I could not help it, it seemed so utterly absurd, I laughed aloud. He smiled indulgently, and said: "It seems so funny—does it? Wait a bit, my dear, when my prophecy comes true you will no longer laugh, and you will remember us."
He gave me his hand in farewell, so did his gracious wife, then with tears in my eyes I said: "I was only laughing at my own insignificance, sir, and I shall remember your kindness always, whether I succeed or not, just as I shall remember your great acting."
Simultaneously they patted me on the shoulder, and I left them. Then Mr. Kean put his arm about his wife and kissed her, I know he did, because I looked back and saw them thus reflected in the looking-glass. But did I not say they were love-birds?
Four years from that month I stood trembling and happy before the audience who generously applauded my "sleep-walking scene" in "Macbeth," and suddenly I seemed to hear the kind old voice making the astonishing prophecy, and joyed to think of its fulfilment, with a whole year to the good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD
Mr. E. L. Davenport, his Interference, his Lecture on Stage Business, his Error of Memory or too Powerful Imagination—Why I Remain a Dramatic Old Slipper—Contemptuous Words Arouse in Me a Dogged Determination to Become a Leading Woman before Leaving Cleveland.
Just what was the occult power of the ballet over the manager's mind no one ever explained to me. I found my companions very every-day, good-natured, kind-hearted girls—pretty to look at, pleasant to be with, but to Mr. Ellsler they must have been a rare and radiant lot, utterly unmatchable in this world, or else he knew they had awful powers for evil and dared not provoke their "hoodoo." Whatever the reason, the fact remained, he was afraid to advance me one little step in name, even to utility woman; while, in fact, I was advanced to playing other people's parts nearly half the time, and the reason for this continued holding back was "fear of offending the other ballet-girls." Truly a novel position for a manager. One feels at once there must have been something unusually precious about such a ballet, and he feared to break the set. Anyway, before I got out, clear out, this happened:
A number of stars had spoken to me about my folly in remaining in the ballet, and when I told them Mr. Ellsler was afraid to advance me for fear of offending the other girls, they answered variously, and many advised me to break the "set" myself, saying if I left he would soon be after me and glad to engage me for first walking lady. But my crushed childhood had its effect, I shall always lack self-assertion—I stayed on and this happened.
There was no regular heavy actress that season, and the old woman was a tiny little rag of a creature, not bigger than a doll. Mr. E. L. Davenport was to open in "Othello." Mrs. Effie Ellsler was to play the young Desdemona and I was to go on for Emilia. Mr. Davenport was a man of most reckless speech, but he was, too, an old friend of the Ellslers, calling them by their first names and meeting them with hearty greetings and many jests. So, when in the middle of a story to Mrs. Ellsler at rehearsal, the call came for Othello, Desdemona, and Iago, she exclaimed: "Excuse me, Ned, they are calling us," but he held her sleeve and answered, "Not you—it's me," and glancing hurriedly about, his eye met mine, and he added pleasantly, "You, my dear; they're calling Desdemona."
I stood still. Mrs. Ellsler's round, black eyes snapped, but this man who blundered was a star and a friend. She tossed her head and petulantly pushed him from her toward the stage. He went on, and at the end of his speech: