The Saint's Tragedy

The Saint's Tragedy

By Alfred Lambourne

She was a saint. If she were not then there are none. By

the word saint I do not mean a chaste, cold, classic being like

the lily-browed one — she who was called The Saint of the Stage.

No, I mean, rather, a saint, saintly because she was so gentle, so

loving, so thoughtful of others, so unselfishly good. Before me

lies a faded photograph. How sweet that face! Indeed, you

were a saint! Why did sorrow come to you? "A kitchen-

wench! a slop! a dish-rag!" So the irate father addressed her.

It was distressing to hear and to witness. Had she not done her

best? How could he speak thus? Yet, as she came from the

stage to the wings, so he spoke. "A kitchen- wench ! a slop! a

dish-rag!" Such words to the one being whom he loved the

most of all things in this world! And she, inert, unresenting,

shed floods of tears; she spoke not back a word. Yes, it was

distressing both to hear and to witness. But then! The exact-

ing father was a genius, a great artist. Yet; could he not see?

How difficult it was for the daughter to "play-up" in her part

to him. And she strove so hard; 0, so very hard! Why we

came nearly to breaking an admonition of the Scriptures and

calling the great actor a fool. But he suffered his trials, too.

The truth was, the one of genius longed for his daughter to be

the same. Yet, we repeat, could he not see? That gentle

creature was the more created to love than to act; more for

love than for art and ambition. Why was the father so blind?

Genius, 0 the wondrous gift! But love, is it not divine? Genius

possesses the will, the concentration to lose itself in art. Not

so love, that is made of less ambitious, less inexorable stuff. One

must admire Genius; but we must love Love. His actress daugh-

ter, too, might soon slip away ; yes, both from the stage and from

him. That carnation upon the cheek, that bright fire in her

eyes, they did not come from ambition, nor from youth alone.

It was the first stage of consumption, the consuming fever which

began to burn in her veins.

Yes, actors and actresses are temperamental. Sometimes,

often, they possess two gifts — the temperamental and temper.

One might name those of the highest genius. There was the

divine — but names must not be mentioned outside the Play-

400 IMPROVEMENT ERA

House walls. The comedian is often as irascible as his tragic

brother. I remember two. What refinement, what luxury of

temper was theirs! What masters of laughing yet bitter sarcasm

they were! O, par excellence! These two actresses we must

not name — the one, how beautiful! The other, what genius!

And then the tragedians of the old school — I can yet hear the

raging of a sham Henry V. And, by the way, that beautiful

actress who played to the life, the submissive, the down-trodden

Nancy Sykes, and the other, the wonderful German, made the

amorous Mary Stewart to live again. But that is neither here

nor there. What tempers, we say! Sub rosa — was there not

once a pitched battle on the Play-House stage? No, not when

the audience was in the seats, but when there was only an audi-

ence of one! Then what tears of rage, what words uttered,

hissed, we should say! What disheveled hair and nail-torn

flesh ! And yet these two actresses were women of genius. Only

they were temperamental, with the gift of temper. Then there

was another — ah, Daughter of Fame! "Owing to the indisposi-

tion of Miss , there will be no performance in the theatre

tonight." Owing to the ungovernable temper, the placard should

have said. So the enraged Semiramus, Cleopatra or even god-

dess Zuno might have been. It was worth the while to have

seen a bill presented for endorsement to the great J k. It was

before the rise of the curtain and — horrors! — there was a poor

"house." Never did the terrible Tragedienne append her name

to any stage document — death-warrant, or what not — with more

tragic fuiy. Dashed, that is the word, she dashed her wonderful

and masculine autograph to that unwelcome bill. In the action,

too, there was wonder, pathos, virtuous indignation. Money! She

made one feel that he had reached the very depths of degrada-

tion. Tempers, indeed? And that petted comedienne — she,

the syllables of whose non de plume were as soft as the notes of

a bulbul — did she not flash out a gold-embossed, be-jeweled little

revolver and put the stage-hands to rout? Tempers? And yet

what were any of these, of actor or actress, compared to the

father of the gentle saint? With what a practiced ease he could

run the gamut, the scale of vituperation! O, he was the past-

grand master in the art of expletives! And yet? Grand old

man — we all loved him. Truly he could wither one up; when

in his moods, reduce one's thought to chaos. Only there was no

blasphemy in his words, his anger was just a necessary outpour-

ing of the volcanic fires of the soul. Strange as it may seem to

relate, there were those of strong nerves — who actually enjoyed

the sensation — we mean when he fell in wrath upon them.

And how graciously he could make amends.

And so to that frail and trembling daughter: "There, there!

THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY 401

Now, my dear. There, there! Don't notice me, my girl!" And

once he was heard to add, "There was a letter this morning,

Pet." But always it was: "There, there! You will forgive

your poor old father?"

And always, forgive him she did.

"There was a letter this morning, Pet." Perhaps in that sen-

tence there lay a secret. We will not probe to read it. But the

man of genius became more irascible day by day. Woe to the

actor or theatre-attache who was unfortunate enough to arouse

that wrath when "There was a letter this morning, Pet." He

was the fear, the tyrant of the stage. How to perfection, in what

modulated tones of voice, he "roasted" the "property-man." And

for what? The picture on the stage wall should have been that

of Beethoven. And what was it? That caricature, that abor-

tion, to insult the immortal Beethoven? By heavens! Where

was the man who painted it? Who had dared to place it upon

the wall? But neither of the men were anywhere to be found.

With that impotent, suppressed fury, shone the old actor's eyes

when, as Louis XI, and in one of his greatest stage scenes, he

sought to display to his intimidators the treasures in the vault

of France — the "property-man" had forgotten to place them

there. And how he raged when, on another occasion, the

prompter in his box mistook his cue and rang down the curtain

a trifle too soon and thereby "killed" the climax of an act.

Those were times ! Did he not once anathemize the Play-House

itself? Aye! Its walls, its roof, its stage; yes, each rock, each

adobe it contained and the masons who laid them; and the

timbers too, and the carpenters who placed them. Aye, even

the very nails.

Could it have been that once he went too far? Was the pain,

for once, even more than the saint could withstand?

It was the old actor's birthday. He had reached man's allotted

days of three score years and ten. There was to be at his ex-

pense "a spread" in the theatre Green-Room. That night he

would play the host and be twice a king. For the men, good

old English style, bread and cheese and beer. And for the

ladies — well? How the happy, the dear actor's face would

beam! What anecdotes he would relate! His eyes would glow

with kindliness, his manner would be that of the urbane pat-

ronage of the aged, the famous, the great. Each word of his

rich-toned voice would be at once both a condescension and a

caress. Actor, actress, stage-hand, doorkeeper, "supe," all would

share in his smile. But — alas! The birthday night was an anti-

success. There was gloom. From the rise of the curtain there

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had been mishaps, the scenes had gone wrong, the daughter had

"lagged." It was a task for the great actor to "pull the play

through." Yes, there was gloom, a threatening gloom. Every-

one suspected; it must have been: "There was a letter this

morning, Pet." A storm was like to break.

And break it did. The climax came at the end of the prin-

cipal scene. The father was still great, but the daughter had

failed. A shame, a disgrace! a crime! S-death! The audi-

ence— Philistines! The Company — asses, fools, dolte! chaff and

bran! What did she, the daughter, mean? She had made her

father a laughing-stock; she had sold him cheap among a lot of

imbeciles. Drivel! A puppet might have done better. Did

she call that acting? Acting, indeed! He was ashamed. Act-

ing? Ha! ha! Why, he might have tied a costume upon a post

and it would have served him better. Acting? Well, well,

well! An inanimate stick! And so he fumed, and no one in-

terfered.

Would it not all end, as his paroxysms always did? There

would be a handshaking all around. The great actor would

heap terms of endearment upon the now cowering and weeping

daughter. And this night, the birthday night, there would be

"the spread" in the Green-Room. Before then she would for-

give "your poor old father," and all would be well.

But not this time. Was it that in the saint's heart some

love-cord had snapped? Ah! for once he had been too se-

vere. There was an imputation in his words. All too plainly

the daughter had gathered the truth. She was a disappointment

to her genius father. In silence they had left the Play-House.

There must have been something particularly irritating to

the old actor, in the letter which arrived on the birthday morn-

ing. However that may have been, yet soon after the actor de-

parted, and somehow or other it became known, on a painful

errand. But the daughter did not go, and we wondered why?

No, she remained and no one knew why she did not go. It is

not for us to ask. What all would have liked to know was this :

had there been a reconcilation? 0, they must not have parted

in anger! And yet, the father had gone and it was noticed that

he had set forth with sullen brows.

And weeks fled and the father did not return. The daugh-

ter's letters were post-marked across the seas. But some day

he would come — that was always the daughter's answer. Yet

she herself became more restless, her face was more pale from

day to day. More pale, that is, save for two hectic spots that

burned upon her cheeks. The disease had gripped her close at

last! "O, I have died so often," she spoke, as wearily upon the

THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY 403

pillows she sank her head, "so often upon the stage. But this

is so different now. How strange it is to die!" Yet the father

never came. That is, while the daughter lived. Never for one

moment do we believe that through a fault of his he was de-

layed. "I wish that he would come!" Rapidly, so rapidly she

failed. Soon she was gone. No more scoldings now; no more

reconciliations! No more scenes in the side-wings or in the

Green-room. No more striving for art; no more disappoint-

ments to her genius father! Only the rest; the peace that

comes with death.

It is a beautiful and secluded spot. We mean in the cem-

etery where the gentle saint lies buried. The ornamental shrubs

with their clusters of bloom, the stiffly-fronded evergreens, and

the pendant branches of willows, make it sweetly, yet richly,

solemn. Once, once only, a man knelt there. It was an actor,

a man of genius, and his hair was white as snow. In their day

he and his daughter had made thousands weep, and now he wept

for her. Ah, my reader, picture him kneeling there; imagine

his aching heart. Yet picture this, imagine this, too, I ask thee.

In the evening light, as the monuments and headstones of granite

and polished marble gleamed amid the shrubbery and trees, as

the white-head of the actor was bared, imagine a face above him.

O imagine a dimly seen face in which there were eyes filled with

a holy compassion, and lips which moved in words of love —

This there must have been or the gentle, dead actress was

not a saint.