Ten American Girls From History Part 22

With incessant work and study, and a firm determination to stop short of nothing less than the perfection of art, those early years of Clara Morris's life on the stage went swiftly by, and in her third season she was more than ever what she herself called "the dramatic sc.r.a.pe-goat of the company," one who was able to play any part at a moment's notice.

"This reputation was heightened when one day, an actor falling suddenly sick, Mr. Ellsler, with a furrowed brow, begged Clara to play the part. Nothing daunted, the challenge was calmly accepted, and in one afternoon she studied the part of King Charles, in 'Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady,' and played it in borrowed clothes and without any rehearsal whatever, other than finding the situations plainly marked in the book! It was an astonishing thing to do, and she was showered with praise for the performance; but even this success did not better her fortunes, and she went on playing the part of boys and old women, or singing songs when forced to it, going on for poor leading parts even, and between times dropping back into the ballet, standing about in crowds, or taking part in a village dance."

It was certainly an anomalous position she held in Mr. Ellsler's company--but she accepted its ups and downs without resistance, taking whatever part came to hand, gaining valuable experience from every new role a.s.signed her, and hoping for a time when the returns from her work would be less meager.

She was not yet seventeen when the German star, Herr Daniel Bandmann, came to play with the company. He was to open with "Hamlet," and Mrs.

Bradshaw, who by right should have played the part of Queen Mother, was laid up with a broken ankle. Miss Morris says: "It took a good deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle me, but the Queen Mother did it. I was just nicely past sixteen, and I was to go on the stage for the serious Shakesperian mother of a star. Oh, I couldn't!"

"Can't be helped--no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler; "Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can."

"I had been brought up to obey," says Miss Morris, "and I obeyed. The dreaded morning of rehearsal came. There came a call for the Queen. I came forward. Herr Bandmann glanced at me, half smiled, waved his arms, and said, 'Not you, not the _Player-Queen_, but GERTRUDE.'

"I faintly answered, 'I'm sorry, sir, but I have to play Gertrude!'

"'Oh no, you won't!' he cried, 'not with me!' Then, turning to Mr.

Ellsler, he lost his temper and only controlled it when he was told that there was no one else to take the part; if he would not play with me, the theater must be closed for the night. Then he calmed down and condescended to look the girl over who was to play such an inappropriate role.

"The night came--a big house, too, I remember," says Miss Morris. "I wore long and loose garments to make me look more matronly, but, alas, the drapery Queen Gertrude wears was particularly becoming to me and brought me uncommonly near to prettiness. Mr. Ellsler groaned, but said nothing, while Mr. Bandmann sneered out an '_Ach Himmel!_' and shrugged his shoulders, as if dismissing the matter as hopeless."

But it was not. "As Bandmann's great scene advanced to its climax, so well did the young Queen Mother play up to Hamlet, that the applause was rapturous. The curtain fell, and to her utter amaze she found herself lifted high in the air and crushed to Hamlet's bosom, with a crackling sound of breaking Roman pearls and in a whirlwind of German exclamations, kissed on brow, cheeks and eyes. Then disjointed English came forth; 'Oh, you are so great, you _kleine_ apple-cheeked girl!

You maker of the fraud--you so great, n.o.body. _Ach_, you are fire--you have pride--you are a Gertrude who have shame!' More kisses, then suddenly realizing that the audience was still applauding, he dragged her before the curtain, he bowed, he waved his hands, he threw one arm around my shoulders. 'He isn't going to do it all over again--out here, is he?' thought the victim of his enthusiasm, and began backing out of sight as quickly as possible."

That amusing experience led to one of the most precious memories of Clara Morris's career, when, a month after the departure of the impetuous German, who should be announced to play with the company but Mr. Edwin Booth. As Clara Morris read the cast of characters, she says, "I felt my eyes growing wider as I saw--

QUEEN GERTRUDE............Miss Morris.

"I had succeeded before, oh yes, but this was a different matter. All girls have their G.o.ds--some have many of them. My G.o.ds were few, and on the highest pedestal of all, grave and gentle, stood the G.o.d of my professional idolatry--Edwin Booth. It was humiliating to be forced on any one as I should be forced upon Mr. Booth, since there was still none but my 'apple-cheeked' self to go on for the Queen, and though I dreaded complaint and disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more unhappy over the annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. But it could not be helped, so I wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time 'Now I lay me,' and went to sleep.

"The dreaded Monday came, and at last--the call, 'Mr. Booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room.'

"He was dressed for Hamlet when I entered. He looked up, smiled, and, waving his hand, said in Bandmann's very words: 'No, not you--not the _Player-Queen_--but GERTRUDE.'

"My whole heart was in my voice as I gasped: 'I'm so sorry, sir, but I have to do Queen Gertrude. You see,' I rushed on, 'our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act. But if you please,' I added, 'I had to do this part with Mr. Bandmann, too, and--and--I'll only worry you with my looks, sir, not about the words or business.'

"He rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on my face, then he sighed and said: 'Well, it was the closet scene I wanted to speak to you about. When the ghost appears you are to be--' He stopped, a faint smile touched his lips, and he remarked:

"'There's no denying it, my girl, I look a great deal more like your father than you look like my mother--but--' He went on with his directions, and, considerate gentlemen that he was, spoke no single unkind word to me, though my playing of that part must have been a great annoyance to him.

"When the closet scene was over, the curtain down, I caught up my petticoats and made a rapid flight roomward. The applause was filling the theater. Mr. Booth, turning, called after me: 'You--er--Gertrude--er--_Queen!_ Oh, somebody call that child back here!' and somebody roared, 'Clara, Mr. Booth is calling you!' I turned, but stood still. He beckoned, then came and took my hand, saying, 'My dear, we must not keep them waiting too long,' and led me before the curtain with him. I very slightly bent my head to the audience, whom I felt were applauding Hamlet only, but turned and bowed myself to the ground to him whose courtesy had brought me there.

"When we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: 'My Gertrude, you are very young, but you know how to pay a pretty compliment--thank you, child!'

"So," says Miss Morris, "whenever you see pictures of nymphs or G.o.ddesses floating in pink clouds and looking idiotically happy, you can say to yourself: 'That is just how Clara Morris felt when Edwin Booth said she had paid him a compliment.' Yes, I floated, and I'll take a solemn oath, if necessary, that the whole theater was filled with pink clouds the rest of that night, for girls are made that way, and they can't help it."

The young actress was now rapidly acquiring a knowledge of her ability to act; she also knew that as long as she remained with Mr. Ellsler there would be no advancement for her, and a firm determination took possession of her to take a plunge into the big world, where perhaps there might be a chance not only to earn enough to take care of herself, but also enough so that her mother would no longer be obliged to work, which was Clara's bitter mortification.

While she was considering the advisability of making a change, she received an offer from a Mr. Macaulay, manager of Wood's Museum, at Cincinnati, Ohio. He offered a small salary, but as she was to be his leading woman she decided to accept the offer. "When the matter was apparently settled, he wrote, saying that 'because of the youth of his new star, he wished to reserve a few parts which his wife would act.'

Only too well did Clara Morris understand what that meant--that the choicest parts would be reserved. Then an amusing thing happened. She, who was so lacking in self-confidence, suddenly developed an ability to stand up for her rights. By return mail she informed Mr. Macaulay that her youth had nothing to do with the matter--that she would be the leading woman and play all parts or none. His reply was a surprise, as it contained a couple of signed contracts and a pleasant request to sign both and return one at once. He regretted her inability to grant his request, but closed by expressing his respect for her firmness in demanding her rights. Straightway she signed her first contract, and went out to mail it. When she returned she had made up her mind to take a great risk. She had decided that her mother should never again receive commands from any one--that her shoulders were strong enough to bear the welcome burden, that they would face the new life and its possible sufferings together--_together_, that was the main thing." She says:

"As I stood before the gla.s.s smoothing my hair, I gravely bowed to the reflection and said, 'Accept my congratulations and best wishes, Wood's leading lady!'--and then fell on the bed and sobbed ...

because, you see, the way had been so long and hard, but I had won one goal--I was a leading woman!"

Leaving behind the surroundings of so many years was not a light matter, nor was the parting with the Ellslers, of whose theatrical family she had been a member for so long, easy. When the hour of leave-taking came, she was very sad. She had to make the journey alone, as her mother also was to join her only when she had found a place to settle in. Mr. Ellsler was sick for the first time since she had known him. She said good-by to him in his room, and left feeling very despondent, he seemed so weak. "Judge then," says Miss Morris, "my amazement when, hearing a knock on my door and calling, 'Come in'--Mr. Ellsler, pale and almost staggering, entered. A rim of red above his white m.u.f.fler betrayed his 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 without some old friend being by for a parting G.o.d-speed.'

"I was inexpressibly grateful, but he had yet another surprise for me.

He said, 'I wanted, too, Clara, to make you a little present that would last long and remind you daily of--of--er--the years you have pa.s.sed in my theater.'

"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.

"Literally, I could not speak, having such agony of delight in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a need supplied, of grat.i.tude and surprise immeasurable. 'Oh!' and again 'Oh!' was all that I could cry, while I pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it. 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 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."

To say that Clara Morris made a success in Cincinnati is the barest truth. Her first appearance was in the role of a country girl, _Cicely_, a simple milkmaid with only one speech to make, but one which taxed the ability of an actress to the uttermost to express what was meant. Clara played this part in a demure black-and-white print gown, with a little hat tied down under her chin. On the second night, she played what is called a "dressed part," a bright, light-comedy part in which she wore fine clothes; on the third night hers was a "tearful" part. In three nights she completely won the public, and on the third she received her first anonymous gift, a beautiful and expensive set of pink corals set in burnished gold. "Flowers, too, came over the foot-lights, the like of which she had never seen before, some of them costing more than she earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note with a big gold locket, which, having its sender's signature, went straight back to him the next morning. As a result it began to be whispered about that the new star sent back all gifts of jewelry; but when one matinee a splendid basket of white camelias came with a box of French candied fruit, it delighted her and created a sensation in the dressing-room. That seemed to start a fashion, for candies in dainty boxes came to her afterward as often as flowers."

On the night of her first appearance, a lawyer of Cincinnati who saw her play the part of Cicely was so delighted with her interpretation of the small role that he at once asked: "Who is she? What is her history?"--only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother--that was all.

Having seen her a second time, he exclaimed, "That girl ought to be in New York this very moment!" and he added, "I know the foreign theaters--their schools and styles, as well as I know the home theaters and their actors. I believe I have made a discovery!"

After seeing her in the "tearful part," he said firmly: "I shall never rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is unlike any one else, and New York has plenty of room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her and preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it."

As a result of that determination, at a later date, he met the object of his interest and roused her to such an enthusiasm in his New York project that she wrote to Mr. Ellsler, begging his aid in reaching New York managers, and one day, shortly afterward, she held in her hand a wee sheet of paper, containing two lines scrawled in an illegible handwriting:

"If you send the young woman to me, I will willingly consider proposal. Will engage no actress without seeing her.--A. DALY."

It was a difficult proposition, for to obtain leave of absence she would be obliged to pay a subst.i.tute for at least two performances--would have to stop for one night at a New York hotel, and so spend what she had saved toward a summer vacation. But the scheme was too compelling to be set aside. That very night she asked leave of absence, made all other necessary arrangements, and before she had time to falter in her determination found herself at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in the great bustling city of her dreams. She breakfasted, and took from her bag a new gray veil, a pair of gray gloves and a bit of fresh ruffling. Then, having made all the preparation she could to meet the arbiter of her fate, in her usual custom she said a prayer to that Father in whose protecting care she had an unfaltering trust. Then, she says, "I rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat, just as the good Lord should will."

Having found Mr. Daly, she looked bravely into his eyes and spoke with quick determination to lose no time: "I am the girl come out of the West to be inspected. I'm Clara Morris!"

That was the preface to an interview which ended in his offer to engage her, but without a stated line of business. He would give her thirty-five dollars a week, he said (knowing there were two to live on it), and if she made a favorable impression he would double that salary.

A poor offer--a risky undertaking, exclaimed Clara. "In my pocket was an offer which I had received just before leaving for New York, from a San Francisco manager, with a salary of one hundred dollars, a benefit, and no vacation at all, unless I wished it. This offer was fairly burning a hole in my pocket as I talked with Mr. Daly, who, while we talked, was filling up a blank contract, for my signature.

Thirty-five dollars against one hundred dollars. 'But if you make a favorable impression you'll get seventy dollars.' I thought, and why should I _not_ make a favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or South not much harmed. If I wait till I am older and fail, it will ruin my life. I slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little farewell tap to the contract for one hundred dollars; I took the pen; I looked hard at him. 'There's a heap of trust asked for in this contract,' I remarked. 'You won't forget your promise about doubling the contract?'

"'I won't forget anything,' he answered.

"Then I wrote 'Clara Morris' twice, shook hands, and went out and back to Cincinnati, with an engagement in a New York theater for the coming season."

As the tangible results of a benefit performance Clara was able to give her mother a new spring gown and bonnet and send her off to visit in Cleveland, before turning her face toward Halifax, where she had accepted a short summer engagement. At the end of it she went on to New York, engaged rooms in a quiet old-fashioned house near the theater, and telegraphed her mother to come. "She came," says Miss Morris, "and that blessed evening found us housekeeping at last. We were settled, and happily ready to begin the new life in the great, strange city."

From that moment, through the frenzied days of rehearsal with a new company, and with a large number of untoward incidents crowded into each day, life moved swiftly on toward the first appearance of Clara Morris on the New York stage.

With a sort of dogged despair she lived through the worry of planning how to buy costumes out of her small reserve fund. When at last all her gowns were ready, she had two dollars and thirty-eight cents left, on which she and her mother must live until her first week's salary should be paid. Worse than that, on the last awful day before the opening night she had a sharp attack of pleurisy. A doctor was called, who, being intoxicated, treated the case wrongly. Another physician had to be summoned to undo the work of the first, and as a result Daly's new actress was in a condition little calculated to give her confidence for such an ordeal as the coming one. She says, "I could not swallow food--_I could not!_ As the hour drew near my mother stood over me while with tear-filled eyes I disposed of a raw beaten egg; then she forced me to drink a cup of broth, fearing a breakdown if I tried to go through five such acts as awaited me without food. I always kissed her good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff with fright that they would not move. I dropped my head for one moment on her shoulder; she patted me silently with one hand and opened the door with the other. I glanced back. Mother waved her hand and called: 'Good luck! G.o.d bless you!' and I was on my way to my supreme test."

A blaze of lights, a hum of voices, a brilliant throng of exquisitely gowned, bejeweled women and well-groomed men, in fact a house such as Wood's leading lady had never before confronted! A chance for triumph or for disaster--and triumph it was! Like a rolling s...o...b..ll, it grew as the play advanced. Again and again Clara Morris took a curtain call with the other actresses. Finally the stage manager said to Mr. Daly, "They want _her_," and Mr. Daly answered, sharply: "I know what they want, and I know what I don't want. Ring up again!"

He did so. But it was useless. At last Mr. Daly said, "Oh, well, ring up once more, and here, you take it yourself."

Alone, Clara Morris stood before the brilliant throng, vibrating to the spontaneous storm of enthusiasm, and as she stood before them the audience rose as one individual, carried out of themselves by an actress whose work was as rare as it was unique--work which never for one moment descended to mere stagecraft, but in its simplest gesture was throbbing with vital human emotion.