Life on the Stage Part 23

I told of the song, begun in sleep, continued in wakefulness to its wailing end, and then lost--utterly lost! And leaning his pale face eagerly toward me, Mr. Daly exclaimed: "He proved his words, good G.o.d!

don't you see that--that air was his message to you? a message from the dying or the dead!" his fingers nervously sought the little amulet he wore.

"But," I objected, "he had been dead many hours before the song came to me?"

When, with the utmost conviction, he instantly answered: "Think how far you were asunder--what a distance he had to come to you!"

Being a very practical young person, a smile was rising to my lips, but a glance into his earnest eyes, that had become strange and mystic, checked it.

"I shall tell Father D----y of this," he said, half to himself, then, looking at me, he added: "The man loved you greatly, whatever he may have been, for you have received his message--whether it came from the man dying or the man dead. Go home, child; never mind about the scenes to-day--go home!"

And with that weird idea firmly fixed in his mind, he dismissed me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH

I accept an Engagement with Mr. Macaulay for Cincinnati as Leading Lady--My Adieus to Cleveland--Mr. Ellsler Presents Me with a Watch.

After years of weary waiting, years of patient work, I had reached the position of juvenile leads _de jure_, but of general lack _de facto_, and then, lacking as my character was in the element of "push," even _I_ could see plainly that I was throwing away myself and my chances in life by remaining in a position where I faced the sign of "No thoroughfare."

That Mrs. Ellsler would retain the leading business while her husband retained a theatre was certain. I knew positively that some of Cleveland's leading business men, st.u.r.dy supporters of the theatre, finding that their mildly expressed dissatisfaction with the make-up of the company was ignored, had written and plainly asked for a change, just as Mr. Ellsler, every two years, changed the comedian, leading man, etc., etc. They declared that his business would double in consequence; and this was submitted with the kindliest intentions and no wish to wound anyone, etc., and they were, with great respect--various business men.

At all events, when the letter had produced embarra.s.sed discomfort in one quarter and fierce anger in another, it became inactive. I rightly judged that the "No thoroughfare" sign was permanent--there was no further advancement possible in that theatre; therefore I rejoiced greatly when I had an engagement offered me, even though, for reasons touching the reputation of the manager who wrote, I refused it--still an offer of leading business heartened me, and I felt gratefully sure some star had spoken a kind word in my behalf. There was so much hanging upon that possible engagement, too; it meant more than advancement professionally, more than gratified ambition. Never yet had I been able to go beyond the taking care of myself and lending a helping hand in sickness to my mother; while, to my unsleeping distress, my bitter mortification, she had still to work. We were still apart, save for my regular weekly visit, and such a small increase in salary would have made it possible for us to live together, after a manner, in a very small way, but we would rather have been half alive and together than have thrilled with superabundant vitality while separated.

As my services had never seemed to be regarded seriously by anyone but the star of the especial occasion, I was not utterly taken aback when I found my intention of stepping bravely out into the big world received with surprise and cold disapproval. Really, I was almost convinced that I had still the very a-b-abs of my business yet to learn, that I was rash and headstrong and all puffed up with strange, unseemly vanity; but just as I was sinking back to that "old-slipper" state of mind desired, a letter came from the well-known, thoroughly established actor-manager, Mr. Barney Macaulay, who offered me the leading business at Wood's Museum, Cincinnati, O.

The salary was very small, but I understood perfectly that any manager would offer as small a salary to any actress whose _first_ season it was as leading woman.

Oh, my! oh, my! but there followed a period of scant sunshine, of hot argument, of cold and cautious advice, of terrifying hints of lacking qualities. Want of dignity, of power, of authority! The managerial forces were winning all along the line of argument, when, like many another combatant who faces annihilation, I took a desperate chance; I called up every dissatisfied speech of my absent mother, every complaint, regret, reproach, every word of disappointment, of vexation, of urging, of goading, of stern command, and arming these words with parental authority I mounted them upon a mother's fierce wrath, and thus, as cavalry, recklessly hurled them at full charge upon the enemy's line. I had no infantry of proof to support my cavalry's move, it was sheer desperation; but Fortune is a fickle jade, she sprang suddenly to my side. The managerial lines broke before the mother's charge, and before he had them reformed I had written Mr. Macaulay that I was ready to consider to accept the offered engagement, if, etc., etc., and then put on my hat and jacket and went forth and cleverly showed, first the offered engagement to arouse my victimized parent's hopes, then descanted upon the opposition offered to my acceptance of it, and when _she_ was warmed with indignation I confessed to using her as my princ.i.p.al weapon--even admitted making up some speeches, and being hot and pleased, indignant and proud, she forgave me, and I bit my lips hard to keep silence about a great hope that she might possibly go with me to that new engagement; but, to spare her a possible disappointment, I held my peace.

Later, when everything was seemingly settled and only the contract left to sign, came the amazing suggestion from Mr. Macaulay, that, because of my youth, I would undoubtedly be perfectly willing to let him reserve a few heavy _parts_ for his wife's acting. It is quite needless for me to explain that the few _parts_ to be reserved were the choicest of the legitimate drama. And then an amusing thing came to pa.s.s. I, who was so lacking in self-confidence, so backward and retiring, so easily cast down by a look of disapprobation, suddenly developed (on paper) an ability to stand up for my rights that was startling. By return mail I informed Mr.

Macaulay that my youth did not affect me in the manner he antic.i.p.ated; that I was not willing to resign all those important parts to another--no matter whose wife that other happened to be.

A long, argumentative, soothing sort of letter came back to me, ending with the positive conviction that I would yield two parts to his wife--great pets of hers they were, too, and one of them being _Lady Macbeth_, I would of course be grateful to have it taken off my hands, while _Julia_, in "The Hunchback," had really come to be considered, in Cincinnati, as Miss Johnson's special property--Miss Rachael Johnson being the stage name of Mrs. Macaulay.

Had he asked two _parts_ in the first place I would have granted them, but now my blood was up (on paper, mind you), and with swift decision I boldly threw the engagement up, declaring I would be the leading woman or nothing. For, you see, I had been in the frying-pan of one family theatre all my dramatic life, and I was not willing to throw myself at once into the fire of another one.

The next letter contained a great surprise: a couple of signed contracts and a pleasant request for me too to sign both and return one immediately. Then the writer quite gently regretted my inability to grant his request, but closed by expressing his respect for my firmness in demanding my rights; and straightway I signed my first contract; went out and mailed one copy, and when I returned I had made up my mind to take the great risk--I had decided that my mother should never again receive commands from anyone. That my shoulders were strong enough to bear the welcome burden, and so we would face the new life and its possible sufferings together--_together_, that was the main thing.

As I stood before the gla.s.s, smoothing my hair, I gravely bowed to my reflection, and said: "Accept my congratulations and best wishes, 'Wood's leading lady,'" and then fell upon the bed and sobbed, as foolish nerve-strained women will; because, you see, the way had been so long and sometimes so hard, dear Lord! so hard, but by His mercy I had won one goal--I was a leading woman!

And then began my good-by to the city that I loved. I had lived in so many of its streets; I had attended so many of its schools, and still more of its churches. There was the great lake, too. I had sailed on it, had been wrecked on it, but against that I set the memory of those days when, in night-gown bath-dress, I reveled in its blue waters on Fourth of July family picnics.

One church--old Bethel on Water Street--I hated, because the Sunday-school superintendent had been a hypocrite, and we knew it, and because in every one of its library books the good child died at the end, which was very discouraging to youthful minds.

Another church, on Prospect Street, I loved, because that Sunday-school teacher had been so gentle and smiling and had worn such pretty pink flowers in her bonnet.

Then there was the fountain in the square. I laughed as I said good-by to that, recalling the morning when, because of a bad throat, I had un.o.bservedly, as I supposed, swallowed a powder (h.o.m.oeopathic), and next moment heard hurrying footsteps behind me and felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, while a rough voice cried: "Where's the paper? what did you do it for? what's your name? say, answer up, now, before it gets hold of you--what's your name?"

Frightened and bewildered, 'twas with difficulty I convinced the suspicious policeman that I was not attempting suicide by poison, but was trying to cure a sore throat. A theatre bill-board was in fair view, and my part in the _play_, which I luckily held rolled in my hand, induced him to let me go to rehearsal instead of the station-house; and while the policeman dispersed the crowd his own error had gathered, I resolved, as I flew toward the theatre, to take no more powders in public parks--no matter how empty they might seem to be.

And then there was the _jail_, and as I nodded a good-by at its blackened walls I saw again that sunny morning when, in greatest haste, I pa.s.sed that way and observed, coming toward me, three men walking very closely, who showed no intention of making way for me--which made me look at them surprisedly. And then the astonishing beauty of the tail, white-clothed central figure brought me to a halt. His ruddy features were as severely perfect as those stamped on an ancient coin. His glittering hair and mustache were of that pale and precious gold most often seen crowning a baby's head. His figure was tall, broad-shouldered, small-waisted, and his hands, good G.o.d! I whispered, and stopped there, for he wore the hand-cuffs, and on either side of him a strong and grimy hand gripped his arm. That was why they made no room for me; and as I swerved swiftly out into the middle of the street to pa.s.s them by, there came a glitter of bold blue eyes, a flash of white teeth, and a deep voice cried back to me: "I'm awfully sorry; I beg your pardon," and then they wheeled inside the iron gates, and five minutes later I knew the physically splendid creature I had seen was that Dr. Hughes who had just been taken for the murder of his victim (of a mock marriage), poor little sixteen-year-old Tamsie Parsons--she of the curly head, but steel-firm mouth, who loved pa.s.sionately this G.o.d-like devil, yet had the moral courage to resist him to the death.

And then the post-office was quite full of memories. One made my brow grow moist, even after years had pa.s.sed since the damp autumn day when, as a child, I had let fall upon the stone floor a good large bottle of benzine. The crushed thing, wrapped nicely in blue paper, lay there, innocent to behold, while its escaping volatile contents got in some really fine work. First, two ladies held their noses, then a fierce old be-whiskered man looked about suspiciously, working his offended member just as a dog would. Then two men hurrying in opposite directions, but with their eyes turned up inquiringly toward the gas-fixture overhead, collided violently, and instead of apologizing, each abused the other as a blundering idiot, and wrinkling up their noses disgustedly, unlocked their boxes, and still grumbling went their ways, one declaring that the gas being wasted there was sufficient to illuminate the whole building.

Then doors began to open violently, and pale men in office coats of alpaca darted out and ran about, frantically trying to turn off gas that was not turned on; and there I stood, shivering over the innocent blue package, very wet by that time, with my fear of a whipping for breaking the bottle losing itself in the greater terror of some swift public expiation of my fault. The unknown is always terrifying, and I strove in vain to imagine what the punishment would be for creating evil odors in a public building that brought postal clerks from their work in pursuit of them. But the sight of a policeman advancing toward the delivery window suddenly set me in motion, and with a bound I was out of the door and running like mad for a (then) Kinsman Street car. I wonder yet if that gas leak was ever properly located.

Another day I had been sent for an advertised letter, and as several grown-ups were ahead of me at the little window, I withdrew to lean against the wall and rest a bit while waiting, for I had walked far and was very tired. And then a very white-haired, white-whiskered, white-tied old gentleman entered one of the many doors and looked nervously about him; when, seeing me, he brightened up, and at once began to beckon me toward him. Always respectfully obedient to the old, I at once approached the pink and white chipper old man, who nodded, smiled, and patting my head, asked, eagerly: "Er--er, do you--can you get letters from the office-window yonder?"

His restless eyes wandered all over the place. "Oh, yes, sir," I answered, "I often get them for my mother, and for other people, too!"

"Quite right, yes, yes, quite right, quite right!" responded the old gentleman, then added, reflectively: "Yes, she's a female, but females receive letters, though they don't vote, yes, yes! Well, my child, I want you to help me in a great and good work. You know people are taught from their earliest infancy the necessity of minding their P's and Q's, and that they don't do it! Now you and I will mind the P's and Q's of this great city, won't we, my dear? So, you just go to the window there and get all the letters there are for Parker, Purley, Prentiss, and Porter, and I'll come after you and get all the letters for Pixley, Pratt, Prince, and Pettigrew, and to-morrow, my dear, we'll come down and get all the Q's--the Quigley, Quinn, and Quiller crowd--and--and we'll take all the letters over to the fountain and throw them in the basin of water, and if they float we'll pitch bricks at 'em! Now, now's your time, go ahead, and get all the P's you can--it's a great scheme, great!" and then he stopped, for an almost breathless voice called out: "Here he is, Hank! confound him!" And as two men hurried toward my chipper old reformer, one said, reproachfully: "Now, look-a-here, Mr. Peiffer, if you don't keep your word no better nor this, Hank and me'll have to keep hold of you on your walks, and you won't like that!"

"No," meekly murmured the old man, "I--er--I won't like that, I'm sure."

Then Hank turned to me and asked, suspiciously: "Has he been filling you full of P's and Q's?"

I nodded. "Then," said the other man, "we'd better get him back quick, that's the way he begins. Come on, now, Mr. Peiffer, come on!" and between them they led away the poor white-haired old madman, who looked back as he pa.s.sed me, and whispered: "Pitch 'em in the fountain, I'll get the Q's to-morrow!"

There, too, was the old, old grave-yard that the city had crept up to, cautiously at first, then finding them quite harmless--the quiet dead--had stretched out brick and mortar arms and circled it about. A network of streets had tangled about it, and turbulent life dashed against its very gates on the outside, but inside there was a great green silence.

How well I knew the quiet place--the far, damp corner where, in lifting bodies for removal to a new cemetery, one had been found petrified; the giant sycamore-tree that guarded the grave of a mighty Indian chief, the lonely hemlock blackened nook where a grave had been cruelly robbed, the most expensive tomb, the most beautiful tomb, the oldest tomb, I knew them all. But the special attraction for me was a plain white headstone that happened to bear my own name. Whenever my mother boxed my ears, or was too hasty in her judgment to be quite just, I went over to my silent city and sat down and looked at the tombstone, and thought if it were really mine how sorry my mother would feel for what she had done. And when I had, in imagination, seen her tears and remorse, I would begin to feel sorry for her and to think she was punished enough, especially if it was rather late, and the shadows of tombstones and trees all fell long upon the sunny walks, all pointing like warning black fingers toward the gate. Then, indeed, I was apt to forgive my mother and flee to her--and supper.

And so, up and down, smiling and sighing, I went, taking _conge_ of the city that had been home to me all my life, save just two years. I even paused at the little old cottage whose gate was the only one I had ever swung on, and I had hated the swinging, but I was six and was pa.s.sionately enamoured of a small person named Johnnie, who lived there and who wore blue ap.r.o.ns; so I swung on the gate with him and to please him, and then, being like most of his s.e.x, fickle of fancy, he deserted me for a new red dress worn by another. And when he spilled milk on it (his mother sold milk) and spoiled its glory, she scratched his face, and he wanted to return to me; but my love was dead, so dead I wouldn't even accept sips of milk out of the little pails he had to carry around to customers. And, so cruel is life, there I stood and laughed as I took leave of the small gate.

At last all was done, my trunks were gone, I sat in my empty room waiting for the carriage. I had to make my journey quite alone, since my mother was to join me only when I had found a place to settle in. I was very sad. Mr. Ellsler was ill, for the first time since I had known him, and I had been over to his home, three or four blocks away, and bade good-by to Mrs. Ellsler and gentle little Annie--the other children were out. And finding I had no fear of contagion from a bad throat, she showed me into Mr. Ellsler's room. I was shocked to see him so wasted and so weak, and not being used to sickness I was frightened about him. Judge, then, my amazement, when, hearing a knock on my door and calling, "Come in,"

instead of a bell-boy, there entered, pale and almost staggering, Mr.

Ellsler. A rim of red above his white m.u.f.fler betrayed the bandaged throat, and his poor voice was but a husky whisper.

"I could not help it," he said; "you were placed under my care once by your mother. You were a child then, and though you are pleased to consider yourself a woman now, I could not bear to think of your leaving the city, at this saddest hour of the day, to begin a lonely journey, without some old friend being by for a parting G.o.d-speed."

I was inexpressibly grateful, even through all my fright at his rashness; but he had yet another surprise for me. He said: "I wanted, too, Clara, to make you a little present, to give you a keepsake that would last long and would remind you daily of--of--er the years you have pa.s.sed in my theatre."

He drew a small box from his pocket. "A good girl and a good actress," he said, "needs and ought to own a--" he touched a spring, the box flew open--"a good watch," he finished.

I gave a cry, I could not realize it was for me--I _could_ not! I clasped my hands in admiration instead of taking it, so, with his thin, sick man's fingers, he took it from its case and dropped it in my lap. I caught it then, and "Oh!" and again "Oh!" was all that I could cry, while I pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it.

Literally, I could not speak, such an agony of delight in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a need supplied, of grat.i.tude tremendous and surprise immeasurable were more than I could find words for. If you are inclined to think this exaggeration, remember how poor I was--had always been; remember, too, there were no cheap watches then; this was of the best make and had a chain attached as well; then think how great was my need of it for the theatre, day and night, and for traveling. By my utter inability to earn such a thing measure my joyful surprise at receiving it, a gift.

It was one of the red-letter days of my life, the day I owned a watch. My thanks must have been sadly jumbled and broken, but my pride and pleasure made Mr. Ellsler laugh, and then the carriage was there, and laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. As I opened the door of the dusty old hack, I glanced up and saw the first star p.r.i.c.k brightly through the evening sky. Then the hoa.r.s.e voice said, "G.o.d bless you!" and I had left my first manager.

As I stepped out of the carriage at the depot, glancing up again I saw the sky sown thick with stars, like a field of heavenly daisies. I smiled a little at the thought, then suddenly _drew my watch_ to see the time, and hurried to my train. Thus grateful for a kindly send-off, made happy by a gift, I turned my back upon the old, safe life and brightly, hopefully faced the new. For I was young, and therefore confident; and it is surely for the old world's need that G.o.d has made youth so.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH