His Shylock was much admired, I believe, but Narcisse was a most artistic piece of work. His appearance was superb; his philosophical flippancy anent his poverty, his biting contempt of the powerful Pompadour; his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in the person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were really great.
And just one little month after the departure of the impetuous German, who should be announced but Mr. Edwin Booth. I felt my eyes growing wider as I read in the cast, "Queen Gertrude—Miss Morris." Uncle Dick, behind me, said: "Would you like me to d——n poor Brad's bones for you, Clara? It's hard lines on you, and that's a fact!"
"Oh!" I thought, "why won't her blessed old bones mend themselves! she is not lazy, but they are! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miserable tears slid down my cheeks all the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of crackers after I got there.
I had succeeded before, oh, yes; but I could not help recalling just how hot the ploughshares were over which I had walked to reach that success. Then, too, all girls have their gods—some have many of them. Some girls change them often. My gods were few. Sometimes I cast one down, but I never changed them, and on the highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry—Edwin Booth. I wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with the other.
It was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as I should be forced upon Mr. Booth, since there was still no one but my "apple-cheeked" self to go on for the Queen; and though I dreaded indignant complaint or disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more unhappy over the annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. Well, it could not be helped, I should have to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all. I put my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed up the crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time "Now I lay me," and went to sleep; only to dream of Mr. Booth holding out a hideous mask, and pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going on the stage for Gertrude.
When the dreaded Monday came, lo! a blizzard came with it. The trains were all late, or stalled entirely. We rehearsed, but there was no Mr. Booth present. He was held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at night, therefore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came we would have time to go over the important scenes—or if he did not come that we might prepare for another play.
He came. Oh, how my heart sank! This would be worse for him even than it had been for Mr. Bandmann, for the latter knew of his disappointing Queen in the morning, and had time to get over the shock, but poor Mr. Booth was to receive his blow only a few minutes before going on the stage. At last it came—the call.
"Mr. Booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room."
I went, I was cold all over. He was so tired, he would be so angry. I tapped. I went in. He was dressed for Hamlet, but he was adding a touch to his brows, and snipping a little at his nails—hurriedly. He looked up, said "Good-evening!" rather absently, then stopped, looked again, smiled, and waving his hand slightly, said, just in Bandmann's very words: "No, not you—not the Player-Queen—but Gertrude."
Tears rushed to my eyes, my whole heart was in my voice as I gasped: "I'm so sorry, sir, but I have to do Queen Gertrude. You see," I rushed on, "our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act."