Chapter Nineteenth
I Come to a Turning-Point in my Dramatic Life—I play my First Crying Part with Miss Sallie St. Clair.
We were in Columbus; things were moving along smoothly and quietly, when suddenly that incident occurred which had the power to change completely my dramatic prospects, while at the same time it convinced the people about me, in theatrical parlance, my head was “well screwed on,” meaning it was not to be turned by praise.
Miss Sallie St. Clair was the star of the week, and she was billed to appear on Friday and Saturday nights in an adaptation of “La Maison Rouge.” I am not certain as to the title she gave it, but I think it was “The Lone House on the Bridge.” She was to play the dual characters—a count and a gypsy boy. The leading female part Mrs. Ellsler declined, because she would not play second to a woman. The young lady who had been engaged for the juvenile business (which comes between leading parts and walking ladies) had a very poor study, and tearfully declared she simply could not study the part in time—“No—no! she co—co—could not, so now!”
There, then, was Blanche’s chance. The part was sentimental, tearful, and declamatory at the last, a good part—indeed, what is vulgarly known to-day as a “fat” part, “fat” meaning lines sure to provoke applause.
Mrs. Bradshaw, who was herself ever ready to oblige her manager, could not serve him in this instance, as the part was that of a very young heroine, but she gladly offered her daughter’s services in the emergency. So sending for her to come to the theatre, the mother awaited her arrival. She was very ambitious for Blanche, who had absolutely no ambition for herself, outside of music, and here was the double opportunity of playing a leading part, next to the star, and of obliging the manager just at the time when contracts for the next season were in order of consideration. No girl could help grasping at it eagerly, and while Blanche studied the part, she, the mother, would baste up some breadths of satin she had by her into a court dress. As she thus happily planned it all Blanche sauntered in to inform her mother and her manager that she would not do the part. Would not, mind you; she did not condescend to claim she could not. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw drew her heavy veil over her face with a shaking hand and moved silently away, only waiting to reach the friendly privacy of her own room before yielding to the tears caused by this cruel indifference to her wishes and to their mutual welfare.
Mr. Ellsler then tried, in vain, to induce Blanche to undertake the part. He tried to bribe her, promising certain gifts. He tried to arouse her pride—he absolutely commanded her to take the part.
“Oh, very well, if you like,” she answered, “but I’ll spoil the play if I do, you know!” And indeed he did “know” what she was capable of in the line of mischief; and, knowing, gave her up in angry despair. There was then but one chance left for the production of the play, to give the part to one of the ballet-girls.
And Mr. Ellsler, who felt a strong friendship for the brave, hard-working, much-enduring Miss St. Clair and her devoted if eccentric husband, said, gently: “I’m sorry, Sallie, but it’s no fault of mine; you know I can’t give memories to these two women, who say they can’t study the part. The girl I want to offer it to now will speak the words perfectly to the last letter, and that’s all we can expect of her, but that’s better than changing the bill.”
Then I was called. I adored Miss St. Clair, as everyone else did. I heard, I saw the long part, but instead of the instant smiling assent Mr. Ellsler expected, I shook my head silently. Miss St. Clair groaned, Mr. Barras snuffled loudly, and stammered: “W—what did you expect, if the others can’t study it, how can she?”
“Oh,” I answered, “I can study the lines, Mr. Barras, but,” big tears came into my eyes, I was so sorry to disappoint the lovely blond star, “it’s—it’s a crying part—a great lady and a crying part! I—I—oh, if you please, I can’t cry. I can laugh and dance and sing and scold, but I don’t know how to cry; and look here,” I caught up the part and fluttered over the leaves and pointed to the oft-repeated word “weeps—weeps,” “and, Miss St. Clair,” I excitedly finished, “I can’t weep, and I won’t have a stitch of clothes for her back either!”
All three hearers burst out laughing. Miss St. Clair was in radiant good-humor in an instant. She dried my eyes, and said: “Child, if you really can study that long part, and just walk through it after only one rehearsal, you will be a very clever little girl. You need not try to act, just give me the lines and hold a handkerchief to your eyes when tears are called for. You shall have one of my prettiest dresses for the court scene, and I guess you have a white muslin of your own for the garden scene, have not you?”
I had, yes, and so I went home, heavy-hearted, to undertake the study of my first crying part.
Good heavens! In spite of this memory, I catch myself wondering was there ever a first one—did I ever do anything else. For it seems to me I have cried steadily through all the years of my dramatic life. Tears gentle, regretful; tears petulant, fretful; tears stormy, passionate; tears slow, despairing; with a light patter, now and then, of my own particular brand, kept for the expression of my own personal troubles—very bitter, briny tears they are, and I find that a very few answer my purpose nicely.
Miss St. Clair, who was tall as well as fair, had measured the length of my skirt in front, so that she might have one of her dresses shortened for me during the afternoon, thus leaving me all the time possible for study. After I had learned the words by heart, I began to study out the character. It was an excellent acting part, very sweet and tenderly pathetic in the first act, very passionate and fierce in the second, and the better I understood the requirements of the part, the greater became my terror of it. My room-mate tried to comfort me. “Think,” she cried, “of wearing one of Miss St. Clair’s own dresses! I’ll wager it will be an awful nice one, too, since you are obliging her, and she is always kind, anyway.”
But that leaden weight at my heart was too great for gratified vanity to lift. “Bother the tears,” she added; “I heard Mr. Barras say the tears of all actresses were in their handkerchiefs.”
“Oh, yes, I heard him, too,” I answered, “but he was just talking for effect. There must be something else, something more. You can’t move anyone’s heart by showing a handkerchief.”
“Well,” she exclaimed, a bit impatiently, “what do you want to do? You don’t expect to shed real tears, do you?”
“N-n-no!” I hesitated, “not exactly that, but there’s a tone—a—Hattie, last Wednesday, when you quarrelled with young Fleming—I was not present, you know—but that night, a half-hour after our light was out, you spoke to me in the darkness, and I instantly asked you why you were crying and if you had been quarrelling, though you had not even reached the sobbing stage yet. Now how did I know you were crying?”
“I don’t know—anyway I had no handkerchief,” she laughed; “you heard it maybe in my voice.”
“Yes,” I answered, eagerly, “that was it. That curious veiling of the voice. Oh, Hattie, if I could only get that tone, but I can’t, I’ve tried and tried!”
“Why,” she exclaimed, “you’ve got it now—this very moment!”
“Yes,” I broke in impatiently, and turning to her a pair of reproachful, tear-filled eyes, “yes, but why? because I’m really crying, with the worry and the disappointment, and, oh, Hattie, the fright!”
And the landlady, a person who always lost one shoe when coming up-stairs, announced dinner, and I shuddered and turned my face away. Hattie went down, however, and bringing all her blandishments to bear upon the head of the establishment, secured for me a cup of coffee—that being my staff in all times of trouble or of need, and then we were off to the theatre, Hattie kindly keeping at my side for companionship or help, as need might be.
I did not appear in the first act, so I had plenty of time to receive my borrowed finery—to try it on, and then to dress in my own white muslin, ready for my first attempt at a crying part. It was a moonlit scene. Miss St. Clair, tall, slender, elegant, looked the young French gallant to the life in her black velvet court dress. I had to enter down some steps from a great stone doorway. I stood, ready to go on. I wore a mantilla with my muslin. I held a closed fan in my hand. My heart seemed to suffocate me—I thought, stupidly, “Why don’t I pray?” but I could not think of a single word. I heard the faint music that preceded my entrance—a mad panic seized me. I turned and dashed toward the street-door. Mr. Ellsler, who had just made his exit, caught me by the skirts. “Are you mad, girl?” he cried; “go back—quick—quick! I tell you—there’s your cue!”
Next moment, tremulous but smiling, I was descending the steps to meet the counterfeit lover awaiting me. My head was on his breast and my arm stealing slowly about his neck before I knew that the closed fan in my hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood showing between my clinched fingers. My first lines were simply recited, without meaning, then the tender words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. The glamour of the stage was upon me. The frightened actress ceased to exist—I was the Spanish girl whose long-mourned lover had returned to her; and there was something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the voice, some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. There was more of ardor, less of tenderness than before. My lips trembled; suddenly I heard the veiled, pathetic tone I had all day striven for in vain, and curiously enough it never struck me that it was my voice—no! it was the Spanish girl who spoke. My heart leaped up in my throat with a great pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell upon my cheeks. There was applause—of course, was not Miss St. Clair there? Suspicion arose in my mind—grew. I bethought me of the saving of my life on that stolen day passed in the forest long ago. I took my lover’s hand and with pretty wiles drew him into the moonlight. Then swiftly stripping up the lace ruffles, showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, and with the cry: “You are not Pascal de la Garde!” stood horror-stricken.
The moment the curtain fell Miss St. Clair sprang to me, and taking my face between her hands, she cried: “You would move a heart of stone!” She wiped her eyes, and turning to her husband, said: “Good God! she’s a marvel!”
“No, no!” he snuffled, “not yet, Sallie; but she’s a marvel in embryo!” He patted me on the shoulder. “You have a fortune somewhere between your throat and your eyes, my girl—you have, indeed!”
And then I rushed to don my borrowed robes for the next act, and stared stupidly when Hattie said: “What lovely applause you got, Clara, and you so frightened; you shook all over when you went on, we could see you.”
But I was too excited over what was yet to be done really to comprehend her words. When I saw myself in the glass I was delighted. The open robe of pale blue satin, brocaded with silver, was lifted at the sides with big bunches of blush and deep-pink roses over a white satin petticoat. I wore a high Spanish comb, a white mantilla, a pink rose over the ear, after the national fashion, and a great cluster of roses at my breast, and for the first time I felt the subtle joy that emanates from beautiful and becoming garments. The fine softness of the rich fabric was pleasant to my touch—its silken rustle was music to my ear. Miss St. Clair had lent me of her best, and as I saw it all reflected there, I thought how easy it must be for the rich to be good and happy, never dreaming that the wealthy, who to escape ennui and absolute idleness sometimes did wrong simply because there was nothing else to do, might think in turn, ah! how easy it must be for the poor to be good and happy.
But the overture ended abruptly. I gathered up my precious draperies and ran to the entrance to be ready for my cue. The first speeches were cold, haughty, and satirical. The gypsy who was personating my dead lover had deceived everyone else, even the half-blind old mother had accepted him as her son, though declaring him greatly changed in temper and in manner. But I, the sweetheart, was not convinced, and ignoring the advice of the highest at the court, was fighting the adventurer with the courage of despair.
As the scene went on, the stage hands (carpenters, gas-men, scene-shifters, etc.) began to gather in the entrances, always a sign of something unusual going on. I saw them—an ugly thought sprang up in my mind. Ah, yes, they are there waiting to see the ballet-girl fail in a leading part! An unworthy suspicion, I am sure, but it acted as a spur would have done upon an already excited horse, and with the same result, loss of self-control.
In the denunciation of the adventurer as a murderer and a personator of his own victim my passion rose to a perfect fury. I swept the stage, storming, raging, fearing nothing under heaven but the possible escape of the wretch I hated! Vaguely I noted the manager reaching far over a balcony to see me—I didn’t care even for the manager. The audience burst into tremendous applause; I didn’t care for that either, I only wanted to see a rapier through the heart of the pale, sneering man before me. It was momentary madness. People were startled—the star twice forgot her lines. It was not correct, it was not artistic work. She, the part, was a great lady, and even her passion should have been partially restrained; but I, who played her, a ballet-girl, earning $5 a week, what could you expect, pray, for the price? Certainly not polish or refinement. But the genuine feeling, the absolute sincerity, and the crude power lavished upon the scene delighted the audience and created a very real sensation.
The curtain fell. Miss St. Clair took me into her kind arms and, without a word, kissed me heartily. The applause went on and on. She caught my hand and said, “Come!” As she led me to the curtain, I suddenly realized her intention, and a very agony of bashfulness seized upon me. I struggled frantically. “Oh, don’t!” I begged. “Oh, please, I’m nobody, they won’t like it, Miss St. Clair.”
She motioned the men to pull back the curtain, and she dragged me out before it with her. The applause redoubled. Shamed and stupid, I stood there, my chin on my breast. Then I heard the laugh I so admired (Miss St. Clair had a laugh that the word merry describes perfectly), her arm went about my neck, while her fingers beneath my chin lifted my face till I met her smiling glance and smiled back at her. Then the audience burst into a great laugh, and bowing awkwardly to them and to her, I backed off, out of sight, as quickly as I could; she, bowing like a young prince, followed me. But again they called, and again the generous woman took me with her.
And that was the first time I ever experienced the honor of going before the curtain with a star. I supposed I had received the highest possible reward for my night’s work; I forgot there were such things as newspapers in the town, but I was reminded of their existence the next day.
Never, never was I so astonished. Such notices as were given of the performance, and what was particularly dwelt upon, think you? Why, the tears. “Real tears—tears that left streaks on the girl’s cheeks!” said one paper. “Who is she—have you seen her—the wonderful Columbus ballet-girl, who wins tears with tears, real ones, too?” asked another.
I was ashamed. I was afraid people would make fun of me at the theatre. At the box-office window that day many people were asking: “That girl that made the hit last night, is she really one of the ballet, or is it just a story, for effect?”
Some women asked, anxiously: “Will that girl cry to-night, do you think?”
It was very strange. One paper had a quieter article; it spoke of a rough diamond—of an earnest, honest method of addressing speeches directly to the character, instead of to the audience, as did many of the older actors. It claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the girl who could so thoroughly put herself in another’s place, and declared it would watch with interest the movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl.
Now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, and in what groups we fall, again and again. Among the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time in the Ohio Legislature was Colonel Donn Piatt, with the fever of the Southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his services through the war. He had gone languidly enough to the theatre that night, because there was nothing else for him to do—unless he swapped stories of the war in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was sick to death of that, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he was moved to write the article from which the last quotation is taken. Stopping in the same hotel, but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out of boyhood, whose only lie, I honestly believe, was the one he told and swore to in order to raise his age to the proper military height that would admit him into the army. Bright, energetic, almost attaining perpetual motion in his own person, ambitious John A. Cockerill just then served in the double capacity of a messenger in the House and reporter on a paper. Diphtheria, which was almost epidemic that winter, visited the staff of the paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily assigned to its dramatic work—thus he wrote another of the notices of my first venture in the tearful drama. Every day these two men were in the State-house—every day I walked through its grounds on my way to and from the theater—each quite unconscious of the others.
But old Time shakes the box and casts the dice so many, many times, groupings must repeat themselves now and again, so it came about that after years filled with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the box cast us down upon the table of Life, grouped together again—but each man knew and served me now faithfully, loyally; each giving me a hand to pull me up a step higher. They hated each other bitterly, vindictively, as journalists have been known to do occasionally; and as I knew the noble qualities of both, what better reward could I give for their goodness to me than to clasp their hands together and make them friends? It was not an easy task, it required finesse as well as courage, but that was the kind of task a woman loves—if she succeeds, and I succeeded.
They became friends, strong, earnest friends for the rest of their lives. Death severed the bond, if it is severed; I do not know, and they may not return to tell me—I only know that in the years that were to come, when each man headed a famous paper, Colonel John A. Cockerill, of the New York World, who wrote many a high word of praise for me when victory had at last perched on my banner, and Colonel Piatt, who with his brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and women in their hospitable Washington home, loved to recall that night in Columbus when, all unconsciously, we three came so near to each other, only to drift apart for years and come together again.
And once I said, “like motes,” and Donn Piatt swiftly added, “and a sunbeam,” and both men lifted their glasses and, nodding laughingly at me, cried: “To the sunbeam!” while Mrs. Piatt declared, “That’s a very pretty compliment,” but to me the unanimity of thought between those erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing about it.
But even so small a success as that had its attendant shadows, as I soon found. Though I was then boarding, with Hattie McKee for my room-mate, I felt I still owed a certain duty and respect to Mrs. Bradshaw. Therefore, when this wonderful thing happened to me, I thought I ought to go and tell her all about it. I went; she gave me a polite, unsmiling good-morning and pointed to a chair. I felt chilled. Presently she remarked, with a small, forced laugh: “You have become so great a person, I scarcely expected to see you here to-day.”
I looked reproachfully at her, as I quietly answered: “But you see I am here;” then added, “I did not think you would make fun of me, Mrs. Bradshaw, I only tried to do my best.”
“Oh,” she replied, “one does not make fun of very successful people.”
I turned away to hide my filling eyes, as I remarked: “Perhaps I’d better go away now.”
I moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. I had thought she would be so pleased—you see, I was young yet, and sometimes very stupid—I forgot she had a daughter. But suddenly she called to me in the old, kindly voice I was so used to: “Come back Clara,” she cried, “come back! It’s mean to punish you for another’s fault. My dear, I congratulate you; you have only proved what I have long believed, that you have in you the making of a fine actress. But when I think who had that same chance, and that it was deliberately thrown away,” her lips trembled, “I—well, it’s hard to bear. Even all this to-do about you in the part does not make her regret what she has done.”
Poor mother! I felt so sorry for her. I wished to go away then, I thought my presence was unpleasant, but she made me tell her all about the evening, and describe Miss St. Clair’s dress, and what everyone said and did. Loyal soul! I think that was a self-inflicted penance for a momentary unkindness.
Blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added the words: “Say, if I hadn’t given you the chance, you couldn’t have been a big gun to-day. You know Mr. Ellsler won’t dare to give you anything, but he would have given me a nice present if I had done the part for him. So after all I’ve lost, I think you might give me a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won’t snap or squeak or stretch out or do anything, it’s just in its crumbly old age.”
I gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems not quite square, if you think I made an unfair use of my funds in obtaining promotion, do please remember that I was only an accessory after the act—not before it. I am the more anxious this should be impressed upon your mind because that penny was the only one I ever spent in paying for advancement professionally.
The second night of the “Lone House” was also the last night of Miss St. Clair’s engagement, and when I carried her blue-brocade gown back to her, eagerly calling attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily upon her outstretched arm. It was an attitude of such utter collapse, there was such a wanness on her white face that the commonplace words ceased to bubble over my lips, and, startled, I turned toward her husband. Charles Barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breeding, and one time officer in the American navy, was nevertheless in manner and appearance so odd that the sight or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with an anguish of helpless love.
For a sad moment he gazed at her silently—then he was counting drops from a bottle, holding smelling-salts to her pinched nostrils, removing her riding-boots, indeed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but dressing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her weary face, bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made a little joke or two, then gave me hearty thanks for coming to her rescue, as she called it, praised my effort at acting, and asked me how I liked a crying part.
“Oh, I don’t like it at all,” I answered.
“Ah,” she sighed, “we never like what we do best; that’s why I can never be contented in elegant light comedy, but must strain and fret after dramatic, tragic, and pathetic parts—and to think that a young, untrained girl should step out of obscurity and without an effort do what I have failed in all these years!”
I stood aghast. “Why—why, Miss St. Clair!” I exclaimed, “you have applause and applause every night of your life!”
“Oh,” she laughed, “you foolish child, it’s not the applause I’m thinking of, but something finer, rarer. You have won tears, my dear, a thing I have never done in all my life, and never shall, no, never, I see that now!”
“I wish I had not!” I answered, remorsefully and quite honestly, because I was quite young and unselfish yet, and I loved her, and she understood and leaned over and kissed my cheek, and told me not to bury my talent, but to make good use of it by and by when I was older and free to choose a line of business. “Though,” she added, “even here I’ll wager it’s few comedy parts that will come your way after to-night, young lady.” And then I left her.
That same night I heard that a dread disease already abode with her, and slept and waked and went and came with her, and would not be shaken off, but clung ever closer and closer; and, oh! poor Charles Barras! money might have saved her then—money right then might have saved this woman of his love, and God only knows how desperately he struggled, but the money came not. Then, worse still, Sallie was herself the bread-winner, and though Mr. Barras worked hard, doing writing and translating, acting as agent, as nurse, as maid, playing, too, in a two-act comedy, “The Hypochondriac,” he still felt the sting of living on his wife’s earnings, and she had, too, a mother and an elder sister to support; therefore she worked on and disease worked with her.
Charles Barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice: “I-I-I always see m-my wife Sallie with a helpless woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself on her back, like the ‘old man of the sea,’ a-a-a pretty heavy burden that for a sick woman to carry, my girl! a-a-and a mighty pleasant picture for a man to have of his wife! A-a-and money—great God, money, right now, might save her—might save her!” He turned suddenly from me and walked on to the pitch-dark stage.
Poor Mr. Barras, I could laugh no more at his heelless boots, his funny half-stammer, and his ancient wig, not even when I recall the memory of that blazing Sunday in a Cincinnati Episcopal church, when, the stately liturgy over, the Reverend Doctor ascended the pulpit and, regardless of the suffering of his sweltering hearers, droned on endlessly, and Mr. Barras leaned forward, and drawing a large palm fan from the next pew’s rack, calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the other he alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the steaming interior of his wig. The action had an electrical effect. In a moment even the sleepers were alert, awake, a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost his place—hemmed—h-h-med, and ran down, found the place again, started, saw Barras fanning his wig, though paying still most decorous attention to the pulpit, and before they knew it they were all scrambling to their feet at “Might, Majesty, and Power!”—were scrabbling for their pockets at “Let your light so shine,” for Mr. Barras had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the forgiving glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced his wig and sauntered forth.
Several years after that night in Columbus, when I had reached New York and was rehearsing for my first appearance there, I one morning heard hasty, shuffling steps following me, and before I could enter the stage-door, a familiar “Er-er-er Clara, Clara!” stopped me, and I turned to face the wealthy author of the “Black Crook”—Mr. Charles Barras. There he stood in apparently the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same empty-looking black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the big black satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years ago, but the face, how bloodless, shrunken, lined, and sorrowful it looked beneath the adamantine youthfulness of that chestnut wig!
“D-d-don’t you know me?” he asked.
“Yes, of course I do,” I answered as I took his hand.
“W-w-well then don’t run away—er-er it’s against law, r-religion, or decency to turn your back on a rich man. D-d-dodge the poor, Clara, my girl! but never turn your back on a man with money!”
I was pained; probably I looked so. He went on: “I-I-I’m rich now, Clara. I’ve got a fine marine villa, and in it are an old, old dog and a dying old woman. They both belonged to my Sallie, and so I’ll keep hold of ’em as long as I can, for her sake. A-a-after they go!” he turned his head away, he looked up at the beautiful blue indifference of the sky, his face seemed to tremble all over, his eyes came back, and he muttered: “W-w-we’ll see—w-w-we’ll see what will happen then. But, Clara, you remember that time when money could have saved her? The money I receive in one week now, if I could have had it then, she, Sallie, might be over there on Broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved and needed, too, and couldn’t have. The little boots and slippers—you remember Sallie’s instep? Had to have her shoes to order always,” he stopped, he pressed his lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly he burst out: “By God, when a man struggles hard all his life, it’s a damn rough reward to give him a handsome coffin for his wife!”
Oh, poor rich man! how my heart ached for him. A tear slipped down my cheek; he saw it. “D-d-don’t!” he said, “d-don’t, my girl, she can’t come back, and it hurts her to have anyone grieve. I want you to come and see me, when you get settled here, a-a-and I wish you a great big success. My Sallie liked you, she spoke often of you. I-I-I’ll let you know how to get out there, and I-I-I’ll show you her dog—old Belle, and you can stroke her, and er-er sit in Sallie’s chair a little while perhaps—and er—don’t, my girl, don’t cry, she can’t come back, you know,” and shaking my hands he left me, thinking I was crying for Sallie, who was safe at rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were for himself—so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich man! Did he know then how near Death was to him? Some who knew him well believe unto this day that the fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap—only God knows.
I never paid the promised visit—could find no opportunity—and I never saw him again, that eccentric man, devoted husband, and honest gentleman, Charles Barras.