--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Alfred Lambourne collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 21 number: 5 published: 1918-03 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Alfred Lambourne, “The Saint's Tragedy,” *Improvement Era* 21, no. 5 (March 1918): 399–403." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2105unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2105unse start_page: 399 end_page: 403 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1918-03) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2105unse publication_year: 1918 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1918, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # 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 402 IMPROVEMENT ERA 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.