I play "Marie" to Oblige--Mr. Barrett's Remarkable Call--Did I Receive
a Message from the Dying or the Dead?
From the time when, as a ballet-girl, I was called forward and given the
part of _Marie_ in "The Marble Heart," a play Mr. Barrett was starring
in, to the then distant day of that really splendid combination with Mr.
Edwin Booth, I never saw the former when he was not burning with
excitement over some production he had in mind, if not yet in rehearsal.
Even in his sleep he saw perfect pictures of scenery not yet painted,
just as before "Ganalon" he used to dream of sharp lance and gay pennon
moving in serried ranks, of long lines of nobles and gentlemen who wore
the Cross of the Crusader.
His friends were among the highest of God's Aristocracy of Brains--'twas
odd that sculptors, artists, poets, thinkers should strike hands with so
"cold" a man and call him friend!
I remember well the dismayed look that came upon his face when I was
ordered from the ballet ranks to take the place of the lady--a hard,
high-voiced soubrette, who was to have played _Marie_, had not a sore
throat mercifully prevented her. But at my first "Thank you--I'd rather
go--yonder--," pointing to the distant convent, his eyes widened,
suddenly a sort of tremor came to his lips. He was at my side in an
instant, telling me to indicate my convent as on the opposite side, so
that my own attitude would be more picturesque to the audience. Between
the acts he said to me: "Have you any opinion of _Marie_, Miss er--er?"
"My name's 'just Clara,'" I kindly interjected.
"Well," he smiled, "'just Clara,' have you formed any idea of this
_Marie's_ character?"
"Why," I answered, "to me she seems a perfect walking gratitude; in real
life she would be rather dog-like, I'm afraid; but in the play she is
just beautiful."
He looked solemnly at me, and then he said: "And _you_ are just
beautiful, too, for you are a little thinking actress. Now if you have
the power of expressing what you think, do you know I am very honestly
interested, 'just Clara,' in your share of to-night's work."
The play went well as a whole, and as _Marie_ is one of the most tenderly
pathetic creations conceivable, I sat and wept as I told her story; but
imagine my amazement when, as Mr. Barrett bent over my hand, a great hot
tear fell from his cheek upon it.
"Oh, my girl," he said, when the play was over, "don't let anything on
God's footstool dishearten you. Work! work! you have such power, such
delicacy of expression with it--you _are Marie_, the little stupidly
religious, dog-like 'Marie the resigned,' that you have renamed for me
'Marie the grateful.'"
When I was leading woman he wished to do that play for a single night. Of
course _Marco_ belonged to me, but the big, handsome, cold-voiced second
woman could well talk through _Marco_, while she would (artistically
speaking) damn _Marie_. Mr. Barrett was very hungry-eyed, there was
positive famine in them, as he mournfully said: "I would give a great
deal to hear you tell _Marie's_ story again--to see you and your little
bundle and bandaged foot. Such a clever touch that--that bandaged foot,
no other _Marie_ dares do that; but you have turned your back on the
'grateful one'; you can't afford to do her again."
"Mr. Barrett," I asked, "do you wish me to play _Marie_ now?"
"Do I wish it?" he echoed, "I wish it with all my heart, but I have no
right to ask a sacrifice from you even if it would benefit the whole
performance, as well as give me a personal pleasure."
"If the manager does not object," I said, "I am quite willing to give up
the leading part and play _Marie_ again."
He held my hands, he fairly stammered for a moment, then he said: "You
are an _artiste_ and a brave and generous girl. I shall remember this
action of yours, 'just Clara,' always."
The amazed manager, after some objection, having consented, I once more
put on the rusty black gown, took my small bundle, and asked of the gay
ladies from Paris my way to the convent, yonder--finding in the tears of
the audience and the excellence of the general performance, full reward
for playing second fiddle that evening.
In my early married days, when the great coffee-urn was still a menace to
my composure and dignity, at a little home-dinner, when Mr. William
Black, the famous writer of Scottish novels, honored me by his presence
on my right, Mr. Barrett on my left, moved, no one knows by what freak of
memory, lifted his glass, and, speaking low, said: "'Just Clara,' your
health!"
I laughed a little, and was nodding back, when Mr. Black, who saw
everything through those glasses of his, cried out: "Favoritism,
favoritism! why, bless my heart, I drank your health ten minutes ago, and
you never blushed a blush for me! And I am chief guest, and on the right
hand of the hostess--explanations are now in order!"
And Mr. Barrett said that he would explain on their way to the club,
whereupon Mr. Black wrinkled up his nose delightedly, and said he
"scented a story"--"and, oh," he cried, "it's the sweetest scent in the
world, the most fascinating trail to follow!"
But I was thankful that he did not hunt down his quarry then and there,
for he could be as mischievous as a squirrel and as persistent as any
_enfant terrible_, if he thought you were depriving him of a story.
Though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, yet must I laugh
whenever I think of Mr. Barrett's last "call" upon me. We were
unknowingly stopping in the same hotel. On the way to the dining-room for
a bit of lunch, Mr. Harriott and Mr. Barrett met, exchanged greetings,
and when the latter found I was not going to luncheon, and was moreover
suffering from a most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could
not call upon me for a few moments.
Mr. Harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, Mr. Barrett hastily
added: "Of course I shall merely say 'How do you do,' and express my
sympathy, since I know something about neuralgia myself--that's all."
Upon which they turned back, and Mr. Harriott ushered the unexpected, the
spick-and-span caller into my presence, with the reassuring word: "Mr.
Barrett is sparing a moment or two of his time, Clara, to express his
sympathy for you."
When a woman knows she is an "object," words of welcome for the
unexpected visitor are apt to come haltingly from the tongue, and that I
was an "object" no one can deny. A loose, pink dressing-gown was bad, a
knit white shawl huddled about the shoulders was worse, but, oh, worst of
all, my hair was all scrambled up to the top of my head (hair was dressed
low then), and a broad handkerchief bandage concealed from the eye, but
not from the nose, the presence of a remedial poultice of flour and
brandy.
Truly it is such acts as this that brings many a well-meaning but
apparently demented husband into the divorce court. Now any friend,
relative, or servant would have bravely but politely prevaricated to the
last gasp rather than have admitted a caller to me in that state, but
husbands have no discretion, husbands have no--well, that's too large a
contract, so I'll keep to that call.
I was aghast for a moment, but the warm pressure of Mr. Barrett's hand,
his brightening eye gave me such an impression of sincerity in his
pleased greeting that I forgot I was an "object," and asked him to sit
down for a chat, as eagerly as though I had had all my war-paint on.
We were soon exchanging memories of the past, and Mr. Harriott, having a
business engagement ahead, excused himself and withdrew. Mr. Barrett,
calling after him: "I'll join you in a moment," resumed his conversation.
There still stood on the table a pot of tea and a plate holding two
pieces of toast. They had been meant for my lunch, but neuralgia had the
call, and lunch had been ignored; so, as we talked on and on, presently
Mr. Barrett, seeing my bandage sliding down over my eyes, rose, and,
without pausing in his rapid description of a certain picture he had seen
abroad in its creator's studio, he passed behind me, tightened the knot
of the handkerchief, put the sofa-pillow behind my head, a stool under my
feet, and resumed his seat.
Then I talked and talked, and grew excited, then thirsty. I drew the tray
nearer and poured out a cup of tea.
"Give me some," said Mr. Barrett, who was now telling me about a sitting
of Parliament in London.
"Let me order some that's fresh," I replied.
"No, no!" he cried, impatiently, "that will be such an interruption--no,
no!"
I gave him then a cup of cold tea. Presently I broke off a bit of the
stiff and repellant toast, with its chilled, pale gleam of butter, and
nibbled it. His hand went forth and broke off a bit also. We were on a
new poem then, and Mr. Barrett seemed thrilling to his fingertips with
the delight of it. He repeated lines; I questioned his reading; we
experimented, placing emphasis first on this word, then on that. We
generally agreed, but we came an awful cropper over Gladstone.
How fiercely we clashed over the grand old man those who knew Mr. Barrett
will guess from the fact that during the fray he excitedly undid two
buttons of his tight frock-coat. The ends of his white silk muffler now
hung down his back, fluttering when he moved like a small pair of white
wings. I have a recollection, too, of his rising, and, apparently
unconscious of his act, lighting the gas, while he passionately demanded
of me the reason why Dickens could not create a real woman.
At last we came up hard and fast against _Hamlet_. The air was thick with
stories. Part of the time we talked together in our eagerness. Mr.
Barrett's coat was quite unbuttoned; the curl on his wide brow had grown
as frizzly as any common curl might grow. Two round, red spots spread
over his high cheek-bones, his eyes were hungrily glowing; he had just
taken a long breath and made a start on an audience with the Pope, when
Mr. Harriott entered and said: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrett, there's a
man outside who is very anxiously inquiring for you."
"For me?" exclaimed Mr. Barrett, with astonishment, "that's rather
impertinent, it seems to me!"
Suddenly he noticed the gas-light. He started violently, he pulled out
his watch, then sprang to his feet, crying: "Good God! Harriott, that's
my dresser looking for me--I ought to be in my dressing-room. What will
Mr. Booth think has become of me, and what, in heaven's name, do you
think of me?"
He hastily buttoned himself into rigidity, rescued the flying ends of his
muffler, and holding my hands for a moment, he laughed: "You are not only
'just Clara,' but you are the only Clara that would make me so utterly
forgetful of all rules of etiquette. Forgive, and good-by!" and he made
an astonishingly hasty exit.
That "call," that lasted from one till seven, with the accompanying
picture of the stately Lawrence Barrett drinking cold tea and eating
stiff cold toast, while he talked brilliantly of all things under heaven,
is one of my quaintest memories.
One loves to think of those years of his close relations with Mr. Booth.
Artistically, the combination was an ideal one; commercially, it was a
most successful one; while it certainly brought out qualities of
gentleness and devotion in Mr. Barrett that the public had not
accredited him with.
The position of manager and co-star was a difficult one, and only
Barrett's loving comprehension of Booth's peculiarities, as well as his
greatness, made that position tenable. Mr. Booth loathed business
details; he was sorrowful and weary; he had tasted all the sweets the
world had to offer, but only their under tang of bitterness was left upon
his lips. He had grown coldly indifferent to the call of the public, but
Mr. Barrett believed that under this ash of lassitude there still glowed
the clear fire of genius, and when they went forth to try their great
experiment, Mr. Booth found himself respected, honored, guarded as any
woman might have been. He was asked no questions about scene or scenery,
about play or percentage--his privacy and peace were ever of the first
consideration. Mr. Barrett was his agent, manager, stage-manager, friend,
co-worker, and dramatic guardian angel--all he asked of him in return was
to act.
And how splendidly Mr. Booth responded the public can well remember. As
he said laughingly to a friend, at the end of the first season: "Good
work, eh? well, why should I not do good work, after all Barrett has done
for me. Why, I never knew what c-o-m-f-o-r-t spelled before. I
arrive--someone says: 'Here's your room, Mr. Booth.' I go in and smoke.
At night, someone says: 'Here's your dressing-room, sir,' and I go in and
dress, yes, and smoke, and then act. That's all, absolutely all that I
have to do, except to put out my hand and take my surprisingly big share
of the receipts now and then. Good work, eh? well, I'll give him the best
that's in me, he deserves it."
And in the beautiful friendship that grew up between the melancholy,
gentle Booth and the nervously energetic Barrett I believe each gave to
the other the best that was in him.
Before leaving the Barretts I should like to mention an odd happening
connected with Joe and my visit to New Orleans, where the theatre was
under the management of Lawrence Barrett and Mr. Rogers. The company had
taken for me one of those quick likings peculiar to our people;
principally, I think, because being a temporary star (by the grace of Mr.
Daly's will) they had expected me to be haughtily dictatorial, instead of
shy to the point of misery, and because of their mistake they treated me
like a long-sought sister, instead of the stranger I was.
They publicly presented me with a gift on my last night, and almost in a
body saw my mother and myself off on our Sunday night start for home.
Everyone had left the car but big, hearty Joe Barrett--he still clung
silently to my hands, though my mother begged him to go before he met
with an injury. The train was out of the depot--the speed increasing
rapidly, before he dropped off, safely landing just beneath a light, high
above his head. His hat was off, his empty hand held out toward me, and
in that light his face was as the face of the sorrowful dead. It chilled
me, all my high spirits flattened down suddenly; I turned, and said: "Did
_you_ see, mother?" and she answered: "It was the light, and his
unhappiness, that made him look so like a--so sad," so I knew she had
seen him as I had.
Our journey was saddened by an accident, and when the train backed to
take up the creature it had crushed, not knowing what had happened, by
chance, I glanced down from the window, full into the face of the victim
as they bore him past. He had been a large, broad-shouldered man, and the
still, white face was so like Barrett's that I almost fainted. Everyone
in the car seemed to feel some measure of culpability for the mishap; and
at every unusual jolt or jar we looked with frightened eyes from the
windows, dreading lest another stretcher might be borne into view. At
last we were at home, and in work I regained my usual spirits.
A few weeks, three or four, had passed. One morning I awakened myself
from a dreamless sleep by my own singing. I faced the blank wall. I
smiled sleepily at the absurdity of the thing, then I grew more awake,
and as I sang on, I said to myself: "What is it--why, what can it be,
that I am singing?"
There were no words to this mournful, heart-breaking air, that ended with
a wail, long and weird.
"Mother," I called, the door being open between our rooms, "Mother, did
you hear me singing just now?"
"Well, yes," she replied, "since I am not deaf, I heard you very
plainly."
"Oh," I cried, "can you tell me what it was I sang?"
My mother raised her head and looked in at me surprisedly: "Why, what is
the matter with you, child--aren't you awake, that you don't know what
you are doing? You were singing 'the lament' Joe Barrett sang in the
French cemetery."
"Oh!" I cried, in late-coming recognition, "you are right." I scrambled
up, and thrusting back my hair from my face, started to sing it again,
and lo! not a note could I catch. Again and again I tried; I shut my eyes
and strove to recall that wail--no use. Then, remembering what a memory
my mother had for _airs_ heard but once or twice, I called: "Dear, can't
you start 'the lament' for me, I have lost it entirely?"
She opened her lips, paused, looked surprised, then said, positively: "I
might never have heard it, I can't get either its beginning or ending."
I sprang from the bed, and in bare, unslippered feet, ran to the piano in
the front room--no use; I never again heard, waking or sleeping, another
note of "the lament."
Mother called out presently: "Do you know what time it is? Go back and
finish your sleep, it's not quite six o'clock."
As I obediently returned to my room, I said, in a troubled voice: "What
do you suppose it means, mother?" and as she snuggled her head back upon
her pillow, she laughingly answered: "Oh, I suppose it's a sign you are
going to hear from Joe Barrett soon. If you do, I hope it won't be
anything bad, poor fellow!" for mother liked the "big Irish boy," as she
called him.
I fell asleep again, but was up and ready at nine for our rather-foreign
breakfast of coffee, rolls, and salad. Now in our partnership mother was
mistress of the house, and I, doing the outside work, being the
wage-winner, was the _man_ of the house, and as such had the master's
inalienable right to the morning paper with my coffee. That the mistress
occasionally peeped at the headlines before the _master_ rose was a fact
judiciously ignored by both, so long as the paper was ever found neatly
folded beside the waiting coffee-cup. Imagine then my surprise when,
coming into the room, I found my mother sitting at table with the badge
of authority in her own hands, and my cup standing shorn of all its
dignity. She avoided my eye, and hastily pouring coffee, said: "Drink it
while it's hot, dear, and--and I'll just glance at the paper a moment."
I sat back and stared, and I was just beginning to laugh at our small
comedy when I discovered that mother, she of the rock-steady nerves, was
trembling. Without looking up, she said again: "Drink your coffee--I'll
give you the paper presently."
I sipped a little and watched. She was not reading a line. I put down the
cup. "Mother," said I, "is there anything in that paper that will
interest me?"