I recall one snowy January night when I was returning home. It was on a Saturday, and I had played a five-act play twice with but a sandwich for my dinner, the weather forbidding my going home after the matinee. So being without change to ride with, hungry and unutterably weary, I started, bag in hand, to walk up Sixth Avenue. On the east side stood a certain club house (it stands there yet, by the way), whose peculiar feature was a vine-hung veranda across its entire front, from which an unusually long flight of steps led to the sidewalk. Quite unmolested, I had walked from the stage door almost to this building, when suddenly, as if he had sprung from the very earth, a man was at my elbow addressing me, and the fact that he was not English, and so not understood, did not in the slightest degree lessen the terror his evil face inspired. I shrank away from him, and he caught at my wrist. It was too much. I gave a cry and started to run, when, tall and broad, a man appeared at the foot of the club-house steps, just ahead of me. Ashamed to be seen running, I halted, and dropped into a walk again.

Then with that exaggerated straightening of back and stiffening of knee adopted by one who tries to walk a floor-crack or chalk-line, the second man approached me. He was very big, he was silvery grey, and his dignity was portentous. At every step he struck the pavement a ringing blow with a splendid malacca cane. Old-fashioned and gold-headed, it looked enough like its owner to have been his twin brother. He lifted his high silk hat, and with somewhat florid indignation inquired: "My c-hild, was that in-nfamous cur annoying you shust now? A-a-h!" he broke off, flourishing his cane over his head, "there y-you slink; I w-wish I had hold of you." And I heard the running footsteps of No. 1 as he darted away, across and down the avenue.

"An-and the police?" sarcastically resumed the big man, who wavered unsteadily now and then. "H-how useful are the police! How many do y-you see at this moment, pray, eh? And, by the way, m' child, what in the devil's name brings yer on the street alone at this hour, say, tell me that?" and he assumed a most judicial attitude and manner.

I replied, "I am going home from my work, sir."

"Y-your w-what?" he growled.

"My work, sir, at the theatre."

"Good Lord!" he groaned, "and t-that crawlin' r-reptile couldn't let you pass, you poor little soul, you!"

Upon my word, I thought he was going to weep over me. Next moment he turned his collar up with a violence that nearly upset him, and exclaimed: "D-don't you be a-fraid. I'll see you safely home. G-go by yourself? not much you won't! I'll take you to your mother. S-say, you've got a mother, haven't you? Yes, that's right; every girl's worth anythin's got a mother. I-I'll take you to her, sure; receive maternal thanks, a-and all that. Oh, say, boys! look here!" he shouted, and holding out the big cane in front of me to prevent my passing, he called to him two other men, who slowly and with almost superhuman caution were negotiating the snowy steps.

"Say, Colonel! Judge! come here and help me p-pr'tect this un-fortunate child." The Judge at that moment sat heavily and unintentionally down on the bottom step, and the Colonel remarked pleasantly, though a trifle vaguely, "T-that's the time he hit it"; while the fallen man asked calmly from his snowy seat, "P-pr-protect what—f-from who?"

"This poor ch-i-ld from raging beasts and in-famous scoundrels, Judge," remarked my bombastic friend.

"We're gentlemen, my dear; and say, get the Judge up, Colonel, and start him, and we'll all see her safe home. Damn shame, a la-dy can't walk in safety, w-without 'er body of able-bodied cit-zens to protect her! Com'er long, now, child." And he grasped my arm and pushed me gently forward.

The Colonel tipped his hat over one eye, gave a military salute, and wavered back and forth. The Judge muttered something about "Honest woman against city of New York," and something "and costs," and both fell to the rear.

And thus escorted by all these intoxicated old gallants, I made my mortified way up the avenue, they wobbling and sliding and stammering, and he who held my arm, I distinctly remember, recited Byron to me, and told me many times that the Judge was "a p-perfect gentleman, and so was his wife."

This startling statement was delivered just as we reached Thirty-second Street. Like an eel I slipped from his grasp, and whirling about, I said as rapidly as I could speak, "I'm almost home now. I can see the light from here, and I can't take you any farther out of your way," and I darted down the darker street.

Looking back from my own stoop, I saw the three kindly old sinners making salutations at the corner. My bombastic friend and the Judge had their hats off, waving them, and the Colonel saluted with such rigid propriety, it seems a pity that he was facing the wrong way.

I laugh, oh, yes, I laugh at the memory, until I think how silvery were these three wine-muddled old heads, and then I feel "the pity, oh, the pity of it!"



_CHAPTER XVIII

A BELATED WEDDING_

It was in a city in the far West that this small incident took place—a city of the mountains still so young that some of its stateliest business buildings of stone or marble, with plate-glass, fine furniture, and electric lighting, were neighboured not merely by shanties, but actually by tents.

But though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too far nor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certain woman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking and satirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placed herself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every one from sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping little hands for the gold showered upon them—laughed, with weary, pain-filled eyes—laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes—but still laughed till sunrise—and then, well, who cared what they did then?

And this woman had waxed rich, and owned valuable property and much mining stock, and was generous to those who were down on their luck, and was quick with her revolver—as the man who tried to hold her up on a lonely road found out to his sorrow.

Now to this city there came a certain actress, and the papers and the theatre bills announced a performance of the old French play of "Camille." The wealthy Madame Elize, as she styled herself, had heard and read much of both actress and play, and knew that it was almost a nightly occurrence for men to shed tears over two of the scenes, while women wept deliciously through the whole play.

She determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager assured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could possibly be admitted. And she declared "that she could sit out that or any other play without tears. That no amount of play-acting could move her, unless it was to laughter."

And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for an honest woman.

She watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the second act found her wiping her eyes—very cautiously; there was that unvarying colour to think of. The third act found her well back in the shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several of the actors.

When the curtain fell, one of them remarked, "I'd like to know what that woman will do in the next few hours?"

This is what she did. Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she left the theatre alone. Then she engaged a carriage—of which there were very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most of their going and coming on horseback—and had herself conveyed to her home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over the evening paper.

She lost no time, but aroused him at once, shaking him by the shoulder, and in cold, curt tones ordered him "to rise and dress for the street, and to go with her."



But he objected, asking: "Why the deuce he should go out that bitter night? And was she a fool, or did she take him for one?"

Upon which she had so savagely ordered him "to get on his boots, his coat, and overcoat" that the sleepiness had vanished from his sharp eyes, and he had exclaimed, "What is it, Kate? what's happened to you?"

And she answered: "I've had a blow—no, don't reach for your gun. I don't mean that—but, Jim, it hurts. (Here, let me tie that for you.) I've had a blow straight at the heart, and a woman gave it—God bless her! (Can't you brush your hair up over that thin place? Jim—why, Jim, upon my soul, you're grey!) Oh, hurry! here, take your fur coat—you'll need it. Come now—no, I won't tell till we're outside this house. Come—on the quiet, now—come," and taking him by the arm she dragged him down the hall and stairs, and so outside the front door.

There she stopped. The man shivered at the cold, but kept his gleaming eyes fastened on her white face, "Well?" he said.

She stood looking up at the glory of the sky above her, where the stars glittered with extraordinary brilliancy, and in an abstracted tone she observed, "There's the 'Dipper.'"

He watched her still silently; she went on: "Do you remember, Jim, when I taught school down in Westbury, how we used to look at the 'Dipper' together, because you didn't dare speak—of anything else? You got seven dollars a week, then, and I—oh, Jim! why in God's name didn't you speak? Then I might never have come to this." She struck the lintel of the door passionately, but went right on: "Yes—yes, I'm going to tell you, and you've got to make a decision, right here, now! You'll think I'm mad, I know; but see here now, I've got that woman's dying eyes looking into mine; I've got that woman's voice in my ears, and her words burnt into my living heart! I'll tell you by and by, perhaps, what those words are, but first, my proposal: you are free to accept it, you are free to refuse it, or you are free to curse me for a drivelling idiot; but look you here, man, if you laugh at it, I swear I'll kill you! Now, will you help me out of this awful life? Jim, will you get into that carriage and take me to the nearest minister and marry me, or will you take this 'wad' and go down that street and out of my life forever?"

In the pause that followed they looked hard into one another's eyes. Then the man answered in six words. Pushing away the hand that offered him a great tight-rolled mass of paper money, he said, "Put that away—now, come on," and they entered the carriage, and drove to the home of a minister. There a curious thing happened. They had answered satisfactorily the reverend gentleman's many questions before he quite realized who the woman was. When he did recognize her, he refused to perform the ceremony, and with words of contemptuous condemnation literally drove them from the house, and with his ecclesiastical hand banged the door after them.

They visited another minister, and their second experience differed from their first in two points,—the gentleman was quicker in his recognition and refusal, and refrained from banging the door. And so they drove up and down and across the city, till at last they stood at the carriage door and looked helpless at each other. Then the man said, "That's the last one, Kate," and the woman answered, "Yes, I know—I know." She drew a long, hard breath that was not far from a sob, and added, "Yes, they've downed me; but it wasn't a fair game, Jim, for they've played with marked cards."

She had entered the carriage when the driver with the all-pervading knowledge and unlimited assurance of the Western hackman remarked genially: "Madame Elize, there's another gospel-sharp out on the edge of the town. He's poorer than Job's turkey, and his whole dorgon'd little scantlin' church ain't bigger than one of them Saratogy trunks, but his people just swear by him. Shall I take you out there?"

Madame Elize nodded an assent, and once more they started. It was a long drive. The horses strained up killing grades, sending out on the cold air columns of steam from their dilating nostrils. The driver beat first one hand and then the other upon his knees, and talked amicably if profanely to his horses; but inside the carriage there was utter silence.

At last they stopped before a poor, cold-looking little cottage, and entering made their wishes known to a blue-eyed, tall young man, with thin, sensitive lips, who listened with grave attention. He knew precisely who and what she was, and very gently told her he would have to ask one unpleasant question, "Was the man at her side acquainted with her past, or was he a stranger who was being deceived—victimized, in fact?"

And Kate, with shining eyes, turned and said: "Tell him, Jim, how for six honest, innocent years we were friends. Then tell him how for fifteen years we've been partners in life. Tell him whether you know me, Jim, or whether you're victimized."

And then the young minister had told them he was proud and thankful to clasp their hands and start them on their new path, with God's blessing on them. And they were married at last; and as they drove away, they noted the strange outlines of the mountains, where they reared their stupendous bulk against the star-sown sky. A sense of awe came upon them—of smallness, of helplessness. Instinctively they clasped hands, and presently the woman said: "Oh, Jim, the comfort of a wedding ring! It circles us about so closely, and keeps out all the rest of the world."

And Jim stooped his head and kissed her.



_CHAPTER XIX

SALVINI AS MAN AND ACTOR_

It is not often, I fancy, that one defends one's hero or friend from himself. Yet that about describes what I am doing now for the famous Salvini. An acquaintance of mine, a man self-contained and dignified, who was reading the other day, startled me by muttering aloud, "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" and a moment later, flinging the volume from him, he cried: "Where were his friends? Why did they permit him to write of himself?"

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed in bewilderment, "where were whose friends? Of whom are you speaking, and why are you so excited?"

"Oh," he answered impatiently, "it's the disappointment! I judged the man by his splendid work; but look at that book—the personal pronoun forms one solid third of it. I know it does!" and he handed me the volume in question.

"Well," I said, as I glanced at the title,—"Autobiography of Tommaso Salvini,"—"no matter what the book may say, Tommaso Salvini is a mighty actor." And then I began to read. At first I was a bit taken aback. I had thought Mr. Macready considered himself pretty favourably, had made a heavy demand on the I's and my's in his book; but the bouquets he presented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with the gorgeous floral set pieces provided ad libitum for "Signor Salvini" by Signor Salvini.

Then presently I began to smile at the open honesty of this self-appreciation, at the naive admiration he expresses for his figure, his voice, his power. "After all," I said, "when the whole civilized world has for years and years affirmed and reaffirmed that he is the greatest actor living, is it strange that he should come to believe the world?"

"But," growled my friend, "why could he not be content with the world's statement? Why had he no reticence? Look at these declarations: that no words can describe his power, that everybody wished to know him, that everybody wished to claim his friendship, that everybody made it his boast to be seen in his company, etc."

"Well," I answered, "you certainly cannot doubt the truth of the assertions. I believe every one of them. You see, you are not making any allowance for temperament or early environment. Those who are humbly born in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch's praise to the very pinnacle of pride and joy and superiority. Think of the compliments paid this man by royalty. Think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination. You can't expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you, for your comfort, that this 'book Salvini' is utterly unlike the kindly gentleman who is the real, everyday Salvini."

My friend looked at me a moment, then shaking hands he added gravely: "Thank you. The great actor goes upon his pedestal again, to my own satisfaction; but—but—don't think I care for this book. I'll wait till some one else tells of his triumphs and his gifts," and laying it upon the table he took his departure.

It is astonishing what a misleading portrait Signor Salvini has drawn of himself. I worked with him, and I found him a gentleman of modest, even retiring, disposition and most courtly manners. He was remarkably patient at the long rehearsals which were so trying to him because his company spoke a language he could not understand.

The love of acting and the love of saving were veritable passions with him, and many were the amusing stories told of his economies; but, in spite of his personal frugality, he was generous in the extreme to his dear ones.

When I had got over my first amazement at receiving a proposal to act with the great Italian, Mr. Chizzola, his manager, stated terms, and hastened to say that a way had been found by which the two names could be presented without either taking preference of the other on the bill, and that the type would of course be the same in both—questions I should never have given a thought to, but over which my manager stood ready to shed his heart's blood. And when I said that I should willingly have gone on the bills as "supporting Signor Salvini," I thought he was going to rend his garments, and he indignantly declared that such talk was nothing less than heresy when coming from a securely established star.

At one of our rehearsals for the "Morte Civile," a small incident occurred that will show how gracious Signor Salvini could be. Most stars, having the "business" of their play once settled upon, seem to think it veritable sacrilege to alter it, no matter how good the reason for an alteration; and a suggestion offered to a star is generally considered an impertinence. In studying my part of Rosalia, the convict's wife, a very pretty bit of "business" occurred to my mind. I was to wear the black cross so commonly seen on the breast of the Roman peasant women, and once at an outbreak of Conrad's, I thought if I raised that cross without speaking, and he drooped before it, it would be effective and quite appropriate, as he was supposed to be superstitiously devout. I mentioned it to young Salvini, who cried eagerly, "Did you tell my father—did he see it?"

"Good heavens!" I answered, "do you suppose I would presume to suggest 'business' to a Salvini? Besides, could anything new be found for him in a play he has acted for twenty years? No, I have not told your father, nor do I intend to take such a liberty."

But next morning, when we came to that scene, Signor Salvini held up his hand for a halt in the rehearsal, called for Alessandro, and, bidding him act as interpreter, said, smiling pleasantly, to me, "Now zee i-dee please you, madame?" for young Alessandro had betrayed my confidence. There was a mocking sparkle in Salvini's blue eyes, but he was politely ready to hear and reject "zee i-dee." I felt hot and embarrassed, but I stood by my guns, and placing Alessandro in the chair, I made him represent Conrad; and when he came to the furious outburst, I swiftly lifted the cross and held it before his eyes till his head sank upon my breast. But in a twinkling, with the cry, "No—no! I show!" Salvini plucked Alessandro out of the seat, flung himself into it, resumed the scene, and as I lifted the cross before his convulsed features, his breath halted, slowly he lifted his face, when, divining his meaning, I pressed the cross gently upon his trembling lips, and with a sob his head fell weakly upon my breast. It was beautifully done; even the actors were moved. Then he spoke rapidly to his son, who translated to me thus: "How have I missed this 'business' all these years? It is good—we will keep it always—tell madame that." And so, courteously and without offence, this greatest of actors accepted a suggestion from a newcomer in his play.

A certain English actor, who had been with him two or three seasons, made a curious little mistake night after night, season after season, and no one seemed to heed it. Of course Salvini, not speaking English, could not be expected to detect the error. Where the venomous priest should humbly bow himself out with the veiled threat, "This may yet end in a trial—and—conviction!" the actor invariably said, "This may yet end in a trial of convictions!" Barely three nights had passed when Signor Salvini said to his son, "Why does Miss Morris smile at that man's exit? It is not funny. Ask why she smiles." And he was greatly put out with his actor when he learned the cause of my amusement. A very observant man, you see.

He is a thinking actor; he knows why he does a thing, and he used to be very intolerant of some of the old-school "tricks of the trade." Mind, when I was acting with him, he had come to understand fairly well the English of our ordinary, everyday vocabulary, and if he was quite calm and not on exhibition in any way, he could speak it a little and quite to the point, as you will see. He particularly disliked the old, old trick called "taking the stage," that is, when a good speech has been made, the actor at its end crosses the stage, changing his position for no reason on earth save to add to his own importance. It seemed Salvini had tried through his stage manager to break up the wretched habit; but one morning he saw an actor end his speech at the centre of the stage, and march in front of every one to the extreme right-hand corner. A curl came to the great actor's lip, then he said inquiringly, "What for?" The actor stammered, "I—I—it's my cross, you know—the end of my speech."—"Y-e-es," sweetly acquiesced the star. "Y-e-es, you cross, I see—but what for?" The actor hesitated. "You do so," went on Salvini, giving a merciless imitation of the swelling chest and stage stride of the guilty one, as he had crossed from centre down to extreme right. "You do so—but for why? A-a-ah!" Suddenly he seemed to catch an idea. "A-a-ah! is it that you have zee business with zee people in zee box? A-a-ah! you come spik to zose people? No? Not for that you come? You have no reason for come here, you say? Then, for God's sake, stay centre till you have a reason!"

It was an awful lesson, but what delicious acting. The simple, earnest inquiry, the delighted catching at an idea, the following disappointment, and the final outburst of indignant authority—he never did anything better for the public.

During the short time we acted together but one cloud, a tiny, tiny one of misunderstanding, rose between us, but according to reports made by lookers-on a good deal of lightning came out of it. Of course not understanding each other's language, we had each to watch the other as a cat would watch a mouse, in order to take our cues correctly. At one point I took for mine his sudden pause in a rapidly delivered speech, and at that pause I was to speak instantly. We got along remarkably well, for his soul was in his work, and I gave every spark of intelligence I had in me to the effort to satisfy him; so by the fifth or sixth performance we both felt less anxiety about the catching of our cues than we had at first. On the night I speak of, some one on Salvini's side of the stage greatly disturbed him by loud whispering in the entrance. He was nervous and excitable, the annoyance (of which I was unconscious) threw him out of his stride, so to speak. He glanced off warningly and snapped his fingers. No use; on went the giggling and whispering. At last, in the very middle of a speech, wrath overcame him. He stopped dead. That sudden stop was my cue. Instantly I spoke. Good heaven! he whirled upon me like a demon. I understood that a mistake had been made, but it was not mine. I knew my cue when I got it. The humble Rosalia was forgotten. With hot resentment my head went up and back with a fling, and I glared savagely back at him. A moment we stood in silent rage. Then his face softened, he laid the fingers of his left hand on his lips, extending his right with that unspeakably deprecating upturning of the palm known only to the foreign-born. An informing glance of the eye toward the right, followed by a faint "Pardon!" was enough. I dropped back to meek Rosalia, the scene was resumed, the cloud had passed. But one man who had been looking on said: "By Jove! you know, you two looked like a pair of blue-eyed devils, just ready to rend each other. Talk about black-eyed rage; it's the lightning of the blue eyes that sears every time."

I had been quite wild to see Signor Salvini on his first visit to America, and at last I caught up with him in Chicago, and was so happy as to find my opportunity in an extra matinee. The play was "Othello," and during the first act he looked not only a veritable Moor, but, what was far greater, he seemed to be Shakespeare's own "Moor of Venice." The splendid presence, the bluff, soldierly manner, the open, honest look, as the "round unvarnished tale" was delivered, made one understand, partly at least, how "that maiden never bold, a spirit so still and quiet," had come at last to see "Othello's visage in his mind, and to his honour and his valiant parts to consecrate her fortune and her soul!" Through all the noble scene, through all the soldierly dignity and candid speech, there was that tang of roughness that so naturally clung to the man whose life from his seventh year had been passed in the "tented field," and who himself declared, "Rude am I in speech, and little bless'd with the set phrase of peace."

In short, Salvini was a delight to eye and ear, and satisfied both imagination and judgment in that first act. Like many people who are much alone, I have the habit of speaking sometimes to myself—a habit I repented of that day, yes, verily I did; for when, at Cyprus, Othello entered and fiercely swept into his swarthy arms the pale loveliness of Desdemona, 'twas like a tiger's spring upon a lamb. The bluff and honest soldier, the English Shakespeare's Othello, was lost in an Italian Othello. Passion choked, his gloating eyes burned with the mere lust of the "sooty Moor" for that white creature of Venice. It was revolting, and with a shiver I exclaimed aloud, "Ugh, you splendid brute!" Realizing my fault, I drew quickly back into the shadow of the curtain; but a man's rough voice had answered instantly, "Make it a beast, ma'am, and I'm with you!" I was cruelly mortified.



But there was worse to happen that day. The leading lady, Signora Piamonti, an admirable actress, was the Desdemona. She played the part remarkably well, and was a fairly attractive figure to the eye, if one excepted her foot. It was exceptionally long and shapeless, and was most vilely shod. Her dresses, too, all tipped up in the front, unduly exposing the faulty members; many were the comments made, and often the query followed, "Why doesn't she get some American shoes?" I am sorry to say that some of our daily papers even were ungracious enough to refer to that physical defect, when only her work should have been considered and criticised.

The actors had reached the last act. The bed stood in the centre of a shallow alcove, heavily curtained. These hangings were looped up at the beginning of the act, and were supposed to fall to the floor, completely concealing the bed and its occupant after the murder. The actor had long before become again Shakespeare's Othello. We had seen him tortured, racked, and played upon by the malignant Iago; seen him, while perplexed in the extreme, irascible, choleric, sullen, morose; but now, as with tense nerves we waited for the catastrophe, he was truly formidable. The great tragedy moved on. Desdemona's piteous entreaties had been choked in her slim throat, the smothering pillow held in place with merciless strength. Then at Emilia's disconcerting knock and demand for admission, Othello had let down and closely drawn the two curtains. But alas and alack a day! though they were thick and rich and wide, they failed to reach the floor by a good foot's breadth—a fact unnoticed by the star. You may not be an actor; but really when you add to that twelve or fourteen-inch space the steep incline of the stage—why, you can readily understand how advisable it was for the dead Desdemona that day to stay dead until the play was over.

Majestically Othello was striding down to the door, where Emilia was knocking for admittance, when there came that long in-drawn breath—that "a-a-h!" that from the auditorium always means mischief—and a sudden bobbing of heads this way and that in the front seats. In an instant the great actor felt the broken spell, knew he had lost his hold upon the people—but why? He went on steadily, and then, just as you have seen a field of wheat surged in one wave by the wind, I saw the closely packed people in that wide parquet sway forward in a great gust of laughter. With quick, experienced eye I scanned first Othello's garb from top to toe, and finding no unseemly rent or flaw of any kind to provoke laughter, I next swept the stage. Coming to the close-drawn curtains, I saw—heavens! No wonder the people laughed. The murdered Desdemona had risen, was evidently sitting on the side of the bed; for beneath the curtains her dangling feet alone were plainly seen, kicking cheerfully back and forth. Such utterly unconscious feet they were that I think the audience would not have laughed again had they kept still; but all at once they began a "heel-and-toe step," and people rocked back and forth, trying to suppress their merriment. And then—oh, Piamonti!—swiftly the toe of the right foot went to the back of the left ankle and scratched vigorously. Restraint was ended, every one let go and laughed and laughed. From the box I saw in the entrance the outspread fingers, the hoisted shoulders, the despairingly shaken heads of the Italian actors, who could find no cause for the uproar. Salvini behaved perfectly in that, disturbed, distressed, he showed no sign of anger, but maintained his dignity through all, even when in withdrawing the curtains and disclosing Desdemona dead once more the incomprehensible laughter again broke out. But late as it was and short the time left him, he got the house in hand again, again wove his charm, and sent the people away sick and shuddering over his too real self-murder.

As I was leaving the box I met one connected with the management of the theatre, who, furious over the faux pas, was roughly denouncing the actress, whom he blamed entirely, and I took it upon myself to suggest that he pour a vial or two of his wrath upon the heads of his own property man and the stage manager, who had grossly neglected their duty in failing to provide curtains of the proper length. And I chuckled with satisfaction as I saw him plunge behind the scenes, calling angrily upon some invisible Jim to come forth. I had acted as a sort of lightning-rod for a sister actress.

Salvini's relations with his son were charming, though it sounded a bit odd to hear the stalwart young man calling him "papa." Alessandro had dark eyes and black hair, so naturally admired the opposite colouring, and I never heard him speak of his father's English second wife without some reference to her fairness. It would be "my blond mamma," "my little fair mamma," "my father's pretty English wife," or "before my little blond mamma died." He felt the "mamma" and "papa" jarred on American ears, and often corrected himself; but when Signor Salvini himself once told me a story of his father, he referred to him constantly as "my papa," just as he does in this book of his that makes him seem so egotistical and so determined to find at all costs the vulnerable spot, the weak joint in the armour, of all other actors.

Certainly he could not have been an egotist in the bosom of his family. A friend in London went to call upon his young wife, his "white lily." She was showing the house to her visitor, when, pausing suddenly before a large portrait of her famous husband, she became silent, her uplifted eyes filled, her lips smiled tremulously, she gave a little gasp, and whispered, "Oh, he's almost like God to me!"

The friend, startled, even shocked, was about to reprove her, but a glance into the innocent face showed no sacrilege had been meant, only she had never been honoured, protected, happy, before—and some women worship where they love. Could an egotist win and keep such affection and gratitude as that?

Among those who complain of his opinionated book I am amused to find one who fairly exhausted himself in praise, not to say flattery, of this same Salvini. It is very diverting to the mere looker-on, when the world first proclaims some man a god, bowing down and worshipping him, and then anathematizes him if he ventures to proclaim his own godship. I have my quarrel with the book, I confess it. I am sorry he does not show how he did his tremendous work, show the nature of those sacrifices he made. How one would enjoy a word-picture of the place where he obtained his humble meals in those earliest days of struggle; who shared them, and in what spirit they were discussed, grave or gay! Italian life is apt to be picturesque, and these minor circumstances mean much when one tries to get at the daily life of a man. But Salvini has given us merely splendid results, without showing us how he obtained them. Yet what a lesson the telling would have been for some of our indolent actors! Why, even at the zenith of his career, Salvini attended personally to duties most actors leave to their dressers. He used to be in his dressing-room hours before the overture was on, and in an ancient gown he would polish his armour, his precious weapons or ornaments, arrange his wigs, examine every article of dress he would require that night, and consequently he never had mishaps. He used to say: "The man there? Oh, yes, he can pack and lock and strap and check, but only an actor can understand the care of these artistic things. What I do myself is well done; this work is part of my profession; there is no shame in doing it. And all the time I work, I think—I think of the part—till I have all forgot—all but just that part's self."

And yet, O dear, these are the things he does not put in his book. When he was all dressed and ready for the performance, Salvini would go into a dark place and walk and walk and walk; sometimes droopingly, sometimes with martial tread. Once, I said, "You walk far, signor?"

"Si, signorina," he made answer, then eagerly, "I walk me into him!" And while the great man was "walking into the character," the actors who supported him smoked cigarettes at the stage door until the dash for dressing room and costume.

Some women scold because he has not given pictures of the great people whom he met. "Why," they ask, "did he not describe Crown Princess Victoria" (the late Empress Frederick) "at least—how she looked, what she wore? Such portraits would be interesting." But Salvini was not painting portraits, not even his own—truly. He was giving a list of his triumphs; and if he has shown self-appreciation, he was at least perfectly honest. There is no hypocrisy about him. If he knew Uriah Heep, he did not imitate him; for in no chapter has he proclaimed himself "'umble." If one will read Signor Salvini's book, remembering that the paeans of a world have been sung in his honour, and that he really had no superior in his artistic life, I think the I's and my's will seem simply natural.

However he may have been admired in other characters, I do truly believe that only those who have seen him in "Othello" and "Morte Civile" can fully appreciate the marvellous art of the actor. I carry in my mind two pictures of him,—Othello, the perfect animal man, in his splendid prime, where, in a very frenzy of conscious strength, he dashes Iago to the earth, man and soldier lost in the ferocity of a jungle male beast, jealously mad—an awful picture of raging passion. The other, Conrad, after the escape from prison; a strong man broken in spirit, wasted with disease, a great shell of a man—one who is legally dead, with the prison pallor, the shambling walk, the cringing manner, the furtive eyes. But oh, that piteous salute at that point when the priest dismisses him, and the wrecked giant, timid as a child, humbly, deprecatingly touches the priest's hand with his finger-tips and then kisses them devoutly! I see that picture yet, through tears, just as I saw for the first time that illustration of supreme humility and veneration.

Oh, never mind a little extravagance with personal pronouns! A beloved father, a very thorough gentleman, but above all else the greatest actor of his day. There is but the one Salvini, and how can he help knowing it? So to book and author—ready! Viva Salvini!



_CHAPTER XX

FRANK SEN: A CIRCUS EPISODE_

The circus season was over, the animals had gone into comfortable winter quarters, while the performers, less fortunate than the beasts, were scattered far and near, "some in rags and some in tags, and some" (a very few) "in velvet gowns." But one small group had found midwinter employment, a party of Japanese men and women, who were jugglers, contortionists, and acrobats; and as their work was pretty as well as novel, they found a place on the programme of some of the leading vaudeville theatres.

They were in a large Western city. Behind the curtain their retiring manners, their exquisite cleanliness, their grave and gentle politeness, made them favourites with the working forces of the theatre, while before the curtain the brilliant, graceful precision with which they carried out their difficult, often dangerous, performance won them the high favour of the public.

On that special day the matinee was largely attended, the theatre being filled, even to the upper circles, as at night. Smilingly the audience had watched the movements of the miniature men and women in their handsome native costumes, and with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" had seen them emerge from those robes, already arrayed for acrobatic work, in suits of black silk tights with trunks and shoulder and wrist trimmings of red velvet fairly stiffened with gold embroideries; and then came the act the people liked best, because it contained the element of danger, because in its performance a young girl and a little lad smilingly risked life and limb to entertain them.

The two young things had climbed like cats up to the swinging bars, high up, where the heat had risen from a thousand gas lights, and the blood thundered in their ears, and the pulses on their temples beat like hammers. So high, that looking down through the quivering, bluish mist, the upturned faces of the people merged together and became like the waters of a pale, wide pool. Their work was well advanced. With clocklike precision they had obeyed, ever-smilingly obeyed, the orders conveyed to them by the sharp tap of the fan their trainer held, though to the audience the two young forms glittering in black and scarlet and gold, poising and fluttering there, were merely playing in midair like a pair of tropical birds.

They were beginning their great feat, in which danger was so evident that women often cried out in terror and some covered their eyes and would not look at all—the music even had sunken to a sort of tremor of fear. They were for the moment hanging head downward from their separate bars, when across the stillness came the ominous sound of cracking, splintering wood; afterward it was known that the rung of a chair in an upper private box had broken, but then,—but then! the sound was close to the swaying girl's ear!

Believing it was her bar that was breaking, her strained nerves tore free from all control! Driven by fear, she made a mad leap out into space, reaching frantically for the little brown hands that a half second later would have been ready for her, with life and safety in their tenacious grasp.

To those who do their work in space and from high places, the distance between life and death, between time and eternity, is often measured by half seconds. Little Omassa had leaped too soon, the small brown hands with power to save were not extended. She grasped the empty air, gave a despairing cry, and as she whirled downward, had barely time to realize that the sun had gone black out in the sky, and that the world with its shrieking millions was thundering to its end, when the awful crash came.

There were shouts and shrieks, tears and groans, and here and there helpless fainting. Ushers rushed from place to place, the police appeared suddenly. The Japanese, silent, swift, self-controlled, were moving their paraphernalia that the curtain might be lowered, were stretching a small screen about the inert, fallen figure, were bringing a rug to lift her on, and their faces were like so many old, old ivory masks.

Tom McDermott, in his blue coat, stood by the silent little figure waiting for the rug and for the coming of the doctor, and groaned, "On her face, too—and she a girl child!"

Tom had seen three battle-fields and many worse sights, but none of them had misted his eyes as did this little glittering, broken heap, and he turned his face away and muttered, "If she'd only keep quiet!" for truly it was dreadful to see the long shudders that ran over the silent, huddled thing, to see certain red threads broadening into very rivulets. At last the ambulance, then the all-concealing curtain, the reviving music, a song, a pretty dance, and presto, all was forgotten!

When Omassa opened her eyes, her brain took up work just where it had left off; therefore she was astonished to find the sun shining, for had she not seen the sun go out quite black in the sky? Yet here it was so bright, and she was—was, where? The room was small and clean, oh, clean! like a Japanese house, and almost as empty. Could it be? But no, this bed was American, and then why was she so heavy? What great weight was upon her? She could not move one little bit, and oh, my! what was it she could faintly see beyond and below her own nose—was it shadow? Surely she could not see her own lip? She smiled at that, and the movement wrung a cry of agony from her—when, like magic, a face was bending over her, so kind and gentle, and then a joyous voice cried to some one in the next room, "This little girl, not content with being alive, sir, has her senses—is she not a marvel?"

And with light, delicate touch the stranger moistened the distended, immovable lip poor Omassa had dimly seen, through which her lower teeth had been driven in her fall, and in answer to her pleading, questioning glances at her own helpless body, told her she was encased in plaster now, but by and by she would be released, and now she was to be very quiet and try to sleep. And then she smoothed a tiny wrinkle out of the white quilt, shut out the sunlight, and, smiling kindly back at her, left Omassa, who obediently fell asleep—partly because her life was one of obedience, and partly because there was nothing else to do.

And then began the acquaintance between Mrs. Helen Holmes, nurse, and Omassa, Japanese acrobat. The other nurses teased Helen Holmes about her pet patient, saying she was only a commonplace, Japanese child woman; but Mrs. Holmes would exclaim, "If you could only see her light up and glow!"

And so they came to calling Omassa "the lantern," and would jestingly ask "when she was going to be lighted up"; but there came a time when Mrs. Holmes knew the magic word that would light the flame and make the lantern glow, like ruby, emerald, and sapphire; like opal and tourmaline.

The child suffered long and terribly; both arms were broken, and in several places, also her little finger, a number of ribs, her collar-bone, and one leg, while cuts were simply not counted. During her fever-haunted nights she babbled Japanese for hours, with one single English name appearing and reappearing almost continually,—the name of Frank; and when she called that name it was like the cooing of a pigeon, and the down-drooping corners of her grave mouth curled upward into smiles. She spoke English surprisingly well, as the other members of the troupe only knew a very little broken English; and had she not placed the emphasis on the wrong syllable, her speech, would have been almost perfect.

Generally she was silent and sad and unsmiling, but grateful, passionately grateful to her "nurse-lady," as she called Mrs. Holmes; yet when, that kind woman stooped to kiss her once, Omassa shrank from the caress with such repugnance as deeply to wound her, until the little Japanese had explained to her the national abhorrence of kissing, assuring her over and over again that even "the Japan ma'ma not kiss little wee baby she love."

Mrs. Holmes ceased to wonder at the girl's sadness when she found she was absolutely alone in the world: no father, no mother; no, no sister, no brother, "no what you call c-cousine?—no nothing, nobody have I got what belong to me," she said.

One morning, as her sick-room toilet was completed, Mrs. Holmes said lightly:—

"Omassa, who is Frank?" and then fairly jumped at the change in the ivory-tinted, expressionless face. Her long, narrow eyes glowed, a pink stain came on either cheek, she raised herself a little on her best arm, eagerly she cried, "You know him—oh, you know Frank?"

Regretfully Mrs. Holmes answered, "No, dear, I don't know him."

"But," persisted Omassa, "you know him, or how could you speak his name?"

"I learned the name from you, child, when you talked in the fever. I am very sorry I have caused you a disappointment. I am to blame for my curiosity—forgive me."

All the light faded from her face and very quietly she lay down upon her pillow, her lips close-pressed, her eyes closed; but she could not hide the shining of the tears that squeezed between her short, thick lashes and clung to them. 'Twas long before his name was mentioned again; but one day something had been said of friends, when Omassa with intense pride had exclaimed:—"I have got my own self one friend—he—my friend Frank."

"What's his other name?" asked the nurse.

"Oh, he very poor, he got only one name."

"But, dear, he must have another name, he is Frank somebody or something."

"No! no!" persisted Omassa with gentle obstinacy, "he tell me always true, he very poor, good man—he got only one name, my Frank Sen."

"There," cried Mrs. Holmes, triumphantly, "you see he has two names after all, you have just called him by them both—Frank Sen."

At which the invalid sent forth a tinkling laugh of amusement, crying: "Oh, that not one man's name, oh, no! That Sen that like your Mr.—Mrs.; you nurse-lady, you Holmes Sen. Ito—big Japan fight man, he Ito Sen, you unnerstand me, nurse-lady?"

"Yes, child, I understand. Sen is a title, a term of respect, and you like to show your friend Frank all the honour you can, so you call him Frank Sen."

And Omassa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: "You right on to it at first try. My boss" (her manager Kimoto) "find me baby in Japan, with very bad old man. He gamble all time. I not know why he have me, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to Kimoto, and Kimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all to old man—all. We go Mexico—South America—many Islands—to German land, and long time here in this most big America—and the world so big—and then I so little Japan baby—I no play—I no sing—I know nothing what to do—and just one person in this big lonesomeness make a kindness to me—my Frank Sen—just one man—just one woman in all world make goodness to me—my Frank Sen and my nurse-lady," and she stroked with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bed beside her.

"What was he like, your Frank?" asked the nurse.

"Oh, he one big large American man—he not laugh many times loud, but he laugh in he blue eye. He got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy—like puppy dog's back. He poor—he not perform in circus, oh, no! He work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. He ver good man for fight too—he smash man that hurt horse—he smash man that kick dog or push me, Japan baby. Oh, he best man in all the world" (the exquisite Madame Butterfly was not known yet, so Omassa was not quoting). "He tell me I shall not say some words, 'damn' and 'hell' and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that 'hell' and where is—and how you get in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you—and how you can't get out again where there is cool place for change—and he smooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know Japan people don't ever be kissed—and he call me one word I cannot know."

She shook her head regretfully. "He call me 'poor little wave'—why poor little wave—wave that mean water?" she sighed. "I can't know why Frank Sen call me that."

But quick-witted Mrs. Holmes guessed the word had been "waif"—poor little waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, rough tent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from the ignorance and evil about her.

"But," resumed Omassa, with perfect conviction, "Frank Sen meaned goodness for me when he called me 'wave'—I know that. What you think that big American man do for help me little Japan baby—with no sense? Well, I will tell you. When daylight circus-show over, he take me by hand and lead me to shady place between tents—he sit down—put me at he knee, and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger he point out and make me know all those big fat letters—yes, he do that. Other mens make of him fun—and he only laugh; but when they say he my father and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. When he lay out the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some more letters. Oh, I very stupid Japan baby; but at last I know all, and then he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be his fete-day,—what you call birsday,—and I make very big large secret."

She lifted herself excitedly in bed, her glowing eyes were on her nurse's face, her lips trembled, the "lantern" was alight and glowing radiantly.

"What you think I do for my Frank Sen's birsday? I have never one penny,—I cannot buy,—but I make one big great try. I go to circus-lady, that ride horse and jump hoops—she read like Frank Sen. I ask her show me some right letters. Oh, I work hard—for I am very stupid Japan child; but when that day come, Frank Sen he lead me to shady place—he open primer—then," her whole face was quivering with fun at the recollection, "then I take he long finger off—I put my finger and I slow spell—not cat—not dog—oh, what you think?—I spell F-r-a-n-k—Frank! He look to me, and then he make a big jump—he catch me—toss me, high up in air, and he shout big glad shout, and then I say—'cause for your birsday.' He stop, he put me down, and he eyes come wet, and he take my hand and he say: 'Thank you, that's the only birsday gift I ever received that was not from my mother. Spell it again for me,' he said; and then he was very proud and said, 'there was not any-other birsday gift like that in all the world!' What you think of that?

"Then the end to season of circus come—Frank Sen he kneel down by me—he very sad—he say, 'I have nothing to give—I am such a fool—and the green-cloth—oh, the curse of the green-cloth!' He took off my Japan slippers and smiled at them and said, 'Poor little feet'; he stroked my hands and said, 'Poor little hands'; he lifted up my face and said, 'Poor little wave'; then he look up in air and he say, very troubled-like, 'A few home memories—some small knowledge, all I had, I have given her. To read a little is not much, but maybe it may help her some day, and I have nothing more to give!'

"And I feeling something grow very fast, here and here" (touching throat and breast), "and I say, 'You have nothing to give me? well'—and then I forget all about I am little Japan girl, and I cry, 'Well, I have something to give you, Frank Sen, and that is one kiss!' And I put my arms about he neck and make one big large kiss right on he kind lips."

Her chin sank upon her night-robed breast. After a moment she smiled deprecatingly at Mrs. Holmes and whispered: "You forgive me, other day? You see I Japan girl—and just once I give big American kiss to my friend, Frank Sen."



_CHAPTER XXI

STAGE FORFEITS AND THEIR HUMOUR_

It was during the rehearsals of "L'Article 47" that I enjoyed one single hearty laugh,—a statement that goes far to show my distressed state of mind,—for generally speaking that is an unusual day which does not bring along with its worry, work, and pain some bubble of healing laughter. It was a joke of Mr. Le Moyne's own special brand that found favour in my eyes and a place in my memory. Any one who has ever served under Mr. Daly can recall the astounding list of rules printed in fine type all over the backs of his contracts. The rules touching on forfeits seemed endless: "For being late," "For a stage wait," "For lack of courtesy," "For gossiping," "For wounding a companion's feelings"—each had its separate forfeiture. "For addressing the manager on business outside of his office," I remember, was considered worth one dollar for a first offence and more for a second. Most of these rules ended with, "Or discharge at the option of the manager." But it was well known that the mortal offence was the breaking that rule whose very first forfeit was five dollars, "Or discharge at the option of," etc., that rule forbidding the giving to outsiders of any stage information whatever; touching the plays in rehearsal, their names, scenes, length, strength, or story; and to all these many rules on the backs of our contracts we assented and subscribed our amused or amazed selves.

When the new French play "L'Article 47" was announced, the title aroused any amount of curiosity. A reporter after a matinee one day followed me up the avenue, trying hard to get me to explain its meaning; but I was anxious not to be "discharged at the option of the manager," and declined to explain. Many of the company received notes asking the meaning of the title. At Mr. Le Moyne's house there boarded a walking interrogation-point of a woman. She wished to know what "L'Article 47" meant; she would know. She tried Mr. Harkins; Mr. Harkins said he didn't know. She tossed her head and tried Mr. Crisp; Mr. Crisp patiently and elaborately explained just why he could not give any information. She implied that he did not know a lady when he saw one, and fell upon Mr. Le Moyne, tired, hungry, suavely sardonic. "He was," she assured him, "a gentleman of the old school. He would know how to receive a lady's request and honour it." And Le Moyne rose to the occasion. A large benevolence sat upon his brow, as assuring her that, though he ran the risk of discharge for her fair sake, yet should she have her will. He asked if she had ever seen a Daly contract. The bridling, simpering idiot replied, "She had seen several, and such numbers of silly rules she had never seen before, and—"

"That's it," blandly broke in Le Moyne, "there's the explanation of the whole thing—see? 'L' Article 47' is a five-act dramatization of the 47th rule of Daly's contract."

"Did you ever?" gasped the woman.

"No," said Le Moyne, reaching for bread, "I never did; but Daly's up to anything, and he'd discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear of this."

It was almost impossible to get Mr. Daly to laugh at an actor's joke; he was too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object of the jest. But he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetrated on me by this same Le Moyne.

On the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of "Divorce" I had "stuck dead," as the saying is. Not a word could I find of my speech. I was cold—hot—cold again. I clutched Mrs. Gilbert's hand. I whispered frantically: "What is it? Oh! what is the word?" But horror on horror, in my fall I had dragged her down with me. She, too, was bewildered—lost. "I don't know," she murmured. There we were, all at sea. After an awful wait I walked over and asked Captain Lynde (Louis James) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. I was angry—shamed. I had never stuck in all my life before, not even in my little girl days. Mr. Daly was, of course, in front. He came rushing back to inquire, to scold. Every one joked me about my probable five-dollar forfeit. Well, next night came, and at that exact line I did it again. Of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but it was humiliating in the extreme. Mr. Daly, it happened, was attending an opening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. Then came Le Moyne to me—big and grave and kind, his plump face with the shiny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration. He led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:—



"You stuck again, didn't you, Clara? Too bad! too bad! and of course you apprehend trouble with Daly? I'm awfully sorry. Ten dollars is such a haul on one week's salary. But see here, I've got an idea that will help you out, if you care to listen to it."

I looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of brass; his benevolence was touching. I said eagerly: "Yes, I do care indeed to listen. What is the idea?"

He beamed with affectionate interest, as he said impressively, "Well, now you know that a bad 'stick' generally costs five dollars in this theatre?"

"Yes," I groaned.

"And you stuck awfully last night?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then to-night you go and repeat the offence. But here is where I see hope for you. Daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done. Watch then for his coming. This play is so long he will be here before it's over. Go to his private office at once. Get ahead of every one else; do you understand? Approach him affably and frankly. Tell him yourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him the two 'sticks' for eight dollars. If he's a gentleman and not a Jew, he'll accept your proposal."

Just what remarks I made to my sympathetic friend Le Moyne at the end of that speech I cannot now recall. If any one else can, I can only say I was not a church member then, and let it pass at that. But when I opened my envelope next salary day and saw my full week's earnings there, I went to Mr. Daly's office and told him of my two "sticks" and of Le Moyne's proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor's joke.



_CHAPTER XXII

POOR SEMANTHA_

It has happened to every one of us, I don't know why, but every mother's son or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habitually referred to some acquaintance or friend as "poor So-and-So"; and the curious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why or wherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financially at least, "poor So-and-So" is better off than the person who is doing the "pooring." Nor is "poor So-and-So" always sick or sorrowful, stupid or ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace of contempt in that word "poor" when applied to an acquaintance? A very slight trace, of course,—we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do not slice it into our salad. So when we call a friend "poor So-and-So," consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection the slight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could I, right to her merry, laughing face, have called this girl poor Semantha?

I had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so was I; she was in the ballet, so was I. True, I had already had heads nodded sagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, "That girl's going to do something yet," and all because I had gone on alone and spoken a few lines loudly and clearly, and had gone off again, without leaving the audience impressed with the idea that they had witnessed the last agonized and dying breath of a girl killed by fright. I had that much advantage, but we both drew the same amount of salary per week,—five very torn and very dirty one-dollar bills. Of course there could have been no rule nor reason for it, but it had so happened that all the young women of the ballet—there were four—received their salary in one-dollar bills. However, I was saying that we, the ballet, dressed together at that time, and poor Semantha first attracted my attention by her almost too great willingness to use my toilet soap, instead of the common brown washing soap she had brought with her. At some past time this soap must have been of the shape and size of a building brick, but now it resembled a small dumb-bell, so worn was its middle, so nobby its ends. Then, too, my pins were, to all intents and purposes, her pins; my hair-pins her hair-pins; while worst of all, my precious, real-for-true French rouge was her rouge.

At that point I came near speaking, because poor Semantha was not artistic in her make-up, and she painted not only her cheeks but her eyes, her temples, her jaws, and quite a good sample of each side of her neck. But just as I would be about to speak, I would bethink me of those nights when, in the interest of art, I had to be hooked up behind, and I would hold my peace.

On the artistic occasions alluded to, I hooked Semantha up the back, and then Semantha hooked up my back. Ah, what a comfort was that girl; as a hooker-up of waists she was perfection. No taking hold of the two sides of the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as if the Vendome column was about to be overthrown. No hooking of two-thirds of the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking that there was a little mistake at the top hook. No putting of thumbs to the mouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort and pinching. Ah, no! Semantha smiled,—she generally did that,—turned you swiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were, fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook to the top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swift smooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew your back was a joy until the act was over.

That was all I had known of Semantha. Probably it was all I ever should have known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from the theatre for a time, during which absence Semantha made the discovery which was to bring her nearer to me.

Finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, Semantha with smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for a pin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her two companions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, "You may take a few of my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again."

While she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion, with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became so deservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily: "No, you don't! Don't you touch anything of mine! You can't sponge on me as you do on Clara!"

Now Semantha was a German, as we were apt to find out if ever she grew excited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her, she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fully understood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there she stood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated, "Spoonge? spoonge? w'at is that spoonge?" And received for answer, "What is it? why, it's stealing." Semantha gave a cry. "Yes," continued the straightforward one, "it's stealing without secrecy; that's what sponging is."

Poor Semantha—astonished, insulted, frightened—turned her quivering face to the other girl and passionately cried, "Und she, my Fraeulein Clara, tink she dat I steal of her?"

Then for the first time, and I honestly believe the last time in her life, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose to the occasion—God bless her—and answered stoutly, "No, Clara never thought you were stealing."

So it happened that when I returned to work, and Semantha's excited and very German welcome had been given, I noticed a change in her. When my eyes met hers, instead of smiling instantly and broadly at me, her eyes sank to the ground and her face flushed painfully. At last we were left alone for a few moments. Quick as a flash, Semantha shut the door and bolted it with the scissors. Then she faced me; but what a strange, new Semantha it was! Her head was down, her eyes were down, her very body seemed to droop. Never had I seen a human look so like a beaten dog. She came quite close, both hands hanging heavily at her sides, and in a low, hurried tone she began: "Clara, now Clara, now see, I've been usen your soap—ach, it smells so goot!—nearly all der time!"—"Why," I broke in, "you were welcome!"

But she stopped me roughly with one word, "Wait," and then she went on. "Und der pins—why, I can't no more count. Und der hair-pins, und der paint," (her voice was rising now), "oh, der lofely soft pink paint! und I used dem, I used 'em all. Und I never t'ought you had to pay for dem all. You see, I be so green, fraeulein, I dun know no manners, und I did, I did use dem, I know I did; but, so help me, I didn't mean to spoonge, und by Gott I didn't shteal!"

I caught her hands, they were wildly beating at the air then, and said, "I know it, Semantha, my poor Semantha, I know it."

She looked me brightly in the eyes and answered: "You do? you truly know dat?" gave a great sigh, and added with a fervour I fear I ill-appreciated, "Oh, I hope you vill go to heaven!" then quickly qualified it, "dat is, dat I don't mean right avay, dis minute—only ven you can't keep avay any longer!"

Then she sprang to her dress hanging on the hook, and after struggling among the roots of her pocket, found the opening, and with triumph breathing from every feature of her face, she brought forth a small white cube, and cried out, "Youst you look at dat!"

I did; it seemed of a stony structure, white with a chill thin line of pink wandering forlornly through or on it (I am sure nothing could go through it); but the worst thing about it was the strange and evil smell emanating from it. And this evil, white, hard thing had been purchased from a pedler under the name of soap, fine shaving or toilet soap, and now Semantha was delightedly offering it to me, to use every night, and I with immense fervour promised I would use it, just as soon as my own was gone; and I mentally registered a solemn vow that the shadow of my soap should never grow less.

I soon discovered that poor Semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spite of her faint German accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in her conversation, she was ambitious. One night we had been called on to "go on" as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poor Semantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that it was a pleasure to look at her. She was such a contrast to the two others. One had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of her face was enough to take all the dance out of one's feet. With frowning brows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures with such fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardly help hoping she would make a mistake and take the consequences. The other,—the woolly-brained young person,—having absolutely no ear for music or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through the chorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody's feet, through the dance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaning calf.

When we were in our room, I told Semantha how well she had sung and danced, and her face was radiant with delight. Then becoming very grave, she said: "Oh, fraeulein, how I vant to be an actor! Not a common van, but" and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast—"I vant to be a big actor. Don' you tink I can ever be von—eh?"

And looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, I answered, "I think it is very likely," Poor Semantha! we were to recall those simple remarks, later on.

Christmas being near, I was very busy working between acts upon something intended for a present to my mother. This work was greatly admired by all the girls; but never shall I forget the astonishment of poor Semantha when she learned for whom it was intended.

"Your mutter lets you love her yet—you would dare?" And as I only gazed dumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, "My mutter hasn't let me love her since—since I vas big enough to be knocked over."

Through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, who knew her family, I learned something of poor Semantha's private life. Poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyes upon the wrong side of life,—the seamy side,—and her own personal share of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden browns and greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliant colour,—the theatre. Of the pure tints of sky and field and watery waste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing. But what of that! had she not secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be added to, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life?

Semantha's father was dead; her mother was living—worse luck. For had she been but a memory, Semantha would have been free to love and reverence that memory, and it might have been as a very strong staff to support her timid steps in rough and dangerous places. But alas! she lived and was no staff to lean upon; but was, instead, an ever present rod of punishment. She was a harmful woman, a destroyer of young tempers, a hardener of young hearts. Many a woman of quick, short temper has a kind heart; while even the sullenly sulky woman generally has a few rich, sweet drops of the milk of human kindness, which she is willing to bestow upon her own immediate belongings. But Semantha's mother was not of these. How, one might ask, had this wretch obtained two good husbands? Yes, Semantha had a stepfather, and the only excuse for the suicidal marriage act as performed by these two victims was that the woman was well enough to look upon—a trim, bright-eyed, brown creature with the mark of the beast well hidden from view.

When Semantha, who was her first born, too, came home with gifts and money in her hands, her mother received her with frowning brows and sullen, silent lips. When the child came home with empty hands, and gave only cheerfully performed hard manual labour, she was received with fierce eyes, cruel rankling words, and many a cut and heavy blow, and was often thrust from the house itself, because 'twas known the girl was afraid of darkness.



Her stepfather then would secretly let her in, though sometimes she dared go no farther than the shed, and there she would sit the whole night through, in all the helpless agony of fright. But all this was as nothing compared to the cruelty she had yet to meet out to poor Semantha, whose greatest fault seemed to be her intense longing for some one to love. Her mother would not be loved, her own father had wisely given the whole thing up, her step-father dared not be loved. So, when the second family began to materialize, Semantha's joy knew no bounds. What a welcome she gave each newcomer! How she worked and walked and cooed and sang and made herself an humble bond-maiden before them. And they loved her and cried to her, and bit hard upon her needle stabbed forefinger with their first wee, white, triumphant teeth, and for just a little, little time poor Semantha was not poor, but very rich indeed. And that strange creature, who had brought them all into the world, looked on and saw the love and smiled a nasty smile; and Semantha saw the smile, and her heart quaked, as well it might. For so soon as these little men could stand firmly on their sturdy German legs, their gentle mother taught them, deliberately taught them, to call their sister names, the meaning being as naught to them, but enough to break a sister's heart. To jeer at and disobey her, so that they became a pair of burly little monsters, who laughed loud, affected laughter at the word "love," and swore with many long-syllabled German oaths that they would kick with their copper-toes any one who tried to kiss them. Ah! when you find a fiercely violent temper allied to a stone-cold heart, offer you up an earnest prayer to Him for the safety of the souls coming under the dominion and the power of that woman.

I recall one action of Semantha's that goes far, I think, to prove what a brave and loyal heart the untaught German girl possessed. She was very sensitive to ridicule, and when people made fun of her, though she would laugh good-humouredly, many times she had to keep her eyes down to hide the brimming tears. Now her stepfathers name was a funny one to American ears, and always provoked a laugh, while her own family name was not funny. Yet because the man had shown her a little timid kindness, she faithfully bore his name, and through storms of jeering laughter, clear to the dismal end, she called herself Semantha Waacker.

Once we spoke of it, and she exclaimed in her excited way: "Yes, I am alvays Waacker. Why not, ven he is so goot? Why, why, dat man, dat vater Waacker, he have kissed me two time already. Vunce here" (placing her finger on a vicious scar upon her check), "von de mutter cut me bad, und vun odder time, ven I come very sick. Und de mutter seen him in de glass, und first she break dat glass, und den she stand and smile a little, und for days und days, when somebody be about, my mutter put out de lips und make sounds like kisses, so as to shame de vater before everybody. Oh, yes, let 'em laugh; he kiss me, und I stay Semantha Waacker."

The unfortunate man's occupation was also something that provoked laughter, when one first heard of it; but as Semantha herself was my informant, and I had grown to care for her, I managed by a great effort to keep my face serious. How deeply this fact impressed her, I was to learn later on.

Christmas had come, and I was in high glee. I had many gifts, simple and inexpensive most of them, but they were perfectly satisfactory to me. My dressing-room mates had remembered me, too, in the most characteristic fashion. The pretty, woolly-brained girl had with smiling satisfaction presented me with a curious structure of perforated cardboard and gilt paper, intended to catch flies. Its fragility may be imagined from the fact that it broke twice before I got it back into its box; still there was, I am sure, not another girl in Cleveland who could have found for sale a fly-trap at Christmas time.

The straightforward one had presented me with an expensively repellent gift in the form of a brown earthenware jug, a cross between a Mexican idol and a pitcher. A hideous thing, calculated to frighten children or sober drunken men. I know I should have nearly died of thirst before I could have forced myself to swallow a drop of liquid coming from that horrible interior.

Semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on before she caught me alone, out in a dark passageway. Then she began as she always did when excited, with: "Clara, now Clara, you know I told my vater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvays say—not'ing. Dat day I come tell you vat his work vas, I vent home und I say, 'Vater Waacker, I told my fraeulein you made your livin' in de tombstone yard,' und he say, quvick like, 'Vell,'—you know my vater no speak ver goot English" (Semantha's own English was weakening fast),—"'vell, I s'pose she make some big fool laugh, den, like everybodies, eh?' Und I say, 'No, she don't laugh! de lips curdle a little'" (curdle was Semantha's own word for tremble or quiver. If she shivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), "'but she don't laugh, und she say, "It vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, 'cause it must be satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody's tombstone."'"

"Oh, Semantha!" I cried, "why did you tell him that?"

"But vy not?" asked the girl, innocently. "Und he look at me hard, und his mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, pig laughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, 'Mein Gott! mein Gott! satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody's tombstones—somebody's. Und she don't laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh? Vell, vell! dat fraeulein she tinks sometings! Say, Semantha, don't it dat you like a Kriss-Krihgle present to make to her, eh?' Und I say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoes for all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left. Und he shlap me my back, une! say, 'Never mindt, I'll make him,' und so he did, und here it is," thrusting some small object into my hand. "Und if you laugh, fraeulein, I tink I die, 'cause it is so mean und little."

Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark with "it" in my hand. Poor Semantha! "it" lies here now, after all these years; but where are you, Semantha? Are you still dragging heavily through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are hungry never more, but filled with love divine?

"It" is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly carved to imitate a tiny Bible. A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my possession, a far older one, which cost a human life.

Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again. For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing. Then she became curiously absent-minded. She would stop sometimes in the midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate surroundings. Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be making. Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the theatre door with her. The night was bad, too, but I noticed that she carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his pocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her.

And then one night Semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since she usually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in life to her. We were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was there was no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. Her face was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shocked tone, "You must be awful sick!"

But Semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answered slowly and dully, "I'm not sick."

"Not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?"

"I'm not sick, I'm going avay."

Just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to take our places. We wore pages' dresses, and as we went Semantha stood in the doorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes—she did so love a page's costume.

When we were "off" we hastened back to our dressing room. Semantha was still there. She moved stiffly about, packing together her few belongings; but her manner silenced us. She had taken everything else, when her eyes fell upon a remnant of that evil-smelling soap. She paused a bit, then in that same slow way she said, "You never, never used that soap after all, Clara?" and when I answered: "Oh, yes, I have. I've used it several times," she put her hand out quickly, and took the thing, and slipped it into her pocket, and then she stood a moment and looked about; and if ever anguish grew in human eyes, it slowly grew in hers. Her face was pale before; it was white now.

At last her eyes met mine, then a sudden tremor crossed her face from brow to chin, a piteous slow smile crept around her lips, and in that dull and hopeless tone she said, "You see, my fraeulein, I'll never be a big actor after all," and turned her back upon me, and slowly left the room and the theatre, without one kiss or handshake, even from me. And I, who knew her, did not guess why. She went out of my life forever, stepping down to that lower world of which I had only heard, but by God's mercy did not know.

That same sad night a group of men, close-guarded, travelled to Columbus, that city of great prisons and asylums, and one of those guarded men was poor Semantha's lover, alas! her convicted lover now; and she, having cast from her her proudest hope, her high ambition, trusting a little in his innocence, trusting entirely in his love, now followed him steadily to the prison's very gate.

After this came a long silence. One girl had fallen from our ranks, but what of that? Another girl had taken her place. We were still four, marching on,—eyes front, step firm and regular,—ready when the quick order came quickly to obey. There could be no halt, no turning back to the help of the figure already growing dim, of one who had fallen by the wayside.

After a time rumours came to us, at first faint and vague—uncertain, then more distinct—more dreadful! And the stronger the rumours grew, the lower were the voices with which we discussed them; since we were young, and vice was strange to us, and we were being forced to believe that she who had so recently been our companion was now—was—well, to be brief, she wore her rouge in daylight now upon the public street.

Poor, poor Semantha! They were playing "Hamlet," the night of the worst and strongest rumour, and as I heard Ophelia assuring one of her noble friends or relatives:—

"You may wear your rue with a difference,"

I could not help saying to myself that "rue" was not the only thing that could be so treated, since we all had rouge upon our cheeks; yet Semantha—ah, God forgive her—wore her rouge with a difference.

A little longer and we were all in Columbus, where a portion of each season was passed, our manager keeping his company there during the sitting of the legislature. We had secured boarding-houses,—the memory of mine will never die,—and in fact our round bodies were beginning to fit themselves to the square holes they were expected to fill for the next few weeks, when we found ourselves sneezing and coughing our way through that spirit-crushing thing they call a "February thaw." Rehearsal had been long, and I was tired. I had quite a distance to walk, and my mind was full of professional woe. Here was I, a ballet girl who had taken a cold whose proportions simply towered over that nursed by the leading lady's self; and as I slipped and slid slushily homeward, I asked myself angrily what a fairy was to do with a handkerchief,—and in heaven's name, what was that fairy to do without one. The dresses worn by fairies—theatrical, of course—in those days would seem something like a fairy mother-hubbard now, at all events a home toilet of some sort, so very proper were they; but even so there was no provision made for handkerchiefs, no thought apparently that stage fairies might have colds in their star-crowned heads.

So as my wet skirt viciously slapped my icy ankles, I almost tearfully declared to myself I would have to have a handkerchief, even though it wore pinned to my wings, only who on earth could get it off in time for me to use? Now if poor Semantha were only—and there I stopped, my eyes, my mind, fixed upon a woman a little way ahead of me, who stood staring in a window. Her figure drooped as though she were weary or very, very sad, and I said to myself, "I don't know what you are looking at, but I do know it's something you want awfully," and just then she turned and faced me. My heart gave a plunge against my side. I knew her. One woman's glance, lightning-quick, mathematically true, and I had her photograph—the last, the very last I ever took of poor Semantha.

As her eyes met mine, they opened wide and bright. The rosy colour flushed into her face, her lips smiled. She gave a little forward movement, then before I had completed calling out her name, like a flash she changed, her brows were knit, her lips close-pressed, and all her face, save for the shameful red sign on her cheeks, was very white. I stood quite still—not so, she. She walked stiffly by, till on the very line with me she shot out one swift, sidelong glance and slightly shook her head; yet as she passed I clearly heard that grievous sound that coming from a woman's throat tells of a swallowed sob.

Still I stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of watery pool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first corner disappeared, but never turned her head. As she had left me first without good-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by without farewell. And I, who knew her, understood at last the reason why. Poor wounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasure rather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as a ballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend.

At last I turned to go. As I came to the window into which Semantha had so lovingly been gazing, I looked in too, and saw a window full of fine, thick underwear for men.

Two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before I heard once more, and for the last time, of poor Semantha. I was again in Columbus for a short time, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens. Whenever I could catch this man at home, I took pains to make him talk, and he told me many interesting tales. They were scarcely of a nature to be repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, if you wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, and one day the talk was of odd names,—his own was funny,—and at last he mentioned Semantha's. Of course I was alert, of course I questioned him—how often I have wished I had not. For the tale he told was sad. Nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is "battle, murder, and sudden death," from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to be delivered. Ah! his tale was sad if common.

It seemed that when Semantha followed that treacherous young brute, her convicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, so she could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worse in his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums to spend upon extras for him. He grumbled loudly, and she was torn with loving pity. Then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness, and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and the small comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairly broke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of his tobacco.

The hospital sheltered Semantha as long as the rules permitted, but when she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she crept slowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her, calling her Mamie Someone, and then apologized for her mistake. Next she asked a question or two, and ended by telling Semantha she was the very girl she wanted—to come with her. She could rest for a few days at her home, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay, and—oh! did I not tell you it was a common tale?

But when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what she had discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her stay there, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished upon him.

By a little sickness and a great deal of fraud the wretch got himself into the prison hospital for a time, and there my informant learned to know the pair quite well. She not only loved him passionately, but she had for all his faults of selfishness and general ugliness the tender patience of a mother. And he traded upon her loving pity by pretending he could obtain the privilege of this or immunity from that if he had only so many dollars to give to the guard or keeper. And she, poor loving fool, hastened a few steps farther down the road of shame to obtain for him the money, receiving in return perhaps a rough caress or two that brought the sunshine to her heart and joy into her eyes.

His term of imprisonment was nearly over, and Semantha was preparing for his coming freedom. His demands seemed unending. His hat would be old-fashioned, and his boots and his undergarments were old, etc. Then he wanted her to have two tickets for Bellefontaine ready, that they might leave Columbus at once, and Semantha was excited and worried. "One day," said the warden, "she asked to see me for a moment, and I exclaimed at sight of her, 'What is it that's happened?'