Life on the Stage Part 19

And when, in G.o.d's good time, success came to me, as I entered the green-room at the Fifth Avenue one evening, a tall man in a gray suit released himself from a bevy of pretty women, and coming over to me, held out his hands, saying: "Did I ever make any remarks to you about building materials?" and, laughingly, I answered: "Yes, sir, you said something about bricks some years ago."

And while I ran away to change, he called after me: "Say, 'Jones's Baby'

isn't on to-night, is it?" and immediately began to tell about _Emilia_, and such is the power of imagination that he declared "She raged up and down behind the scenes crying 'Murder,' till the very house broke loose, and _right through all the pealing of the bells high and clear, you heard her voice topping everything_!"

I was resting and getting breath while the bell clanged, remember, but so much for human memory.

It is strange how often the merest accident or the utterance of a chance word may harden wavering intentions into a fixed resolve. Though I am not aggressive, there is in me a trace of bull-dog tenacity, made up of patient endurance and sustained effort. Rather slow to move, when I am aroused I simply _cannot_ let go my hold while breath is in me, unless I have had my will, have attained my object.

Perhaps people may wonder why I retained my anomalous position in that theatre--why I did not follow the advice of some of the lady stars, who gave me a kindly thought and word now and then. And at the risk of giving them a poor opinion of my wisdom, I present the reason that actuated me.

One day at rehearsal, while waiting for the stage to be reset, several of the actresses gossiped about theatrical matters. One had a letter from a friend who announced her advance to "first walking lady," which turned the talk to promotion generally, and laughingly she asked me: "What line of business shall you choose, Clara, when your turn comes?" but before I could reply, the eldest woman present sneered: "Oh, she can save herself the trouble of choosing; if she's ever advanced it will be in some other city than this."

I was astonished; I had just made one of my small hits, and had a nice little notice in the paper, but it did not occur to me that _envy_ could sustain itself, keeping warm and strong and bitter on such slight nourishment as that. And then, she of the letter, answered: "Why, Clara's getting along faster than anyone else in the company, and I shall expect to see her playing leading business before so very many seasons pa.s.s by."

"Leading business here?" cried the other, "I guess not!"

"Oh," laughed the first, "I see, you mean that Mrs. Ellsler will claim the leading parts as long as she lives? Well, then, I shall expect to see Clara playing the leading juveniles."

"Well, you go right on expecting, and your hair will be as gray as mine is, when she gets into any line of business in this town!"

Unspeakably wounded, I asked, timidly: "But if I work hard and learn to act well, can't I hold a position as well as anyone else?"

She looked contemptuously at me, and then answered: "No, you must be a fool if you suppose that after standing about in the ballet for months on end that Cleveland will ever accept you in a respectable line of business. You've got to go to some other place, where you are not known, and then come back as a stranger, if you want to be accepted here."

A dull anger began to burn in me--there was something so suggestive of shame in the words, "Some other place, where you are not known." I had nothing to hide. I could work, and by and by I should be able to act as well as any of them--better perhaps. I felt my teeth come together with a snap, the bull-dog instinct was aroused. I looked very steadily at the sneering speaker and said: "I shall never leave this theatre till I am leading woman." And they all laughed, but it was a promise, and all these provoking years I was by way of keeping it. The undertaking was hard, perhaps it was foolish, but of the group of women who laughed at me that day every one of them lived to see my promise kept to the letter. When I left Cleveland it was to go as leading woman to Cincinnati, one season before I entered New York.

But after I had at last escaped the actual ballet, and was holding a recognized position, I was still treated quite _en haut--en bas_ by the management. Mr. and Mrs. Ellsler had acquired the old-shoe habit. I was the easy old dramatic slipper, which it was pleasant to slip on so easily, but doubly pleasant to be able to shake off without effort.

That you may thoroughly understand, I will explain that I was an excellent _Amelia_ in "The Robbers" when a rather insignificant star played the piece, but when a Booth or some star of like magnitude appeared as _Charles de Moor_, then the easy slipper was dropped off, and Mrs. Ellsler herself played _Amelia_. Any part belonging to me by right could be claimed by that lady, if she fancied it, and if she wearied of it, it came back to me. When we acted in the country in the summer-time, at Akron or Canton, where there were real theatres, she played _Parthenia_ or _Pauline_ in the "Lady of Lyons," or any other big part; but if the next town was smaller, I played _Parthenia_ or _Pauline_ or what not. Because I had once been in the ballet I had become an old pair of dramatic slippers, to be slipped on or kicked off at will--rather humiliating to the spirit, but excellent training for the growing actress, and I learned much from these queer "now-you're-in-it and now you're-not-in-it" sort of casts, and having much respect and admiration for Mr. Ellsler, I fortunately followed in his wake, rather than in that of any woman. He was one of the most versatile of actors. _Polonius_ or _Dutchy_ (the opposite to Chanfrau's _Mose_), crying old men or broad farce-comedy old men. Often he doubled _King Duncan_ and _Hecate_ in "Macbeth," singing any of the witches when a more suitable _Hecate_ was on hand--acquainted with the whole range of the "legitimate," his greatest pleasure was in acting some "bit" that he could elaborate into a valuable character. I remember the "switch-man" in "Under the Gaslight"--it could not have been twenty lines long, yet he made of him so cheery, so jolly, so kindly an old soul, everyone was sorry when he left the stage. He always had a good notice for the work, and a hearty reception ever after the first night. It was from him I learned my indifference to the length of my parts. The value of a character cannot always be measured by the length and number of its speeches, but I think the only word of instruction he ever gave me was: "Speak loud--speak distinctly," which was certainly good as far as it went. He was the most genial of men, devotedly fond of children, he was "Uncle John" to them all, and while never famous for the size of the salaries he paid, he was so good a friend to his people that he often had trouble in making desirable changes, and the variegated and convoluted falsehoods he invented in order to get rid of one excessively bad old actor with an affectionate heart, who wished to stay at a reduced salary, must lay heavy on his conscience to this hour.

I used to wonder why he had never taken to starring, but he said he had not had enough self-a.s.sertion. He was a hard-working man, but he seemed to lack resolution. He had opinions--not convictions. He was always second in his own theatre--often letting "I dare not wait upon I would."

After years of acquaintanceship, not to say friendship, when my ambition had been aroused, and I turned hopeful eyes toward New York, Mr. Ellsler opposed me bitterly, telling me I must be quite mad to think that the metropolis would give me a hearing. He said many pleasant and encouraging things, or wrote them, since I was in Cincinnati then. Among them I find: "The idea of your acting in New York; why, better actresses than you are, or can ever hope to be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage.

Do you suppose you could tie the shoe of Eliza Logan, one of the greatest actresses that ever lived--but yet not good enough for New York? How about Julia Dean, too? Go East, and be rejected, and then see what manager will want you in the West."

Verily not an encouraging friend. Again I find: "Undoubtedly you are the strongest, the most original, and the youngest leading lady in the profession--but why take any risk? why venture into New York, where you may fail? at any rate, wait _ten years_, till you are surer of yourself."

Good heavens! If I was original and strong in the West, why should I wait ten years before venturing into the East?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

I recall the Popularity and too Early Death of Edwin Adams.

I hear many tales of the insolence of stars--of their overbearing manners, and their injustice to "little people," as the term goes; but personally I have seen almost nothing of it. In the old days stars were generally patient and courteous in their manners to the supporting companies.

Among the stars whose coming was always hailed with joy was Edwin Adams, he of the golden voice, he who should have prayed with fervor, both day and night: "Oh, G.o.d! protect me from my friends!" He was so popular with men, they sought him out, they followed him, and they generally expressed their liking through the medium of food and drink. Like every other st.u.r.dy man that's worth his salt, he could stand off an enemy, but he was as weak as water in the hands of a friend, and thus it came about that he often stood in slippery places, and though he fell again and again, yet was he forgiven as often as he sinned, and heartily welcomed back the next season, so great was his power to charm.

He was not handsome, he was not heroic in form, but there was such dash and go, such sincerity and naturalness in all his work, that whether he was love-making or fighting, singing or dying, he convinced you he was the character's self, whether that character was the demented victim of the _Bastille_, young _Rover_ in "Wild Oats," or that most gallant gentleman _Mercutio_, in which no greater ever strode than that of Edwin Adams. His buoyancy of spirit, his unconquerable gayety made it seem but natural his pa.s.sion for jesting should go with him to the very grave.

Many a fine _Mercutio_ gives:

"----a plague o' both your houses!"

with a resentful bitterness that implies blame to _Romeo_ for his "taking off," which would be a most cruel legacy of grief and remorse to leave to his young friend--but Adams was that brave _Mercutio_:

"That gallant spirit that aspired the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth."

and whose last quips, coming faintly across paling lips, expressed still good-natured fun, and so:

"----a plague o' both your houses!"

but no blame at all.

His grace of movement and his superb voice were his greatest gifts. Most stars had one rather short play which they reserved for Sat.u.r.day nights, that they might be able to catch their night train _en route_ for the next engagement; so it happened that Mr. Adams, having bravely held temptation from him during the first five nights, generally yielded to the endearments of his friends by the sixth, and was most anyone but himself when he came to dress for the performance of a play most suggestively named: "The Drunkard." It was a painful and a humiliating sight to see him wavering uncertainly in the entrance. All brightness, intelligence, and high endeavor extinguished by liquor's murky fog. His apologies were humble and evidently sincere, but the sad memory was one not to be forgotten.

I had just married, and we were in San Francisco. I was rehearsing for my engagement there. The papers said Mr. Adams had arrived from Australia and had been carried on a stretcher to a hotel, where, with his devoted wife by his side, he lay dying. A big lump rose in my throat, tears filled my eyes. I asked my husband, who had greatly admired the actor, and who was glad to pay him any courtesy or service possible, to call, leave cards, and if he saw Mrs. Adams, which was improbable, to try to coax her out for a drive, if but for half an hour, and to deliver a message of remembrance and sympathy from me to her husband. To his surprise, he was admitted by the dying man's desire to his room, where the worn, weary, self-contained, ever gently smiling wife sat and, like an automaton, fanned hour by hour, softly, steadily fanned breath between those parched lips, that whispered a gracious message of congratulation and thanks.

Mrs. Adams never left him, scarce took her eyes from him. Poor wife! who knew she could hold him but a few hours longer.

My husband was deeply moved, and when he tried to describe to me that wasted frame--those helpless hands, whose faintly twitching fingers could no longer pluck at the folded sheet, my mind obstinately refused to accept the picture, and instead, through a blur of tears, I saw him as on that last morning, when in his prime, strong and gentle, at his rehearsal of "Enoch Arden," he said to me: "I am disappointed to the very heart, Clara, that you are not my _Annie Lee_."

He took his hat off, he drew his hand across his eyes. "I can't find her," he said, with that touch of pathos that made his voice irresistible; "no, I have not found her yet--they are not innocent and brave! They are bouncing, buxom creatures or they are whimpering little milk-sops. They are never fisher-maidens, flower-pure, yet strong as the salt of the sea! She loved them both, Clara, yet she was no more weak nor bad than when, with childish lips, she innocently promised to be 'a little wife to both' the angry lads--to Philip and young Enoch! Now your eyes are sea-eyes, and your voice--oh, I am disappointed! I thought I should find my _Annie_ here!"

And so I see him now as I think with tender sorrow of the actor who was so strong and yet so weak--dear Ned Adams!

When Mr. Joseph Jefferson came to us I found his acting nothing less than a revelation. Here, in full perfection, was the style I had feebly, almost blindly been reaching for. This man, this poet of _comedy_, as he seemed to me, had so perfectly wedded nature to art that they were indeed one. Here again I found the immense value of "business" the most minute, the worth of restraint, if you had power to restrain, and learned that his perfect naturalness was the result of his exquisite art in cutting back and training nature's too great exuberance.

I was allowed to play _Meenie_, his daughter, in the play of "Rip Van Winkle," and my delight knew no bounds. He was very gentle and kind, he gave me pleasant words of praise for my work; he was very great, and--and his eyes were fine, and I approved of his chin, too, and I was, in fact, rapidly blending the actor and the man in one personality. In the last act, when kneeling at his feet, during our long wait upon the stage, I knelt and adored! and he--oh, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Jefferson, that I should say it, but _did_ you not hold my fingers unnecessarily close when you made some mild little remarks that were not in the play, but which filled my breast with quite outrageous joy, and pride--indeed, my crop of young affections, always rather a spa.r.s.e growth, came very near being gathered into a small sheaf and laid at your feet.

Fortunately, I learned in time that there was an almost brand-new wife in the hotel next door, and I looked at him with big, reproachful eyes and kept my fingers to myself, and wisely put off the harvesting of my affections until some distant day.

Mind you, I was well within my rights in this matter. Girls always fall in love with stars--some fall in love with all of them, but that must be fatiguing; besides, as I said before, my affections were of such spa.r.s.e growth they could not go round. Yet since I could honor thus but one star, I must say I look back with complete approval upon my early choice, and the shock to my heart did not prevent me from treasuring up some kindly words of advice from the artist-actor anent the making-up of eyes for the stage.

Said he to me one evening: "My girl, I want to speak to you about that 'make-up' you have on your eyes."

"Yes, sir?" I answered, interrogatively, feeling very hot and uncomfortable, "have I too much on?"

"Well, yes," he said, "I think you have, though you have much less than most women wear."

"Oh, yes," I hurriedly interposed, "there was a French dancer here who covered nearly a third of her eyelids with a broad blue-black band of pomatum, and she said----"

"Oh," he protested, "I know, she said it made the eyes large and l.u.s.trous, and as you see yourself in the gla.s.s it does seem to have that effect; but, by the way, what do you think of my eyes?"

And with truth and promptness, I made answer: "I think they're lovely."

My unexpected candor proved rather confusing, for for a moment he "Er-er-erd," and finally said: "I meant as a feature of acting, they are good acting eyes, aren't they? Well, you don't find _them_ made up, do you? Now listen to me, child, always be guided as far as possible by nature. When you make up your face, you get powder on your eyelashes, nature made them dark, so you are free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or pomade, but you should not paint a great band about your eye, with a long line added at the corner to rob it of every bit of expression. And now as to the beauty this lining is supposed to bring, some night when you have time I want you to try a little experiment. Make up your face carefully, darken your brows and the lashes of one eye; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes with black pomade, then draw a black line beneath the eye, and a broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out from the corner. The result will be an added l.u.s.tre to the made-up eye, a seeming gain in brilliancy; but now, watching your reflection all the time, move slowly backward from the gla.s.s, and an odd thing will happen, that made-up eye will gradually grow smaller and smaller, until, at a distance much less than that of the auditorium, it will really look more like a round black hole than anything else, and will be absolutely without expression. You have an admirable stage eye--an actor's eye, sensitive, expressive, well opened, it's a pity to spoil it with a load of blacking."