THE END OF THE WAR
The Civil War was now coming to its close. Abraham Lincoln was the hero
of the day, as he has been of all days since, in America. The White
House was besieged with people from all walks of life, persistently
anxious to shake hands with the War President, and he used to have to
stand, for incredible lengths of time, smiling and hand-clasping. But he
was ever a fine economist of energy and he flatly refused to talk. No
one could get out of him more than a smile, a nod, or possibly a brief
word of greeting.
One man made a bet that he would have some sort of conversation with the
President while he was shaking hands with him.
"No, you won't," said the man to whom he was speaking, "I'll bet you
that you won't get more than two words out of him!"
"I bet I will," said the venturesome one; and he set off to try his
luck.
He went to the White House reception and, when his turn came and his
hand was in the huge presidential grasp, he began to talk hastily and
volubly, hoping to elicit some response. Lincoln listened a second,
gazing at him gravely with his deep-set eyes, and then he laid an
enormous hand in a loose, wrinkled white glove across his back.
"Don't dwell!" said he gently to his caller; and shoved him along,
amiably but relentlessly, with the rest of the line. So the man got only
his two words after all.
One week before the President was murdered I was in Washington and sat
in the exact place in which he sat when he was shot. It was the same
box, the same chair, and on Friday too,--one week to the day and hour
before the tragedy. When I heard the terrible news I was able to picture
exactly what it had been like. I could see just the jump that Booth must
have had to make to get away. I never knew Wilkes Booth personally nor
saw him act, but I have several times seen him leaving his theatre after
a performance, with a raft of adoring matinee girls forming a more or
less surreptitous guard afar off. He was a tremendously popular idol and
strikingly handsome. Even after his wicked crime there were many women
who professed a sort of hysterical sympathy and pity for him. Somebody
has said that there would always be at least one woman at the death-bed
of the worst criminal in the world if she could get to it; and there
were hundreds of the sex who would have been charmed to watch beside
Booth's, bad as he was and crazy into the bargain. It is a mysterious
thing, the fascination that criminals have for some people, particularly
women. Perhaps it is fundamentally a respect for accomplishment;
admiration for the doing of something, good or evil, that they would not
dare to do themselves.
We had all gone to Chicago for our spring opera season and were ready to
open, when the tragic tidings came and shut down summarily upon every
preparation for amusement of any kind. Every city in the Union went into
mourning for the man whom the country idolised; of whom so many people
spoke as _our_ "Abraham Lincoln." Perhaps it was because of this
universal and almost personal affection that the authorities did such an
odd thing--or, at least, it struck me as odd,--with his body. He was
taken all over the country and "lay-in-state," as it is called, in
different court houses in different states.
I was stopping in the Grand Pacific Hotel when the body was brought to
Chicago, and my windows overlooked the grounds of the Court House of
that city. Business was entirely suspended, not simply for a few
memorial moments as was the case when President McKinley was killed, but
for many hours during the "lying-in-state." This, however, was probably
only partly official. Everyone was so afraid that he would not be able
to see the dead hero's face that business men all over the town
suspended occupation, closed shops and offices, and made a pilgrimage to
the Court House. All citizens were permitted to go into the building and
look upon the Martyr President, and vast numbers availed themselves of
the privilege--waited all night, indeed, to claim it. From sunset to
sunrise the grounds were packed with a silent multitude. The only sound
to be heard was the shuffling echo of feet as one person after another
went quietly into the Court House, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle,--I can
hear it yet. There was not a word uttered. There was no other sound than
the sound of the passing feet. One thing that must have been official
was that, for quite a long time, not a wheel in the city was allowed to
turn. This was an impressive tribute to a man whom the whole American
nation loved and counted a friend.
The only diversion in the whole melancholy solemnity of it all was the
picking of pockets. The crowds were enormous, the people in a mood of
sentiment and off their guard, and the army of crooks did a thriving
business. It is a sickening thing to realise that in all hours of great
national tragedy or terror there will always be people degenerate enough
to take advantage of the suffering and ruin about them. Burning or
plague-stricken cities have to be put under military law; and it is said
that to the multiplied horrors of the San Francisco earthquake the
people look back with a shudder to the ghastly system of looting which
prevailed afterwards in the stricken city.
Every imaginable kind of flowers were sent to the dead President,
splendid wreaths and bouquets from distinguished personages, and many
little cheap humble nosegays from poor people who had loved him even
from afar and wanted to honour him in some simple way. No man has ever
been loved more in his death than was Abraham Lincoln.
I sent a cross of white camellias. I do not like camellias when they are
sent to me, because they always seem such heartless, soulless flowers
for living people to wear. But just for that reason, just because they
are the most perfect and the most impersonal of all flowers that grow
and blossom they seem right and suitable for death. Ever since that time
I have associated white camellias with the thought of Abraham Lincoln
and with my strange, impressive memory of those days in Chicago.
However, nations go on even after the beloved rulers of them are laid in
the ground. Our Chicago season opened soon--I in Lucia--and everything
went along as though nothing had happened. The only difference was that
the end of the war had made the nation a little drunk with excitement
and our performances went with a whirl.
Finally the victorious generals, Lieutenant-General Grant and
Major-General Sherman, came to Chicago as the guests of the city and we
gave a gala performance for them. As the _Daughter of the Regiment_ had
been our choice to inaugurate the commencement of the great conflict, so
the _Daughter of the Regiment_ was also our choice to commemorate its
close. The whole opera house was gay with flags and flowers and
decorations, and the generals were given the two stage boxes, one on
each side of the house. The audience began to come in very early; and it
was a huge one. The curtain had not yet risen--indeed, I was in my
dressing-room still making-up--when I heard the orchestra break into
_See the Conquering Hero Comes_, and then the roof nearly came off with
the uproar of the people cheering. I sent to find out what was
happening, and was told that General Grant had just entered his box. We
were ridiculously excited behind the scenes, all of us; even the
foreigners. They were such emotional creatures that they flung
themselves into a mood of general excitement even when it was based on a
patriotism to which they were aliens. The wild and jubilant state of the
audience infected us. I had felt something of the same emotion in
Washington at the beginning of the war, when we had done _Figlia_
before, to the frantically enthusiastic houses there. Yet that was
different. Mingled with that feeling there had been a grimness and pain
and apprehension. Now everyone was triumphant and happy and emotionally
exultant.
General Sherman came into his box early in the first act and the
orchestra had to stop while the house cheered him, and cheered again.
Sherman was always just a bit theatrical and loved applause, and he,
with his staff, stood bowing and smiling and bowing and smiling. The
whole proceeding took almost the form of a great military reception. As
I look back at it, I think one of the moments of the evening was created
by our basso, Susini. Susini--himself a soldier of courage and
experience, a veteran of the Italian rebellion--made his entrance,
walked forward, stood, faced one General after the other and saluted
each with the most military exactness. They were both plainly delighted;
while the house, in the mood to be moved by little touches, broke into
the heartiest applause.
I had a moment of triumph also when we sang the _Rataplan, rataplan_.
Since the early hit I had made with my drum I always played it as the
Daughter of the Regiment, and when we came to this scene I directed the
drum first toward one box and then toward the other, as I gave the
rolling salute. The audience went mad again; and again the orchestra had
to stop until the clapping and the hurrahs had subsided. It may not have
been a great operatic performance but it was a great evening! Such
moments written about afterwards in cold words lose their thrill. They
bring up no pictures except to those who have lived them. But on a night
such as that, one's heart seems like a musical instrument, wonderfully
played upon.
Between the acts the two distinguished officers came behind the scenes
and were introduced to the artists, making pleasant speeches to us all.
Immediately, I liked best the personality of General Grant. There was
nothing the least spectacular or egotistical about him; he was
absolutely simple and quiet and unaffected. He bewildered me by
apologising courteously for not being able to shake hands with me.
"You have had an accident to your hand!" I exclaimed.
"Not exactly an accident," he said, smiling. "I think I may call it
design!"
He explained that he had shaken hands with so many people that he could
not use his right hand for a while. He held it out for me to see and,
sure enough, it was terribly swollen and inflamed and must have been
very painful.
The great evening came to an end at last. We were not sorry on the whole
for, thrilling as it had been, it had been also very tiring. I wonder if
such mad, national excitement could come to people to-day? I cannot
quite imagine an opera performance being conducted on similar lines in
the Metropolitan Opera House. Perhaps, however, it is not because we are
less enthusiastic but because our events are less dramatic.
In recalling General Sherman I find myself thinking of him chiefly in
the later years of my acquaintance with him. After that Chicago night,
he never failed to look me up when I sang in any city where he was and
we grew to be good friends. He was always quite enthusiastic about
operatic music; much more so than General Grant. He confided to me once
that above all songs he especially disliked _Marching through Georgia_,
and that, naturally, was the song he was constantly obliged to listen
to. People, of course, thought it must be, or ought to be, his favourite
melody. But he hated the tune as well as the words. He was desperately
tired of the song and, above all, he detested what it stood for, and
what it forced him to recall.
[Illustration: =General William Tecumseh Sherman, 1877=
From a photograph by Mora]
Like nearly all great soldiers, Sherman was naturally a gentle person
and saddened by war. Everything connected with fighting brought to him
chiefly the recollection of its horrors and tragedies and always filled
him with pain. So it was that his real heart's preference was for such
simple, old-fashioned, plantation-evoking, country-smelling airs as _The
Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane_. One day during his many visits to our
home he asked me to sing this and, when I informed him that I could not
because I did not know and did not have the words, he said he would send
them to me. This he did; and I took pains after that never to forget his
preference.
[Illustration: Musical notation; In de lit-tle old log cab-in in de
lane.]
One night when I was singing in a concert in Washington, I caught sight
of him sitting quietly in the audience. He did not even know that I had
seen him. Presently the audience wanted an encore and, as was my custom
in concerts, I went to the piano to play my own accompaniment. I turned
and, meeting the General's eyes, smiled at him. Then I sang his beloved
_Little Old Log Cabin_. My reward was his beaming expression of
appreciation. He was easily touched by such little personal tributes.
"Why on earth did you sing that queer old song, Louise," someone asked
me when I was back behind the scenes again.
"It was an official request," I replied mysteriously. The end of the war
was a strenuous time for the nation; and for actors and singers among
others. The combination of work and excitement sent me up to New
Hartford in sore need of my summer's rest. But I think, of all the many
diverse impressions which that spring made upon my memory, the one that
I still carry with me most unforgetably, is a _sound_:--the sound of
those shuffling feet, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle,--in the Court House
grounds in Chicago: a sound like a great sea or forest in a wind as the
people of the nation went in to look at their President whom they loved
and who was dead.