[Illustration: _Clara Morris (1883)_]

_STAGE CONFIDENCES_

TALKS ABOUT PLAYERS AND PLAY ACTING

BY

CLARA MORRIS

AUTHOR OF

"LIFE ON THE STAGE, ""THE PASTEBOARD CROWN, " ETC. 

_ILLUSTRATED_

LONDONCHARLES H. KELLY

1902

 _To

 MARY ANDERSON

 "THE FAIR THE CHASTE THE UNEXPRESSIVE SHE"_

_GREETING

To those dear girls who honour me with their liking and theirconfidences, greetings first, then a statement and a proposition. 

Now I have the advantage over you of years, but you have the advantageover me of numbers. You can ask more questions in an hour than I cananswer in a week. You can fly into a hundred "tiffs" of angrydisappointment with me while I am struggling to utter the soft answerthat turneth away the wrath of one. 

Now, you eager, impatient young damsels, your name is Legion, and youraddresses are scattered freely between the two oceans. Some of you aregrave, some gay, some well-off, some very poor, some wise, some very, very foolish, --yet you are all moved by the same desire, you all ask, very nearly, the same questions. No actress can answer all the girls whowrite to her, --no more can I, and that disturbs me, because I likegirls and I hate to disappoint them. 

But now for my proposition. Why not become a lovely composite girl, myfriend, Miss Hope Legion, and let me try to speak to her my word ofwarning, of advice, of remonstrance? If she doubts, let me prove myassertions by incident, and if she grows vexed, let me try to win her tolaughter with the absurdities, --that are so funny in their telling, though so painful in their happening. 

Clara Morris. _

_CONTENTS_

 CHAPTER

 I. A WORD OF WARNING II. THE STAGE AND REAL LIFE III. IN CONNECTION WITH "DIVORCE" AND DALY'S IV. "MISS MULTON" AT THE UNION SQUARE V. THE "NEW MAGDALEN" AT THE UNION SQUARE VI. "ODETTE" IN THE WEST. A CHILD'S FIRST PLAY VII. A CASE OF "TRYING IT ON A DOG" VIII. THE CAT IN "CAMILLE" IX. "ALIXE. " THE TRAGEDY OF THE GOOSE GREASE X. J. E. OWENS'S "WANDERING BOYS. " "A HOLE IN THE WALL" INCIDENT XI. STAGE CHILDREN. MY "LITTLE BREECHES" IN "MISS MULTON" XII. THE STAGE AS AN OCCUPATION FOR WOMEN XIII. THE BANE OF THE YOUNG ACTRESS'S LIFE XIV. THE MASHER, AND WHY HE EXISTS XV. SOCIAL CONDITIONS BEHIND THE SCENES XVI. THE ACTRESS AND RELIGION XVII. A DAILY UNPLEASANTNESS XVIII. A BELATED WEDDING XIX. SALVINI AS MAN AND ACTOR XX. FRANK SEN: A CIRCUS EPISODE XXI. STAGE FORFEITS AND THEIR HUMOUR XXII. POOR SEMANTHA

_ILLUSTRATIONS_

 CLARA MORRIS (1883) CLARA MORRIS IN "L' ARTICLE 47" CHARLES MATTHEWS CLARA MORRIS IN "ALIXE" CLARA MORRIS AS "MISS MULTON" CLARA MORRIS AS "ODETTE" MRS. GILBERT, AUGUSTIN DALY, JAMES LEWIS, AND LOUIS JAMES JOHN E. OWENS "LITTLE BREECHES" CLARA MORRIS AS "JANE EYRE" CLARA MORRIS IN "THE SPHINX" CLARA MORRIS IN "EVADNE" CLARA MORRIS AS "CAMILLE" TOMMASO SALVINI W. J. LE MOYNE CLARA MORRIS BEFORE COMING TO DALY'S THEATRE IN 1870

_CHAPTER I

A WORD OF WARNING_

Every actress of prominence receives letters from young girls and womenwho wish to go on the stage, and I have my share. These letters are ofall kinds. Some are extravagant, some enthusiastic, some foolish, and afew unutterably pathetic; but however their writers may differotherwise, there is one positive conviction they unconsciously share, and there is one question they each and every one put to me: so it is_that_ question that must be first answered, and that conviction thatmust be shaken. 

The question is, "What chance has a girl in private life of getting onthe stage?" and to reply at once with brutal truthfulness and straightto the point, I must say, "Almost none. "

But to answer her instant "Why?" I must first shake that positiveconviction each writer has, that she is the only one that burns with thehigh ambition to be an actress, who hopes and fears, and secretlystudies Juliet. It would be difficult to convince her that her ownstate, her own city, yes, her own block, could each produce a girl whofirmly believes that _her_ talent is equally great, and who has just thesame strength of hope for the future stage existence. 

Every city in the country is freely sprinkled with stage-loving, or, asthey are generally termed, "stage-struck" girls. It is more thanprobable that at least a half-dozen girls in her own circle secretlycherish a hope for a glorious career on the stage, while her bosomfriend most likely knows every line of _Pauline_ and has practised thedeath scene of _Camille_ hundreds of times. Surely, then, the would-beactresses can see that their own numbers constitute one of the greatestobstacles in their path. 

But that is by no means all. Figures are always hard things to manage, and there is another large body of them, between a girl and her chances, in the number of trained actresses who are out of engagements. There isprobably no profession in the world so overcrowded as is the professionof acting. "Why, then, " the manager asks, "should I engage a girl whodoes not even know how to walk across the stage, when there are so manytrained girls and women to choose from?"

"But, " says or thinks some girl who reads these words, "you were anoutsider, poor and without friends, yet you got your chance. "

Very true; I did. But conditions then were different. The stage did nothold then the place in public estimation which it now does. Theatricalpeople were little known and even less understood. Even the people whodid not think all actors drunkards and all actresses immoral, did thinkthey were a lot of flighty, silly buffoons, not to be taken seriouslyfor a moment. The profession, by reason of this feeling, was rather aclose corporation. The recruits were generally young relatives of theolder actors. There was plenty of room, and people began at the bottomquite cheerfully and worked up. When a "ballet" was wanted, the manageradvertised for extra girls, and sometimes received as many as threeapplicants in one day--when twenty were wanted. Such an advertisementto-day would call out a veritable mob of eager girls and women. _There_was my chance. To-day I should have no chance at all. 

The theatrical ranks were already growing crowded when the "Schools ofActing" were started, and after that--goodness gracious! actors andactresses started up as suddenly and numerously as mushrooms in an oldpasture. And they, even _they_ stand in the way of the beginner. 

I know, then, of but three powers that can open the stage door to a girlwho comes straight from private life, --a fortune, great influence, orsuperlative beauty. With a large amount of money a girl canunquestionably tempt a manager whose business is not too good, to giveher an engagement. If influence is used, it must indeed be of a highsocial order to be strong enough favourably to affect the box-officereceipts, and thus win an opening for the young débutante. As forbeauty, it must be something very remarkable that will on its strengthalone secure a girl an engagement. Mere prettiness will not do. Nearlyall American girls are pretty. It must be a radiant and compellingbeauty, and every one knows that there are not many such beauties, stage-struck or otherwise. 

The next question is most often put by the parents or friends of thewould-be actress; and when with clasped hands and in-drawn breath theyask about the temptations peculiar to the profession of acting, all myshare of the "old Adam" rises within me. For you see I honour theprofession in which I have served, girl and woman, so many years, and ithurts me to have one imply that it is filled with strange and terriblepitfalls for women. I have received the confidences of manyworking-women, --some in professions, some in trades, and some inservice, --and on these confidences I have founded my belief that everywoman who works for her living must eat with her bread the bitter saltof insult. Not even the plain girl escapes paying this penalty put uponher unprotected state. 

Still, insult does not mean temptation, by any means. But carefulinquiry has shown me that temptation assails working-women in any walkof life, and that the profession of acting has nothing weird or novel tooffer in the line of danger; to be quite frank, all the possibilities ofresisting or yielding lie with the young woman herself. What will temptone beyond her powers of resistance, will be no temptation at all toanother. 

However, parents wishing to frighten their daughters away from the stagehave naturally enough set up several great bugaboos collectively knownas "temptations"--individually known as the "manager, " the "public, "etc. 

There seems to be a general belief that a manager is a sort of dramatic"Moloch, " upon whose altar is sacrificed all ambitious femininity. Indeclaring that to be a mistaken idea, I do not for a moment imply thatmanagers are angels; for such a suggestion would beyond a doubt secureme a quiet summer at some strictly private sanitarium; but I do mean tosay that, like the gentleman whom we all know by hearsay, but not bysight, they are not so black as they are painted. 

Indeed, the manager is more often the pursued than the pursuer. Womenthere are, attractive, well-looking, well-dressed, some of whom, alas!in their determination to succeed, cast morality overboard, as anaeronaut casts over ballast, that they may rise more quickly. Now whilethese women bestow their adulation and delicate flattery upon themanager, he is not likely to disturb the modest and retiring newcomer inhis company by unwelcome attentions. And should the young stranger proveearnest and bright, she would be doubly safe; for then she would havefor the manager a commercial value, and he would be the last man to hurtor anger her by a too warmly expressed admiration, and so drive her intoanother theatre, taking all her possible future popularity and drawingpower with her. 

One other and better word I wish to add. If the unprotected youngbeginner finds herself the victim of some odious creature's persistentadvances, letters, etc. , let her not fret and weep and worry, but lether go quietly to her manager and lay her trouble before him, and, myword for it, he will find a way of freeing her from her tormentor. Yes, the manager is, generally speaking, a kindly, cheery, sharp businessman, and no Moloch at all. 

As for the "public, " no self-respecting girl need be in danger from the"public. " Admiring young rakes no longer have coaches waiting round thecorner, into which they thrust their favourite actress as she leaves thetheatre. If a man sends an actress extravagant letters or flowers, anonymously, she can of course do nothing, but equally of course shewill not wear his flowers and so encourage him boldly to step up andspeak to her some day. If the gentleman sends her jewellery or valuablegifts of any kind, rest assured his name will accompany the offering;then the actress has but one thing to do, send the object back at once. If the infatuated one is a gentleman and worthy of her notice, he willsurely find a perfectly correct and honourable way of making heracquaintance, otherwise she is well rid of him. No, I see no dangerthreatening a young actress from the "public. "

There is danger in drifting at any time, so it may be well to warn youngactresses against drifting into a too strong friendship. No matter howhandsome or clever a man may be, if he approaches a modest girl withcoarse familiarity, with brutalities on his lips, she is shocked, repelled, certainly not tempted. But let us say that the young actressfeels rather strange and uncomfortable in her surroundings, that she isonly on a smiling "good morning and good evening" footing with thecompany, and she has been promised a certain small part, and then at thelast moment the part is given to some one else. The disappointment iscruel, and the suspicion that people are laughing in their sleeves overthe slight put upon her makes her feel sick and faint with shame, andjust then a friendly hand places a chair for her and a kind voice says:"I'm awfully sorry you missed that chance, for I'm quite sure you woulddo the part far and away better than that milliner's block will. Butdon't distress yourself, your chance will come, and you will know how tomake the most of it--I am sure. "

And all the time the plain, perhaps the elderly man is speaking, he isshielding her from the eyes of the other people, and from her very soulshe is grateful to him, and she holds up her head and smiles bravely. 

Not long after, perhaps, she does get a chance, and with joyous eyes shewatches for the coming of the man who comforted her, that she may tellhim of her good luck. And his pleasure is plain, and he assures her thatshe will succeed. And he, an experienced actor, waits in the entrance tosee her play her small part, and shakes her hand and congratulates herwhen she comes off, and even tells her what to do next time at such apoint, and her heart warms within her and is filled with gratitude forthis "sympathetic friend, " who helps her and has faith in her future. The poor child little dreams that temptation may be approaching her, softly, quietly, in the guise of friendship. So, all unconsciously, shegrows to rely upon the advice of this quiet, unassuming man. She looksfor his praise, for his approval. By and by their companionship reachesbeyond the walls of the theatre. She respects him, admires, trusts him. Trusts him--he may be worthy, he may not! But it would be well for theyoung actresses to be on their guard against the "sympathetic friend. "

Since we are speaking about absolute beginners, perhaps a word ofwarning may be given against _pretended_ critics. The young actresstrembles at the bare words "newspaper man. " She ought to know that acritic on a respectable paper holds a responsible position. When heserves a prominent and a leading journal, he is frequently recognized asan authority, and has a social as well as a professional position tomaintain. Further, the professional woman does not strongly attract thecritic personally. There is no glamour about stage people to him; butshould he desire to make an actress's acquaintance, he would do so inthe perfectly correct manner of a gentleman. But this is not known tothe young stranger within the theatrical gates, and through herignorance, which is far from bliss, she may be subjected to ahumiliating and even dangerous experience. I am myself one of severalwomen whom I know to have been victimized in early days. 

The beginner, then, fearing above all things the newspaper, receives oneevening a note common in appearance, coarse in expression, requestingher acquaintance, and signed "James Flotsam, " let us say. Of course shepays no attention, and two nights later a card reaches her--a verydoubtful one at that--bearing the name "James Flotsam, " and in thecorner, _Herald_. She may be about to refuse to see the person, but someone will be sure to exclaim, "For mercy's sake! don't make an enemy onthe 'press. '"

And trembling at the idea of being attacked or sneered at in print, without one thought of asking what _Herald_ this unknown represents, without remembering that Miller's Pond or Somebody-else's Corners mayhave a _Herald_ she hastens to grant to this probably ignorant younglout the unchaperoned interview she would instantly refuse to agentleman whose name was even well known to her; and trembling with fearand hope she will listen to his boastings "of the awful roasting he gaveBilly This or Dick That, " referring thus to the most prominent actors ofthe day, or to his promises of puffs for herself "when old Brown orSmith are out of the office" (the managing and the city editors bothbeing jealous of him, and blue pencilling him just for spite); and ifMr. Flotsam does not, without leave, bring up and present his chum, Mr. Jetsam, the young woman will be fortunate. 

A little quiet thought will convince her that an editor would not assignsuch a person to report the burning of a barn or the interruption of adog fight, and with deep mortification she will discover her mistake. The trick is as old as it is contemptible, and many a great paper hashad its name put to the dishonourable use of frightening a young actressinto an acquaintance with a self-styled critic. 

Does this seem a small matter to you? Then you are mistaken. There arefew things more serious for a young woman than an unworthy orundesirable acquaintance. She will be judged, not by her many correctfriends, but by her one incorrect one. Again, feeling fear of his powerto work her injury, she ceases really to be a free agent, and Heavenknows what unwise concessions she may be flurried into; and of all thedangers visible or invisible in the path of a good girl, the mostterrible is "opportunity. " If you wish to avoid danger, if you wish tosave yourself some face-reddening memory, give no one the "opportunity"to abuse your confidence, to wound you by word or deed. Ought I to pointout one other unpleasant possibility? Temptation may approach thesomewhat advanced young actress through money and power in the guise ofthe "patron of Art"--not a common form of temptation by any means. Butwhat _has_ been may be again, and it is none the easier to resistbecause it is unusual. When a young girl, with hot impatience, feels sheis not advancing as rapidly as she should, the wealthy "patron of Art"declares it is folly for her to plod along so slowly, that he will freeher from all trammels, he will provide play, wardrobe, company, andshow the world that she is already an artist. To her trembling objectionthat she could only accept such tremendous aid from one of her ownfamily, he would crushingly reply that "Art" (with a very big A) shouldrise above common conventionalities; that he does not think of _her_personally, but only the advance of professional "Art"; and if she musthave it so, why-er, she may pay him back in the immediate future, thoughif she were the passionate lover of "Art" he had believed her to be, shewould accept the freedom he offered and waste no thought on "ways andmeans" or "hows and whys. "

Ah, poor child, the freedom he offers would be a more cruel bondage thanslavery itself! The sensitive, proud girl would never place herselfunder such heavy obligations to any one on earth. She would keep hervanity in check, and patiently or impatiently hold on her way, --free, independent, --owing her final success to her own honest work and God'sblessing. Every girl should learn these hard words by heart, _Rien ne sedonne, tout se paye ici-bas!_ "Everything is paid for in this world!"

A number of young girls have asked me to give them some idea of theduties of a beginner in the profession, or what claims the theatre makesupon her time. Very well. We will first suppose you a young andattractive girl. You have been carefully reared and have been protectedby all the conventionalities of refined social life. Now you enter thetheatrical profession, depending solely upon your salary for yoursupport, meaning to become a great actress and to keep a spotlessreputation, and you will find your work cut out for you. At the stagedoor you will have to leave quite a parcel of conventional rules. In thefirst place, you will have to go about _alone_ at night as well as byday. Your salary won't pay for a maid or escort of any kind. That isvery dreadful at first, but in time you will learn to walk swiftly, with stony face, unseeing eyes, and ears deaf to those hyenas of thecity streets, who make life a misery to the unprotected woman. The rulesof a theatre are many and very exacting, and you must scrupulously obeythem or you will surely be forfeited a stated sum of money. There is nogallantry in the management of a company, and these forfeits aregenuine, be you man or woman. 

You have heard that cleanliness is next to godliness, here you willlearn that _punctuality_ is next to godliness. As you hope for fame hereand life hereafter, never be late to rehearsal. That is the theatricalunpardonable sin! You will attend rehearsal at any hour of the day themanager chooses to call you, but that is rarely, if ever, before 10 A. M. Your legitimate means of attracting the attention of the management areextreme punctuality and quick studying of your part. If you can come tothe second rehearsal perfect in your lines, you are bound to attractattention. Your fellow-players will not love you for it, because theywill seem dull or lazy by comparison; but the stage manager will make anote, and it may lead to better things. 

Your gowns at this stage of your existence may cause you great anguishof mind--I do not refer to their cost, but to their selection. You willnot be allowed to say, "I will wear white or I will wear pink, " becausethe etiquette of the theatre gives the leading lady the first choice ofcolours, and after her the lady next in importance, you wearing what isleft. 

In some New York theatres actresses have no word in the selection oftheir gowns: they receive plates from the hand of the management, anddress accordingly. This is enough to whiten the hair of a sensitivewoman, who feels dress should be a means of expression, an outward hintof the character of the woman she is trying to present. 

Should you not be in a running play, you may be an understudy for oneor two of the ladies who are. You will study their parts, be rehearsedin their "business, " and will then hold yourself in readiness to take, on an instant's notice, either of their places, in case of sickness, accident, or ill news coming to either of them. If the parts are goodones, you will be astonished at the perfect immunity of actresses fromall mishaps; but all the same you may never leave your house withoutleaving word as to where you are going and how long you expect to stay. 

You may never go to another theatre without permission of your ownmanager; indeed, she is a lucky "understudy" who does not have to reportat the theatre at 7 o'clock every night to see if she is needed. And itsometimes happens that the only sickness the poor "understudy" knows ofduring the whole run of the play is that sickness of deferred hope whichhas come to her own heart. 

Not so very hard a day or night, so far as physical labour goes, is it?But, oh! the sameness, the deadly monotony, of repeating the same wordsto the same person at the same moment every night, sick or well, sad orhappy--the same, same words!

A "one-play" company offers the worst possible chance to the beginner. The more plays there are, the more you learn from observation, as wellas from personal effort, to make the parts you play seem as unlike oneanother as possible. A day like this admits of no drives, no calls, no"teas"; you see, then, a theatrical life is not one long picnic. 

If there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light ofthe theatre is dearer than the God-given radiance of the sunlight; ifthe burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed ofseveral parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunneddust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escapedilluminating gas--if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to yournostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenestpasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguishedfootlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without notingthe quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of "actingsomething" thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of theill-treated old overture dances through your blood, and the rolling upof the curtain on the audience at night is to you as the magicblossoming of a mighty flower--if these are the things that you feel, your fate is sealed: Nature is imperious; and through brain, heart, andnerve she cries to you, ACT, ACT, ACT! and act you must! Yes, I knowwhat I have said of the difficulties in your way, but I have faith tobelieve that, if God has given you a peculiar talent, God will aid youto find a way properly to exercise that talent. You may receive manyrebuffs, but you must keep on trying to get into a stock company ifpossible, or, next best, to get an engagement with a star who producesmany plays. Take anything, no matter how small, to begin with. You willlearn how to walk, to stand still--a tremendous accomplishment. You willget acquainted with your own hands, and cease to worry about them. 

You can train your brain by studying Shakespeare and the old comedies. Study not merely the leading part, but all the female parts; it is notonly good training, but you never know when an opportunity may come toyou. The element of "chance" enters very largely into the theatricallife. Above all, try to remember the lines of every female character inthe play you are acting in; it might mean a sudden rise in your positionif you could go on, at a moment's notice, and play the part of some onesuddenly taken ill. 

Then work, work, and above all observe. Never fail to watch the actingof those about you. Get at the cause of the effects. Avoid the faults, and profit by the good points of the actors before you, but never permityourself to imitate them. 

One suggestion I would make is to keep your eyes open for signs ofcharacter in the real life about you. The most successful bit ofbusiness I had in "Camille" I copied from a woman I saw in a Broadwaycar. If a face impresses you, study it, try afterward to recall itsexpression. Note how different people express their anger: some areredly, noisily angry; some are white and cold in their rage. All thesethings will make precious material for you to draw upon some day, whenyou have a character to create; and you will not need to say, "Let mesee, Miss So-and-So would stand like this, and speak very fast, or veryslow, " etc. 

You will do independent work, good work, and will never be quitesatisfied with it, but will eagerly try again, for great artists are soconstituted; and the hard life of disappointments, self-sacrifices, andmany partings, where strong, sweet friendships are formed only to bebroken by travelling orders, will all be forgotten when, the glamour ofthe footlights upon you, saturated with light, thrilling to music, intoxicated with applause, you find the audience is an instrument foryou to play upon at will. And such a moment of conscious, almost divinepower is the reward that comes to those who sacrifice many things thatthey may act. 

So if you really are one of these, I can only say, "Act, act!" andHeaven have you in its holy keeping. 

But, dear gifted woman, pause before you put your hand to the ploughthat will turn your future into such strange furrows; remember, the lifeof the theatre is a hard life, a homeless life; that it is a wanderingup and down the earth; a life filled full with partings, with sweet, lost friendships; that its triumphs are brilliant but brief. If you dotruly love acting, simply and solely for the sake of acting, then allwill be well with you, and you will be content; but verily you will be amarvel. 

For the poor girl or woman who, because she has to earn her own living, longs to become an actress, my heart aches. 

You will say good-by to mother's petting; you will live in your trunk. The time will come when that poor hotel trunk (so called to distinguishit from the trunk that goes to the theatre, when you are travelling oren route), with its dents and scars, will be the only friendly object togreet you in your desolate boarding-house, with its one wizened, unwilling gas-burner, and its outlook upon back yards and cats, or roofsand sparrows, its sullen, hard-featured bed, its despairing carpet; foryou see, you will not have the money that might take you to the front ofthe house and four burners. Rain or shine, you will have to make yourlonely, often frightened way to and from the theatre. At rehearsals youwill have to stand about, wearily waiting hours while others rehearseover and over again their more important scenes; yet you may not leavefor a walk or a chat, for you do not know at what moment your scene maybe called. You will not be made much of. You will receive a "Goodmorning" or "Good evening" from the company, probably nothing more. Ifyou are travelling, you will literally _live_ in your hat and cloak. Youwill breakfast in them many and many a time, you will dine in themregularly, that you may rise at once and go to the theatre or car. Youwill see no one, go nowhere. 

If you are in earnest, you will simply endure the first year, --endureand study, --and all for what? That, after dressing in the cornerfarthest from the looking-glass, in a dismal room you would scarcely usefor your housemaid's brooms and dusters at home, you may stand for a fewmoments in the background of some scene, and watch the leading ladymaking the hit in the foreground. Will these few, well-dressed, well-lighted, music-thrilled moments repay you for the loss of homelove, home comfort, home stardom?

To that bright, energetic girl, just home from school, overeducated, perhaps, with nothing to do, restless, --forgive me, --vain, who wants togo upon the stage, let me say: "Pause a moment, my dear, in yourcomfortable home, and think of the unemployed actresses who aresuffering from actual want. Is there one among you, who, if you had thechance, would care to strike the bread from the hand of one of these?Ask God that the scales of unconscious selfishness may fall from youreyes. Look about you and see if there is not some duty, however small, the more irksome the better, that you may take from your mother's dailyload, some service you can render for father, brother, sister, aunt;some daily household task, so small you may feel contemptuous of it, yet some one must do it, and it may be a special thorn in that someone's side. So surely as you force yourself to do the small thingsnearest your hand, so surely will you be called upon for greaterservice. "

And oh! my dears, my dears, a loving mother's declaration, "I don't knowwhat I should do without my daughter, " is sweeter and more precious thanthe careless applause of strangers. Try, then, to be patient; find someoccupation, if it is nothing more than the weekly putting in order ofbureau drawers for some unusually careless member of the family; and, having a good home, thank God and your parents, and stay in it. 

And now, having added the insult of preaching at you to the injury ofdisappointing you, I suppose you will accuse me of rank hypocrisy; butyou will be wrong, because with outstretched hands I stand and proclaimmyself your well-wisher and your friend. 

_CHAPTER II

THE STAGE AND REAL LIFE_

How often we hear people say, "Oh, that's only a play!" or "That couldonly happen in a play!" and yet it's surprising how often actors receiveproof positive that their plays are reflecting happenings in real life. 

When Mr. Daly had "L'Article 47" on, at the 5th Avenue Theatre, forinstance, the key-note of the play was the insanity of the heroine. Inthe second, most important act, before her madness had been openlyproclaimed, it had to be indicated simply by manner, tone, and gesture;and the one action of drawing the knee up into her clasping arms, andthen swaying the body mechanically from side to side, while mutteringrapidly to herself, thrilled the audience with the conviction of heraffliction more subtly than words could have done. One night, when thatact was on, I had just begun to sway from side to side, when from theauditorium there arose one long, _long_, agonizing wail, and that wailwas followed by the heavy falling of a woman's body from her chair intothe centre aisle. 

In an instant all was confusion, every one sprang to his feet; even themusicians, who were playing some creepy, incidental music, as was thefashion then, stopped and half rose from their places. It was a dreadfulmoment! Somehow I kept a desperate hold upon my strained and startlednerves and swayed on from side to side. Mr. Stoepel, the leader, glancedat me. I caught his eye and said quick and low, "Play! play!"

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "L'Article 47"_]

He understood; but instead of simply resuming where he had left off, from force of habit he first gave the leader's usual three sharp tapsupon his music desk, and then--so queer a thing is an audience--thosepeople, brought to their feet in an agony of terror, of fire, panic, andsudden death by a woman's cry, now at that familiar tap, tap, tap, brokehere and there into laughter. By sixes and sevens, then by tens andtwenties, they sheepishly seated themselves, only turning their headswith pitying looks while the ushers removed the unconscious woman. 

When the act was over, Mr. Daly--a man of few words on suchoccasions--held my hands hard for a moment, and said, "Good girl, goodgirl!" and I, pleased, deprecatingly remarked, "It was the music, sir, that quieted them, " to which he made answer, "And it was you who orderedthe music!"

Verily, no single word could be spoken on his stage without hisknowledge. Later that evening we learned that the lady who had cried outhad been brought to the theatre by friends who hoped to cheer her up(Heaven save the mark!) and help her to forget her dreadful and recentexperience of placing her own mother in an insane asylum. Learned, too, that her very first suspicion of that poor mother's condition had comefrom finding her one morning sitting up in bed, her arms embracing herknees, while she swayed from side to side unceasingly, muttering low andfast all the time. 

Poor lady! no wonder her worn nerves gave way when all unexpectedly thatdread scene was reproduced before her, and worse still before thestaring public. 

Then Mr. Charles Matthews, the veteran English comedian, came over toact at Mr. Daly's. His was a graceful, polished, volatile style ofacting, and he had a high opinion of his power as a maker of fun; sothat he was considerably annoyed one night when he discovered that oneof his auditors would not laugh. Laugh? would not even smile at hisefforts. 

Mr. Matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable, --and, well, just a wee bit _cranky_; and when the play was about half over, he came"off, " angrily talking to himself, and ran against Mr. Lewis and me, aswe were just about "going on. " Instantly he exclaimed, "Look here! lookhere!" taking from his vest pocket a broad English gold piece andholding it out on his hand, then added, "And look there! look there!"pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box. 

"Do you see that stupid dolt over there? Well, I've toiled over him tillI sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh--he won't; smile--he won't. "

I remarked musingly, "He looks like a graven image"; while Lewissuggested cheerfully, "Perhaps he is one. "

"No, no!" groaned the unfortunate star, "I'm afraid not! I'm--I'malmost certain I saw him move once. But look here now, you're a deucedlyfunny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene. I'll protect youfrom Daly, --do anything you like, --and the one who makes that wooden manlaugh, wins this gold piece. "

It was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope ofsucceeding where the star had failed. I seized one moment in which tonotify old man Davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent partin the coming scene, and then we were on the stage. 

The play was "The Critic, " the scene a burlesque rehearsal of anold-time melodrama. Our opportunities were great, and Heaven knows wemissed none of them. New York audiences are quick, and in less thanthree minutes they knew the actors had taken the bit between their teethand were off on a mad race of fun. Everything seemed to "go. " We threeknew one another well. Each saw another's idea and caught it, with thecertainty of a boy catching a ball. The audience roared with laughter;the carpenters and scene-shifters--against the rule of thetheatre--crowded into the entrances with answering laughter; but the manin the box gave no sign. 

Worse and worse we went on. Mr. Daly, white with anger, came behind thescene, gasping out, "Are they utterly mad?" to the little Frenchman whomhe had made prompter because he could not speak English well enough toprompt us; who, frantically pulling his hair, cried, "Oui! oui! zey areall mad--mad like ze dog in ze summer-time!"

Mr. Daly stamped his feet and cleared his throat to attract ourattention; but, trusting to Mr. Matthews's protection, we grinnedcheerfully at him and continued on our downward path. At last we reachedthe "climax, " and suddenly I heard Mr. Matthews say, "She's gothim--look--I think she's won!"

I could not help it--I turned my head to see if the "graven image" couldreally laugh. Yes, he was moving! his face wore some faint expression;but--but he was turning slowly to the laughing audience, and theexpression on his face was one of _wonder!_

Matthews groaned aloud, the curtain fell, and Daly was upon us. Matthewssaid the cause of the whole business was that man in the box; while Mr. Daly angrily declared, "The man in the box could have nothing to do withthe affair, since he was _deaf_ and _dumb_, and had been all his life. "

I remember sitting down very hard and very suddenly. I remember thatDavidge, who was an Englishman, "blasted" a good many things under hisbreath; and then Mr. Matthews, exclaiming with wonder, told us he hadbeen playing for years in a farce where this very scene was enacted, thewhole play consisting in the actors' efforts to win the approbation of aman who was a deaf mute. 

So once more a play was found to reflect a situation in real life. 

[Illustration: _Charles Matthews_]

_CHAPTER III

IN CONNECTION WITH "DIVORCE" AND DALY'S_

"Divorce" had just settled down for its long run, when one evening Ireceived a letter whose weight and bulk made me wonder whether theenvelope contained a "last will and testament" or a "three-act play. " Onopening it I found it perfectly correct in appearance, on excellentpaper, in the clearest handwriting, and using the most perfectorthography and grammar: a gentleman had nevertheless gently, almosttenderly, reproached me for using _the story of his life_ for the play. 

He said he knew Mr. Daly's name was on the bills as author; but as Iwas an Ohio woman, he of course understood perfectly that I hadfurnished Mr. D. With _his_ story for the play. He explained at greatlength that he forgave me because I had not given Mr. Daly his realname, and also remarked, in rather an aggrieved way, that _he_ had twochildren and only one appeared in the play. He also seemed considerablysurprised that Mr. Harkins (who played my husband) did not wear a largered beard, as every one, he said, knew _he_ had not shaved for years. 

My laughter made its way over the transom, and in a moment my neighbourwas at the dressing-room door, asking for something she did not need, that she might find out the why and wherefore of the fun; and when thered beard had started her off, another came for something she knew Ididn't own, and she too fell before the beard; while a third writhedover the forgiveness extended to me, and exclaimed:--

"Oh, the well-educated idiot, isn't he delicious?"

By and by the letter started to make a tour of the gentlemen's rooms, and, unlike the rolling-stone that gathered no moss, it gatheredlaughter as it moved. 

It was only Mr. Daly who astonished me by not laughing. He, instead, seemed quite gratified that his play had so clearly reflected a reallife story. 

In the business world of New York there was known at that time a pair ofbrothers; they were in dry-goods. The firm was new, and they werenaturally anxious to extend their trade. The buyer for a merchant in thefar Northwest had placed a small order with the brothers B. , which hadproved so satisfactory that the merchant coming himself to New York thenext fall informed the brothers of his intention of dealing heavily withthem. Of course they were much pleased. They had received him warmly andhad offered him some hospitality, which latter he declined; but as itwas late in the day, and as he was an utter stranger to the city, heasked if there was anything going on that would help pass an evening forhim; and the elder Mr. B. Had instantly answered, Yes; that there was abig success "on" at Daly's Theatre, right next door to the Fifth AvenueHotel, at which the stranger was stopping. And so with thanks and bows, and a smiling promise to be at the store at ten o'clock the nextmorning, ready for business, the brothers and the Western merchantparted. 

I happened to be in the store next morning before ten, and the elder B. , who was one of my few acquaintances, was chatting to me of nothing inparticular, when I saw such an expression of surprise come into hisface, that I turned at once in the direction his glance had taken, andsaw a man plunging down the aisle toward us, like an ugly steer. Helooked a cross between a Sabbath-school superintendent and a cattledealer. He was six feet tall and very clumsy, and wore the blackbroadcloth of the church and the cow-hide boots, big hat, and woollencomforter of the cattle man; while his rage was so evident that evenorgan-grinders and professional beggars fled from his presence. On hecame, stamping and shaking his head steerlike. One expected every momentto hear him bellow. When he came up to Mr. B. , it really did seem thatthe man must fall in a fit. When he could speak, he burst intovituperation and profanity. He d----d the city, its founders, and itspresent occupants. He d----d Mr. B. , his ancestors, his relatives nearand distant, by blood and by law; but he was exceptionally florid whenhe came to tell Mr. B. How many kinds of a fool he was. 

When his breath was literally gone, my unfortunate friend, who hadalternately flushed and paled under the attack, said:--

"Mr. Dash, if you will be good enough to explain what this is allabout--"

"Explain!" howled the enraged man, "explain! in the place where I comefrom our jokes don't need to be explained. You ring-tail gibbering ape, come out here on the sidewalk, and I'll explain!"

Then he paused an instant, as a new thought came to him. 

"Oh, yes, " he cried, "and if I take you out there, to lick some of the_fun_ out of you, one of your constables will jump on to me! You're asweet, polite lot, to play jokes on strangers, and then hide behind yourconstables!"

Then his voice fell, his eyes narrowed, he looked an ugly customer as heapproached Mr. B. , saying:--

"You thought it d----d funny to send me to that play last night, onpurpose to show me you knew I had just got a divorce from my wife! Andif I have divorced her, let me tell you she's a finer woman than youever knew in your whole fool life! It was d----d funny, wasn't it, tosend a lonely man--a stranger--into a playhouse to see his own miseryacted out before him! Well, in New York that may be fun, and call forlaughter, but at my home it would call for _bullets_--and get 'em too!"

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "Alixe". _]

And he turned and strode out. Mr. B. Had failed to mention the name ofthe play when he recommended it; and the Western man, whose skin seemedas sensitive as it was thick, thought that he was being made fun of, when the play of "Divorce" unfolded before him. 

When "Alixe" was produced, there was one feature of the play thataroused great curiosity. Mr. Daly was called upon again and again todecide wagers, and considerable money changed hands over the question, before people could be convinced that it was I who was carried upon thestage, and not a waxen image of me. 

Many people will remember that in that heart-rending play, Alixe, theinnocent victim of others' wrong-doing, is carried on dead, --drowned, --andlies for the entire act in full view of the audience. Now that was theonly play I ever saw before playing in it; and in Paris the Alixe hadbeen so evidently alive that the play was quite ruined. 

When I had that difficult scene intrusted to me, I thought long andhard, trying to find some way to conceal my breathing. I knew I could"make-up" my face all right--but that evident breathing. I had alwaysnoticed that the tighter a woman laced, the higher she breathed and thegreater was the movement of her chest and bust. That gave me a hint. Itook off my corset. Still when lying down there was movement that anopera glass would betray. 

Then I tried a little trick. Alixe wore white of a soft crépy material. I had duplicate dresses made, only one was very loose in the waist. ThenI had a great big circular cloak of the same white material, quiteunlined; and when I was made up for the death scene, with lilies andgrasses in hand and hair, I stood upon a chair and held a corner of thegreat soft cloak against my breast, while my maid carefully wound therest of it loosely about my body, round and round, right down to myankles, and fastened it there; result: a long, white-robed figure, without one trace of waist line or bust, and beneath ample room fornatural breathing, without even the tremor of a fold to betray it. 

At once the question rose, was it a wax figure or was it not? Onegentleman came to Mr. Daly and asked him for the artist's address, saying the likeness to Miss Morris was so perfect it might be herself, and he wanted to get a wax model of his wife. Nor would he be convinceduntil Mr. Daly finally brought him back to the stage, and he saw meunpin my close drapery, and trot off to my dressing-room. 

The play was a great success, and often the reading of the suicide'sletter was punctuated by actual sobs from the audience, instead ofthose from the mother. Young club-men used to make a point of going tothe "Saturday Funeral, " as they called the "Alixe" matinee. They wouldgather afterward, opposite to the theatre, and make fun of the women'sfaces as they came forth with tear-streaked cheeks, red noses, andswollen eyes, and making frantic efforts to slip powder-puffs undertheir veils and repair damages. If glances could have killed, therewould have been mourning in earnest in the houses of the club-men. 

One evening, as the audience was nearly out and the lights were beingextinguished in the auditorium, a young man came back and said to anusher:--

"There is a gentleman up there in the balcony; you'd better see to him, before the lights are all put out. "

"A gentleman? what's he doing there, at this time, I'd like to know?"grumbled the usher as he climbed up the stairs. But next moment he wascalling for help, for there in a front seat, fallen forward, with hishead on the balcony rail, sat an old man whose silvery white hairreflected the faint light that fell upon it. They carried him to theoffice; and after stimulants had been administered he recovered andapologized for the trouble he had caused. As he seemed weak and shaken, Mr. Daly thought one of the young men ought to see him safely home, buthe said:--

"No, he was only in New York on business--he was at a hotel but a fewsteps away, and--and--" he hesitated. "You are thinking I had no rightto go to a theatre alone, " he added, "but I am not a sickman--only--only to-night I received an awful shock. "

He paused. Mr. Daly noted the quiver of his firm old lips. He dismissedthe usher; then he turned courteously to the old gentleman and said:--

"As it was in my theatre you received that shock, will you explain itto me?"

And in a low voice the stranger told him that he had had a daughter, anonly child, a little blond, laughing thing, whom he worshipped. She wasa mere child when she fell in love. Her choice had not pleased him, andlooking upon the matter as a fancy merely, he had forbidden furtherintercourse between the lovers. "And--and it was in the summer, and--dear God, when that yellow-haired girl was carried dead upon thestage to-night, even the grass clutched between her fingers, it was arepetition of what occurred in my country home, sir, three years ago. "

Then Mr. Daly gave his arm to the old stranger, and in dead silence theywalked to the hotel and parted. 

Once more the play had reflected real life. 

_CHAPTER IV

"MISS MULTON" AT THE UNION SQUARE_

Mr. Palmer had produced "Miss Multon" at the Union Square, and we werefast settling down to our steady, regular gait, having got over thefalse starts and breaks and nervous shyings of the opening performance, when another missive of portentous bulk reached me. 

It was one of those letters in which you can find everything except anend; and the writer was one of those men whose subjects, like anunhealthy hair, always split at the end, making at least two subjectsout of one. 

For instance, he started to show me the resemblance between his life andthe story of the play; but when he came to mention his wife, the hairsplit, and instead of continuing, he branched off, to tell me she wasthe step-daughter of "So-and-so, " that her own father, who was"Somebody, " had died of "something, " and had been buried "somewhere";and then that hair split, and he proceeded to expatiate on the twofathers' qualities, and state their different business occupations, after which, out of breath, and far, far from the original subject, hehad to hark back two and a half pages and tackle his life again. 

Truth to tell, it was rather pathetic reading when he kept to the point, for love for his wife cropped out plainly between the lines after yearsof separation. Suddenly he began to adorn me with a variety of finequalities. He assured me that I had penetration, clear judgment, and asense of justice, as well as a warm heart. 

I was staggering under these piled-up traits, when he completely flooredme, so to speak, by asking me to take his case under consideration, assuring me he would act upon my advice. If I thought he had been toosevere in his conduct toward his wife, to say so, and he would seek herout, and humble himself before her, and ask her to return to him. 

He also asked me whether, as a woman, I thought she would be influencedwholly by the welfare of her children, or whether she would be likely toretain a trace of affection for himself. 

That letter was an outrage. The idea of appealing to me, who had not hadthe experience of a single divorce to rely upon! Even my one husband wasso recent an acquisition as to be still considered a novelty. And yet I, all unacquainted with divorce proceedings, legal separations, andcommon law ceremonies, was called upon to make this strange man'stroubles my own, to sort out his domestic woes, and say:--

"This sin" is yours, but "that sin" is hers, and "those other sins"belong wholly to the co-respondent. 

What a useful word that is! It has such a decent sound, almostrespectable. We are a refined people, even in our sins, and I know noword in the English language we strive harder to avoid using in any ofits forms than that word of brutal vulgarity, but terrificmeaning--adultery. 

The adulterer may be in our midst, but we have refinement enough torefer to him as the "So-and-So's" co-respondent. 

I was engaged in saying things more earnest and warm than correct andpolished--things I fear the writer of the letter could not have approvedof--when I was pulled up short by the opening words of anotherparagraph, which said: "God! if women suffer in real life over the lossof children, husband, and home, as you suffered before my very eyes lastnight in the play; if my wife is tortured like that, it would have beenbetter for me to have passed out of life, and have left her in peace. But I did not know that women suffered so. Help me, advise me. "

I could not ignore that last appeal. What my answer was you will notcare to know; but if it was brief, it was at least not flippant; andbefore writing it, I, in my turn, appealed for help, only my appeal wasmade upon my knees to the Great Authority. 

 * * * * *

On election nights it is customary for the manager to read or have readto the audience the returns as fast as they come in from various points, showing how the voting has gone. 

[Illustration: _Clara Morris and James Parselle in 3d Act of "MissMulton"_]

An election was just over, when one evening a small incident occurredduring a performance of "Miss Multon" that we would gladly havedispensed with. In the quarrel scene between the two women, the firstand supposedly dead wife, in her character of governess to her ownchildren, is goaded by the second wife into such a passion that shefinally throws off all concealment and declares her true character andname. 

The scene was a strong one, and was always looked forward to eagerly bythe audience. 

On the evening I speak of the house was packed almost to suffocation. The other characters in the play had withdrawn, and for the first timethe two women were alone together. Both keyed up almost to the breakingpoint, we faced each other, and there was a dead, I might almost say a_deadly_ pause before either spoke. 

It was very effective--that silence before the storm. People would leanforward and fairly hold their breath, feeling there was a death strugglecoming. And just at that very moment of tensest feeling, as we twowomen silently measured each other, a man's voice clearly andexultantly declared:--

"Well, _now_, we'll get the returns read, I reckon. "

In one instant the whole house was in a roar of laughter. Under cover ofthe noise I said to my companion, who was showing her annoyance, "Keepstill! keep still!"

And as we stood there like statues, utterly ignoring the interruption, there was a sudden outbreak of hissing, and the laughter stopped assuddenly as it had burst out, and our scene went on, receiving even morethan its usual meed of applause. But when the curtain had fallen, I hadmy own laugh; for _it was_ funny, very funny. 

In Boston there was an interruption of a different nature. It was at amatinee performance. There were tear-wet faces everywhere you looked. The last act was on. I was slipping to my knees in my vain entreaty tobe allowed to see my children as their mother, not merely as theirdying governess, when a tall, slim, black-robed woman rose up in theparquet. She flung out her arms in a superb gesture, and in a voice ofpiercing anguish cried:--

"For God's sake, let her have her children! I've lived through suchloss, but she can't; it will kill her!"

Tears sprang to the eyes of every one on the stage, and there was aperceptible halt in the movement of the play. And when, at the deathscene, a lady was carried out in a faint, we were none of us surprisedto hear it was _she_ who had so far forgotten where she was as to makethat passionate plea for a woman whose suffering was probably but afaint reflection of her own. 

_CHAPTER V

THE "NEW MAGDALEN" AT THE UNION SQUARE_

One night at the Union Square Theatre, when the "New Magdalen" wasrunning, we became aware of the presence of a distinguished visitor--acertain actress from abroad. 

As I looked at the beautiful woman, magnificently dressed and jewelled, I found it simply impossible to believe the stories I had heard of herfrightful poverty, in the days of her lowly youth. 

Her manner was listless, her expression bored; even the conversationwhich she frequently indulged in seemed a weariness to the flesh; whileher applause was so plainly a mere matter of courtesy as almost to missbeing a courtesy at all. 

When, therefore, in the last act, I approached that truly dreadfulfive-page speech, which after a laconic "Go on!" from the young ministeris continued through several more pages, I actually trembled with fear, lest her _ennui_ should find some unpleasant outward expression. However, I dared not balk at the jump, so took it as bravely as I could. 

As I stood in the middle of the stage addressing the minister, and mylover on my left, I faced her box directly. I can see her now. She wasalmost lying in her chair, her hands hanging limply over its arms, herface, her whole body suggesting a repressed yawn. 

I began, slowly the words fell, one by one, in low, shamed tones:--

"I was just eight years old, and I was half dead with starvation. "

Her hands closed suddenly on the arms of her chair, and she liftedherself upright. I went on:--

"I was alone--the rain was falling. " (She drew her great fur cloakclosely about her. ) "The night was coming on--and--and--Ibegged--_openly_--LOUDLY--as only a hungry child can beg. "

She sat back in her seat with a pale, frowning face; while within theperfumed furry warmth of her cloak she shivered so that the diamonds ather ears sent out innumerable tiny spears of colour. 

The act went on to its close; her attention never flagged. When Iresponded to a call before the curtain, she gravely handed me her bunchof roses. 

A few moments later, by a happy accident, I was presented to her; whenwith that touch of bitterness that so often crept into her voice shesaid:--

"You hold your glass too steadily and at too true an angle to quiteplease me. "

"I do not understand, " I answered. 

She smiled, her radiantly lovely smile, then with just a suspicion of asneer replied, "Oh, yes, I think you do; at all events, I do not find itamusing to be called upon to look at too perfect a reflection of my ownchildhood. "

At which I exclaimed entreatingly, "Don't--please don't--"

I might have found it hard to explain just what I meant; but sheunderstood, for she gave my hand a quick, hard pressure, and a kind lookshone from her splendid eyes. Next moment she was sweeping superblytoward her carriage, with her gentlemen in waiting struggling for theopportunity to do her service. So here, again, was the play reflectingreal life. 

But surely I have given instances enough in illustration of my originalclaim that the most dramatic scenes in plays are generally the merereflections of happenings in real life; while the recognition of suchscenes often causes a serious interruption to the play, though goodnessknows there are plenty of interruptions from other causes. 

One that comes often to my mind occurred at Daly's. He once tried tokeep the theatre open in the summer-time--that was a failure. Two orthree plays were tried, then he abandoned the scheme. But while "NoName" was on, Mr. Parks was cast for a part he was utterly unsuited for. He stamped and stammered out his indignation and objection, but he wasnot listened to, so on he went. 

During the play he was found seated at a table; and he not answering aquestion put to him, his housekeeper knelt at his side, lifted his hand, and let it fall, heavily, then in awed tones exclaimed, "He is dead!"

Now there is no use denying that, clever actor as he was, he was very, _very_ bad in that part; and on the third night, when the housekeeperlet his hand fall and said, "He is dead!" in clear and hearty responsefrom the gallery came the surprising words, "Thank God!"

The laughter that followed was not only long-continued, but it brokeout again and again. As one young woman earnestly remarked next day:"You see he so perfectly expressed all our feelings. We were all asthankful as the man in the gallery, but we didn't like to say so. "

Parks, however, was equal to the occasion. He gravely suggested that Mr. Daly would do well to engage that chap, as he was the only person whohad made a hit in the play. 

Parks was, by the way, very droll in his remarks about theatricalmatters. One day Mr. Daly concluded he would "cut" one of the acts wewere rehearsing, and it happened that Parks's part, which was alreadyshort, suffered severely. He, of course, said nothing, but a littlelater he introduced a bit of business which was very funny, but reallydid not suit the scene. Mr. Daly noticed it, and promptly cut that outtoo. Then was Parks wroth indeed. 

After rehearsal, he and Mr. Lewis were walking silently homeward, whenthey came upon an Italian street musician. The man ground at his movablepiano, the wife held the tambourine, while his leggy little daughterdanced with surprising grace on the stone walk. As she trotted aboutgathering her harvest of pennies, Parks put his hand on her shoulder andsaid solemnly:--

"You ought to be devilish glad you're not in Daly's company; he'd cutthat dance out if you were. "

One evening in New Orleans, when we were playing "Camille, " a colouredgirl, who had served me as dressing-maid, came to see me, and I gave hera "pass, " that she might see from the "front" the play she had so oftendressed me for. She went to the gallery and found herself next to ayoung black man, who had brought his sweetheart to see her first play. 

The girl was greatly impressed and easily moved, and at the fourth act, when Armand hurled the money at me, striking me in the face, she turnedto her young man, saying savagely, "You, Dave, you got ter lay for datwhite man ter night, an' lick der life outen him. "

Next moment I had fallen at Armand's feet. The curtain was down and thegirl was excitedly declaring, I was dead! while Dave assured her overand over again, "No, honey, she carn't be dead yit, 'cause, don' yersee, der's anudder act, an' she just nacherly's got ter be in it. "

When, however, the last act was on, it was Dave himself who did thebusiness. The pathetic death scene was almost over, when applause brokefrom the upper part of the house. Instantly a mighty and unmistakablenegro voice, said: "Hush--hush! She's climin' der golden stair dis time, shure--keep still!"

My devoted "Nannine" leaned over me to hide my laughing face from theaudience, who quickly recovered from the interruption, while for onceCamille, the heart-broken, died with a laugh in her throat. 

In the same city I had, one matinee, to come down three steps on to thestage. I was quite gorgeous in one of my best gowns; for one likes todress for Southern girls, they are so candidly pleased with your prettythings. My skirt caught on a nail at the very top step, so that when Ireached the stage my train was stretched out full length, and in theeffort a scene-hand made to free it, it turned over, so that therose-pink lining could be plainly seen, when an awed voice exclaimed, "For de Lor's sake, dat woman's silk lin'd clear frou!" and theperformance began in a gale of laughter. 

_CHAPTER VI

"ODETTE" IN THE WEST. A CHILD'S FIRST PLAY_

An odd and somewhat touching little incident occurred one evening whenwe were in the far Northwest. There was a blizzard on just then, and thecold was something terrible. I had a severe attack of throat trouble, and my doctor had been with me most of the day. His little boy, hearinghim speak of me, was seized with a desire to go to the theatre, andcoaxed so well that his father promised to take him. 

The play was "Odette. " The doctor and his pretty little son sat in theend seats of the parquet circle, close to the stage and almost facingthe whole house. The little fellow watched his first play closely. Asthe comedy bit went on, he smiled up at his father, saying audibly, "Ilike her--don't you, papa?"

Papa silenced him, while a few people who had overheard smiled over thechild's unconsciousness of observers. But when I had changed my dressand crept into the darkened room in a _robe de chambre_; when thehusband had discovered my wrong-doing and was driving me out of hishouse, a child's cry of protest came from the audience. At the samemoment, the husband raised his hand to strike. I repelled him with agesture and went staggering off the stage; while that indignant littlevoice cried, "Papa! papa! can't you have that man arrested?" and thecurtain fell. 

One of the actors ran to the peep-hole in the curtain, and saw thedoctor leading out the little man, who was then crying bitterly, theaudience smiling and applauding him, one might say affectionately. 

A bit later the doctor came to my dressing-room to apologize and to tellme the rest of it. When the curtain had fallen, the child had begged:"Take me out--take me out!" and the doctor, thinking he might be ill, rose and led him out. No sooner had they reached the door, however, thanhe pulled his hand away, crying: "Quick, papa! quick! you go round theblock that way, and I'll run round this way, and we'll be sure to findthat poor lady that's out in the cold--just in her nighty!"

In vain he tried to explain, the child only grew more wildly excited;and finally the doctor promised, if the child would come home at once, only two blocks away, he would return and look for the lady--in thenighty. And he had taken the little fellow home and had seen him flinghimself into his mother's arms, and with tears and sobs tell her of the"poor lady whose husband had driven her right out into the blizzard, don't you think, mamma, and only her nighty on; and, mamma, she hadn'tdone one single bad thing--not one!"

Poor, warm-hearted, innocent little man; he was assured later on thatthe lady had been found and taken to a hotel; and I hope his next playwas better suited to his tender years. 

In Philadelphia we had a very ludicrous interruption during the last actof "Man and Wife. " The play was as popular as the Wilkie Collins' storyfrom which it had been taken, and therefore the house was crowded. 

[Illustration: _Clara Morris as "Odette"_]

I was lying on the bed in the darkened room, in that profound andswift-coming sleep known, alas! only to the stage hero or heroine. Thepaper on the wall began to move noiselessly aside, and in the openingthus disclosed at the head of the bed, lamp-illumined, appeared themurderous faces of Delamain and Hesther Detheridge. As the latterraised the wet, suffocating napkin that was to be placed over my face, ashort, fat man in the balcony started to his feet, and broke the creepysilence with the shout:--

"Mein Gott in Himmel! vill dey murder her alreaty?"

Some one tried to pull him down into his seat, but he struck the handaway, crying loudly, "Stob it! stob it, I say!" And while the peoplerocked back and forth with laughter, an usher led the excited Germanout, declaring all the way that "A blay vas a blay, but somedings mightbe dangerous even in a blay! unt dat ting vat he saw should be stobbedalreaty!" Meantime I had quite a little rest on my bed before quietcould be restored and the play proceed. 

I have often wondered if any audience in the world can be as quick tosee a point as is the New York audience. During my first season in thiscity there was a play on at Mr. Daly's that I was not in, but I waslooking on at it. 

In one scene there stood a handsome bronze bust on a tall pedestal. Froma careless glance I took it to be an Ariadne. At the changing of thescene the pedestal received a blow that toppled it over, and thebeautiful "bronze" bust broke into a hundred pieces of white plaster. 

The laughter that followed was simply caused by the discovery of a stagetrick. The next character coming upon the stage was played by MissNewton, in private life known as Mrs. Charles Backus, wife of the thenfamous minstrel. No sooner did she appear upon the stage, not evenspeaking one line, than the laugh broke forth again, swelled, and grew, until the entire audience joined in one great roar. I expected to seethe lady embarrassed, distressed; but not she! After her first startledglance at the house, she looked at the pedestal, and then she, too, laughed, when the audience gave a hearty round of applause, which sheacknowledged. 

A scene-hand, noticing my amazed face, said, "You don't see it, do you?"

"No, " I answered. 

"Well, " said he, "did you know who that bust was?"

"Yes, " I replied, "I think it was Ariadne. "

"Oh, no!" he said, "it was a bust of Bacchus; then, when Mrs. Backusappeared--"

"Oh!" I interrupted. "They all said to themselves: 'Poor Backus isbroken all up! Backus has busted!'"

And that was why they laughed; and she saw it and laughed with them, andthey saw _that_ and applauded her. Well, that's a quick-wittedaudience--an opinion I still retain. 

People are fond of saying, "A woman can't keep a secret. " Well, perhapsshe doesn't keep her secrets forever; but here's how two women kept asecret for a good many years, and betrayed it through a scene in aplay. 

Mr. Daly's treasurer had given tickets to some friends for a performanceof "Divorce. " They were ladies--mother and daughter. At first greatlypleased, the elder lady soon began to grow nervous, then tearful as theplay went on; and her daughter, watching her closely, was about topropose their retirement, when the mother, with clasped hands andtear-blurred eyes, seeing the stealing of my little son by the order ofhis father, thrilled the audience and terrified her daughter by flingingup her arms and crying wildly: "Don't do it! for God's sake, don't doit! You don't know what agony it means!" and fell fainting against thefrightened girl beside her. 

Great confusion followed; the ushers, assisted by those seated near, removed the unconscious woman to Mr. Daly's private office; but sogreatly had her words affected the people, that when the men on thestage escaped through the window with the child in their arms, thecurtain fell to a volley of hisses. 

In the office, as smelling salts, water, and fresh air were brought intorequisition, in answer to a question of Mr. Daly's, the treasurer wassaying, "She is Mrs. W----, a widow, " when a faint voice interrupted, "No--no; I'm no widow!"

The treasurer smiled pityingly, and continued, "I have known herintimately for twelve years, sir; she is the widow of--"

"No--no!" came the now sobbing voice. "No--no! Oh, Daisy, dear, tellhim! tell him!"

And the young girl, very white, and trembling visibly, said: "I hope youwill forgive us, Mr. W----, but from causeless jealousy my fatherdeserted mother, and--and he stole my little brother, mamma's only son!We have never heard of either of them since. Widowhood seemed a sort ofprotection to poor mamma, and she has hidden behind its veil forsixteen years. She meant no harm. She would have told you before--"

She turned crimson and stopped, but that burning blush told its storyplainly; and Mr. Daly busied himself over the pouring of a glass of winefor the robbed mother, while the treasurer in low tones assured Daisythere was nothing to forgive, and gratefully accepted the permissiongranted him to see the poor things safely home. 

Sixteen years' silence is not so bad for a sex who can't keep a secret!

_CHAPTER VII

A CASE OF "TRYING IT ON A DOG"_

It was before I came to New York that I one night saw a really fineperformance almost ruined by a single interruption. It was a domestictragedy of English rural life, and one act began with a tableau copiedexactly from a popular painting called "Waiting for the Verdict, " whichwas also the title of the play. 

The scene gave an exterior view of the building within which the husbandand father was being tried for his life on a charge of murder. Thetrembling old grandsire leaned heavily on his staff; the devoted wifesat wearily by the closed iron gate, with a babe on her breast, tiredbut vigilant; a faithful dog stretched himself at her feet, while hisshaggy shoulders pillowed the head of the sleeping child, who was theaccused man's darling. 

The curtain rose on this picture, which was always heartily greeted, andoften, so well it told its pathetic story, a second and a third round ofapplause greeted it before the dialogue began. The manager's littledaughter, who did the sleeping child, contracted a cold and was advisednot to venture out of the house for a fortnight, so a substitute had tobe found, and a fine lot of trouble the stage-manager had. He declaredhalf the children of Columbus had been through his sieve; and there wasthe trouble--they all went through, there was no one left to act assubstitute. But at last he found two promising little girls, sistersthey were, and very poor; but the mother vowed her children must be inbed at nine, theatre or no theatre; yes, she would like to have themoney, but she'd do without it rather than have a child out of bed atall hours. At first she held out for nine o'clock, but at last yieldedthe additional half-hour; and to the great disappointment of the youngerchild, the elder one was accepted, for the odd reason that she looked somuch younger than her sister. 

The company had come from Cleveland, and there were the usual slightdelays attendant on a first night; but the house was "good"; the star(Mr. Buchanan) was making a fine impression, and the play was evidentlya "go. " The big picture was looked forward to eagerly, and when it wasarranged, we had to admit that the pale, pinched little face of thestrange child was more effective as it rested on the dog's shoulder thanhad been the plump, smiling face of the manager's little one. Thecurtain went up, the applause followed; those behind the scenes crowdedto the "wings" to look on; no one noted that the hands of the clockstood at 9. 40; no one heard through the second burst of applause theslam of the stage door behind the very, very small person who entered, and silently peering this way and that, found her stern, avenging way tothe stage, and that too-favoured sister basking in the sunlight ofpublic approval. 

The grandsire had just lifted his head and was about to deliver hisbeautiful speech of trust and hope, when he was stricken helpless by theentrance upon the stage of a boldly advancing small person of mostamazing appearance. Her thin little legs emerged from the shortest ofskirts, while her small body was well pinned up in a great blanketshawl, the point of which trailed fully a quarter of a yard on the floorbehind her. She wore a woman's hood on her head, and from its cavernousdepth, where there gleamed a pale, malignant small face, a voiceissued--the far-reaching voice of a child--that triumphantlycommanded:--

"You, Mary Ann, yu're ter get up out of that an' com' home straightaway--an' yu're ter go ter bed, too, --mother says so!" and the smallNemesis turned on her heel and trailed off the stage, followed bylaughter that seemed fairly to shake the building. Nor was that all. Nosooner had Mary Ann grasped the full meaning of this dread message thanshe turned over on her face, and scrambling up by all fours, she eludedthe restraining hands of the actress-mother and made a hasty exit toperfect shrieks of laughter and storms of applause; while the climax wasonly reached when the dog, trained to lie still so long as the pressureof the child's head was upon his shoulder, finding himself free, rose, shook himself violently, and trotted off, waving his tail pleasantly ashe went. 

That finished it; the curtain had to fall, a short overture was played, and the curtain rose again without the complete tableau, and the actionof the play was resumed; but several times the laughter was renewed. Itwas only necessary for some person to titter over the ludicrousrecollection, and instantly the house was laughing with that person. Thenext night the manager's child, swathed in flannel, with a mouth full ofcough-drops, held the well-trained dog in his place until the propermoment for him to rise, and the play went on its way rejoicing. 

And just to show how long-lasting is the association of ideas, I willstate that years, many years afterward, I met a gentleman who had beenin the auditorium that night, and he told me he had never since seen ablanket shawl, whether in store for sale or on some broad back, that hehad not instantly laughed outright, always seeing poor Mary Ann'sobedient exit after that vengeful small sister with her trailing shawl. 

_CHAPTER VIII

THE CAT IN "CAMILLE"_

It was in "Camille, " one Friday night, in Baltimore, that for the onlytime in my life I wished to wipe an animal out of existence. I lovefour-footed creatures with extravagant devotion, not merely the finelybred and beautiful ones, but the poor, the sick, the halt, the maimed, the half-breeds or the no breeds at all; and almost all animals quicklymake friends with me, divining my love for them. But on this onenight--well! it was this way. In the last act, as Camille, I hadstaggered from the window to the bureau and was nearing that dreadmoment when in the looking-glass I was to see the reflection of mywrecked and ruined self. The house was giving strained attention, watching dim-eyed the piteous, weak movements of the dying woman; andright there I heard that (----h!) quick indrawing of the breath startledwomanhood always indulges in before either a scream or a laugh. My heartgave a plunge, and I thought: What is it? Oh, what is wrong? and Iglanced down at myself anxiously, for really I wore so very little inthat scene that if anything should slip off--gracious! I did not knowbut what, in the interest of public propriety, the law might interfere. But that one swift glance told me that the few garments I had assumed inthe dressing-room still faithfully clung to me. But alas! there was thedreaded titter, and it was unmistakably growing. What was it about? Theycould only laugh at me, for there was no one else on the stage. Wasthere not, indeed! In an agony of humiliation I turned half about andfound myself facing an absolutely monstrous cat. Starlike he held thevery centre of the stage, his two great topaz eyes were fixed roundlyand unflinchingly upon my face. On his body and torn ears he carried themarks of many battles. His brindled tail stood straightly andaggressively in the air, and twitched with short, quick twitches, at itsvery tip, truly as burly an old buccaneer as I ever saw. 

No wonder they giggled! But how to save the approaching death scene fromtotal ruin? All was done in a mere moment or two; but several plans weremade and rejected during these few moments. Naturally my first thought, and the correct one, was to call back "Nannine, " my faithful maid, andtell her to remove the cat. But alas! my Nannine was an unusuallydull-witted girl, and she would never be able to do a thing she had notrehearsed. My next impulse was to pick up the creature and carry it offmyself; but I was playing a dying girl, and the people had just seen me, after only three steps, reel helplessly into a chair; and this cat mighteasily weigh twelve pounds or more; and then at last my plan was formed. I had been clinging all the time to the bureau for support, now Islipped to my knees and with a prayer in my heart that this fierce oldThomas might not decline my acquaintance, I held out my hand, and in afaint voice, called "Puss--Puss--Puss! come here, Puss!"

It was an awful moment: if he refused to come, if he turned tail andran, all was over; the audience would roar. 

"Puss--Puss!" I pleaded. Thomas looked hard at me, hesitated, stretchedout his neck, and working his whiskers nervously, sniffed at my hand. 

"Puss--Puss!" I gasped out once more, and lo! he gave a little "meow, "and walking over to me, arched his back amicably, and rubbed his dingyold body against my knee. In a moment my arms were about him, my cheekon his wicked old head, and the applause that broke forth from theaudience was as balm of Gilead to my distress and mortification. Then Icalled for Nannine, and when she came on, I said to her, "Take himdownstairs, Nannine, he grows too heavy a pet for me these days, " andshe lifted and carried Sir Thomas from the stage, and so I got out ofthe scrape without sacrificing my character as a sick woman. 

My manager, Mr. John P. Smith, who was a wag, and who would willinglygive up his dinner, which he loved, for a joke, which he loved better, was the next day questioned about this incident. One gentleman, a musicdealer, said to him: "Mr. Smith, I wish you to settle a question for me. My wife and I are at variance. We saw 'Camille' last night, and my wife, who has seen it several times in New York, insisted that that beautifullittle cat-scene belongs to the play and is always done; while I amsure I never saw it before, and several of my customers agree with me, one lady declaring it to have been an accident. Will you kindly set usright?"

"Certainly, " heartily replied Mr. Smith; "your wife is quite right, thecat scene is always done. It is a great favourite with Miss Morris, andshe hauls that cat all over the country with her, ugly as he is, justbecause he's such a good actor. "

_CHAPTER IX

"ALIXE. " THE TRAGEDY OF THE GOOSE GREASE_

During the run of "Alixe, " at Daly's Theatre, I had suffered from asharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, and before I was well thedoctor was simply horrified to learn that Mr. Daly had commanded me toplay at the Saturday performance, saying that if the work made me worse, the doctor would have all day Sunday to treat me in. He really seemed tothink that using a carriage did away with all possible danger in passingfrom a warm room, through icy streets, to a draughty theatre. Butcertain lesions that I carry about with me are proofs of his error. However, I dared not risk losing my engagement, so I obeyed. My chest, which had been blistered and poulticed during my illness, wasexcruciatingly tender and very sensitive to cold; and the doctor, desiring to heal, and at the same time to protect it from chill, to myunspeakable mortification anointed me lavishly with goose grease andswathed me in flannel and cotton wadding. 

That I had no shape left to me was bad enough; but to be a movingabomination was worse, and of all vile, offensive, and vulgar odourscommend me to that of goose grease. With cheeks wet from tears of sheerweakness, I reached the theatre resolved to keep as silent as the graveon the subject of my flamboyant armour of grease and flannel. But thefirst faint muttering of the coming storm reached me even in mydressing-room, when the theatre maid (I had none of my own yet) entered, and frowningly snapped out: "I'd like to know what's the matter withthis room? It never smelled like this before. Just as soon as you goout, Miss Morris, I'll hunt it over and see what the trouble is. "

I had been pale, but at that speech one might have lighted matches at myscarlet face. While in the entrance I had to be wrapped up in a greatbig shawl, through which the odour could not quite penetrate, so no onesuspected me when making kindly inquiries about my health; but when itwas thrown off, and in my thin white gown I went on the stage--oh!

In the charming little love scene, as Henri and I sat close, oh, veryclose together, on the garden seat, and I had to look up at him withwide-eyed admiration, I saw him turn his face aside, wrinkling up hisnose, and heard him whisper: "What an infernal smell! What is it?"

I shook my head in seeming ignorance and wondered what was ahead--ifthis was the beginning. It was a harrowing experience; by the time thesecond act was on, the whole company was aroused. They were like anangry swarm of bees. Miss Dietz kept her handkerchief openly to herpretty nose; Miss Morant, in stately dudgeon, demanded that Mr. Dalyshould be sent for, that he might learn the condition of his theatre, and the dangers his people were subjected to in breathing such poisonedair; while right in the very middle of our best scene, Mr. Louis James, the incorrigible, stopped to whisper, "Can't we move further over andget out of this confounded stench?"

In that act I had to spend much of my time at the piano, with the resultthat when the curtain fell, the people excitedly declared that awfulsmell was worst right there, and I had the misery of seeing the promptercarefully looking into the piano and applying his long, sharp nose toits upright interior. 

There had been a moment in that act when I thought James Lewis suspectedme. I had just taken my seat opposite him at the chess table, when hegave a little jerk at his chair, exclaiming under his breath, "Blastthat smell--there it is again!"

[Illustration: _Mrs. Gilbert, Augustin Daly, James Lewis, Louis James_]

I remained silent, and there I was wrong; for Lewis, knowing me well, knew my habit of extravagant speech, and instantly his blue pop eyeswere upon my miserable face, with suspicion sticking straight out ofthem. With trembling hand I made my move at chess, saying, "Queen toQueens rook four, " and he added in aside, "Seems to me you're mightyquiet about this scent; I hope you ain't going to tell me you can'tsmell it?"

But the assurance that "I did--oh, I did, indeed! smell a mostoutrageous odour, " came so swiftly, so convincingly from my lips, thathis suspicions were lulled to rest. 

The last act came, and--and--well, as I said, it was the last act. Whiteand rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage, --Louis James atthe shoulders and George Clarke at the feet. Their heads were bent overme. James was nearest to the storm centre. Suddenly he gasped, then aswe reached the centre of the stage Clarke gave vent to "phew!" Theygently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and ofthe characters I heard from James the unfinished, half-doubtingsentence, "Well, I believe in my soul it's--" But the mother (MissMorant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called forhelp, for a physician; then with the wild cry, "She is dead! she isdead!" flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon mygoose-grease breast. Scarcely had she touched me, however, when with agasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, "It'syou, you wretch! it's _you_!" and then under cover of other people'sspeeches, I being dead and helpless, Clarke stood at my head and Jamesat my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mockingat me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of limeand such like disinfectants. 

They would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had I notafter the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, "I am sosorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but, boys, just think of me, I can't get away from myself and my goose-greasesmell a single moment, and it's perfectly awful!"

"You bet it is!" they all answered, as with one voice, and they weremerciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter(who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of thescenes for the cause of the offensive odour. Perhaps I may add thatgoose grease does not figure in my list of "household remedies. "

But the next week I was able, in a measure at least, to heal theirwounded feelings. Actresses used to receive a good many little giftsfrom admirers in the audience. They generally took the form of flowersor candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, oran ornament for the dressing-table; but Alixe's altar could boast anentirely new votive offering. I received a letter and a box. The letterwas an outburst of admiration for Alixe, the "lily maid the tender, thepoetical, " etc. The writer then went on to tell me how she had yearnedto express to me her feelings; how she had consulted her husband on thematter, and how he had said certainly to write if she wished, and sendsome little offering, which seemed appropriate, and "therefore she sent_this_"; and with visions of a copy of Keats or Shelley or alace-trimmed pin-cushion, I opened the box and found the biggest mincepie I ever saw. 

Certainly the lady's idea of an appropriate gift was open to criticism, but not so her pie. That was rich perfection. Its fruity, spicy interiorwas evenly warmed with an evident old French brandy, --no savagelyburning cooking brandy, mind, --and when the flaky marvel had stood uponthe heater for a time, even before its cutting up with a paper-knife, the odour of goose grease was lost in the "Araby the Blest" scent ofmince meat. 

_CHAPTER X

J. E. OWENS'S "WANDERING BOYS. " "A HOLE IN THE WALL" INCIDENT_

The late John E. Owens, while acting in Cincinnati, had a severe cold. He was feverish, and fearing for his throat, which was apt to give himtrouble, he had his physician, an old friend, come to see him back ofthe scenes. The doctor brought with him an acquaintance, and Mr. Owensasked them to wait till the next act was over to see how his throat wasgoing to behave. 

It's always a dangerous thing to turn outsiders loose behind thescenes; for if they don't fall into traps, or step into paint pots, theyare sure to pop on to the stage. 

Mr. Owens supposed the gentlemen would stop quietly in his room, but notthey. Out they wandered on discovery intent. A well-painted scene caughtthe doctor's eye. He led his friend up to it, to take a better look;then as only part of it was visible from where they stood, they followedit along. 

Mr. Owens and I were on the stage. Suddenly his eyes distended. "What inthe devil?" he whispered. I looked behind me, and at the same moment theaudience burst into shouts of laughter; for right into the centre of thestage had walked, with backs toward the audience, two tall gentlemen, each with a shining bald head, each tightly buttoned in a long blackovercoat, and each gesticulating with a heavy cane. 

I whispered to Mr. Owens, "The two Dromios"; but he snapped out, "Twoblind old bats. "

When they heard the roar behind them, they turned their heads, and thena funnier, wilder exit I never saw than was made by these two dignifiedold gentlemen; while Owens added to the laughter by taking me by thehand, and when we had assumed their exact attitude, singing "Twowandering boys from Switzerland. "

I am reminded that the first performance I ever saw in my life had oneof the most grotesque interruptions imaginable. At a sort of countryhotel much frequented by driving parties and sleighing parties, acompany of players were "strapped, "--to use the theatrical term, stranded, --unable either to pay their bills or to move on. There was aballroom in the house, and the proprietor allowed them to erect atemporary stage there and give a performance, the guests in the housepromising to attend in a body. 

One of the plays was an old French farce, known to English audiences as"The Hole in the Wall. " The principal comedy part was a clerk to twoold misers, who starved him outrageously. 

I was a little, stiffly starched person, and I remember that I sat onsome one's silk lap, and slipped and slipped, and was hitched up andimmediately slipped again until I wished I might fall off and be donewith it. Near me sat a little old maiden lady, who had come in from hervillage shop to see "the show. " She wore two small, sausage curls eitherside of her wrinkled cheeks, large glasses, a broad lace collar, whilethree members of her departed family gathered together in one fell groupon a mighty pin upon her tired chest. She held a small bag on her knee, and from it she now and then slid a bit of cake which, as she nibbledit, gave off a strong odour of caraway seed. 

[Illustration: _John E. Owens_]

Now the actor was clever in his "make-up, " and each time he appeared helooked thinner than he had in the scene before. Instead of laughing, however, the old woman took it seriously, and she had to wipe herglasses with her carefully folded handkerchief several times beforethat last scene, when she was quite overcome. 

His catch phrase had been, "Oh! oh! how hungry I am!" and every time hesaid it, she gave a little involuntary groan; but as he staggered on atthe last, thin as a bit of thread paper, hollow-cheeked, white-faced, she indignantly exclaimed, "Well now, _that's_ a shame!"

The people laughed aloud; the comedian fixed his eyes upon her face, andwith hands pressed against his stomach groaned, "O-h! how hungry I am!"and then she opened that bag and drew forth two long, twisted, friedcakes, rose, stood on her tip-toes, and reaching them up to himtearfully remarked:--

"Here, you poor soul, take these. They are awful dry; but it's all I'vegot with me. "

The audience fairly screamed; but poor and stranded as that company was, the comedian was an artist, for he accepted the fried cakes, ate themravenously to the last crumb, and so kept well within the character hewas playing, without hurting the feelings of the kind-hearted, littleold woman. 

It's pleasant to know that that clever bit of acting attracted theattention and gained the interest of a well-to-do gentleman, who waspresent, and who next day helped the actors on their way to the city. 

A certain foreign actor once smilingly told me "I was a crank about myAmerican public. " I took his little gibe in good part; for while he knewforeign audiences, he certainly did _not_ know American ones as well asI, who have faced them from ocean to ocean, from British Columbia toFlorida. Two characteristics they all share in common, --intelligence andfairness, --otherwise they vary as widely, have as many markedpeculiarities, as would so many individuals. New York and Boston are_the_ authorities this side of "the Great Divide, " while San Franciscosits in judgment by the blue Pacific. 

One never-to-be-forgotten night I went to a fashionable theatre in NewYork City to see a certain English actress make her début before anAmerican audience, which at that time was considered quite aninteresting event, since there were but one or two of her countrywomenover here then. The house was very full; the people were of thebrightest and the "smartest. " I sat in a stage box and noted theireagerness, their smiling interest. 

The curtain was up, there was a little dialogue, and then the stage dooropened. I dimly saw the actress spreading out her train ready to "comeon, " the cue was given, a figure in pale blue and white appeared in thedoorway, stood for one single, flashing instant, then lurched forward, and with a crash she measured her full length upon the floor. 

The shocked "O-h-h" that escaped the audience might have come from onepair of lips, so perfect was its spontaneity, and then dead and perfectsilence fell. 

The actress lay near but one single piece of furniture (she was alone inthe scene, unfortunately), and that was one of those frail, useless, gilded trifles known as reception chairs. She reached out her hand, andlifting herself by that, had almost reached her knee, when the chairtipped under her weight, and they both fell together. 

It was awful. A deep groan burst from the people in the parquet. I sawmany women hide their eyes; men, with hands already raised to applaud, kept the attitude rigidly, while their tight-pressed lips and frowningbrows showed an agony of sympathy. Then suddenly an arm was thrustthrough the doorway; I knew it for the head carpenter's. Though in ashirt sleeve, it was bare to the elbow, and not over clean, but strongas a bough of living oak. She seized upon it and lifting herself, withscarlet face and neck and breast, she stood once more upon her feet. Andthen the storm broke loose; peal on peal of thunderous applause shookthe house. But four times in my life have I risked throwing flowersmyself; but that night mine were the first roses that fell at her feet. She seemed dazed; quite distinctly I heard her say "off" to some one inthe entrance, "But what's the matter?"

At last she came forward. She was plump almost to stoutness, but shemoved most gracefully. Her bow was greeted with long-continued applause. Sympathy, courtesy, encouragement, welcome--all were expressed in thatgeneral and enthusiastic outburst. 

"Why, " said she after all was over, "at home they would have hissed me, had that happened there. "

"Oh!" exclaimed one who heard, "never; they could not be so cruel. "

"Oh, yes, " she answered, "_afterward_ they might have applauded, butnot at first. Surely they would have hissed me. "

And with these words ringing in my ears, no wonder that, figurativelyspeaking, I knelt at the feet of a New York audience and proudly kissedits hand. 

_CHAPTER XI

STAGE CHILDREN. MY "LITTLE BREECHES" IN "MISS MULTON"_

In the play of "Miss Multon" a number of children are required for thefirst act. They are fortunately supposed to be the children of the poor, and they come to a Christmas party. As I had that play in my_repertoire_ for several years, I naturally came in contact with a greatnumber of little people, and that's just what they generally were, little men and women, with here and there at long intervals a _real_child. 

They were of all kinds and qualities, --some well-to-do, some very poor, some gentle and well-mannered, some wild as steers, some brazen-facedand pushing, some sweet and shy and modest. I had one little child--amere tot--take hold of the ribbon with which I tied my cape and ask mehow much it was a yard; she also inquired about the quality of thenarrow lace edge on my handkerchief, and being convinced that it wasreal, sharply told me to look out "it didn't get stoled. " One littlegirl came every night, as I sat waiting for my cue, to rub her fingersup and down over the velvet collar of my cape. Touching the softyielding surface seemed to give her exquisite pleasure, and I caught thesame child standing behind me when I wore the rich red dress, holdingher hands up to it, as to a fire, for warmth. Poor little soul! she hadsensibility and imagination both. 

The play requires that one child should be very small; and as it was nounusual thing for the little one to get frightened behind the scenes, Iused to come to the rescue, and as I found a question about "Mamma" wontheir attention the quickest, I fell into the habit of saying, firstthing: "Where's mamma? Is she here? Show me, where. " And having once wonattention, it had gone hard with me indeed had I failed to make friendswith the youngster. 

One Monday evening as I came to my place, I saw the new baby standingall forlorn, with apparently no one at all to look after her, not evenone of the larger children. She was evidently on the very verge offrightened tears, and from old habit I stooped down and said to her, "Where's mamma, dear?"

She lifted two startled blue eyes to my face and her lips began totremble. I went on, "Is mamma here?" The whole little face drew up in adistressed pucker, and with gasps she whispered, "She's in er box. "

I raised my head and glanced across the stage. An old gentleman sat inthe box opposite, and I knew a merry young party had the one on our ownside, so I answered: "Oh, no, dear, mamma's not in the box; she's--"when the poor baby cried, "Yes, she is, my mamma's in a box!" and buriedher curly head in the folds of my skirt and burst into sobs. 

At that moment a hard-voiced, hard-faced, self-sufficient girl pushedforward, and explained in a patronizing way: "Oh, she's too little tosay it right. She ain't got no mother; she's dead, and it's the coffinAnnie means by the box. "

Oh, poor baby, left behind! poor little scrap of humanity!

In another city the child was older, nearly five, but so very small thatshe did nicely in the tiny trousers (it is a boy's part, as I shouldhave said before), and when the act was over, I kissed the brightlypretty face and offered her a little gift. She put out her hand eagerly, then swiftly drew it back again, saying, "It's money. "

"Yes, " I answered. "It's for you, take it. "

[Illustration: _"Little Breeches"_]

She hung her head and murmured, "It's money, I dar'sent. "

"Why not?" I asked. 

"'Cause we're too poor, " she replied, which was certainly the oddestreason I ever heard advanced for not accepting offered money. I wascompelled to hurry to my dressing-room to prepare for the next act; butI saw with what disappointed eyes she followed me, and as I keptthinking of her and her queer answer I told my maid to go out and see ifthe pretty, very clean little girl was still there, and, if so, to sendher to my room. Presently a faint tap, low down on the door, told me myexpected visitor had arrived. Wide-eyed and smiling she entered, andhaving some cough drops on my dressing-table, I did the honours. Coughdrops of strength and potency they were, too, but sweet, and thereforeacceptable to a small girl. She looked at them in her wistful way, andthen very prettily asked, "Please might she eat one right then?"

I consented to that seemingly grave breach of etiquette, and then askedif her mother was with her. 

"Oh, no! Sam had brought her. " (Sam was the gas man. )

"Why, " I went on, "did you not take that money, dear?" (her eyesinstantly became regretful). "Don't you want it?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, " she eagerly answered. "Yes, ma'am, I want it, thankyou; but you see I might get smacked again--like I did last week. "

Our conversation at this embarrassing point was interrupted by theappearance of Sam, who came for the little one. I sent her out with amessage for the maid, and then questioned Sam, who, red and apologetic, explained that "the child had never seen no theatre before; but he knewthat the fifty cents would be a godsend to them all, and an honestearned fifty cents, too, and he hoped the kid hadn't given me notrouble, " and he beamed when I said she was charming and sowell-mannered. 

"Yes, " he reckoned, "they aimed to bring her up right. Yer see, " hewent on, "her father's my pal, and he married the girl that--agirl--well, the best kind of a girl yer can think of" (poor Sam), "andthey both worked hard and was gettin' along fine, until sickness come, and then he lost his job, and it's plumb four months now that he's beenidle; and that girl, the wife, was thin as a rail, and they would dieall together in a heap before they'd let any one help 'em except withwork. "

"What, " I asked, "did the child mean by getting a smacking last week?"

"Oh, " he answered, "the kid gets pretty hungry, I suppose, and t'otherday when she was playin' with the Jones child, there in the same house, Mrs. Jones asks her to come in and have some dinner; and as she liftedone of the covers from the cooking-stove, the kid says: 'My, you must beawful rich, you make a fire at both ends of your stove at once. My mammaonly makes a fire under just one hole, 'cause we don't have anythingmuch to cook now 'cept tea. ' The speech reached the mother's ears, andshe smacked the child for lettin' on to any one how poor they are. Lord, no, Miss, she dar'sent take no money, though God knows they need it badenough. "

With dim eyes I hurriedly scribbled a line on a bit of wrapping paper, saying:--"This little girl has played her part so nicely that I want herto have something to remember the occasion by, and since I shall not bein the city to-morrow, and cannot select anything myself, I must ask youto act for me. " Then I folded it about a green note, and calling backthe child, I turned her about and pinned both written message and moneyto the back of her apron. The little creature understood the whole thingin a flash. She danced about joyously: "Oh, Sam, " she cried, "the lady'sgived me a present, and I can't help myself, can I?"

And Sam wiped his hand on his breeches leg, and, clearing his throathard, asked "if I'd mind shakin' hands?"

And I didn't mind it a bit. Then, with clumsy care, he wrapped the childin her thin bit of a cape, and led her back to that home which gavelodgement to both poverty and pride. 

While the play was new, in the very first engagement outside of NewYork, I had a very little child for that scene. She was flaxen blond, and her mother had dressed her in bright sky-blue, which was in itselfan odd colour for a little boy to wear. Then the small breeches were soevidently mother-made, the tiny bits of legs surmounted with such anenormous breadth of seat, the wee Dutch-looking blue jacket, and thequeer blue cap on top of the flaxen curls, gave the little creature theappearance of a Dutch doll. The first sight of her, or, perhaps, Ishould say "him, " the first sight of him provoked a ripple of merriment;but when he turned full about on his bits of legs and toddled up stage, giving a full, perfect view of those trousers to a keenly observantpublic, people laughed the tears into their eyes. And this baby notedthe laughter, and resented it with a thrust-out lip and a frowning knitof his level brows that was funnier than even his blue clothing--andafter that one Parthian glance at the audience, he invariably toddled tome, and hid his face in my dress. From the very first night the childwas called "Little Breeches, " and to this day I know her by no othername. 

Time passed by fast--so fast; years came, years went. "Miss Multon" hadbeen lying by for a number of seasons. "Renée de Moray, " "Odette, ""Raymonde, " etc. , had been in use; then some one asked for "MissMulton, " and she rose obediently from her trunk, took her manuscriptfrom the shelf, and presented herself at command. One evening, in aSouthern California city, as I left my room ready for the first act ofthis play, the door-man told me a young woman had coaxed so hard to seeme, for just one moment, that ignoring orders he had come to ask me ifhe might bring her in; she was not begging for anything, just a moment'sinterview. Rather wearily I gave permission, and in a few moments I sawhim directing her toward me. A very slender, very young bit of a woman, a mere girl, in fact, though she held in her arms a small white bundle. As she came smilingly up to me, I perceived that she was very blond. Ibowed and said "Good evening" to her, but she kept looking in smilingsilence at me for a moment or two, then said eagerly, "Don't you knowme, Miss Morris?"

I looked hard at her. "No, " I said; "and if I have met you before, it'sstrange, for while I cannot remember names, my memory for faces isremarkable. "

"Oh, " she said, in deep disappointment, "can't you remember me atall--not at all?"

Her face fell, she pushed out her nether lip, she knit her level, flaxen brows. 

I leaned forward suddenly and touched her hand, saying, "You arenot--you can't be--my little--"

"Yes, I am, " she answered delightedly. "I am Little Breeches. "

"And this?" I asked, touching the white bundle. 

"Oh, " she cried, "this is _my_ Little Breeches; but I shan't dress himin bright blue. "

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "how old are you, and how old am I?"

"Well, " she replied, "I'm almost eighteen, and as you look just exactlyas you did when I saw you last, it doesn't matter, so far as I can see, how many years have passed. " (Oh, clever Little Breeches!)

Then, having had Little Breeches 2d kissed and honestly admired, shetrotted away satisfied; and only as I made my entrance on the stage didit occur to me that I had not asked her name; so she ends as she began, simply Little Breeches. 

_CHAPTER XII

THE STAGE AS AN OCCUPATION FOR WOMEN_

In looking over my letters from the gentle "Unknown, " I find that thequestion, "What advantage has the stage over other occupations forwomen?" is asked by a Mrs. Some One more often than by the moreimpulsive and less thoughtful girl writer, and it is put with frequencyand earnestness. 

Of course there is nothing authoritative in these answers of mine, nothing absolute. They are simply the opinion of one woman, founded uponpersonal experience and observation. We must, of course, to beginwith, eliminate the glamour of the stage--that strange, false lustre, aspowerful as it is intangible--and consider acting as a practicaloccupation, like any other. And then I find that in trying to answer thequestion asked, I am compelled, after all, to turn to a memory. 

I had been on the stage two years when one day I met a schoolmate. Herfather had died, and she, too, was working; but she was bitterly enviousof my occupation. I earnestly explained the demands stage wardrobe madeupon the extra pay I drew; that in actual fact she had more money forherself than I had. Again I explained that rehearsals, study, andpreparation of costumes required time almost equal to her working hours, with the night work besides; but she would not be convinced. 

"Oh, don't you see, " she cried, "I am at service, that means I'm adependant, I labour for another. You serve, yes, but you labour foryourself, " and lo! she had placed her stubby little finger upon the sorespot in the working-woman's very heart, when she had divined that in theindependence of an actress lay her great advantage over other workers. 

Of course this independence is not absolute; but then how many men thereare already silver-haired at desk or bench or counter who are stillunder the authority of an employer! Like these men, the actress'sindependence is comparative; but measured by the bondage of otherworking-women, it is very great. We both have duties to perform forwhich we receive a given wage, yet there is a difference. Theworking-girl is expected to be subservient, she is too often regarded asa menial, she is ordered. An actress, even of small characters, isconsidered a necessary part of the whole. She assists, she attends, sheobliges. Truly a difference. 

Again, women shrink with passionate repugnance from receiving ordersfrom another woman; witness the rarity of the American domestic. A pity?Yes; but what else can you expect? The Americans are a dominant race. Free education has made all classes too nearly equal for one woman tobend her neck willingly and accept the yoke of servitude offered byanother woman. 

And even this is spared to the actress, since her directions are moreoften received from the stage manager or manager than from a woman star. True, her life is hard, she has no home comforts; but, then, she has noheavy duties to perform, no housework, bed-making, sweeping, dish-washing, or clothes-washing, and when her work is done, she is herown mistress. She goes and comes at her own will; she has time forself-improvement, but best of all she has something to look forward to. That is a great advantage over girls of other occupations, who have sucha small chance of advancement. 

Some impetuous young reader who speaks first and thinks afterward maycry out that I am not doing justice to the profession of acting, eventhat I discredit it in thus comparing it with humble and somewhatmechanical vocations; so before I go farther, little enthusiasts, let meremind you of the wording of this present query. It does not ask whatadvantage has acting over other professions, over other arts, but "Whatadvantage has it over other occupations for women?"

A very sweeping inquiry, you see; hence this necessary comparison withshop, factory, and office work. As to the other professions, taking, forinstance, law or medicine, preparations for practice must be verycostly. A girl puts her family to a great strain to pay her collegeexpenses, or if some family friend advances funds, when she finallypasses all the dreaded examinations, and has the legal right to hang outher shingle, she starts in the race of life handicapped with crushingdebts. 

The theatre is, I think, the only place where a salary is paid tostudents during all the time they are learning their profession; surelya great, a wonderful advantage over other professions to beself-sustaining from the first. 

Then the arts, but ah! life is short and art, dear Lord, art is long, almost unto eternity. And she who serves it needs help, much help, andthen must wait, long and wearily, for the world's response andrecognition, that, even if they come, are apt to be somewhat uncertain, unless they can be cut on a marble tomb; then they are quite positiveand hearty. But in the art of acting the response and recognition comeswift as lightning, sweet as nectar, while you are young enough to enjoyand to make still greater efforts to improve and advance. 

So it seems to me the great advantage of acting over work is one'sindependence, one's opportunity to improve oneself. Its advantage overthe professions is that it is self-sustaining from the start. Itsadvantage over the arts is its swift reward for earnest endeavour. 

It must be very hard to endure the contempt so often bestowed upon thewoman who simply serves. I had a little taste of it once myself; andthough it was given me by accident, and apologies and laughter followed, I remember quite well that even that tiny taste was distinctlyunpleasant--yes, and bitter. I was abroad with some very intimatefriends, and Mrs. P----, an invalid, owing to a mishap, was for somedays without a maid. We arrived in Paris hours behind time, late atnight, and went straight to our reserved rooms, seeing no one but somesleepy servants. 

Early next morning, going to my friends' apartments, I came upon thispiteous sight: Mrs. P----, who had a head of curly hair, was not onlywithout a maid, but also without the use of her right arm. The fame ofCharcot had brought her to Paris. Unless she breakfasted alone, whichshe hated, her hair must be arranged. Behold, then, the emergency forwhich her husband, Colonel P----, had, boldly not to say recklessly, offered his services. 

I can see them now. She, with clenched teeth of physical suffering anduplifted eye of the forgiving martyr, sat in combing jacket before him;and he, with the maid's white apron girt tight about him just beneathhis armpits, had on his soldierly face an expression of desperateresolve that suggested the leading of a forlorn hope. A row of hair-pinsprotruded sharply from between his tightly closed lips; a tortoise-shellback-comb, dangling from one side of his full beard where he placed itfor safety, made this amateur hairdresser a disturbing sight both forgods and men. 

With legs well braced and far apart, his arms high lifted like outspreadwings, he wielded the comb after the manner of a man raking hay. For onemoment all my sympathy was for the shrinking woman; then, whensuddenly, in despite of the delicious morning coolness, a great drop ofperspiration splashed from the Colonel's corrugated brow, down into theobstreperous curly mass he wrestled with, I pitied him, too, andcried:--

"Oh, I'll do that. Take care, you'll swallow a pin or two if youcontradict me. Your spirit is willing, Colonel, but your flesh, for allyou have such a lot of it, is weak, when you come to hair-dressing!"

And regardless of his very earnest protest, I took the tangled, tormented mass in hand and soon had it waving back into a fluffy knot;and just as I was drawing forth some short locks for the forehead, therecame a knock and in bounced the mistress of the house, our landlady, Mme. F----, who, missing our arrival the night before, came now to bidus welcome and inquire as to our satisfaction with arrangements, etc. She was a short woman, of surprising breadth and more surprisingvelocity of speech. She could pronounce more words to a single breaththan any other person I have ever met. She was German by birth, andspoke French with a strong German accent, while her English was a thingto wring the soul, sprinkled as it was with German "unds, " "ufs, " and"yousts, " and French "zees" and "zats. " Our French being of the slow andprecise kind, and her English of the rattling and at firstincomprehensible type, the conversation was somewhat confused. But evenso, my friends noticed with surprise, that Madame did not address oneword of welcome to me. They hastened to introduce me, using my marriedname. 

A momentary annoyance came into her face, then she dropped her lidshaughtily, swept me from head to foot with one contemptuous glance, andwithout even the faintest nod in return to my "Bon jour, Madame, " sheturned to Mrs. P----, who, red with indignation, was trying to sputterout a demand for an explanation, and asked swiftly:--

"Und zat ozzer lady? you vas to be t'ree--n'est-ce pas? She hav' notcom' yed? to-morrow, perhaps, und--und" (I saw what was coming, but mycompanions suspected nothing), "und"--she dropped her lids again andindicated me with a contemptuous movement of the head--"she, zat maid, you vant to make arrange for her? You hav' not write for room for zatmaid?"

I leaned from the window to hide my laughter, for it seemed to me thatColonel P---- jumped a foot, while the cry of his wife drowned the soundof the short, warm word that is of great comfort to angry men. Beforethey could advance one word of explanation, an aproned waiter fairlyburst into the room, crying for "Madame! Madame! to come quick, for thatJules was at it very bad again!" And she wildly rushed out, saying overher shoulder, "By und by we zee for zat maid, und about zat udder lady, by und by also, " and so departed at a run with a great rattling ofstarch and fluttering of cap ribbons; for Jules, the head cook, alreadyin the first stages of delirium tremens, was making himself interestingto the guests by trying to jump into the fountain basin to save thelives of the tiny ducklings, who were happily swimming there, and MadameF---- was sorely needed. 

Yes, I laughed--laughed honestly at the helpless wrath of my friends, and pretended to laugh at the mistake; but all the time I was saying tomyself, "Had I really been acting as maid, how cruelly I should havesuffered under that contemptuous glance and from that withheld bow ofrecognition. " She had found me well-dressed, intelligent, andwell-mannered; yet she had insulted me, because she believed me to be alady's maid. No wonder women find service bitter. 

We had retired from the breakfast room and were arranging our plans forthe day, when a sort of whirlwind came rushing through the hall, thedoor sprang open almost without a pronounced permission, and MadameF---- flung herself into the room, caught my hands in hers, pressed themto her heart, to her lips, to her brow, wept in German, in French, inEnglish, and called distractedly upon "Himmel!" "Ciel!" and "Heaven!"But she found her apologies so coldly received by my friends that shewas glad to turn the flood of her remorse in my direction, and for veryshame of the scene she was making I assured her the mistake was quitepardonable--as it was. It was her manner that was almost unpardonable. Then she added to my discomfort by bursting out with fulsome praise ofme as an actress; how she had seen me and wept, and so on and on, shebeing only at last walked and talked gently out of the room. 

But that was not the end of her remorse. A truly French bouquet with itswhite paper petticoat arrived in about an hour, "From the so madlymistooken Madame F----, " the card read, and that act of penance wasperformed every morning as long as I remained in Paris. But one day sheappealed to the Colonel for pity and sympathy. 

"Ah!" said she, "I hav' zee two tr'ubles, zee two sorrows! I hav' zeegrief to vound zee feelin's of zat so fine actrice Americaine--zat eesone tr'ubles, und den I hav' zee shame to mak' zat grande foolmeestak'--oh, mon Dieu! I tak' her for zee maid, und zare my most greattr'uble come in! I hav' no one with zee right to keek me--to keek mehard from zee back for being such a fool. I say mit my husband datnight, 'Vill you keek me hard, if you pleas'?' Mais, he cannot, he hav'zee gout in zee grande toe, und he can't keek vurth one sou!--und zat ismy second tr'uble!"

Behind her broad back the Colonel confessed that had she expressed sucha wish on the occasion of the mistake, he would willingly have obligedher, as he was quite free from gout. 

So any woman who goes forth to win her living as an actress will atleast be spared the contemptuous treatment bestowed on me in my shortservice as an amateur lady's maid. 

_CHAPTER XIII

THE BANE OF THE YOUNG ACTRESS'S LIFE_

What is the bane of a young actress's life?

Under the protection of pretty seals stamped in various tints of wax, Ifind one question appearing in many slightly different forms. A largenumber of writers ask, "What is the greatest difficulty a young actresshas to surmount?" In another pile of notes the question appears in thisguise, "What is the principal obstacle in the way of the young actress?"While two motherly bodies ask, "What one thing worries an actress themost?" After due thought I have cast them all together, boiled themdown, and reduced them to this, "What is the bane of a young actress'slife?" which question I can answer without going into training, with onehand tied behind me, and both eyes bandaged, answer in oneword--_dress_. Ever since that far-away season when Eve, the beautiful, inquiring, let-me-see-for-myself Eve, made fig leaves popular in Eden, and invented the apron to fill a newly felt want, dress has been at oncethe comfort and the torment of woman. 

Acting is a matter of pretence, and she who can best pretend a splendidpassion, a tender love, or a murderous hate, is admittedly the finestactress. Time was when stage wardrobe was a pretence, too. An actresswas expected to please the eye, she was expected to be historicallycorrect as to the shape and style of her costume; but no one expectedher queenly robes to be of silk velvet, her imperial ermine to beanything rarer than rabbit-skin. My own earliest ermine was humblerstill, being constructed of the very democratic white canton flannelturned wrong side out, while the ermine's characteristic little blacktails were formed by short bits of round shoe-lacing. The only advantageI can honestly claim for this domestic ermine is its freedom from themoths, who dearly love imported garments of soft fine cloth and rarelining. I have had and have seen others have, in the old days, reallygorgeous brocades made by cutting out great bunches of flowers fromchintz and applying them to a cheaper background, and then picking outthe high lights with embroidery silk, the effect being not onlybeautiful, but rich. All these make-believes were necessary then, on a$30 or $35 a week salary, for a leading lady drew no more. 

[Illustration: _Clara Morris as "Jane Eyre"_]

But times are changed, stage lighting is better, stronger. The operaglass is almost universally used, deceptions would be more easilydiscovered; and more, oh, so much more is expected from the actress ofto-day. Formerly she was required, first of all, to sink her ownindividuality in that of the woman she pretended to be; and next, ifit was a dramatized novel she was acting in, she was to make herselflook as nearly like the described heroine as possible; otherwise she hadsimply to make herself as pretty as she knew how in her own way, thatwas all. But now the actresses of a great city are supposed to set thefashion for the coming season. They almost literally dress in the styleof to-morrow: thus the cult of clothes becomes harmful to the actress. Precious time that should be given to the minute study, the finalpolishing of a difficult character, is used instead in deciding thepitch of a skirt, the width of a collar, or open sleeve-strap, or nosleeve at all. 

Some ladies of my acquaintance who had been to the theatre three times, avowedly to study as models the costumes, when questioned as to theplay, looked at one another and then answered vaguely: "The performance?Oh, nothing remarkable! It was fair enough; but the dresses! They arereally beyond anything in town, and must have cost a mint of money!"

So we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when theanswer might possibly have been: "The acting was beyond anything intown. The dresses? Nothing remarkable! Oh, well, fair enough!"

I have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautifulMrs. Russell, then of Wallack's Theatre, was the originator in thiscountry of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. When it was knownthat the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of otherdresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the lastinch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about hersplendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks ofsalary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, butalas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her thatsprang up into a fine crop of dragon's teeth for following youngactresses to gather. _Qui donne le menu, donne la faim!_ And right herelet me say, I am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly ofall good things. I have much satisfaction in the present, and a strongand an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress, which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, I would not askto go back to those days of primitive costuming. In Shakespere's daythere appeared over a "drop, " or curtain of green, a legend plainlystating, "This is a street in Verona, " and every man with an imaginationstraightway saw the Veronese street to his complete satisfaction; butthere were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention andto keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. One wouldnot like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placardsaying, "This is a ball gown" or "This is a Coronation robe, " theimagination would balk at it. But there is a far cry between that andthe real Coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. What I would askfor is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burdenof senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders--notby the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous smallhands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of theirsalaries. How generous they would be if they could be content to dresswith grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that thosewho are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate, and sometimes at what a price, dear Heaven, at what a price!

Let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fashion--of rank. Asshe makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned fromthe opera. Therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood andopera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. Suppose, then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining ofdelicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth orelegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. But supposethe actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that theelaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence--a creation lined withthe frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with reallace, dripping with semi-precious jewels--what happens? The cloak pushesforward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bobthis way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloakwhose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while itsbeauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and tento one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner ofthat wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama. 

Extravagance is inartistic--so for that reason I could wish formoderation in stage dressing. Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to beto me! For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker forthe gowns of a play. I thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of "Divorce, " just as I had finished paying for fivedresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumesfor the one hundredth night. I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that mygowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by thedressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc. , and he made answer, "Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir upfresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, andthey will come to see the new dresses. "

And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with: "Oh, of course! If we areacting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, Ican't object any longer. You see, I was under the impression peoplecame here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive memy error. "

For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past ourunfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, "I amsurprised at you, Miss Morris, " and at my rueful response, "Yes, so am Isurprised at Miss Morris, " he laughed outright and pushed me toward theopen door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker's. I had a partialrevenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied forme turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired afterone night's wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill. 

Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known shecould do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her--that is verybitter. Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and whenthe terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for morethan that one play, and next season it is out of date. When the simplestfashionable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to? There was a time when the comic artistsjoked about "the $10 best hat for wives. " The shop that carried $10 besthats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now. 

So the young actress--unless she has some little means, aside from asalary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so ekethat salary out--is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes;for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, andbesides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out thepoorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs. 

Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, Ithink, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charmingpictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, "Miss B. Inher $500 dinner dress"; "Miss R. In her $1000 cloak"; "Miss J. In her$200 tea gown, " and then later there appeared elsewhere, "Miss M. 's $100parasol. "

Now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace orbeauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a graciousone, a sort of friendly "tip" on the newest things out; but thoseflaunting price tags lowered it all. In this period of prosperity aspirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. Luxuries have becomenecessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others isforgotten. Those who published the figures and prices of their clotheswere good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeplypained if any act of theirs should fill some sister's heart with bitterenvy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by themistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of theirowners. Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for theunder girl, in the struggle for clothes!

In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobefor the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights andshoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumesof the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisitetaste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses forproduction after production, it would seem that the management mustshare the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are verymuch higher than they were a few years ago. 

In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departedcourt in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with thegraceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to suresuccess. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in firstpresenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share thehonour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless oftenslavishly followed. 

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a womanknown to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a verybeautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, ofcourse, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night--so late thatdawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests whenthey began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort;her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of herlawless class--she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois. Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, hermaid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for herchapeau. There was none. 

"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, hadbeen returned for blocking. "

"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donné. " A quick blow stopped further explanation. 

"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille, " then a moment's silence, a rovingabout of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an Americanartist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, shefastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore abunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and wasin the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followedby two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than shehad intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog overher odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yetagain, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between tworippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "Comme elle estbelle!" "Quelle aplomb!" "Matin, quelle chic!" "Elle est fortegentille!" "C'est le coup de grace!" "Le chapeau! le chapeau!" "La bellePearl! la belle Pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment. 

And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that hadsuch vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat. 

If I were a young actress, I would rather be noted for acting than fororiginating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank God, and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. Andthough the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now, and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out ofdebt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good anactress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make theclothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, tothe question of fine acting. 

_CHAPTER XIV

THE MASHER, AND WHY HE EXISTS_

Thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and evenappreciate it. The American brand is generally pithy, compact, andexpressive, and not always vulgar. Slang is at its worst in contemptuousepithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seemslikely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. Nomore vulgar term exists than "masher, " and it is a distinct comfort tofind Webster ascribing the origin of the word to England's recklessfun-maker, --_Punch_. 

Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies, --all these terms have been appliedat different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, andto-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than thatabomination, --masher. Nor am I "puttin' on scallops and frills, " as theboys say. I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very muchoverdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke hergorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of theugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of thewindow, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, "Well, sheis up against it, " slangily expressed the unfortunate woman's exactpredicament. Oh, no, I'm not "puttin' on frills, " I am only objectingwith all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptiblecreature indicated by it, --masher. 

In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-heartedteacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock. Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some oneelse had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to theteacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocksof rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sentfloods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescueand soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, "There, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'llall be quite happy. " I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventhcommandment, "Not to say anything more about it. "

Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with themultiplication table. Of course _fives_ and _tens_ were at apremium--even very stupid little girls could get through them, and_twos_ were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washeddaily. _Sevens_ were, however, my own especial nightmare--even to thisday my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure byseven. Standing in class on the platform, the _sevens_ one day fell tome. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chanceforget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the tableso far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarselywhispered, "Forty-nine, " and the shock of finding the answer correctdestroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked infigures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess, " andburst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; andthen the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, andwas comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunderby pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us sayanything more about the _sevens_, Miss Sands, and then we'll all bequite happy. "

Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I wouldlike to cry, "Don't let us say anything more about the masher, and thenwe'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, letme say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. Thestealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress isa product of the imagination. These "Johnnies" who hang about stagedoors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of thestage are not in love--they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple. These young "taddies, " with hair carefully plastered down, are as likeone another as are the peas of one pod, --each wishes to be considered avery devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as afascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain thatreputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses. 

One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artisticsense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown somemerit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossipor scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actressesfull fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to havemade a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense!Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protectherself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters arehis chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if onecares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent withouta signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes tohang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will besufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other doorand probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist?And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there doesexist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jollysupper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait, now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus orballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens theconventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose onehour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it shouldbe, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicatesensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshlycondemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defenditself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herselfin a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, tothese reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletonswho permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence withperfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of thestage-door "masher, " who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the_jeunesse dorée_. 

But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for anotherreason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching overis not often attractive to the "masher. " The clever and promisingartist, Miss G----, is not his style. He is not looking for brains, "don't yer know. " He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with theflashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutestkick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsomecompliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring littlefree lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit ofsupper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that thedemocratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, wouldtaste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a_demi-tasse_. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enoughthat a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance ofevil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a fewhalf-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressedsmile, will place her among the list of his "mashes. " Oh, hideous word!

Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls inlove with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher"proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determinedefforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and throughthem to be properly presented. 

Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a"masher" to the extent of her ability, I once went, it's hard to admitit, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I wasmade to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting "Alixe" at Mr. Daly's Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-belady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There wasseldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowningfiercely over a "drop letter, " as we called them. One evening my boxheld a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon clubpaper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap. The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's weredotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitalsand punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity thanunderstanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time ruraltype, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, theviolet's blue. " I might have been a little touched but for thesignature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply couldnot bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up anddown the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was thesignature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitchinto the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of thename, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later anotherletter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was verydiffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at hisdisposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letterfrom me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, tosecure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying tocross our biggest street--while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravelyadmitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking Imight not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him overbefore writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that verynight, and his seat was in the balcony, --No. 3, left side, frontrow, --and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would holdhigh to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief. 

It didn't seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him avery grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "tolook him over. " Without a second thought, I read that portion of theletter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away whenthat admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, LouisJames, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfallof A. Fix. 

So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in agroup, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a largepocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of course aline spread of canvas in the balcony. The audience, ever quick to catchon to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied theenormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing thesituation, burst into hilarious laughter. Uselessly I pleaded; at everypossible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in suchunseemly places that night. 

The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common "masher, "heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head bywriting me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat moreconfused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: "I am afraid youare cruel. I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do notremember that they did such things before last night with theirhandkerchiefs. "

Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exactstanding socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefullyupon my brow, "So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don'tthink I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sicknesscomes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me oneword, I'll help you to my plumb last cent, " and truly Mr. Fix left meashamed and sorry. 

He had suffered for his name, which I believed to be an assumed one. Poor young man, I offer an apology to his memory. 

One scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to besent to a certain prominent club, that I one day laid the letters beforeMr. Daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that "if Mr. B. M. B. , of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receivenot the answer he expected, but the one he deserved, " and Mr. Daly washighly delighted when he heard that B. M. B. , who was a "masher" _parexcellence_, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms. 

Those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at streetcorners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police, since they encumber the streets and are a menace and a mortification tofemale citizens. Let some brazen woman take the place of one of thesestreet "mashers, " and proceed to ogle passers-by, and see how quicklythe police would gather her in. 

But so far as the stage "masher" is concerned, dear and anxious mamma, auntie, or sister, don't worry about the safety of your actress to be. The "masher" is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam, never a danger. 

_CHAPTER XV

SOCIAL CONDITIONS BEHIND THE SCENES_

"What social conditions exist behind the scenes?"

This fourth question is one that Charles Dickens would have called an"agriwator, " and as it is repeated every now and again, I ask myselfwhere is the curiosity about the theatre, its people, and its life toend? The question is, What social conditions exist behind the scenes?Now to be quite frank, the first few times this query appeared, I wasdistinctly aggravated. I said to myself, do these ladies andgentlemen--yes, three males are in this inquiring group--do they thinkwe are a people so apart from all others that we require a separate anddistinctly different social code; that we know nothing of the lawgoverning the size, style, and use of the visiting card; thatcongratulations, condolences, are unknown rites; that invitations, acceptances, and regrets are ancient Hebrew to us, and calls, teas, dinners, and dances are exalted functions far above our comprehension?And then I read the question again, and saw I was making a ninny ofmyself--an easy thing to do with the thermometer at ninety-nine in theshade. That it said "behind the scenes, " and with a laugh I recalled thelittle child who had delightedly witnessed her first Christmaspantomime; and being told afterward I was one of the people of the play, she watched and listened eagerly some time before coming and resting adimpled hand on mine, to ask disappointedly, "Please, does all theactin' people have 'emselves jes' same as any one?"

Poor blue-eyed tot, she had expected at least a few twirls about theroom, a few bounds and hand kisses; and here I was "'having" just likeany one. So all my mistaken vexation gone, I'll try to make plain oursocial condition behind the scenes. 

In the first place, then, a theatrical company is almost exactly likeone large family. Our feeling for one another is generally one of warmgood-fellowship. In our manners there is an easy familiarity which wewould not dream of using outside of our own little company circle. Weare a socially inclined people, communicative, fond of friendlyconversation, and hopelessly given over to jokes, or, as we put it, "toguying. "

But don't imagine there's any _socialism_ about a theatre that meanscommunity of property and association; on the contrary, we enter intothe keenest competition with one another. 

I dare say an outsider, as the non-professional has been termed time outof mind, watching our conduct for a few days and nights, would concludethat, though quite harmless, we are all a little _mad_. For the actor'sfunny habit of injecting old, old lines of old, old plays into hiseveryday conversation must be somewhat bewildering to the uninitiated:--

If an elderly, heavy breathing, portly gentleman, lifting his hat to agentle, dignified little lady, remarks, "Beshrew me, but I do love theestill. Isn't it hot this morning; take this chair. " Or if a very slenderpop-eyed young comedian, while wiping his brow, says, "Now could I drinkhot blood and hold it not a sin, " and some one else calmly answers, "Youhaven't got those words right, and you couldn't drink anything hotto-day without having a fit. " Or if two big, stalwart men, meeting inthe "entrance, " fall suddenly into each other's arms, with a cry of"Camille!" "Armand!" Or if a man enters the greenroom with his hat on, and a half-dozen people call, "Do you take this for an ale-house, thatyou can enter with such a swagger?" and the hat comes off with alaughing apology. Or if the man with the cane is everlastinglypractising "carte and tierce" on somebody, or doing a broadsword fightwith any one who has an umbrella. If a woman passes with her eyes castdown, reading a letter, and some one says, "In maiden meditation, fancyfree. " If she eats a sandwich at a long rehearsal, and some oneinstantly begins, "A creature not too bright nor good for human nature'sdaily food. " If she appears in a conspicuously new gown and some onecries, "The riches of the ship have come on shore, " ten to one shereplies, "A poor thing, but mine own. "

These things will look and sound queer and flighty to the outsider, who, not acquainted with the lines or the plays they are from, cannot ofcourse see how aptly some of them adapt themselves to the situation. Butthis one is plain to all. A young girl, who was a very careless dresser, was trailing along the "entrance" one evening, when behind her theleading man, quoting Juliet, remarked, "'Thou knowest the mask of nightis on my cheek, ' or I would not dare tell you your petticoat is comingoff;" a perfect gale of laughter followed, in which the little slovenjoined heartily. 

Then one morning, rehearsal being dismissed, I was hurrying away, intending to enjoy a ride on horse-back, when Mr. Davidge, Mr. Daly's"old man, " lifting his hat politely, and twisting Macbeth's words veryslightly, remarked, "I wish your horse swift and sure of foot, and so Ido commend you to its back, " and as I laughed, "Macbeth, Act III, " weparted in mutual admiration for each other's knowledge of the greatplay. 

The gentlemen are attentive to the ladies' small needs, providing seatswhen possible, bringing a wrap, a glass of water, fanning you if you arewarm, carrying your long train if it is heavy; but never, never losingthe chance to play a joke on you if they can. 

There is generally some ringleader of greenroom fun; for most actorsare very impatient of "waits" between the scenes, and would rather passsuch time in pranks than in quiet conversation. On one occasion some ofthe actors had made noise enough to reach the managerial ear, and theywere forfeited. The actresses laughed at their discomfiture, and revengewas at once in order. Next night, then, four young men brought bits ofcalico and threaded needles with them, and when their "wait" came, theyall sat quietly in a row and sewed steadily. The sight was so ludicrousthe women went off into unbounded laughter, and were in their turnforfeited. 

Nothing excuses the use of swear words behind the scenes, and even avery mild indulgence is paid for by a heavy forfeit. One actor, not toopopular with the company, used always to be late, and coming into thedressing room, he would fling everything about and knock things over, causing any amount of annoyance to his room-mates. He went on in butone act, the third, and the lateness of the hour made his lack ofbusiness promptitude the more marked. A joke was, of course, in order, and a practical joke at that. 

One evening he was extra late, and that was the opportunity of thejoking room-mates. They carefully dropped some powerful, strong-holdinggum into the heels of his patent leather shoes, and had barely put themin place, when the ever-late actor was heard coming on the run down thepassage. In he tore, flinging things right and left, overturningmake-ups, and knocking down precious silk hats. He grabbed his shoes, jammed his foot into one, scowled and exclaimed disgustedly, "What thedeuce! there's something in this shoe. Bah, " he went on, "and in thisone, too!"

"Take them off and shake 'em, " suggested the dropper of the gum. 

"No time, " growled the victim; "I'll get docked if I'm a second late. But these confounded things feel damp in the heels, " and he kicked andstamped viciously. 

"Damp in the heels?" murmured the guilty one, interrogatively. "In theheels, said you? What a very odd place for dampness to accumulate. Now, personally, I find my heels are dry and smooth and hard, like--like achina nest-egg, don't you know; but _damp heels_, it doesn't soundright, and it must feel very uncomfortable. I don't wonder you kick!"

And another broke in with: "I say, old fellow, that was my India ink youspoiled then. But never mind, I suppose your heels trouble you, " thenasked earnestly, as the victim hastily patted a grey beard into place, "Is that good gum you have there? Will it hold that beard securely?"

"Will it hold? It's the strongest gum ever made, it can hold a horse. Ihave hard work to get it to dissolve nights with pure alcohol. " Thiswhile the guilty one was writhing with that malicious joy known inits fulness to the practical joker alone. 

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "The Sphinx"_]

The victim, rushing from the room, reached the stage at the very momenthis cue was spoken, and made his entrance so short of breath he couldscarcely speak. The act was very long, the gum in his shoes driednicely, the curtain fell. He went below to his room to dress for thestreet. He tried to remove and lay aside his patent leathers. Alas, alas! he laid aside instead his manners, his temper, his self-restraint, his self-respect. The gum proved itself worthy of his praise; it stuck, it held. The shoes were willing to come off on one condition only, --thatthey brought both sock and skin with them. 

Three men, with tears in their eyes, had pencils, and kept tally of hisremarks as he danced about after each frantic tug at a glued-on shoe. One took down every wounding, malicious word. A second caught andpreserved every defamatory word. While the third and busiest one securedevery profane word that fell from his enraged lips. 

Finally he poured the contents of the alcohol bottle into his shoes and, swearing like a madman, waited for the gum to soften. And the manager, who was not deaf, proved that his heart was harder than the best gum andcould not be softened at all. And to this day no member of the companyknows how much of the victim's salary was left to him that week afterforfeits for bad words were all paid up. But some good came from theaffair, for the actor was never again so late in arriving as not to havetime to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurkingthere. 

Personally, I detest the practical joke, but I have, alas! never beenabove enjoying my share of the greenroom fun. Some members of Mr. Daly'scompany were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad hadwe all been like them. But there were others who would have had fun withthe tombs of the Egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from agraven image. Mr. Daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either thebrakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picketduty. The restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play, and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man. Hewore rags in his "part, " and on the seat of his trousers was an enormousred patch. He had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, andnothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly: "You'll all get caught, I'mafraid. You see, Mr. Daly's so sharp, if I cough, he'll hear me, too, and will understand. If I signal, he'll see me, and we'll all getforfeited together. "

For a moment we were silently cast down. Then I rose to the occasionbeautifully. I took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroomdoorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb. When he saw Mr. Daly in the distance, he simply was to turn his bright red patch_toward_ us--we would do the rest. 

It was a glorious success. We kept an eye on the picket, and when thered patch danger signal was shown, silence fell upon the room. Forfeitsceased for a long time. Of course we paid our watchman for hisservices--paid him in pies. He had a depraved passion for bakers' pies, which he would not cut into portions, because he said it spoiled theirflavour--he preferred working his way through them; and that small greyface seen near the centre of a mince pie whose rim was closing gentlyabout his ears was a sight to make a supreme justice smile. 

But our evil course was almost run: our little pie-eater, who was just atouch odd, or what people call "queer, " on Thanksgiving Day permittedhimself to be treated by so many drivers of pie wagons that at night hewas tearful and confused, and though he watched faithfully for thecoming of Mr. Daly, while we laughingly listened to a positivelycriminal parody on "The Bells, " watched for and saw him in ample time, he, alas! confusedly turned his red patch the wrong way, and we, everyone, came to grief and forfeiture in consequence. 

Obliging people, generous, ever ready to give a helping hand. Behind thescenes, then, our social condition, I may say, is one of good-manneredinformality, of jollity tempered by respect and genuine good-fellowship. 

_CHAPTER XVI

THE ACTRESS AND RELIGION_

Nothing in my autobiography seems to have aroused so much comment, somuch surprise, as my admission that I prayed in moments of greatdistress or anxiety, even when in the theatre. 

One man writes that he never knew before that there was such a thing asa "praying actress. " Poor fellow, one can't help feeling there's lots ofother things he doesn't know; and though I wish to break the news asgently as possible, I have to inform him that I am not a _rara avis_, that many actresses pray; indeed, the woods are full of us, so tospeak. 

One very old gentleman finds this habit of prayer "commendable andsweet, " but generally there seems to be a feeling of amazement that Ishould dare, as it were, to bring the profession of acting to theattention of our Lord; and yet we are authorized to pray, "Direct us, OLord, in _all our doings_, and further us with thy continual help, thatin all our work we may glorify thy holy name. "

It is not the work, but the motive, the spirit that actuates the work;whether embroidering stoles, sawing wood, washing dishes, or acting, ifit is done honestly, for the glory of the holy name, why may one notpray for divine help?

One lady, who, poor soul, should have been born two or three hundredyears ago, when her narrowness would have been more natural, is shocked, almost indignant; and though she is good enough to say she does notaccuse me of "intentional sacrilege, " still, addressing a prayer to Godfrom a theatre is nothing less in her eyes than profanation. "For, " saysshe, "you know we must only seek God in His sanctuary, the church. "

Goodness, mercy! in that case some thousands of us would become heathenif we never found God save inside of a church. 

Does this poor lady not read her Bible, then? Has she not heard thepsalmist's cry: "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I makemy bed in hell, behold, thou art there also; whither shall I flee fromthy presence?"

Surely, there are a great many places besides the church between heavenand hell, and even in a theatre we may not flee from His presence. 

But lest the young girl writers should feel abashed over theirexpressions of surprise at my conduct, I will show them what goodcompany they have had. 

A good many years ago a certain famous scholar and preacher of New YorkCity called upon me one day. I was absent, attending rehearsal. Thecreed of his denomination was particularly objectionable to me, buthaving wandered into the big stone edifice on Fourth Avenue one Sunday, I was so charmed by his clear reasoning, his eloquence, and, above all, by his evident sincerity, that I continued to go there Sunday afterSunday. 

In my absence he held converse with my mother as to his regret atmissing me, as to the condition of the weather, as to the age, attainments, and breed of my small dog, who had apparently been seizedwith a burning desire to get into his lap. We afterward found she onlywished to rescue her sweet cracker, which he sat upon. 

In his absent-minded way he then fell into a long silence, his handsome, scholarly head drooping forward. Finally he sighed and remarked:--

"She is an actress, your daughter?"

My mother, with lifted brows, made surprised assent. 

"Yes, yes, " he went on gently, "an actress, surely, for I see my papercommends her work. I have noted her presence in our congregation, andher intelligence. " (I never sleep in the daytime. ) "Our ladies like her, too; m-m, an actress, and yet takes an interest in her soul's salvation;wonderful! I--I don't understand! no, I don't understand!" A speechwhich did little to endear its maker to the actress's mother, I'mafraid. 

See how narrowing are some creeds. This reverend gentleman waspersonally gentle, kind, considerate, and naturally just; yet, knowingno actor's life, never having seen the inside of a playhouse, he, without hesitation, denounced the theatre and declared it the gate ofhell. 

In the amusing correspondence that followed that call, the greatpreacher was on the defensive from the first, and in reading over twoor three letters that, because of blots or errors, had to be recopied, Iam fairly amazed at the temerity of some of my remarks. In one place Icharge him with "standing upon his closed Bible to lift himself abovesinners, instead of going to them with the open volume and teaching themto read its precious message. "

Perhaps he forgave much to my youth and passionate sincerity; at allevents, we were friends. I had the benefit of his advice when needed, and, in spite of our being of different church denominations, he it waswho performed the marriage service for my husband and myself. 

So, girl writers, who question me, you see there have been other pebbleson my beach, and some big ones, too. 

The question, then, that has been put so many times is, "Can there beany compatibility between religion and the stage?"

Now had it been a question of church and stage, I should have beenforced to admit that the exclusive spirit of the first, and theunending occupation of the second, kept them uncomfortably far apart. But the question has invariably been as to a compatibility betweenreligion and the stage. Now I take it that religion means a belief inGod, and the desire and effort to do His will; therefore I see nothingincompatible between religion and acting. I am a church-woman now; butfor many years circumstances prevented my entering the great army ofChristians who have made public confession of their faith, and receivedbaptism as an outward and visible sign of a spiritual change. Yet duringthose long years without a church I was not without religion. I knewnaught of "justification, " of "predestination, " of "transubstantiation. "I only knew I must obey the will of God. Here was the Bible; it was theword of God. There was Christ, beautiful, tender, adorable, and he said:"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thysoul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment;and the second is like unto it. Thou shalt love thy neighbour asthyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets. "

Add to these the old Mosaic "Ten, " and you have my religious creedcomplete. And though it is simple enough for a child to comprehend, itis difficult for the wisest to give perfect obedience, because it is notalways easy to love that tormenting neighbour, even a little bit, letalone as well as oneself. How I wish there was some other word to takethe place of "religion. " It has been so abused, so misconstrued. Thousands of people shrink from the very sound of it, believing that tobe religious means the solemn, sour-faced setting of one foot before theother in a hard and narrow way--the shutting out of all beauty, thecutting off of all enjoyment. Oh, the pity! the pity! Can't they read?

"Let all those that seek thee be joyful and glad in thee, and let suchas love thee and thy salvation say always, The Lord be praised. " Again, "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver. " But it is not always in giving alonethat He loves cheerfulness. Real love and trust in God--which isreligion, mind you--makes the heart feather light, opens the eye tobeauty, the heart to sympathy, the ear to harmony, and all the merrimentand joy of life is but the sweeter for the reverent gratitude onereturns to the Divine Giver. 

One evening, in a greenroom chatter, the word "religious" had in someway been applied to me, and a certain actress of "small parts, " whoselife had been of the bitterness of gall, suddenly broke out with:"What--what's that? religious--you? Well, I guess not! Why, you've morespirits in a minute than the rest of us have in a week, and you are asfull of capers as a puppy. I guess I know religion when I see it. Itmakes children loathe the Bible by forcing them to learn a hundred ofits verses for punishment. It pulls down the shades on Sundays, eatscold meat and pickles, locks up bookcase and piano, and discharges thegirl for walking with her beau. Oh, no! my dear, you're not religious. "

Poor abused word; no wonder it terrifies people. 

How many thousand women, I wonder, are kept from church by theirinability to dress up to the standard of extravagance raised by thosewho are more wealthy than thoughtful. Even if the poor woman plucks upher courage and enters the church, the magnificence of her fortunatesisters distracts her attention from the service, and fills her withlonging, too often with envy, and surely with humiliation. 

Some years ago a party of ultra-high churchwomen decided to wear onlyblack during Lent. One of these ladies condescended to know me, and inspeaking of the matter, she said: "Oh, I think this black garb is morethan a fad, it really operates for good. It is so appropriate, you know, and--and a constant reminder of that first great fast--the origin ofLent; and as I walk about in trailing black, I know I look devout, andthat makes me feel devout, and so I pray often, and you're always thebetter for praying, even if your dress is at the bottom of it--and, oh, well, I feel that I am in the picture, when I wear black during Lent. "

But the important thing is that before the Lenten season was half over, female New York was walking the streets in gentle, black-robed dignity, and evidently enjoying the keeping of Lent because, to use a theatricalexpression, "it knew it looked the part. "

So much influence do these petted, beloved daughters of the richexercise over the many, that I have often wished that, for the sake ofthe poorer women, the wealthy ones would set a fashion of extremesimplicity of costume for church-going. Every female thing has aninalienable right to make herself as lovely as possible; and thesegraceful, clever women of fashion would know as well how to makesimplicity charming as does the _grande dame_ of France, who is nevermore _grande dame_ than when, in plain little bonnet, simple gown, and abit of a fichu, she attends her church. 

These bright butterflies have all the long week to flutter theirmagnificence in. Their lunches, dinners, teas, dances, games, yachts, links, race-courses--everyone gives occasion for glorious display. Willthey not, then, be sweetly demure on Sunday for the sake of the"picture, " spare their sisters the agony of craving for like beautifulapparel? for God has made them so, and they can't help wanting to belovely, too. 

Perhaps some day a woman of fashion, simply clad, will turn up herpretty nose contemptuously at splendour of dress at church service, andwhisper, "What bad form!"

Then, indeed, as the tide sets her way, she will realize her power, andthe church will have many more attendants. The very poor woman will notbe so cruelly humiliated, and the wage-earning girl, who puts so much ofher money into finery, will have a more artistic and more suitable modelto follow. 

And you are beginning to think that free silver is not the only mad ideathat has been put forward by a seemingly sane person. Ah, well, it'ssixteen to one, you know, that this is both first and last of the churchdress-reform. 

To those two little maids who so anxiously inquire "if I believe prayeris of any real service, and why, since my own could not always have beenanswered, " I can only say, they being in a minority, I have no authorityto answer their question here. Perhaps, though, they may recall the factthat their loving mothers tenderly refused some of their most passionatedemands in babyhood. And we are yet but children, who often prayimproperly to our Father. 

_CHAPTER XVII

A DAILY UNPLEASANTNESS_

What is the most unpleasant experience in the daily life of a youngactress?

Without pause for thought, and most emphatically too, I answer, herpassing unattended through the city streets at night; that is madeunalloyed misery, through terror and humiliation. The backwoods girlmakes her lonely way through the forest by blazed trees, but the way ofthe lonely girl through the city streets is marked by blazing blushes. 

It is an infamy that a girl's honesty should not protect her by night aswell as by day. Those hideous hyenas of the midnight streets are neverdeceived. By one glance they can distinguish between a good woman andthose poor wandering ghosts of dead modesty and honour, who flitrestlessly back and forth from alleys dark to bright gas glare; butbring one of these men to book, and he will declare that "decent womenhave no right to be in the streets after nightfall, " as though citizenswere to maintain public highways for the sole use one-half the time ofall the evil things that hide from light to creep out at dark and meetthose companions who are fair by day and foul by night. 

Some girls never learn to face the homeward walk with steady nerves, others grow used to the swift approach, the rapidly spoken word, andreceive them with set, stony face and deaf ears; but oh, the terror andthe shame of it at first! And this horror of the night takes so manyforms that it is hard to say which one is the most revolting--hard todecide between the vile innuendo whispered by a sober brute or theroared ribaldry of a drunken beast. 

In one respect I differ from most of my companions in misery, sincethey almost invariably fear most the drunkard; while I ground my greaterfear of the sober man upon the simple fact that I can't outrun him as Ican a drunken one, at a pinch. One night, in returning home from aperformance of "Divorce, "--a very long play that brought me into thestreet extra late, --a shrieking man flew across my path, and as a secondrushed after him with knife uplifted for a killing blow, his foot caughtin mine, and as he pitched forward the knife sank into his victim's arminstead of his back as he had intended; and with the cries of "Murder!Police!" ringing in my ears, I ran as if I were the murderess. Thesethings are in themselves a pretty high price to pay for being anactress. 

I had a friend, an ancient lady, a relative of one of our greatestactors, who, for independence' sake, taught music in her old age. Onenight she had played at a concert and was returning home. Tall andslight and heavily veiled, she walked alone. Then suddenly appeared awell-looking young son of Belial, undoubtedly a gentleman by daylight. He tipped his hat and twirled his mustache; she turned away her head. Hecleared his throat; she seemed quite deaf. He spoke; he called her"girlie" (the scamp!). She walked the faster; so did he. He protestedshe should not walk home alone; she stopped; she spoke, "Will you pleaseallow me to walk home in peace?"

But, no, that was just what he would not do, and suddenly she answered, "Very well, then, I accept your escort, though under protest. "

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "Evadne"_]

Surprised, he walked at her side. The way was long, the silence grewpainful. He ventured to suggest supper as they passed a restaurant; shegently declined. At last she stopped directly beneath a gas-lamp, andfrom her face, with sorrow-hollowed eyes and temples, where everyone ofher seventy-six years had been stamped in cruel line and crease andwrinkle, she lifted up the veil and raised her sad old eyesreproachfully to his. He staggered back, turned red, turned white, stammered, took off his hat, attempted to apologize, then turned andfled. 

"And what, " I asked, "did you say to him?"

"Say, say, " she repeated; "justice need not be cruel. Why add anythingto the sight of this?" and she drew a finger down her withered cheek. 

'Twas said with laughing bitterness, for she had been very fair, andwell guarded, too, in the distant past; while then I could but catch hertired hands and kiss them, in a burst of pity that this ancientgentlewoman might not walk in peace through the city streets becausefate had left her without a protector. 

Appeal to the police, I think some one says. Of course, if he is about;but recall that famous old recipe of Mrs. Glass beginning, "First catchyour hare and then--" so, just catch your policeman. But believe me, they rarely appear together, --your tormentor of women and yourpoliceman, --unless, indeed, the former is stupidly in liquor; and thenwhat good if he is arrested? shame will prevent you from appearingagainst him. Silence and speed, therefore, are generally the bestdefensive weapons of the frightened, lonely girl. 

Once through fright, fatigue, and shame I lost all self-control, andturning to the creature whom I could not outwalk, I cried out with asob, "Oh, I am so tired, so frightened, and so ashamed; you make me wishthat I were dead!" And to my amazement, he answered gruffly, "It's apity _I'm_ not, " and disappeared in the dark side street. 

After an actress has married and has a protector to see her safely homenights, she is apt to recall and to tell amusing stories of her pastexperiences; but I notice those tales are never told by the girls--theyonly become funny when looked at from the point of perfect safety, though like everything else in the world, the dreaded midnight walkshows a touch of the ludicrous now and then. 

I recall one snowy January night when I was returning home. It was on aSaturday, and I had played a five-act play twice with but a sandwich formy dinner, the weather forbidding my going home after the matinee. Sobeing without change to ride with, hungry and unutterably weary, Istarted, bag in hand, to walk up Sixth Avenue. On the east side stood acertain club house (it stands there yet, by the way), whose peculiarfeature was a vine-hung veranda across its entire front, from which anunusually long flight of steps led to the sidewalk. Quite unmolested, Ihad walked from the stage door almost to this building, when suddenly, as if he had sprung from the very earth, a man was at my elbowaddressing me, and the fact that he was not English, and so notunderstood, did not in the slightest degree lessen the terror his evilface inspired. I shrank away from him, and he caught at my wrist. It wastoo much. I gave a cry and started to run, when, tall and broad, a manappeared at the foot of the club-house steps, just ahead of me. Ashamedto be seen running, I halted, and dropped into a walk again. 

Then with that exaggerated straightening of back and stiffening of kneeadopted by one who tries to walk a floor-crack or chalk-line, the secondman approached me. He was very big, he was silvery grey, and his dignitywas portentous. At every step he struck the pavement a ringing blow witha splendid malacca cane. Old-fashioned and gold-headed, it looked enoughlike its owner to have been his twin brother. He lifted his high silkhat, and with somewhat florid indignation inquired: "My c-hild, was thatin-nfamous cur annoying you shust now? A-a-h!" he broke off, flourishing his cane over his head, "there y-you slink; I w-wish I hadhold of you. " And I heard the running footsteps of No. 1 as he dartedaway, across and down the avenue. 

"An-and the police?" sarcastically resumed the big man, who waveredunsteadily now and then. "H-how useful are the police! How many do y-yousee at this moment, pray, eh? And, by the way, m' child, what in thedevil's name brings yer on the street alone at this hour, say, tell methat?" and he assumed a most judicial attitude and manner. 

I replied, "I am going home from my work, sir. "

"Y-your w-what?" he growled. 

"My work, sir, at the theatre. "

"Good Lord!" he groaned, "and t-that crawlin' r-reptile couldn't let youpass, you poor little soul, you!"

Upon my word, I thought he was going to weep over me. Next moment heturned his collar up with a violence that nearly upset him, andexclaimed: "D-don't you be a-fraid. I'll see you safely home. G-go byyourself? not much you won't! I'll take you to your mother. S-say, you've got a mother, haven't you? Yes, that's right; every girl's worthanythin's got a mother. I-I'll take you to her, sure; receive maternalthanks, a-and all that. Oh, say, boys! look here!" he shouted, andholding out the big cane in front of me to prevent my passing, he calledto him two other men, who slowly and with almost superhuman caution werenegotiating the snowy steps. 

"Say, Colonel! Judge! come here and help me p-pr'tect this un-fortunatechild. " The Judge at that moment sat heavily and unintentionally down onthe bottom step, and the Colonel remarked pleasantly, though a triflevaguely, "T-that's the time he hit it"; while the fallen man askedcalmly from his snowy seat, "P-pr-protect what--f-from who?"

"This poor ch-i-ld from raging beasts and in-famous scoundrels, Judge, "remarked my bombastic friend. 

"We're gentlemen, my dear; and say, get the Judge up, Colonel, and starthim, and we'll _all_ see her safe home. Damn shame, a la-dy can't walkin 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 gentlyforward. 

The Colonel tipped his hat over one eye, gave a military salute, andwavered back and forth. The Judge muttered something about "Honest womanagainst city of New York, " and something "and costs, " and both fell tothe rear. 

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

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

Looking back from my own stoop, I saw the three kindly old sinnersmaking salutations at the corner. My bombastic friend and the Judge hadtheir hats off, waving them, and the Colonel saluted with such rigidpropriety, 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 werethese three wine-muddled old heads, and then I feel "the pity, oh, thepity of it!"

_CHAPTER XVIII

A BELATED WEDDING_

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

But though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too farnor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certainwoman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking andsatirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placedherself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every onefrom sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping littlehands for the gold showered upon them--laughed, with weary, pain-filledeyes--laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes--but still laughed tillsunrise--and then, well, who cared what they did _then_?

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

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

She determined that she would go to that performance, though the managerassured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order couldpossibly be admitted. And she declared "that she could sit out that orany other play without tears. That no amount of play-acting could moveher, unless it was to laughter. "

And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all thatcrowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked aboutthirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks andher somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her blacksilk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for anhonest woman. 

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

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

This is what she did. Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, sheleft the theatre alone. Then she engaged a carriage--of which there werevery, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did mostof their going and coming on horseback--and had herself conveyed to herhome, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driverwait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where aman in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping overthe 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. "

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in the 1st Act of "Camille"_]

But he objected, asking: "Why the deuce he should go out that bitternight? 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, hiscoat, and overcoat" that the sleepiness had vanished from his sharpeyes, 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. Idon'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--God blessher! (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'llneed 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 draggedhim down the hall and stairs, and so outside the front door. 

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

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

He watched her still silently; she went on: "Do you remember, Jim, whenI 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 sevendollars a week, then, and I--oh, Jim! why in God's name _didn't_ youspeak? Then I might never have come to this. " She struck the lintel ofthe door passionately, but went right on: "Yes--yes, I'm going to tellyou, and you've got to make a decision, right here, _now_! You'll thinkI'm mad, I know; but see here now, I've got that woman's dying eyeslooking into mine; I've got that woman's voice in my ears, and her wordsburnt into my living heart! I'll tell you by and by, perhaps, whatthose words are, but first, my proposal: you are free to accept it, youare free to refuse it, or you are free to curse me for a drivellingidiot; 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 getinto that carriage and take me to the nearest minister and marry me, orwill you take this 'wad' and go down that street and out of my lifeforever?"

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 offeredhim a great tight-rolled mass of paper money, he said, "Put thataway--now, come on, " and they entered the carriage, and drove to thehome of a minister. There a curious thing happened. They had answeredsatisfactorily the reverend gentleman's many questions before he quiterealized _who_ the woman was. When he did recognize her, he refused toperform the ceremony, and with words of contemptuous condemnationliterally drove them from the house, and with his ecclesiastical handbanged the door after them. 

They visited another minister, and their second experience differed fromtheir first in two points, --the gentleman was quicker in his recognitionand refusal, and refrained from banging the door. And so they drove upand down and across the city, till at last they stood at the carriagedoor and looked helpless at each other. Then the man said, "That's thelast one, Kate, " and the woman answered, "Yes, I know--I know. " She drewa 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 playedwith marked cards. "

She had entered the carriage when the driver with the all-pervadingknowledge and unlimited assurance of the Western hackman remarkedgenially: "Madame Elize, there's another gospel-sharp out on the edge ofthe town. He's poorer than Job's turkey, and his whole dorgon'd littlescantlin' church ain't bigger than one of them Saratogy trunks, but hispeople just swear by him. Shall I take you out there?"

Madame Elize nodded an assent, and once more they started. It was a longdrive. The horses strained up killing grades, sending out on the coldair columns of steam from their dilating nostrils. The driver beat firstone hand and then the other upon his knees, and talked amicably ifprofanely to his horses; but inside the carriage there was uttersilence. 

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

And Kate, with shining eyes, turned and said: "Tell him, Jim, how forsix honest, innocent years we were friends. Then tell him how forfifteen 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 toclasp their hands and start them on their new path, with God's blessingon them. And they were married at last; and as they drove away, theynoted the strange outlines of the mountains, where they reared theirstupendous bulk against the star-sown sky. A sense of awe came uponthem--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 theworld. "

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 fromhimself. Yet that about describes what I am doing now for the famousSalvini. An acquaintance of mine, a man self-contained and dignified, who was reading the other day, startled me by muttering aloud, "Oh, thatmine enemy would write a book!" and a moment later, flinging the volumefrom him, he cried: "Where were his friends? Why did they permit him towrite 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 theman by his splendid work; but look at that book--the personal pronounforms one solid third of it. I know it does!" and he handed me thevolume in question. 

"Well, " I said, as I glanced at the title, --"Autobiography of TommasoSalvini, "--"no matter what the book may say, Tommaso Salvini is a mightyactor. " And then I began to read. At first I was a bit taken aback. Ihad thought Mr. Macready considered himself pretty favourably, had madea heavy demand on the I's and my's in his book; but the bouquets hepresented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with thegorgeous floral set pieces provided _ad libitum_ for "Signor Salvini" bySignor Salvini. 

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

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

"Well, " I answered, "you certainly cannot doubt the truth of theassertions. I believe every one of them. You see, you are not making anyallowance for temperament or early environment. Those who are humblyborn in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch's praise to the very pinnacleof pride and joy and superiority. Think of the compliments paid this manby royalty. Think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination. Youcan't expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you, for your comfort, that this 'book Salvini' is utterly unlike the kindlygentleman 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 ownsatisfaction; but--but--don't think I care for this book. I'll wait tillsome one else tells of his triumphs and his gifts, " and laying it uponthe table he took his departure. 

It is astonishing what a misleading portrait Signor Salvini has drawn ofhimself. I worked with him, and I found him a gentleman of modest, evenretiring, disposition and most courtly manners. He was remarkablypatient at the long rehearsals which were so trying to him because hiscompany spoke a language he could not understand. 

The love of acting and the love of saving were veritable passions withhim, and many were the amusing stories told of his economies; but, inspite of his personal frugality, he was generous in the extreme to hisdear ones. 

When I had got over my first amazement at receiving a proposal to actwith the great Italian, Mr. Chizzola, his manager, stated terms, andhastened to say that a way had been found by which the two names couldbe presented without either taking preference of the other on the bill, and that the type would of course be the same in both--questions Ishould never have given a thought to, but over which my manager stoodready to shed his heart's blood. And when I said that I should willinglyhave gone on the bills as "supporting Signor Salvini, " I thought he wasgoing to rend his garments, and he indignantly declared that such talkwas nothing less than heresy when coming from a securely establishedstar. 

At one of our rehearsals for the "Morte Civile, " a small incidentoccurred that will show how gracious Signor Salvini could be. Moststars, having the "business" of their play once settled upon, seem tothink it veritable sacrilege to alter it, no matter how good the reasonfor an alteration; and a suggestion offered to a star is generallyconsidered an impertinence. In studying my part of Rosalia, theconvict's wife, a very pretty bit of "business" occurred to my mind. Iwas to wear the black cross so commonly seen on the breast of the Romanpeasant women, and once at an outbreak of Conrad's, I thought if Iraised that cross without speaking, and he drooped before it, it wouldbe effective and quite appropriate, as he was supposed to besuperstitiously devout. I mentioned it to young Salvini, who criedeagerly, "Did you tell my father--did he see it?"

"Good heavens!" I answered, "do you suppose I would presume to suggest'business' to a Salvini? Besides, could anything new be found for him ina play he has acted for twenty years? No, I have not told your father, nor do I intend to take such a liberty. "

But next morning, when we came to that scene, Signor Salvini held uphis hand for a halt in the rehearsal, called for Alessandro, and, bidding him act as interpreter, said, smiling pleasantly, to me, "Nowzee i-dee please you, madame?" for young Alessandro had betrayed myconfidence. There was a mocking sparkle in Salvini's blue eyes, but hewas politely ready to hear and reject "zee i-dee. " I felt hot andembarrassed, but I stood by my guns, and placing Alessandro in thechair, I made him represent Conrad; and when he came to the furiousoutburst, I swiftly lifted the cross and held it before his eyes tillhis head sank upon my breast. But in a twinkling, with the cry, "No--no!I show!" Salvini plucked Alessandro out of the seat, flung himself intoit, resumed the scene, and as I lifted the cross before his convulsedfeatures, his breath halted, slowly he lifted his face, when, divininghis meaning, I pressed the cross gently upon his trembling lips, andwith a sob his head fell weakly upon my breast. It was beautifully done;even the actors were moved. Then he spoke rapidly to his son, whotranslated to me thus: "How have I missed this 'business' all theseyears? It is good--we will keep it always--tell madame that. " And so, courteously and without offence, this greatest of actors accepted asuggestion from a newcomer in his play. 

A certain English actor, who had been with him two or three seasons, made a curious little mistake night after night, season after season, and no one seemed to heed it. Of course Salvini, not speaking English, could not be expected to detect the error. Where the venomous priestshould humbly bow himself out with the veiled threat, "This may yet endin a trial--and--conviction!" the actor invariably said, "This may yetend in a trial of convictions!" Barely three nights had passed whenSignor Salvini said to his son, "Why does Miss Morris smile at thatman's exit? It is not funny. Ask why she smiles. " And he was greatly putout with his actor when he learned the cause of my amusement. A veryobservant man, you see. 

He is a thinking actor; he knows _why_ he does a thing, and he used tobe very intolerant of some of the old-school "tricks of the trade. "Mind, when I was acting with him, he had come to understand fairly wellthe English of our ordinary, everyday vocabulary, and if he was quitecalm and not on exhibition in any way, he could speak it a little andquite to the point, as you will see. He particularly disliked the old, old trick called "taking the stage, " that is, when a good speech hasbeen made, the actor at its end crosses the stage, changing his positionfor no reason on earth save to add to his own importance. It seemedSalvini had tried through his stage manager to break up the wretchedhabit; but one morning he saw an actor end his speech at the centre ofthe stage, and march in front of every one to the extreme right-handcorner. A curl came to the great actor's lip, then he said inquiringly, "What for?" The actor stammered, "I--I--it's my cross, you know--the endof my speech. "--"Y-e-es, " sweetly acquiesced the star. "Y-e-es, youcross, I see--but what for?" The actor hesitated. "You do _so_, " went onSalvini, giving a merciless imitation of the swelling chest and stagestride of the guilty one, as he had crossed from centre down to extremeright. "You do so--but for _why_? A-a-ah!" Suddenly he seemed to catchan idea. "A-a-ah! is it that you have zee business with zee people inzee box? A-a-ah! you come spik to zose people? No? Not for that youcome? You have _no_ reason for come here, you say? Then, for God's sake, stay centre till you _have_ a reason!"

It was an awful lesson, but what delicious acting. The simple, earnestinquiry, the delighted catching at an idea, the followingdisappointment, and the final outburst of indignant authority--he neverdid anything better for the public. 

During the short time we acted together but one cloud, a tiny, tiny oneof misunderstanding, rose between us, but according to reports made bylookers-on a good deal of lightning came out of it. Of course notunderstanding each other's language, we had each to watch the other as acat would watch a mouse, in order to take our cues correctly. At onepoint I took for mine his sudden pause in a rapidly delivered speech, and at that pause I was to speak instantly. We got along remarkablywell, for his soul was in his work, and I gave every spark ofintelligence I had in me to the effort to satisfy him; so by the fifthor sixth performance we both felt less anxiety about the catching of ourcues than we had at first. On the night I speak of, some one onSalvini's side of the stage greatly disturbed him by loud whispering inthe entrance. He was nervous and excitable, the annoyance (of which Iwas unconscious) threw him out of his stride, so to speak. He glancedoff warningly and snapped his fingers. No use; on went the giggling andwhispering. At last, in the very middle of a speech, wrath overcame him. He stopped dead. That sudden stop was my cue. Instantly I spoke. Goodheaven! he whirled upon me like a demon. I understood that a mistake hadbeen made, but it was not mine. I knew my cue when I got it. The humbleRosalia was forgotten. With hot resentment my head went up and back witha fling, and I glared savagely back at him. A moment we stood in silentrage. Then his face softened, he laid the fingers of his left hand onhis lips, extending his right with that unspeakably deprecatingupturning of the palm known only to the foreign-born. An informingglance of the eye toward the right, followed by a faint "_Pardon_!" wasenough. I dropped back to meek Rosalia, the scene was resumed, the cloudhad passed. But one man who had been looking on said: "By Jove! youknow, you two looked like a pair of blue-eyed devils, just ready to rendeach other. Talk about black-eyed rage; it's the lightning of the blueeyes that sears every time. "

I had been quite wild to see Signor Salvini on his first visit toAmerica, and at last I caught up with him in Chicago, and was so happyas to find my opportunity in an extra matinee. The play was "Othello, "and during the first act he looked not only a veritable Moor, but, whatwas far greater, he seemed to be Shakespeare's own "Moor of Venice. " Thesplendid presence, the bluff, soldierly manner, the open, honest look, as the "round unvarnished tale" was delivered, made one understand, partly at least, how "that maiden never bold, a spirit so still andquiet, " had come at last to see "_Othello's_ visage _in his mind_, andto his honour and his valiant parts to consecrate her fortune and hersoul!" Through all the noble scene, through all the soldierly dignityand candid speech, there was that tang of roughness that so naturallyclung to the man whose life from his seventh year had been passed inthe "tented field, " and who himself declared, "Rude am I in speech, andlittle bless'd with the set phrase of peace. "

In short, Salvini was a delight to eye and ear, and satisfied bothimagination and judgment in that first act. Like many people who aremuch alone, I have the habit of speaking sometimes to myself--a habit Irepented of that day, yes, verily I did; for when, at Cyprus, Othelloentered and fiercely swept into his swarthy arms the pale loveliness ofDesdemona, 'twas like a tiger's spring upon a lamb. The bluff and honestsoldier, the English Shakespeare's Othello, was lost in an ItalianOthello. Passion choked, his gloating eyes burned with the mere lust ofthe "sooty Moor" for that white creature of Venice. It was revolting, and with a shiver I exclaimed aloud, "Ugh, you splendid brute!"Realizing my fault, I drew quickly back into the shadow of the curtain;but a man's rough voice had answered instantly, "Make it a _beast_, ma'am, and I'm with you!" I was cruelly mortified. 

[Illustration: _Tommaso Salvini_]

But there was worse to happen that day. The leading lady, SignoraPiamonti, an admirable actress, was the Desdemona. She played the partremarkably well, and was a fairly attractive figure to the eye, if oneexcepted her foot. It was exceptionally long and shapeless, and was mostvilely shod. Her dresses, too, all tipped up in the front, undulyexposing the faulty members; many were the comments made, and often thequery followed, "Why doesn't she get some American shoes?" I am sorry tosay that some of our daily papers even were ungracious enough to referto that physical defect, when only her work should have been consideredand criticised. 

The actors had reached the last act. The bed stood in the centre of ashallow alcove, heavily curtained. These hangings were looped up at thebeginning of the act, and were supposed to fall to the floor, completelyconcealing the bed and its occupant after the murder. The actor hadlong before become again Shakespeare's Othello. We had seen himtortured, racked, and played upon by the malignant Iago; seen him, whileperplexed in the extreme, irascible, choleric, sullen, morose; but now, as with tense nerves we waited for the catastrophe, he was trulyformidable. The great tragedy moved on. Desdemona's piteous entreatieshad been choked in her slim throat, the smothering pillow held in placewith merciless strength. Then at Emilia's disconcerting knock and demandfor admission, Othello had let down and closely drawn the two curtains. But alas and alack a day! though they were thick and rich and wide, theyfailed to reach the floor by a good foot's breadth--a fact unnoticed bythe star. You may not be an actor; but really when you add to thattwelve or fourteen-inch space the steep incline of the stage--why, youcan readily understand how advisable it was for the dead Desdemona thatday to stay dead until the play was over. 

Majestically Othello was striding down to the door, where Emilia wasknocking for admittance, when there came that long in-drawn breath--that"a-a-h!" that from the auditorium always means mischief--and a suddenbobbing of heads this way and that in the front seats. In an instant thegreat actor felt the broken spell, knew he had lost his hold upon thepeople--but why? He went on steadily, and then, just as you have seen afield of wheat surged in one wave by the wind, I saw the closely packedpeople in that wide parquet sway forward in a great gust of laughter. With quick, experienced eye I scanned first Othello's garb from top totoe, and finding no unseemly rent or flaw of any kind to provokelaughter, I next swept the stage. Coming to the close-drawn curtains, Isaw--heavens! No wonder the people laughed. The murdered Desdemona hadrisen, was evidently sitting on the side of the bed; for beneath thecurtains her dangling feet alone were plainly seen, kicking cheerfullyback and forth. Such utterly unconscious feet they were that I think theaudience would not have laughed again had they kept still; but all atonce they began a "heel-and-toe step, " and people rocked back and forth, trying to suppress their merriment. And then--oh, Piamonti!--swiftly thetoe of the right foot went to the back of the left ankle and scratchedvigorously. Restraint was ended, every one let go and laughed andlaughed. From the box I saw in the entrance the outspread fingers, thehoisted shoulders, the despairingly shaken heads of the Italian actors, who could find no cause for the uproar. Salvini behaved perfectly inthat, disturbed, distressed, he showed no sign of anger, but maintainedhis dignity through all, even when in withdrawing the curtains anddisclosing Desdemona dead once more the incomprehensible laughter againbroke out. But late as it was and short the time left him, he got thehouse in hand again, again wove his charm, and sent the people away sickand shuddering over his too real self-murder. 

As I was leaving the box I met one connected with the management of thetheatre, who, furious over the _faux pas_, was roughly denouncing theactress, whom he blamed entirely, and I took it upon myself to suggestthat he pour a vial or two of his wrath upon the heads of his ownproperty man and the stage manager, who had grossly neglected their dutyin failing to provide curtains of the proper length. And I chuckled withsatisfaction as I saw him plunge behind the scenes, calling angrily uponsome invisible Jim to come forth. I had acted as a sort of lightning-rodfor a sister actress. 

Salvini's relations with his son were charming, though it sounded a bitodd to hear the stalwart young man calling him "papa. " Alessandro haddark eyes and black hair, so naturally admired the opposite colouring, and I never heard him speak of his father's English second wife withoutsome reference to her fairness. It would be "my blond mamma, " "my littlefair mamma, " "my father's pretty English wife, " or "before my littleblond mamma died. " He felt the "mamma" and "papa" jarred on Americanears, and often corrected himself; but when Signor Salvini himself oncetold me a story of his father, he referred to him constantly as "mypapa, " just as he does in this book of his that makes him seem soegotistical and so determined to find at all costs the vulnerable spot, the weak joint in the armour, of all other actors. 

Certainly he could not have been an egotist in the bosom of his family. A friend in London went to call upon his young wife, his "white lily. "She was showing the house to her visitor, when, pausing suddenly beforea large portrait of her famous husband, she became silent, her upliftedeyes filled, her lips smiled tremulously, she gave a little gasp, andwhispered, "Oh, he's almost like God to me!"

The friend, startled, even shocked, was about to reprove her, but aglance into the innocent face showed no sacrilege had been meant, onlyshe had never been honoured, protected, happy, before--and some womenworship where they love. Could an egotist win and keep such affectionand gratitude as that?

Among those who complain of his opinionated book I am amused to find onewho fairly exhausted himself in praise, not to say flattery, of thissame Salvini. It is very diverting to the mere looker-on, when the worldfirst proclaims some man a god, bowing down and worshipping him, andthen anathematizes him if he ventures to proclaim his own godship. Ihave my quarrel with the book, I confess it. I am sorry he does not showhow he did his tremendous work, show the nature of those sacrifices hemade. How one would enjoy a word-picture of the place where he obtainedhis humble meals in those earliest days of struggle; who shared them, and in what spirit they were discussed, grave or gay! Italian life isapt to be picturesque, and these minor circumstances mean much when onetries to get at the daily life of a man. But Salvini has given us merelysplendid results, without showing us _how_ he obtained them. Yet what alesson the telling would have been for some of our indolent actors! Why, even at the zenith of his career, Salvini attended personally to dutiesmost actors leave to their dressers. He used to be in his dressing-roomhours before the overture was on, and in an ancient gown he would polishhis armour, his precious weapons or ornaments, arrange his wigs, examineevery article of dress he would require that night, and consequently henever had mishaps. He used to say: "The man there? Oh, yes, he can packand lock and strap and check, but only an actor can understand the careof these artistic things. What I do myself is well done; this work ispart of my profession; there is no shame in doing it. And all the time Iwork, I think--I think of the part--till I have all forgot--_all_ butjust that part's self. "

And yet, O dear, these are the things he does not put in his book. Whenhe was all dressed and ready for the performance, Salvini would go intoa dark place and walk and walk and walk; sometimes droopingly, sometimeswith martial tread. Once, I said, "You walk far, signor?"

"_Si, signorina_, " he made answer, then eagerly, "_I walk me into him!_"And while the great man was "walking into the character, " the actors whosupported him smoked cigarettes at the stage door until the dash fordressing room and costume. 

Some women scold because he has not given pictures of the great peoplewhom he met. "Why, " they ask, "did he not describe Crown PrincessVictoria" (the late Empress Frederick) "at least--how she looked, whatshe wore? Such portraits would be interesting. " But Salvini was notpainting portraits, not even his own--truly. He was giving a list of histriumphs; and if he has shown self-appreciation, he was at leastperfectly honest. There is no hypocrisy about him. If he knew UriahHeep, he did not imitate him; for in no chapter has he proclaimedhimself "'umble. " If one will read Signor Salvini's book, rememberingthat the pæans of a world have been sung in his honour, and that hereally had no superior in his artistic life, I think the I's and my'swill seem simply natural. 

However he may have been admired in other characters, I do truly believethat only those who have seen him in "Othello" and "Morte Civile" canfully appreciate the marvellous art of the actor. I carry in my mind twopictures of him, --Othello, the perfect animal man, in his splendidprime, where, in a very frenzy of conscious strength, he dashes Iago tothe earth, man and soldier lost in the ferocity of a jungle male beast, jealously mad--an awful picture of raging passion. The other, Conrad, after the escape from prison; a strong man broken in spirit, wasted withdisease, a great shell of a man--one who is legally dead, with theprison pallor, the shambling walk, the cringing manner, the furtiveeyes. But oh, that piteous salute at that point when the priestdismisses him, and the wrecked giant, timid as a child, humbly, deprecatingly touches the priest's hand with his finger-tips and thenkisses them devoutly! I see that picture yet, through tears, just as Isaw for the first time that illustration of supreme humility andveneration. 

Oh, never mind a little extravagance with personal pronouns! A belovedfather, a very thorough gentleman, but above all else the greatest actorof his day. There is but the one Salvini, and how can he help knowingit? So to book and author--ready! _Viva Salvini!_

_CHAPTER XX

FRANK SEN: A CIRCUS EPISODE_

The circus season was over, the animals had gone into comfortable winterquarters, while the performers, less fortunate than the beasts, werescattered far and near, "some in rags and some in tags, and some" (avery few) "in velvet gowns. " But one small group had found midwinteremployment, a party of Japanese men and women, who were jugglers, contortionists, and acrobats; and as their work was pretty as well asnovel, they found a place on the programme of some of the leadingvaudeville theatres. 

They were in a large Western city. Behind the curtain their retiringmanners, their exquisite cleanliness, their grave and gentlepoliteness, made them favourites with the working forces of the theatre, while before the curtain the brilliant, graceful precision with whichthey carried out their difficult, often dangerous, performance won themthe high favour of the public. 

On that special day the matinee was largely attended, the theatre beingfilled, even to the upper circles, as at night. Smilingly the audiencehad watched the movements of the miniature men and women in theirhandsome native costumes, and with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" had seen thememerge from those robes, already arrayed for acrobatic work, in suits ofblack silk tights with trunks and shoulder and wrist trimmings of redvelvet fairly stiffened with gold embroideries; and then came the actthe people liked best, because it contained the element of danger, because in its performance a young girl and a little lad smilinglyrisked life and limb to entertain them. 

The two young things had climbed like cats up to the swinging bars, high up, where the heat had risen from a thousand gas lights, and theblood thundered in their ears, and the pulses on their temples beat likehammers. So high, that looking down through the quivering, bluish mist, the upturned faces of the people merged together and became like thewaters of a pale, wide pool. Their work was well advanced. Withclocklike precision they had obeyed, ever-smilingly obeyed, the ordersconveyed to them by the sharp tap of the fan their trainer held, thoughto the audience the two young forms glittering in black and scarlet andgold, poising and fluttering there, were merely playing in midair like apair of tropical birds. 

They were beginning their great feat, in which danger was so evidentthat women often cried out in terror and some covered their eyes andwould not look at all--the music even had sunken to a sort of tremor offear. They were for the moment hanging head downward from theirseparate bars, when across the stillness came the ominous sound ofcracking, splintering wood; afterward it was known that the rung of achair in an upper private box had broken, but then, --but _then_! thesound was close to the swaying girl's ear!

Believing it was her bar that was breaking, her strained nerves torefree from all control! Driven by fear, she made a mad leap out intospace, reaching frantically for the little brown hands that a halfsecond later would have been ready for her, with life and safety intheir tenacious grasp. 

To those who do their work in space and from high places, the distancebetween life and death, between time and eternity, is often measured byhalf seconds. Little Omassa had leaped too soon, the small brown handswith power to save were not extended. She grasped the empty air, gave adespairing cry, and as she whirled downward, had barely time to realizethat the sun had gone black out in the sky, and that the world with itsshrieking millions was thundering to its end, when the awful crash came. 

There were shouts and shrieks, tears and groans, and here and therehelpless fainting. Ushers rushed from place to place, the policeappeared suddenly. The Japanese, silent, swift, self-controlled, weremoving their paraphernalia that the curtain might be lowered, werestretching a small screen about the inert, fallen figure, were bringinga rug to lift her on, and their faces were like so many old, _old_ ivorymasks. 

Tom McDermott, in his blue coat, stood by the silent little figurewaiting for the rug and for the coming of the doctor, and groaned, "Onher face, too--and she a girl child!"

Tom had seen three battle-fields and many worse sights, but none of themhad misted his eyes as did this little glittering, broken heap, and heturned his face away and muttered, "If she'd only keep quiet!" for trulyit was dreadful to see the long shudders that ran over the silent, huddled thing, to see certain red threads broadening into very rivulets. At last the ambulance, then the all-concealing curtain, the revivingmusic, a song, a pretty dance, and _presto_, all was forgotten!

When Omassa opened her eyes, her brain took up work just where it hadleft off; therefore she was astonished to find the sun shining, for hadshe not seen the sun go out quite black in the sky? Yet here it was sobright, and she was--was, where? The room was small and clean, oh, clean! like a Japanese house, and almost as empty. Could it be? But no, this bed was American, and then why was she so heavy? What great weightwas upon her? She could not move one little bit, and oh, my! _what_ wasit she could faintly see beyond and below her own nose--was it shadow?Surely she could not see her own _lip_? She smiled at that, and themovement wrung a cry of agony from her--when, like magic, a face wasbending over her, so kind and gentle, and then a joyous voice cried tosome one in the next room, "This little girl, not content with beingalive, sir, has her senses--is she not a marvel?"

And with light, delicate touch the stranger moistened the distended, immovable lip poor Omassa had dimly seen, through which her lower teethhad been driven in her fall, and in answer to her pleading, questioningglances at her own helpless body, told her she was encased in plasternow, but by and by she would be released, and now she was to be veryquiet and try to sleep. And then she smoothed a tiny wrinkle out of thewhite quilt, shut out the sunlight, and, smiling kindly back at her, left Omassa, who obediently fell asleep--partly because her life was oneof obedience, and partly because there was nothing else to do. 

And then began the acquaintance between Mrs. Helen Holmes, nurse, andOmassa, Japanese acrobat. The other nurses teased Helen Holmes abouther pet patient, saying she was only a commonplace, Japanese childwoman; but Mrs. Holmes would exclaim, "If you could only see her lightup and glow!"

And so they came to calling Omassa "the lantern, " and would jestinglyask "when she was going to be lighted up"; but there came a time whenMrs. Holmes knew the magic word that would light the flame and make thelantern glow, like ruby, emerald, and sapphire; like opal andtourmaline. 

The child suffered long and terribly; both arms were broken, and inseveral places, also her little finger, a number of ribs, hercollar-bone, and one leg, while cuts were simply not counted. During herfever-haunted nights she babbled Japanese for hours, with one singleEnglish name appearing and reappearing almost continually, --the name ofFrank; and when she called that name it was like the cooing of a pigeon, and the down-drooping corners of her grave mouth curled upward intosmiles. She spoke English surprisingly well, as the other members of thetroupe only knew a very little broken English; and had she not placedthe emphasis on the wrong syllable, her speech, would have been almostperfect. 

Generally she was silent and sad and unsmiling, but grateful, passionately grateful to her "nurse-lady, " as she called Mrs. Holmes;yet when, that kind woman stooped to kiss her once, Omassa shrank fromthe caress with such repugnance as deeply to wound her, until thelittle Japanese had explained to her the national abhorrence of kissing, assuring her over and over again that even "the Japan ma'ma not kisslittle wee baby she love. "

Mrs. Holmes ceased to wonder at the girl's sadness when she found shewas absolutely alone in the world: no father, no mother; no, no sister, no brother, "no what you call c-cousine?--no nothing, nobody have I gotwhat belong to me, " she said. 

One morning, as her sick-room toilet was completed, Mrs. Holmes saidlightly:--

"Omassa, who is Frank?" and then fairly jumped at the change in theivory-tinted, expressionless face. Her long, narrow eyes glowed, a pinkstain came on either cheek, she raised herself a little on her best arm, eagerly she cried, "You know him--oh, you know Frank?"

Regretfully Mrs. Holmes answered, "No, dear, I don't know him. "

"But, " persisted Omassa, "you know him, or how could you speak hisname?"

"I learned the name from you, child, when you talked in the fever. I amvery sorry I have caused you a disappointment. I am to blame for mycuriosity--forgive me. "

All the light faded from her face and very quietly she lay down upon herpillow, her lips close-pressed, her eyes closed; but she could not hidethe shining of the tears that squeezed between her short, thick lashesand clung to them. 'Twas long before his name was mentioned again; butone day something had been said of friends, when Omassa with intensepride had exclaimed:--"I have got my own self one friend--he--my friendFrank. "

"What's his other name?" asked the nurse. 

"Oh, he very poor, he got only one name. "

"But, dear, he must have another name, he is Frank somebody orsomething. "

"No! no!" persisted Omassa with gentle obstinacy, "he tell me alwaystrue, he very poor, good man--he got only one name, my Frank Sen. "

"There, " cried Mrs. Holmes, triumphantly, "you see he _has_ two namesafter all, you have just called him by them both--Frank Sen. "

At which the invalid sent forth a tinkling laugh of amusement, crying:"Oh, that not one man's name, oh, no! That Sen that like your Mr. --Mrs. ;you nurse-lady, you Holmes Sen. Ito--big Japan fight man, he Ito Sen, you unnerstand me, nurse-lady?"

"Yes, child, I understand. Sen is a title, a term of respect, and youlike to show your friend Frank all the honour you can, so you call himFrank Sen. "

And Omassa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: "You right _on_to it at first try. My boss" (her manager Kimoto) "find _me_ baby inJapan, with very bad old man. He gamble all time. I not know why he haveme, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to Kimoto, andKimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all toold man--_all_. We go Mexico--South America--many Islands--to Germanland, and long time here in this most big America--and the world sobig--and then I so little Japan baby--I no play--I no sing--I knownothing what to do--and just _one_ person in this big lonesome_ness_make a kindness to me--my Frank Sen--just one man--just one woman in allworld make goodness to me--my Frank Sen and my nurse-lady, " and shestroked with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bedbeside her. 

"What was he like, your Frank?" asked the nurse. 

"Oh, he one big large American man--he not laugh many times loud, but helaugh in he blue eye. He got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy--like puppy dog's back. He poor--he not perform in circus, oh, no! He work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. He ver good manfor fight too--he smash man that hurt horse--he smash man that kick dogor push me, Japan baby. Oh, he best man in all the world" (the exquisiteMadame Butterfly was not known yet, so Omassa was not quoting). "He tellme I shall not say some words, 'damn' and 'hell' and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that 'hell' and where is--and how youget in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you--and howyou can't get out again where there is cool place for change--and hesmooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know Japan people don't everbe kissed--and he call me one word I cannot know. "

She shook her head regretfully. "He call me 'poor little wave'--why poorlittle wave--wave that mean water?" she sighed. "I can't know why FrankSen call me that. "

But quick-witted Mrs. Holmes guessed the word had been "waif"--poorlittle waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, roughtent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from theignorance and evil about her. 

"But, " resumed Omassa, with perfect conviction, "Frank Sen meanedgoodness for me when he called me 'wave'--I know _that_. What you thinkthat big American man do for help me little Japan baby--with no sense?Well, I will tell you. When daylight circus-show over, he take me byhand and lead me to shady place between tents--he sit down--put me at heknee, and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger hepoint out and make me know all those big fat letters--yes, he do _that_. Other mens make of him fun--and he only laugh; but when they say he myfather and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. When he layout the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some moreletters. Oh, I very stupid Japan baby; but at last I know _all_, and_then_ he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be hisfête-day, --what you call birsday, --and I make very big large secret. "

She lifted herself excitedly in bed, her glowing eyes were on hernurse's face, her lips trembled, the "lantern" was alight and glowingradiantly. 

"What you think I do for my Frank Sen's birsday? I have never onepenny, --I cannot buy, --but I make one big great try. I go tocircus-lady, that ride horse and jump hoops--she read like Frank Sen. Iask her show me some right letters. Oh, I work hard--for I am verystupid Japan child; but when that day come, Frank Sen he lead me toshady place--he open primer--then, " her whole face was quivering withfun at the recollection, "then I take he long finger off--I put _my_finger and I slow spell--not cat--not dog--oh, _what_ you think?--Ispell F-r-a-n-k--Frank! He look to me, and then he make a big jump--hecatch me--toss me, high up in air, and he shout big glad shout, and thenI say--'cause for your birsday. ' He stop, he put me down, and he eyescome wet, and he take my hand and he say: 'Thank you, that's the onlybirsday gift I ever _re_ceived that was not from my mother. Spell itagain for me, ' he said; and then he was very proud and said, 'there wasnot any-other birsday gift like that in all the world!' What you thinkof _that_?

"Then the end to season of circus come--Frank Sen he kneel down byme--he very sad--he say, 'I have nothing to give--I am such a fool--andthe green-cloth--oh, the curse of the green-cloth!' He took off my Japanslippers and smiled at them and said, 'Poor little feet'; he stroked myhands and said, 'Poor little hands'; he lifted up my face and said, 'Poor little wave'; then he look up in air and he say, verytroubled-like, 'A few home memories--some small knowledge, all I had, Ihave given her. To read a little is not much, but maybe it may help hersome day, and I have nothing more to give!'

"And I feeling something grow very fast, here and here" (touching throatand breast), "and I say, '_You_ have nothing to give me? well'--and thenI forget all about I am little Japan girl, and I cry, 'Well, _I_ havesomething to give you, Frank Sen, and that is one kiss!' And I put myarms about he neck and make one big large kiss right on he kind lips. "

Her chin sank upon her night-robed breast. After a moment she smileddeprecatingly at Mrs. Holmes and whispered: "You forgive me, other day?You see I Japan girl--and just once I give big American kiss to myfriend, Frank Sen. "

_CHAPTER XXI

STAGE FORFEITS AND THEIR HUMOUR_

It was during the rehearsals of "L'Article 47" that I enjoyed one singlehearty laugh, --a statement that goes far to show my distressed state ofmind, --for generally speaking that is an unusual day which does notbring along with its worry, work, and pain some bubble of healinglaughter. It was a joke of Mr. Le Moyne's own special brand that foundfavour in my eyes and a place in my memory. Any one who has ever servedunder Mr. Daly can recall the astounding list of rules printed in finetype all over the backs of his contracts. The rules touching on_forfeits_ seemed endless: "For being late, " "For a stage wait, " "Forlack of courtesy, " "For gossiping, " "For wounding a companion'sfeelings"--each had its separate forfeiture. "For addressing the manageron business outside of his office, " I remember, was considered worth onedollar for a first offence and more for a second. Most of these rulesended with, "Or discharge at the option of the manager. " But it was wellknown that the mortal offence was the breaking that rule whose veryfirst forfeit was five dollars, "Or discharge at the option of, " etc. , that rule forbidding the giving to outsiders of any stage informationwhatever; touching the plays in rehearsal, their names, scenes, length, strength, or story; and to all these many rules on the backs of ourcontracts we assented and subscribed our amused or amazed selves. 

When the new French play "L'Article 47" was announced, the title arousedany amount of curiosity. A reporter after a matinee one day followed meup the avenue, trying hard to get me to explain its meaning; but I wasanxious not to be "discharged at the option of the manager, " anddeclined to explain. Many of the company received notes asking themeaning of the title. At Mr. Le Moyne's house there boarded a walkinginterrogation-point of a woman. She wished to know what "L'Article 47"meant; she would know. She tried Mr. Harkins; Mr. Harkins said he didn'tknow. She tossed her head and tried Mr. Crisp; Mr. Crisp patiently andelaborately explained just why he could not give any information. Sheimplied that he did not know a lady when he saw one, and fell upon Mr. Le Moyne, tired, hungry, suavely sardonic. "_He_ was, " she assured him, "a gentleman of the old school. _He_ would know how to receive a lady'srequest and honour it. " And Le Moyne rose to the occasion. A largebenevolence sat upon his brow, as assuring her that, though he ran therisk of discharge for her fair sake, yet should she have her will. Heasked if she had ever seen a Daly contract. The bridling, simperingidiot replied, "She had seen several, and such numbers of silly rulesshe had never seen before, and--"

"That's it, " blandly broke in Le Moyne, "there's the explanation of thewhole thing--see? 'L' Article 47' is a five-act dramatization of the47th rule of Daly's contract. "

"Did you ever?" gasped the woman. 

"No, " said Le Moyne, reaching for bread, "I never did; but Daly's up toanything, and he'd discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear ofthis. "

It was almost impossible to get Mr. Daly to laugh at an actor's joke; hewas too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object ofthe jest. But he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetratedon me by this same Le Moyne. 

On the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of "Divorce" I had"stuck dead, " as the saying is. Not a word could I find of my speech. Iwas cold--hot--cold again. I clutched Mrs. Gilbert's hand. I whisperedfrantically: "What is it? Oh! what is the word?" But horror on horror, in my fall I had dragged her down with me. She, too, wasbewildered--lost. "I don't know, " she murmured. There we were, all atsea. After an awful wait I walked over and asked Captain Lynde (LouisJames) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. I wasangry--shamed. I had never stuck in all my life before, not even in mylittle girl days. Mr. Daly was, of course, in front. He came rushingback to inquire, to scold. Every one joked me about my probablefive-dollar forfeit. Well, next night came, and at that exact line I didit again. Of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but itwas humiliating in the extreme. Mr. Daly, it happened, was attending anopening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. Thencame Le Moyne to me--big and grave and kind, his plump face with theshiny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration. He led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:--

[Illustration: _W. J. Le Moyne_]

"You stuck again, didn't you, Clara? Too bad! too bad! and of course youapprehend trouble with Daly? I'm awfully sorry. Ten dollars is such ahaul on one week's salary. But see here, I've got an idea that will helpyou out, if you care to listen to it. "

I looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of brass; hisbenevolence was touching. I said eagerly: "Yes, I do care indeed tolisten. What is the idea?"

He beamed with affectionate interest, as he said impressively, "Well, now you know that a bad 'stick' generally costs five dollars in thistheatre?"

"Yes, " I groaned. 

"And you stuck awfully last night?"

"Yes, " I admitted. 

"Then to-night you go and repeat the offence. But here is where I seehope for you. Daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done. Watch then for his coming. This play is so long he will be here beforeit's over. Go to his private office at once. Get ahead of every oneelse; do you understand? Approach him affably and frankly. Tell himyourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him_the two 'sticks' for eight dollars_. If he's a gentleman and not a Jew, he'll accept your proposal. "

Just what remarks I made to my sympathetic friend Le Moyne at the end ofthat speech I cannot now recall. If any one else can, I can only say Iwas not a church member then, and let it pass at that. But when I openedmy envelope next salary day and saw my full week's earnings there, Iwent to Mr. Daly's office and told him of my two "sticks" and of LeMoyne's proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor's joke. 

_CHAPTER XXII

POOR SEMANTHA_

It has happened to every one of us, I don't know why, but every mother'sson or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habituallyreferred to some acquaintance or friend as "poor So-and-So"; and thecurious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why orwherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financiallyat least, "poor So-and-So" is better off than the person who is doingthe "pooring. " Nor is "poor So-and-So" always sick or sorrowful, stupidor ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace ofcontempt in that word "poor" when applied to an acquaintance? A veryslight trace, of course, --we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do notslice it into our salad. So when we call a friend "poor So-and-So, "consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection theslight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could I, right to hermerry, laughing face, have called this girl poor Semantha?

I had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so wasI; she was in the ballet, so was I. True, I had already had heads noddedsagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, "Thatgirl's going to do something yet, " and all because I had gone on aloneand spoken a few lines loudly and clearly, and had gone off again, without leaving the audience impressed with the idea that they hadwitnessed the last agonized and dying breath of a girl killed by fright. I had that much advantage, but we both drew the same amount of salaryper week, --five very torn and very dirty one-dollar bills. Of coursethere could have been no rule nor reason for it, but it had so happenedthat all the young women of the ballet--there were four--received theirsalary in one-dollar bills. However, I was saying that we, the ballet, dressed together at that time, and poor Semantha first attracted myattention by her almost too great willingness to use my toilet soap, instead of the common brown washing soap she had brought with her. Atsome past time this soap must have been of the shape and size of abuilding brick, but now it resembled a small dumb-bell, so worn was itsmiddle, so nobby its ends. Then, too, my pins were, to all intents andpurposes, her pins; my hair-pins her hair-pins; while worst of all, myprecious, real-for-true French rouge was _her_ rouge. 

At that point I came near speaking, because poor Semantha was notartistic in her make-up, and she painted not only her cheeks but hereyes, her temples, her jaws, and quite a good sample of each side ofher neck. But just as I would be about to speak, I would bethink me ofthose nights when, in the interest of art, I had to be hooked up behind, and I would hold my peace. 

On the artistic occasions alluded to, I hooked Semantha up the back, andthen Semantha hooked up my back. Ah, what a comfort was that girl; as ahooker-up of waists she was perfection. No taking hold of the two sidesof the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as ifthe Vendôme column was about to be overthrown. No hooking of two-thirdsof the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking thatthere was a little mistake at the top hook. No putting of thumbs to themouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort andpinching. Ah, no! Semantha smiled, --she generally did that, --turned youswiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were, fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook tothe top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swiftsmooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew yourback was a joy until the act was over. 

That was all I had known of Semantha. Probably it was all I ever shouldhave known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from thetheatre for a time, during which absence Semantha made the discoverywhich was to bring her nearer to me. 

Finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, Semanthawith smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for apin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her twocompanions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, "You may take a fewof my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again. "

While she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion, with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became sodeservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily: "No, you don't! Don't youtouch anything of mine! You can't sponge on me as you do on Clara!"

Now Semantha was a German, as we were apt to find out if ever she grewexcited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her, she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fullyunderstood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there shestood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated, "Spoonge? spoonge? w'at is that spoonge?" And received for answer, "_What is_ it? why, it's stealing. " Semantha gave a cry. "Yes, "continued the straightforward one, "it's stealing without secrecy;that's what sponging is. "

Poor Semantha--astonished, insulted, frightened--turned her quiveringface to the other girl and passionately cried, "Und she, my FräuleinClara, tink she dat I steal of her?"

Then for the first time, and I honestly believe the last time in herlife, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose tothe occasion--God bless her--and answered stoutly, "No, Clara neverthought you were stealing. "

So it happened that when I returned to work, and Semantha's excited andvery German welcome had been given, I noticed a change in her. When myeyes met hers, instead of smiling instantly and broadly at me, her eyessank to the ground and her face flushed painfully. At last we were leftalone for a few moments. Quick as a flash, Semantha shut the door andbolted it with the scissors. Then she faced me; but what a strange, newSemantha it was! Her head was down, her eyes were down, her very bodyseemed to droop. Never had I seen a human look so like a beaten dog. Shecame quite close, both hands hanging heavily at her sides, and in alow, hurried tone she began: "Clara, now Clara, now see, I've been usenyour soap--ach, it smells so goot!--nearly all der time!"--"Why, " Ibroke in, "you were welcome!"

But she stopped me roughly with one word, "Wait, " and then she went on. "Und der pins--why, I can't no more count. Und der hair-pins, und derpaint, " (her voice was rising now), "oh, der lofely soft pink paint! undI used dem, I used 'em all. Und I never t'ought you had to pay for demall. You see, I be so green, fräulein, I dun know no manners, und I did, I did use dem, I know I did; but, so help me, I didn't mean to spoonge, und by Gott I didn't shteal!"

I caught her hands, they were wildly beating at the air then, and said, "I know it, Semantha, my poor Semantha, I know it. "

She looked me brightly in the eyes and answered: "You do? you _truly_know dat?" gave a great sigh, and added with a fervour I fear Iill-appreciated, "Oh, I hope you vill go to heaven!" then quicklyqualified it, "dat is, dat I don't mean right avay, dis minute--only venyou can't keep avay any longer!"

Then she sprang to her dress hanging on the hook, and after strugglingamong the roots of her pocket, found the opening, and with triumphbreathing from every feature of her face, she brought forth a smallwhite cube, and cried out, "Youst you look at dat!"

I did; it seemed of a stony structure, white with a chill thin line ofpink wandering forlornly through or on it (I am sure nothing could gothrough it); but the worst thing about it was the strange and evil smellemanating from it. And this evil, white, hard thing had been purchasedfrom a pedler under the name of soap, fine shaving or toilet soap, andnow Semantha was delightedly offering it to me, to use every night, andI with immense fervour promised I would use it, just as soon as my ownwas gone; and I mentally registered a solemn vow that the shadow of mysoap should never grow less. 

I soon discovered that poor Semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spiteof her faint German accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in herconversation, she was ambitious. One night we had been called on to "goon" as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poorSemantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that itwas a pleasure to look at her. She was such a contrast to the twoothers. One had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of herface was enough to take all the dance out of one's feet. With frowningbrows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures withsuch fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardlyhelp hoping she _would_ make a mistake and take the consequences. Theother, --the woolly-brained young person, --having absolutely no ear formusic or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through thechorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody's feet, through thedance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaningcalf. 

When we were in our room, I told Semantha how well she had sung anddanced, and her face was radiant with delight. Then becoming very grave, she said: "Oh, fräulein, how I vant to be an actor! Not a common van, but" and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast--"Ivant to be a big actor. Don' you tink I can ever be von--eh?"

And looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, Ianswered, "I think it is very likely, " Poor Semantha! we were to recallthose simple remarks, later on. 

Christmas being near, I was very busy working between acts uponsomething intended for a present to my mother. This work was greatlyadmired by all the girls; but never shall I forget the astonishment ofpoor Semantha when she learned for whom it was intended. 

"Your mutter lets you love her yet--you would dare?" And as I only gazeddumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, "Mymutter hasn't let me love her since--since I vas big enough to beknocked over. "

Through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, whoknew her family, I learned something of poor Semantha's private life. Poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyesupon the wrong side of life, --the seamy side, --and her own personalshare of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden brownsand greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliantcolour, --the theatre. Of the pure tints of sky and field and waterywaste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing. But what of that! had shenot secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be addedto, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life?

Semantha's father was dead; her mother was living--worse luck. For hadshe been but a memory, Semantha would have been free to love andreverence that memory, and it might have been as a very strong staff tosupport her timid steps in rough and dangerous places. But alas! shelived and was no staff to lean upon; but was, instead, an ever presentrod of punishment. She was a harmful woman, a destroyer of youngtempers, a hardener of young hearts. Many a woman of quick, short temperhas a kind heart; while even the sullenly sulky woman generally has afew rich, sweet drops of the milk of human kindness, which she iswilling to bestow upon her own immediate belongings. But Semantha'smother was not of these. How, one might ask, had this wretch obtainedtwo good husbands? Yes, Semantha had a stepfather, and the only excusefor the suicidal marriage act as performed by these two victims was thatthe woman was well enough to look upon--a trim, bright-eyed, browncreature with the mark of the beast well hidden from view. 

When Semantha, who was her first born, too, came home with gifts andmoney in her hands, her mother received her with frowning brows andsullen, silent lips. When the child came home with empty hands, and gaveonly cheerfully performed hard manual labour, she was received withfierce eyes, cruel rankling words, and many a cut and heavy blow, andwas often thrust from the house itself, because 'twas known the girl wasafraid of darkness. 

[Illustration: _Clara Morris before coming to Daly's Theatre in 1870_]

Her stepfather then would secretly let her in, though sometimes shedared go no farther than the shed, and there she would sit the wholenight through, in all the helpless agony of fright. But all this was asnothing compared to the cruelty she had yet to meet out to poorSemantha, whose greatest fault seemed to be her intense longing for someone to love. Her mother _would not_ be loved, her own father had wiselygiven the whole thing up, her step-father _dared_ not be loved. So, whenthe second family began to materialize, Semantha's joy knew no bounds. What a welcome she gave each newcomer! How she worked and walked andcooed and sang and made herself an humble bond-maiden before them. Andthey loved her and cried to her, and bit hard upon her needle stabbedforefinger with their first wee, white, triumphant teeth, and for just alittle, little time poor Semantha was not poor, but very rich indeed. And that strange creature, who had brought them all into the world, looked on and saw the love and smiled a nasty smile; and Semantha sawthe smile, and her heart quaked, as well it might. For so soon as theselittle men could stand firmly on their sturdy German legs, their gentlemother taught them, deliberately taught them, to call their sisternames, the meaning being as naught to them, but enough to break asister's heart. To jeer at and disobey her, so that they became a pairof burly little monsters, who laughed loud, affected laughter at theword "love, " and swore with many long-syllabled German oaths that theywould kick with their copper-toes any one who tried to kiss them. Ah!when you find a fiercely violent temper allied to a stone-cold heart, offer you up an earnest prayer to Him for the safety of the souls comingunder the dominion and the power of that woman. 

I recall one action of Semantha's that goes far, I think, to prove whata brave and loyal heart the untaught German girl possessed. She was verysensitive to ridicule, and when people made fun of her, though she wouldlaugh good-humouredly, many times she had to keep her eyes down to hidethe brimming tears. Now her stepfathers name was a funny one to Americanears, and always provoked a laugh, while her own family name was notfunny. Yet because the man had shown her a little timid kindness, shefaithfully bore his name, and through storms of jeering laughter, clearto the dismal end, she called herself Semantha Waacker. 

Once we spoke of it, and she exclaimed in her excited way: "Yes, I amalvays Waacker. Why not, ven he is so goot? Why, why, dat man, dat vaterWaacker, he have kissed me two time already. Vunce here" (placing herfinger on a vicious scar upon her check), "von de mutter cut me bad, undvun odder time, ven I come very sick. Und de mutter seen him in deglass, und first she break dat glass, und den she stand and smile alittle, und for days und days, when somebody be about, my mutter put outde lips und make sounds like kisses, so as to shame de vater beforeeverybody. Oh, yes, let 'em laugh; he kiss me, und I stay SemanthaWaacker. "

The unfortunate man's occupation was also something that provokedlaughter, when one first heard of it; but as Semantha herself was myinformant, and I had grown to care for her, I managed by a great effortto keep my face serious. How deeply this fact impressed her, I was tolearn later on. 

Christmas had come, and I was in high glee. I had many gifts, simple andinexpensive most of them, but they were perfectly satisfactory to me. Mydressing-room mates had remembered me, too, in the most characteristicfashion. The pretty, woolly-brained girl had with smiling satisfactionpresented me with a curious structure of perforated cardboard and giltpaper, intended to catch flies. Its fragility may be imagined from thefact that it broke twice before I got it back into its box; still therewas, I am sure, not another girl in Cleveland who could have found forsale a fly-trap at Christmas time. 

The straightforward one had presented me with an expensively repellentgift in the form of a brown earthenware jug, a cross between a Mexicanidol and a pitcher. A hideous thing, calculated to frighten children orsober drunken men. I know I should have nearly died of thirst before Icould have forced myself to swallow a drop of liquid coming from thathorrible interior. 

Semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on beforeshe caught me alone, out in a dark passageway. Then she began as shealways did when excited, with: "Clara, now Clara, you know I told myvater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvayssay--not'ing. Dat day I come tell you vat his work vas, I vent home undI say, 'Vater Waacker, I told my fräulein you made your livin' in detombstone yard, ' und he say, quvick like, 'Vell, '--you know my vater nospeak ver goot English" (Semantha's own English was weakeningfast), --"'vell, I s'pose she make some big fool laugh, den, likeeverybodies, eh?' Und I say, 'No, she don't laugh! de lips curdle alittle'" (curdle was Semantha's own word for tremble or quiver. If sheshivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), "'but she don't laugh, und she say, "It vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, 'cause it mustbe satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody's tombstone. "'"

"Oh, Semantha!" I cried, "why did you tell him that?"

"But vy not?" asked the girl, innocently. "Und he look at me hard, undhis mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, piglaughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, 'Mein Gott! mein Gott!satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody's tombstones--_some_body's. Und shedon't laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh? Vell, vell! dat fräulein she tinkssometings! Say, Semantha, don't it dat you like a Kriss-Krihgle presentto make to her, eh?' Und I say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoesfor all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left. Und he shlap me myback, une! say, 'Never mindt, I'll make him, ' und so he did, und hereit is, " thrusting some small object into my hand. "Und if you laugh, fräulein, I tink I die, 'cause it is so mean und little. "

Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder andrushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the darkwith "it" in my hand. Poor Semantha! "it" lies here now, after all theseyears; but where are you, Semantha? Are you still dragging heavilythrough life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts arehungry never more, but filled with love divine?

"It" is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectlycarved to imitate a tiny Bible. A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but tomine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in mypossession, a far older one, which cost a human life. 

Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again. For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing. Then she became curiously absent-minded. She would stop sometimes in themidst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixedeyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediatesurroundings. Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might bemaking. Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from thetheatre door with her. The night was bad, too, but I noticed that shecarried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in hispocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her. 

And then one night Semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since sheusually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in lifeto her. We were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was therewas no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. Herface was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shockedtone, "You must be awful sick!"

But Semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answeredslowly and dully, "I'm not sick. "

"Not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?"

"I'm not sick, I'm going avay. "

Just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to takeour places. We wore pages' dresses, and as we went Semantha stood in thedoorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes--shedid so love a page's costume. 

When we were "off" we hastened back to our dressing room. Semantha wasstill there. She moved stiffly about, packing together her fewbelongings; but her manner silenced us. She had taken everything else, when her eyes fell upon a remnant of that evil-smelling soap. She pauseda bit, then in that same slow way she said, "You never, never used thatsoap after all, Clara?" and when I answered: "Oh, yes, I have. I've usedit several times, " she put her hand out quickly, and took the thing, andslipped it into her pocket, and then she stood a moment and lookedabout; and if ever anguish grew in human eyes, it slowly grew in hers. Her face was pale before; it was white now. 

At last her eyes met mine, then a sudden tremor crossed her face frombrow to chin, a piteous slow smile crept around her lips, and in thatdull and hopeless tone she said, "You see, my fräulein, I'll never be abig actor after all, " and turned her back upon me, and slowly left theroom and the theatre, without one kiss or handshake, even from me. AndI, who knew her, did not guess why. She went out of my life forever, stepping down to that lower world of which I had only heard, but byGod's mercy did not know. 

That same sad night a group of men, close-guarded, travelled toColumbus, that city of great prisons and asylums, and one of thoseguarded men was poor Semantha's lover, alas! her convicted lover now;and she, having cast from her her proudest hope, her high ambition, trusting a little in his innocence, trusting entirely in his love, nowfollowed him steadily to the prison's very gate. 

After this came a long silence. One girl had fallen from our ranks, butwhat of that? Another girl had taken her place. We were still four, marching on, --eyes front, step firm and regular, --ready when the quickorder came quickly to obey. There could be no halt, no turning back tothe help of the figure already growing dim, of one who had fallen by thewayside. 

After a time rumours came to us, at first faint and vague--uncertain, then more distinct--more dreadful! And the stronger the rumours grew, the lower were the voices with which we discussed them; since we wereyoung, and vice was strange to us, and we were being forced to believethat she who had so recently been our companion was now--was--well, tobe brief, she wore her rouge in daylight now upon the public street. 

Poor, poor Semantha! They were playing "Hamlet, " the night of the worstand strongest rumour, and as I heard Ophelia assuring one of her noblefriends or relatives:--

 "You may wear your rue with a difference, "

I could not help saying to myself that "rue" was not the only thing thatcould be so treated, since we all had rouge upon our cheeks; yetSemantha--ah, God forgive her--wore her rouge with a difference. 

A little longer and we were all in Columbus, where a portion of eachseason was passed, our manager keeping his company there during thesitting of the legislature. We had secured boarding-houses, --the memoryof mine will never die, --and in fact our round bodies were beginning tofit themselves to the square holes they were expected to fill for thenext few weeks, when we found ourselves sneezing and coughing our waythrough that spirit-crushing thing they call a "February thaw. "Rehearsal had been long, and I was tired. I had quite a distance towalk, and my mind was full of professional woe. Here was I, a balletgirl who had taken a cold whose proportions simply towered over thatnursed by the leading lady's self; and as I slipped and slid slushilyhomeward, I asked myself angrily what a fairy was to do with ahandkerchief, --and in heaven's name, what was that fairy to do withoutone. The dresses worn by fairies--theatrical, of course--in those dayswould seem something like a fairy mother-hubbard now, at all events ahome toilet of some sort, so very proper were they; but even so therewas no provision made for handkerchiefs, no thought apparently thatstage fairies might have colds in their star-crowned heads. 

So as my wet skirt viciously slapped my icy ankles, I almost tearfullydeclared to myself I would have to have a handkerchief, even though itwore pinned to my wings, only who on earth could get it off in time forme to use? Now if poor Semantha were only--and there I stopped, my eyes, my mind, fixed upon a woman a little way ahead of me, who stood staringin a window. Her figure drooped as though she were weary or very, verysad, and I said to myself, "I don't know what you are looking at, but I_do_ know it's something you want awfully, " and just then she turned andfaced me. My heart gave a plunge against my side. I knew her. Onewoman's glance, lightning-quick, mathematically true, and I had herphotograph--the last, the very last I ever took of poor Semantha. 

As her eyes met mine, they opened wide and bright. The rosy colourflushed into her face, her lips smiled. She gave a little forwardmovement, then before I had completed calling out her name, like a flashshe changed, her brows were knit, her lips close-pressed, and all herface, save for the shameful red sign on her cheeks, was very white. Istood quite still--not so, she. She walked stiffly by, till on the veryline with me she shot out one swift, sidelong glance and slightly shookher head; yet as she passed I clearly heard that grievous sound thatcoming from a woman's throat tells of a swallowed sob. 

Still I stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of waterypool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first cornerdisappeared, but never turned her head. As she had left me first withoutgood-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by withoutfarewell. And I, who knew her, understood at last the reason why. Poorwounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasurerather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as aballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend. 

At last I turned to go. As I came to the window into which Semantha hadso lovingly been gazing, I looked in too, and saw a window full of fine, thick underwear for men. 

Two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before I heard once more, andfor the last time, of poor Semantha. I was again in Columbus for a shorttime, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens. Whenever I could catch this man at home, I took pains to make him talk, and he told me many interesting tales. They were scarcely of a nature tobe repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, ifyou wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, andone day the talk was of odd names, --his own was funny, --and at last hementioned Semantha's. Of course I was alert, of course I questionedhim--how often I have wished I had not. For the tale he told was sad. Nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is "battle, murder, andsudden death, " from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to bedelivered. Ah! his tale was sad if common. 

It seemed that when Semantha followed that treacherous young brute, herconvicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, soshe could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worsein his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums tospend upon extras for him. He grumbled loudly, and she was torn withloving pity. Then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness, and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and thesmall comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairlybroke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of histobacco. 

The hospital sheltered Semantha as long as the rules permitted, butwhen she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she creptslowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her, calling her Mamie Someone, and then apologized for her mistake. Next sheasked a question or two, and ended by telling Semantha she was the verygirl she wanted--to come with her. She could rest for a few days at herhome, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay, and--oh! did I not tell you it was a common tale?

But when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what shehad discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her staythere, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished uponhim. 

By a little sickness and a great deal of fraud the wretch got himselfinto the prison hospital for a time, and there my informant learned toknow the pair quite well. She not only loved him passionately, but shehad for all his faults of selfishness and general ugliness the tenderpatience of a mother. And he traded upon her loving pity by pretendinghe could obtain the privilege of this or immunity from that if he hadonly so many dollars to give to the guard or keeper. And she, poorloving fool, hastened a few steps farther down the road of shame toobtain for him the money, receiving in return perhaps a rough caress ortwo that brought the sunshine to her heart and joy into her eyes. 

His term of imprisonment was nearly over, and Semantha was preparing forhis coming freedom. His demands seemed unending. His hat would beold-fashioned, and his boots and his undergarments were old, etc. Thenhe wanted her to have two tickets for Bellefontaine ready, that theymight leave Columbus at once, and Semantha was excited and worried. "Oneday, " said the warden, "she asked to see me for a moment, and Iexclaimed at sight of her, 'What is it that's happened?'

"Her face was fairly radiant with joy, and she shook all over. It seemedas though she could not speak at first, and then she burst forth, 'Mr. S----, now Mr. S----, you don't much like my poor boy, but joust tinknow how goot he is! Ach, Gott, he tells me ven all der tings are got, und de tickets too, have I some money left I shall buy a ring, undthen, '--she clutched my arm with both her hands, and dropped her headforward on them, as she continued in a stifled voice, --und then we go toa minister and straight we get married. '

"And, " continued Mr. S----, "as I looked at her I caught myself wishingshe were dead, that she might escape the misery awaiting her. 

"At last the day came. Her lover and a pal of his went out together. Faithful Semantha was awaiting him, and was not pleased at the pal'spresence, and was more distressed still when her lover refused to go tothe shelter she had prepared for him, in which he was to don his newfinery, but insisted upon going with his friend. Semantha yielded, ofcourse, and on the way her lover laughed and jested--asked for thetickets, then the ring, and putting on the latter declared that he wasmarried to _her_ now, and would wear the ring until they saw the'Bible-sharp, ' and then she should be married to _him_; and Semanthabrightened up again and was happy. 

"They came at last to the house they sought. It was a low kind ofneighbourhood, had a deserted look, and was next door to a saloon. Thepal said there were no women in the house, and Semantha had better notcome in. The lover bade her wait, and they went in and closed the door, and left the girl outside. There she waited such a weary time, then atlast she rang--quite timidly at first, then louder, faster, too, and ascowling fellow from the saloon told her that the house was empty. Sherang wildly then, until he threatened a policeman. Then she ceased, butwalked round to the back and found its rear connected with a stableyard. She came back again, dazed and white, her hand pressed to herheart, and as she stood there a lad who hung about the prison grounds agood deal, did odd jobs or held a horse now and then, and who knewSemantha well, came along and cried out, 'I say, why didn't you go withyer feller and his pal?'

"'She didn't say nary a word, ' said the boy, 'she didn't say nary aword, but pushed her head out and looked at me till her eyes glared sameas a cat's, and I says: "Why, I seed 'em ketch the 4. 30 train toBellefontaine! They had to run and jump to do it, but they didn't scarea darn, they just laughed and laughed. " And, Boss, something like atremble, but most like my dog when I beats him, and I have the stick upto hit him again, and not a word did she say, but just stood as stillas still after that doglike tremble went away. I got muddled, and atlast I says, "Semantha, hav' yer got no sponds?" She didn't seem to seeme no more, nor hear me, and I goes on louder like, "Say, Semantha!where yer goin' to? what yer goin' ter do now?" and, Boss, she done thetoughest thing I ever seen. She jes' slowly lifted up her hands andlooked at 'em, looked good and long, like they were strange to her, andthen jes' as slow she turns 'em over, they were bare and empty, and thepalms was up, and she spreads the fingers wide apart and moves 'em abit, and then without raisin' up her eyes, she jes' smiles a littleslow, slow smile. 

"'And then she turned 'round and walked away without nary a word at all;but, Boss, her shoulders sagged down, and her head kind of trembled, andshe dragged her feet along jes' like an old, old woman, what was tootired to live. I was skeered like, and thought I'd come here and tellyou, but I looked back to watch her. 'Twas almost dark then, and whenshe came to the crossin', the wind was blowin' so she could hardlystand, but she stopped awhile and looked down one street, then shelooked down the other street, and then she lifts up her face right tothe sky the longest time of all, and so I looks up ter see was ther'anything there; but ther' wasn't nothin' but them dirty, low-hangin'clouds as looks so rainy and so lonesome. And then right of a suddentshe gives a scream; but no, not a scream, a groan and a scream together. It made my blood turn cold, I tell yer; and she trows both her emptyhands out from her, and says as plain as I do now, Boss, "My God, it istoo much! I cannot, cannot bear it!" Then she draw'd herself up quitetall, shut her hands tight before her, and walked as fast as feet couldcarry her straight toward the river. '"

And that was the last that he, my friend, had ever heard of poorSemantha. I tried to dry my falling tears, but he dried them moreeffectually by remarking:--

"Yes, she was a bright, promising, true-hearted girl; but you see shewent wrong, and the sinner has to pay both here and hereafter. "

"Don't, " I hotly cried. "Don't go on! don't! Sin? sin? Don't hurl thatword at her, the embodiment of self-sacrifice! Sin? where there is nolaw, there can be no sin. And who had taught her anything? She was aheathen. So far as one person can be the cause of another person'swrong-doing, so far was Semantha's mother the guilty cause of Semantha'sloving fall. She was a heathen. She had been taught just one law--thatshe was always to serve other people. That law she truly kept unto theend. Of that great book, the Bible, closely packed with all sustainingpromises, she knew naught. I tell you the only Bible she ever heldwithin her hand was that mimic one of marble her father carved for me. She was a heathen. Of that all-enduring One--'chief among ten thousandand altogether lovely, ' for whom there was no thing too small to love, no sin too great to pardon--she knew nothing. Even that woman who withwide-open, lustrous eyes had boldly broken every law human and divine, yet was forgiven her uncounted sins, because of her loving faith andtrue repentance, Semantha knew not of, nor of repentance nor itsnecessity, nor its power. 

"Let her alone! I say, she was a heathen. But even so, God made her. Godplaced her; and if she fell by the wayside in ignorance, she _did not_fall from the knowledge of her Maker. "