I Am too Dull to Understand a Premonition--By Mr. Daly's Side I See the
Destruction of the Fifth Avenue Theatre by Fire.
How shall I call that strange influence that dumbly tries to warn, to
prepare?
Many of us have had experience of this nameless something whose efforts
are but rarely heeded. The something that one morning suddenly fills the
mind with thoughts of some friend of the far past, who is almost entirely
forgotten--persistent thoughts not to be shaken off.
You speak of the matter, and your family exclaim: "What on earth ever
brought him to your mind?" and that night you either hear of the old
friend's death or he sends you a letter from the other side of the world.
I had an acquaintance who one day found herself compelled, as it were, to
talk of thefts, of remarkable robberies. She seemed unable to turn her
mind to any other subject. If she looked at a lock, she thought how easy
it would be to force it; at a window, how readily a man might enter it.
Her people laughed and told her she was hoodooed; but next day she was
robbed of every jewel she had in the world. What was it that was trying
dumbly to warn her?
It was on the 1st of January that my mind became subject to one of those
outside seizures. The snow was banked high in the streets--had been so
for days. The unexpected sale of the house in Twenty-first Street had
forced me to new quarters; I was at that moment in Twenty-fourth Street.
As I raised my head from kissing my mother a Happy New Year, I remarked:
"The streets are in a terrible condition for a great fire--are they
not?"
"Let us hope there won't be a great fire," replied mother, and began to
pour out the coffee.
A little later the French lady coming in, to pass the compliments of the
day, I was immediately moved to ask her if our fire service here was not
superior to that of Paris? And I was greatly pleased at her joyous
acquiescence, until I discovered that her remarks had reference to our
larger fireplaces--there are always certain drawbacks accompanying a
foreign landlady.
Then I went to the matinee--for, lo, the poor actress always does double
work on days of festivity for the rest of the world, and all occasions of
legalized feasting find her eating "a cold bite." We were doing a play
called "False Shame," known in England as "The White Feather," a very
light three-act play. The dresses and scenery were beautiful; Mr. Daly
provided me with one gown--a combination of sapphire-blue velvet and
Pompadour brocade that came within an ace of making me look handsome,
like the rest.
He remarked upon its effect, and I told him I felt compelled to look
well, since I had nothing else to do; but the day had gone by when such
remarks could anger him. He laughed good-humoredly and said: "All the
same, Miss, that scene at the organ is mighty pretty and taking, too."
For, look you, in the theatre "a little knowledge is not a dangerous
thing." Complete knowledge is, of course, preferable; but, ah, how far a
very little will go, and here was my poor tum-tumming, "one _and_ two
_and_ three _and_," filling Mr. Daly's very soul with joy, because
forsooth, in a lovely old English interior, all draped in Christmas
greens, filled with carved-wood furniture, big logs burning in an
enormous fireplace, wax candles in brass sconces, two girls are at the
organ in dinner dress, who, nervously anxious about a New Year carol,
with which they are going to surprise their guests at mid-night, seize
the moment before dinner to try said carol over.
Miss Davenport, regal in satin, stood, music in hand, the fire-light on
her handsome face. I, seated at the organ in my precious blue and
brocade, played the accompaniment, and sang alto, and, though terror over
this simple bit of work brought me to the verge of nervous prostration,
the scene was, from the front, like a stolen peep into some beautiful
private home, and it brought an astonishing amount of applause. But if I
had not "_one_ two threed" in Cincinnati on that grinning old piano,
where would the organ-scene have been? Ah, a little knowledge, if spread
ever so thin by a master hand like Mr. Daly's, will prove useful.
So don't refuse to learn a little because you fear you cannot afford to
study thoroughly--if you are an actress.
While I was sitting through a long wait that day I fell into a brown
study. The theatre dresser, who was very fond of me and gave me every
spare moment of her time, came into my room and twice addressed me before
I came out of my reverie.
"What in the world are you thinking of, Miss Clara?" she asked, and I
answered with another question: "Mary, were you ever in a great fire?"
"No," she said; "were you?"
"Yes," I answered; "I have been twice burned out from shelter at dead of
night," and I told her of that hotel fire at 3 A.M., where there was but
one stairway to the street; of the mad brutality of the men; of the
terrible and the ludicrous scenes; of my own escape, quite alone, in bare
feet and one white garment; of my standing across a leaking hose, while a
strange man pulled my right arm, frantically crying, "You come with me!
my mother's got a blanket to wrap you up in!" and Mr. Ellsler, who had
just arrived, seized my left arm, dragging me his way and shouting, "Come
over to the house and get to bed quick, before you die of exposure!"
while I felt the water spraying my forlornly shivering shins, and was
more nearly torn asunder than was ever the Solomon baby.
"Oh, my!" said Mary, "how dreadful!"
"Yes," I said, musingly, "and what a fire this place would make--all
these partitions of painted pine!"
"Oh, don't!" protested Mary.
"But," said I, "you know that's what theatres are built for--to burn is
their natural end!" and then I was called, and went up-stairs to saunter
through another act of the mild little play.
I owned but little jewelry then, but what I had was noticeably good. My
rings, including the handsome pearl one Mr. Daly had given me as a
souvenir of "47," I had to remove from my fingers for the last act, and
when the curtain had fallen and I had rushed myself into street garments,
and was leaving the dressing-room in haste to join my waiting mother at
dinner, Mary called to me: "Miss Clara, you are leaving your diamond
rings--but never mind," she picked them up and dropped them, one by one,
into a little box: "I'll lock the door myself, you run along, the rings
will be safe enough--run!" and the answering words I heard swiftly
leaving my lips were absolutely involuntary and dictated by no thought of
mine. They were:
"Yes, as far as theft is concerned, they are safe enough, but in case of
fire? Better give them to me, Mary. Oh!" for the girl had dropped one on
the floor. It was a bit of Oriental enamel set about with tiny sparks of
diamonds. I put the others on, but would not wait for her to pick up the
rolling truant, and away I went.
At the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street I came to a
stand-still before two great snow-banks, and I thought again what they
might mean in case of a fire.
I reached home at a brisk pace, ran up-stairs, threw off my cloak, and
had drawn my dress-waist half off, when, without a preliminary knock, the
door was flung open and my landlord, Mr. Bardin, white with the
excitement that had wiped out his knowledge of English, stood
gesticulating wildly and hurling French at me in seething masses. I
caught "_le feu!_" "_le feu!_" many times repeated; then "_le theatre!_"
and with a cry I seized his arm and shook him.
"What is it?" I cried, "do you mean fire?"