"Leading business here?" cried the other, "I guess not!"
"Oh," laughed the first, "I see, you mean that Mrs. Ellsler will claim the leading parts as long as she lives? Well, then, I shall expect to see Clara playing the leading juveniles."
"Well, you go right on expecting, and your hair will be as gray as mine is, when she gets into any line of business in this town!"
Unspeakably wounded, I asked, timidly: "But if I work hard and learn to act well, can't I hold a position as well as anyone else?"
She looked contemptuously at me, and then answered: "No, you must be a fool if you suppose that after standing about in the ballet for months on end that Cleveland will ever accept you in a respectable line of business. You've got to go to some other place, where you are not known, and then come back as a stranger, if you want to be accepted here."
A dull anger began to burn in me—there was something so suggestive of shame in the words, "Some other place, where you are not known." I had nothing to hide. I could work, and by and by I should be able to act as well as any of them—better perhaps. I felt my teeth come together with a snap, the bull-dog instinct was aroused. I looked very steadily at the sneering speaker and said: "I shall never leave this theatre till I am leading woman." And they all laughed, but it was a promise, and all these provoking years I was by way of keeping it. The undertaking was hard, perhaps it was foolish, but of the group of women who laughed at me that day every one of them lived to see my promise kept to the letter. When I left Cleveland it was to go as leading woman to Cincinnati, one season before I entered New York.
But after I had at last escaped the actual ballet, and was holding a recognized position, I was still treated quite en haut—en bas by the management. Mr. and Mrs. Ellsler had acquired the old-shoe habit. I was the easy old dramatic slipper, which it was pleasant to slip on so easily, but doubly pleasant to be able to shake off without effort.
That you may thoroughly understand, I will explain that I was an excellent Amelia in "The Robbers" when a rather insignificant star played the piece, but when a Booth or some star of like magnitude appeared as Charles de Moor, then the easy slipper was dropped off, and Mrs. Ellsler herself played Amelia. Any part belonging to me by right could be claimed by that lady, if she fancied it, and if she wearied of it, it came back to me. When we acted in the country in the summer-time, at Akron or Canton, where there were real theatres, she played Parthenia or Pauline in the "Lady of Lyons," or any other big part; but if the next town was smaller, I played Parthenia or Pauline or what not. Because I had once been in the ballet I had become an old pair of dramatic slippers, to be slipped on or kicked off at will—rather humiliating to the spirit, but excellent training for the growing actress, and I learned much from these queer "now-you're-in-it and now you're-not-in-it" sort of casts, and having much respect and admiration for Mr. Ellsler, I fortunately followed in his wake, rather than in that of any woman. He was one of the most versatile of actors. Polonius or Dutchy (the opposite to Chanfrau's Mose), crying old men or broad farce-comedy old men. Often he doubled King Duncan and Hecate in "Macbeth," singing any of the witches when a more suitable Hecate was on hand—acquainted with the whole range of the "legitimate," his greatest pleasure was in acting some "bit" that he could elaborate into a valuable character. I remember the "switch-man" in "Under the Gaslight"—it could not have been twenty lines long, yet he made of him so cheery, so jolly, so kindly an old soul, everyone was sorry when he left the stage. He always had a good notice for the work, and a hearty reception ever after the first night. It was from him I learned my indifference to the length of my parts. The value of a character cannot always be measured by the length and number of its speeches, but I think the only word of instruction he ever gave me was: "Speak loud—speak distinctly," which was certainly good as far as it went. He was the most genial of men, devotedly fond of children, he was "Uncle John" to them all, and while never famous for the size of the salaries he paid, he was so good a friend to his people that he often had trouble in making desirable changes, and the variegated and convoluted falsehoods he invented in order to get rid of one excessively bad old actor with an affectionate heart, who wished to stay at a reduced salary, must lay heavy on his conscience to this hour.
I used to wonder why he had never taken to starring, but he said he had not had enough self-assertion. He was a hard-working man, but he seemed to lack resolution. He had opinions—not convictions. He was always second in his own theatre—often letting "I dare not wait upon I would." After years of acquaintanceship, not to say friendship, when my ambition had been aroused, and I turned hopeful eyes toward New York, Mr. Ellsler opposed me bitterly, telling me I must be quite mad to think that the metropolis would give me a hearing. He said many pleasant and encouraging things, or wrote them, since I was in Cincinnati then. Among them I find: "The idea of your acting in New York; why, better actresses than you are, or can ever hope to be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage. Do you suppose you could tie the shoe of Eliza Logan, one of the greatest actresses that ever lived—but yet not good enough for New York? How about Julia Dean, too? Go East, and be rejected, and then see what manager will want you in the West."
Verily not an encouraging friend. Again I find: "Undoubtedly you are the strongest, the most original, and the youngest leading lady in the profession—but why take any risk? why venture into New York, where you may fail? at any rate, wait ten years, till you are surer of yourself."