CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH

My first Humiliating Experience in Cincinnati is Followed by a Successful Appearance--I Make the Acquaintance of the Enthusiastic Navoni.

It is a deep humiliation to relate my first experience in Cincinnati, but for reasons I set it down.

A friend of mine, who hailed from Cincinnati and who wished to serve me, had said: "One thing I think I can do for you, friend Clara, I can save you the weariness and annoyance of a long search in a strange city for board. My wife and I were never so comfortable in our lives before as we were at the house of a Mrs. Scott. She is a gentlewoman, therefore she never pries, never gossips, never 'just runs in a moment,' when you want to study a 'part.' Her charges are reasonable, the table a little close, perhaps, but the cooking perfect. You and your mother would suit her demands as to regularity of habits, quiet conduct, etc., completely, and going there so early in September you will stand a good chance of securing a room. Try for 'ours'--it was so sunny and bright." And I, delighted at such a prospect, looked upon my letter of introduction as a very valuable document--a sort of character from my last place, and early on Monday morning went forth from my temporarily sheltering hotel to find Mrs. Scott and beg her to take me in on the word of her boarders of a year ago.

I found the house easily, but, modest as was its exterior, its rich interior sent my heart down rapidly--it was going to be away beyond my salary I decided. Yet after a, to me, most bewildering interview, I found myself inspecting the big sunny room, and shrinking at the thought of my rough trunks coming in contact with such a handsome carpet. Mrs. Scott had remarked, casually, that she had put her earnings back on the house, as a pure matter of business, and I was radiant when she named her price for the room, and hastily engaging it, I started out at once to order my trunks taken there and to telegraph mother to come.

As I descended the steps I could not help humming a little tune. A policeman strolled across the street toward me, and I had a hazy notion that he had been there when I went in. As I reached the pavement he stepped up, and holding out to me a handkerchief, palpably his own, asked, while looking at me closely, if it was mine.

I was indignant, and I answered, sharply: "It is not mine--as you very well know!"

He laughed rather sheepishly, and said: "Well, you are not stupid, if you are innocent," then asked: "Are you a stranger here?"

I turned back toward the house I had just left, then paused as I said, angrily: "I have a mind to go back and ask Mrs. Scott to come out with me to protect me from the impertinence of the police!"

"Who?" he asked, with wide-open, wondering eyes, "you will go back to who?"

"To Mrs. Scott," I snapped.

"Why," said he, "there's no Mrs. Scott there."

"No?" I questioned satirically. "No? Well, as I have just engaged board from Mrs. Scott, I venture to differ with you."

"Good Lord, Miss," the man said, "Mrs. William Scott's been dead these nine months or more. That's no place for honest people now. Why--why, we're watchin' the house this moment, hoping to catch that woman's jail-bird son, who has broken jail in Louisville--don't look so white, Miss!"

"But--but," I whispered, "I--I was sent here by a friend--I--I have engaged a room there! Oh, what shall I do?"

"That's all right, Miss," reassuringly answered the policeman, "I'll give up the room for you. You ain't the only one that has come here expecting to find Mrs. Scott in the house. You don't need to go back to the door;" and the theatre being in full view, in an agony of humiliation and terror, I flung myself into its friendly, just-opened office, where Mr. Macaulay presently found me shaking like a leaf and almost unable to make plain my experience.

He was furious, and finding my name was mentioned in the letter of introduction to Mrs. Scott, and that "Mrs. Scott" had retained it, he called the policeman and together they went to the house and demanded the letter back. It was given up, but most unwillingly, as the woman, with the superstition of all gambling people, looked upon it as a luck-breeder, a mascot; and an hour later, by Mr. Macaulay's aid, I had found two wee rooms, whose carpets would welcome my trunks as hiders of holes--rooms that were dull, even dingy, but had nevertheless securely sheltered honest poverty for long years past, and could do as much for years to come.

I mention this unpleasant incident simply to show how utterly unexpected are some of the pitfalls that make dangerous the pathway of honest girlhood. To show, too, that utter ignorance of evil is in itself a danger. The interview that bewildered me would have been, for instance, a danger signal to my mother, who would, too, having seen how the richness of furniture contradicted outside shabbiness, have had her suspicions aroused. I noted that fact, but not knowing of gambling being unlawful and secretly carried on, my observation was of no service to me, as it suggested nothing. Ignorance of the existence of evil may sometimes become the active foe of innocence.

No one learned of the unpleasant experience, so I was spared disagreeable comment; and, sending for my mother to join me, I devoted myself to preparations of my opening night.

The meeting with strangers, which I had greatly dreaded, passed off so easily, even so pleasantly, as to surprise me. Everyone offered a kind word of greeting, and all the women expressed their sympathy because I had to open in so poorly dressed a part. That troubled _me_ very little, however.

The character was that of a country girl (_Cicely_) in some old comedy, whose name I have forgotten. She wore just one gown--a black and white print, as she was in mourning for her old, farmer father. A rustic wench, a milk-maid come up to "Lun'un-town," she had one speech that was a trial for any woman to have to speak. It was not as brutally expressed as are many of the speeches given to rustics in the old English comedies--but it was the _double-entendre_ that made it coarse.

Some of the ladies were speaking with me of the matter, and the "old woman" suggested that I just mumble the words. I said I could not well do that, as it was a part of the principal scene of the play.

"Well," declared another, "I should hang my head and let the house see that I was ashamed of the speech."

I said nothing, but I thought that would be a most inartistic breaking away from the part of the rustic _Cicely_, and a dragging in of scandalized Miss Morris.

The girl was supposed to make the speech through blundering ignorance, she alone not seeing its significance; and to my idea there was but one way to deliver it, and that certainly was not with a hanging head and shamefaced manner, thus showing perfect, if disapproving, knowledge of its double meaning.

When the opening night came a pleasant little thing happened to me. As I entered with straw hat tied under chin and bundle in hand, I received a modest little reception, what would about equal the slight raising of a hat in passing a woman in a corridor; but the moment I had spoken the first insignificant speech the house gave me as hearty a greeting as any leading woman could wish for.

I was startled and much confused for a few moments, but very pleased and grateful withal, yet when I came off, Mr. Macaulay's pleasure seemed twice as great as mine, and as I laughingly told him so, he said: "Well, now I'm going to make a confession. Your letters gave me an impression of--of--well, you are entirely unlike your letters--you are smaller, and you look even younger than you really are. There isn't the very faintest suggestion of the actress in your manner, and--and--to be honest, I was a bit frightened over the engagement I had made. Then your having to open in this insignificant part was against you. But they are no fools out _there_, my girl. They have found you out already. Your eyes and voice alone won that welcome, and I'd not be afraid to wager something now that the last curtain falls to-night upon a new favorite."

I was greatly pleased, but those broad lines were still hanging over me, still disturbing me.

At last the scene arrived. I gave the inquiring speech, with its wretched double meaning, clearly and plainly, looking squarely and honestly into the eyes of the person I addressed--the result was described as follows by a morning paper:

"That one speech proved the newcomer an actress of superior quality. Clearly and simply given, the great guffaw that instantly responded to the _double-entendre_ had scarcely risen, when the girl's perfect honesty, her wide-eyed innocence, so impressed the audience that applause broke from every part of the house. It was the most dramatic moment of the evening, for that outburst was not merely approbation for the actress, it was homage to the woman."

So it came to pass that Mr. Macaulay's words came true--the curtain fell upon a favorite, by grace of the warm and kindly hearts of the Cincinnatians, who were quick to see merits and ever ready to forgive errors.

The Hebrew citizens, who are enthusiastic and most generous patrons of the theatre, became especially fond of me, so much so indeed that the company christened me "Rebecca," in jesting allusion to their favor, of which I was nevertheless very proud, for better judges of matters theatrical it would be hard to find.

When my mother arrived, we settled down in our little rooms, where my trunks, which had to be opened every day for the nightly change of costume, had to stand one on top of another in order to make room for an old battle-scarred piano that I had hired.

I do not know its maker's name--no one knows--which was well for that person, because his act in constructing such a thing placed him in the criminal classes. It seemed to be a cross between a coffin and a billiard-table, and there was just enough left of its rubber cover to make an evil smell in the room.

Had it not been for the generosity of the leader of the orchestra (Mr. Navoni) I could not have enjoyed the luxury of even a few music lessons, but he saw my willingness to learn--to practise when possible, and loving music rapturously himself, he took a generous delight in helping others to the knowledge he had such a store of. Therefore, for a ridiculously small price, just enough, he said, to properly mark our relations as master and pupil, he introduced me to my notes and lines and ledger-lines, too (confound them!), and accidentals and sharps (which I hated) and flats (which I liked), and I developed a great affection for _c_, because I could always find it, while I hate _a_ to this hour because of the trouble it gave me so long ago.

One thing I am sure of, had anyone awakened me suddenly from a deep sleep at that time I would instantly have exclaimed: "One _and_ two _and_ three _and_." Mr. Navoni and his wife had the room directly over ours; of course I knew every loud sound we made must penetrate to his room, and as I could conceive of nothing more maddening than to have to listen to a beginner's _one_, two, three--_one_, two, three, I tried to practise when he was out, which was difficult, as our hours were the same. Then one day, knowing he was composing a march for a special occasion, I closed the piano and determined I would not disturb him with any noise of mine.

Upstairs, then, Mr. Navoni sat, rumpled as to hair, fiery as to eye, with violin on table and pen in hand. He hummed a little, tried one or two bars on the violin, then savagely threw a few notes of ink on to his ruled paper. Then he hummed a little, and seemed to listen, jotted down a note or two, listened attentively, and then burst out: "Do you hear a sound of practice from Miss Morris's room?"

"No, dear," gently replied Mrs. Navoni, "she doesn't want to disturb you at your work, she----"

But a burst of wrath stopped her. Mr. Navoni was clattering down-stairs and pounding on our door: "What does this mean? Get you to that devilish bad piano and do your scales--_scales_, mind you--let the exercises wait till the last! Interrupt me? Love I not music! nothing is sweeter to me than the '_one_, two, three' of the beginner--_if_ the beginner is not a fool--_if_ the beginner counts the '_one_, two, three' correctly! Damn! yes, I say _damn_! look at the time lost! afraid to disturb me? How the devil am I to compose that march they want with this room still as the dead? Now I go back, and if you don't do those scales, all smooth and even, and the exercises rightly timed, you--well, you know what you'll get! I can hear, even if I am composing. So you get to work, quick now! before I get back to my table!"

And he tore off again, while, with clammy fingers, I sat down to the wretched old piano, that was showing its teeth at me in a senile grin, and feebly and uncertainly began to wobble up and down the keyboard.

Mrs. Navoni afterward told me that when her husband returned to his work he hummed to himself a few moments, jotted down a few notes, listened to the sound of the rattling old piano, and, smiling and nodding, remarked: "_Now_ I can do something--_one_, two, three--_one_, two, three--that's right. I couldn't compose a bar with her wasting a precious hour down there. She keeps good time, eh, doesn't she? Now I'll give the boys something that will move their feet for them!" and he returned to the march.

The thing which I was to get if I failed to practise correctly was so unusual that I feel I must explain it. Mr. Navoni wore an artificial foot and leg of the cumbrous type then offered to the afflicted, and in the privacy of his own room he used to remove the burdensome thing and lay it on a chair by the couch on which he rested or read or wrote, and when I, down-stairs, made a first mistake in my practice, he growled and kicked viciously with his "for-true" leg, while a second blunder would make him seize his store-leg and pound the floor. Then when I began again he would whack the correct time with it with such emphasis that bits of my ceiling would come rattling down about me and the gas-fixture threatened not to remain a fixture.

Another trick of his was to bring down his violin with him. How my heart sank when I saw it, and, my lesson over, he requested me to play such or such an exercise: "And keep to your own business, and leave my business to me, if you please, Miss. _Now!_"

I was then expected to go over and over that exercise and keep perfect time, while he stood behind me and improvised on the violin, growing more and more distracting every moment, and if that led my attention away from my _one_, two, three, what a crack I got across the top of my ear from his fiddle-bow, and a sharp order to: "Go back--go back! _one_, two, three; _one_, two, three! Cry by and by, but now play! _One_, two, three!"

I should have thought myself a hopeless case, and given up, had I not one morning overheard him boasting to some of the musicians: "That I was a good enough leading woman, he supposed, but it was as a piano pupil that I really counted for something. Why," he cried, "she has the most perfect ear, and such steadiness--a whole band-wagon of instruments turned loose on her wouldn't make her lose time!"

I smiled and felt of my even then burning ear, but still his boast encouraged me to return to my scales, which were wofully interrupted by the necessity I experienced of clawing up with my nails several old keys that were too weak to rise again having once been pressed down.

When Mr. Navoni played, and he came to one of those tired-out ivories, he put a _damn_ in the place of the absent note, but for obvious reasons I could not do that. But Mr. Navoni was an earnest, determined, and enthusiastic teacher, and I remember him gratefully and respectfully.

The widow of the boarding-house differs from the widow of the Testament in that the boarding-house widow's cruse of oil seems always "just out," and her meal at a like low ebb. Neither my mother nor myself were used to luxuries; we expected little, and, truth to tell, we got it. To say we were nearly always hungry would be putting things quite mildly, but we were _together_! and so 'twas better to feel a bit "gone" under the belt than to be filled to repletion and live apart.

I worked hard at all times, and five nights out of seven I had to study till far on toward morning. The Saturday brought me a double performance, and left me a wreck; thus I thought I had a right to a bit of a treat on Sunday; and I can see the important air mother unconsciously assumed as she went forth on her secret errand--secret that no offence might be given to the economical landlady.

When the matinee was over I brought home my personal offering for our next day's comfort and pleasure--a copy of an illustrated weekly paper and five cents' worth of candy, always something hard that would last us long while we read. Thus on Saturday night, on the sill of the back window, there stood a small can of oysters, while in the top drawer rested a box marked handkerchiefs, but which held crackers, beside it a folded paper, and on top of that the wee package of candy.

I had a membership at the library on the corner, so we had books, too, thank heaven! I have always been a fairly regular church-goer; in Cincinnati the limitations of my wardrobe would have made me conspicuous. I had but one street dress in the world, and constant wear in rain or shine made it a very shabby affair. In novels the heroine who has but one gown is always so exquisitely gloved and shod, and her veil and neck-wear are so immaculately fresh, that no one notices the worn dress; but in real life it's just the gloves and shoes and veils and ruffles that cost the most money, yet their absence stamps you ill-bred in the eyes of other women. Therefore I knew the inside of but one church in Cincinnati, "Christ's Episcopal," and only knew that in the spring, when I had fluttered forth in new gown and gloves and things; so Sundays were given over to a late breakfast, a little reading in the Bible, a good long reading of secular matter, sweetened by candy, a calm acceptance (that was puzzling to the Navonis) of a shadowy dinner, a short walk if weather permitted, then, oh, then! a locked door, a small tea-pot, a tiny saucepan (we had not the bliss of owning a chafing-dish), and presently we sat enjoying, to the last spoonful, a hot and delicious stew, a pot of tea, that brought to mind many stories and made old jokes dance forth with renewed youth, and kept us loitering over our small banquet in a quite disgraceful way. Then back to our novels again till bed-time, and next day, all fresh and rested, I began my "one _and_ two _and_ three _and_" before breakfast, and thus won approval from Navoni and started a new week's work under fair auspices.

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 matinee, 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, naively, "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.