New York City is Suggested to Me by Mr. Worthington and Mr.
Johnson--Mr. Ellsler's Mild Assistance--I Journey to New York, and
Return to Cincinnati with Signed Contract from Mr. Daly.
To say I made a success in Cincinnati is the barest truth. Almost at
once--the third night of the season, to be exact--I received my first
anonymous gift: a very beautiful and expensive set of jewelry, pale-pink
corals in combined dead and burnished gold. They rested in their
satin-lined nest and tempted me. The sender wrote: "Show that you forgive
my temerity by wearing my offering in the third act."
_I did not wear them in any act_, and yet, oh, eternal feminine! I "tried
them on"--at least I put one ring in my ear and held the pendant against
my throat, "just to see" how they _would_ have looked, you know.
Flowers came over the footlights, the like of which I had never seen in
my life before--great baskets of hot-house beauties, some of them costing
more than I earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note, with a
big gold locket. A signature made it possible for me to return that gift
next morning.
All that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, pleasing--yes,
because earned approbation pleases one, even though it be not quite
correctly expressed. It soon became whispered about that I sent back all
gifts of jewelry, and lo! one matinee, with a splendid basket of white
camelias, fringed about with poinsettia leaves, there came a box of
French candied fruit. My! what a sensation it created in the
dressing-room. I remember some of the ladies (we dressed in one great
long room there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their
friends, while I devoted myself to the cherries and apricots. That seemed
to start a fashion, for candies, in dainty boxes, came to me as often as
flowers afterward, and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from
women, and my Saturday five cents' allowance was turned over to mother
for the banqueting fund--that meant a bit of cheese for supper.
At the time of the season's opening there was a man in Cincinnati who was
there sorely against his will, a wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who
would not practise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for
his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occupation as he could
possibly have grown had he practised the law. Tired of everything else,
he still kept his liking for the theatre. Living in New York in the
winter, at Cape May in the summer, he only came to his old home when
someone was irritating enough to die and need burying in state, or when
some lawsuit required his attention, as in this instance. So, being
there, and not knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily to
the theatre, saying to his cousin companion: "I'll take a look at
Macaulay's new leading lady, and then I'll sleep through the rest of the
evening comfortably, for no one can talk to me here as they do at the
hotel"--and the country _Cicely_ had appeared, and, to use Mr.
Worthington's own words: he had sat up straight as a ramrod and as
wide-awake as a teething baby for the rest of the evening.
Between acts he had made inquiries as to the history of the new actress,
only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from
Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother--that was all. On
that first night he had said: "Good Lord, Will, what is that girl doing
out here in the West? I must see her in a better part. What's on
to-morrow night? Secure our seats for the season, that will save a lot
of trouble;" and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance for me.
Next night I played what actresses call a "dressed part," which, in spite
of suggestion, does not mean that there are parts that are not dressed,
only that the character wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. It was
a bright, light comedy part. The audience was enthusiastic, though, of
course, I was only supporting the star. Then Mr. Worthington exclaimed:
"That girl ought to be in New York this very moment!"
"Do you think so?" questioned his inseparable.
"Do I think so?" mocked his cousin. "Yes, I know it. I know the theatres
foreign--their schools and styles, as well as I know the home theatres
and their actors. I believe I've made a discovery!"
A beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with Mr. Worthington's
visiting card, without message. The third night I played a tearful part;
the papers (as the women put it) "went on awful," and Mr. Worthington,
snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose: "I shall never
rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no one,
need hurt no one, she is unlike anyone else, and New York has plenty of
room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her some way or other,
and preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it."
His visit to Cincinnati was prolonged; his young cousin, Mr. Will
Burnett, thought he was on the high-road to crankiness on the subject.
Then Mr. Worthington discovered we had a common friend in lawyer Egbert
Johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my mother (oh, wise Mr.
Worthington), and winning her approval by praise of her wonderful chick
(where is the mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?),
she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first time I listened to
a suggestion of coming to New York.
To say I was amused at the idea would be putting it mildly indeed, for I
was tickled to such laughter that tears came to my eyes. He was annoyed,
but I laughed on. He waited--I was called upon for some heavy tragic
parts. He came again--I laughed still.
"Good heavens!" I cried, "I'm not pretty enough!"
He said: "You have your eyes and voice and expression, and you don't seem
to be suffering much here from your lack of beauty."
"N-no," I answered, naively, "you see, all the women in this company are
rather plain."
He laughed, but he continued to urge me to try for an engagement in New
York.
"I don't know enough," I faltered.
"You lack polish of manner, perhaps," he admitted, "but you will acquire
that quickly, while no one can acquire your fire and strength and pathos!
For God's sake, let me do one unselfish act in my life--let me serve you
in this matter. I will go to the managers in New York and speak for you."
But that offer I curtly declined, asking him how long my reputation would
remain unassailed if I allowed him to act for me.
In spite of all his praise of my work, I should have remained unmoved had
Mr. Johnson not joined forces with Mr. Worthington, and calmly assured me
that he, too, knew the New York theatres and actors, and he honestly
believed I had a chance of acceptance by the public, if only a manager
would give me an opening, for, said he: "Worthington is right this time,
you really are an exceptionally clever girl, so why should you bury
yourself in small Western cities?"
"Oh!" I indignantly cried, "Cleveland and Cincinnati are very big cities,
indeed!"
"Yes," smiled Mr. Johnson, "but New York is quite a bit larger, and
besides you would like to be accepted by the metropolis of your country,
would you not?"
And straightway my heart gave a bound, my cheeks began to burn, the
leaven was working at last--my ambition was awakened! I wondered day and
night, could I act well enough to please New York? I thought not; I
thought yes! I thought--I thought there could be no harm just to ask the
managers if they had an opening. But there my courage failed me--I could
not. I never had written to a manager in my life, save to answer a
letter. Finally, I wrote to Mr. Ellsler--he knew all the New York
managers (few then)--and told him I was about to ask my first favor at
his hands. Would he write to one or two managers for me, or give me a
line of introduction to them? and his unexpected opposition to my plans,
the cold water he cast upon my warm hopes, instead of crushing my spirit
utterly, aroused the old dogged determination to do what I had undertaken
to do--make a try for a New York opening!
The controversy finally ended in my receipt of a letter from Mr. Ellsler
informing me he had written to four managers, and said what he could for
me--which proved to be mighty little, as I afterward saw two of the four
letters, as they were in duplicate, though one was to a stranger, one to
an acquaintance, and two to friends. He simply asked: "If they had an
opening for a young woman, named Clara Morris, for leading or
leading-juvenile business." That was all; not a word of recommendation
for ability or mention of years of thorough experience--not even the
conventional expression of a personal obligation if they were able to
consider my application.
Had I been a manager, and had I received such a letter, I know I should
have cast it aside, thinking: "Oh, that's a duty letter and amounts to
nothing. If the girl had any recommendations for the position he would
have said so." Still, some answers were returned, though Mr. Wallack
ignored his copy. Mr. Jarrett (of Jarrett & Palmer) wrote Mr. Ellsler
that they were bound to spectacular ("Black Crook") for the year to come,
and had no earthly use for an actress above a soubrette or a walking
lady. Mr. Edwin Booth wrote: "If you had only addressed me a few days
earlier. I remember well the young woman of whom you speak. I have
unfortunately" (this last word was crossed out)--"I have just closed with
Miss Blanche DeBar--old Ben is persistent and has great confidence in
her, and, as I said, I have just closed with her for the coming season.
With," etc., etc.
Then there was a wee bit of paper--little, niggly-naggly, jetty-black,
impishly vindictive-looking writing on two short-waisted lines of about
eleven words each. That was from Mr. Daly, and it snapped out this
information: "If you send the young woman to me I will willingly consider
proposal. Will engage no actress without seeing her. A. Daly."
These letters were blithely sent to me by Mr. Ellsler, who evidently
looked upon the question as closed, but that was where we differed. I
considered it a question just fairly opened. I admit Mr. Daly's calm
ordering of me from Cincinnati to his office in New York for inspection
staggered me at first, but there was that line: "I will willingly
consider the proposal;" that was all I had to trust to; not much, heaven
knows! "Yet," I argued, "he is evidently a man who says much in little;
at all events, though the chance is small, it is the only one offered,
and, if I can stand the expense, I'll go and take that chance."
I would have to obtain leave of absence; I would have to pay a woman for
at least two performances, even if I got off on Saturday night; I would
have to stop one night in a hotel at New York, and, oh, dear, oh, dear!
would I dare to risk so much--to spend all my little savings toward the
summer vacation for this trip that might end disastrously after all? I
read again: "_Will engage no actress without seeing her._" Well, that
settled the matter. Suddenly I seemed to hear my old Irish washerwoman
saying: "Ah, well! God niver shuts one dure without opening anither!" I
laughed a bit and decided to risk my savings--nothing venture, nothing
win!
That very night I asked leave of absence; the time was most favorable--I
obtained it. I found next day an actress to take my place on Monday and
Tuesday evenings. Then mother and I emptied out our flat and old
pocket-books. I brought from its secret hiding-place the little roll of
bills saved for summer's idle time, and we put all in a pile. Then I drew
out a week's board in advance and gave it to mother; drew out enough to
pay the woman who took my place, and all the rest, to the last dollar,
was required for the expenses of my solitary journey to the great
beckoning city by the sea.
As I closed my pocket-book, I said to myself: "There, I have shut one
door with my own hand, but I'll trust God to open another for me before
vacation arrives."
There's an old saw that gravely states: "It never rains but it pours,"
and surely business opportunities "poured" upon me at that time, for in
that very week I received two offers of engagements, and one of them, had
not the New York bee been buzzing so loudly in my bonnet, would have
driven me quite wild with delight. That was from Mr. Thomas Maguire, of
San Francisco, and the salary was to me enormous. One hundred dollars a
week in gold, a benefit, and no vacation at all, unless I wished it. I
temporized. I wished to gain time enough to learn my fate in New York
before deciding. But Mr. Maguire was in haste, and as I hurried from the
theatre to start on my journey, a long envelope was placed in my hands. I
opened it on the cars, and found signed contracts for the leading
business at San Francisco, with an _extra_ benefit added as an inducement
for me to accept.
So I journeyed onward to tempt Fate, a little forlorn and frightened at
first, but receiving so many courtesies and little kindnesses from my
more fortunately placed fellow-travelers, that I quite forgot to be
either frightened or forlorn--but was amazed at the beauty of the stately
river we crossed, whose ripples caught the glowing color of the sky and
broke them into jewels; and beyond that silvery curtain of haze stretched
the great city of my dreams, all circled round and guarded by living
waters.
Then I was ashore again and clambering into the great swaying coach of
the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the conductor having told me it was right next
door to the theatre. I breakfasted, took from my bag a new gray veil, a
pair of gray gloves, a bit of fresh ruffling, and a needle and thread,
with which I basted the ruffle into the neck of my gown; put on the veil
and gloves, that being all the preparation I could make by way of toilet
to meet the arbiter of Fate, said "Our Father," and coming to "Amen" with
a jerk, discovered I had not been conscious of the meaning of one single
word, and whispering with shame, "only lip service," remorsefully
repeated again, and with absolute sincerity, that prayer which expresses
so simply, so briefly, all our needs, physical and spiritual; that places
us at once in the comforting position of a beloved child asking with
confidence for a father's aid. A prayer whose beauty and strength share
in the immortality of its Divine composer.
And then I rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat,
just as the good Lord should will.
As I passed around the hotel and approached the theatre on Twenty-fourth
Street, an enormous upheaval of ice blocked the way--ice piled shoulder
high in front of the theatre door, and on one side of the glittering mass
stood a long, tall, thin man, as mad as a hornet, while on the other
side, stolidly, stupidly silent, stood a squat Irishman, holding an
ice-man's tongs in one hand and his shock of red hair in the other. The
long, flail-like arms of the tall man were in wild motion. In righteous
wrath he was trying to make the bog-trotter understand that the ice was
for the hotel, whose storage door was but a few feet to his right, when
he saw me making chamois-like jumps over the blocks of ice trying to
reach the door. With black-browed courtesy he told me to use the second
door, that morning, to reach the box-office.
I had, all unconsciously, formed an idea of Mr. Daly, and I was looking
for a small, dark, very dark, nervously irritable man, and was therefore
frankly amused at the wrath of the long, thin man, whose vest and whose
trousers could not agree as to the exact location of the waist-line, and
laughed openly at the ice-scene, winning in return as black a scowl as
any stage-villain could well wear. Then I cheerfully remarked: "I'm
looking for Mr. Daly; can you tell me where I am likely to find him?"
"You want Mr. Daly?" he repeated. "Who are you?"
"I'll tell Mr. Daly that, please," I answered.