THE CATASTROPHE.
To die mid flame and smoke!—HALLECK
Heaven knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor woman to make a
living. But in the days when Zuleime lived and suffered, it was even
more so. It was especially hard in Virginia, where, owing to the
prevalence of the law of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor
very poor. Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and
industrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which was that
of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor widow and orphan, who
might be suffering for the want of the work. It was for such reasons
that Zuleime found little or no employment—at most of the houses where
she applied she was told that—“We never give out needle-work,” or that,
“The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” All very well, in
moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy habit, when it does not
compromise justice and mercy—when it does not hinder us to “live and let
live.” Let us be different in our several callings; but for Heaven’s
sake, if we can possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to
those who need, or who ask it of us. They may be suffering for it, they
may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, as Zuleime was. They
may be driven to vice, to crime, for the want of it, as Zuleime was not,
thank Heaven. Reader, this portion of my story at least is no fiction.
Nor was Zuleime’s case _then_ a solitary one. Nor would it be such
_now_. There are many poor women, in every city, who have not work
enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And this is one of the
causes:—There are hundreds of ladies, of the middle classes of society,
who work themselves nearly to death, and really shorten their lives, by
sewing for their large families, in order to save money to lay out in
dress for themselves and children, more genteel than needful; or in
furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And all this time
there are hundreds of poor women around them suffering for a part of
this very work with which _they_ are killing themselves. Yes, hundreds
who die annually of innutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation,
prolonged from month to month, or from year to year, according to their
relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have lived among
them, and seen for myself, and not another. The doctors call the want,
of which they die, consumption—I think it is rather _non_-consumption.
Zuleime sank deeper and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into
winter, and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them
decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her personal
appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, bright, hungry
looking eyes—her hands wasted to semi-transparency. Her only gown, her
black bombazine, was rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her
shoes were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her other
troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon even this account.
The present was wretched—the future hopeless. She had heard of people
perishing from cold and hunger, and to such an end she thought her life
seemed tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime, there
were many then, are many now, in much worse situations. She at least was
starving in a tolerably clean room, in privacy and in peace. Far happier
than some who perish in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes,
reader, there are such things; they _do_ exist in my neighborhood, and
yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes be remembered.
Zuleime was dying of want. And did the people of the house know nothing
of this? Yes, they knew something of it, and her German landlord
trembled for his rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor
thing, and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight saw it
all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor, dying girl, all the
work she had to give, and paid her for doing it as liberally as she
could afford. But Mrs. Knight was not able, from her scanty salary, to
keep up her expensive, professional wardrobe, and support two families
besides. The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for the
poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her head that
bitter weather, and to supply the daily two pence worth of milk for the
child. If a few pence were left over, they were spent in cheap pilot
bread, sparingly eaten by herself. For weeks together she had no fire,
no fuel, but would manage to keep her child warm by seating her in the
middle of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the
bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back window of her
room. When she had work, she would sit by this window and sew, while her
child sat wrapped up in the bed. When she had no work, she would still
sit there and rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the
while. Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with its
large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the voice in which she
sang her child to rest, as she sat by the south window. She found room
in her burdened heart to love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a
river landscape, with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer,
lying between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a fair
mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river. That fine place
took in nearly a whole square, and was separated from this poor house
and lot, first, by a broad, back alley, then a tall brick wall, with
capacious stables and coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and
conservatory, and so up to the Venetian back piazza of the mansion.
Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn weather, she had
sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon these pleasure-grounds, with
their gorgeous flowers and magnificent trees, and the palace-home in the
midst, a picture of beauty and glory, telling besides of plenty,
elegance, refinement, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits,
family union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to look
for work, she had walked quite around the square to get in front of the
mansion, and satisfy her soul with the architectural beauty and elegance
of the edifice, as it stood elevated by a flight of terraces far above
the street, and commanding for many miles the mighty course of the
river. Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this southern
wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, looked up in
childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, trailing luxuriantly
over the iron railing. Why did this place interest her so? Not because
it was a palace-home, in such strong contrast to her own poor
dwelling—not because she passed it almost every day—not because its
magnificent grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room.
Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and a fine, old,
ancestral look about the place, that reminded her of her dear, lost
home. Everything connected with the premises interested her, even that
capacious family carriage, with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and
its fat coachman, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to
take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire who lived
there. One day, when walking in front of the house on the other street,
she had seen a lady in deep mourning come out and get in the carriage.
She had time to see that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed
so sweet and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and ask
for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful grounds, and
ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight up the rising
terraces until she reached the Grecian portico and rang the bell. The
door was opened by a man servant, to whom she communicated her business.
He called a waiting-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor
wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work was done by
a young person, who lived companion to her mistress, who was too infirm
to see strangers. Zuleime never tried there again. But the sweet,
sorrowful face of the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor
window upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest than
ever.
Truly the world _is_ “full of paper walls.” How little Zuleime surmised
that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over the very same bereavement
that had laid her own life waste—that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady,
whose grief-worn countenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost
Frank; that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its
pleasure-grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that
rested on her wasted bosom.
How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the palace guess
that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving so near her! The world is
full of paper walls, but fate makes them firmer, stronger, more
indestructible than adamant.
Upon that very same December night that found Mrs. Clifton and Catherine
rejoicing over the good news they had heard from their friends, upon
that very night Zuleime sat shivering in her room, without fire, food or
light. She had given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that
she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And she had wrapped
the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window, singing and rocking her to
sleep. The room was intensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her
feet were numb, and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed
to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow was falling
fast without, but even through its flakes she saw the lighted windows of
the mansion-house glowing through the crimson curtains, and streaming
redly across the snow-clad ground. And she sat and thought of the
comforts within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came a
gentle knock at her door.
“Who is there?” inquired Zuleime.
“It is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress.
“Come in, Mrs. Knight.”
The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact—
“Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It is singular
some little ones never will go to sleep where there is a light burning.
_Is_ she asleep?”
“Yes,” replied Zuleime.
“Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down stairs with me. I
have something to talk to you about.”
Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weakness, from
her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress down stairs.
Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm coal fire burning
in the grate, and a little supper-table set out, with coffee, French
rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. She set the cushioned
rocking-chair for Zuleime, between the fire and the table, and pushed
her gently into the seat, saying—
“I have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night, because the
opera troupe are here. And so I thought I would just celebrate its
commencement by a supper and a ball for two!” And she placed before her
visitor a plate of oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper
was fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, “I did not send for you, only to
take coffee with me—I wished to speak to you on a matter of business. I
have been wishing some time to do so, but scarcely knew how to do it
without wounding or offending you.” She paused.
“Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear—I know _you_ could
not think of anything to say which would—
“At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will forgive me.”
“Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity against
which a woman has to break her heart and spirit, in struggling through
the rough world. Now think of that. And think whether I can be hurt by
anything your kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very
grateful!”
“Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to avoid seeing
your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and child, for the last
three months. I fear you have scarcely made five shillings a week.”
“I have not made that for the last month.”
“And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with your needle, I
mean.”
“Ah, no, no.”
“And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor child! your very
shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me—I have spoken rudely.”
“No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth can be told in the
spirit of love.”
“And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon your sick bed—then
what will become of your child?”
“Alas, God knows! If we both could die—”
“Yes, if you both _could_. Death is no evil at all.” As the actress said
this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, and her large, luminous eyes
glanced aside, and fell upon the door—fixed in an intense, suffering,
almost querulous gaze—as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly
at last,” she said, looking up, suddenly. “My dear, have you any
insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?”
Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised her eyes
to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before her, without
replying.
“You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, if nothing
better at all could be found for you, would you absolutely refuse to go
upon the stage?”
Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still hesitated, it was
from a reluctance to wound the spirit of the actress.
“Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputable?” asked
Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, almost cross expression
of the eyes.
“No,” said Zuleime, very gently, “I do not. Not the profession that Mrs.
Siddons ennobled. I think it truly
“‘The youngest of the sister arts,
Where all their beauties blend.’”
“Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on the stage
yourself?”
“I am not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively.
“I do not know that. I need not tell you that you are young and pretty,
and singularly graceful—nor that you have a very fine voice for
singing—these form a very good foundation. And in elocution, my dear, I
would myself become your instructress. What say you?”
“That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been since I left home;
and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime said, very gently.
“But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow it, even for
bread,” said the actress, bitterly.
“No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you see, have neither
the taste, talent, nor courage requisite!”
“Why not?”
“I was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the deep seclusion
of the country. I have never been used to _society_, much less to
_publicity_, and I am sure, that no matter how well I might be
instructed in my part, when I should come before an audience, I should
forget all about it, and half die of shame.”
“Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress forgets her own
identity in that of the character she represents, and that enables her
to go through things she could not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do
not see anything else you can do; and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it
is called among us, you would soon get that off.”
Zuleime shook her head.
“My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. I never
thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand debut for _you_.
Nothing but great genius, strong vocation, and perfect self-possession
on the part of the _debutante_, would justify such a thing. No—the art
must be acquired, as other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for
you, and it entirely precludes the possibility of a stage fright, since
you are gradually inured to it. Do you understand me, now?”
“No, I do not!”
“Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The opera season is
about to commence, and the manager wishes to engage about half a dozen
young girls as chorus singers. Will you be one? The lowest salary they
ever give a chorus singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as
much as you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent?”
Still Zuleime was silent.
“After the opera season is over, I make no doubt that your youth, beauty
and grace, and your very fine voice, will secure you a permanent
engagement at an advanced salary. Will you go with me to the manager
to-morrow?”
“No,” said Zuleime, “I should not dare to go upon the stage. I could not
face an audience.”
“And you need not face them! You would be in a group of young girls, and
no one would notice you, except casually as a part of the scenery. The
attention of the audience is taken up with the principal performers.
Besides, no one will know who you are. Your name need not appear upon
the bills. I will take every care of your feelings, if, indeed, you can
be sensible of them when hunger and cold are felt.”
“I do not like the life,” said Zuleime. “I had almost as willingly
starve.”
The actress arose and rung the bell.
“Oh! it is nothing to me, Mrs. Fairfax. Do as you please. I have no
earthly interest to serve in persuading you to this step,” she said,
with the old, cross, querulous look on her haggard face, and in her
beautiful dark, gray eyes.
Bertha came in and cleared away the table.
Mrs. Knight walked up and down the room in a hasty. irritated manner.
“I wish I was at work again! I am sick of my holyday already! Since I
cannot afford to abandon this hateful art, I wish I were always delving
at it, and there came no pause for self-recollection. I wish I were
perpetually Queen Katherine, Mrs. Haller, Isabella, Imogene, Lady
Macbeth, Bianca Fazio, and the others, going incessantly through the
circle like the earth through the signs of the zodiac. I wish I were
always somebody else, anybody else than poor Ida Knight.” And she threw
herself into a chair, glancing at Zuleime with a strained, appealing,
accusing look. But the wan face of the dying girl, with its hectic
flush, smote the rock in her heart, and she moved to her side and took
her hand and said, gently, though with the same tone and look of
querulous suffering. “It _is_ a wretched life! I feel it so—only it is
not so bad as starving, and seeing your child starve. My dear, it _is_
something to me whether I persuade you to do this thing or not. I cannot
bear to see you suffer so. Your necessities weigh upon my heart in
addition to my own. And really,” she added, with the same frowning,
irritated look, “really, I have such a burden of my own, that I grow
restive under a feather of anybody else’s.”
“Then do not take my sorrows on your shoulders, dear lady; I can bear
them myself, or die under their weight uncomplainingly. Do not take my
troubles to heart!” said Zuleime, gently.
The actress looked up with a sharp, rebuking glance, saying—
“As if I could help it! You are not sincere when you ask me to do so!
No, the only way I can get your griefs off my heart is to get them off
your own. I must get you into _living_ circumstances. I must persuade
you to go on the stage with me. It is not a pleasant profession for a
lady, I grant you—neither is freezing or starving, and getting into debt
and being dunned and rebuffed, pleasant—but—” she added, with a look of
almost fierce self-assertion and self-defence—“neither is it actually
_sinful_, that I know of. It necessarily transgresses no command of God
with which I am acquainted. One need not be a heathen because she is an
actress. Mrs. Siddons was a member in full communion with the Church of
England. The stage has its dangers, I grant you, but you may safely pass
through them, if you please. I have done so! I was not born or brought
up to that life, my dear; I was the daughter of an English country
curate—then a nursery governess—then a traveling companion to an earl’s
daughter—then I accidentally met with my husband, and we married from
mutual affection. He was a tragedian—that is the way in which I became
an actress. Now I follow the histrionic profession as the only means of
living left open to me. I have seen the dangers—nay, I have _felt_ them.
But nightly—no matter how utterly wearied out with toil I may have been,
I have uttered two lines of sincere prayer, that God would keep me from
falling into deeper sin. And He has kept me! Does that surprise you? God
is the God of the publican as well as of the Pharisee. Who dares
excommunicate me? What child of the Universal Father shall dare to say
that another is excluded from His love and care and protection? Verily,
the day of Judgment will be a day of startling revelations. And many
that are first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” And then the
actress fell into silence, and her fine countenance lost that look of
captious self-defence, and settled into meditative earnestness.
Zuleime arose to go. Mrs. Knight took her hand, and said, gently—
“My dear, think over what I have proposed to you. If you decide to
accept my proposition, I will take every possible care of you. You shall
be as my own daughter. I will shield you from all dangers. I will
instruct you in your art. And I will give you the freedom of my
wardrobe. Good-night. Will you kiss me?”
And she drew Zuleime to her bosom. The poor girl pressed her lips to
those of the actress, and slipping through the door, passed up in the
dark and cold to her own room.
Ida went to bed, but the poor, generous, irritable woman could not sleep
for sympathy, for anxiety, and for the sound of Zuleime’s racking cough.
“She will never be able to sing much, I am really afraid. But she shall
be paid well for dressing, and for making her beautiful face and form a
part of the pageantry—that I am determined upon, if I have any influence
with the management,” thought Ida, as she sank to sleep.
Rusty and threadbare clothing, broken shoes, cold, hunger, and a
suffering child, are forcible arguments, and they seconded the
persuasions of Ida with tremendous power.
Zuleime yielded, and was carried down the current of fate as easily,
with as little resistance as the sapling beaten down by the rain,
uprooted by the wind, and carried off by the flood, is whirled down the
stream.
It was the fatal night of the 26th of December, 1811, the night of the
burning of the Richmond Theatre, a night ever to be remembered in the
annals of that city, and ever to be mourned in the hearts of her
citizens. That evening more than six hundred lovers of pleasure were
gayly preparing for the theatre; not dreaming, alas! that they also were
doomed to take fearful part in an awful tragedy—a tragedy unprecedented
in the history of the stage. Before eight o’clock, more than six hundred
persons, from pleasant city homes all around, assembled in the fated
building; before twelve o’clock, more than one hundred had perished
horribly in the flames! and the scarcely surviving five hundred, many
wounded, maimed, or burned, all despairingly mourning the awful fate of
nearest relatives and friends, returned or were borne back to their
desolate homes!
That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others, Zuleime and
her friend were preparing to go on the stage. Zuleime had no part to
perform—she was as yet only an attaché—and was to appear but in one
scene, as one of a group of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a
peasant dress, consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray
skirt, and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two
things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part. But the eyes
of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she heard that hacking,
racking cough, and she noticed with pain the waning face. Yes! within a
few days even, the thin face had become perceptibly thinner, and the
flushed cheek burned with a darker crimson. “And she will make a sorry
looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with that
delicate, spiritual, almost ærial face and form of hers. How absurdly
inappropriate are most of the affairs we get up! Truly, our art is in
the rear of all others. Now, this evening, all go on as villagers—vulgar
and refined—all reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss
Butchers, and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well for
the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleime! To-morrow evening all go on as
faries; excellent well for this ærial Zuleime, but for the Miss
Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as arbitrary—and there may be
peasants who have delicate, white, semi-transparent fingers, and there
may be faries with large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we
know.” While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white satin
shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on also in silence, but
too despairing, too exhausted, even to think of the wayward fate which
had brought her to this pass.
At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida, as usual, rang
for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and packed up and sent away
the costume for the evening. Then she put her own little girl and
Zuleime’s child to sleep together in her bed, and got Bertha to promise
to look in, in the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And
then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own mantilla, and
wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in answer to all
expostulation—
“Never mind _me_, my dear! I’ve got no cough. Haggard as I look, I’m
whit-leather! _You_ must take care of your poor little self.”
And then they left the house, walking briskly through the biting air,
and crunching the crusted snow under their quick footsteps. Though but
little after sunset, owing to the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when
they hurried along the streets. There was the usual number of
foot-passengers abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a
military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm suddenly
grasped with spasmodic force by her companion, and turning around, she
saw the face of Zuleime deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear child?”
“Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; “let us hurry on.”
“But you are trembling like an aspen leaf! You have walked too far—you
are not strong enough for this evening’s work; let me take you home
again.”
“No, no, no, no! let’s go on!”
“Why, Zuleime—”
“Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt the presence of
one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy, or perhaps the prescience
of one on the confines of the unseen world. Let us hasten on.”
They hurried along. In the meantime, he who had passed them, the slight
man in the military cloak, walked on down the square, suddenly stopped,
muttered to himself, “Absurd! impossible!” then went on again, again
stopped, as by an irresistible impulse, turned and rapidly retraced his
steps, after the two ladies in black, overtook them, was close behind
them, but not placing any confidence in what he termed his own wild
thoughts, he dared not accost or peep under the bonnets of two reserved
and closely veiled women. But he kept them in sight until he saw them
enter the side door of the theatre. Then he asked a door-keeper—
“Who are those?”
“Two of the ladies attached to the theatre,” replied the man.
“Fool that I was!” exclaimed Frank Fairfax, as he turned away.
Captain Fairfax had reached Richmond that day at noon—too late, by half
a day, for the stage to L——, whither he would have gone, if possible, on
the wings of the wind. His mother, warned by the newspapers, had been
daily expecting his arrival, and was prepared to receive him when he
presented himself. He had spent the whole afternoon with her at Fairview
House, and in the evening had walked out to book his place in the next
day’s stage for L——. It was when hurrying along on that errand, that he
passed so near his wife, electrifying her with his unknown presence, and
being himself drawn to follow, and to hover near her all the evening.
For when he had turned from the theatre, and hurried on and reached the
stage office and secured his place, finding out that the coach did not
start till three o’clock the next morning, he said to himself—
“How on earth shall I contrive to forget some of these miserable hours
that must intervene before I can fly to my wife? My mother’s ill-health
obliges her to retire early to bed. If I go back to Fairview House, I
shall have the whole mansion to myself. I will even go to the theatre,
and see if I can find out among the women there the particular one whose
air and gait reminded me so strongly of my Zuleime.”
And so to the theatre he went. It was quite early, and he was fortunate
in securing a seat in the centre of the first row of boxes, immediately
in front of the stage. In the meantime, Zuleime had been conducted by
Mrs. Knight into the theatre, and introduced into the common
dressing-room of the stock actresses. This was a large room, with a
broad shelf or dresser running around three sides of the walls, and
about four feet from the floor. This served as bureaus, dressing-tables,
and wash-stands for nine women, each of the three sides being occupied
by three, who equally divided the shelf, each one having her hand-boxes
under the shelf, and her looking-glass on top of it, leaning against the
wall, and her wash-basin, jars of rouge, boxes of powder, pots of
pomatum, etc., standing around it. On introducing her companion into
this apartment, Mrs. Knight said—
“All women belonging to the theatre use this as a common dressing-room,
except the ballet girls, who have one to themselves, and the stars, who
have separate and well furnished rooms.”
About half a dozen women were present now, each before her own glass,
with her own tallow candle, making her toilet.
“Who’s that, Knight, that you’ve got there?” asked a coarse-featured,
black-eyed girl, who always played the hoyden, or the wit, and fondly
believed herself a proficient in the Rosalind and Beatrice line. “I say,
Knight! is that the young ‘lady?’” she repeated, turning around with a
little wad of raw cotton, dipped in carmine, between her finger and
thumb, and exhibiting a face in process of being rejuvenated—namely,
with one young and blooming cheek, and one prematurely old and sallow.
“Yes, this is the young lady, Barry,” said Mrs. Knight, very gravely, as
she led her protégé off to her own corner of the common dresser.
“I think she might have sent her down with the ballet girls, as she is
really one of them,” grumbled a large, important looking female,
arranging a huge turban and curls upon her head, at the farther end of
the room. Two new ideas besides that of the common dressing-room and the
dressing shelf in general, Zuleime had got—namely, first, that there
really was some very lofty notions of rank and exclusiveness even among
the members of the stock company of a second rate theatre—secondly, that
they really, after all, did not differ much in that or any other respect
from people she had met in very high society, except, indeed, that they
had the odious habit of calling each other “Knight” or “Barry,” as men
do, without a prefix of any sort.
Mrs. Knight dressed herself for her part, as she was to appear in the
early scene in the play, and then gave the use of her toilet nook to
Zuleime. But the cold walk through the evening air, and the standing in
the chilly dressing-room, had so increased her cough, that Mrs. Knight
went out and sent a call-boy for opium, and administered a dose. It was
under the influence of that stupefier that Zuleime, leaning on the arm
of Mrs. Knight, entered that terra-incognita, the green-room. It was a
long room, papered, curtained, carpeted, furnished with sofas and
easy-chairs, and warmed by a fine coal fire—upon the whole it differed
in no other respect than its motley crowd, from a large family parlor.
Mrs. Knight conducted her to a corner of the sofa nearest the fire, and
leaving her sitting there, obeyed the call-boy’s summons, and went upon
the stage. Composed into a dreamy state by the opium, Zuleime sat there
while the strange scene, with its fantastical crowd, passed before her
like the phantasmagoria of a midnight dream. And all this time Frank sat
in the centre box of the front row, not seeing the play enacting before
him—not thinking of it, only seeing the turnpike road to L——. Only
thinking of the dearest girl in the world, whom he should meet at the
end of his journey. Paper walls again!
Zuleime remained in the corner of the sofa near the fire in the
green-room, not thinking at all, not even dreaming, only conscious in a
vague dreamy way, that a strange vision, changing and changing like
figures in the kaleidoscope, was passing before her. She was scarcely
aroused by Mrs. Knight’s gentle voice, saying in her ear—
“Come, my dear, it is time for you to go on now. Come, don’t be afraid.
Bless you, you are nobody, you know. No one will look at you. You will
be only one of a group that forms a sort of back-ground to the scene.
Come, I will go with you to the side entrance, where the others stand.”
Zuleime obeyed mechanically, and was led, between various walls of
canvas, to a side entrance, at which were grouped a number of persons in
villagers’ costume.
“There, just go on with the crowd, and stand there, that is all you have
to do,” whispered Mrs. Knight, as she left her.
And at the same moment the group moved on, carrying the somnolent
Zuleime with them, and she found herself in a dazzling glare of light,
and heard the deafening rant of a stentorian lunged actor near her, and
grew painfully conscious of the many hundred eyes upon the scene, upon
herself, perhaps—and dared not raise her eyes an instant from the floor,
upon which, with a deeply burning cheek, they were fixed. But suddenly
an attraction—a fatality—I know not what—but something stronger than her
fear, stronger than her will, drew her glance up to the centre box of
the front row, and her eyes met Frank’s eyes. Yes, there he sat, gazing
at her, astonished, fixed, spell-bound as by a nightmare, without the
power of moving or waking. She! she too, gazed for a moment. She was not
astonished at seeing him there, any more than she would have been
astonished at _dreaming_ of seeing him anywhere. It was all like a wild
dream, everything! It seemed not unnatural that he should form a part of
it. Only to her weakened and half-stupefied brain, the _last, nearest_
event was the most distinct—and so, strangely, she did not think of his
death or life, but only of the reproach she had brought upon _him_, her
proud Frank, in appearing there! and covering her face with both hands,
she sank to her knees upon the floor.
It was lucky the drop-curtain fell just then. It was lucky the audience
took that by-scene for a part of the play. But to Zuleime it was still
like a fever-dream, from which she tried to wake. Like a dream the
drop-curtain had rolled down. But not like a dream was the rough seizure
of her arm by a girl who set her upon her feet, and said, in a not
unfriendly tone—
“What did you do that for? _That_ warn’t a part of _your_ part.”
“I—I—have,” began Zuleime, passing her hand back and forth across her
forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop my cough. I—never was used
to it, and I think it has bewildered me a little; don’t _you_ think so?”
“I think _something_ has! Wake up, and try to listen to what is going
on. Mr. —— is going to sing now. Come off.”
As the girl led her away between the walls of canvas, one of those
insignificant incidents occurred, upon which nevertheless the fate of
hundreds sometimes hang. Away among the back scenes through which they
passed to reach the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring
in the draught. A boy seemed busy with it.
“Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?” exclaimed one of the players,
who happened to come up.
“If I do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy.
“Confound your insolence, do you think I would give you the order, if
there were the least danger! Do as you are directed, sir.”
The boy obeyed; and the scenery instantly took fire. The chandelier was
hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in the rear of the stage, and a
scene shifter directed to cut the cords by which the combustible
material was suspended. But the man became panic struck and fled.
The performers and their assistants in vain sought to take down the
scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinous composition, and the
draught of wind was strong; and Zuleime and her companion were swiftly
encircled by walls of blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-stricken,
left her weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten by all
in the terror and confusion, sank down overpowered, suffocated by the
heat and smoke. All this had happened in less than three minutes from
the raising of the chandelier.
And at this time one of the performers was playing near the orchestra,
and the greater part of the stage, with its appalling danger, was
fatally concealed from the audience by the curtain. The flames spread
with the rapidity of lightning; and the first notice the audience had of
their danger, was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the
performer. Even then many supposed it to be a part of the play, and were
for a short time restrained from flight by a cry from the stage that
there was no danger. But soon the fire flashed in every part of the
house with a rapidity horrible and appalling. Then terror seized upon
the hearts of all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the
pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved. Those in the
boxes, who, had they known it, might _at first_ have escaped by way of
the pit, all turned and hurried towards the only door of egress into the
lobby. This door was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this
circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd, who pressed
and pressed against the door, trying to push it open, but really keeping
it fast closed. The fire advanced upon them, filling the house with
suffocating smoke, and with flame that seized the clothing of those
behind, goading them horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those
before. The most frightful uproar ensued; women shrieking, praying—men
groaning, expostulating; all crowding one upon another, or rather
hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing towards the door that would not
yield. The pit was now a lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame
that wound themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fell
shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, anguish and
despair—children crying for lost parents, and parents calling in agony
upon the names of missing children—for in the fierce pushing and
struggling for life, parties got separated and families divided—children
forced from the parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker
unconsciously thrown down and trampled to death by the strong. Many,
half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; many with their garments in
flames, maddened by pain and terror, threw themselves headlong from the
windows, and met another death. Many even chanced to save their lives in
that way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the door yielded; and
as many as possible escaped that way; but to what a life, alas! darkened
forever by the memory of dearest relatives and friends who perished in
the fire. The whole building was now in flames. In less than an hour all
was over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins; and around them
the agonized crowd of those who lived and raved—and around these again,
an awe-struck, mourning city.