I BEGAN to dream more than ever of establishing some such perfect
atmosphere for myself somehow, somewhere—but never in St. Louis, of
course. That was too common, too Western, too far removed from the real
wonders of the world. Love and mansions and travel and saccharine
romance were the great things, but they were afar off, in New York. (It
was around this time that I was establishing the atmosphere of a
“studio” in Tenth street.) Nothing could be so wonderful as love in a
mansion, a palace in some oriental realm such as was indicated in the
comic operas in which DeWolf Hopper, Thomas Q. Seabrooke, Francis
Wilson, Eddie Foy and Frank Daniels were then appearing. How often, with
McCord or Wood as companion, occasionally Hazard or a new friend
introduced to me by Wood and known as Rodenberger, or Rody (a most
amazing person, as I will later relate), I responded to these poetic
stage scenes! With one or other of these I visited as many theaters as I
could, if for no more than an hour or an act at a time, and consumed
with wonder and delight such scenes as most appealed to me: the
denunciation scene, for instance, in _The Middleman_, or the third act
of nearly any of Henry Arthur Jones’s plays. Also quite all of the light
operas of Reginald de Koven and Harry B. Smith, as well as those
compendiums of nondescript color and melody, the extravaganzas _The
Crystal Slipper_, _Ali Baba_, _Sindbad the Sailor_. Young actresses such
as Della Fox, Mabel Amber, Edna May, forerunners of a long line of comic
opera soubrettes, who somehow reminded me of Alice, held me spellbound
with delight and admiration. Here at last was the kind of maiden I was
really craving, an actress of this hoyden, airy temperament.
I remember that one night, at the close of one of Mr. Willard’s
performances at the Olympic—_The Professor’s Love_ _Story_, in which he
was appearing with a popular leading woman, a very beautiful one—I was
asked by the manager to wait for a few moments after the performance so
that he might introduce me. Why, I don’t know. It seemed that he was
taking them to supper and thought they might like to meet one of the
local dramatic critics or that I might like to accompany them; an honor
which I declined, out of fright or bashfulness. When they finally
appeared in the foyer of the theater, however, the young actress very
stagy and soft and clinging and dressed most carefully after the manner
of the stage, I was beside myself with envy and despair. For she
appeared hanging most tenderly on her star’s arm (she was his mistress,
I understood) and gazing soulfully about. Such beauty! Such grace! Such
vivacity! Could anything be so lovely? Think of having such a perfect
creature love you, hang on your arm! And here was I, poor dub, a mere
reporter, a nobody, upon whom such a splendid creature would not bend a
second glance. Mr. Willard was full of the heavy hauteur of the actor,
which made the scene all the more impressive to me. I think most of us
like to be up-staged at one time or another by some one. I glanced at
her bashfully sidewise, pretending to be but little interested, while I
was really dying of envy. Finally, after a few words and a few
sweety-sweet smiles cast in my direction, I was urged to come with them
but instead hurried away, pleading necessity and cursing my stars and my
fate. Think of being a mere reporter at twenty-five or thirty a week,
while others, earning thousands, were thus basking in the sunshine of
success and love! Ah, why might not I have been born rich or famous and
so able to command so lovely a woman?
If I had been of an ordinary, sensible, everyday turn of mind, with a
modicum of that practical wisdom which puts moderate place and position
first and sets great store by the saving of money, I might have
succeeded fairly well here, much better than I did anywhere else for a
long period after. Unquestionably Mr. McCullagh liked me; I think he may
have been fond of me in some amused saturnine way, interested to keep
such a bounding, high-flown dunce about the place. I might have held
this place for a year or two and made it a stepping-stone to something
better. But instead of rejoicing in the work and making it the end and
aim of my daily labors, I looked upon it as a mere bauble, something I
had today but might not have tomorrow. And anyhow, there were better
things than working day by day and living in a small room. Life ought
certainly to bring me something better, something truly splendid—and
soon. I deserved it—everything, a great home, fine clothes, pretty
women, the respect and companionship of famous men. Indeed all my pain
and misery was plainly caused by just such a lack or lacks as this. Had
I these things all would be well; without them—well, I was very
miserable. I was ready to accept socialism if by that I could get what I
wanted, while not ready to admit that all people were as deserving as I
by any means. The sad state of the poor workingman was a constant
thought with me, but nearly always I was the greatest and poorest and
most deserving of all workingmen.
This view naturally tended to modify the sanity of my work. Granting a
modicum of imagination and force, still any youth limited as I was at
that time has a long road to go. Even in that most imaginative of all
professions, the literary, the possessor of such notions as I then held
is certainly debarred from accomplishing anything important until he
passes beyond them. Yet the particular thought or attitude I have
described appears to reign in youth. Too often it is a condition of many
minds of the better sort and is retained in its worst form until by
rough experience it is knocked out of them or they are destroyed utterly
in the process. But it cannot be got over with quickly. Mine was a sad
case. One of the things which this point of view did for me was to give
my writing, at that time, a mushy and melancholy turn which would not go
in any newspaper of today, I hope. It caused me to paint the ideal as
not only entirely probable but necessary before life would be what it
should!—the progress bug, as you see. I could so twist and discolor the
most commonplace scenes as to make one think that I was writing of
paradise. Indeed I allowed my imagination to run away with me at times
and only the good sense of the copy-reader or the indifference of a
practical-minded public saved the paper from appearing utterly
ridiculous.
On one occasion, for instance, I went to report a play of mediocre
quality that was running at the Olympic, and was so impressed with a
love scene which was a part of it that I was entirely blinded to all the
faults of construction which the remainder of the play showed, and wrote
it up in the most glowing colors. And the copy-reader, Hartung, was too
weary that night or too inattentive to capture it. The next day some of
the other newspaper men in the office noticed it and commented on it to
me or to Hartung, saying it was ridiculously high-flown and that the
play itself was silly, which was true. But did that cure me? Not a bit.
I was reduced for a day or two by it, but not for long. Seeing other
plays of the same caliber and with much sweet love mush in them, I raved
as before.
A little later a negro singer, a young woman of considerable vocal
ability who was being starred as the Black Patti, was billed to appear
in St. Louis. The manager of the bureau that was presenting her called
my attention by letter to her “marvelous” ability, and by means of
clippings and notices of her work published elsewhere had endeavored to
impress me favorably. I read these notices, couched in the glowing
phrases of the press-agent, and then went forth on this evening to cover
this myself. To make it all the grander, I invited McCord and with him
proceeded to the theater, where we were assigned a box.
As it turned out, or as I chanced to see or feel it, the young woman was
a sweet and impressive singer, engaging and magnetic. McCord agreed with
me that she could sing. We listened to the program of a dozen pieces,
including such old favorites as _Suwanee River_ and _Comin’ Thro’ the
Rye_, and then I, being greatly moved, returned to the office and wrote
an account that was fairly sizzling with the beauty which I thought was
there. I did not attempt critically to analyze her art—I could not,
knowing nothing of even the rudiments of music—but plunged at once into
that wider realm which involved the subtleties of nature itself. “What
is so beautiful as the sound which the human voice is capable of
producing,” I wrote in part, “especially when that voice is itself a
compound of the subtlest things in nature? Here we have a young girl,
black it is true, fresh from the woods and fields of her native country,
yet, blessed by some strange chance with that mystic thing, a voice, and
fittingly interpreting via song all that we hold to be most lovely. The
purling of the waters, the radiance of the moonlight, the odor of sweet
flowers, sunlight, storm, the voices and echoes of nature, all are found
here, thrilling over lips which represent in their youthfulness but a
few of the years which wisdom and skill would seem to require. Yes, one
may sit and, in hearing Miss Jones sing, vicariously entertain all these
things, because of them she is a compound, youthful, vivacious,
suggestive of the elemental sweetness of nature itself.”
To understand the significance of such a statement in St. Louis one
would have to look into the social and political conditions of the
people who dwelt there. To a certain extent they were Southern in
temperament, representing the vigorous anti-negro spirit which prevailed
for so many years after the war. Again, they were fairly illuminated
where music was concerned. Assuming that a bit of idealism such as this
was sound, it might get by; but when it is remembered that this was
largely mush and written about a negro, a race more or less alien to
their sympathy, would it not naturally fall upon hard ears and appear
somewhat ridiculous? A negro the compound of the subtlest elements in
nature! And this in their favorite paper!
By chance it went through, Hartung having come to look upon most of my
stuff as the outpourings of some strange genius who could do about as he
pleased. Neither Mitchell nor the editor-in-chief saw it perhaps, or if
they did they gave it no attention, music, the theater and the arts
being of small import here. But, depend upon it, the editors of the
various rival papers that were constantly being sniffed at by the
_Globe_ saw it and knowing the sensitiveness of our editor-in-chief to
criticism of his own paper at once set to work to make something out of
it. And of all the editors in the middle West, McCullagh, by reason of
his force and taste and care in editing his paper, was a shining target
for a thing like this. He was, as a rule, impeccable and extremely
conspicuous. Whatever he did or said, good, bad or indifferent, was
invariably the subject of local newspaper comment, and when any little
discrepancy or error appeared in the _Globe-Democrat_ it was always
charged to him personally. And so it was with this furore over the Black
Patti. It was too good a thing to be lost sight of.
“The erudite editor of the _Globe-Democrat_,” observed the
_Post-Dispatch_ editorially, “appears to have visited one of our
principal concert halls last night. It is not often that that ponderous
intellect can be called down from the heights of international politics
to contemplate so simple a thing as a singer of songs, a black one at
that; but when true art beckons even he can be counted upon to answer.
Apparently the Black Patti beckoned to him last evening, and he was not
deaf to her call, as the following magnificent bit of word-painting
fresh from his pen is here to show.” (Then followed the praise in full.)
“None but the grandiloquent editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ could have
looked into the subtleties of nature, as represented by the person of
Miss Sisseretta Jones, and there discovered the wonders of music and
poetry such as he openly confesses to have done. Indeed we have here at
last a measure of that great man’s insight and feeling, a love of art,
music, poetry and the like such as has not previously been indicated by
him. And we hereby hasten to make representation of our admiration and
great debt that others too may not be deprived of this great privilege.”
After this came more of the same gay raillery, with here and there a
reference to “the great patron of the black arts” and the pure joy that
must have been his at thus vicariously being able to enjoy within the
precincts of Exposition Hall “the purling of the waters” bubbling from a
black throat. It was a gentle satire, not wholly uncalled for since the
item had appeared in the _Globe_, and directed at the one man who could
least stand that sort of thing, sensitive as he was to his personal
dignity.
I was blissfully unaware that any comment had been made on my effusion
until about five in the afternoon, by which time the afternoon editions
of the _Post-Dispatch_ had been out several hours. When I entered the
office at five, comfortable and at peace with myself in my new position,
excited comment was running about the office as to what “the old man”
would think and say and do now. He had gone at two, it appeared, to the
Southern for luncheon and had not returned. Wait until he saw it! Oh me!
Oh my! Wouldn’t he be hopping! Hartung, who was reasonably nervous as to
his own share in the matter, was the first to approach and impress me
with the dreadfulness of it all, how savage “the old man” could be in
any such instance. “Gee, just wait! Oh, but he’ll be hot, I bet!” As he
talked the “old man” passed up the hall, a grim and surly figure. I saw
my dramatic honors going a-glimmering.
“Here,” I said to Hartung, pretending a kind of innocence, even at this
late hour, “what’s all this about? What’s the row, anyhow?”
“Didn’t you see the editorial in the _Post-Dispatch_?” inquired Hartung
gloomily. It was his own predicament that was troubling him.
“No. What about?”
“Why, that criticism you wrote about the Black Patti. They’ve made all
sorts of fun of it. The worst of it is that they’ve charged it all up to
the old man.”
I smiled a sickly smile. I felt as if I had committed some great crime.
Why had I attempted to write anything “fine” anyhow? Why couldn’t I have
been content and rested with a little praise? Had I no sense at all?
Must I always be trying to do something great? Perhaps this would be the
end of me.
Hartung brought me the _Post-Dispatch_, and sorrowfully and with falling
vitals I read it, my toes curling, my stomach seeming gradually to
retire to my backbone. Why had I done it!
As I was standing there, my eyes glued to the paper, near the door which
looked into the main city room in which was Tobe scribbling dourly away,
I heard and then saw McCullagh enter and walk up to the stout city
editor. He had a copy of the selfsame _Post-Dispatch_ crumpled roughly
in his hand, and on his face was gathered what seemed to me a dark
scowl.
“Did you see this, Mr. Mitchell?” I heard him say.
Tobe looked up, then closely and respectfully at the paper.
“Yes,” he said.
“I don’t think a thing like that ought to appear in our paper. It’s a
little bit too high-flown for our audience. Your reader should have
modified it.”
“I think so myself,” replied Tobe quietly.
The editor walked out. Tobe waited for his footsteps to die away and
then growled at Hartung: “Why the devil did you let that stuff go
through? Haven’t I warned you against that sort of thing? Why can’t you
watch out?”
I could have fallen through the floor. I had a vision of Hartung burying
his head in his desk, scared and mute.
After the evening assignments had been given out and Tobe had gone to
dinner, Hartung crept up to me.
“Gee, the old man was as mad as the devil!” he began. “Tobe gave me
hell. He won’t say anything to you maybe, but he’ll take it out on me.
He’s a little afraid of your pull with the old man, but he gives me the
devil. Can’t you look out for those things?”
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