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 _a 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 _chasse_ 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 debris of the wrecked proposal.
Next night he frigidly presented himself to escort me home, and when I
coldly declined his company, he turned silently and left me. Truth to
tell, I did not enjoy my walk alone, through the market-place in
particular, and I planned to unbend a little the next evening; but I was
much piqued to find myself without an excuse for unbending, since on the
next evening he did not offer his company. The third night there was a
big lump in my throat, and the tears would have fallen had they not been
suddenly dried in my eyes by the sight of a familiar light-gray suit
slipping along close to the houses on the other side of the way.
Petulant, irritable, loyal-hearted boy! he had safe-guarded me both those
nights when I thought I was alone! My heart was warm with gratitude
toward him, and when I reached my gate, and passed inside, I called
across the street: "Thank you, Frank! Good-night!"