Chapter 10

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 pæans 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 lonesome_ness_ 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 fête-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 _re_ceived 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."