Stage Confidences Part 11

"We're gentlemen, my dear; and say, get the Judge up, Colonel, and start him, and we'll _all_ see her safe home. d.a.m.n shame, a la-dy can't walk in safety, w-without 'er body of able-bodied cit-zens to protect her!

Com'er long, now, child." And he grasped my arm and pushed me gently forward.

The Colonel tipped his hat over one eye, gave a military salute, and wavered back and forth. The Judge muttered something about "Honest woman against city of New York," and something "and costs," and both fell to the rear.

And thus escorted by all these intoxicated old gallants, I made my mortified way up the avenue, they wobbling and sliding and stammering, and he who held my arm, I distinctly remember, recited Byron to me, and told me many times that the Judge was "a p-perfect gentleman, and so was his wife."

This startling statement was delivered just as we reached Thirty-second Street. Like an eel I slipped from his grasp, and whirling about, I said as rapidly as I could speak, "I'm almost home now. I can see the light from here, and I can't take you any farther out of your way," and I darted down the darker street.

Looking back from my own stoop, I saw the three kindly old sinners making salutations at the corner. My bombastic friend and the Judge had their hats off, waving them, and the Colonel saluted with such rigid propriety, it seems a pity that he was facing the wrong way.

I laugh, oh, yes, I laugh at the memory, until I think how silvery were these three wine-muddled old heads, and then I feel "the pity, oh, the pity of it!"

_CHAPTER XVIII

A BELATED WEDDING_

It was in a city in the far West that this small incident took place--a city of the mountains still so young that some of its stateliest business buildings of stone or marble, with plate-gla.s.s, fine furniture, and electric lighting, were neighboured not merely by shanties, but actually by tents.

But though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too far nor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certain woman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking and satirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placed herself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every one from sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping little hands for the gold showered upon them--laughed, with weary, pain-filled eyes--laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes--but still laughed till sunrise--and then, well, who cared what they did _then_?

And this woman had waxed rich, and owned valuable property and much mining stock, and was generous to those who were down on their luck, and was quick with her revolver--as the man who tried to hold her up on a lonely road found out to his sorrow.

Now to this city there came a certain actress, and the papers and the theatre bills announced a performance of the old French play of "Camille." The wealthy Madame Elize, as she styled herself, had heard and read much of both actress and play, and knew that it was almost a nightly occurrence for men to shed tears over two of the scenes, while women wept deliciously through the whole play.

She determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager a.s.sured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could possibly be admitted. And she declared "that she could sit out that or any other play without tears. That no amount of play-acting could move her, unless it was to laughter."

And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have pa.s.sed for an honest woman.

She watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the second act found her wiping her eyes--very cautiously; there was that unvarying colour to think of. The third act found her well back in the shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several of the actors.

When the curtain fell, one of them remarked, "I'd like to know what that woman will do in the next few hours?"

This is what she did. Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she left the theatre alone. Then she engaged a carriage--of which there were very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most of their going and coming on horseback--and had herself conveyed to her home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over the evening paper.

She lost no time, but aroused him at once, shaking him by the shoulder, and in cold, curt tones ordered him "to rise and dress for the street, and to go with her."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Clara Morris in the 1st Act of "Camille"_]

But he objected, asking: "Why the deuce he should go out that bitter night? And was she a fool, or did she take him for one?"

Upon which she had so savagely ordered him "to get on his boots, his coat, and overcoat" that the sleepiness had vanished from his sharp eyes, and he had exclaimed, "What is it, Kate? what's happened to you?"

And she answered: "I've had a blow--no, don't reach for your gun. I don't mean that--but, Jim, it hurts. (Here, let me tie that for you.) I've had a blow straight at the heart, and a woman gave it--G.o.d bless her! (Can't you brush your hair up over that thin place? Jim--why, Jim, upon my soul, you're grey!) Oh, hurry! here, take your fur coat--you'll need it. Come now--no, I won't tell till we're outside this house.

Come--on the quiet, now--come," and taking him by the arm she dragged him down the hall and stairs, and so outside the front door.

There she stopped. The man shivered at the cold, but kept his gleaming eyes fastened on her white face, "Well?" he said.

She stood looking up at the glory of the sky above her, where the stars glittered with extraordinary brilliancy, and in an abstracted tone she observed, "There's the 'Dipper.'"

He watched her still silently; she went on: "Do you remember, Jim, when I taught school down in Westbury, how we used to look at the 'Dipper'

together, because you didn't dare speak--of anything else? You got seven dollars a week, then, and I--oh, Jim! why in G.o.d's name _didn't_ you speak? Then I might never have come to this." She struck the lintel of the door pa.s.sionately, but went right on: "Yes--yes, I'm going to tell you, and you've got to make a decision, right here, _now_! You'll think I'm mad, I know; but see here now, I've got that woman's dying eyes looking into mine; I've got that woman's voice in my ears, and her words burnt into my living heart! I'll tell you by and by, perhaps, what those words are, but first, my proposal: you are free to accept it, you are free to refuse it, or you are free to curse me for a drivelling idiot; but look you here, man, if you _laugh_ at it, I swear I'll _kill_ you! Now, will you help me out of this awful life? Jim, will you get into that carriage and take me to the nearest minister and marry me, or will you take this 'wad' and go down that street and out of my life forever?"

In the pause that followed they looked hard into one another's eyes.

Then the man answered in six words. Pushing away the hand that offered him a great tight-rolled ma.s.s of paper money, he said, "Put that away--now, come on," and they entered the carriage, and drove to the home of a minister. There a curious thing happened. They had answered satisfactorily the reverend gentleman's many questions before he quite realized _who_ the woman was. When he did recognize her, he refused to perform the ceremony, and with words of contemptuous condemnation literally drove them from the house, and with his ecclesiastical hand banged the door after them.

They visited another minister, and their second experience differed from their first in two points,--the gentleman was quicker in his recognition and refusal, and refrained from banging the door. And so they drove up and down and across the city, till at last they stood at the carriage door and looked helpless at each other. Then the man said, "That's the last one, Kate," and the woman answered, "Yes, I know--I know." She drew a long, hard breath that was not far from a sob, and added, "Yes, they've downed me; but it wasn't a fair game, Jim, for they've played with marked cards."

She had entered the carriage when the driver with the all-pervading knowledge and unlimited a.s.surance of the Western hackman remarked genially: "Madame Elize, there's another gospel-sharp out on the edge of the town. He's poorer than Job's turkey, and his whole dorgon'd little scantlin' church ain't bigger than one of them Saratogy trunks, but his people just swear by him. Shall I take you out there?"

Madame Elize nodded an a.s.sent, and once more they started. It was a long drive. The horses strained up killing grades, sending out on the cold air columns of steam from their dilating nostrils. The driver beat first one hand and then the other upon his knees, and talked amicably if profanely to his horses; but inside the carriage there was utter silence.

At last they stopped before a poor, cold-looking little cottage, and entering made their wishes known to a blue-eyed, tall young man, with thin, sensitive lips, who listened with grave attention. He knew precisely who and what she was, and very gently told her he would have to ask one unpleasant question, "Was the man at her side acquainted with her past, or was he a stranger who was being deceived--victimized, in fact?"

And Kate, with shining eyes, turned and said: "Tell him, Jim, how for six honest, innocent years we were friends. Then tell him how for fifteen years we've been partners in life. Tell him whether you know me, Jim, or whether you're victimized."

And then the young minister had told them he was proud and thankful to clasp their hands and start them on their new path, with G.o.d's blessing on them. And they were married at last; and as they drove away, they noted the strange outlines of the mountains, where they reared their stupendous bulk against the star-sown sky. A sense of awe came upon them--of smallness, of helplessness. Instinctively they clasped hands, and presently the woman said: "Oh, Jim, the comfort of a wedding ring!

It circles us about so closely, and keeps out all the rest of the world."

And Jim stooped his head and kissed her.

_CHAPTER XIX

SALVINI AS MAN AND ACTOR_

It is not often, I fancy, that one defends one's hero or friend from himself. Yet that about describes what I am doing now for the famous Salvini. An acquaintance of mine, a man self-contained and dignified, who was reading the other day, startled me by muttering aloud, "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" and a moment later, flinging the volume from him, he cried: "Where were his friends? Why did they permit him to write of himself?"

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed in bewilderment, "where were whose friends?

Of whom are you speaking, and why are you so excited?"

"Oh," he answered impatiently, "it's the disappointment! I judged the man by his splendid work; but look at that book--the personal p.r.o.noun forms one solid third of it. I know it does!" and he handed me the volume in question.

"Well," I said, as I glanced at the t.i.tle,--"Autobiography of Tommaso Salvini,"--"no matter what the book may say, Tommaso Salvini is a mighty actor." And then I began to read. At first I was a bit taken aback. I had thought Mr. Macready considered himself pretty favourably, had made a heavy demand on the I's and my's in his book; but the bouquets he presented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with the gorgeous floral set pieces provided _ad libitum_ for "Signor Salvini" by Signor Salvini.

Then presently I began to smile at the open honesty of this self-appreciation, at the nave admiration he expresses for his figure, his voice, his power. "After all," I said, "when the whole civilized world has for years and years affirmed and reaffirmed that he is the greatest actor living, is it strange that he should come to believe the world?"

"But," growled my friend, "why could he not be content with the world's statement? Why had he no reticence? Look at these declarations: that no words can describe his power, that everybody wished to know him, that everybody wished to claim his friendship, that everybody made it his boast to be seen in his company, etc."

"Well," I answered, "you certainly cannot doubt the truth of the a.s.sertions. I believe every one of them. You see, you are not making any allowance for temperament or early environment. Those who are humbly born in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch's praise to the very pinnacle of pride and joy and superiority. Think of the compliments paid this man by royalty. Think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination. You can't expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you, for your comfort, that this 'book Salvini' is utterly unlike the kindly gentleman who is the real, everyday Salvini."

My friend looked at me a moment, then shaking hands he added gravely: "Thank you. The great actor goes upon his pedestal again, to my own satisfaction; but--but--don't think I care for this book. I'll wait till some one else tells of his triumphs and his gifts," and laying it upon the table he took his departure.