Ten American Girls From History

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This necessary habit of concealment, and also the mother's need to
earn her own living, made life anything but an easy matter for them
both. The mother's terror lest her child be taken from her again made
her fear to allow the little girl to walk out alone, even for a short
distance, and in such positions as the older woman was able to secure,
it was always with the promise that the child should be no nuisance.
And so the young person grew up in a habit of self-effacement, and of
sitting quietly in corners where she could not be seen or heard,
instead of playing with other children of her own age. Then came a
great hope, which even as she lay in bed and thought about it, brought
the tears to her eyes, she had so longed to have it come true.

When she was six years old, she and her mother had been living in a
boarding-house in Cleveland, where there was a good-natured actress
boarding, who took such a fancy to the shy little girl who was always
sitting in a corner reading a book, that one day she approached the
astonished mother with a proposition to adopt her daughter. Seeing
surprise on the mother's face, she frankly told of her position, her
income and her intention to give the girl a fine education. She
thought a convent school would be desirable, from then, say, until the
young person was seventeen.

The mother was really tempted by the offer of a good education, which
she saw no way to give her daughter, and might have accepted it if the
actress had not added:

"When she reaches the age of seventeen, I will place her on the
stage."

That ended the matter. The mother was horror-stricken, and could
hardly make her refusal clear and decided enough. Even when her
employer tried to make her see that by her refusal she might be doing
her daughter a great injustice, she said, sharply: "It would be better
for her to starve trying to lead an honorable life, than to be exposed
to such publicity and such awful temptations." And thus, in ignorance
of what the future had in store for her child, did she close the door
on a golden opportunity for developing her greatest talent, and the
young person's first dream of freedom and a fascinating career had
come to grief. As she reviewed her disappointment and the dreary days
that followed, a flood of self-pity welled up in the girl's heart, and
she felt as if she must do something desperate to quiet her restless
nature.

Fortunately the disappointment was followed by a welcome change of
scene, for mother and daughter left Cleveland and went to try their
fortunes in what was then "the far west." After a long trip by rail
and a thirty-mile drive across the prairie, they arrived at their
journey's end, and the marvelous quiet of the early May night in the
country soothed the older woman's sore heart and filled the child with
the joy of a real adventure.

They remained in that beautiful world beyond the prairie for two
years, and never did the charm of the backwoods's life pall on the
growing girl, who did not miss the city sights and sounds, but exulted
in the new experiences as, "with the other children on the farm, she
dropped corn in the sun-warmed furrows, while a man followed behind
with a hoe covering it up; and when it had sprouted and was a tempting
morsel for certain black robbers of the field, she made a very active
and energetic young scarecrow."

While the out-of-door life was a fine thing for the young person,
still more to her advantage was it that she was now thrown with other
children, who were happy, hearty, rollicking youngsters, and, seeing
that the stranger was new to farm-life, had rare fun at her expense.
For instance, as she later told:

"They led me forth to a pasture, shortly after our arrival at the
farm, and, catching a horse, they hoisted me up on to its bare,
slippery back. I have learned a good bit about horses since then," she
says, "have hired, borrowed and bought them, but never since have I
seen a horse of such appalling aspect. His eyes were the size of
soup-plates, large clouds of smoke came from his nostrils. He had a
glass-enamelled surface, and if he was half as tall as he felt, some
museum manager missed a fortune. Then the young fiends, leaving me on
my slippery perch, high up near the sky, drew afar off and stood
against the fence, and gave me plenty of room to fall off. But when I
suddenly felt the world heave up beneath me, I uttered a wild
shriek--clenched my hands in the animal's black hair and, madly
flinging propriety to any point of the compass that happened to be
behind me, I cast one pantalette over the enameled back, and thus
astride safely crossed the pasture--and lo, it was not I who fell, but
their faces instead! When they came to take me down somehow the animal
seemed shrunken, and I hesitated about leaving it, whereupon the
biggest boy said I had 'pluck.' I had been frightened nearly to death,
but I always could be silent at the proper moment; I was silent then,
and he would teach me to ride sideways, for my mother would surely
punish me if I sat astride like that. In a few weeks, thanks to him,
I was the one who was oftenest trusted to take the horses to water at
noon, riding sideways and always bare-back, mounted on one horse and
leading a second to the creek, until all had had their drink. Which
habit of riding--from balance--" the young person adds, "has made me
quite independent of stirrups since those far-away days."

Besides the riding, there were many other delightful pastimes which
were a part of life on the farm, and on rainy days, when the children
could not play out of doors, they would flock to the big barn, and
listen eagerly to stories told by the city girl, who had read them in
books. Two precious years passed all too swiftly on the farm, and the
young person was fast shooting up into a tall, slender girl, who had
learned a love of nature in all its forms, which never left her. She
had also grown stronger, which satisfied her mother that the
experiment had been successful. But now there was education to be
thought of, and when news came of the death of that father, who had
been the haunting specter of the mother's life, they went back at once
to Cleveland, where the mother obtained employment, and the growing
daughter was sent to a public school. But at best it gave a meager
course of study to one who had always been a reader of every book on
which she could lay her hands. To make the dreary, daily routine less
tiresome, she supplemented it by a series of "thinks." These usually
took place at night after her candle had been blown out, and the young
person generally fell asleep in a white robe and a crown of flowers,
before she had gathered up all the prizes and diplomas and things she
had earned in the world of reverie, where her dream self had been
roving.

And now came the approach of her thirteenth birthday, and her plea
that she might be made more useful in the world. And then, came this:

In the boarding-house where she and her mother were living, the
mother acting as assistant to the manager, the young person occupied
with enduring her monotonous existence and with watching the boarders,
there were two actresses, a mother and daughter. The daughter, whose
name was Blanche, was only a year or two older than the young person
whose eyes followed her so eagerly, because Blanche was one of those
marvelous creatures whose real life was lived behind the foot-lights.

Something in the silent, keen-eyed girl who was so near her own age
attracted Blanche, and the two became good friends, spending many an
hour together when the young person was not in school. In exchange for
her thrilling stories of stage life, Blanche's new friend would tell
vivid tales which she had read in books, to all of which good-natured
Blanche would listen with lazy interest, and at the finish of the
narrative often exclaimed:

"You ought to be in a theater. You could act!"

Although this assertion was always met by determined silence, as her
friend thought she was being made fun of, yet the young person did not
fail to brood over the statement when she was alone. Could there be
any truth in the statement, she wondered? Then came a marvelous event.
Blanche hurried home from the theater one day to tell her young friend
that extra ballet girls were wanted in their company. She must go at
once and get engaged.

"But," gasped the young person, "maybe they won't take me!"

"Well," answered Blanche, "I've coaxed your mother, and my mother says
she'll look out for you--so at any rate, go and see. I'll take you
to-morrow."

To-morrow! "Dimly the agitated and awed young person seemed to see a
way opening out before her, and again behind her locked door she knelt
down and said 'Dear God! Dear God!' and got no further, because grief
has so many words, and joy has so few."

That was Friday, and the school term had closed that day. The next
morning, with a heart beating almost to suffocation, the young person
found herself on the way to the theater, with self-possessed Blanche,
who led the way to the old Academy of Music. Entering the building,
the girls went up-stairs, and as they reached the top step Blanche
called to a small, dark man who was hurrying across the hall:

"Oh, Mr. Ellsler--wait a moment, please--I want to speak to you."

The man stopped, but with an impatient frown, for as he himself
afterward said in relating the story:

"I was much put out about a business matter, and was hastily crossing
the corridor when Blanche called me, and I saw she had another girl in
tow, a girl whose appearance in a theater was so droll I must have
laughed had I not been more than a little cross. Her dress was quite
short--she wore a pale-blue apron buttoned up the back, long braids
tied at the ends with ribbons, and a brown straw hat, while she
clutched desperately at the handle of the biggest umbrella I ever saw.
Her eyes were distinctly blue and big with fright. Blanche gave her
name, and said she wanted to go in the ballet. I instantly answered
that she was too small--I wanted women, not children. Blanche was
voluble, but the girl herself never spoke a single word. I glanced
toward her and stopped. The hands that clutched the umbrella
trembled--she raised her eyes and looked at me. I had noticed their
blueness a moment before, now they were almost black, so swiftly had
their pupils dilated, and slowly the tears rose in them. All the
father in me shrank under the child's bitter disappointment; all the
actor in me thrilled at the power of expression in the girl's face,
and I hastily added:

"'Oh, well, you may come back in a day or two, and if any one appears
meantime who is short enough to march with you, I'll take you on.' Not
until I had reached my office did I remember that the girl had not
spoken a single word, but had won an engagement--for I knew I should
engage her--with a pair of tear-filled eyes."

As a result of his half-promise, three days later, the young person
again presented herself at the theater, and was engaged for the term
of two weeks to go on the stage in the marches and dances of a play
called "The Seven Sisters," for which she was to receive the large sum
of fifty cents a night. She, who was later to be known as one of the
great emotional actresses of her day, whose name was to be on every
lip where the finest in dramatic art was appreciated, had begun to
mount the ladder toward fame and fortune.

Very curiously and cautiously she picked her way around the stage at
first, looking at the scenes, so fine on one side, so bare and cheap
on the other; at the tarletan "glass windows," at the green calico sea
lying flat and waveless on the floor. At last she asked Blanche:

"Is everything only make-believe in a theater?"

And Blanche, with the indifference of her lackadaisical nature
answered, "Yes, everything's make-believe, except salary day."

Then came the novice's first rehearsal, which included a Zouave drill
to learn, as well as a couple of dances. She went through her part
with keen relish and learned the drill so quickly that on the second
day she sat watching the others, while they struggled to learn the
movements. As she sat watching the star came along and angrily
demanded, "Why are you not drilling with the rest?"

"The gentleman sent me out of the ranks, sir," she answered, "because
he said I knew the manual and the drill."

The star refused to believe this and, catching up a rifle, he cried:
"Here, take hold, and let's see how much you know. Now, then, shoulder
arms!"

Standing alone, burning with blushes, blinded with tears of
mortification, she was put through her paces, but she really did know
the drill, and it was no small reward for her misery when her
persecutor took the rifle from her and exclaimed:

"Well, saucer-eyes, you do know it! I'm sorry, little girl, I spoke so
roughly to you!" Holding out his hand to her, he added, "You ought to
stay in this business--you've got your head with you!"

Stay in it! The question was would the manager want her when the fatal
night of her first stage appearance had come and gone!

In those days of rehearsals, costumes were one of her most vital
interests; for a ballet girl's dress is most important, as there is so
little of it, that it must be perfect of its kind. The ballet of which
the young person was now a member were supposed to be fairies in one
dance. For the second act they wore dancing-skirts, and for the Zouave
drill, they wore the regular Fire Zouave uniform.

At last, the first performance of the play came. It was a very hot
night, and so crowded was the tiny dressing-room occupied by the
ballet corps, that some of the girls had to stand on the one chair
while they put their skirts on. The confusion was great, and the
new-comer dressed as quickly as possible, escaped down-stairs, and
showed herself to Blanche and her mother, to see if her make-up was
all right.

To her surprise, after a moment of tense silence they both burst into
loud laughter, their eyes staring into her face. In telling of that
night later, she said; "I knew you had to put on powder, because the
gas made you yellow, and red because the powder made you ghastly, but
it had not occurred to me that skill was required in applying the
same, and I was a sight to make any kindly disposed angel weep! I had
not even sense enough to free my eyelashes from the powder clinging to
them. My face was chalk white, and low down on my cheeks were nice
round, bright red spots.

"Mrs. Bradshaw said: 'With your round blue eyes and your round white
and red face, you look like a cheap china doll. Come here, my dear!'

"She dusted off a few thicknesses of the powder, removed the hard red
spots, and while she worked she remarked; 'To-morrow, after you have
walked to get a color, go to your glass and see where the color shows
itself.... Of course, when you are making up for a character part you
go by a different rule, but when you are just trying to look pretty,
be guided by Nature.' As she talked, I felt the soft touch of a hare's
foot on my burning cheeks and she continued her work until my face was
as it should be to make the proper effect.

"That lesson was the beginning and the ending of my theatrical
instruction. What I learned later was learned by observation, study,
and direct inquiry--but never by instruction, either free or paid
for."

And now the moment of stage entry had arrived. "One act of the play
represented the back of a stage during a performance. The scenes were
turned around with their unpainted sides to the audience. The
scene-shifters and gas-men were standing about; everything was
supposed to be going up. The manager was giving orders wildly, and
then a dancer was late. She was called frantically, and finally, when
she appeared on the run, the manager caught her by the shoulders,
rushed her across the stage, and fairly pitched her onto the imaginary
stage, to the great amusement of the audience. The tallest and
prettiest girl in the ballet had been picked out to do this bit of
work, and she had been rehearsed day after day with the greatest care
for the small part.

"All were gathered together ready for their first entrance and dance,
which followed a few moments after the scene already described. The
tall girl had a queer look on her face as she stood in her place; her
cue came, but she never moved.

"I heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager; 'That's you,' he
shouted; 'Go on! Go on! Run! Run!' Run? She seemed to have grown fast
to the floor....

"'Are you going on?' cried the frantic prompter.

"She dropped her arms limply at her sides and whispered;
'I--I--c-a-n't.'

"He turned, and as he ran his imploring eye over the line of faces,
each girl shrank back from it. He reached me. I had no fear, and he
saw it.

"'Can you go on there?' he cried. I nodded.

"'Then for God's sake go--go!'

"I gave a bound and a rush that carried me half across the stage
before the manager caught me, and so, I made my first entrance on the
stage, and danced and marched and sang with the rest, and all
unconsciously took my first step on the path that I was to follow
through shadow and through sunshine--to follow by steep and stony
places, over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant meadows--to
follow steadily and faithfully for many and many a year to come."

To the surprise of every one, when salary day came around the new
ballet girl did not go to claim her week's pay. Even on the second she
was the last one to appear at the box-office window. Mr. Ellsler
himself was there, and he opened the door and asked her to come in. As
she signed her name, she paused so noticeably that he laughed, and
said, "Don't you know your own name?"

The fact was, on the first day of rehearsal, when the stage-manager
had taken down all names, he called out to the latest comer, who was
staring at the scenery and did not hear him:

"Little girl, what is your name?"

Some one standing near him volunteered: "Her name is Clara Morris, or
Morrissey or Morrison, or something like that." At once he had written
down _Morris_--dropping the last syllable from her rightful name. So
when Mr. Ellsler asked, "Don't you know your name?" it was the moment
to have set the matter straight, but the young person was far too shy.
She made no reply, but signed up and received two weeks' salary as
Clara Morris, by which name she was known ever afterward.

In her story of life on the stage, she says, "After having gratefully
accepted my two weeks' earnings, Mr. Ellsler asked me why I had not
come the week before. I told him I preferred to wait because it would
seem so much more if I got both weeks' salary all at one time. He
nodded gravely, and said, 'It was rather a large sum to have in hand
at one time,' and though I was very sensitive to ridicule, I did not
suspect him of making fun of me. Then he said:

"'You are a very intelligent little girl, and when you went on alone
and unrehearsed the other night, you proved you had both adaptability
and courage. I'd like to keep you in the theater. Will you come and be
a regular member of the company for the season that begins in
September next?'

"I think it must have been my ears that stopped my ever-widening
smile, while I made answer that I must ask my mother first.

"'To be sure,' said he, 'to be sure! Well, suppose you ask her then,
and let me know whether you can or not.'"

She says, "Looking back and speaking calmly, I must admit that I do
not now believe Mr. Ellsler's financial future depended entirely upon
the yes or no of my mother and myself; but that I was on an errand of
life or death every one must have thought who saw me tearing through
the streets on that ninety-in-the-shade day.... One man ran out
hatless and coatless and looked anxiously up the street in the
direction from which I came. A big boy on the corner yelled after me:
'Sa-ay, sis, where's the fire?' But, you see they did not know that I
was carrying home my first real earnings, that I was clutching six
damp one-dollar bills in the hands that had been so empty all my life!

"I had meant to take off my hat and smooth my hair, and with a proper
little speech approach my mother, and then hand her the money. But
alas! as I rushed into the house I came upon her unexpectedly, for,
fearing dinner was going to be late, she was hurrying things by
shelling a great basket of peas as she sat by the dining-room window.
At sight of her tired face all my nicely planned speech disappeared. I
flung my arm about her neck, dropped the bills on top of the empty
pods and cried:

"'Oh, mother, that's mine and it's all yours!'

"She kissed me, but to my grieved amazement put the money back into my
hand and said, 'No, you have earned this money yourself--you are to do
with it exactly as you please.'"

And that was why, the next morning, a much-excited and very rich young
person took a journey to the stores, and as a result bought a
lavender-flowered muslin dress which, when paid for, had made quite a
large hole in the six dollars. By her expression and manner she
plainly showed how proud and happy she was to be buying a dress for
the mother who for thirteen years had been doing and buying for two.
"Undoubtedly," says Miss Morris, "had there been a fire just then I
would have risked my life to save that flowered muslin gown."

Up to that time, the only world Clara Morris had known had been narrow
and sordid, and lay chill under the shadow of poverty.... Now,
standing humbly at the knee of Shakespeare, she began to learn
something of another world--fairy-like in fascination, marvelous in
reality. A world of sunny days and jeweled nights, of splendid
palaces, caves, of horrors, forests of mystery, and meadows of smiling
candor. All people, too, with such soldiers, statesmen, lovers,
clowns, such women of splendid honor, fierce ambition, thistle-down
lightness, as makes the heart beat fast to think of.

That was the era of Shakesperian performances, and out of twenty-eight
stars who played with the support of Mr. Ellsler's company, eighteen
acted in the famous classic plays. All stars played a week's
engagement, some two, so at least half of the season of forty-two
weeks was given over to Shakespeare's plays, and every actor and
actress had his lines at their tongues' tips, while there were endless
discussions about the best rendering of famous passages.

"I well remember," says Miss Morris, "my first step into theatrical
controversy. 'Macbeth' was being rehearsed, and the star had just
exclaimed: 'Hang out our banners on the outward walls!' That was
enough--argument was on. It grew animated. Some were for: 'Hang out
our banners! On the outward walls the cry is still, they come!' while
one or two were with the star's reading.

"I stood listening, and looking on, and fairly sizzling with hot
desire to speak, but dared not take the liberty. Presently an actor,
noticing my eagerness, laughingly said:

"'Well, what is it, Clara? You'll have a fit if you don't ease your
mind with speech.'

"'Oh, Uncle Dick,' I answered, my words fairly tripping over one
another in my haste, 'I have a picture home, I cut out of a paper;
it's a picture of a great castle with towers and moats and things, and
on the outer walls are men with spears and shields, and they seem to
be looking for the enemy, and, Uncle Dick, the _banner_ is floating
over the high tower! So, don't you think it ought to be read: "Hang
out our banners! On the outward walls"--the outward wall, you know, is
where the lookouts are standing--"the cry is still, they come!"'

"A general laugh followed my excited explanation, but Uncle Dick
patted me on the shoulder and said:

"'Good girl, you stick to your picture--it's right, and so are you.
Many people read that line that way, but you have worked it out for
yourself, and that's a good plan to follow.'

"And," says Miss Morris, "I swelled and swelled, it seemed to me, I
was so proud of the gentle old man's approval. But that same night I
came woefully to grief. I had been one of the crowd of 'witches.'
Later, being off duty, I was, as usual, planted in the entrance,
watching the acting of the grown-ups and grown-greats. Lady Macbeth
was giving the sleep-walking scene, in a way that jarred upon my
feelings. I could not have told why, but it did. I believed myself
alone, and when the memory-haunted woman roared out:

"'Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much _blood_
in him?' I remarked, under my breath. 'Did you expect to find ink in
him?'

"A sharp 'ahem' right at my shoulder told me I had been overheard, and
I turned to face--oh, horror! the stage-manager. He glared angrily at
me and demanded my ideas on the speech, which in sheer desperation at
last I gave, saying:

"'I thought Lady Macbeth was amazed at the _quantity_ of blood that
flowed from the body of such an old man--for when you get old, you
know, sir, you don't have so much blood as you used to, and I only
thought that, as the "sleeping men were laced, and the knives smeared
and her hands bathed with it," she might perhaps have whispered, "Yet
who would have thought the old man to have so _much_ blood in him?"' I
didn't mean an impertinence. Down fell the tears, for I could not talk
and hold them back at the same time.

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