"Oh well, now, I know very little about that. Some of them have families to support, and manage to wear better clothes and more jewelry than their salaries could pay for. I could tell you lots of funny incidents about ballet girls, billet-doux and Billy boys, but you see that nigger act is nearly through, and I've got to go and look after my girls." And with an "Adio, Signor!" and a wave of his hand, he withdrew.
I went up to the Alcazar on Monday night to see Bonfanti dance. I have a great respect for Bonfanti. She is a woman of character. When she first danced here the town was wild about her, and one young man, the son of rich and proud parents, offered her his hand in marriage. She hesitated for awhile, but he argued that because he was rich and his parents proud was no reason that he should be made unhappy by her refusal to marry him. She thought it over and came to the conclusion that he was right. So Mlle. Bonfanti became Mrs. Hoffman forthwith. The hue and cry raised by the Hoffmans was so violent that the young man could not stand it, and took his wife to Europe. His family allowed him little or no money, and he, having been very unpractically educated, could find no means of support. He was delicate and he fell ill and died. Then Bonfanti, or Mrs. Hoffman, came to New York to claim her rights as the wife of the son and heir of the Hoffmans, but they behaved in a way that wounded her pride—for ballet dancers as well as Hoffmans have pride—and she declined to accept any aid from them whatever. "As long as I have my feet to dance with," she said, "I can take care of myself, and I want none of their money." So she went back to the ballet, and has been dancing ever since. I couldn't help thinking as I looked at her the other night, that scions of proud New York families had often made worse matches. She has a good and still handsome face, and she dances as gracefully as ever. She is modest even when pointing at the foot-lights with one toe and at the chandelier with the other. Bonfanti is not one of the grinning dancers. Her face wears a rather sad expression, and she only smiles in acknowledgment of the applause of the audience. The competition with Lepri makes her do her best, and it is a regular dancing match every night.
CHAPTER XVIII.
PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS.
At seven o'clock one morning during the season of 1881–2 a tall, gawky, angular-looking young man in a suit of smutty and wrinkled gray, under a battered slouch hat with a bandit curl to its wide brim, stood at the door of one of the rooms of the Southern Hotel in St. Louis. He had a big bundle under his arm, and seemed tired, as indeed he was, for he had climbed four pairs of stairs and walked the lower hall-ways from one end to the other looking for the room which he had now found. He knocked kindly at first, but got no answer; knocked again with the same result, and again and again. The fifth time somebody said "Come in," and the young man twisted the knob and in a moment was standing at the bedside of the late Oscar G. Bernard, business manager of the Couldock-Ellsler Hazel Kirke Company. Bernard was still in bed and very sleepy.
"I've got a play I want to read to you," said the young man, shifting the bundle he had under his arm down into his hands, where Mr. Bernard could see it.
"A what?" the manager exclaimed, rising hurriedly upon his elbow and looking out through drowsy eyelids at a pile of foolscap manuscript big enough to fill a French Cyclopedia.
"A play," was the visitor's answer, in a quiet, unalarmed tone.
"Is that it?" Bernard asked, as he eyed the package of manuscript with astonishment.