I Hear Mrs. Kean's Story of Wolsey's Robe—I Laugh at an Extravagantly Kind Prophecy.
From the time I found the miniature and by accident fed Mr. Kean's innocent vanity in his father's likeness to Byron, he made much of me. Evening after evening, in Columbus, he would have me come to their dressing-room, for after the habit of the old-time actor, they came very early, dressed without flurry, and were ready before the overture was on. There they would tell me stories, and when Charles had a teasing fit on him, he would relate with great gusto the awful disaster that once overtook Ellen in a theatre in Scotland, "when she played a Swiss boy, my girl—and—and her breeches——"
"Now, Charles!" remonstrated Mrs. Kean.
"Knee breeches, you know, my dear——"
"Charles!" pleadingly.
"Were of black velvet—yes, black velvet, I remember because, when they broke from——"
"C-h-a-r-l-e-s!" and then the stately Mrs. Kean would turn her head away and give a small sob—when Charles would wink a knowing wink and trot over and pat the broad shoulder and kiss the rouged cheek, saying: "Why, why, Ellen, my dear, what a great baby! now, now, but you know those black breeches did break up before you got across the bridge."
Then Mrs. Kean turned and drove him into his own corner or out of the door, after which she would exclaim: "It's just one of his larks, my dear. I did have an accident, the seam of one leg of my breeches broke and showed the white lining a bit; but if you'll believe me, I've known that man to declare that—that—they fell off, my dear; but generally that's on Christmas or his birthday, when only friends are by."
Mr. Kean had been the first man to wear an absolutely correct cardinal's robe on the stage, and very proud he was of that fact, and never failed in giving his Ellen all the credit of it. Until this time actors had worn a scarlet "something," that seemed a cross between a king's mantle or a woman's wrapper. Mr. Kean had been quite carried away with enthusiasm over his coming production of "Henry VIII.," and his wife, seeing his disappointment and dissatisfaction over the costumer's best efforts in the direction of a cardinal's robe, determined, some way or somehow, to obtain for him an exact copy of the genuine article.
One night, while "Louis XI." was going on, Mrs. Kean herself told me how she had at last succeeded. They were in Rome for their holiday; they had many letters, some to very important personages. In her story Mrs. Kean gave names and dates and amounts of money expended, but they have passed from my memory, while the dramatic incident remains.