Chapter Thirtieth
New York City is Suggested to Me by Mr. Worthington and Mr. Johnson—Mr. Ellsler’s Mild Assistance—I Journey to New York, and Return to Cincinnati with Signed Contract from Mr. Daly.
To say I made a success in Cincinnati is the barest truth. Almost at once—the third night of the season, to be exact—I received my first anonymous gift: a very beautiful and expensive set of jewelry, pale-pink corals in combined dead and burnished gold. They rested in their satin-lined nest and tempted me. The sender wrote: “Show that you forgive my temerity by wearing my offering in the third act.”
I did not wear them in any act, and yet, oh, eternal feminine! I “tried them on”—at least I put one ring in my ear and held the pendant against my throat, “just to see” how they would have looked, you know.
Flowers came over the footlights, the like of which I had never seen in my life before—great baskets of hot-house beauties, some of them costing more than I earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note, with a big gold locket. A signature made it possible for me to return that gift next morning.
All that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, pleasing—yes, because earned approbation pleases one, even though it be not quite correctly expressed. It soon became whispered about that I sent back all gifts of jewelry, and lo! one matinée, with a splendid basket of white camelias, fringed about with poinsettia leaves, there came a box of French candied fruit. My! what a sensation it created in the dressing-room. I remember some of the ladies (we dressed in one great long room there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their friends, while I devoted myself to the cherries and apricots. That seemed to start a fashion, for candies, in dainty boxes, came to me as often as flowers afterward, and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from women, and my Saturday five cents’ allowance was turned over to mother for the banqueting fund—that meant a bit of cheese for supper.
At the time of the season’s opening there was a man in Cincinnati who was there sorely against his will, a wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who would not practise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occupation as he could possibly have grown had he practised the law. Tired of everything else, he still kept his liking for the theatre. Living in New York in the winter, at Cape May in the summer, he only came to his old home when someone was irritating enough to die and need burying in state, or when some lawsuit required his attention, as in this instance. So, being there, and not knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily to the theatre, saying to his cousin companion: “I’ll take a look at Macaulay’s new leading lady, and then I’ll sleep through the rest of the evening comfortably, for no one can talk to me here as they do at the hotel”—and the country Cicely had appeared, and, to use Mr. Worthington’s own words: he had sat up straight as a ramrod and as wide-awake as a teething baby for the rest of the evening.
Between acts he had made inquiries as to the history of the new actress, only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother—that was all. On that first night he had said: “Good Lord, Will, what is that girl doing out here in the West? I must see her in a better part. What’s on to-morrow night? Secure our seats for the season, that will save a lot of trouble;” and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance for me.
Next night I played what actresses call a “dressed part,” which, in spite of suggestion, does not mean that there are parts that are not dressed, only that the character wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. It was a bright, light comedy part. The audience was enthusiastic, though, of course, I was only supporting the star. Then Mr. Worthington exclaimed: “That girl ought to be in New York this very moment!”
“Do you think so?” questioned his inseparable.
“Do I think so?” mocked his cousin. “Yes, I know it. I know the theatres foreign—their schools and styles, as well as I know the home theatres and their actors. I believe I’ve made a discovery!”
A beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with Mr. Worthington’s visiting card, without message. The third night I played a tearful part; the papers (as the women put it) “went on awful,” and Mr. Worthington, snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose: “I shall never rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is unlike anyone else, and New York has plenty of room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her some way or other, and preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it.”
His visit to Cincinnati was prolonged; his young cousin, Mr. Will Burnett, thought he was on the high-road to crankiness on the subject. Then Mr. Worthington discovered we had a common friend in lawyer Egbert Johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my mother (oh, wise Mr. Worthington), and winning her approval by praise of her wonderful chick (where is the mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?), she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first time I listened to a suggestion of coming to New York.
To say I was amused at the idea would be putting it mildly indeed, for I was tickled to such laughter that tears came to my eyes. He was annoyed, but I laughed on. He waited—I was called upon for some heavy tragic parts. He came again—I laughed still.
“Good heavens!” I cried, “I’m not pretty enough!”
He said: “You have your eyes and voice and expression, and you don’t seem to be suffering much here from your lack of beauty.”
“N-no,” I answered, naïvely, “you see, all the women in this company are rather plain.”
He laughed, but he continued to urge me to try for an engagement in New York.
“I don’t know enough,” I faltered.
“You lack polish of manner, perhaps,” he admitted, “but you will acquire that quickly, while no one can acquire your fire and strength and pathos! For God’s sake, let me do one unselfish act in my life—let me serve you in this matter. I will go to the managers in New York and speak for you.”
But that offer I curtly declined, asking him how long my reputation would remain unassailed if I allowed him to act for me.
In spite of all his praise of my work, I should have remained unmoved had Mr. Johnson not joined forces with Mr. Worthington, and calmly assured me that he, too, knew the New York theatres and actors, and he honestly believed I had a chance of acceptance by the public, if only a manager would give me an opening, for, said he: “Worthington is right this time, you really are an exceptionally clever girl, so why should you bury yourself in small Western cities?”
“Oh!” I indignantly cried, “Cleveland and Cincinnati are very big cities, indeed!”
“Yes,” smiled Mr. Johnson, “but New York is quite a bit larger, and besides you would like to be accepted by the metropolis of your country, would you not?”
And straightway my heart gave a bound, my cheeks began to burn, the leaven was working at last—my ambition was awakened! I wondered day and night, could I act well enough to please New York? I thought not; I thought yes! I thought—I thought there could be no harm just to ask the managers if they had an opening. But there my courage failed me—I could not. I never had written to a manager in my life, save to answer a letter. Finally, I wrote to Mr. Ellsler—he knew all the New York managers (few then)—and told him I was about to ask my first favor at his hands. Would he write to one or two managers for me, or give me a line of introduction to them? and his unexpected opposition to my plans, the cold water he cast upon my warm hopes, instead of crushing my spirit utterly, aroused the old dogged determination to do what I had undertaken to do—make a try for a New York opening!
The controversy finally ended in my receipt of a letter from Mr. Ellsler informing me he had written to four managers, and said what he could for me—which proved to be mighty little, as I afterward saw two of the four letters, as they were in duplicate, though one was to a stranger, one to an acquaintance, and two to friends. He simply asked: “If they had an opening for a young woman, named Clara Morris, for leading or leading-juvenile business.” That was all; not a word of recommendation for ability or mention of years of thorough experience—not even the conventional expression of a personal obligation if they were able to consider my application.
Had I been a manager, and had I received such a letter, I know I should have cast it aside, thinking: “Oh, that’s a duty letter and amounts to nothing. If the girl had any recommendations for the position he would have said so.” Still, some answers were returned, though Mr. Wallack ignored his copy. Mr. Jarrett (of Jarrett & Palmer) wrote Mr. Ellsler that they were bound to spectacular (“Black Crook”) for the year to come, and had no earthly use for an actress above a soubrette or a walking lady. Mr. Edwin Booth wrote: “If you had only addressed me a few days earlier. I remember well the young woman of whom you speak. I have unfortunately” (this last word was crossed out)—“I have just closed with Miss Blanche DeBar—old Ben is persistent and has great confidence in her, and, as I said, I have just closed with her for the coming season. With,” etc., etc.
Then there was a wee bit of paper—little, niggly-naggly, jetty-black, impishly vindictive-looking writing on two short-waisted lines of about eleven words each. That was from Mr. Daly, and it snapped out this information: “If you send the young woman to me I will willingly consider proposal. Will engage no actress without seeing her. A. Daly.”
These letters were blithely sent to me by Mr. Ellsler, who evidently looked upon the question as closed, but that was where we differed. I considered it a question just fairly opened. I admit Mr. Daly’s calm ordering of me from Cincinnati to his office in New York for inspection staggered me at first, but there was that line: “I will willingly consider the proposal;” that was all I had to trust to; not much, heaven knows! “Yet,” I argued, “he is evidently a man who says much in little; at all events, though the chance is small, it is the only one offered, and, if I can stand the expense, I’ll go and take that chance.”
I would have to obtain leave of absence; I would have to pay a woman for at least two performances, even if I got off on Saturday night; I would have to stop one night in a hotel at New York, and, oh, dear, oh, dear! would I dare to risk so much—to spend all my little savings toward the summer vacation for this trip that might end disastrously after all? I read again: “Will engage no actress without seeing her.” Well, that settled the matter. Suddenly I seemed to hear my old Irish washerwoman saying: “Ah, well! God niver shuts one dure without opening anither!” I laughed a bit and decided to risk my savings—nothing venture, nothing win!
That very night I asked leave of absence; the time was most favorable—I obtained it. I found next day an actress to take my place on Monday and Tuesday evenings. Then mother and I emptied out our flat and old pocket-books. I brought from its secret hiding-place the little roll of bills saved for summer’s idle time, and we put all in a pile. Then I drew out a week’s board in advance and gave it to mother; drew out enough to pay the woman who took my place, and all the rest, to the last dollar, was required for the expenses of my solitary journey to the great beckoning city by the sea.
As I closed my pocket-book, I said to myself: “There, I have shut one door with my own hand, but I’ll trust God to open another for me before vacation arrives.”
There’s an old saw that gravely states: “It never rains but it pours,” and surely business opportunities “poured” upon me at that time, for in that very week I received two offers of engagements, and one of them, had not the New York bee been buzzing so loudly in my bonnet, would have driven me quite wild with delight. That was from Mr. Thomas Maguire, of San Francisco, and the salary was to me enormous. One hundred dollars a week in gold, a benefit, and no vacation at all, unless I wished it. I temporized. I wished to gain time enough to learn my fate in New York before deciding. But Mr. Maguire was in haste, and as I hurried from the theatre to start on my journey, a long envelope was placed in my hands. I opened it on the cars, and found signed contracts for the leading business at San Francisco, with an extra benefit added as an inducement for me to accept.
So I journeyed onward to tempt Fate, a little forlorn and frightened at first, but receiving so many courtesies and little kindnesses from my more fortunately placed fellow-travelers, that I quite forgot to be either frightened or forlorn—but was amazed at the beauty of the stately river we crossed, whose ripples caught the glowing color of the sky and broke them into jewels; and beyond that silvery curtain of haze stretched the great city of my dreams, all circled round and guarded by living waters.
Then I was ashore again and clambering into the great swaying coach of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the conductor having told me it was right next door to the theatre. I breakfasted, took from my bag a new gray veil, a pair of gray gloves, a bit of fresh ruffling, and a needle and thread, with which I basted the ruffle into the neck of my gown; put on the veil and gloves, that being all the preparation I could make by way of toilet to meet the arbiter of Fate, said “Our Father,” and coming to “Amen” with a jerk, discovered I had not been conscious of the meaning of one single word, and whispering with shame, “only lip service,” remorsefully repeated again, and with absolute sincerity, that prayer which expresses so simply, so briefly, all our needs, physical and spiritual; that places us at once in the comforting position of a beloved child asking with confidence for a father’s aid. A prayer whose beauty and strength share in the immortality of its Divine composer.
And then I rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat, just as the good Lord should will.
As I passed around the hotel and approached the theatre on Twenty-fourth Street, an enormous upheaval of ice blocked the way—ice piled shoulder high in front of the theatre door, and on one side of the glittering mass stood a long, tall, thin man, as mad as a hornet, while on the other side, stolidly, stupidly silent, stood a squat Irishman, holding an ice-man’s tongs in one hand and his shock of red hair in the other. The long, flail-like arms of the tall man were in wild motion. In righteous wrath he was trying to make the bog-trotter understand that the ice was for the hotel, whose storage door was but a few feet to his right, when he saw me making chamois-like jumps over the blocks of ice trying to reach the door. With black-browed courtesy he told me to use the second door, that morning, to reach the box-office.
I had, all unconsciously, formed an idea of Mr. Daly, and I was looking for a small, dark, very dark, nervously irritable man, and was therefore frankly amused at the wrath of the long, thin man, whose vest and whose trousers could not agree as to the exact location of the waist-line, and laughed openly at the ice-scene, winning in return as black a scowl as any stage-villain could well wear. Then I cheerfully remarked: “I’m looking for Mr. Daly; can you tell me where I am likely to find him?”
“You want Mr. Daly?” he repeated. “Who are you?”
“I’ll tell Mr. Daly that, please,” I answered.
He smiled and said: “Well, then, tell me—I’m Mr. Daly—are you——”
“Yes,” I answered, “I’m the girl come out of the West, to be inspected. I’m Clara Morris.”
He frowned quickly, though he held out his hand and shook mine heartily enough, and asked me to come into his office.
It was a cranny in the wall. It held a very small desk and one chair, behind which was a folding stool. As he entered, I laughingly said: “I think I’ll lean here, I’m not used to sitting on the floor,” but to my surprise, as he brought forth the stool, he curtly replied: “I was not going to ask you to sit on the floor,” which so amused me that I could not resist asking: “Are you from Scotland, by chance, Mr. Daly?” and he had frowningly said “No!” before the old, old joke about Scotch density came to him.
Then he said, with severity: “Miss Morris, I’m afraid your bump of reverence is not well developed.”
And I laughed and said: “There’s a hole there, Mr. Daly, and no bump at all,” and though the words were jestingly spoken, there was truth and to spare in them, and there, too, was the cause of all the jolts and jars and friction between us in our early days together. Mr. Daly was as a god in his wee theatre, and was always taken seriously. I knew not gods and took nothing under heaven seriously. No wonder we jarred. Every word I spoke that morning rubbed Mr. Daly’s fur the wrong way. I offended him again and again. He wished to show me the theatre, and, striking a match, lit a wax taper and held it up in the auditorium, at which I exclaimed: “Oh, the pretty little match-box! Why, it’s just a little toy play-house—is it not?”
Which vexed him so I was quite crushed for a minute or two. One thing only pleased him: I could not tear myself away from the pictures, and I praised, rapturously, a beautiful velvety-shadowed old engraving. We grew quite friendly over that, but when we came to business he informed me I was a comedy woman, root and branch.
“But,” I said, “ask Mr. Edwin Booth, or Mr. Davenport, or Mr. Adams!”
He waved me down. “I won’t ask anyone,” he cried; “I never made a mistake in my life. You couldn’t speak a line of sentiment to save your soul!”
“Why, sentiment is my line of business—I play sentiment every week of my life,” I protested.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” he said, “you can speak and repeat the lines, but you couldn’t give a line of sentiment naturally to save your life—your forte is comedy, pure and simple.”
It all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a stated line of business. I must trust to his honor not to degrade me by casting me for parts unworthy me. He would give me $35 a week (knowing there were two to live on it), if I made a favorable impression he would double that salary.
A poor offer—a risky undertaking. I had no one to consult with. I had in my pocket the signed contract for $100 in gold and two benefits. I must decide now, at once. Mr. Daly was filling up a blank contract. Thirty-five dollars against $100! “But if you make a favorable impression you’ll get $70,” I thought. And why should I not make a favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or South, not much harmed. If I wait till I am older, and fail, it will ruin my life.
I slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little farewell tap to the contract for $100. I took the pen; I looked hard at him. “There’s a heap of trusting being asked for in this contract,” I remarked. “You won’t forget your promise about doubling the salary?”
“I won’t forget anything,” he answered.
I looked at the pen, it was a stub, the first I ever saw; then I said: “That’s what makes your writing look so villainous. I can’t sign with that thing—I’d be ashamed to own my signature in court, when we come to the fight we’re very likely to have before we are through with each other.”
He groaned at my levity, but got another pen. I wrote Clara Morris twice, shook hands, and went out and back to my home—a Western actress with an engagement in a New York theatre for the coming season.