When the curtain had fallen and Mr. Davenport had been before it, he came to me and holding out his hands, said: "You splendid-lunged creature—I want to apologize to you for the thoughts I harbored against you this morning." I smiled and glanced uneasily at the clock—he went on:
"I have always fancied my wife in Emilia, but, my girl, your readings are absolutely new sometimes, and your strength is—what's the matter? a farce yet? well, what of it? you, you have to go on in a farce after playing Shakespeare's Emilia with E. L. Davenport? I'm damned if I believe you!"
And I gathered up my cotton-velvet gown and hurried to my room to don calico dress, white cap and apron, and then rush down to the "property-room" for the perambulator I had to shove on, wondering what the star would think if he knew that his Emilia was merely walking on in the farce of "Jones's Baby," without one line to speak, the second and speaking nursemaid having very justly been given to one of the other girls. But the needless sending of me on, right after the noble part of Emilia, was evidently a sop thrown by my boldly independent manager to his ballet—Cerberus.
Heretofore stars had advised or chided me privately, but, oh, dear, oh, dear! next morning Mr. Davenport attacked Mr. Ellsler for "mismanagement," as he termed it, right before everybody. Among other things, he declared that it was a wound to his personal dignity as a star to have a girl who had supported him, "not acceptably, but brilliantly," in a Shakespearian tragedy, sent on afterward in a vulgar farce. Then he added: "Aside from artistic reasons and from justice to her—good Lord! John, are you such a fool you don't understand her commercial value? Here you have a girl, young and pretty" (always make allowances for the warmth of argument), "with rare gifts and qualifications, who handles her audience like a magician, and you cheapen her like this? Placing her in the highest position only to cast her down again to the lowest. If she is only fit for the ballet, you insult your public by offering her in a leading part; if she's fit for the leading part, you insult her by lowering her to the ballet; but anyway I'm damned if I ever saw a merchant before who deliberately cheapened his own wares!"
If the floor could have opened I would have been its willing victim, and I am sure if Mr. Davenport had known that I would have to pay for every sharp word spoken, he would have restrained his too free speech for my sake—even though he was never able to do so for his own.
And what a pity it was, for he not only often wounded his friends, but worse still, he injured himself by flinging the most boomerang-like speeches at the public whenever he felt it was not properly appreciating him. He was wonderfully versatile, but though versatility is a requisite for any really good actor, yet for some mysterious reason it never meets with great success outside of a foreign theatre. The American public demands specialists—one man to devote himself solely to tragedy, another to romantic drama and duels, another to dress-suit satire. One woman to tears, another to laughter, and woe betide the star who, able to act both comedy and tragedy, ventures to do so; there will be no packed house to bear witness to the appreciation felt for such skill and variety of talent.
Mr. Davenport's vogue was probably waning when I first knew him. He had a certain intellectual following who delighted in the beautiful precision and distinctness of his reading of the royal Dane. He always seemed to me a Hamlet cut in crystal—so clear and pure, so cold and hard he was. The tender heart, the dread imaginings, the wounded pride and love, the fits and starts, the pain and passion that tortures Hamlet each in turn, were utterly incompatible with the fair, highbrowed, princely philosopher Mr. Davenport presented to his followers. And after that performance I think he was most proud of his "horn-pipe" in the play of "Black-Eyed Susan"; and he danced it with a swiftness, a lightness, and a limberness of joint that were truly astonishing in a man of his years. Legend said that in London it had been a great "go," had drawn—oh, fabulous shillings, not to mention pounds—but I never saw him play William to a good house, never—neither did I ever see the dance encored. The people did not appreciate versatility, and one night, while before the curtain in responding to a call, he began a bitter tirade against the taste of the public—offering to stand there and count how many there were in the house, and telling them that next week that same house would not hold all who would wish to enter, for there would be a banjo played by a woman, and such an intellectual treat was not often to be had, but they must not spend all their money, he was even now learning to swallow swords and play the banjo; he was an old dog now, but if they would have a little patience he would learn their favorite tricks for them, even though he could not heartily congratulate them on their intelligence, etc., etc. Oh, it was dreadful taste and so unjust, too, to abuse those who were there for the fault of those who remained away.
However, during the week's engagement of which I have been speaking, I had two nights in the ballet, then again I was cast for an important part. It was a white-letter day for me, professionally, for, thanks to Mr. Davenport, I learned for the first time the immense value of "business" alone, an action unsustained perhaps by a single word. I am not positive, but I believe the play was "A Soldier of Fortune" or "The Lion of St. Mark"—anyway it was a romantic drama. My part was not very long, but it had one most important scene with the hero. It was one of those parts that are talked about so much during the play that they gain a sort of fictitious value. At rehearsal I could not help noticing how fixedly Mr. Davenport kept gazing at me. His frown grew deeper and deeper as I read my lines, and I was growing most desperately frightened, when he suddenly exclaimed: "Wait a minute!" I stopped; he went on roughly, still staring hard at me, "I don't know whether you are worth breaking a vow for or not."
Naturally I had nothing to say. He walked up the stage; as he came down, he said: "I've kept that promise for ten years, but you seem such an honest little soul about your work—I've a good mind, yes, I have a mind——"
He sat down on the edge of the prompt-table, and though he addressed himself seemingly to me alone, the whole company were listening attentively.