"Yes," I answered, "I'm the girl come out of the West, to be inspected.
I'm Clara Morris."
He frowned quickly, though he held out his hand and shook mine heartily
enough, and asked me to come into his office.
It was a cranny in the wall. It held a very small desk and one chair,
behind which was a folding stool. As he entered, I laughingly said: "I
think I'll lean here, I'm not used to sitting on the floor," but to my
surprise, as he brought forth the stool, he curtly replied: "I was not
going to ask you to sit on the floor," which so amused me that I could
not resist asking: "Are you from Scotland, by chance, Mr. Daly?" and he
had frowningly said "No!" before the old, old joke about Scotch density
came to him.
Then he said, with severity: "Miss Morris, I'm afraid your bump of
reverence is not well developed."
And I laughed and said: "There's a hole there, Mr. Daly, and no bump at
all," and though the words were jestingly spoken, there was truth and to
spare in them, and there, too, was the cause of all the jolts and jars
and friction between us in our early days together. Mr. Daly was as a god
in his wee theatre, and was always taken seriously. I knew not gods and
took nothing under heaven seriously. No wonder we jarred. Every word I
spoke that morning rubbed Mr. Daly's fur the wrong way. I offended him
again and again. He wished to show me the theatre, and, striking a match,
lit a wax taper and held it up in the auditorium, at which I exclaimed:
"Oh, the pretty little match-box! Why, it's just a little toy
play-house--is it not?"
Which vexed him so I was quite crushed for a minute or two. One thing
only pleased him: I could not tear myself away from the pictures, and I
praised, rapturously, a beautiful velvety-shadowed old engraving. We grew
quite friendly over that, but when we came to business he informed me I
was a comedy woman, root and branch.
"But," I said, "ask Mr. Edwin Booth, or Mr. Davenport, or Mr. Adams!"
He waved me down. "I won't ask anyone," he cried; "I never made a mistake
in my life. You couldn't speak a line of sentiment to save your soul!"
"Why, sentiment is my line of business--I play sentiment every week of my
life," I protested.
"Oh, you know what I mean," he said, "you can _speak_ and _repeat_ the
lines, but you couldn't give a line of sentiment naturally to save your
life--your forte is comedy, pure and simple."
It all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a stated line of
business. I must trust to his honor not to degrade me by casting me for
parts unworthy me. He would give me $35 a week (knowing there were two to
live on it), _if I made a favorable impression he would double that
salary_.
A poor offer--a risky undertaking. I had no one to consult with. I had in
my pocket the signed contract for $100 in gold and two benefits. I must
decide now, at once. Mr. Daly was filling up a blank contract.
Thirty-five dollars against $100! "_But if you make a favorable
impression_ you'll get $70," I thought. And why should I not make a
favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or
South, not much harmed. If I wait till I am older, and fail, it will ruin
my life.
I slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little farewell tap to the
contract for $100. I took the pen; I looked hard at him. "There's a heap
of trusting being asked for in this contract," I remarked. "You won't
forget your promise about doubling the salary?"
"I won't forget anything," he answered.
I looked at the pen, it was a stub, the first I ever saw; then I said:
"That's what makes your writing look so villainous. I can't sign with
that thing--I'd be ashamed to own my signature in court, when we come to
the fight we're very likely to have before we are through with each
other."
He groaned at my levity, but got another pen. I wrote Clara Morris twice,
shook hands, and went out and back to my home--a Western actress with an
engagement in a New York theatre for the coming season.