A little later the French lady coming in, to pass the compliments of the day, I was immediately moved to ask her if our fire service here was not superior to that of Paris? And I was greatly pleased at her joyous acquiescence, until I discovered that her remarks had reference to our larger fireplaces—there are always certain drawbacks accompanying a foreign landlady.
Then I went to the matinée—for, lo, the poor actress always does double work on days of festivity for the rest of the world, and all occasions of legalized feasting find her eating "a cold bite." We were doing a play called "False Shame," known in England as "The White Feather," a very light three-act play. The dresses and scenery were beautiful; Mr. Daly provided me with one gown—a combination of sapphire-blue velvet and Pompadour brocade that came within an ace of making me look handsome, like the rest.
He remarked upon its effect, and I told him I felt compelled to look well, since I had nothing else to do; but the day had gone by when such remarks could anger him. He laughed good-humoredly and said: "All the same, Miss, that scene at the organ is mighty pretty and taking, too."
For, look you, in the theatre "a little knowledge is not a dangerous thing." Complete knowledge is, of course, preferable; but, ah, how far a very little will go, and here was my poor tum-tumming, "one and two and three and," filling Mr. Daly's very soul with joy, because forsooth, in a lovely old English interior, all draped in Christmas greens, filled with carved-wood furniture, big logs burning in an enormous fireplace, wax candles in brass sconces, two girls are at the organ in dinner dress, who, nervously anxious about a New Year carol, with which they are going to surprise their guests at mid-night, seize the moment before dinner to try said carol over.
Miss Davenport, regal in satin, stood, music in hand, the fire-light on her handsome face. I, seated at the organ in my precious blue and brocade, played the accompaniment, and sang alto, and, though terror over this simple bit of work brought me to the verge of nervous prostration, the scene was, from the front, like a stolen peep into some beautiful private home, and it brought an astonishing amount of applause. But if I had not "one two threed" in Cincinnati on that grinning old piano, where would the organ-scene have been? Ah, a little knowledge, if spread ever so thin by a master hand like Mr. Daly's, will prove useful.
So don't refuse to learn a little because you fear you cannot afford to study thoroughly—if you are an actress.
While I was sitting through a long wait that day I fell into a brown study. The theatre dresser, who was very fond of me and gave me every spare moment of her time, came into my room and twice addressed me before I came out of my reverie.
"What in the world are you thinking of, Miss Clara?" she asked, and I answered with another question: "Mary, were you ever in a great fire?"
"No," she said; "were you?"
"Yes," I answered; "I have been twice burned out from shelter at dead of night," and I told her of that hotel fire at 3 A.M., where there was but one stairway to the street; of the mad brutality of the men; of the terrible and the ludicrous scenes; of my own escape, quite alone, in bare feet and one white garment; of my standing across a leaking hose, while a strange man pulled my right arm, frantically crying, "You come with me! my mother's got a blanket to wrap you up in!" and Mr. Ellsler, who had just arrived, seized my left arm, dragging me his way and shouting, "Come over to the house and get to bed quick, before you die of exposure!" while I felt the water spraying my forlornly shivering shins, and was more nearly torn asunder than was ever the Solomon baby.