It was very strange. One paper had a quieter article; it spoke of a rough
diamond--of an earnest, honest method of addressing speeches directly to
the character, instead of to the audience, as did many of the older
actors. It claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the girl who could
so thoroughly put herself in another's place, and declared it would watch
with interest the movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl.
Now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, and in what groups we
fall, again and again. Among the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time
in the Ohio Legislature was Colonel Donn Piatt, with the fever of the
Southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his services through
the war. He had gone languidly enough to the theatre that night, because
there was nothing else for him to do--unless he swapped stories of the
war in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was sick to
death of that, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he was moved
to write the article from which the last quotation is taken. Stopping in
the same hotel, but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out of
boyhood, whose only lie, I honestly believe, was the one he told and
swore to in order to raise his age to the proper military height that
would admit him into the army. Bright, energetic, almost attaining
perpetual motion in his own person, ambitious John A. Cockerill just then
served in the double capacity of a messenger in the House and reporter on
a paper. Diphtheria, which was almost epidemic that winter, visited the
staff of the paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily
assigned to its dramatic work--thus he wrote another of the notices of my
first venture in the tearful drama. Every day these two men were in the
State-house--every day I walked through its grounds on my way to and from
the theater--each quite unconscious of the others.
But old Time shakes the box and casts the dice so many, many times,
groupings must repeat themselves now and again, so it came about that
after years filled with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the
box cast us down upon the table of Life, grouped together again--but each
man knew and served me now faithfully, loyally; each giving me a hand to
pull me up a step higher. They hated each other bitterly, vindictively,
as journalists have been known to do occasionally; and as I knew the
noble qualities of both, what better reward could I give for their
goodness to me than to clasp their hands together and make them friends?
It was not an easy task, it required _finesse_ as well as courage, but
that was the kind of task a woman loves--if she succeeds, and I
succeeded.
They became friends, strong, earnest friends for the rest of their lives.
Death severed the bond, if it is severed; I do not know, and they may not
return to tell me--I only know that in the years that were to come, when
each man headed a famous paper, Colonel John A. Cockerill, of the New
York _World_, who wrote many a high word of praise for me when victory
had at last perched on my banner, and Colonel Piatt, who with his
brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and women in their
hospitable Washington home, loved to recall that night in Columbus when,
all unconsciously, we three came so near to each other, only to drift
apart for years and come together again.
And once I said, "like motes," and Donn Piatt swiftly added, "and a
sunbeam," and both men lifted their glasses and, nodding laughingly at
me, cried: "To the sunbeam!" while Mrs. Piatt declared, "That's a very
pretty compliment," but to me the unanimity of thought between those
erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing about it.
But even so small a success as that had its attendant shadows, as I soon
found. Though I was then boarding, with Hattie McKee for my room-mate, I
felt I still owed a certain duty and respect to Mrs. Bradshaw. Therefore,
when this wonderful thing happened to me, I thought I ought to go and
tell her all about it. I went; she gave me a polite, unsmiling
good-morning and pointed to a chair. I felt chilled. Presently she
remarked, with a small, forced laugh: "You have become so great a person,
I scarcely expected to see you here to-day."
I looked reproachfully at her, as I quietly answered: "But you see I am
here;" then added, "I did not think you would make fun of me, Mrs.
Bradshaw, I only tried to do my best."
"Oh," she replied, "one does not make fun of very successful people."
I turned away to hide my filling eyes, as I remarked: "Perhaps I'd better
go away now."
I moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. I had thought she would be
so pleased--you see, I was young yet, and sometimes very stupid--I forgot
she had a daughter. But suddenly she called to me in the old, kindly
voice I was so used to: "Come back Clara," she cried, "come back! It's
mean to punish you for another's fault. My dear, I congratulate you; you
have only proved what I have long believed, that you have in you the
making of a fine actress. But when I think who had that same chance, and
that it was deliberately thrown away," her lips trembled, "I--well, it's
hard to bear. Even all this to-do about you in the part does not make
her regret what she has done."
Poor mother! I felt so sorry for her. I wished to go away then, I thought
my presence was unpleasant, but she made me tell her all about the
evening, and describe Miss St. Clair's dress, and what everyone said and
did. Loyal soul! I think that was a self-inflicted penance for a
momentary unkindness.
Blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added the words: "Say, if I
hadn't given you the chance, you couldn't have been a big gun to-day. You
know Mr. Ellsler won't dare to give you anything, but he would have given
me a nice present if I had done the part for him. So after all I've lost,
I think you might give me a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won't snap or
squeak or stretch out or do anything, it's just in its crumbly old age."
I gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems not quite square, if
you think I made an unfair use of my funds in obtaining promotion, do
please remember that I was only an accessory _after_ the act--not before
it. I am the more anxious this should be impressed upon your mind because
that penny was the only one I ever spent in paying for advancement
professionally.
The second night of the "Lone House" was also the last night of Miss St.
Clair's engagement, and when I carried her blue-brocade gown back to her,
eagerly calling attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her
hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily upon her
outstretched arm. It was an attitude of such utter collapse, there was
such a wanness on her white face that the commonplace words ceased to
bubble over my lips, and, startled, I turned toward her husband. Charles
Barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breeding, and one time officer
in the American navy, was nevertheless in manner and appearance so odd
that the sight or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that
night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with an anguish of
helpless love.
For a sad moment he gazed at her silently--then he was counting drops
from a bottle, holding smelling-salts to her pinched nostrils, removing
her riding-boots, indeed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but
dressing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her weary face,
bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made a little joke or two, then
gave me hearty thanks for coming to her rescue, as she called it, praised
my effort at acting, and asked me how I liked a crying part.
"Oh, I don't like it at all," I answered.
"Ah," she sighed, "we never like what we do best; that's why I can never
be contented in elegant light comedy, but must strain and fret after
dramatic, tragic, and pathetic parts--and to think that a young,
untrained girl should step out of obscurity and without an effort do what
I have failed in all these years!"
I stood aghast. "Why--why, Miss St. Clair!" I exclaimed, "you have
applause and applause every night of your life!"
"Oh," she laughed, "you foolish child, it's not the applause I'm thinking
of, but something finer, rarer. You have won tears, my dear, a thing I
have never done in all my life, and never shall, no, never, I see that
now!"
"I wish I had not!" I answered, remorsefully and quite honestly, because
I was quite young and unselfish yet, and I loved her, and she understood
and leaned over and kissed my cheek, and told me not to bury my talent,
but to make good use of it by and by when I was older and free to choose
a line of business. "Though," she added, "even here I'll wager it's few
comedy parts that will come your way after to-night, young lady." And
then I left her.
That same night I heard that a dread disease already abode with her, and
slept and waked and went and came with her, and would not be shaken off,
but clung ever closer and closer; and, oh! poor Charles Barras! money
might have saved her then--money right then might have saved this woman
of his love, and God only knows how desperately he struggled, but the
money came not. Then, worse still, Sallie was herself the bread-winner,
and though Mr. Barras worked hard, doing writing and translating, acting
as agent, as nurse, as maid, playing, too, in a two-act comedy, "The
Hypochondriac," he still felt the sting of living on his wife's earnings,
and she had, too, a mother and an elder sister to support; therefore she
worked on and disease worked with her.
Charles Barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice: "I-I-I always see
m-my wife Sallie with a helpless woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself
on her back, like the 'old man of the sea,' a-a-a pretty heavy burden
that for a sick woman to carry, my girl! a-a-and a mighty pleasant
picture for a man to have of his wife! A-a-and money--great God, money,
right now, might save her--might save her!" He turned suddenly from me
and walked on to the pitch-dark stage.
Poor Mr. Barras, I could laugh no more at his heelless boots, his funny
half-stammer, and his ancient wig, not even when I recall the memory of
that blazing Sunday in a Cincinnati Episcopal church, when, the stately
liturgy over, the Reverend Doctor ascended the pulpit and, regardless of
the suffering of his sweltering hearers, droned on endlessly, and Mr.
Barras leaned forward, and drawing a large palm fan from the next pew's
rack, calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the other he
alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the steaming interior of his
wig. The action had an electrical effect. In a moment even the sleepers
were alert, awake, a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost
his place--hemmed--h-h-med, and ran down, found the place again,
started, saw Barras fanning his wig, though paying still most decorous
attention to the pulpit, and before they knew it they were all
scrambling to their feet at "Might, Majesty, and Power!"--were
scrabbling for their pockets at "Let your light so shine," for Mr.
Barras had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the forgiving
glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced his wig and sauntered
forth.
Several years after that night in Columbus, when I had reached New York
and was rehearsing for my first appearance there, I one morning heard
hasty, shuffling steps following me, and before I could enter the
stage-door, a familiar "Er-er-er Clara, Clara!" stopped me, and I turned
to face the wealthy author of the "Black Crook"--Mr. Charles Barras.
There he stood in apparently the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same
empty-looking black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was
an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the big black
satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years ago, but the face, how
bloodless, shrunken, lined, and sorrowful it looked beneath the
adamantine youthfulness of that chestnut wig!
"D-d-don't you know me?" he asked.
"Yes, of course I do," I answered as I took his hand.
"W-w-well then don't run away--er-er it's against law, r-religion, or
decency to turn your back on a rich man. D-d-dodge the poor, Clara, my
girl! but never turn your back on a man with money!"
I was pained; probably I looked so. He went on: "I-I-I'm rich now, Clara.
I've got a fine marine villa, and in it are an old, old dog and a dying
old woman. They both belonged to my Sallie, and so I'll keep hold of 'em
as long as I can, for her sake. A-a-after they go!" he turned his head
away, he looked up at the beautiful blue indifference of the sky, his
face seemed to tremble all over, his eyes came back, and he muttered:
"W-w-we'll see--w-w-we'll see what will happen then. But, Clara, you
remember that time when money could have saved her? The money I receive
in one week now, if I could have had it then, she, Sallie, might be over
there on Broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved and
needed, too, and couldn't have. The little boots and slippers--you
remember Sallie's instep? Had to have her shoes to order always," he
stopped, he pressed his lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly
he burst out: "By God, when a man struggles hard all his life, it's a
damn rough reward to give him a handsome coffin for his wife!"
Oh, poor rich man! how my heart ached for him. A tear slipped down my
cheek; he saw it. "D-d-don't!" he said, "d-don't, my girl, she can't come
back, and it hurts her to have anyone grieve. I want you to come and see
me, when you get settled here, a-a-and I wish you a great big success. My
Sallie liked you, she spoke often of you. I-I-I'll let you know how to
get out there, and I-I-I'll show you her dog--old Belle, and you can
stroke her, and er-er sit in Sallie's chair a little while perhaps--and
er--don't, my girl, don't cry, she can't come back, you know," and
shaking my hands he left me, thinking I was crying for Sallie, who was
safe at rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were for
himself--so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich man! Did he know
then how near Death was to him? Some who knew him well believe unto this
day that the fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap--only God
knows.
I never paid the promised visit--could find no opportunity--and I never
saw him again, that eccentric man, devoted husband, and honest gentleman,
Charles Barras.