He had a wonderful power to win love from other men—yes, I use the word advisedly. It was not mere good-fellowship or even affection, but there was something so fine and true, so strong and sweet in his nature, that it won the love of those who knew him best.
It would seem like presumption for me to try to add one little leaf to the tight-woven laurel crown he wore. Everyone knows the agony of his "Fool's Revenge," the damnable malice of his Iago, the beauty and fire of Antony, and the pure perfection of his Hamlet—but how many knew the slow, cruel martyrdom of his private life! which he bore with such mute patience that in my heart there is an altar raised to the memory of that Saint Edwin of many sorrows, who was known and envied by the world at large—as the great actor, Edwin Booth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST
I Digress, but I Return to the Columbus Engagement of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean—Their Peculiarities and Their Work.
Before one has "arrived," it is astonishing how precious the simplest word of encouragement or of praise becomes, if given by one who has "arrived." Not long ago a lady came up to me and said: "I am Mrs. D——, which is, of course, Greek to you; but I want to thank you now for your great goodness to me years ago. I was in the ballet in a Chicago theatre. You were playing 'Camille.' One day the actress who played Olympe was sick, and as I was, you said, the tallest and the handsomest of the girls, you gave the part to me. I was wild with delight until the nervousness got hold of me. I was not strong—my stomach failed me; the girls thought that very funny, and guyed me unmercifully. I was surely breaking down. You came along, ready to go on, and heard them. I could scarcely stand. You said: 'What's the matter—are you nervous?' I tried to speak, but only nodded. You took my hand and, stroking it, gently said, 'Isn't it awful?' then, glancing at my tormentors, added, 'but it's nothing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face the footlights all your courage will come back to you, and, my dear, comfort yourself with the knowledge that the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner rarely attains a very high position on the stage.' Oh, if you only knew how my heart jumped at your words. My fingers grew warmer, my nerves steadier, and I really did succeed in getting the lines over my lips some way. But you saved me, you made an actress of me. Ah, don't laugh! don't shake your head, please! Had I failed that night, don't you see, I should never have had a chance given me again; while, having got through safely, it was not long before I was pointed out as the girl who had played Olympe with Miss Morris, and on the strength of that I was trusted with another part, and so crept on gradually; and now I want to thank you for the sympathy and kindness you showed me so long ago"—and though her warm gratitude touched me deeply, I had then—have now—no recollection whatever of the incident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before her very handsome face. And so, no doubt, many of whom I write, who from their abundance cast me a word of praise or of advice now and again, will have no memory of the largesse which I have cherished all these years.
Among my most treasured memories I find the gentle words and astonishing prophecy of Mr. Charles Kean. That was the last visit to this country of Mr. and Mrs. Kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. He had with him two English actors, each of whom knew every line of all his parts, and their duty was, when on the stage or off, so long as Mr. Kean was before the house, to keep their eyes on him, and at the first sign of hesitancy on his part one of them gave him the needed word. Once or twice, when he seemed quite bewildered, Mr. Cathcart, turning his back to the audience, spoke Mr. Kean's entire speech, imitating his nasal tones to the life.
But it was off the stage that the ancient couple were most delightful. Ellen and Charles were like a pair of old, old love-birds—a little dull of eye, nor quite perfect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled plumage, but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satisfaction of their first caging. Their appearance upon the street provoked amusement—sometimes even excitement. I often saw drivers of drays and wagons pull up their horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at them as they made their way toward the theatre. Mrs. Kean lived inside of the most astounding hoop woman ever carried. Its size, its weight, its tilting power were awful. Entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or tables to accommodate Mrs. Kean's hoop. People scrambled or slid sideways about her on the stage, swearing mentally all the time, while a sudden gasp from the front row or a groan from Mr. Cathcart announced a tilt and a revelation of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and in spite of his dignity Charles was not above a joke on Ellen's hoop, for one rainy day, as she strove to enter a carriage door she stuck fast, and the hoop—mercy! It was well Mr. Kean was there to hold it down; but as a troubled voice from within said: "I'm caught somehow—don't you see, Charles?" With a twinkling eye Charles replied: "Yes, Ellen, my dear, I do see—and—and I'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, too!" a speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, with antique coquetry, Mrs. Kean punished him by tweaking his ear when he squeezed in beside her.
The Kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. It was a large coal-scuttle of white leghorn and at the back there was a sort of flounce of ribbon which she called her "bonnet-cape"; draped over it she wore a great, bright-green barège veil. But she was not half so funny as was her husband on the street. His short little person buttoned up tightly in a regular bottle-green "Mantellini" sort of overcoat, loaded with frogs of heavy cord, and lined, cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable color, quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most experienced student of natural history to name; while vicious little street boys at sight of it always put searching questions as to the cost of cat-skins in London.
As they came down the street together, Mrs. Kean, majestically towering above her lord and master, looked like an old-time frigate with every inch of canvas spread, while at her side Charles puffed and fretted like a small tug. The street boys were a continual torment to him, but Mrs. Kean appeared serenely unconscious of their existence, even when her husband made short rushes at them with his gold-headed cane, and crying: "Go a-way—you irreverent little brutes—go a-way!" and then puffed laboriously back to her again as she sailed calmly on.
One day a citizen caught one of the small savages, and after boxing his ears soundly, pitched him into the alley-way, when the seemingly enraged little Englishman said, deprecatingly: "I—I wouldn't hurt the little beast—he—he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, you know—poor little beggar!" and then he dropped behind for a moment to pitch a handful of coppers into the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side to boast of the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received—from which I gathered the idea that in a rage Charles would be as fierce as seething new milk.