They went to California—a great undertaking then, as the Pacific Railroad was not completed, and they were most unsuccessful during their entire stay here. Eliza told one day of how a certain school-principal in 'Frisco had met her father after a performance to a miserable house, and with frightful bad taste had asked Mr. Couldock how he accounted for the failure of his engagement, and that gentleman snarled out: "I don't try to account for it at all! I leave that work for the people who ask fool questions. If I only have one d——n cent in my pocket I don't try to account for not having another d——n cent to rub against it!" And Eliza added, in pained tones: "that principal had meant to ask 'poor pa' to come and speak to the dear little boys in his school, but after that he didn't—wasn't it odd?"
As Mr. Couldock was heard approaching that morning, his daughter quickly whispered to Mrs. Ellsler: "Ask pa how he liked California?"
And after "good-mornings" were exchanged, the question was put, and incidentally the red rag brought the mad bull into action.
"I wouldn't give a d——n for the whole d——d State!" roared Mr. Couldock, while his daughter pushed his hair behind his ears, and mildly said: "Pa's always so emphatic about California."
"Yes!" shouted the old man, "and so would you be if you wore breeches and dared to speak the truth! You see," he went on, "no one ever gave me even a hint, and it was just my cursed luck to go overland, risking my own d——n skin and Eliza's too, and it seems that those God-forsaken duffers look upon anyone coming to them by the overland route as a sort of outcast tramp. In fact, that's entering by the back-kitchen door to San Francisco. You ought to go by sea, and come in at the front door of their blasted, stuck-up little city if you're to put any of their money in your purse or be allowed to keep any of your own."
One morning we girls were boasting among ourselves of our abilities as packers. Hattie, my room-mate, thought she could pack a trunk the quickest, while I claimed I could pack one with the least injury to the contents. Miss Couldock, hearing us, exclaimed, laughingly: "Oh, girls, poor pa could give you all points at that work, while his manner of unpacking is so original, so swift, and so thorough, I think I should explain it to you. First, I must tell you, that that slight bow to pa's legs is an annoyance to him on every occasion of life, save that of unpacking his trunks, then it is of great convenience. You see, the trunks are brought up and dumped in the room. They don't have any locks, because 'poor pa,' always losing the keys, has to kick the locks off during the first week that he owns them. Next they are unstrapped and opened, then pa yanks off the top spread from the bed and lays it open on the middle of the floor; then he takes his place before the first trunk, straddles his feet well apart (see, now, how useful that bow becomes), and fires every single garment the trunk contains between his legs and on to the quilt. Having emptied the trunks with lightning swiftness, he claps down their covers for the rest of the week. Whenever he wants anything for the theatre, he straddles the pile on the quilt, and paws it wildly, but rapidly over, pulling out a shoulder-cape here, a doublet yonder, one boot from the top and its mate from the bottom—all these he pitches into the theatre-basket, and is happy for that day. When the week is over, pa dumps into the nearest trunk all it will hold, and what's left over is pitched en masse into the next one. If there is any difficulty in closing the trunks he don't waste time in trying to re-arrange the things. There is such beautiful simplicity in all pa's actions, he just gets up and walks—well, perhaps stamps a little on the contents, until the lid closes quite nicely, for he is a very quick packer, is pa, though it's just possible that his method in some degree may explain his generally rumpled appearance on the stage. What should you think about it, girls?"
The old gentleman was always very kind to me and had the oddest pet name for me I ever heard. He used to hail me with: "Where's my crummie girl? Well, Crummy, how are you?"
In answer to my amazed look, he explained one day that it was a Yorkshire term, and meant "plump or round faced." The only time he ever cursed me was when he gave me the cue in the wrong place, as he openly admitted, and I went on too soon in consequence. Aside, he swore so the air seemed blue—my legs shook under me. I did not know whether to speak or not. He rose, and putting his arm about me, he led me off the stage (I was playing his daughter), and as we crossed the stage, this is what he said—the words in parentheses being asides to me, the other words being aloud for the audience:
"(What in h—ll!) My little one! (you double d——n fool!) My bird, what brings you here? (Yes, what the blankety, blankety, blanknation does bring you here, crummie girl?) Get back to your nest, dearie! (and stay there, d——n you!)" as he gently pushed me off the stage. Next day when the prompter showed him his error he admitted it at once.
He knew much sorrow and trouble, and before that last long streak of good fortune came to him, in New York, in "Hazel Kirke," he knew a time of bitter poverty. Eliza had died—a sweet and noble woman—and the loss was terrible to him. I was just winning success in the East when I was dumfounded one day at seeing Mr. Couldock standing, bowed and broken, before me, asking me for help.