"Oh, no you won't!" he cried, "not with me!" He was furious, he stamped
his feet, he turned to the manager: "What's all this infernal nonsense? I
want a woman for this part! What kind of witches' broth are you serving
me, with an old woman for my _Ophelia_, and an apple-cheeked girl for my
mother! She can't speak these lines! she, dumpling face!"
Mr. Ellsler said, quietly: "There is sickness in my company. The heavy
woman cannot act; this young girl will not look the part, of course, but
you need have no fear about the lines, she never loses a word."
"Curse the _words_! It is, that that little girl shall not read with the
sense one line, no, not one line of the Shakespeare!" his English was
fast going in his rage.
Mr. Ellsler answered: "She will read the part as well as you ever heard
it in your life, Mr. Bandmann." And Mr. Bandmann gave a jeering laugh,
and snapped his fingers loudly.
It was most insulting, and I felt overwhelmed with humiliation. Mr.
Ellsler said, angrily: "Very well, as I have no one else to offer you, we
will close the theatre for the night!"
But Mr. Bandmann did not want to close--not he. So, after swearing in
German for a time, he resumed rehearsal, and when my time came to speak I
could scarcely lift my drooping head or conquer the lump in my throat,
but, somehow, I got out the entreating words:
"Good Hamlet, cast thy Knighted color off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark."
He lifted his head suddenly--I went on:
"Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust."
He exclaimed, surprisedly: "So! so!" as I continued my speech. Now in
this country, "So--so!" is a term applied to restless cows at
milking-time, and the devil of ridicule, never long at rest in my mind,
suddenly wakened, so that when I had to say:
"Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:
I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg."
and Mr. Bandmann smilingly cried: "So! so!" and I swiftly added the word
"Bossy," and every soul on the stage broke into laughter. He saw he was
laughed at, and it took a whole week's time and an elaborate explanation,
to enable him to grasp the jest--but when he got a good hold of it, he
so! so! bossied and stamped and laughed at a great rate.
During the rehearsal--which was difficult in the extreme, as his business
(_i.e._, actions or poses accompanying certain words) was very different
from that we were used to--he never found one single fault with my
reading, and made just one suggestion, which I was most careful to
follow--for one taste of his temper had been enough.
Then came the night--a big house, too, I remember. I wore long and loose
garments to make me look more matronly; but, alas! the drapery _Queen
Gertrude_ wears, passed under her jaws from ear to ear, was particularly
becoming to me, and brought me uncommonly near to prettiness. Mr.
Ellsler groaned, but said nothing, while Mr. Bandmann sneered out an "Ach
Himmel!" shrugged his shoulders, and made me feel real nice and happy.
And when one considers that without me the theatre must have closed or
changed its bill, even while one pities him for the infliction, one feels
he was unnecessarily unkind.
Well, all went quietly until the closet scene--between _Hamlet_, the
_Queen_, and the _Ghost_. It is a great scene, and he had some very
effective business. I forgot Bandmann in _Hamlet_. I tried hard to show
shame, pride, and terror. The applause was rapturous. The curtain fell,
and--why, what, in the name of heaven, was happening to me?
I was caught by the arms and lifted high in air; when I came down I was
crushed to _Hamlet's_ bosom, with a crackling sound of breaking
Roman-pearl beads, and in a whirlwind of "Himmels!" "Gotts!" and things,
I was kissed with frenzied wet kisses on either cheek--on my brow--my
eyes. Then disjointed English came forth: "Oh, you so great, you kleine
apple-cheeked girl! you maker of the fraud--you so great nobody! ach! you
are fire--you have pride--you are a _Gertrude_ who have shame!" More
kisses, then suddenly he realized the audience was still
applauding--loudly and heartily. He grasped my hand, he dragged me before
the curtain, he bowed, he waved his hands, he threw one arm about my
shoulders.
"Good Lord!" I thought, "he isn't going to do it all over again--out
here, is he?" and I began backing out of sight as quickly as possible.
It was a very comforting plaster to apply to my wounds--such a success as
that, but it would have been so much pleasanter not to have received the
wound in the first place.
Mr. Bandmann's best work, I think, was done in "Narcisse." His _Hamlet_
seemed to me too melodramatic--if I may say so. If _Hamlet_ had had all
that tremendous fund of energy, all that love of action, the _Ghost_
need never have returned to "whet his almost blunted purpose." Nor could
I like his scene with his guilty mother. There was not even a _forced_
show of respect for her. There was no grief for her wrong-doing--rather,
his whole tone was that of a triumphant detective. And his speeches,
"Such an act!" and "Look upon this picture!" were given with such
unction--such a sneeringly, perfect comprehension of her lust, as to
become themselves lustful.
His _Shylock_ was much admired, I believe, but _Narcisse_ was a most
artistic piece of work. His appearance was superb; his philosophical
flippancy anent his poverty, his biting contempt of the powerful
_Pompadour_; his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in the
person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were really great.
And just one little month after the departure of the impetuous German,
who should be announced but Mr. Edwin Booth. I felt my eyes growing
wider as I read in the cast, "_Queen Gertrude--Miss Morris_." Uncle
Dick, behind me, said: "Would you like me to d----n poor Brad's bones
for you, Clara? It's hard lines on you, and that's a fact!"
"Oh!" I thought, "why won't her blessed old bones mend themselves! she is
not lazy, but they are! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miserable tears slid
down my cheeks all the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of
crackers after I got there.
I had succeeded before, oh, yes; but I could not help recalling just how
hot the ploughshares were over which I had walked to reach that success.
Then, too, all girls have their gods--some have many of them. Some girls
change them often. My gods were few. Sometimes I cast one down, but I
never changed them, and on the highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave
and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry--Edwin Booth. I
wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with the other.
It was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as I should be forced
upon Mr. Booth, since there was still no one but my "apple-cheeked" self
to go on for the _Queen_; and though I dreaded indignant complaint or
disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more unhappy over the
annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. Well, it could not be
helped, I should have to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all.
I put my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed up the
crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time "Now I lay
me," and went to sleep; only to dream of Mr. Booth holding out a hideous
mask, and pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going on
the stage for _Gertrude_.
When the dreaded Monday came, lo! a blizzard came with it. The trains
were all late, or stalled entirely. We rehearsed, but there was no Mr.
Booth present. He was held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at
night, therefore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came we
would have time to go over the important scenes--or if he did not come
that we might prepare for another play.
He came. Oh, how my heart sank! This would be worse for him even than it
had been for Mr. Bandmann, for the latter knew of his disappointing
_Queen_ in the morning, and had time to get over the shock, but poor Mr.
Booth was to receive his blow only a few minutes before going on the
stage. At last it came--the call.
"Mr. Booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room."
I went, I was cold all over. He was so tired, he would be so angry. I
tapped. I went in. He was dressed for _Hamlet_, but he was adding a touch
to his brows, and snipping a little at his nails--hurriedly. He looked
up, said "Good-evening!" rather absently, then stopped, looked again,
smiled, and waving his hand slightly, said, just in Bandmann's very
words: "No, not you--not the _Player-Queen_--but _Gertrude_."
Tears rushed to my eyes, my whole heart was in my voice as I gasped: "I'm
so sorry, sir, but _I_ have to do _Queen Gertrude_. You see," I rushed
on, "our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act."
A whimsical look, half smile, half frown, came over his face. "That's bad
for the _heavy_ woman," he remarked.
"Yes," I acquiesced, "but, if you please, I had to do this part with Mr.
Bandmann too, and--and--I'll only worry you with my looks, sir, not about
the words or business."
He rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on my face, his brows
raised and then knit themselves in such troubled wise as made me long to
put an arm about his shoulders and assure him I wouldn't be so awfully
bad.
Then he sighed and said: "Well, it was the closet-scene I wanted to speak
to you about. When the _Ghost_ appears, you are to be--" He stopped, a
faint smile touched his lips, even reached his eyes; he laid down his
scissors, and remarked, "There's no denying it, my girl, I look a great
deal more like your father than you look like my mother--but," he went on
with his directions, and, considerate gentleman that he was, spoke no
single unkind word to me, though my playing of that part must have been a
great annoyance to him, when added to hunger and fatigue.
When the closet-scene was over, the curtain down, I caught up my petticoats
and made a rapid flight roomward. The applause was filling the theatre.
Mr. Booth, turning, called after me: "You--er--_Gertrude_--er--_Queen_! Oh,
somebody call that child back here," and someone roared: "Clara--Mr. Booth
is calling you!"
I turned, but stood still. He beckoned, then came to me, took my hand,
and saying: "My dear, we must not keep them waiting _too_ long!" led me
before the curtain with him. I very slightly bent my head to the
audience, whom I felt were applauding _Hamlet_ only, but turned and bowed
myself to the ground to him whose courtesy had brought me there.
When we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on the shoulder, and said:
"My Gertrude, you are very young, but you know how to pay a pretty
compliment--thank you, child!"
So, whenever you see pictures of nymphs or goddesses floating on pink
clouds, and looking idiotically happy, you can say to yourself: "That's
just how Clara Morris felt when Edwin Booth said she had paid him a
compliment."
Yes, I floated, and I'll take a solemn oath, if necessary, that the whole
theatre was filled with pink clouds the rest of that night--for girls are
made that way, and they can't help it.
In after years I knew him better, and I treasure still the little note he
sent me in answer to my congratulation on his escape from the bullet
fired at him from the gallery of the theatre in Chicago. A note that
expressed as much gentle surprise at my "kind thought for him," as though
I only, and not the whole country, was rejoicing at his safety.
He had a wonderful power to win love from other men--yes, I use the word
advisedly. It was not mere good-fellowship or even affection, but there
was something so fine and true, so strong and sweet in his nature, that
it won the love of those who knew him best.
It would seem like presumption for me to try to add one little leaf to
the tight-woven laurel crown he wore. Everyone knows the agony of his
"Fool's Revenge," the damnable malice of his _Iago_, the beauty and fire
of _Antony_, and the pure perfection of his _Hamlet_--but how many knew
the slow, cruel martyrdom of his private life! which he bore with such
mute patience that in my heart there is an altar raised to the memory of
that Saint Edwin of many sorrows, who was known and envied by the world
at large--as the great actor, Edwin Booth.