Life on the Stage Part 9

After a pause I looked up at him, and met his eyes shining wet and blue through two tears. "Oh," I hastily added, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

"I wish I could agree with you," he answered. "Tell me," he went on, "have you ever been annoyed by anyone?"

My eyes fell, I knew I was growing red.

"Good G.o.d!" he said again, then, suddenly, he ordered: "Give me that bag--you'll not go through these streets alone again while I am here!

Never mind the distance. I don't see why you can't take my arm."

And thus I found myself for the first time escorted by a gentleman, and after my hot embarra.s.sment wore off a bit, I held my head very high and languidly allowed my skirt to trail in the dust, and said to myself: "This is like a real grown-up--surely they can't call me 'child' much longer now."

The star playing with us just then was a tragedian, but he was a very little man, whose air of alertness, even of aggressiveness, had won for him the t.i.tle of "c.o.c.ky" Roberts. He wore enormously high heels, he had thick cork soles on the outside and thick extra soles on the inside of all his boots and shoes. His wigs were slightly padded at their tops--everything possible was done for a gain in height, while all the time he was sputtering and swearing at what he called "this cursed cult of legs!"

"Look at 'em!" he snorted--for he did snort like a horse when he was angry, as he often was, at the theatre at least. "Look at 'em, Ellsler; there's Murdoch, Proctor, Davenport, all gone to legs, d.a.m.n 'em, and calling themselves actors! You don't look for brains in a man's legs, do you? No! no! it's the cranium that tells! Yes, blast 'em! Let 'em come here and match craniums with me, that they think it smart to call 'c.o.c.ky'! They're a lot of theatrical tongs--all legs and no heads!"

And yet the poor, fuming little man, with his exaggerated strut, would have given anything short of his life, to have added even a few inches to his anatomy, the brevity of which was quite forgotten by the public when he gave his really brilliant and pathetic performance of "Belphegor," one of the earliest of the so-called "emotional" plays.

I have a very kindly remembrance of that fretful little star, because when they were discussing the cast of a play, one of those tormenting parts turned up that are of great importance to the piece, but of no importance themselves. Capable actresses refuse to play them, and incapable ones create havoc in them. This one had already been refused, when Mr. Roberts suddenly exclaimed: "Who was it made those announcements last night? She spoke with beautiful distinctness; let _that_ young woman have the part, she'll do it all right."

Oh, dear Mr. Roberts! never "c.o.c.ky" to me! Oh, wise little judge! how I did honor him for those precious words: "Let that young woman have the part." That "_young woman_!" I could have embraced him for very grat.i.tude--a part _and_ the term "young woman," and since, as my old washerwoman used to say, "it never rains but it pours," while these two words were still making music in my ears, by some flash of intuition I realized that I was being courted by Frank. The discovery filled me with the utmost satisfaction. I gave no thought to him, in a sentimental way, either then or ever; quite selfishly I thought only of my own gain in dignity and importance, for I started out in life with the old-fashioned idea that a man honored a woman by his courtship, and I knew naught of the lover who "loves and rides away." Yet in a few days the curious cat-like instinct of the unconscious coquette awakened in me, and I began very gently to try my claws.

I wished very much to know if he were jealous, as I had been told that real lovers were always so; and, naturally, I did not wish mine to fall short of any of the time-honored attributes of loverdom. Therefore I, one morning, selected for experimental use a man whose volume of speech was a terror to all. Had he been put to the sword, he would have talked to the swordsman till the final blow cut his speech. He was most unattractive, too, in appearance, being one of those actors who get shaved after rehearsal instead of before it, thus gaining a reputation for untidiness that facts may not always justify--but he served my purpose all the better for that.

I deliberately placed myself at his side; I was only a ballet-girl, but I had two good ears--I was welcome. Conversation, or rather the monologue, burst forth. Standing at the side of the stage, with rehearsal going on, he of course spoke low. I watched for Frank's arrival. He came, I heard his cheery "Good-morning, ladies! good-morning, gentlemen!" and then he started toward me, but I heard nothing, saw nothing of _him_. My upraised eyes, as wide as I possibly could make them, were fixed upon the face of the talker. Yet, with a jump of the heart, I knew the brightness had gone from Frank's face, the spring from his step. I smiled as sweetly as I knew how; I seemed to hang upon the words of the untidy one, and oh! if Frank could only have known what those words were; how I was being a.s.sured that he, the speaker, had that very morning succeeded in stopping a leaky hole in his shoe by melting a piece of india-rubber over and on it, and that not a drop of water had penetrated when he had walked through the rain-puddles; and right there, like music, there came to my listening ear a word of four letters--a forbidden word, but one full of consolation to the distressed male; a word beginning with "d," and for fear that you may think it was "dear," why, I will be explicit and say that it was "d.a.m.n!" and that it was from the anger-whitened lips of Frank, who during the morning gave not only to me, but to all lookers-on, most convincing proof of his jealousy, and that was the beginning of my experiments.

I did this, to see if it would make him angry. I did that, to see if it would please him. Sometimes I scratched him with my investigating claws, then I was sorry--truly sorry, because I was grateful always for his gentle goodness to me, and never meant to hurt him. But he represented the entire s.e.x to me, and I was learning all I could, thinking, as I once told him, that the knowledge might be useful on the stage some time, and I wondered at the very fury my words provoked in him.

We quarrelled sometimes like spiteful children, as when I, startled into laughter by hearing his voice break in a speech, unfortunately excused myself by saying: "It was just like a young rooster, you know!" and he, white with anger, cried: "You're a solid ma.s.s of rudeness, to laugh at a misfortune; you have no breeding!"

This brought from me the rejoinder: "I know it, but you would have shown better breeding yourself had you not told me of it!"

And then he was on his knee in the entrance, begging forgiveness, and saying his "cursed, cracking voice made a madman of him!"

As it really did, for he often accused people of guying him if they did but clear their own throats. And so we went on till something in his manner--his increased efforts to find me alone at rehearsal, for as I was without a room-mate in Columbus, I could not receive him at home, and I truly think he would have kept silence forever rather than have urged me to break any conventional rule of propriety--this something gave me the idea that Frank was going to be--well--explicit, that--that--I was going to be proposed to according to established form.

Now, though a proposal of marriage is a thing to look forward to with desire, to look back upon with pride, it is also a thing to avoid when it is in the immediate future, and I so successfully evaded his efforts to find me alone, at the theatre or at some friend's house, that he was forced at last to speak at night, while escorting me home.

I lodged in a quiet little street, opening out of the busier, more noisy Kinsman Street. In our front yard there lived a large, greedy old tree, which had planted its foot firmly in the very middle of the path, thus forcing everyone to _cha.s.se_ around it who wished to enter the house. Its newly donned summer greenery extended far over the gate, and as the moon shone full and fair the "set" was certainly appropriate.

We reached the gate, and I held out my hand for my bag--that small catch-all of a bag that, in the hand of the actress, is the outward and visible sign of her profession; but he let the bag slip to the walk and caught my hand in his. The street was deserted. Leaning against the gate beneath the sheltering boughs of the old tree, the midnight silence all about us, he began to speak earnestly.

I made a frantic search through my mind for something to say presently, when my turn would come to speak. I rejected instantly the ancient wail of "suddenness." Frank's temper did not encourage an offer of "sisterhood." I was just catching joyously at the idea of hiding behind the purely imaginary opposition of my mother, when Frank's words: "Then, too, dear heart! I could protect you, and--" were interrupted by a yowl, so long, so piercing, it seemed to rise like a rocket of anguish into the summer sky.

"Oh!" I thought, "that's one-eared Jim from next door, and if our Simmons hears him--and he'd have to be dead not to hear--he will come out to fight him!" I clenched my teeth, I dropped my eyes that Frank might not see the threatening laughter there. I noted how much whiter his hand was than mine, as they were clasped in the moonlight. The pause had been long; then, very gently, he started again: "Mignonne!"

Distinctly I heard the thump of Simmons's body dropping from the porch-roof. "Mignonne, look up! you big-eyed child, and tell me that I may go to your mother with your promise!"

"Mi-au! Mi-au! Wow! Spit! Spit! Wow!" Four b.a.l.l.s of fire glowed for a moment beneath the tree, then two dark forms became one dark form, that whirled and bounded through s.p.a.ce, emitting awful sounds. The cats were too much for me, I threw back my head and laughed.

My laugh was too much for Frank. His temper broke, he flung my hand away, crying out: "Laugh, you little idiot! You're worse than the animals, for they at least know no better! Laugh till morning, if you like!" and then I'm sorry to say it, but he kicked my bag, the precious insignia of my profession, and rushed down the street, leaving me standing there amid the debris of the wrecked proposal.

Next night he frigidly presented himself to escort me home, and when I coldly declined his company, he turned silently and left me. Truth to tell, I did not enjoy my walk alone, through the market-place in particular, and I planned to unbend a little the next evening; but I was much piqued to find myself without an excuse for unbending, since on the next evening he did not offer his company. The third night there was a big lump in my throat, and the tears would have fallen had they not been suddenly dried in my eyes by the sight of a familiar light-gray suit slipping along close to the houses on the other side of the way.

Petulant, irritable, loyal-hearted boy! he had safe-guarded me both those nights when I thought I was alone! My heart was warm with grat.i.tude toward him, and when I reached my gate, and pa.s.sed inside, I called across the street: "Thank you, Frank! Good-night!"

And he laughed and answered: "Good-night, Mignonne!"

And so it came about that Frank's wooing, being of the strict and stately order, I gradually came to be Miss Morris to others beside himself. I saw my advance in dignity, and if I did not love him I gave him profound grat.i.tude, and we were true friends his short and honorable life through.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH

Mr. Wilkes Booth comes to us, the whole s.e.x Loves him--Mr. Ellsler Compares him to his Great Father--Our Grief and Horror over the Awful Tragedy at Washington.

In glancing back over those two crowded and busy seasons one figure stands out with such clearness and beauty that I cannot resist the impulse to speak of him, rather than of my own inconsequential self. In his case only (so far as my personal knowledge goes) there was nothing derogatory to dignity or to manhood in being called beautiful, for he was that bud of splendid promise, blasted to the core before its full triumphant blooming--known to the world as a madman and an a.s.sa.s.sin--but to the profession as "that unhappy boy," John Wilkes Booth.

He was so young, so bright, so gay, so kind. I could not have known him well. Of course, too, there are two or three different people in every man's skin, yet when we remember that stars are not generally in the habit of showing their brightest, their best side to the company at rehearsal, we cannot help feeling both respect and liking for the one who does.

There are not many men who can receive a gash over the eye in a scene at night without at least a momentary outburst of temper, but when the combat between _Richard_ and _Richmond_ was being rehea.r.s.ed, Mr. Booth had again and again urged Mr. McCollom (that six-foot tall and handsome leading man, who entrusted me with the care of his watch during such encounters) to "Come on hard! Come on hot! Hot, old fellow!

Harder--faster!" He'd take the chance of a blow, if only they could make a hot fight of it.

And Mr. McCollom, who was a cold man, at night became nervous in his effort to act like a fiery one. He forgot he had struck the full number of head blows, and when Booth was pantingly expecting a thrust, McCollom, wielding his sword with both hands, brought it down with awful force fair across Booth's forehead. A cry of horror rose, for in one moment his face was masked in blood, one eyebrow being cut cleanly through. There came, simultaneously, one deep groan from _Richard_, and the exclamation: "Oh, good G.o.d! good G.o.d!" from _Richmond_, who stood shaking like a leaf and staring at his work. Then Booth, flinging the blood from his eyes with his left hand, said, as genially as man could speak: "That's all right, old man! never mind me--only come on hard, for G.o.d's sake, and save the fight!"

Which he resumed at once, and though he was perceptibly weakened, it required the sharp order of Mr. Ellsler to "ring the first curtain bell,"

to force him to bring the fight to a close, a single blow shorter than usual. Then there was a running to and fro, with ice and vinegar paper and raw steak and raw oysters. When the doctor had placed a few st.i.tches where they were most required, he laughingly declared there was provision enough in the room to start a restaurant. Mr. McCollom came to try to apologize, to explain, but Booth would have none of it; he had out his hand, crying: "Why, old fellow, you look as if _you_ had lost the blood.

Don't worry. Now if my eye had gone, that _would_ have been bad!" And so, with light words, he tried to set the unfortunate man at ease, and though he must have suffered much mortification as well as pain from the eye, that in spite of all endeavors would blacken, he never made a sign.

He was, like his great elder brother, rather lacking in height, but his head and throat, and the manner of its rising from his shoulders, were truly beautiful. His coloring was unusual, the ivory pallor of his skin, the inky blackness of his densely thick hair, the heavy lids of his glowing eyes, were all Oriental, and they gave a touch of mystery to his face when it fell into gravity; but there was generally a flash of white teeth behind his silky mustache, and a laugh in his eyes.

One thing I shall never cease to admire him for. When a man has placed a clean and honest name in his wife's care for life, about the most stupidly wicked use she can make of it is as a signature to a burst of amatory flattery, addressed to an unknown actor, who will despise her for her trouble. Some women may shrivel as though attacked with "peach-leaf curl" when they hear how these silly letters are sometimes pa.s.sed about and laughed at. "No gentleman would so betray a confidence!" Of course not; but once when I made that remark to an actor, who was then flaunting the food his vanity fed upon, he roughly answered: "And no _lady_ would so address an unknown man. She cast away her right to respectful consideration when she thrust that letter in the box." That was brutal; but there are those who think like him this very day, and oh, foolish tamperers with fire, who act like him!

Now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say the s.e.x was in love with John Booth, the name Wilkes being apparently unknown to his family and close friends. At depot restaurants those fiercely unwilling maiden-slammers of plates and shooters of coffee-cups made to him swift and gentle offerings of hot steaks, hot biscuits, hot coffee, crowding round him like doves about a grain basket, leaving other travellers to wait upon themselves or go without refreshment. At the hotels, maids had been known to enter his room and tear asunder the already made-up bed, that the "turn-over" might be broader by a thread or two, and both pillows slant at the perfectly correct angle. At the theatre, good heaven! as the sunflowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him. Yes, old or young, for the little daughter of the manager, who played but the _Duke of York_ in "Richard III.," came to the theatre each day, each night of the engagement, arrayed in her best gowns, and turned on him fervid eyes that might well have served for _Juliet_. The manager's wife, whose sternly aggressive virtue no one could doubt or question, with the aid of art waved and fluffed her hair, and softened thus her too hard line of brow, and let her keen black eyes fill with friendly sparkles for us all--yet, 'twas because of him. And when the old woman made to threaten him with her finger, and he caught her lifted hand, and uncovering his bonnie head, stooped and kissed it, then came the wanton blood up in her cheek as she had been a girl again.

His letters then from flirtatious women, and, alas! girls, you may well believe were legion. A cloud used to gather upon his face at sight of them. I have of course no faintest idea that he lived the G.o.dly, righteous, and sober life that is enjoined upon us all, but I do remember with respect that this idolized man, when the letters were many and rehearsal already on, would carefully cut off every signature and utterly destroy them, then pile the unread letters up, and, I don't know what their final end was, but he remarked with knit brows, as he caught me watching him at his work one morning: "They," pointing to the pile of mutilated letters, "they are harmless now, little one; their sting lies in the tail!" and when a certain free and easy actor, laughingly picked up a very elegantly written note, and said: "I can read it, can't I, now the signature is gone?" He answered, shortly: "The woman's folly is no excuse for our knavery--lay the letter down, please!"

I played the _Player-Queen_ to my great joy, and in the "Marble Heart" I was one of the group of three statues in the first act. We were supposed to represent _Lais_, _Aspasia_, and _Phryne_, and when we read the cast, I glanced at the other girls (we were not strikingly handsome), and remarked, gravely: "Well, it's a comfort to know that we look so like the three beautiful Grecians."

A laugh at our backs brought us around suddenly to face Mr. Booth, who said to me: "You satirical little wretch, how do you come to know these Grecian ladies? Perhaps you have the advantage of them in being all-beautiful within?"

"I wish it would strike outward, then," I answered; "you know it's always best to have things come to the surface!"

"I know some very precious things are hidden from common sight, and I know, too, you caught my meaning in the first place; good-night." And he left us.

We had been told to descend to the stage at night with our white robes hanging free and straight, that Mr. Booth himself might drape them as we stood upon the pedestal. It really is a charming picture, that of the statues in the first act. Against a backing of black velvet, the three white figures, carefully posed, strongly lighted, stand out so marble-like, that when they slowly turn their faces and point to their chosen master, the effect is uncanny enough to chill the looker-on.

Well, with white wigs, white tights, and white robes, and half strangled with the powder we had inhaled in our efforts to make our lips stay white, we cautiously descended the stairs. We dared not talk, we dared not blink our eyes, for fear of disturbing the coat of powder; we were lifted to the pedestal and took our places as we expected to stand. Then Mr. Booth came, such a picture in his Greek garments as made even the men exclaim at him, and began to pose us. It happened that one of us had very good limbs, one medium good, and the third had apparently walked on broom-sticks. When Mr. Booth slightly raised the drapery of No. 3, his features gave a twist as though he had suddenly tasted lemon-juice, but, quick as a flash, he said: "I believe I'll advance you to the centre, for the stately and wise _Aspasia_." The central figure wore her draperies hanging straight to her feet, hence the "advance" and consequent concealment of the unlovely limbs. It was quickly and kindly done, for the girl was not only spared mortification, but in the word "advance"

she saw a compliment, and was happy accordingly. Then my turn came; my arm was placed about _Aspasia_, my head bent and turned and twisted, my right hand curved upon my breast, so that the forefinger touched my chin; I felt I was a personified simper, but I was silent and patient until the arrangement of my draperies began--then I squirmed anxiously.