"W-w-well then don't run away—er-er it's against law, r-religion, or decency to turn your back on a rich man. D-d-dodge the poor, Clara, my girl! but never turn your back on a man with money!"
I was pained; probably I looked so. He went on: "I-I-I'm rich now, Clara. I've got a fine marine villa, and in it are an old, old dog and a dying old woman. They both belonged to my Sallie, and so I'll keep hold of 'em as long as I can, for her sake. A-a-after they go!" he turned his head away, he looked up at the beautiful blue indifference of the sky, his face seemed to tremble all over, his eyes came back, and he muttered: "W-w-we'll see—w-w-we'll see what will happen then. But, Clara, you remember that time when money could have saved her? The money I receive in one week now, if I could have had it then, she, Sallie, might be over there on Broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved and needed, too, and couldn't have. The little boots and slippers—you remember Sallie's instep? Had to have her shoes to order always," he stopped, he pressed his lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly he burst out: "By God, when a man struggles hard all his life, it's a damn rough reward to give him a handsome coffin for his wife!"
Oh, poor rich man! how my heart ached for him. A tear slipped down my cheek; he saw it. "D-d-don't!" he said, "d-don't, my girl, she can't come back, and it hurts her to have anyone grieve. I want you to come and see me, when you get settled here, a-a-and I wish you a great big success. My Sallie liked you, she spoke often of you. I-I-I'll let you know how to get out there, and I-I-I'll show you her dog—old Belle, and you can stroke her, and er-er sit in Sallie's chair a little while perhaps—and er—don't, my girl, don't cry, she can't come back, you know," and shaking my hands he left me, thinking I was crying for Sallie, who was safe at rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were for himself—so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich man! Did he know then how near Death was to him? Some who knew him well believe unto this day that the fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap—only God knows.
I never paid the promised visit—could find no opportunity—and I never saw him again, that eccentric man, devoted husband, and honest gentleman, Charles Barras.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH
I Have to Pass through Bitter Humiliation to Win High Encomiums from Herr Bandmann; while Edwin Booth's Kindness Fills the Theatre with Pink Clouds, and I Float Thereon.
Occasionally one person united two "lines of business," as in the case of Mrs. Bradshaw, who played "old women" and "heavy business" both, and when anything happened to disqualify such a person for work the inconvenience was of course very great. Mrs. Bradshaw, as I have said before, was very stout, but her frame was delicate in the extreme, and her slender ankles were unable to bear her great weight, and one of them broke. Of course that meant a long lying up in dry-dock for her, and any amount of worry for ever so many other people. Right in the middle of her imprisonment came the engagement of the German actor, Herr Daniel Bandmann. He was to open with "Hamlet," and, gracious Heaven! I was cast for the Queen-mother. It took a good deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle me, but the Queen-mother did it. I was just nicely past sixteen, but even I dared not yet lay claim to seventeen, and I was to go on the stage for the serious Shakespearian mother of a star.
"Oh, I couldn't!"
"Can't be helped—no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler. "Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can."
I had been brought up to obey, and I obeyed. We had heard much of Mr. Bandmann, of his originality, his impetuosity, and I had been very anxious to see him. After that cast, however, I would gladly have deferred the pleasure. The dreaded morning came. Mr. Bandmann, a very big man, to my frightened eyes looked gigantic. He was dark-skinned, he had crinkly, flowing hair, his eyes were of the curious red-brown color of a ripe chestnut. He was large of voice, and large of gesture. There was a greeting, a few introductions, and then rehearsal was on, and soon, oh! so soon, there came the call for the Queen. I came forward. He glanced down at me, half smiled, waved his arm, and said: "Not you, not the Player-Queen, but Gertrude."