princess Mary. Then, controlling her emotion and lifting her head high, she went on to the challenge--if aught could be reported against her honor. It was a great act, her pa.s.sionate cry to _Wolsey_:

"----Lord cardinal, To _you_ I speak."

thrilled the audience, while to his:

"----Be patient yet,"

her sarcastic:

"I will, when you are humble!"

cut like a knife, and brought quick applause. But best, greatest, queenliest of all was her exit, when refusing to obey the King's command:

"----Call her again."

for years one might remember those ringing words:

"I will not tarry: no, nor ever more, Upon this business, my appearance make In any of their courts."

It was a n.o.ble performance. Mr. Kean's mannerisms were less noticeable in _Wolsey_ than in other parts, and the scenes between the Queen and Cardinal were a joy to lovers of Shakespeare.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND

I Hear Mrs. Kean's Story of Wolsey's Robe--I Laugh at an Extravagantly Kind Prophecy.

From the time I found the miniature and by accident fed Mr. Kean's innocent vanity in his father's likeness to Byron, he made much of me.

Evening after evening, in Columbus, he would have me come to their dressing-room, for after the habit of the old-time actor, they came very early, dressed without flurry, and were ready before the overture was on.

There they would tell me stories, and when Charles had a teasing fit on him, he would relate with great gusto the awful disaster that once overtook Ellen in a theatre in Scotland, "when she played a Swiss boy, my girl--and--and her breeches----"

"Now, Charles!" remonstrated Mrs. Kean.

"Knee breeches, you know, my dear----"

"Charles!" pleadingly.

"Were of black velvet--yes, black velvet, I remember because, when they broke from----"

"C-h-a-r-l-e-s!" and then the stately Mrs. Kean would turn her head away and give a small sob--when Charles would wink a knowing wink and trot over and pat the broad shoulder and kiss the rouged cheek, saying: "Why, why, Ellen, my dear, what a great baby! now, now, but you know those black breeches did break up before you got across the bridge."

Then Mrs. Kean turned and drove him into his own corner or out of the door, after which she would exclaim: "It's just one of his larks, my dear. I _did_ have an accident, the seam of one leg of my breeches broke and showed the white lining a bit; but if you'll believe me, I've known that man to declare that--that--they fell off, my dear; but generally that's on Christmas or his birthday, when only friends are by."