Never, never was I so astonished. Such notices as were given of the performance, and what was particularly dwelt upon, think you? Why, the tears. "Real tears--tears that left streaks on the girl's cheeks!" said one paper. "Who is she--have you seen her--the wonderful Columbus ballet-girl, who wins tears with tears, real ones, too?" asked another.

I was ashamed. I was afraid people would make fun of me at the theatre.

At the box-office window that day many people were asking: "That girl that made the hit last night, is she really one of the ballet, or is it just a story, for effect?"

Some women asked, anxiously: "Will that girl cry to-night, do you think?"

It was very strange. One paper had a quieter article; it spoke of a rough diamond--of an earnest, honest method of addressing speeches directly to the character, instead of to the audience, as did many of the older actors. It claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the girl who could so thoroughly put herself in another's place, and declared it would watch with interest the movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl.

Now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, and in what groups we fall, again and again. Among the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time in the Ohio Legislature was Colonel Donn Piatt, with the fever of the Southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his services through the war. He had gone languidly enough to the theatre that night, because there was nothing else for him to do--unless he swapped stories of the war in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was sick to death of that, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he was moved to write the article from which the last quotation is taken. Stopping in the same hotel, but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out of boyhood, whose only lie, I honestly believe, was the one he told and swore to in order to raise his age to the proper military height that would admit him into the army. Bright, energetic, almost attaining perpetual motion in his own person, ambitious John A. c.o.c.kerill just then served in the double capacity of a messenger in the House and reporter on a paper. Diphtheria, which was almost epidemic that winter, visited the staff of the paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily a.s.signed to its dramatic work--thus he wrote another of the notices of my first venture in the tearful drama. Every day these two men were in the State-house--every day I walked through its grounds on my way to and from the theater--each quite unconscious of the others.

But old Time shakes the box and casts the dice so many, many times, groupings must repeat themselves now and again, so it came about that after years filled with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the box cast us down upon the table of Life, grouped together again--but each man knew and served me now faithfully, loyally; each giving me a hand to pull me up a step higher. They hated each other bitterly, vindictively, as journalists have been known to do occasionally; and as I knew the n.o.ble qualities of both, what better reward could I give for their goodness to me than to clasp their hands together and make them friends?

It was not an easy task, it required _finesse_ as well as courage, but that was the kind of task a woman loves--if she succeeds, and I succeeded.

They became friends, strong, earnest friends for the rest of their lives.

Death severed the bond, if it is severed; I do not know, and they may not return to tell me--I only know that in the years that were to come, when each man headed a famous paper, Colonel John A. c.o.c.kerill, of the New York _World_, who wrote many a high word of praise for me when victory had at last perched on my banner, and Colonel Piatt, who with his brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and women in their hospitable Washington home, loved to recall that night in Columbus when, all unconsciously, we three came so near to each other, only to drift apart for years and come together again.

And once I said, "like motes," and Donn Piatt swiftly added, "and a sunbeam," and both men lifted their gla.s.ses and, nodding laughingly at me, cried: "To the sunbeam!" while Mrs. Piatt declared, "That's a very pretty compliment," but to me the unanimity of thought between those erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing about it.

But even so small a success as that had its attendant shadows, as I soon found. Though I was then boarding, with Hattie McKee for my room-mate, I felt I still owed a certain duty and respect to Mrs. Bradshaw. Therefore, when this wonderful thing happened to me, I thought I ought to go and tell her all about it. I went; she gave me a polite, unsmiling good-morning and pointed to a chair. I felt chilled. Presently she remarked, with a small, forced laugh: "You have become so great a person, I scarcely expected to see you here to-day."

I looked reproachfully at her, as I quietly answered: "But you see I am here;" then added, "I did not think you would make fun of me, Mrs.

Bradshaw, I only tried to do my best."

"Oh," she replied, "one does not make fun of very successful people."

I turned away to hide my filling eyes, as I remarked: "Perhaps I'd better go away now."

I moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. I had thought she would be so pleased--you see, I was young yet, and sometimes very stupid--I forgot she had a daughter. But suddenly she called to me in the old, kindly voice I was so used to: "Come back Clara," she cried, "come back! It's mean to punish you for another's fault. My dear, I congratulate you; you have only proved what I have long believed, that you have in you the making of a fine actress. But when I think who had that same chance, and that it was deliberately thrown away," her lips trembled, "I--well, it's hard to bear. Even all this to-do about you in the part does not make her regret what she has done."

Poor mother! I felt so sorry for her. I wished to go away then, I thought my presence was unpleasant, but she made me tell her all about the evening, and describe Miss St. Clair's dress, and what everyone said and did. Loyal soul! I think that was a self-inflicted penance for a momentary unkindness.

Blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added the words: "Say, if I hadn't given you the chance, you couldn't have been a big gun to-day. You know Mr. Ellsler won't dare to give you anything, but he would have given me a nice present if I had done the part for him. So after all I've lost, I think you might give me a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won't snap or squeak or stretch out or do anything, it's just in its crumbly old age."

I gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems not quite square, if you think I made an unfair use of my funds in obtaining promotion, do please remember that I was only an accessory _after_ the act--not before it. I am the more anxious this should be impressed upon your mind because that penny was the only one I ever spent in paying for advancement professionally.

The second night of the "Lone House" was also the last night of Miss St.

Clair's engagement, and when I carried her blue-brocade gown back to her, eagerly calling attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily upon her outstretched arm. It was an att.i.tude of such utter collapse, there was such a wanness on her white face that the commonplace words ceased to bubble over my lips, and, startled, I turned toward her husband. Charles Barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breeding, and one time officer in the American navy, was nevertheless in manner and appearance so odd that the sight or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with an anguish of helpless love.

For a sad moment he gazed at her silently--then he was counting drops from a bottle, holding smelling-salts to her pinched nostrils, removing her riding-boots, indeed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but dressing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her weary face, bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made a little joke or two, then gave me hearty thanks for coming to her rescue, as she called it, praised my effort at acting, and asked me how I liked a crying part.

"Oh, I don't like it at all," I answered.

"Ah," she sighed, "we never like what we do best; that's why I can never be contented in elegant light comedy, but must strain and fret after dramatic, tragic, and pathetic parts--and to think that a young, untrained girl should step out of obscurity and without an effort do what I have failed in all these years!"

I stood aghast. "Why--why, Miss St. Clair!" I exclaimed, "you have applause and applause every night of your life!"

"Oh," she laughed, "you foolish child, it's not the applause I'm thinking of, but something finer, rarer. You have won tears, my dear, a thing I have never done in all my life, and never shall, no, never, I see that now!"

"I wish I had not!" I answered, remorsefully and quite honestly, because I was quite young and unselfish yet, and I loved her, and she understood and leaned over and kissed my cheek, and told me not to bury my talent, but to make good use of it by and by when I was older and free to choose a line of business. "Though," she added, "even here I'll wager it's few comedy parts that will come your way after to-night, young lady." And then I left her.

That same night I heard that a dread disease already abode with her, and slept and waked and went and came with her, and would not be shaken off, but clung ever closer and closer; and, oh! poor Charles Barras! money might have saved her then--money right then might have saved this woman of his love, and G.o.d only knows how desperately he struggled, but the money came not. Then, worse still, Sallie was herself the bread-winner, and though Mr. Barras worked hard, doing writing and translating, acting as agent, as nurse, as maid, playing, too, in a two-act comedy, "The Hypochondriac," he still felt the sting of living on his wife's earnings, and she had, too, a mother and an elder sister to support; therefore she worked on and disease worked with her.

Charles Barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice: "I-I-I always see m-my wife Sallie with a helpless woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself on her back, like the 'old man of the sea,' a-a-a pretty heavy burden that for a sick woman to carry, my girl! a-a-and a mighty pleasant picture for a man to have of his wife! A-a-and money--great G.o.d, money, right now, might save her--might save her!" He turned suddenly from me and walked on to the pitch-dark stage.

Poor Mr. Barras, I could laugh no more at his heelless boots, his funny half-stammer, and his ancient wig, not even when I recall the memory of that blazing Sunday in a Cincinnati Episcopal church, when, the stately liturgy over, the Reverend Doctor ascended the pulpit and, regardless of the suffering of his sweltering hearers, droned on endlessly, and Mr.

Barras leaned forward, and drawing a large palm fan from the next pew's rack, calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the other he alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the steaming interior of his wig. The action had an electrical effect. In a moment even the sleepers were alert, awake, a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost his place--hemmed--h-h-med, and ran down, found the place again, started, saw Barras fanning his wig, though paying still most decorous attention to the pulpit, and before they knew it they were all scrambling to their feet at "Might, Majesty, and Power!"--were scrabbling for their pockets at "Let your light so shine," for Mr.

Barras had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the forgiving glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced his wig and sauntered forth.

Several years after that night in Columbus, when I had reached New York and was rehearsing for my first appearance there, I one morning heard hasty, shuffling steps following me, and before I could enter the stage-door, a familiar "Er-er-er Clara, Clara!" stopped me, and I turned to face the wealthy author of the "Black Crook"--Mr. Charles Barras.

There he stood in apparently the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same empty-looking black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the big black satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years ago, but the face, how bloodless, shrunken, lined, and sorrowful it looked beneath the adamantine youthfulness of that chestnut wig!

"D-d-don't you know me?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I do," I answered as I took his hand.

"W-w-well then don't run away--er-er it's against law, r-religion, or decency to turn your back on a rich man. D-d-dodge the poor, Clara, my girl! but never turn your back on a man with money!"

I was pained; probably I looked so. He went on: "I-I-I'm rich now, Clara.

I've got a fine marine villa, and in it are an old, old dog and a dying old woman. They both belonged to my Sallie, and so I'll keep hold of 'em as long as I can, for her sake. A-a-after they go!" he turned his head away, he looked up at the beautiful blue indifference of the sky, his face seemed to tremble all over, his eyes came back, and he muttered: "W-w-we'll see--w-w-we'll see what will happen then. But, Clara, you remember that time when money could have saved her? The money I receive in one week now, if I could have had it then, she, Sallie, might be over there on Broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved and needed, too, and couldn't have. The little boots and slippers--you remember Sallie's instep? Had to have her shoes to order always," he stopped, he pressed his lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly he burst out: "By G.o.d, when a man struggles hard all his life, it's a d.a.m.n rough reward to give him a handsome coffin for his wife!"

Oh, poor rich man! how my heart ached for him. A tear slipped down my cheek; he saw it. "D-d-don't!" he said, "d-don't, my girl, she can't come back, and it hurts her to have anyone grieve. I want you to come and see me, when you get settled here, a-a-and I wish you a great big success. My Sallie liked you, she spoke often of you. I-I-I'll let you know how to get out there, and I-I-I'll show you her dog--old Belle, and you can stroke her, and er-er sit in Sallie's chair a little while perhaps--and er--don't, my girl, don't cry, she can't come back, you know," and shaking my hands he left me, thinking I was crying for Sallie, who was safe at rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were for himself--so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich man! Did he know then how near Death was to him? Some who knew him well believe unto this day that the fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap--only G.o.d knows.

I never paid the promised visit--could find no opportunity--and I never saw him again, that eccentric man, devoted husband, and honest gentleman, Charles Barras.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH

I Have to Pa.s.s through Bitter Humiliation to Win High Encomiums from Herr Bandmann; while Edwin Booth's Kindness Fills the Theatre with Pink Clouds, and I Float Thereon.

Occasionally one person united two "lines of business," as in the case of Mrs. Bradshaw, who played "old women" and "heavy business" both, and when anything happened to disqualify such a person for work the inconvenience was of course very great. Mrs. Bradshaw, as I have said before, was very stout, but her frame was delicate in the extreme, and her slender ankles were unable to bear her great weight, and one of them broke. Of course that meant a long lying up in dry-dock for her, and any amount of worry for ever so many other people. Right in the middle of her imprisonment came the engagement of the German actor, Herr Daniel Bandmann. He was to open with "Hamlet," and, gracious Heaven! I was cast for the _Queen-mother_. It took a good deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle me, but the _Queen-mother_ did it. I was just nicely past sixteen, but even I dared not yet lay claim to seventeen, and I was to go on the stage for the serious Shakespearian mother of a star.

"Oh, I couldn't!"

"Can't be helped--no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler. "Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can."

I had been brought up to obey, and I obeyed. We had heard much of Mr.

Bandmann, of his originality, his impetuosity, and I had been very anxious to see him. After that cast, however, I would gladly have deferred the pleasure. The dreaded morning came. Mr. Bandmann, a very big man, to my frightened eyes looked gigantic. He was dark-skinned, he had crinkly, flowing hair, his eyes were of the curious red-brown color of a ripe chestnut. He was large of voice, and large of gesture. There was a greeting, a few introductions, and then rehearsal was on, and soon, oh!

so soon, there came the call for the _Queen_. I came forward. He glanced down at me, half smiled, waved his arm, and said: "Not you, not the _Player-Queen_, but _Gertrude_."

I faintly answered: "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to play _Gertrude_."

"Oh, no you won't!" he cried, "not with me!" He was furious, he stamped his feet, he turned to the manager: "What's all this infernal nonsense? I want a woman for this part! What kind of witches' broth are you serving me, with an old woman for my _Ophelia_, and an apple-cheeked girl for my mother! She can't speak these lines! she, dumpling face!"

Mr. Ellsler said, quietly: "There is sickness in my company. The heavy woman cannot act; this young girl will not look the part, of course, but you need have no fear about the lines, she never loses a word."