Therefore, while a regular school-education is a thing to be thankful for, the actress who has been denied it need not despair. If she be willing to work, the Stage will educate her--nor will it curtly turn her away at the end of a few years, telling her her "term" is ended. I clung tightly to its hand for many a year, and was taken a little way through music's halls, loitered for a time before the easel, and even made a little rush at a foreign language to help me to the proper p.r.o.nunciation of names upon the stage; and no man, no woman all that time rose up to call me ignorant. So I give all thanks and all honor to the profession that not only fed and clothed me, but educated me too!

CHAPTER TWELFTH

The Peter Richings' Engagement brings me my First Taste of Slander--Anent the Splendor of my Wardrobe, also my First Newspaper Notice.

I remember particularly that second season, because it brought to me the first taste of slander, my first newspaper notice, and my first proposal of marriage. The latter being, according to my belief, the natural result of lengthening my skirts and putting up my hair--at all events, it was a part of my education.

Of course the question of wardrobe was a most important one still. I had done very well, so far as peasant dresses of various nationalities were concerned; I had even acquired a page's dress of my own, but I had no ball-dress, nothing but a plain, skimpy white muslin gown, which I had outgrown; for I had gained surprisingly in height with the pa.s.sing year.

And, lo! the report went about that Mr. Peter Richings and his daughter Caroline were coming in a fortnight, and they would surely do their play "Fashion," in which everyone was on in a dance; and I knew everyone would bring out her best for that attraction, for you must know that actresses in a stock company grade their costumes by the stars, and only bring out the very treasures of their wardrobes on state occasions. I was in great distress; one of my mates had a genuine silk dress, the other owned a bunch of artificial gold grapes, horribly unbecoming, stiff things, but, mercy, gold grapes! who cared whether they were becoming or not? Were they not gorgeous (a lady star had given them to her)? And I would have to drag about, heavy-footed, in a skimpy muslin!

But in the company there was a lady who had three charming little children. She was the singing soubrette (by name Mrs. James d.i.c.kson). One of her babies became sick, and I sometimes did small bits of shopping or other errands for her, thus permitting her to go at once from rehearsal to her beloved babies. Entering her room from one of these errands, I found her much vexed and excited over the destruction of one of a set of fine new lace curtains. The nursemaid had carelessly set it on fire. Of course Mrs. d.i.c.kson would have to buy two more curtains to replace them; and now, with the odd one in her hand, she started toward her trunk, paused doubtfully, and finally said to me: "Could you use this curtain for some small window or something, Clara?"

At her very first word a dazzling possibility presented itself to my mind. With burning cheeks, I answered: "Oh, yes, ma'am, I--I can use it, but not at a window, I'm afraid." Her bonnie face flashed into smiles.

"All right; take it along, then!" she cried, "and do what you like with it. It's only been up two days, and has not a mark on it."

I fairly flew from the house. I sang, as I made my way uptown to buy several yards of rose-pink paper cambric and a half garland of American-made artificial roses. Then I sped home and, behind locked doors, measured and cut and snipped, and, regardless of possible accident, held about a gill of pins in my mouth while I hummed over my work. All my fears were gone, they had fled before the waving white curtain, which fortunately for me was of fine meshed net, carrying for design unusually small garlands of roses and daisies. And when the great night came, I appeared as one of the ball guests in a pink under-slip, with white lace overdress, whose low waist was garlanded with wild roses.

So, happy at heart and light of foot, I danced with the rest, my pink and white gown ballooning about me in the courtesies with as much rustle and glow of color as though it had been silk.

But, alas! the imitation was too good a one! The pretty, cheap little gown I was so happy over attracted the attention of a woman whose whisper meant scandal, whose lifted brow was an innuendo, whose drooped lid was an accusation. Like a carrion bird she fed best upon corruption. Thank Heaven! this cruel creature, hated by the men, feared by the women, was not an actress, but through mistaken kindness she had been made wardrobe woman, where, as Mr. Ellsler once declared, she spent her time in ripping up and destroying the reputation of his actors instead of making and repairing their wardrobes.

That nothing was too small to catch her pale, cold eye is proved by the fact that even a ballet-girl's dress received her attention. Next day, after the play "Fashion" had been done, this woman was saying: "That girl's mother had better be looking after her conduct, I think!"

"Why, what on earth has Clara done?" asked her listener.

"Done!" she cried, "didn't you see her flaunting herself around the stage last night in silks and laces no honest girl could own? Where did the money come from that paid for such finery?"

A few days later a woman who boarded in the house favored by the mischief-maker happened to meet Mrs. d.i.c.kson, happily for me, and said, _en pa.s.sant_: "Which one of your ballet-girls is it who has taken to dressing with so much wicked extravagance? I wonder Mrs. Ellsler don't notice it."

Now Mrs. d.i.c.kson was Scotch, generous, and "unco" quick-tempered, and after she had put the inquiring friend right, she visited her wrath upon the originator of the slander in person, and verily the Scottish burr was on her tongue, and her "r's" rolled famously while she explained the component parts of that extravagant costume: window curtain--her gift--and paper cambric and artificial flowers to the cost of one dollar and seventy-five cents; "and you'll admit," she cried, "that even the purse of a 'gude la.s.s' can stand sic a strain as that; and what's mair, you wicked woman, had the girl been worse dressed than the others, you would ha' been the first to call attention to her as slovenly and careless."

This was the first drop of scandal expressed especially for me, and I not only found the taste bitter--very bitter--but learned that it had wonderful powers of expansion, and that the odor it gives off is rather pleasant in the nostrils of everyone save its object.

Mrs. d.i.c.kson, who, by the way, is still doing good work professionally, has doubtless forgotten the entire incident, curtain and all, but she never will forget the bonnie baby-girl she lost that summer, and she will remember me because I loved the little one--that's a mother's way.

Mr. Peter B. Richings was that joy of the actor's heart--a character. He had been accounted a very fine actor in his day, but he was a very old man when I saw him, and his powers were much impaired. Six feet tall, high-featured, Roman-nosed, elegantly dressed; a term from bygone days--and not disrespectfully used--describes him perfectly: he was an "old Buck!"

His immeasurable pride made him hide a stiffening of the joints under the forced jauntiness of his step, while a trembling of the head became in him only a sort of debonair senility at worst. Arrogant, short-tempered, and a veritable martinet, he nevertheless possessed an unbending dignity and a certain crabbed courtliness of manner very suggestive of the snuff-box and ruffle period of a hundred years before.

His daughter, by adoption, was the object of his unqualified worship--no other word can possibly express his att.i.tude toward her. No heavenly choir could have charmed him as she did when she sang, while her intellectual head and marble-cold face seemed beautiful beyond compare in his eyes. Really it was worth going far to see him walk through a quadrille with her. His bow was a thing for young actors to dream of, while with trembling head, held high in air, he advanced and retreated, executing antiquated "steps" with a grace that deprived them of comicality, while his air of arrogant superiority changed instantly to profound homage whenever in the movement of the figures he met his daughter.

His p.r.o.nunciation of her name was as a flourish of trumpets--Car-o-line!

Each syllable distinct, the "C" given with great fulness, and the emphasis on the first syllable when pleased, but heavily placed upon the last when he was annoyed.

He was unconscionably vain of his likeness to Washington, and there were few Friday nights, this being considered the fashionable evening of the week, that he failed to present his allegorical picture of Washington receiving the homage of the States, while Miss Richings, as _Columbia_, sang the "Star-Spangled Banner," the States joining in the chorus.

In this tableau the circular opening in the flat, backed by a sky-drop and with blue clouds hanging about the opening, represented heaven. And here, at an elevation, Washington stood at the right, with _Columbia_ and her flag on his left, while the States, represented by the ladies of the company, stood in lines up and down the stage, quite outside of heaven.

Now a most ridiculous story anent Mr. Richings and this heaven of his was circulating through the entire profession. Some of our company refused to believe it, declaring it a mere spiteful skit against his well-known exclusiveness; but that gentleman who had wished to send me for an "Ibid," being an earnest seeker after knowledge, determined to test the truth of the story. Therefore, after we had been carefully rehea.r.s.ed in the music and had been informed by the star that only Car-O-line and himself were to stand back of that skylike opening, this "inquiring"

person gave one of the extra girls fifty cents to go at night before the curtain rose and take her stand on the forbidden spot. She took the money and followed directions exactly, and when Mr. Richings, as _Washington_, made his pompous way to the stage, he stood a moment in speechless wrath, and then, trembling with anger, he stamped his foot, and waving his arm, cried: "Go a-way! Go a-way! you very presuming young person; this is heaven, and I told you this morning that only my daughter Car-O-line and I could possibly stand in heaven!"

It was enough; the "inquiring one" was rolling about with joy at his work. He had taken a rise out of the old gentleman and proved the truth of the story which had gone abroad in the land as to this claim of all heaven for himself and his Car-O-line.

I naturally remember these stars with great clearness, since it was for a small part in one of their plays that I received my first newspaper notice. Imagine my incredulous joy when I was told of this journalistic feat--unheard of before--of praising the work of a ballet-girl.

Suspecting a joke, I did not obtain a paper until late in the day, and after I had several times been told of it. Then I ventured forth, bought a copy of the _Herald_, and lo, before my dazzled eyes appeared my own name. Ah, few critics, with their best efforts, have thrown as rosy a light upon the world as did Mr. Jake Sage with his trite ten-word statement: "Clara Morris played the small part allotted to her well."

My heart throbbed hard, I seemed to catch a glimpse, through the rosy light, of a far-away Temple of Fame, and this notice was like a petal blown to me from the roses that wreathed its portals. Could I ever, ever reach them!

"Played the small part allotted to her well." "Oh," I cried aloud, "I will try to do everything well--I will, indeed!" and then I cut the notice out and folded it in a sheet of paper, and put both in an envelope and pinned that fast to my pocket, that I might take it to my mother, who was very properly impressed, and was a long time reading its few words, and was more than a trifle misty about the eyes when she gave it back to me. Looking at them now, the words seem rather dry and scant, but then they had all the sweetness, life, and color of a June rose--the most perfect thing of G.o.d's bounteous giving.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH

Mr. Roberts Refers to Me as "That Young Woman," to My Great Joy--I Issue the "Clara Code"--I Receive my First Offer of Marriage.

My mother, moved at last by my highly colored accounts of the humiliations brought upon me by the shortness of my skirts, consented to their lengthening, and though I knew she had meant them to stop at my shoe-tops, I basely allowed a misunderstanding to arise with the dress-maker, through which my new dress came home the full length of the grown-ups, and though my conscience worried me a bit, I still s.n.a.t.c.hed a fearful joy from my stolen dignity, and many a day I walked clear up to Superior Street that I might slowly pa.s.s the big show-windows and enjoy the reflection therein of my long dress-skirt. Of course I could not continue to wear my hair _a la_ pigtail, and that went up in the then fashionable chignon.

Few circ.u.mstances in my life have given me such unalloyed satisfaction as did my first proposal of marriage. I should, however, be more exact if I spoke of an "attempted proposal," for it was not merely interrupted, but was simply mangled out of all likeness to sentiment or romance. The party of the first part in this case was Mr. Frank Murdoch, who later on became the author of "Davy Crockett," the play that did so much toward the making and the unmaking of the reputation of that brilliant actor, the late Frank Mayo. He was the adoring elder brother of that successful young Harry Murdoch who was to meet such an awful fate in the Brooklyn Theatre fire. Neither of them, by the way, were born to the name of Murdoch; they were the sons of James E.'s sister, and when, in spite of his advice and warning, they decided to become actors, they added insult to injury, as it were, by demanding of him the use of his name--their own being a particularly unattractive one for a play-bill. He let them plead long and hard before he yielded and allowed them to take for life the name of Murdoch--which as a trade-mark, and quite aside from sentiment, had a real commercial value to these young fellows who had yet to prove their individual personal worth.

Frank was very young--indeed, our united ages would have barely reached thirty-six. He had good height, a good figure, and an air of gentle breeding; otherwise he was unattractive, and yet he bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, James Murdoch, who had a fine head and most regular features. But through some caprice of nature in the nephew those same features received a touch of exaggeration here, or a slight twist there, with the odd result of keeping the resemblance to the uncle intact, while losing all his beauty. Frank had a quixotic sense of honor and a warm and generous heart, but being extremely sensitive as to his personal defects he was often led into bursts of temper, during which he frequently indulged in the most childish follies. These outbreaks were always brief, and ever followed by deep contrition, so that he was generally regarded as a very clever, spoiled child.

Poor boy! his life was as sad as it was short. There may be few who remember him now, but a woman never forgets the man who first pays a compliment to her eyes, nor can I forget the first man who handed me a chair and opened and closed doors for me, just as for any grown-up.

He joined the company in about the middle of that season in which I acted princ.i.p.ally as utility man. He was to play singing parts and young lovers, and, to his amus.e.m.e.nt, I criticized his reading of one of _Ca.s.sio's_ speeches. Our wrangle over Shakespeare made friends of us at once. He had a veritable pa.s.sion for poetry, and with me he felt free to bring out his beautiful hobby to mount and ride and ride, with some of the great poets up behind and me for applauding audience. When he wanted me to know some special poem he bought it for me if he could; but if he was short of money, he carefully copied out its every line, tied the ma.n.u.script neatly up with ribbon, and presented the poem in that form. I came across a copy of "Maud Muller" the other day in Frank's clear, even handwriting. The paper was yellow, the ribbon faded. Frank is gone, Whittier is gone, but "Maud Muller" lives on in her immortal youth and pain.

But the morning when he first brought and offered me a chair was nothing less than an epoch in my life. At first I regarded the act as an aspersion on my strength--a doubt cast upon my ability to obtain a seat for myself. Then, as I glanced frowningly into his face, I suddenly realized that it was meant as a mark of consideration--the courtesy a man shows a woman. A glow of satisfaction spread through my being. I hated to rise, I was so afraid the thing might never happen to me again. I need not have worried, however, as I was soon to receive a more impressive proof of his consideration for my welfare.

One of the most unpleasant experiences in the life of a young actress is her frightened lonely rush through the city streets at twelve o'clock at night to reach her boarding-house and claim sanctuary. I doubt if even a Una and her lion could pa.s.s unmolested through those streets dotted with all-night "free and easys," where, by the way, nothing is free but the poisonous air, and nothing easy but the language. At all events from my own varied and unpleasant experiences, and from the stories of others, I had first drawn certain deductions, then I had proceeded to establish certain rules for the guidance and direction of any girl who was so unfortunate as to be forced to walk abroad unattended at night. These rules became known as "Clara's Code," and were highly approved, especially by those girls who "couldn't think," as they declared, but stood stock-still, "too frightened to move," when some wanderer of the night unceremoniously addressed them.

I cannot remember all those rules now, since for these many years G.o.d has granted me a protector, but from the few I can recall I am convinced that their princ.i.p.al object was to gain plenty of leeway for the persecuted girl's escape. No. 3 sternly forbade her ever, _ever_ to pa.s.s between two advancing men--at night, of course, be it understood--lest they might seize hold of and so frighten her to death. She was advised never to permit herself to take the inside of the walk when meeting a stranger, who might thus crowd her against the house and cut off her chance to run.

Never to pa.s.s the opening to an alley-way without placing the entire width of the walk between her and it, and always to keep her eyes on it as she crossed. Never to let any man pa.s.s her from behind on the outside was insisted on, indeed she should take to the street itself first. She was not to answer a drunken man, no matter what might be the nature of his speech. She was not to scream--if she could help it--for fear of public humiliation, but if the worst came and some hideous prowler of the night pa.s.sed from speech to actual attack, then she was to forget her ladyhood and remembering only the tenderness of the male shin and her right of self-defence, to kick like a colt till help came or she was released.

Other portions of the code I have forgotten, but I do distinctly remember that it wound up with the really Hoyle-like observation, "When in doubt, take to the centre of the street."

We all know the magic power of the moonlight--have seen it trans.m.u.te the commonest ugliness into perfect beauty and change a world-worn woman into the veriest lily-maid, but how few know the dread power exerted over man by the street gaslight after midnight. The kindest old drake of the farm-pond, the most pompously harmless gobbler of the buckwheat-field becomes a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. A man who would shoot for being called a blackguard between seven o'clock in the morning and twelve at night, often becomes one after midnight. It is frequently said that "words break no bones," but let a young girl pa.s.s alone through the city streets a few nights and she will probably hear words that, drowning her in shamed blushes, will go far toward breaking her pride, if not her bones. Men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin--they so narrowly escape being G.o.ds, and they so much more narrowly escape being animals. Under the sunlight, man, made in the image of G.o.d, lifts his face heavenward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of midnight he is stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction! You think I exaggerate the matter? Do not; I speak from experience. And, what is more, at that time I had not yet learned what the streets of New York could produce after midnight.

But on the night after the chair episode, Frank Murdoch heard one of the girls say she had used the Clara Code very successfully the night before, when two drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have collided with her had she not followed the rule and kept the whole sidewalk between them. He stood at the door as I came down-stairs, and as soon as I reached him he asked, sharply: "Do you go home alone of nights?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Good G.o.d!" he muttered.