Some women scold because he has not given pictures of the great people whom he met. “Why,” they ask, “did he not describe Crown Princess Victoria” (the late Empress Frederick) “at least–how she looked, what she wore? Such portraits would be interesting.” But Salvini was not painting portraits, not even his own–truly. He was giving a list of his triumphs; and if he has shown self-appreciation, he was at least perfectly honest. There is no hypocrisy about him. If he knew Uriah Heep, he did not imitate him; for in no chapter has he proclaimed himself “‘umble.” If one will read Signor Salvini’s book, remembering that the paeans of a world have been sung in his honour, and that he really had no superior in his artistic life, I think the I’s and my’s will seem simply natural.
However he may have been admired in other characters, I do truly believe that only those who have seen him in “Othello” and “Morte Civile” can fully appreciate the marvellous art of the actor. I carry in my mind two pictures of him,–Othello, the perfect animal man, in his splendid prime, where, in a very frenzy of conscious strength, he dashes Iago to the earth, man and soldier lost in the ferocity of a jungle male beast, jealously mad–an awful picture of raging passion. The other, Conrad, after the escape from prison; a strong man broken in spirit, wasted with disease, a great shell of a man–one who is legally dead, with the prison pallor, the shambling walk, the cringing manner, the furtive eyes. But oh, that piteous salute at that point when the priest dismisses him, and the wrecked giant, timid as a child, humbly, deprecatingly touches the priest’s hand with his finger-tips and then kisses them devoutly! I see that picture yet, through tears, just as I saw for the first time that illustration of supreme humility and veneration.
Oh, never mind a little extravagance with personal pronouns! A beloved father, a very thorough gentleman, but above all else the greatest actor of his day. There is but the one Salvini, and how can he help knowing it? So to book and author–ready! _Viva Salvini!_
_CHAPTER XX
FRANK SEN: A CIRCUS EPISODE_
The circus season was over, the animals had gone into comfortable winter quarters, while the performers, less fortunate than the beasts, were scattered far and near, “some in rags and some in tags, and some” (a very few) “in velvet gowns.” But one small group had found midwinter employment, a party of Japanese men and women, who were jugglers, contortionists, and acrobats; and as their work was pretty as well as novel, they found a place on the programme of some of the leading vaudeville theatres.
They were in a large Western city. Behind the curtain their retiring manners, their exquisite cleanliness, their grave and gentle politeness, made them favourites with the working forces of the theatre, while before the curtain the brilliant, graceful precision with which they carried out their difficult, often dangerous, performance won them the high favour of the public.
On that special day the matinee was largely attended, the theatre being filled, even to the upper circles, as at night. Smilingly the audience had watched the movements of the miniature men and women in their handsome native costumes, and with “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” had seen them emerge from those robes, already arrayed for acrobatic work, in suits of black silk tights with trunks and shoulder and wrist trimmings of red velvet fairly stiffened with gold embroideries; and then came the act the people liked best, because it contained the element of danger, because in its performance a young girl and a little lad smilingly risked life and limb to entertain them.
The two young things had climbed like cats up to the swinging bars, high up, where the heat had risen from a thousand gas lights, and the blood thundered in their ears, and the pulses on their temples beat like hammers. So high, that looking down through the quivering, bluish mist, the upturned faces of the people merged together and became like the waters of a pale, wide pool. Their work was well advanced. With clocklike precision they had obeyed, ever-smilingly obeyed, the orders conveyed to them by the sharp tap of the fan their trainer held, though to the audience the two young forms glittering in black and scarlet and gold, poising and fluttering there, were merely playing in midair like a pair of tropical birds.
They were beginning their great feat, in which danger was so evident that women often cried out in terror and some covered their eyes and would not look at all–the music even had sunken to a sort of tremor of fear. They were for the moment hanging head downward from their separate bars, when across the stillness came the ominous sound of cracking, splintering wood; afterward it was known that the rung of a chair in an upper private box had broken, but then,–but _then_! the sound was close to the swaying girl’s ear!
Believing it was her bar that was breaking, her strained nerves tore free from all control! Driven by fear, she made a mad leap out into space, reaching frantically for the little brown hands that a half second later would have been ready for her, with life and safety in their tenacious grasp.
To those who do their work in space and from high places, the distance between life and death, between time and eternity, is often measured by half seconds. Little Omassa had leaped too soon, the small brown hands with power to save were not extended. She grasped the empty air, gave a despairing cry, and as she whirled downward, had barely time to realize that the sun had gone black out in the sky, and that the world with its shrieking millions was thundering to its end, when the awful crash came.
There were shouts and shrieks, tears and groans, and here and there helpless fainting. Ushers rushed from place to place, the police appeared suddenly. The Japanese, silent, swift, self-controlled, were moving their paraphernalia that the curtain might be lowered, were stretching a small screen about the inert, fallen figure, were bringing a rug to lift her on, and their faces were like so many old, _old_ ivory masks.
Tom McDermott, in his blue coat, stood by the silent little figure waiting for the rug and for the coming of the doctor, and groaned, “On her face, too–and she a girl child!”
Tom had seen three battle-fields and many worse sights, but none of them had misted his eyes as did this little glittering, broken heap, and he turned his face away and muttered, “If she’d only keep quiet!” for truly it was dreadful to see the long shudders that ran over the silent, huddled thing, to see certain red threads broadening into very rivulets. At last the ambulance, then the all-concealing curtain, the reviving music, a song, a pretty dance, and _presto_, all was forgotten!
When Omassa opened her eyes, her brain took up work just where it had left off; therefore she was astonished to find the sun shining, for had she not seen the sun go out quite black in the sky? Yet here it was so bright, and she was–was, where? The room was small and clean, oh, clean! like a Japanese house, and almost as empty. Could it be? But no, this bed was American, and then why was she so heavy? What great weight was upon her? She could not move one little bit, and oh, my! _what_ was it she could faintly see beyond and below her own nose–was it shadow? Surely she could not see her own _lip_? She smiled at that, and the movement wrung a cry of agony from her–when, like magic, a face was bending over her, so kind and gentle, and then a joyous voice cried to some one in the next room, “This little girl, not content with being alive, sir, has her senses–is she not a marvel?”
And with light, delicate touch the stranger moistened the distended, immovable lip poor Omassa had dimly seen, through which her lower teeth had been driven in her fall, and in answer to her pleading, questioning glances at her own helpless body, told her she was encased in plaster now, but by and by she would be released, and now she was to be very quiet and try to sleep. And then she smoothed a tiny wrinkle out of the white quilt, shut out the sunlight, and, smiling kindly back at her, left Omassa, who obediently fell asleep–partly because her life was one of obedience, and partly because there was nothing else to do.
And then began the acquaintance between Mrs. Helen Holmes, nurse, and Omassa, Japanese acrobat. The other nurses teased Helen Holmes about her pet patient, saying she was only a commonplace, Japanese child woman; but Mrs. Holmes would exclaim, “If you could only see her light up and glow!”
And so they came to calling Omassa “the lantern,” and would jestingly ask “when she was going to be lighted up”; but there came a time when Mrs. Holmes knew the magic word that would light the flame and make the lantern glow, like ruby, emerald, and sapphire; like opal and tourmaline.
The child suffered long and terribly; both arms were broken, and in several places, also her little finger, a number of ribs, her collar-bone, and one leg, while cuts were simply not counted. During her fever-haunted nights she babbled Japanese for hours, with one single English name appearing and reappearing almost continually,–the name of Frank; and when she called that name it was like the cooing of a pigeon, and the down-drooping corners of her grave mouth curled upward into smiles. She spoke English surprisingly well, as the other members of the troupe only knew a very little broken English; and had she not placed the emphasis on the wrong syllable, her speech, would have been almost perfect.
Generally she was silent and sad and unsmiling, but grateful, passionately grateful to her “nurse-lady,” as she called Mrs. Holmes; yet when, that kind woman stooped to kiss her once, Omassa shrank from the caress with such repugnance as deeply to wound her, until the little Japanese had explained to her the national abhorrence of kissing, assuring her over and over again that even “the Japan ma’ma not kiss little wee baby she love.”
Mrs. Holmes ceased to wonder at the girl’s sadness when she found she was absolutely alone in the world: no father, no mother; no, no sister, no brother, “no what you call c-cousine?–no nothing, nobody have I got what belong to me,” she said.
One morning, as her sick-room toilet was completed, Mrs. Holmes said lightly:–
“Omassa, who is Frank?” and then fairly jumped at the change in the ivory-tinted, expressionless face. Her long, narrow eyes glowed, a pink stain came on either cheek, she raised herself a little on her best arm, eagerly she cried, “You know him–oh, you know Frank?”
Regretfully Mrs. Holmes answered, “No, dear, I don’t know him.”
“But,” persisted Omassa, “you know him, or how could you speak his name?”
“I learned the name from you, child, when you talked in the fever. I am very sorry I have caused you a disappointment. I am to blame for my curiosity–forgive me.”
All the light faded from her face and very quietly she lay down upon her pillow, her lips close-pressed, her eyes closed; but she could not hide the shining of the tears that squeezed between her short, thick lashes and clung to them. ‘Twas long before his name was mentioned again; but one day something had been said of friends, when Omassa with intense pride had exclaimed:–“I have got my own self one friend–he–my friend Frank.”
“What’s his other name?” asked the nurse.
“Oh, he very poor, he got only one name.”
“But, dear, he must have another name, he is Frank somebody or something.”
“No! no!” persisted Omassa with gentle obstinacy, “he tell me always true, he very poor, good man–he got only one name, my Frank Sen.”
“There,” cried Mrs. Holmes, triumphantly, “you see he _has_ two names after all, you have just called him by them both–Frank Sen.”
At which the invalid sent forth a tinkling laugh of amusement, crying: “Oh, that not one man’s name, oh, no! That Sen that like your Mr.–Mrs.; you nurse-lady, you Holmes Sen. Ito–big Japan fight man, he Ito Sen, you unnerstand me, nurse-lady?”
“Yes, child, I understand. Sen is a title, a term of respect, and you like to show your friend Frank all the honour you can, so you call him Frank Sen.”
And Omassa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: “You right _on_ to it at first try. My boss” (her manager Kimoto) “find _me_ baby in Japan, with very bad old man. He gamble all time. I not know why he have me, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to Kimoto, and Kimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all to old man–_all_. We go Mexico–South America–many Islands–to German land, and long time here in this most big America–and the world so big–and then I so little Japan baby–I no play–I no sing–I know nothing what to do–and just _one_ person in this big lonesome_ness_ make a kindness to me–my Frank Sen–just one man–just one woman in all world make goodness to me–my Frank Sen and my nurse-lady,” and she stroked with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bed beside her.
“What was he like, your Frank?” asked the nurse.
“Oh, he one big large American man–he not laugh many times loud, but he laugh in he blue eye. He got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy–like puppy dog’s back. He poor–he not perform in circus, oh, no! He work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. He ver good man for fight too–he smash man that hurt horse–he smash man that kick dog or push me, Japan baby. Oh, he best man in all the world” (the exquisite Madame Butterfly was not known yet, so Omassa was not quoting). “He tell me I shall not say some words, ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that ‘hell’ and where is–and how you get in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you–and how you can’t get out again where there is cool place for change–and he smooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know Japan people don’t ever be kissed–and he call me one word I cannot know.”
She shook her head regretfully. “He call me ‘poor little wave’–why poor little wave–wave that mean water?” she sighed. “I can’t know why Frank Sen call me that.”
But quick-witted Mrs. Holmes guessed the word had been “waif”–poor little waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, rough tent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from the ignorance and evil about her.
“But,” resumed Omassa, with perfect conviction, “Frank Sen meaned goodness for me when he called me ‘wave’–I know _that_. What you think that big American man do for help me little Japan baby–with no sense? Well, I will tell you. When daylight circus-show over, he take me by hand and lead me to shady place between tents–he sit down–put me at he knee, and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger he point out and make me know all those big fat letters–yes, he do _that_. Other mens make of him fun–and he only laugh; but when they say he my father and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. When he lay out the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some more letters. Oh, I very stupid Japan baby; but at last I know _all_, and _then_ he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be his fete-day,–what you call birsday,–and I make very big large secret.”
She lifted herself excitedly in bed, her glowing eyes were on her nurse’s face, her lips trembled, the “lantern” was alight and glowing radiantly.
“What you think I do for my Frank Sen’s birsday? I have never one penny,–I cannot buy,–but I make one big great try. I go to circus-lady, that ride horse and jump hoops–she read like Frank Sen. I ask her show me some right letters. Oh, I work hard–for I am very stupid Japan child; but when that day come, Frank Sen he lead me to shady place–he open primer–then,” her whole face was quivering with fun at the recollection, “then I take he long finger off–I put _my_ finger and I slow spell–not cat–not dog–oh, _what_ you think?–I spell F-r-a-n-k–Frank! He look to me, and then he make a big jump–he catch me–toss me, high up in air, and he shout big glad shout, and then I say–’cause for your birsday.’ He stop, he put me down, and he eyes come wet, and he take my hand and he say: ‘Thank you, that’s the only birsday gift I ever _re_ceived that was not from my mother. Spell it again for me,’ he said; and then he was very proud and said, ‘there was not any-other birsday gift like that in all the world!’ What you think of _that_?
“Then the end to season of circus come–Frank Sen he kneel down by me–he very sad–he say, ‘I have nothing to give–I am such a fool–and the green-cloth–oh, the curse of the green-cloth!’ He took off my Japan slippers and smiled at them and said, ‘Poor little feet’; he stroked my hands and said, ‘Poor little hands’; he lifted up my face and said, ‘Poor little wave’; then he look up in air and he say, very troubled-like, ‘A few home memories–some small knowledge, all I had, I have given her. To read a little is not much, but maybe it may help her some day, and I have nothing more to give!’
“And I feeling something grow very fast, here and here” (touching throat and breast), “and I say, ‘_You_ have nothing to give me? well’–and then I forget all about I am little Japan girl, and I cry, ‘Well, _I_ have something to give you, Frank Sen, and that is one kiss!’ And I put my arms about he neck and make one big large kiss right on he kind lips.”
Her chin sank upon her night-robed breast. After a moment she smiled deprecatingly at Mrs. Holmes and whispered: “You forgive me, other day? You see I Japan girl–and just once I give big American kiss to my friend, Frank Sen.”
_CHAPTER XXI
STAGE FORFEITS AND THEIR HUMOUR_
It was during the rehearsals of “L’Article 47” that I enjoyed one single hearty laugh,–a statement that goes far to show my distressed state of mind,–for generally speaking that is an unusual day which does not bring along with its worry, work, and pain some bubble of healing laughter. It was a joke of Mr. Le Moyne’s own special brand that found favour in my eyes and a place in my memory. Any one who has ever served under Mr. Daly can recall the astounding list of rules printed in fine type all over the backs of his contracts. The rules touching on _forfeits_ seemed endless: “For being late,” “For a stage wait,” “For lack of courtesy,” “For gossiping,” “For wounding a companion’s feelings”–each had its separate forfeiture. “For addressing the manager on business outside of his office,” I remember, was considered worth one dollar for a first offence and more for a second. Most of these rules ended with, “Or discharge at the option of the manager.” But it was well known that the mortal offence was the breaking that rule whose very first forfeit was five dollars, “Or discharge at the option of,” etc., that rule forbidding the giving to outsiders of any stage information whatever; touching the plays in rehearsal, their names, scenes, length, strength, or story; and to all these many rules on the backs of our contracts we assented and subscribed our amused or amazed selves.
When the new French play “L’Article 47” was announced, the title aroused any amount of curiosity. A reporter after a matinee one day followed me up the avenue, trying hard to get me to explain its meaning; but I was anxious not to be “discharged at the option of the manager,” and declined to explain. Many of the company received notes asking the meaning of the title. At Mr. Le Moyne’s house there boarded a walking interrogation-point of a woman. She wished to know what “L’Article 47” meant; she would know. She tried Mr. Harkins; Mr. Harkins said he didn’t know. She tossed her head and tried Mr. Crisp; Mr. Crisp patiently and elaborately explained just why he could not give any information. She implied that he did not know a lady when he saw one, and fell upon Mr. Le Moyne, tired, hungry, suavely sardonic. “_He_ was,” she assured him, “a gentleman of the old school. _He_ would know how to receive a lady’s request and honour it.” And Le Moyne rose to the occasion. A large benevolence sat upon his brow, as assuring her that, though he ran the risk of discharge for her fair sake, yet should she have her will. He asked if she had ever seen a Daly contract. The bridling, simpering idiot replied, “She had seen several, and such numbers of silly rules she had never seen before, and–“
“That’s it,” blandly broke in Le Moyne, “there’s the explanation of the whole thing–see? ‘L’ Article 47′ is a five-act dramatization of the 47th rule of Daly’s contract.”
“Did you ever?” gasped the woman.
“No,” said Le Moyne, reaching for bread, “I never did; but Daly’s up to anything, and he’d discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear of this.”
It was almost impossible to get Mr. Daly to laugh at an actor’s joke; he was too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object of the jest. But he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetrated on me by this same Le Moyne.
On the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of “Divorce” I had “stuck dead,” as the saying is. Not a word could I find of my speech. I was cold–hot–cold again. I clutched Mrs. Gilbert’s hand. I whispered frantically: “What is it? Oh! what is the word?” But horror on horror, in my fall I had dragged her down with me. She, too, was bewildered–lost. “I don’t know,” she murmured. There we were, all at sea. After an awful wait I walked over and asked Captain Lynde (Louis James) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. I was angry–shamed. I had never stuck in all my life before, not even in my little girl days. Mr. Daly was, of course, in front. He came rushing back to inquire, to scold. Every one joked me about my probable five-dollar forfeit. Well, next night came, and at that exact line I did it again. Of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but it was humiliating in the extreme. Mr. Daly, it happened, was attending an opening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. Then came Le Moyne to me–big and grave and kind, his plump face with the shiny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration. He led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:–
[Illustration: _W.J. Le Moyne_]
“You stuck again, didn’t you, Clara? Too bad! too bad! and of course you apprehend trouble with Daly? I’m awfully sorry. Ten dollars is such a haul on one week’s salary. But see here, I’ve got an idea that will help you out, if you care to listen to it.”
I looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of brass; his benevolence was touching. I said eagerly: “Yes, I do care indeed to listen. What is the idea?”
He beamed with affectionate interest, as he said impressively, “Well, now you know that a bad ‘stick’ generally costs five dollars in this theatre?”
“Yes,” I groaned.
“And you stuck awfully last night?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Then to-night you go and repeat the offence. But here is where I see hope for you. Daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done. Watch then for his coming. This play is so long he will be here before it’s over. Go to his private office at once. Get ahead of every one else; do you understand? Approach him affably and frankly. Tell him yourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him _the two ‘sticks’ for eight dollars_. If he’s a gentleman and not a Jew, he’ll accept your proposal.”
Just what remarks I made to my sympathetic friend Le Moyne at the end of that speech I cannot now recall. If any one else can, I can only say I was not a church member then, and let it pass at that. But when I opened my envelope next salary day and saw my full week’s earnings there, I went to Mr. Daly’s office and told him of my two “sticks” and of Le Moyne’s proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor’s joke.
_CHAPTER XXII
POOR SEMANTHA_
It has happened to every one of us, I don’t know why, but every mother’s son or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habitually referred to some acquaintance or friend as “poor So-and-So”; and the curious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why or wherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financially at least, “poor So-and-So” is better off than the person who is doing the “pooring.” Nor is “poor So-and-So” always sick or sorrowful, stupid or ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace of contempt in that word “poor” when applied to an acquaintance? A very slight trace, of course,–we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do not slice it into our salad. So when we call a friend “poor So-and-So,” consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection the slight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could I, right to her merry, laughing face, have called this girl poor Semantha?
I had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so was I; she was in the ballet, so was I. True, I had already had heads nodded sagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, “That girl’s going to do something yet,” and all because I had gone on alone and spoken a few lines loudly and clearly, and had gone off again, without leaving the audience impressed with the idea that they had witnessed the last agonized and dying breath of a girl killed by fright. I had that much advantage, but we both drew the same amount of salary per week,–five very torn and very dirty one-dollar bills. Of course there could have been no rule nor reason for it, but it had so happened that all the young women of the ballet–there were four–received their salary in one-dollar bills. However, I was saying that we, the ballet, dressed together at that time, and poor Semantha first attracted my attention by her almost too great willingness to use my toilet soap, instead of the common brown washing soap she had brought with her. At some past time this soap must have been of the shape and size of a building brick, but now it resembled a small dumb-bell, so worn was its middle, so nobby its ends. Then, too, my pins were, to all intents and purposes, her pins; my hair-pins her hair-pins; while worst of all, my precious, real-for-true French rouge was _her_ rouge.
At that point I came near speaking, because poor Semantha was not artistic in her make-up, and she painted not only her cheeks but her eyes, her temples, her jaws, and quite a good sample of each side of her neck. But just as I would be about to speak, I would bethink me of those nights when, in the interest of art, I had to be hooked up behind, and I would hold my peace.
On the artistic occasions alluded to, I hooked Semantha up the back, and then Semantha hooked up my back. Ah, what a comfort was that girl; as a hooker-up of waists she was perfection. No taking hold of the two sides of the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as if the Vendome column was about to be overthrown. No hooking of two-thirds of the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking that there was a little mistake at the top hook. No putting of thumbs to the mouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort and pinching. Ah, no! Semantha smiled,–she generally did that,–turned you swiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were, fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook to the top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swift smooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew your back was a joy until the act was over.
That was all I had known of Semantha. Probably it was all I ever should have known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from the theatre for a time, during which absence Semantha made the discovery which was to bring her nearer to me.
Finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, Semantha with smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for a pin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her two companions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, “You may take a few of my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again.”
While she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion, with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became so deservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily: “No, you don’t! Don’t you touch anything of mine! You can’t sponge on me as you do on Clara!”
Now Semantha was a German, as we were apt to find out if ever she grew excited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her, she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fully understood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there she stood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated, “Spoonge? spoonge? w’at is that spoonge?” And received for answer, “_What is_ it? why, it’s stealing.” Semantha gave a cry. “Yes,” continued the straightforward one, “it’s stealing without secrecy; that’s what sponging is.”
Poor Semantha–astonished, insulted, frightened–turned her quivering face to the other girl and passionately cried, “Und she, my Fraeulein Clara, tink she dat I steal of her?”
Then for the first time, and I honestly believe the last time in her life, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose to the occasion–God bless her–and answered stoutly, “No, Clara never thought you were stealing.”
So it happened that when I returned to work, and Semantha’s excited and very German welcome had been given, I noticed a change in her. When my eyes met hers, instead of smiling instantly and broadly at me, her eyes sank to the ground and her face flushed painfully. At last we were left alone for a few moments. Quick as a flash, Semantha shut the door and bolted it with the scissors. Then she faced me; but what a strange, new Semantha it was! Her head was down, her eyes were down, her very body seemed to droop. Never had I seen a human look so like a beaten dog. She came quite close, both hands hanging heavily at her sides, and in a low, hurried tone she began: “Clara, now Clara, now see, I’ve been usen your soap–ach, it smells so goot!–nearly all der time!”–“Why,” I broke in, “you were welcome!”
But she stopped me roughly with one word, “Wait,” and then she went on. “Und der pins–why, I can’t no more count. Und der hair-pins, und der paint,” (her voice was rising now), “oh, der lofely soft pink paint! und I used dem, I used ’em all. Und I never t’ought you had to pay for dem all. You see, I be so green, fraeulein, I dun know no manners, und I did, I did use dem, I know I did; but, so help me, I didn’t mean to spoonge, und by Gott I didn’t shteal!”
I caught her hands, they were wildly beating at the air then, and said, “I know it, Semantha, my poor Semantha, I know it.”
She looked me brightly in the eyes and answered: “You do? you _truly_ know dat?” gave a great sigh, and added with a fervour I fear I ill-appreciated, “Oh, I hope you vill go to heaven!” then quickly qualified it, “dat is, dat I don’t mean right avay, dis minute–only ven you can’t keep avay any longer!”
Then she sprang to her dress hanging on the hook, and after struggling among the roots of her pocket, found the opening, and with triumph breathing from every feature of her face, she brought forth a small white cube, and cried out, “Youst you look at dat!”
I did; it seemed of a stony structure, white with a chill thin line of pink wandering forlornly through or on it (I am sure nothing could go through it); but the worst thing about it was the strange and evil smell emanating from it. And this evil, white, hard thing had been purchased from a pedler under the name of soap, fine shaving or toilet soap, and now Semantha was delightedly offering it to me, to use every night, and I with immense fervour promised I would use it, just as soon as my own was gone; and I mentally registered a solemn vow that the shadow of my soap should never grow less.
I soon discovered that poor Semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spite of her faint German accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in her conversation, she was ambitious. One night we had been called on to “go on” as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poor Semantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that it was a pleasure to look at her. She was such a contrast to the two others. One had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of her face was enough to take all the dance out of one’s feet. With frowning brows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures with such fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardly help hoping she _would_ make a mistake and take the consequences. The other,–the woolly-brained young person,–having absolutely no ear for music or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through the chorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody’s feet, through the dance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaning calf.
When we were in our room, I told Semantha how well she had sung and danced, and her face was radiant with delight. Then becoming very grave, she said: “Oh, fraeulein, how I vant to be an actor! Not a common van, but” and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast–“I vant to be a big actor. Don’ you tink I can ever be von–eh?”
And looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, I answered, “I think it is very likely,” Poor Semantha! we were to recall those simple remarks, later on.
Christmas being near, I was very busy working between acts upon something intended for a present to my mother. This work was greatly admired by all the girls; but never shall I forget the astonishment of poor Semantha when she learned for whom it was intended.
“Your mutter lets you love her yet–you would dare?” And as I only gazed dumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, “My mutter hasn’t let me love her since–since I vas big enough to be knocked over.”
Through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, who knew her family, I learned something of poor Semantha’s private life. Poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyes upon the wrong side of life,–the seamy side,–and her own personal share of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden browns and greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliant colour,–the theatre. Of the pure tints of sky and field and watery waste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing. But what of that! had she not secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be added to, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life?
Semantha’s father was dead; her mother was living–worse luck. For had she been but a memory, Semantha would have been free to love and reverence that memory, and it might have been as a very strong staff to support her timid steps in rough and dangerous places. But alas! she lived and was no staff to lean upon; but was, instead, an ever present rod of punishment. She was a harmful woman, a destroyer of young tempers, a hardener of young hearts. Many a woman of quick, short temper has a kind heart; while even the sullenly sulky woman generally has a few rich, sweet drops of the milk of human kindness, which she is willing to bestow upon her own immediate belongings. But Semantha’s mother was not of these. How, one might ask, had this wretch obtained two good husbands? Yes, Semantha had a stepfather, and the only excuse for the suicidal marriage act as performed by these two victims was that the woman was well enough to look upon–a trim, bright-eyed, brown creature with the mark of the beast well hidden from view.
When Semantha, who was her first born, too, came home with gifts and money in her hands, her mother received her with frowning brows and sullen, silent lips. When the child came home with empty hands, and gave only cheerfully performed hard manual labour, she was received with fierce eyes, cruel rankling words, and many a cut and heavy blow, and was often thrust from the house itself, because ’twas known the girl was afraid of darkness.
[Illustration: _Clara Morris before coming to Daly’s Theatre in 1870_]
Her stepfather then would secretly let her in, though sometimes she dared go no farther than the shed, and there she would sit the whole night through, in all the helpless agony of fright. But all this was as nothing compared to the cruelty she had yet to meet out to poor Semantha, whose greatest fault seemed to be her intense longing for some one to love. Her mother _would not_ be loved, her own father had wisely given the whole thing up, her step-father _dared_ not be loved. So, when the second family began to materialize, Semantha’s joy knew no bounds. What a welcome she gave each newcomer! How she worked and walked and cooed and sang and made herself an humble bond-maiden before them. And they loved her and cried to her, and bit hard upon her needle stabbed forefinger with their first wee, white, triumphant teeth, and for just a little, little time poor Semantha was not poor, but very rich indeed. And that strange creature, who had brought them all into the world, looked on and saw the love and smiled a nasty smile; and Semantha saw the smile, and her heart quaked, as well it might. For so soon as these little men could stand firmly on their sturdy German legs, their gentle mother taught them, deliberately taught them, to call their sister names, the meaning being as naught to them, but enough to break a sister’s heart. To jeer at and disobey her, so that they became a pair of burly little monsters, who laughed loud, affected laughter at the word “love,” and swore with many long-syllabled German oaths that they would kick with their copper-toes any one who tried to kiss them. Ah! when you find a fiercely violent temper allied to a stone-cold heart, offer you up an earnest prayer to Him for the safety of the souls coming under the dominion and the power of that woman.
I recall one action of Semantha’s that goes far, I think, to prove what a brave and loyal heart the untaught German girl possessed. She was very sensitive to ridicule, and when people made fun of her, though she would laugh good-humouredly, many times she had to keep her eyes down to hide the brimming tears. Now her stepfathers name was a funny one to American ears, and always provoked a laugh, while her own family name was not funny. Yet because the man had shown her a little timid kindness, she faithfully bore his name, and through storms of jeering laughter, clear to the dismal end, she called herself Semantha Waacker.
Once we spoke of it, and she exclaimed in her excited way: “Yes, I am alvays Waacker. Why not, ven he is so goot? Why, why, dat man, dat vater Waacker, he have kissed me two time already. Vunce here” (placing her finger on a vicious scar upon her check), “von de mutter cut me bad, und vun odder time, ven I come very sick. Und de mutter seen him in de glass, und first she break dat glass, und den she stand and smile a little, und for days und days, when somebody be about, my mutter put out de lips und make sounds like kisses, so as to shame de vater before everybody. Oh, yes, let ’em laugh; he kiss me, und I stay Semantha Waacker.”
The unfortunate man’s occupation was also something that provoked laughter, when one first heard of it; but as Semantha herself was my informant, and I had grown to care for her, I managed by a great effort to keep my face serious. How deeply this fact impressed her, I was to learn later on.
Christmas had come, and I was in high glee. I had many gifts, simple and inexpensive most of them, but they were perfectly satisfactory to me. My dressing-room mates had remembered me, too, in the most characteristic fashion. The pretty, woolly-brained girl had with smiling satisfaction presented me with a curious structure of perforated cardboard and gilt paper, intended to catch flies. Its fragility may be imagined from the fact that it broke twice before I got it back into its box; still there was, I am sure, not another girl in Cleveland who could have found for sale a fly-trap at Christmas time.
The straightforward one had presented me with an expensively repellent gift in the form of a brown earthenware jug, a cross between a Mexican idol and a pitcher. A hideous thing, calculated to frighten children or sober drunken men. I know I should have nearly died of thirst before I could have forced myself to swallow a drop of liquid coming from that horrible interior.
Semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on before she caught me alone, out in a dark passageway. Then she began as she always did when excited, with: “Clara, now Clara, you know I told my vater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvays say–not’ing. Dat day I come tell you vat his work vas, I vent home und I say, ‘Vater Waacker, I told my fraeulein you made your livin’ in de tombstone yard,’ und he say, quvick like, ‘Vell,’–you know my vater no speak ver goot English” (Semantha’s own English was weakening fast),–“‘vell, I s’pose she make some big fool laugh, den, like everybodies, eh?’ Und I say, ‘No, she don’t laugh! de lips curdle a little'” (curdle was Semantha’s own word for tremble or quiver. If she shivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), “‘but she don’t laugh, und she say, “It vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, ’cause it must be satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody’s tombstone.”‘”
“Oh, Semantha!” I cried, “why did you tell him that?”
“But vy not?” asked the girl, innocently. “Und he look at me hard, und his mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, pig laughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, ‘Mein Gott! mein Gott! satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody’s tombstones–_some_body’s. Und she don’t laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh? Vell, vell! dat fraeulein she tinks sometings! Say, Semantha, don’t it dat you like a Kriss-Krihgle present to make to her, eh?’ Und I say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoes for all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left. Und he shlap me my back, une! say, ‘Never mindt, I’ll make him,’ und so he did, und here it is,” thrusting some small object into my hand. “Und if you laugh, fraeulein, I tink I die, ’cause it is so mean und little.”
Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark with “it” in my hand. Poor Semantha! “it” lies here now, after all these years; but where are you, Semantha? Are you still dragging heavily through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are hungry never more, but filled with love divine?
“It” is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly carved to imitate a tiny Bible. A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my possession, a far older one, which cost a human life.
Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again. For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing. Then she became curiously absent-minded. She would stop sometimes in the midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate surroundings. Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be making. Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the theatre door with her. The night was bad, too, but I noticed that she carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his pocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her.
And then one night Semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since she usually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in life to her. We were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was there was no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. Her face was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shocked tone, “You must be awful sick!”
But Semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answered slowly and dully, “I’m not sick.”
“Not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?”
“I’m not sick, I’m going avay.”
Just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to take our places. We wore pages’ dresses, and as we went Semantha stood in the doorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes–she did so love a page’s costume.
When we were “off” we hastened back to our dressing room. Semantha was still there. She moved stiffly about, packing together her few belongings; but her manner silenced us. She had taken everything else, when her eyes fell upon a remnant of that evil-smelling soap. She paused a bit, then in that same slow way she said, “You never, never used that soap after all, Clara?” and when I answered: “Oh, yes, I have. I’ve used it several times,” she put her hand out quickly, and took the thing, and slipped it into her pocket, and then she stood a moment and looked about; and if ever anguish grew in human eyes, it slowly grew in hers. Her face was pale before; it was white now.
At last her eyes met mine, then a sudden tremor crossed her face from brow to chin, a piteous slow smile crept around her lips, and in that dull and hopeless tone she said, “You see, my fraeulein, I’ll never be a big actor after all,” and turned her back upon me, and slowly left the room and the theatre, without one kiss or handshake, even from me. And I, who knew her, did not guess why. She went out of my life forever, stepping down to that lower world of which I had only heard, but by God’s mercy did not know.
That same sad night a group of men, close-guarded, travelled to Columbus, that city of great prisons and asylums, and one of those guarded men was poor Semantha’s lover, alas! her convicted lover now; and she, having cast from her her proudest hope, her high ambition, trusting a little in his innocence, trusting entirely in his love, now followed him steadily to the prison’s very gate.
After this came a long silence. One girl had fallen from our ranks, but what of that? Another girl had taken her place. We were still four, marching on,–eyes front, step firm and regular,–ready when the quick order came quickly to obey. There could be no halt, no turning back to the help of the figure already growing dim, of one who had fallen by the wayside.
After a time rumours came to us, at first faint and vague–uncertain, then more distinct–more dreadful! And the stronger the rumours grew, the lower were the voices with which we discussed them; since we were young, and vice was strange to us, and we were being forced to believe that she who had so recently been our companion was now–was–well, to be brief, she wore her rouge in daylight now upon the public street.
Poor, poor Semantha! They were playing “Hamlet,” the night of the worst and strongest rumour, and as I heard Ophelia assuring one of her noble friends or relatives:–
“You may wear your rue with a difference,”
I could not help saying to myself that “rue” was not the only thing that could be so treated, since we all had rouge upon our cheeks; yet Semantha–ah, God forgive her–wore her rouge with a difference.
A little longer and we were all in Columbus, where a portion of each season was passed, our manager keeping his company there during the sitting of the legislature. We had secured boarding-houses,–the memory of mine will never die,–and in fact our round bodies were beginning to fit themselves to the square holes they were expected to fill for the next few weeks, when we found ourselves sneezing and coughing our way through that spirit-crushing thing they call a “February thaw.” Rehearsal had been long, and I was tired. I had quite a distance to walk, and my mind was full of professional woe. Here was I, a ballet girl who had taken a cold whose proportions simply towered over that nursed by the leading lady’s self; and as I slipped and slid slushily homeward, I asked myself angrily what a fairy was to do with a handkerchief,–and in heaven’s name, what was that fairy to do without one. The dresses worn by fairies–theatrical, of course–in those days would seem something like a fairy mother-hubbard now, at all events a home toilet of some sort, so very proper were they; but even so there was no provision made for handkerchiefs, no thought apparently that stage fairies might have colds in their star-crowned heads.
So as my wet skirt viciously slapped my icy ankles, I almost tearfully declared to myself I would have to have a handkerchief, even though it wore pinned to my wings, only who on earth could get it off in time for me to use? Now if poor Semantha were only–and there I stopped, my eyes, my mind, fixed upon a woman a little way ahead of me, who stood staring in a window. Her figure drooped as though she were weary or very, very sad, and I said to myself, “I don’t know what you are looking at, but I _do_ know it’s something you want awfully,” and just then she turned and faced me. My heart gave a plunge against my side. I knew her. One woman’s glance, lightning-quick, mathematically true, and I had her photograph–the last, the very last I ever took of poor Semantha.
As her eyes met mine, they opened wide and bright. The rosy colour flushed into her face, her lips smiled. She gave a little forward movement, then before I had completed calling out her name, like a flash she changed, her brows were knit, her lips close-pressed, and all her face, save for the shameful red sign on her cheeks, was very white. I stood quite still–not so, she. She walked stiffly by, till on the very line with me she shot out one swift, sidelong glance and slightly shook her head; yet as she passed I clearly heard that grievous sound that coming from a woman’s throat tells of a swallowed sob.
Still I stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of watery pool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first corner disappeared, but never turned her head. As she had left me first without good-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by without farewell. And I, who knew her, understood at last the reason why. Poor wounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasure rather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as a ballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend.
At last I turned to go. As I came to the window into which Semantha had so lovingly been gazing, I looked in too, and saw a window full of fine, thick underwear for men.
Two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before I heard once more, and for the last time, of poor Semantha. I was again in Columbus for a short time, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens. Whenever I could catch this man at home, I took pains to make him talk, and he told me many interesting tales. They were scarcely of a nature to be repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, if you wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, and one day the talk was of odd names,–his own was funny,–and at last he mentioned Semantha’s. Of course I was alert, of course I questioned him–how often I have wished I had not. For the tale he told was sad. Nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is “battle, murder, and sudden death,” from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to be delivered. Ah! his tale was sad if common.
It seemed that when Semantha followed that treacherous young brute, her convicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, so she could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worse in his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums to spend upon extras for him. He grumbled loudly, and she was torn with loving pity. Then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness, and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and the small comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairly broke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of his tobacco.
The hospital sheltered Semantha as long as the rules permitted, but when she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she crept slowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her, calling her Mamie Someone, and then apologized for her mistake. Next she asked a question or two, and ended by telling Semantha she was the very girl she wanted–to come with her. She could rest for a few days at her home, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay, and–oh! did I not tell you it was a common tale?
But when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what she had discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her stay there, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished upon him.
By a little sickness and a great deal of fraud the wretch got himself into the prison hospital for a time, and there my informant learned to know the pair quite well. She not only loved him passionately, but she had for all his faults of selfishness and general ugliness the tender patience of a mother. And he traded upon her loving pity by pretending he could obtain the privilege of this or immunity from that if he had only so many dollars to give to the guard or keeper. And she, poor loving fool, hastened a few steps farther down the road of shame to obtain for him the money, receiving in return perhaps a rough caress or two that brought the sunshine to her heart and joy into her eyes.
His term of imprisonment was nearly over, and Semantha was preparing for his coming freedom. His demands seemed unending. His hat would be old-fashioned, and his boots and his undergarments were old, etc. Then he wanted her to have two tickets for Bellefontaine ready, that they might leave Columbus at once, and Semantha was excited and worried. “One day,” said the warden, “she asked to see me for a moment, and I exclaimed at sight of her, ‘What is it that’s happened?’
“Her face was fairly radiant with joy, and she shook all over. It seemed as though she could not speak at first, and then she burst forth, ‘Mr. S—-, now Mr. S—-, you don’t much like my poor boy, but joust tink now how goot he is! Ach, Gott, he tells me ven all der tings are got, und de tickets too, have I some money left I shall buy a ring, und then,’–she clutched my arm with both her hands, and dropped her head forward on them, as she continued in a stifled voice,–und then we go to a minister and straight we get married.’
“And,” continued Mr. S—-, “as I looked at her I caught myself wishing she were dead, that she might escape the misery awaiting her.
“At last the day came. Her lover and a pal of his went out together. Faithful Semantha was awaiting him, and was not pleased at the pal’s presence, and was more distressed still when her lover refused to go to the shelter she had prepared for him, in which he was to don his new finery, but insisted upon going with his friend. Semantha yielded, of course, and on the way her lover laughed and jested–asked for the tickets, then the ring, and putting on the latter declared that he was married to _her_ now, and would wear the ring until they saw the ‘Bible-sharp,’ and then she should be married to _him_; and Semantha brightened up again and was happy.
“They came at last to the house they sought. It was a low kind of neighbourhood, had a deserted look, and was next door to a saloon. The pal said there were no women in the house, and Semantha had better not come in. The lover bade her wait, and they went in and closed the door, and left the girl outside. There she waited such a weary time, then at last she rang–quite timidly at first, then louder, faster, too, and a scowling fellow from the saloon told her that the house was empty. She rang wildly then, until he threatened a policeman. Then she ceased, but walked round to the back and found its rear connected with a stable yard. She came back again, dazed and white, her hand pressed to her heart, and as she stood there a lad who hung about the prison grounds a good deal, did odd jobs or held a horse now and then, and who knew Semantha well, came along and cried out, ‘I say, why didn’t you go with yer feller and his pal?’
“‘She didn’t say nary a word,’ said the boy, ‘she didn’t say nary a word, but pushed her head out and looked at me till her eyes glared same as a cat’s, and I says: “Why, I seed ’em ketch the 4.30 train to Bellefontaine! They had to run and jump to do it, but they didn’t scare a darn, they just laughed and laughed.” And, Boss, something like a tremble, but most like my dog when I beats him, and I have the stick up to hit him again, and not a word did she say, but just stood as still as still after that doglike tremble went away. I got muddled, and at last I says, “Semantha, hav’ yer got no sponds?” She didn’t seem to see me no more, nor hear me, and I goes on louder like, “Say, Semantha! where yer goin’ to? what yer goin’ ter do now?” and, Boss, she done the toughest thing I ever seen. She jes’ slowly lifted up her hands and looked at ’em, looked good and long, like they were strange to her, and then jes’ as slow she turns ’em over, they were bare and empty, and the palms was up, and she spreads the fingers wide apart and moves ’em a bit, and then without raisin’ up her eyes, she jes’ smiles a little slow, slow smile.
“‘And then she turned ’round and walked away without nary a word at all; but, Boss, her shoulders sagged down, and her head kind of trembled, and she dragged her feet along jes’ like an old, old woman, what was too tired to live. I was skeered like, and thought I’d come here and tell you, but I looked back to watch her. ‘Twas almost dark then, and when she came to the crossin’, the wind was blowin’ so she could hardly stand, but she stopped awhile and looked down one street, then she looked down the other street, and then she lifts up her face right to the sky the longest time of all, and so I looks up ter see was ther’ anything there; but ther’ wasn’t nothin’ but them dirty, low-hangin’ clouds as looks so rainy and so lonesome. And then right of a suddent she gives a scream; but no, not a scream, a groan and a scream together. It made my blood turn cold, I tell yer; and she trows both her empty hands out from her, and says as plain as I do now, Boss, “My God, it is too much! I cannot, cannot bear it!” Then she draw’d herself up quite tall, shut her hands tight before her, and walked as fast as feet could carry her straight toward the river.'”
And that was the last that he, my friend, had ever heard of poor Semantha. I tried to dry my falling tears, but he dried them more effectually by remarking:–
“Yes, she was a bright, promising, true-hearted girl; but you see she went wrong, and the sinner has to pay both here and hereafter.”
“Don’t,” I hotly cried. “Don’t go on! don’t! Sin? sin? Don’t hurl that word at her, the embodiment of self-sacrifice! Sin? where there is no law, there can be no sin. And who had taught her anything? She was a heathen. So far as one person can be the cause of another person’s wrong-doing, so far was Semantha’s mother the guilty cause of Semantha’s loving fall. She was a heathen. She had been taught just one law–that she was always to serve other people. That law she truly kept unto the end. Of that great book, the Bible, closely packed with all sustaining promises, she knew naught. I tell you the only Bible she ever held within her hand was that mimic one of marble her father carved for me. She was a heathen. Of that all-enduring One–‘chief among ten thousand and altogether lovely,’ for whom there was no thing too small to love, no sin too great to pardon–she knew nothing. Even that woman who with wide-open, lustrous eyes had boldly broken every law human and divine, yet was forgiven her uncounted sins, because of her loving faith and true repentance, Semantha knew not of, nor of repentance nor its necessity, nor its power.
“Let her alone! I say, she was a heathen. But even so, God made her. God placed her; and if she fell by the wayside in ignorance, she _did not_ fall from the knowledge of her Maker.”