Mr. Roberts Refers to Me as "That Young Woman," to My Great Joy—I Issue the "Clara Code"—I Receive my First Offer of Marriage.
My mother, moved at last by my highly colored accounts of the humiliations brought upon me by the shortness of my skirts, consented to their lengthening, and though I knew she had meant them to stop at my shoe-tops, I basely allowed a misunderstanding to arise with the dress-maker, through which my new dress came home the full length of the grown-ups, and though my conscience worried me a bit, I still snatched a fearful joy from my stolen dignity, and many a day I walked clear up to Superior Street that I might slowly pass the big show-windows and enjoy the reflection therein of my long dress-skirt. Of course I could not continue to wear my hair à la pigtail, and that went up in the then fashionable chignon.
Few circumstances in my life have given me such unalloyed satisfaction as did my first proposal of marriage. I should, however, be more exact if I spoke of an "attempted proposal," for it was not merely interrupted, but was simply mangled out of all likeness to sentiment or romance. The party of the first part in this case was Mr. Frank Murdoch, who later on became the author of "Davy Crockett," the play that did so much toward the making and the unmaking of the reputation of that brilliant actor, the late Frank Mayo. He was the adoring elder brother of that successful young Harry Murdoch who was to meet such an awful fate in the Brooklyn Theatre fire. Neither of them, by the way, were born to the name of Murdoch; they were the sons of James E.'s sister, and when, in spite of his advice and warning, they decided to become actors, they added insult to injury, as it were, by demanding of him the use of his name—their own being a particularly unattractive one for a play-bill. He let them plead long and hard before he yielded and allowed them to take for life the name of Murdoch—which as a trade-mark, and quite aside from sentiment, had a real commercial value to these young fellows who had yet to prove their individual personal worth.
Frank was very young—indeed, our united ages would have barely reached thirty-six. He had good height, a good figure, and an air of gentle breeding; otherwise he was unattractive, and yet he bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, James Murdoch, who had a fine head and most regular features. But through some caprice of nature in the nephew those same features received a touch of exaggeration here, or a slight twist there, with the odd result of keeping the resemblance to the uncle intact, while losing all his beauty. Frank had a quixotic sense of honor and a warm and generous heart, but being extremely sensitive as to his personal defects he was often led into bursts of temper, during which he frequently indulged in the most childish follies. These outbreaks were always brief, and ever followed by deep contrition, so that he was generally regarded as a very clever, spoiled child.
Poor boy! his life was as sad as it was short. There may be few who remember him now, but a woman never forgets the man who first pays a compliment to her eyes, nor can I forget the first man who handed me a chair and opened and closed doors for me, just as for any grown-up.
He joined the company in about the middle of that season in which I acted principally as utility man. He was to play singing parts and young lovers, and, to his amusement, I criticized his reading of one of Cassio's speeches. Our wrangle over Shakespeare made friends of us at once. He had a veritable passion for poetry, and with me he felt free to bring out his beautiful hobby to mount and ride and ride, with some of the great poets up behind and me for applauding audience. When he wanted me to know some special poem he bought it for me if he could; but if he was short of money, he carefully copied out its every line, tied the manuscript neatly up with ribbon, and presented the poem in that form. I came across a copy of "Maud Muller" the other day in Frank's clear, even handwriting. The paper was yellow, the ribbon faded. Frank is gone, Whittier is gone, but "Maud Muller" lives on in her immortal youth and pain.
But the morning when he first brought and offered me a chair was nothing less than an epoch in my life. At first I regarded the act as an aspersion on my strength—a doubt cast upon my ability to obtain a seat for myself. Then, as I glanced frowningly into his face, I suddenly realized that it was meant as a mark of consideration—the courtesy a man shows a woman. A glow of satisfaction spread through my being. I hated to rise, I was so afraid the thing might never happen to me again. I need not have worried, however, as I was soon to receive a more impressive proof of his consideration for my welfare.
One of the most unpleasant experiences in the life of a young actress is her frightened lonely rush through the city streets at twelve o'clock at night to reach her boarding-house and claim sanctuary. I doubt if even a Una and her lion could pass unmolested through those streets dotted with all-night "free and easys," where, by the way, nothing is free but the poisonous air, and nothing easy but the language. At all events from my own varied and unpleasant experiences, and from the stories of others, I had first drawn certain deductions, then I had proceeded to establish certain rules for the guidance and direction of any girl who was so unfortunate as to be forced to walk abroad unattended at night. These rules became known as "Clara's Code," and were highly approved, especially by those girls who "couldn't think," as they declared, but stood stock-still, "too frightened to move," when some wanderer of the night unceremoniously addressed them.
I cannot remember all those rules now, since for these many years God has granted me a protector, but from the few I can recall I am convinced that their principal object was to gain plenty of leeway for the persecuted girl's escape. No. 3 sternly forbade her ever, ever to pass between two advancing men—at night, of course, be it understood—lest they might seize hold of and so frighten her to death. She was advised never to permit herself to take the inside of the walk when meeting a stranger, who might thus crowd her against the house and cut off her chance to run. Never to pass the opening to an alley-way without placing the entire width of the walk between her and it, and always to keep her eyes on it as she crossed. Never to let any man pass her from behind on the outside was insisted on, indeed she should take to the street itself first. She was not to answer a drunken man, no matter what might be the nature of his speech. She was not to scream—if she could help it—for fear of public humiliation, but if the worst came and some hideous prowler of the night passed from speech to actual attack, then she was to forget her ladyhood and remembering only the tenderness of the male shin and her right of self-defence, to kick like a colt till help came or she was released.
Other portions of the code I have forgotten, but I do distinctly remember that it wound up with the really Hoyle-like observation, "When in doubt, take to the centre of the street."
We all know the magic power of the moonlight—have seen it transmute the commonest ugliness into perfect beauty and change a world-worn woman into the veriest lily-maid, but how few know the dread power exerted over man by the street gaslight after midnight. The kindest old drake of the farm-pond, the most pompously harmless gobbler of the buckwheat-field becomes a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. A man who would shoot for being called a blackguard between seven o'clock in the morning and twelve at night, often becomes one after midnight. It is frequently said that "words break no bones," but let a young girl pass alone through the city streets a few nights and she will probably hear words that, drowning her in shamed blushes, will go far toward breaking her pride, if not her bones. Men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin—they so narrowly escape being gods, and they so much more narrowly escape being animals. Under the sunlight, man, made in the image of God, lifts his face heavenward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of midnight he is stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction! You think I exaggerate the matter? Do not; I speak from experience. And, what is more, at that time I had not yet learned what the streets of New York could produce after midnight.
But on the night after the chair episode, Frank Murdoch heard one of the girls say she had used the Clara Code very successfully the night before, when two drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have collided with her had she not followed the rule and kept the whole sidewalk between them. He stood at the door as I came down-stairs, and as soon as I reached him he asked, sharply: "Do you go home alone of nights?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Good God!" he muttered.
After a pause I looked up at him, and met his eyes shining wet and blue through two tears. "Oh," I hastily added, "there's nothing to be afraid of."
"I wish I could agree with you," he answered. "Tell me," he went on, "have you ever been annoyed by anyone?"
My eyes fell, I knew I was growing red.
"Good God!" he said again, then, suddenly, he ordered: "Give me that bag—you'll not go through these streets alone again while I am here! Never mind the distance. I don't see why you can't take my arm."
And thus I found myself for the first time escorted by a gentleman, and after my hot embarrassment wore off a bit, I held my head very high and languidly allowed my skirt to trail in the dust, and said to myself: "This is like a real grown-up—surely they can't call me 'child' much longer now."
The star playing with us just then was a tragedian, but he was a very little man, whose air of alertness, even of aggressiveness, had won for him the title of "Cocky" Roberts. He wore enormously high heels, he had thick cork soles on the outside and thick extra soles on the inside of all his boots and shoes. His wigs were slightly padded at their tops—everything possible was done for a gain in height, while all the time he was sputtering and swearing at what he called "this cursed cult of legs!"
"Look at 'em!" he snorted—for he did snort like a horse when he was angry, as he often was, at the theatre at least. "Look at 'em, Ellsler; there's Murdoch, Proctor, Davenport, all gone to legs, damn 'em, and calling themselves actors! You don't look for brains in a man's legs, do you? No! no! it's the cranium that tells! Yes, blast 'em! Let 'em come here and match craniums with me, that they think it smart to call 'Cocky'! They're a lot of theatrical tongs—all legs and no heads!"
And yet the poor, fuming little man, with his exaggerated strut, would have given anything short of his life, to have added even a few inches to his anatomy, the brevity of which was quite forgotten by the public when he gave his really brilliant and pathetic performance of "Belphegor," one of the earliest of the so-called "emotional" plays.
I have a very kindly remembrance of that fretful little star, because when they were discussing the cast of a play, one of those tormenting parts turned up that are of great importance to the piece, but of no importance themselves. Capable actresses refuse to play them, and incapable ones create havoc in them. This one had already been refused, when Mr. Roberts suddenly exclaimed: "Who was it made those announcements last night? She spoke with beautiful distinctness; let that young woman have the part, she'll do it all right."
Oh, dear Mr. Roberts! never "Cocky" to me! Oh, wise little judge! how I did honor him for those precious words: "Let that young woman have the part." That "young woman!" I could have embraced him for very gratitude—a part and the term "young woman," and since, as my old washerwoman used to say, "it never rains but it pours," while these two words were still making music in my ears, by some flash of intuition I realized that I was being courted by Frank. The discovery filled me with the utmost satisfaction. I gave no thought to him, in a sentimental way, either then or ever; quite selfishly I thought only of my own gain in dignity and importance, for I started out in life with the old-fashioned idea that a man honored a woman by his courtship, and I knew naught of the lover who "loves and rides away." Yet in a few days the curious cat-like instinct of the unconscious coquette awakened in me, and I began very gently to try my claws.
I wished very much to know if he were jealous, as I had been told that real lovers were always so; and, naturally, I did not wish mine to fall short of any of the time-honored attributes of loverdom. Therefore I, one morning, selected for experimental use a man whose volume of speech was a terror to all. Had he been put to the sword, he would have talked to the swordsman till the final blow cut his speech. He was most unattractive, too, in appearance, being one of those actors who get shaved after rehearsal instead of before it, thus gaining a reputation for untidiness that facts may not always justify—but he served my purpose all the better for that.
I deliberately placed myself at his side; I was only a ballet-girl, but I had two good ears—I was welcome. Conversation, or rather the monologue, burst forth. Standing at the side of the stage, with rehearsal going on, he of course spoke low. I watched for Frank's arrival. He came, I heard his cheery "Good-morning, ladies! good-morning, gentlemen!" and then he started toward me, but I heard nothing, saw nothing of him. My upraised eyes, as wide as I possibly could make them, were fixed upon the face of the talker. Yet, with a jump of the heart, I knew the brightness had gone from Frank's face, the spring from his step. I smiled as sweetly as I knew how; I seemed to hang upon the words of the untidy one, and oh! if Frank could only have known what those words were; how I was being assured that he, the speaker, had that very morning succeeded in stopping a leaky hole in his shoe by melting a piece of india-rubber over and on it, and that not a drop of water had penetrated when he had walked through the rain-puddles; and right there, like music, there came to my listening ear a word of four letters—a forbidden word, but one full of consolation to the distressed male; a word beginning with "d," and for fear that you may think it was "dear," why, I will be explicit and say that it was "damn!" and that it was from the anger-whitened lips of Frank, who during the morning gave not only to me, but to all lookers-on, most convincing proof of his jealousy, and that was the beginning of my experiments.
I did this, to see if it would make him angry. I did that, to see if it would please him. Sometimes I scratched him with my investigating claws, then I was sorry—truly sorry, because I was grateful always for his gentle goodness to me, and never meant to hurt him. But he represented the entire sex to me, and I was learning all I could, thinking, as I once told him, that the knowledge might be useful on the stage some time, and I wondered at the very fury my words provoked in him.
We quarrelled sometimes like spiteful children, as when I, startled into laughter by hearing his voice break in a speech, unfortunately excused myself by saying: "It was just like a young rooster, you know!" and he, white with anger, cried: "You're a solid mass of rudeness, to laugh at a misfortune; you have no breeding!"
This brought from me the rejoinder: "I know it, but you would have shown better breeding yourself had you not told me of it!"
And then he was on his knee in the entrance, begging forgiveness, and saying his "cursed, cracking voice made a madman of him!"
As it really did, for he often accused people of guying him if they did but clear their own throats. And so we went on till something in his manner—his increased efforts to find me alone at rehearsal, for as I was without a room-mate in Columbus, I could not receive him at home, and I truly think he would have kept silence forever rather than have urged me to break any conventional rule of propriety—this something gave me the idea that Frank was going to be—well—explicit, that—that—I was going to be proposed to according to established form.
Now, though a proposal of marriage is a thing to look forward to with desire, to look back upon with pride, it is also a thing to avoid when it is in the immediate future, and I so successfully evaded his efforts to find me alone, at the theatre or at some friend's house, that he was forced at last to speak at night, while escorting me home.
I lodged in a quiet little street, opening out of the busier, more noisy Kinsman Street. In our front yard there lived a large, greedy old tree, which had planted its foot firmly in the very middle of the path, thus forcing everyone to chassé around it who wished to enter the house. Its newly donned summer greenery extended far over the gate, and as the moon shone full and fair the "set" was certainly appropriate.
We reached the gate, and I held out my hand for my bag—that small catch-all of a bag that, in the hand of the actress, is the outward and visible sign of her profession; but he let the bag slip to the walk and caught my hand in his. The street was deserted. Leaning against the gate beneath the sheltering boughs of the old tree, the midnight silence all about us, he began to speak earnestly.
I made a frantic search through my mind for something to say presently, when my turn would come to speak. I rejected instantly the ancient wail of "suddenness." Frank's temper did not encourage an offer of "sisterhood." I was just catching joyously at the idea of hiding behind the purely imaginary opposition of my mother, when Frank's words: "Then, too, dear heart! I could protect you, and—" were interrupted by a yowl, so long, so piercing, it seemed to rise like a rocket of anguish into the summer sky.
"Oh!" I thought, "that's one-eared Jim from next door, and if our Simmons hears him—and he'd have to be dead not to hear—he will come out to fight him!" I clenched my teeth, I dropped my eyes that Frank might not see the threatening laughter there. I noted how much whiter his hand was than mine, as they were clasped in the moonlight. The pause had been long; then, very gently, he started again: "Mignonne!"
Distinctly I heard the thump of Simmons's body dropping from the porch-roof. "Mignonne, look up! you big-eyed child, and tell me that I may go to your mother with your promise!"
"Mi-au! Mi-au! Wow! Spit! Spit! Wow!" Four balls of fire glowed for a moment beneath the tree, then two dark forms became one dark form, that whirled and bounded through space, emitting awful sounds. The cats were too much for me, I threw back my head and laughed.
My laugh was too much for Frank. His temper broke, he flung my hand away, crying out: "Laugh, you little idiot! You're worse than the animals, for they at least know no better! Laugh till morning, if you like!" and then I'm sorry to say it, but he kicked my bag, the precious insignia of my profession, and rushed down the street, leaving me standing there amid the débris of the wrecked proposal.
Next night he frigidly presented himself to escort me home, and when I coldly declined his company, he turned silently and left me. Truth to tell, I did not enjoy my walk alone, through the market-place in particular, and I planned to unbend a little the next evening; but I was much piqued to find myself without an excuse for unbending, since on the next evening he did not offer his company. The third night there was a big lump in my throat, and the tears would have fallen had they not been suddenly dried in my eyes by the sight of a familiar light-gray suit slipping along close to the houses on the other side of the way. Petulant, irritable, loyal-hearted boy! he had safe-guarded me both those nights when I thought I was alone! My heart was warm with gratitude toward him, and when I reached my gate, and passed inside, I called across the street: "Thank you, Frank! Good-night!"
And he laughed and answered: "Good-night, Mignonne!"
And so it came about that Frank's wooing, being of the strict and stately order, I gradually came to be Miss Morris to others beside himself. I saw my advance in dignity, and if I did not love him I gave him profound gratitude, and we were true friends his short and honorable life through.
Mr. Wilkes Booth comes to us, the whole Sex Loves him—Mr. Ellsler Compares him to his Great Father—Our Grief and Horror over the Awful Tragedy at Washington.
In glancing back over those two crowded and busy seasons one figure stands out with such clearness and beauty that I cannot resist the impulse to speak of him, rather than of my own inconsequential self. In his case only (so far as my personal knowledge goes) there was nothing derogatory to dignity or to manhood in being called beautiful, for he was that bud of splendid promise, blasted to the core before its full triumphant blooming—known to the world as a madman and an assassin—but to the profession as "that unhappy boy," John Wilkes Booth.
He was so young, so bright, so gay, so kind. I could not have known him well. Of course, too, there are two or three different people in every man's skin, yet when we remember that stars are not generally in the habit of showing their brightest, their best side to the company at rehearsal, we cannot help feeling both respect and liking for the one who does.
There are not many men who can receive a gash over the eye in a scene at night without at least a momentary outburst of temper, but when the combat between Richard and Richmond was being rehearsed, Mr. Booth had again and again urged Mr. McCollom (that six-foot tall and handsome leading man, who entrusted me with the care of his watch during such encounters) to "Come on hard! Come on hot! Hot, old fellow! Harder—faster!" He'd take the chance of a blow, if only they could make a hot fight of it.
And Mr. McCollom, who was a cold man, at night became nervous in his effort to act like a fiery one. He forgot he had struck the full number of head blows, and when Booth was pantingly expecting a thrust, McCollom, wielding his sword with both hands, brought it down with awful force fair across Booth's forehead. A cry of horror rose, for in one moment his face was masked in blood, one eyebrow being cut cleanly through. There came, simultaneously, one deep groan from Richard, and the exclamation: "Oh, good God! good God!" from Richmond, who stood shaking like a leaf and staring at his work. Then Booth, flinging the blood from his eyes with his left hand, said, as genially as man could speak: "That's all right, old man! never mind me—only come on hard, for God's sake, and save the fight!"
Which he resumed at once, and though he was perceptibly weakened, it required the sharp order of Mr. Ellsler to "ring the first curtain bell," to force him to bring the fight to a close, a single blow shorter than usual. Then there was a running to and fro, with ice and vinegar paper and raw steak and raw oysters. When the doctor had placed a few stitches where they were most required, he laughingly declared there was provision enough in the room to start a restaurant. Mr. McCollom came to try to apologize, to explain, but Booth would have none of it; he had out his hand, crying: "Why, old fellow, you look as if you had lost the blood. Don't worry. Now if my eye had gone, that would have been bad!" And so, with light words, he tried to set the unfortunate man at ease, and though he must have suffered much mortification as well as pain from the eye, that in spite of all endeavors would blacken, he never made a sign.
He was, like his great elder brother, rather lacking in height, but his head and throat, and the manner of its rising from his shoulders, were truly beautiful. His coloring was unusual, the ivory pallor of his skin, the inky blackness of his densely thick hair, the heavy lids of his glowing eyes, were all Oriental, and they gave a touch of mystery to his face when it fell into gravity; but there was generally a flash of white teeth behind his silky mustache, and a laugh in his eyes.
One thing I shall never cease to admire him for. When a man has placed a clean and honest name in his wife's care for life, about the most stupidly wicked use she can make of it is as a signature to a burst of amatory flattery, addressed to an unknown actor, who will despise her for her trouble. Some women may shrivel as though attacked with "peach-leaf curl" when they hear how these silly letters are sometimes passed about and laughed at. "No gentleman would so betray a confidence!" Of course not; but once when I made that remark to an actor, who was then flaunting the food his vanity fed upon, he roughly answered: "And no lady would so address an unknown man. She cast away her right to respectful consideration when she thrust that letter in the box." That was brutal; but there are those who think like him this very day, and oh, foolish tamperers with fire, who act like him!
Now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say the sex was in love with John Booth, the name Wilkes being apparently unknown to his family and close friends. At depot restaurants those fiercely unwilling maiden-slammers of plates and shooters of coffee-cups made to him swift and gentle offerings of hot steaks, hot biscuits, hot coffee, crowding round him like doves about a grain basket, leaving other travellers to wait upon themselves or go without refreshment. At the hotels, maids had been known to enter his room and tear asunder the already made-up bed, that the "turn-over" might be broader by a thread or two, and both pillows slant at the perfectly correct angle. At the theatre, good heaven! as the sunflowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him. Yes, old or young, for the little daughter of the manager, who played but the Duke of York in "Richard III.," came to the theatre each day, each night of the engagement, arrayed in her best gowns, and turned on him fervid eyes that might well have served for Juliet. The manager's wife, whose sternly aggressive virtue no one could doubt or question, with the aid of art waved and fluffed her hair, and softened thus her too hard line of brow, and let her keen black eyes fill with friendly sparkles for us all—yet, 'twas because of him. And when the old woman made to threaten him with her finger, and he caught her lifted hand, and uncovering his bonnie head, stooped and kissed it, then came the wanton blood up in her cheek as she had been a girl again.
His letters then from flirtatious women, and, alas! girls, you may well believe were legion. A cloud used to gather upon his face at sight of them. I have of course no faintest idea that he lived the godly, righteous, and sober life that is enjoined upon us all, but I do remember with respect that this idolized man, when the letters were many and rehearsal already on, would carefully cut off every signature and utterly destroy them, then pile the unread letters up, and, I don't know what their final end was, but he remarked with knit brows, as he caught me watching him at his work one morning: "They," pointing to the pile of mutilated letters, "they are harmless now, little one; their sting lies in the tail!" and when a certain free and easy actor, laughingly picked up a very elegantly written note, and said: "I can read it, can't I, now the signature is gone?" He answered, shortly: "The woman's folly is no excuse for our knavery—lay the letter down, please!"
I played the Player-Queen to my great joy, and in the "Marble Heart" I was one of the group of three statues in the first act. We were supposed to represent Lais, Aspasia, and Phryne, and when we read the cast, I glanced at the other girls (we were not strikingly handsome), and remarked, gravely: "Well, it's a comfort to know that we look so like the three beautiful Grecians."
A laugh at our backs brought us around suddenly to face Mr. Booth, who said to me: "You satirical little wretch, how do you come to know these Grecian ladies? Perhaps you have the advantage of them in being all-beautiful within?"
"I wish it would strike outward, then," I answered; "you know it's always best to have things come to the surface!"
"I know some very precious things are hidden from common sight, and I know, too, you caught my meaning in the first place; good-night." And he left us.
We had been told to descend to the stage at night with our white robes hanging free and straight, that Mr. Booth himself might drape them as we stood upon the pedestal. It really is a charming picture, that of the statues in the first act. Against a backing of black velvet, the three white figures, carefully posed, strongly lighted, stand out so marble-like, that when they slowly turn their faces and point to their chosen master, the effect is uncanny enough to chill the looker-on.
Well, with white wigs, white tights, and white robes, and half strangled with the powder we had inhaled in our efforts to make our lips stay white, we cautiously descended the stairs. We dared not talk, we dared not blink our eyes, for fear of disturbing the coat of powder; we were lifted to the pedestal and took our places as we expected to stand. Then Mr. Booth came, such a picture in his Greek garments as made even the men exclaim at him, and began to pose us. It happened that one of us had very good limbs, one medium good, and the third had apparently walked on broom-sticks. When Mr. Booth slightly raised the drapery of No. 3, his features gave a twist as though he had suddenly tasted lemon-juice, but, quick as a flash, he said: "I believe I'll advance you to the centre, for the stately and wise Aspasia." The central figure wore her draperies hanging straight to her feet, hence the "advance" and consequent concealment of the unlovely limbs. It was quickly and kindly done, for the girl was not only spared mortification, but in the word "advance" she saw a compliment, and was happy accordingly. Then my turn came; my arm was placed about Aspasia, my head bent and turned and twisted, my right hand curved upon my breast, so that the forefinger touched my chin; I felt I was a personified simper, but I was silent and patient until the arrangement of my draperies began—then I squirmed anxiously.
"Take care, take care!" he cautioned, "you will sway the others if you move!" But, in spite of the risk of my marble make-up, I faintly groaned: "Oh, dear! must it be like that?"
Regardless of the pins in the corner of his mouth, he burst into laughter, and taking a photograph from the bosom of his Greek shirt, he said: "I expected a protest from you, miss, so I came prepared; don't move your head, but just look at this."
He held the picture of a group of statuary up to me: "This is you on the right; it's not so dreadful, now, is it?" and I cautiously murmured, that if I wasn't any worse than that I wouldn't mind.
And so we were all satisfied and our statue scene was very successful.
Next morning I saw Mr. Booth come running out of the theatre on his way to the telegraph office at the corner, and right in the middle of the walk, staring about him, stood a child—a small roamer of the stony streets, who had evidently got far enough beyond his native ward to arouse misgivings as to his personal safety, and at the very moment he stopped to consider matters, Mr. Booth dashed out of the stage-door and added to his bewilderment by capsizing him completely.
"Oh, good Lord! Baby, are you hurt?" exclaimed Mr. Booth, pausing instantly to pick up the dirty, touselled, small heap and stand it on its bandy legs again.
"Don't cry, little chap!" and the aforesaid little chap not only ceased to cry but gave him a damp and grimy smile, at which the actor bent toward him quickly, but paused, took out his handkerchief, and first carefully wiping the dirty little nose and mouth, stooped and kissed him heartily, put some change in each freckled paw, and continued his run to the telegraph office.
He knew of no witness to the act. To kiss a pretty, clean child under the approving eyes of mamma might mean nothing but politeness, but surely it required the prompting of a warm and tender heart to make a young and thoughtless man feel for and caress such a dirty, forlorn bit of babyhood as that.
Of his work, I suppose I was too young and too ignorant to judge correctly, but I remember well hearing the older members of the company express their opinions. Mr. Ellsler, who had been on terms of friendship with the elder Booth, was delighted with the promise of his work. He greatly admired Edwin's intellectual power, his artistic care, but "John," he cried, "has more of the old man's power in one performance than Edwin can show in a year. He has the fire, the dash, the touch of strangeness. He often produces unstudied effects at night. I question him, 'Did you rehearse that business to-day, John?' he answers: 'No, I didn't rehearse it, it just came to me in the scene, and I couldn't help doing it; but it went all right, didn't it?' Full of impulse, just now, like a colt, his heels are in the air, nearly as often as his head, but wait a year or two till he gets used to the harness, and quiets down a bit, and you will see as great an actor as America can produce!"
And, by the way, speaking of Mr. Ellsler and the elder Booth, I am reminded that I have in my possession a letter from the latter to the former. It is written in a rather cramped hand, that carries the address and the marks of the red wafers, as that was before the appearance of envelopes, and it informs Mr. Ellsler that he, "Junius Brutus Booth, will play a star engagement of one week for the sum of—" how many dollars? if it were not unguessable, I should insist upon your guessing, but that would not be fair, so here it is—"for the sum of three hundred dollars," and wants to know how many and what plays he is desired to do, that he may select his wardrobe.
Think of it—the mighty father of our Edwin asking but $300 for a week of such acting as he could do, which, if this bright, light-hearted boy was so much like him, must have been brilliant indeed.
One morning, going on the stage where a group were talking with John Wilkes, I heard him say: "No! no, no! there's but one Hamlet to my mind, that's my brother Edwin. You see, between ourselves, he is Hamlet, melancholy and all!"
That was an awful time when the dread news came to us. We were in Columbus. We had been horrified by the great crime at Washington. My room-mate and I had from our small earnings bought some black cotton, at a tripled price, as all the black material in the city was not sufficient to meet the demand, and as we tacked it about our one window, a man, passing, told us the assassin had been discovered, and that he was the actor Booth. Hattie laughed so she nearly swallowed the tack that, girl-like, she held between her lips, and I, after a laugh, told him it was a poor subject for a jest, and we went in. There was no store in Columbus then where playbooks were sold, and as Mr. Ellsler had a very large and complete stage library, he frequently lent his books to us, and we would hurriedly copy out our lines and return the book for his own use. On that occasion he was going to study his part first and then leave the play with us as he passed going home. We heard his knock; I was busy pressing a bit of stage finery. Hattie opened the door, and then I heard her exclaiming: "Why—why—what?" I turned quickly. Mr. Ellsler was coming slowly into the room. He is a very dark man, but he was perfectly livid then, his lips even were blanched to the whiteness of his cheeks. His eyes were dreadful, they were so glassy and seemed so unseeing. He was devoted to his children, and all I could think of as likely to bring such a look upon his face was disaster to one of them, and I cried, as I drew a chair to him, "What is it? Oh, what has happened to them?"
He sank down, he wiped his brow, he looked almost stupidly at me, then, very faintly, he said: "You—haven't—heard—anything?"
Like a flash Hattie's eyes and mine met; we thought of the supposed ill-timed jest of the stranger—my lips moved wordlessly. Hattie stammered: "A man, he lied though, said that Wilkes Booth—but he did lie—didn't he?" and in the same faint voice Mr. Ellsler answered, slowly: "No—no! he did not lie—it's too true!"
Down fell our heads and the waves of shame and sorrow seemed fairly to o'erwhelm us, and while our sobs filled the little room, Mr. Ellsler rose and laid two playbooks on the table. Then, while standing there, staring into space, I heard his far, faint voice, saying: "So great, so good a man destroyed, and by the hand of that unhappy boy! my God! my God!" He wiped his brow again and slowly left the house, apparently unconscious of our presence.
When we resumed our work—the theatre had closed because of the national calamity—many a painted cheek showed runnels made by bitter tears, and one old actress, with quivering lips, exclaimed: "One woe doth tread upon another's heel, so fast they follow!" but with no thought of quoting, and God knows the words expressed the situation perfectly.
Mrs. Ellsler, whom I never saw shed a tear for any sickness, sorrow, or trouble of her own, shed tears for the mad boy who had suddenly become the assassin of God's anointed—the great, the blameless Lincoln!
We crept about, quietly, everyone winced at the sound of the overture; it was as if one dead lay within the walls, one who belonged to us.
When the rumors about Booth being the murderer proved to be authentic, the police feared a possible outbreak of mob-feeling, and a demonstration against the theatre building, or against the actors individually; but we had been a decent, law-abiding, well-behaved people, liked and respected, so we were not made to suffer for the awful act of one of our number. Still, when the mass-meeting was held in front of the Capitol, there was much anxiety on the subject, and Mr. Ellsler urged all the company to keep away from it, lest their presence might arouse some ill-feeling. The crowd was immense; the sun had gloomed over, and the Capitol building, draped in black, loomed up with stern severity and that massive dignity only obtained by heavily columned buildings. The people surged like waves about the speakers' stand, and the policemen glanced anxiously toward the new theatre, not far away, and prayed that some bombastic, revengeful ruffian might not crop up from this mixed crowd of excited humanity to stir them to violence.
Three speakers, however, in their addresses had confined themselves to eulogizing the great dead. In life, Mr. Lincoln had been abused by many; in death, he was worshipped by all, and these speakers found their words of love and sorrow eagerly listened to, and made no harsh allusions to the profession from which the assassin sprang. And then an unknown man clambered up from the crowd to the portico platform and began to speak, without asking anyone's permission. He had a far-reaching voice—he had fire and "go."
"Here's the fellow to look out for!" said the policeman, and, sure enough, suddenly the dread word "theatre" was tossed into the air, and everyone was still in a moment, waiting for—what? I don't know what they hoped for, I do know what many feared; but this is what he said: "Yes, look over at our theatre and think of the little body of men and women there, who are to-day sore-hearted and cast down, who feel that they are looked at askant, because one of their number has committed that hideous crime! Think of what they have to bear of shame and horror, and spare for them, too, a little pity!"
He paused; it had been a bold thing to do—to appeal for consideration for actors at such a time. The crowd swayed for a moment to and fro, a curious growling came from it, and then all heads turned toward the theatre. A faint cheer was given, and after that there was not the slightest allusion made to us—and verily we were grateful.
That the homely, tender-hearted "Father Abraham," rare combination of courage, justice, and humanity, died at an actor's hand will be a grief, a horror, and a shame to the profession forever—yet I cannot believe that John Wilkes Booth was "the leader of a band of bloody conspirators!"
Who shall draw a line and say: here genius ends and madness begins? There was that touch of "strangeness." In Edwin Booth it was a profound melancholy; in John it was an exaggeration of spirit, almost a wildness. There was the natural vanity of the actor, too, who craves a dramatic situation in real life. There was his passionate love and sympathy for the South—why, he was "easier to be played on than a pipe!"
Undoubtedly he conspired to kidnap the President—that would appeal to him, but after that I truly believe he was a tool, certainly he was no leader. Those who led him knew his courage, his belief in fate, his loyalty to his friends; and because they knew these things, he drew the lot, as it was meant he should from the first. Then, half mad, he accepted the part Fate cast him for—committed the monstrous crime and paid the awful price.
And since,
we venture to pray for His mercy upon the guilty soul! who may have repented and confessed his manifold sins and offences during those awful hours of suffering before the end came.
And "God shutteth not up His mercies forever in displeasure!" We can only shiver and turn our thoughts away from the bright light that went out in such utter darkness. Poor, guilty, unhappy John Wilkes Booth!
Mr. R. E. J. Miles—His two Horses, and our Woful Experience with the Substitute "Wild Horse of Tartary."
But there, just as I start to speak of my third season, I seem to look into a pair of big, mild eyes that say: "Can it be that you mean to pass me by? Do you forget that 'twas I who turned the great sensation scene of a play into a side-splitting farce?" And I shake my head and answer, truthfully: "I cannot forget, I shall never forget your work that night in Columbus, when you appeared as the 'fiery, untamed steed' (may Heaven forgive you) in 'Mazeppa.'"
Mr. Robert E. J. Miles, or "All the Alphabet Miles," as he was frequently called, was starring at that time in the Horse Drama, doing such plays as "The Cataract of the Ganges," "Mazeppa," "Sixteen-String Jack," etc. "Mazeppa" was the favorite in Columbus, and both the star and manager regretted they had billed the other plays in advance, as there would have been more money in "Mazeppa" alone. Mr. Miles carried with him two horses; the one for the "Wild Horse of Tartary" was an exquisitely formed, satin-coated creature, who looked wickedly at you from the tail of her blazing eye, who bared her teeth savagely, and struck out with her fore-feet, as well as lashed out with the hind ones. When she came rearing, plunging, biting, snapping, whirling, and kicking her way on to the stage, the scarlet lining of her dilating nostrils and the foam flying from her mouth made our screams very natural ones, and the women in front used to huddle close to their companions, or even cover their faces.
One creature only did this beautiful vixen love—R. E. J. Miles. She fawned upon him like a dog; she did tricks like a dog for him, but she was a terror to the rest of mankind, and really it was a thrilling scene when Mazeppa was stripped and bound, his head tail-ward, his feet mane-ward, to the back of that maddened beast. She seemed to bite and tear at him, and when set free she stood straight up for a dreadful moment, in which she really endangered his life, then, with a wild neigh, she tore up the "runs," as if fiends pursued her, with the man stretched helplessly along her inky back. The curtain used to go up again and again—it was so very effective.
For a horse to get from the level stage clear above the "flies," under the very roof, the platforms or runs he mounts on have to zig-zag across the mountain background.
At each angle, out of sight of the audience, there is a railed platform, large enough for the horse to turn upon and make the next upward rush.
The other horse travelling with Mr. Miles was an entirely different proposition. He would have been described, according to the State he happened to be in, as a pie-bald, a skew-bald, a pinto, or a calico horse. He was very large, mostly of a satiny white, with big, absurdly shaped markings of bright bay. He was one of the breed of horses that in livery stables are always known as "Doctor" or "Judge." Benevolence beamed from his large, clear eyes, and he looked so mildly wise, one half expected to see him put on spectacles. The boy at the stable said one day, as he fed him: "I wouldn't wunder if this ol' parson of 'er a hoss asked a blessin' on them there oats—I wouldn't!"
I don't know whether old Bob—as he was called—had any speed or not, but if he had it was useless to him, for, alas! he was never allowed to reach the goal under any circumstances. He was always ridden by the villain, and therefore had to be overtaken, and besides that he generally had to carry double, as the desperado usually fled holding the fainting heroine before him. Though old Bob successfully leaped chasms thus heavily handicapped—for truly he was a mighty jumper—nevertheless he was compelled to accept defeat, as Mr. Miles always came rushing up on the black horse to the rescue. He was very lucky indeed, if he didn't have to roll about and die, and he was a very impatient dead horse, often amusing the audience by lifting his head to see if the curtain was not down yet, and then dropping dead again with a sigh the whole house could hear.
By the way, "the house" is a theatrical term, meaning, on an actor's lips, "the audience." "The house did thus or so," "the house is behaving beautifully," "it's the most refined house you ever saw," "what a cold house"; and so on. I have but rarely heard either actor or actress refer to the "audience"—and after steadily using any term for years it is very hard to lay it aside, and I shall long remember the grim moment that followed on my remarking to my rector, "What a good house you had yesterday—it must have been a pleasure to pla—to, to—er, er, to address such an audi—er, that is, I mean congregation!" There was a moment of icy silence, then, being a human being as well as a wearer of the priestly collar, he set back his head and laughed a laugh that was good to hear.
Anyway, being continually pushed back into second place and compelled to listen to the unearned applause bestowed upon the beautiful black seemed to rob old Bob of all ambition professionally, and he simply became a gourmet and a glutton. He lived to eat. A woman in his eyes was a sort of perambulating store-house of cake, crackers, apples, sugar, etc.; only his love for children was disinterested. The moment he was loose he went off in search for children, no matter whose, so long as he found some; then down he would go on his knees, and wait to be pulled and patted. His silvery tail provided hundreds of horse-hair rings—and his habit of gathering very small people up by their back breadths and carrying them a little way before dropping them, only filled the air with wild shrieks of laughter. In the theatre he walked sedately about before rehearsal began, and though we knew his attentions were entirely selfish, he was so urbane, so complaisant in his manner of going through us, that we could not resist his advances, and each day and night we packed our pockets and our muffs with such provender as women seldom carry about in their clothes. All our gloves smelled as though we worked at a cider-mill. While the play was going on old Bob spent a great part of his time standing on the first of those railed platforms, and as he was on the same side of the stage that the ladies' dressing-rooms were on, everyone of us had to pass him on our way to dress, and he demanded toll of all. Fruits, domestic or foreign, were received with gentle eagerness. Cake, crackers, and sugar, the velvety nose snuffed at them approvingly, and if a girl, believing herself late, tried to pass him swiftly by, his look of amazement was comical to behold, and in an instant his iron-shod foot was playing a veritable devil's tattoo on the resounding board platform, and if that failed to win attention, following her with his eyes, he lifted up his voice in a full-chested "neigh—hay—hay—ha-ay!" that brought her back in a hurry with her toll of sugar. And that pie-bald hypocrite would scrunch it with such a piteously ravenous air that the girl quite forgot the basilisk glare and satirical words the landlady directed against her recently-acquired sweet-tooth. My own landlady had, as early as Wednesday, covered the sugar-bowl and locked the pantry, but she left the salt-bag open, and I took on a full cargo of it twice a day, and old Bob showed such an absolute carnality of enjoyment in the eating of it that Mr. Miles became convinced that it had long been denied to him at the stables.
Then, late in the week, there came that dreadful night of disaster. I don't recall the name of the play, but in that one piece the beautiful, high-spirited black mare had to carry double up the runs. John Carroll and Miss Lucy Cutler were the riders. Mr. Carroll claimed he could ride a little, and though he was afraid he was ashamed to say so. Mr. Miles said in the morning: "Now, if you are the least bit timid, Mr. Carroll, say so, and I will fasten the bridle-reins to the saddle-pommel and the Queen will carry you up as true as a die and as safe as a rock of her own accord; but if you are going to hold the bridle, for God's sake be careful! If it was old Bob, you could saw him as much as you liked and he would pay no attention, and hug the run for dear life; but the Queen, who has a tender mouth, is besides half mad with excitement at night, and a very slight pressure on the wrong rein will mean a forty or fifty-foot fall for you all!"
Miss Cutler expressed great fear, when Mr. Miles, surprisedly, said: "Why, you have ridden with me twice this week without a sign of fear?" "Oh, yes," she answered, "but you know what you are doing—you are a horseman."
It was an unfortunate speech, and in face of it Mr. Carroll's vanity would not allow him to admit his anxiety. "He could ride well enough—and he would handle the reins himself," he declared.
During the day his fears grew upon him. Foolishly and wickedly he resorted to spirits to try to build up some Dutch courage; and then, when the scene came on, half blind with fear and the liquor, which he was not used to, as he felt the fierce creature beneath them rushing furiously up the steep incline, a sort of madness came upon him. Without rhyme or reason he pulled desperately at the nigh rein and in the same breath their three bodies were hurling downward, like thunderbolts.
It was an awful sight! I looked at them as they descended, and for the fraction of a second they seemed to be suspended in the air. They were all upside down. They all, without turning or twisting, fell straight as plummets—the horse, the same as the man and woman, had its feet straight in the air. Ugh! the striking—ugh!—never mind details! The curtain had been rushed down. Miss Cutler had been picked up, dazed, stunned, but without a mark. Mr. Carroll had crept away unaided amid the confusion, the sorrow, and tears, for the splendid Queen was doomed and done for! Though Mr. Miles had risked his own life in an awful leap to save her from falling through a trap, he could not save her life, and the almost human groan with which she dropped her lovely head upon her master's shoulder, and his streaming eyes as he tenderly wiped the blood from her velvety nostrils, made even the scene-shifters rub their eyes upon the backs of their hands. While the Queen was half carried and half crept to the fire-engine house next door (her stable was so far away), someone was going before the curtain, assuring the audience that the accident was very slight, and the lady and gentleman would both be before them presently, and the audience applauded in a rather doubtful manner, for several ladies had fainted, and the carrying out of a helpless person from a place of amusement always has a depressing effect upon the lookers-on. Meantime Mr. Carroll was getting his wrist bandaged and a cut on his face strapped up, while a basket of sawdust was hurriedly procured that certain cruel stains might be concealed. The orchestra played briskly and the play went on. That's the one thing we can be sure of in this world—that the play will go on. That night, late, the beautiful Queen died with her head resting on her master's knee.
Now "Mazeppa" was billed for the next night, and there were many consultations held in the office and on the stage. "The wild horse of Tartary" was gone. It was impossible to find a new horse in one day.
"Change the bill!" said Mr. Miles.
"And have an empty house," answered Mr. Ellsler.
"But what can I do for a horse?" asked R. E. J. M.
"Use old Bob," answered Mr. Ellsler.
"Good Lord!" groaned Bob's master. They argued long, but neither wanted to lose the good house, so the bill was allowed to stand, and "Mazeppa" was performed with old white Bob as the "Wild Horse of Tartary." Think of it, that ingratiating old Bob! That follower of women and playmate of children! Why, even the great bay blotches on his white old hide made one think of the circus, paper hoops, and training, rather than of wildness. Meaning to make him at least impatient and restless, he had been deprived of his supper, and the result was a settled gloom, an air of melancholy that made Mr. Miles swear under his breath every time he looked at him. There was a ring, known I believe as a Spanish ring, made with a sharp little spike attachment, and used sometimes by circus-men to stir up horses to a show of violence or of high spirits, and when a whip was not permissible. It could be resorted to without arousing any suspicion of cruelty, since the spike was on the under side and so out of sight. The man with the ring on his finger would stand by a horse, and resting his hand on the animal's neck, just at the most sensitive spot of his whole anatomy—the root or end of his mane—would close the hand suddenly, thus driving the spike into the flesh. It must have caused exquisite pain, and naturally the tormented animal rears and plunges. Sometimes they get effect enough by pricking the creatures on the shoulder only. On that night, Mr. Miles, after gazing at the mild and melancholy features of his new "Wild Horse of Tartary," went to his room and dug up from some trunk a Spanish ring. Calling one of the men who used to be dragged and thrashed about the stage by the black wild horse, he explained to him its use, ending with: "I hate to hurt the old fellow, so try him on the shoulder first, and if he dances about pretty lively, as I think he will, you need not prick his mane at all."
The play moved along nicely, the house was large, and seemed pleased. Mazeppa fell into his enemy's hands, the sentence was pronounced, and the order followed: "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!"
The women began to draw close to their escorts; many of them remembered the biting, kicking entrance of the black, and were frightened beforehand. The orchestra responded with incidental creepy music, but—that was all. Over in the entrance, old Bob, surrounded by the four men who were supposed to restrain him, stood calmly. But those who sat in the left box heard "get-ups!" and "go-ons!" and the cluckings of many tongues. The mighty Khan of Tartary (who could not see that entrance) thought he had not been heard, and roared again: "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!" Another pause, the house tittered, then some one hit old Bob a crack across the rump with a whip, at which he gave a switch of his tail and gently ambled on the stage, stopping of his own accord at centre, and, lowering his head, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the leader of the orchestra, precisely as a dog sniffs at a stranger. It was deliciously ridiculous. We girls were supposed to scream with terror at the "wild horse," and, alas! we were only too obedient, crowding down at right, clinging together in attitudes of extremest fright, we shrieked and screeched until old Bob cocked up his ears and looked so astonished at our conduct that the audience simply rocked back and forth with laughter, and all the time Mazeppa was saying things that did not seem to be like prayers. Finally he gave orders for the men to surround Bob, which they did, and then the ring was used—the ring that was to make him dance about pretty lively. It pricked him on the shoulder, and the "wild horse" stood and switched his tail. It pricked him again—he switched his tail again. The men had by that time grown careless, and when the ring was finally used at his mane, he suddenly kicked one of them clear off the stage, and then resumed his unruffled calm. The public thought it was having fun all this time, but pretty soon it knew it. Nothing under heaven could disturb the gentle serenity of that dog-like old horse. But when Mazeppa was brought forward to be bound upon his back, instead of pulling away, rearing, and fighting against the burden, his one and only quick movement was his violent effort to break away from his tormentors to welcome Mazeppa joyously.
"Oh!" groaned Miles, "kill him, somebody, before he kills me!"
While he was being bound on the wild horse's back, our instructions were to scream, therefore we screamed as before, and being on the verge of insanity, Mazeppa lifted his head from the horse's back, and said: "Oh, shut up—do!" The audience heard, and—well, it laughed some more, and then it discovered, when the men sprang away and left the horse free to dash madly up the mountain, that Mazeppa had kept one foot unbound to kick his horse with—and truly it did seem that the audience was going into convulsions. Such laughter, pierced every now and then by the shrill scream of hysteria. Then old Bob ambled up the first run all right, but, alas! for poor Mazeppa, as he reached the first turn-table, a woman passed on the way to her room, and hungry Bob instantly stopped to negotiate a loan in sugar. Oh, it was dreadful, the wait, and when finally he reappeared, trotting—yes, trotting up the next run, Mr. Miles's foot could be plainly seen, kicking with the regularity of a piston-rod, while his remarks were—well, they were irregular in the extreme.
Of course the play was hopelessly ruined; the audience laughed at the slightest mention of the "wild horse," and when, broken and exhausted, the shepherds find them both lying at the foot of the mountain, the house seemed to shake with laughter.
When the play was at last over, old white Bob walked over to his master and mumbled his hand. Mr. Miles pushed him away with pretended anger, crying: "You infernal old idiot, I'd sell you for a three-cent stamp with gum on it!"
Bob looked hard at him a moment, then he calmly crossed behind him and mumbled his other hand, and Mr. Miles pulled his ears, and said that "he himself was the idiot for expecting an untrained, unrehearsed horse to play such a part," and old Bob agreeing with him perfectly, they were, as always, at peace with each other.