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,
"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,"
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!