I Am Accepted by the Company--I am Warned against Mr. Fisk--I Have an
Odd Encounter with Mr. Gould.
The following morning we were called to the theatre at eleven o'clock to
have the play cut "judiciously," as old actors used to say. It was very
loosely constructed, and, besides cutting, the entire drama required a
tightening-up, as it were.
Mr. Daly was the first to greet me and offer hearty and genial
congratulations. Everyone followed his example, and that morning I was
admitted into the family circle and came into my just inheritance of
equality and fraternity.
A little surprised, but very happy, I gave back smile for smile,
hand-pressure for hand-pressure; for being held off at arm's length by
them all had hurt worse I'm sure than they knew, therefore when they
offered me kindly greeting I did not stop to study out the _cause_ of
this _effect_, but shut my eyes and opened my mouth, and took what luck
had sent me, and thankfully became so much one of them that I never had a
clashing word with a member of the company--never saw the faintest cloud
darken our good-fellowship.
That morning, as the cutting was going on, I advanced and offered my
part, but Mr. Daly waved me away. "No," he said, "there's plenty of
useless matter to take out, but the public won't want _Anne_ cut, they
have none too much of her now."
He gave but few compliments, even to those he liked, and he did not like
me yet, therefore that gracious speech created a sensation among the
other hearers and was carefully treasured up by me.
Another of his sayings of that morning I recall. In conversation with one
of the ladies, I remarked: "As a Western woman, I suppose I have various
expressions to unlearn?" when Mr. Daly turned quickly from the
prompt-table, saying, sharply: "Miss Morris, don't say that again. You
are a New York woman now--please remember that. You ceased to be a
Westerner last night when you received the New York stamp."
I thought him jesting, and was about to make some flippant reply, when
one of the ladies squeezed my arm and said: "Don't, he will be angry; he
is in earnest."
And he was, just as he was in earnest later on when we had become good
friends, and I heard him for the first time swear like a trooper because
I had been born in Canada. And when I laughed at his anger, he was not
far from boxing my ears.
"It's a damn shame!" he declared; "in the first place you are an American
to the very marrow of your bones. In the next place you are the only
woman I know who has a living, pulsing love of country and flag! Oh, the
devil! I won't believe it--you born in a tu'penny ha'penny little
Canadian town under that infernal British flag! See here, if you ever
tell anyone that--I'll--I'll never forgive you! Have you been telling
that to people?"
I answered him: "I have not--but I have permitted the assertion that I
was born in Cleveland to go uncorrected," and, with the sweet frankness
of friendship, he answered that I had more sense than he had given me
credit for. But, small matter that it was, it annoyed him greatly, and I
still have notes of his, sent on my birthdays, in which he petulantly
refers to my unfortunate birth-place, and warns me to keep silent about
it.
Like many other great men--and Mr. Daly was a great man--he often made
mountains out of mole-hills, devoting to some trifle an amount of
consideration out of all proportion to the thing considered.
On the first night of the season Mr. Daly had said to me: "One word,
Miss Morris, that I had forgotten before--Mr. James Fisk, unfortunately,
as landlord, has the right of entrance into the green-room. He doesn't
often appear there, but should he come in, if you are present I desire
you should instantly withdraw. I do not wish you to be introduced to him
under any circumstances."
I felt my face flushing red as I answered: "I have no desire to meet
either Mr. Fisk or any other gentleman in the green-room!" But Mr. Daly
said, hurriedly: "Don't misunderstand me, there's no time for
explanations now, only do as I ask you. You will recognize him when I
tell you he is very blond and very like his pictures," and away flew Mr.
Daly to attend to things enough to drive most men crazy.
Now, that speech did not mean that Mr. Fisk was a monster of ill-breeding
or of immorality, but it did mean that that was Mr. Daly's "tat" to Mr.
Fisk's "tit" in a very pretty little "tit-for-tat" quarrel between them.
Mr. Daly very seldom tasted defeat--very, very seldom came out second
best in an encounter; but there had been a struggle anent the renting of
the theatre: Mr. Fisk, as landlord, refusing to renounce his right of
entrance by the stage-door to any theatre he owned--nothing could move
him, no argument, no entreaty, no threat; not even an offer of more rent
than he himself asked. To Mr. Daly the right of entrance of an outsider
back of the stage was almost unbearable, even though the privilege was
seldom used and never abused. He declared he would not sign any agreement
holding such a clause. He gave up the theatre rather than yield, and
then, with a large company already engaged, he sought in vain for a house
to shelter it. Now, the city is broken out all over, close and fine, with
theatres, like a case of well-developed measles; but then 'twas
different. Mr. Daly could find no other theatre, and he was compelled to
accept the Fifth Avenue with the hated clause compromised thus: Mr. Fisk
was to have the right of entrance to the green-room, but was never to go
upon the stage or behind the scenes; an ending to the struggle that
pleased the company mightily, for they were all very fond of Jimmy Fisk,
or "The Prince," as he was called.
He never forgot them on benefit nights; whether the beneficiary was man
or woman there was always a gift ready from the "Railroad Prince."
He looked like a man well acquainted with his tub. His yellow hair
crisped itself into small waves right from its very roots. His blue eyes
danced with fun, for he was one of nature's comedians. His manner was
what he himself would describe as "chipper." No one could talk five
minutes with him without being moved to laughter.
His own box was the right upper one, and as I first had him pointed out
to me, yellow-haired, laughing, flashing now and then a splendid ring, I
wondered if he really was the stalking-horse of the dark little man with
the piercing eyes who sat for one act well back of the redundant and
diffuse Mr. James Fisk. Wishing to make sure of the dark man's identity,
I asked who he was. "Oh," was the answer, "he's gone now, but I suppose
it was Gould, rooting out the 'Prince' to talk shop to him!" then,
thrusting out a contemptuous under-lip, my informant added: "He's no
good--he has nothing to do with the theatre! Scarcely ever comes to a
performance, and doesn't see anything when he does. He couldn't tell any
one of us apart from the others if he tried--and he's not likely to try.
You want to keep your eye on Jimmie. If he likes you, you're in for
flowers and a present, too, on your benefit!"
Imagine, then, my amazement on the third night of the season when this
occurred: In one act I made my exit before the curtain fell--all the
other characters being still upon the stage. Having a change of dress
there, I always hurried down-stairs as quickly as possible, and passing
in one door and out of the other, crossed the green-room to reach my
dressing-room. That evening as I ran in I saw a gentleman standing near
the opposite door. I turned instantly to retreat, when a voice called:
"If you please." I paused, I turned. The gentleman removed his hat, and
coming to the centre of the room held out his hand, saying: "Miss
Morris--you _are_ Miss Morris?"
I smiled assent and gave him my hand. His small, smooth fingers closed
upon mine firmly. We stood and looked at each other. He was small, and
dark of hair and of beard, and his piercing eyes seemed to be reading me
through and through. He spoke presently, in a voice low and
gentle--almost to sadness.
"I wanted to speak to you," he said; "I'm not going to waste time telling
you you are a wonderful actress, because the papers have already done
that, and all New York _will_ do it, but I see you are an honest girl and
alone here----"
"No--oh, no!" I broke in, "my mother, too, is here!"
A faint smile seemed to creep about his bearded lips, there was a
distinct touch of amusement in his voice as he said: "I-n-d-e-e-d! a
valiant pair, no doubt--a truly valiant pair! but," his small fingers
closed with surprising strength about mine in emphasis of his words,
"but, oh, my honest little woman, you are going to see trouble here!" He
glanced down at the hateful cheap dress I wore, he touched it with the
brim of his hat: "Yes, you will have sore trouble on this score, to say
nothing of other things; but don't let them beat you! When your back is
to the wall, don't give up! but at a last pinch turn to me, Clara Morris,
and if I don't know how to help you out, I know somebody who will!
She----"
Steps, running steps, were coming down the passageway, then tall,
dead-white with anger, Mr. Daly stood in the doorway. He almost gasped
the words: "What does this mean, sir?" then angrily to me: "Leave the
room at once!"
Flushing at the tone, I bent my head and moved toward the door, when,
calm and clear, came the words: "Good-night, Miss Morris, please
remember!"
Mr. Daly seemed beside himself with anger. "Mr. Gould," he cried (my
heart gave a jump at the name; to save my life I could not help glancing
back at them), "how dare you pass the stage-door? You have no more right
here than has any other stranger! Your conduct, sir----"
The gray, blazing eyes of the speaker were met by Mr. Gould's, calm,
cold, hard as steel, and his voice, low and level, was saying: "We will
not discuss my conduct here, if you please--your office perhaps," as I
fled down the entry to my own room.
Mr. Daly sent for me at the end of the play to demand my story of the
unexpected meeting. Had I received any note, any message beforehand? Had
we any common acquaintance? What had he said to me--word for word, what
had he said?
I thought of the gentle voice, the piercing eyes that had grown so kind,
the friendly promise, and somehow I felt it would be scoffed at--I
rebelled. I would only generalize. He had called me an honest girl, had
said the city praised me; but when I got home I told my mother all, who
was greatly surprised, since she had had only the newspaper Gould in her
mind--a sort of human spider, who wove webs--strong webs--that caught and
held his fellow-men.
His words came true. I saw trouble of many kinds and colors. More than
once I thought of his promise, but I had learned much ill of human nature
in a limited time, and I was afraid of everyone. Knowing much of poor
human nature now, and looking back to that evening, recalling every tone,
every shade of expression, I am forced to believe Mr. Jay Gould was
perfectly honest and sincere in his offer of assistance.
If this incident seems utterly incredible at first, it is because you are
thinking of Mr. Gould wholly in his character of "The Wizard of Wall
Street;" but turn to the domestic side of the man, think of his undying
love for, his unbroken loyalty and devotion to, the wife of his choice,
who, as mother of his little flock, never ceased to be his sweetheart.
Is it so improbable, then, that his heart, made tender by love for one
dear woman, sheltered and protected, might feel a throb of pity for
another woman, unsheltered and alone, whose poverty he saw would be a
cruel stumbling-block in her narrow path? I think not.
Who that "she" was whose aid he would have asked in my behalf I do not
know, can never know; but it always gives me an almost childish pleasure
to imagine it was the sweet, strong woman who was his wife. At all
events, Mr. Gould that night furnished me with a pleasant memory, and
that is a thing to be thankful for.
The first time I saw Mr. Fisk in the green-room he was surrounded by a
smiling, animated party, and as he advanced a step, expectantly, I
disappeared. I have been told that he laughed at his own disappointment
and the suddenness of some claim upon my attention. The second time, I
was in the room when he entered, and at my swift departure he reddened
visibly, and, after a moment, said: "If you were not all such good
friends of mine, I should think someone had been making a bugaboo of me
to scare that young woman."
"Oh," laughed one of the men, "she's from the West and is a bit wild
yet."
"Well," he replied, "it doesn't matter where she's from, New York's got
her now and means to keep her. I'd like to offer her a word of welcome
and congratulation, but she won't give a chap any margin," and he resumed
his conversation.
The third time, he was alone in the room, and as I backed hastily out he
followed me. I ran--so did he--but as that was too ridiculous I stopped
at his call and, turning, faced him. He removed his hat and hurriedly
said: "I beg your pardon for forcing myself upon your attention, Miss
Morris, but any man with a grain of self-respect would demand an
explanation of such treatment as I have received from you. Come now, you
are a brave girl, an honest girl--tell me, please, why you avoid me as if
I were the plague. Why, good Lord! your eyes are all but jumping out of
your head! Are you afraid even to be seen listening to me?" Suddenly he
stopped, his own words had given him an idea. His eyes snapped angrily.
"Well, I'll be blessed!" he exclaimed; then he came closer. He took my
hand and asked: "Miss Morris, have you been putting these slights on me
by order?"
I was confused, I was frightened; I remembered the anger Mr. Gould's
presence had aroused, and this was an actual breech of orders. I
stammered: "I--oh, I just happened to be busy, you know."
I glanced anxiously about me; he replied: "Yes, you were very busy
to-night, sitting in the green-room doing nothing--yet you ran as if I
were a leper. Tell me, little woman--don't be afraid--have you been
obeying an order?"
"If you please--if you please!" was all I could say.
He looked steadily at me, lifted my hand to his lips, and said, with a
compassionate sigh: "Bread and butter comes high in New York, doesn't it,
child? There, I won't worry you any longer, but Brother Daly and I will
hold a little love-feast over this matter." And with a laugh he returned
to the green-room, where I could hear him singing "Lucy Long" to himself.
A fortnight later, finding him again surrounded by the company, he
laughingly called out to me: "Don't run away, the embargo is raised. It
won't cost you a cent to shake hands and be friendly!" And as I seated
myself in the place he made beside him, he added, low: "And no advantage
taken of it outside the theatre."
He used so many queer, old-fashioned words, such as "chipper,"
"tuckered," "I swan!" "mean tyke," etc., that I once said to him: "I'm
afraid you have washed your face in a pail by the pump ere this, Mr.
Fisk?"
He laughed, and responded: "I'm afraid I used to be sent back to do it
better, when I had first to break the ice to get to the water in the
pail, Miss Guesswell!"
And then he gave a funny imitation of a boy washing his face in icy
water, by wetting his fingers and drawing a circle about each eye and
his mouth. He called his wife Lucy. Heaven knows whether it really was
her name, but he always referred to her as Lucy. He was very fond of
her, in spite of appearances, and proud of her, too. He said to me once:
"She is no hair-lifting beauty, my Lucy, just a plump, wholesome,
big-hearted, commonplace woman, such as a man meets once in a lifetime,
say, and then gathers her into the first church he comes to, and seals
her to himself. For you see these commonplace women, like common-sense,
are apt to become valuable as time goes on!"
When anyone praised some wife, he would look up and say: "Wife--whose
wife? What wife? Bring your wives along, I ain't afraid to measure my
Lucy with 'em. For, look here, you mustn't judge Lucy by her James!"
A divorce case was before the courts, and it was much discussed
everywhere. The wife had been jealous and suspicious, and blond hairs
(she was very dark herself) and strange hair-pins held a ludicrous
prominence in the evidence. "Ah!" said Fisk, "that's not the kind of a
wife I have! Never, _never_ does Lucy surprise me with a visit, God bless
her! No, she always telegraphs me when she's coming, and I--I clear up
and have a warm welcome for her, and then she's pleased, and that pleases
me, and we both enjoy our visit. Hang'd if we don't! And just to show you
what a hero--yes, a _hero_--she is, and, talking of hair-pins, let me
tell you now. You know those confounded crooked ones, with three infernal
crinkles in the middle to keep them from falling out of the hair? Those
English chorus-girls wear them, I'm told. Well, one day Lucy comes to see
me. Oh, she had sent word as usual, and everything was cleared up (I
supposed) as usual, and George, my man, was laying out some clothes for
me, when Lucy, smoothing her hand over the sofa-cushion, picks up and
holds to the light an infernal crinkled hair-pin. George turned white and
looked pleadingly at me. I saw myself in court fighting a divorce like
the devil; and then, after an awful, perspiring silence, my Lucy
says--she that has worn straight pins all her life: 'James, that is a
lazy and careless woman that cares for your rooms. It's three weeks
to-day since I left for home, and here is one of my hair-pins lying on
the sofa ever since!'
"If she had put it in her hair I should have thought her really deceived
in the matter, but when she dropped it in the fire, I knew she was just a
plain hero! I walked over and knelt down and said: 'Thank you, Lucy,'
while I pretended to tie her shoe. George was so upset that he dropped
the studs twice over he was trying to put into a shirt-front. Oh, I tell
you my Lucy can't be beat!"
The time he won the name of "Jubilee Jim," when the whole country was
laughing over his triumphant visit to Boston with his regiment, he made
this unsmiling explanation of the matter:
"You see, the Ninth and I were both tickled over the invitation to visit
Boston, and as there were so many of us I paid the expenses myself.
Being proud of the regiment and anxious it should be acquainted with all
real American institutions, I arranged for it to stay over Sunday, for
there were dozens of the boys who had never even seen a slice of real
Boston brown-bread or a crock-baked bean--and a Boston Sunday breakfast
was to be the educational feature of the visit. Everything was lovely,
until the Ninth suddenly felt a desire to pray, as well as to eat, and
I'll be switched on to a side-track if the minister of that big church
didn't begin to kick like a steer, and finally refuse to let us pray in
his shop. Now, if there's anything that will make a man hot as blazes in
a minute, it's choking him off when he wants to pray. Some sharply
pointed and peppery words were exchanged on the subject. I suppose our
numbers rather muddled up his schedule, but if he'd said so quietly I
could have straightened out his heavenly time-table so that there would
have been no collision between trains of prayer. But no, instead of
that, he slams the doors of his church in our visiting faces, and, in
act at least, tells us to go to--what's that polite word now that means
h--? What--what do you call it _sheol_? Shucks! that word won't become
popular--hasn't got any snap to it! Well, the boys were mighty blue,
they thought the visit was off. But I got 'em into the armory, and I
said, what amounted to this, I says: 'This visit ain't off; Boston is
right as a trivet, and wants us! We ain't bucking against the city, but
against that sanctified stingyike who don't want anyone in heaven but
his own gang; but you see here, when the Ninth Regiment wants to pray,
I'm d----d if it don't do it. Who cares for that church, anyway, where
you'd be crowded like sardines and have your corns crushed to agony!
We'll go to Boston, boys, and we'll praise the Lord on the Common, if
they'll let us, and if they won't, we'll march out to the suburbs and
have a perfect jubilee of prayer!' And what do you think," he cried,
grinning like a mischievous boy, as he twisted the long, waxed ends of
his mustache to needle-like points, "what do you think--we prayed out of
doors, with all female Boston and her attendants looking on and saying
_amen_; and, oh, by George! I sent a man to see, and 'stingyike's'
church was nearly empty! Ha! ha! I tell you what it is, when a New York
soldier wants to pray, he prays, or something gives!" After that he was
Jubilee Jim.
His growing stoutness annoyed him greatly, yet he was the first to poke
fun at what he called his "unmilitary figure." One evening I said: "Mr.
Fisk, I'm afraid you have cast too much bread upon the waters; it's said
to be very fattening food when it returns?"
"Well, I swan!" he answered, "I'll never give another widow a pass over
any road of mine--whether she's black, mixed, or grass, for that's about
all the breadcasting I do."
This was not true, for he was very kind-hearted and generous, especially
to working people who were in trouble. His "black widow" was one in full
mourning, his "mixed widow" was the poor soul who had only a cheap black
bonnet or a scanty veil topping her ordinary colored clothing to express
her widowed state, while the "grasses" were, in his own words: "All those
women who were not married--but ought to be."
Whenever he gave a diamond or an India shawl to a French opera-bouffe
singer the world heard of it, and the value grew and grew daily, and that
publicity gratified his strange distorted vanity, but the lines of
widows, sometimes with hungry little flocks hanging at their skirts, that
he passed over roads, the discharged men he "sneaked" (his own word) back
into positions again, because of their suffering brood, he kept silent
about.
He never got angry at the papers, no matter what absurdity they printed
about him. At the time of the riot some paper declared he had left his
men and had climbed a high board fence in order to escape from danger. In
referring to the article at the theatre one evening, he said, in
reproachful tones: "Now wasn't that a truly stupid lie?" He rose, and
placing his hands where his waist should have been, he went on
mournfully: "Look at me! I look like a sprinter, don't I? If you just
could see me getting into that uniform--no offence, ladies, I don't mean
no harm. Oh, Lord, who has a small grammar about them? Well, when I'm in
the clothes, it takes two men's best efforts, while I hold my breath, to
clasp my belt--and they say I climbed that high fence! Say, I'd give five
thousand dollars down on the nail if I had the waist to do that act
with!"
He was not only a natural comedian, but he had an instinct for the
dramatic in real life, and he was quick to grasp his opportunity at the
burning of Chicago. _His_ relief train must be rushed through first--_he_
must beg personally; and then--and then, oh, happy thought! all the city
knew the value he placed upon the beautiful jet black stallion he rode
in the Park. Out, then, he and his stall-mate came--splendid, fiery,
satin-coated aristocrats! And taking their places before a great express
wagon, went prancing and curvetting their way from door to door, Mr. Fisk
stopping wherever a beckoning hand appeared at a window. And bundles of
clothing, boxes of provisions, anything, everything that people would
give, he gathered up with wild haste, and brief, warm thanks, and rushed
to the express offices for proper sorting and packing. Of course that
personal service was not really necessary. A modest man would not have
done it, but he was spectacular. His act pleased the people, too, and
really many were moved to give by it. Their fancy was caught by the
picture of the be-diamonded Jubilee Jim placing himself and his valuable
horses at the service of the terror-stricken, homeless Chicagoans.
Though he was himself the butt of most of his jokes, he often expressed
his opinions in terms as conclusive and quite as funny as those of his
world-famous reply to the sanctimonious fence-committee, who, claiming
that the laying of his railroad had destroyed the greater part of the old
fence about a country graveyard, demanded that he should replace it with
a new one. Scarcely were the words out of their lips than, swift as a
flash, came the characteristic answer: "What under heaven do you want a
fence round a graveyard for? The poor chaps that are in there can't get
out, and, I'll take my Bible oath, those that are out don't want to get
in! Fence around a graveyard! I guess not; I know a dozen better ways of
spending money than that!"
I heard much of his generosity on benefit nights, but personally I never
tested it. Before my benefit night arrived, Mr. Edward Stokes had caught
Mr. Fisk on a walled-in staircase, as in a trap, and had shot him down,
and then, in that time of terror and excitement, Jubilee Jim proved that
whatever else he had been called--man of sin, fraud, trickster, clown--he
was _not_ a coward! With wonderful self-control he asked, as the
clothing was being cut from his stricken body: "Is this the end of me; am
I going to die, doctor?"
And when the man addressed made an evasive and soothing answer, that his
hopeless eyes contradicted, James Fisk testily continued: "I want to
know the truth!" Then, more gently: "I'm not afraid to die, doctor, but
_I am_ afraid of leaving things all at sixes and sevens! This is the end
of me, isn't it? Well, do what you can, and, George, send for ---- and
for ---- [his lawyers], and I will do what I can. When can Lucy get
here?"
And so he quickly and calmly made all possible use of his ebbing
strength--of the flying moments--disproving at least one charge, that of
cowardice. He was dying, and crowds were waiting about the hotel where he
lay, hungry for any morsel of news from the victim's bedside. That was
the situation as I went to the theatre. I dressed and went through one
act, then, as I came upon the stage in the second act, I faced Mr. Fisk's
private box. I glanced casually at it, and stopped stock-still, the words
dying on my lips. A shiver ran over me--someone had entered the box since
the first act and had lowered the heavy red curtains and drawn them close
together.
No one could fail to understand. The flood of light, the waves of music
reached to the edge of the box only--within were silence, darkness! The
laughing owner would enter there no more, forever!
With swelling throat I stood looking up. Another actor entered, saw the
direction of my eyes, followed it, and next moment tears were on his
cheeks. Then people in the house, noticing our distress, glanced in that
same direction, and here and there a man rose and slipped out. Here and
there a handkerchief was pressed to a face, for without a word being
spoken all knew, by the blank, closed box, that Mr. Fisk was dead.
I never knew a more trying evening for actors, for all knew him
well--liked him and grieved for him. I was the only mere acquaintance,
yet I was deeply moved and found it hard to act as usual before that
mute, blank box--hard as though the body of its one-time owner lay
within.
So he made his exit--dramatic to the last. A strange character--shrewd,
sharp, vain, ostentatious, loving his diamonds, velvet coats, white
gloves. The monumental silver water-pitchers in his private boxes were
too foul to drink from generally, but then the public could see the mass
of silver. A bit of a mountebank, beyond a question, but with a temper so
sunny and a heart so generous that in spite of all his faults Jubilee Jim
had a host of friends.