Mrs. Bradshaw, who was herself ever ready to oblige her manager, could not serve him in this instance, as the part was that of a very young heroine, but she gladly offered her daughter's services in the emergency. So sending for her to come to the theatre, the mother awaited her arrival. She was very ambitious for Blanche, who had absolutely no ambition for herself, outside of music, and here was the double opportunity of playing a leading part, next to the star, and of obliging the manager just at the time when contracts for the next season were in order of consideration. No girl could help grasping at it eagerly, and while Blanche studied the part, she, the mother, would baste up some breadths of satin she had by her into a court dress. As she thus happily planned it all Blanche sauntered in to inform her mother and her manager that she would not do the part. Would not, mind you; she did not condescend to claim she could not. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw drew her heavy veil over her face with a shaking hand and moved silently away, only waiting to reach the friendly privacy of her own room before yielding to the tears caused by this cruel indifference to her wishes and to their mutual welfare.
Mr. Ellsler then tried, in vain, to induce Blanche to undertake the part. He tried to bribe her, promising certain gifts. He tried to arouse her pride—he absolutely commanded her to take the part.
"Oh, very well, if you like," she answered, "but I'll spoil the play if I do, you know!" And indeed he did "know" what she was capable of in the line of mischief; and, knowing, gave her up in angry despair. There was then but one chance left for the production of the play, to give the part to one of the ballet-girls.
And Mr. Ellsler, who felt a strong friendship for the brave, hard-working, much-enduring Miss St. Clair and her devoted if eccentric husband, said, gently: "I'm sorry, Sallie, but it's no fault of mine; you know I can't give memories to these two women, who say they can't study the part. The girl I want to offer it to now will speak the words perfectly to the last letter, and that's all we can expect of her, but that's better than changing the bill."
Then I was called. I adored Miss St. Clair, as everyone else did. I heard, I saw the long part, but instead of the instant smiling assent Mr. Ellsler expected, I shook my head silently. Miss St. Clair groaned, Mr. Barras snuffled loudly, and stammered: "W—what did you expect, if the others can't study it, how can she?"
"Oh," I answered, "I can study the lines, Mr. Barras, but," big tears came into my eyes, I was so sorry to disappoint the lovely blond star, "it's—it's a crying part—a great lady and a crying part! I—I—oh, if you please, I can't cry. I can laugh and dance and sing and scold, but I don't know how to cry; and look here," I caught up the part and fluttered over the leaves and pointed to the oft-repeated word "weeps—weeps," "and, Miss St. Clair," I excitedly finished, "I can't weep, and I won't have a stitch of clothes for her back either!"
All three hearers burst out laughing. Miss St. Clair was in radiant good-humor in an instant. She dried my eyes, and said: "Child, if you really can study that long part, and just walk through it after only one rehearsal, you will be a very clever little girl. You need not try to act, just give me the lines and hold a handkerchief to your eyes when tears are called for. You shall have one of my prettiest dresses for the court scene, and I guess you have a white muslin of your own for the garden scene, have not you?"
I had, yes, and so I went home, heavy-hearted, to undertake the study of my first crying part.
Good heavens! In spite of this memory, I catch myself wondering was there ever a first one—did I ever do anything else. For it seems to me I have cried steadily through all the years of my dramatic life. Tears gentle, regretful; tears petulant, fretful; tears stormy, passionate; tears slow, despairing; with a light patter, now and then, of my own particular brand, kept for the expression of my own personal troubles—very bitter, briny tears they are, and I find that a very few answer my purpose nicely.
Miss St. Clair, who was tall as well as fair, had measured the length of my skirt in front, so that she might have one of her dresses shortened for me during the afternoon, thus leaving me all the time possible for study. After I had learned the words by heart, I began to study out the character. It was an excellent acting part, very sweet and tenderly pathetic in the first act, very passionate and fierce in the second, and the better I understood the requirements of the part, the greater became my terror of it. My room-mate tried to comfort me. "Think," she cried, "of wearing one of Miss St. Clair's own dresses! I'll wager it will be an awful nice one, too, since you are obliging her, and she is always kind, anyway."