"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.