The Ambition of MacIlhenny
After mentioning that last name it seems like rank waste of time to say his first name was Sandy. He couldn’t help it, his parents couldn’t help it, no one could help it; one name follows the other naturally.
Well, then, being Sandy MacIlhenny, of course he was Scotch. I mention it for mere form’s sake, as you knew it beforehand, just as you knew what his first name was. But, fortunately for us all, he had lived in America so many years that he had lost or thrown away his dialect, and the only thing in his speech that could suggest his native heath was the marked preference for the letter “u” instead of “i” in whisky, (and I think, myself, “whusky” has a more filling sound) and a “burring,” a b’r’r’r to his “r’s,” as though a very large, bewildered “bumble-bee” were blundering about the end of his broad tongue, and then bumping back to the roof of his mouth.
Poor MacIlhenny’s life was a tragedy, and yet it was played, to the very last act, to an accompaniment of jeers and laughter—not malicious, not bitter, but simple, thoughtless laughter.
A description of his personal appearance might, I think, go a good way toward explaining the cause of that general laughter. Had he been simply ugly, all had been well—there’s nothing injurious in ugliness; it may even be a power. He was worse thanthat. In our English language there is a word that may have been created at the very moment of Sandy’s birth, for the express use of those wishing to describe him perfectly but briefly—that word is “grotesque.”
He was tall, very tall, with a sudden, rounding droop of the shoulders that gave him the look of a button-hook or interrogation point, while his thickness through the body was about that of a choice, salt codfish. If he was furnished with the usual number of internal organs they must have been pressed like autumn leaves in a dictionary, or else he did not wear them all at one time; that’s how thin he was. Then he was the only tall man I ever saw pacing through life on bowed-legs. No, not knock-kneed! Sandy’s legs were bowed to a roundness that let one see, at a glance, just how a picture of certain portions of the landscape would look in a perfectly round frame. No man on earth could command respect while standing on a pair of legs like Sandy’s, unless they were concealed beneath the protecting petticoat of church or college. He had very high cheek-bones, across which the skin was drawn so tightly that they looked like a pair of unexpected knuckles. His chin was long and straight, without the slightest indentation or curve about it. His nose shared in the general lengthiness and was thin and pointed, while, owing to the narrowness of his entire structural plan, each small, greenish-blue eye turned inwardly and gazed with fixed resentment at the intervening bridge that seemed to be crowding them.
And these cruelly crossed eyes made MacIlhenny a veritable joy to the street boys, who would follow him, performing warlike dances, and then rush before him and wait at street corners with ostentatiously crossed forefingers between which they gravely spat to avert the ill-luck his glance might put upon them.
Poor man! In no limb, no feature had he been spared—so that the final touch of common, coarse ugliness was found in the shining baldness of the top of his head, and the little flounce of brick-red hair with which he seemed to be modestly trying to cover its startling nudity.
With such a body to dwell in, one can hardly wonder that his mind should become distorted and develop only in one direction, as it were, and such a direction, for the ambition of MacIlhenny, this poor, cross-eyed, bowlegged Scotchman of the lower laboring class—this excellent cutter of stone, was to be the greatesttragic-actorof his day!
Nor was his ambition of the mere “I wish I were!” or “I would like to be!” order. It was a devouring passion.
A strong word, “devouring,” but since Webster says it means, among other things, “to consume ravenously, to prey upon, to swallow up, to appropriate greedily,” it is the right word, for his mad ambition, even in its beginning, appropriated greedily all his small savings, all his spare time. It consumed his sense of duty toward his wife—he had no sense of theridiculous to consume. It preyed upon his heart as well as his mind, and finally it swallowed up his very life.
Many of the old acting plays he knew by heart, had memorized literally from cover to cover, while his knowledge of Shakespeare’s unacted plays was greater than most actors’ knowledge of the acting ones. Quite naturally he was given over to the habit of quoting, in season and out of season, and it was an indulgence in this habit that brought the stonecutter into touch with the actors of the city.
There was a saloon not far from the theatre, and MacIlhenny, being at work near by, went in one noon for his mid-day beer. There was a party of actors there eagerly discussing the morning news of the death of one of their profession, a very well known and successful actor. Now, as they all knew, one of this party had been the envious enemy of the dead man, and now, instead of a respectful silence, they were astonished to see him assuming deep grief. There was a great pulling of moustaches and exchanging of glances, but no one replied, and the hypocrite burst out again, first with fulsome praise, and then with exaggerated expressions of sorrow. The last word was barely spoken, when a voice with a burr in it gravely and most distinctly remarked: “The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow!”
There was an instant of surprised silence, in which every one recognized the exquisite fitness of the quotation,and then a roar of laughter—another and another! Many beers were thrust upon the Scotch stonecutter, who knew his Shakespeare so well—and—and—oh! poor MacIlhenny! Straightway he neglected his work; he loitered too long at his nooning. He could not tear himself away from the actors, who listened to his quotations and laughed at his antics, as children might laugh at the capers of a monkey. But MacIlhenny left them with a wild gleam in his poor, crossed eyes, with jumping, twitching muscles about his thin lips, fairly drunk with excitement.
It was on one of these occasions that he saw his landlord ahead of him in the public street—a rotund, little person who seemed to have had one story left off when he was built. He knew it, too, and tried, with piled up dignity and high silk hat, to make up the missing height. And it was to this dignified, black-croated, slow-moving, old gentleman that MacIlhenny roared: “Turn, hell-hound, turn! Turn, I say! I want to hand you me month’s rent and save a trip to your house to-morrow!”
That was one of his out of season quotations, for the dignified old party was no hell-hound, but MacIlhenny had just been discussing Macbeth, and showing how poorly Mr. Booth understood that character, admitting that the “laddie did his best, and meant well, still he (MacIlhenny) was the one man living who had gotinsidethe part”!
Well along in the season, one of the actors was totake a benefit, and as he was not much of a favorite with the public, he was greatly worried about arranging an attractive “bill.” Perhaps I should say that when one takes “a benefit” the fact is announced on the theatre’s bills. The “beneficiary” has the privilege of selecting the play for that special performance, and on that one night, he or she receives one-half, or one-third of the gross receipts of the house, by which he is benefited (perhaps), hence the term, “To take a benefit!”
A couple of weeks before, at the “leading” man’s benefit, there had been several volunteers, among them the manager’s young daughter, who sang for him, and in MacIlhenny’s presence, the worried actor was mourning because there was no one to volunteer to assist him, when up rose Sandy MacIlhenny and offeredhisservices. Those who were farthest away writhed in quiet laughter, while those who were near him suffered silently. In that silence the stonecutter read dread of a rival, and he hastened to dispel all anxiety by saying, soothingly: “Don’t misunderstand me, young man! You have nothing to fear! I do not ask to play a ‘part’ in your play—since the public could then have neither eye nor ear for any man but me—and I’d not extinguish anyone’s light on his benefit—but I’ll do a recitation or a reading-like, for you—so ‘Put money in thy purse, Cassio,’ and not injure your standing as an actor!”
It was a trying moment. They liked the funny, oldchap, and did not wish to hurt his feelings—but good Heavens! the idea of turning him loose before an audience! Again came the voice of MacIlhenny, with the inevitable quotation: “Why whisper you—and answer not, my lords?”
A laugh followed, and the tormented actor asked: “Well, Sandy man, what on earth do you propose to read or recite?”
“Why,” answered he, “since you will be doing a tragedy, and I have no wish to outshine you in any way, I’ll just give them the ‘Trial Scene’ from ‘Pickwick.’”
Through the storm of merriment that followed one or two voices cried: “Let him do it! Let him do it! It will be great!” And just then, at the glass door of the saloon, a tall, gaunt woman appeared. She was one of that body of black-bombazine women who are never ragged, but are always rusty—who all appear of the same age, as they all seem to have passed with reluctant feet their fiftieth birthday. She tapped with a black cotton forefinger on the glass, and MacIlhenny went to her at once, and spoke with her a few moments—and one exclaimed: “The Two Dromios!” For indeed had it not been for her straight eyes, she might have been Sandy’s twin. When he returned some one said: “Your wife, MacIlhenny?”
“Aye,” he said, “aye—and though I don’t claim she’s a beauty, yet ‘I’ll give no blemish to her honor—none!’” At which they howled with delight, andwhen they were tired of pounding one another, the voice arose again: “Let him go on—oh, let him go on!” and another added: “Yes, let him go on, just to see how many he’ll kill before he gets off again!”
And so it happened that Sandy MacIlhenny, stonecutter by the grace of God, became, by the cruel whim of man, an actor, and was duly announced on the “benefit-bills” to read the “Trial Scene” from “Pickwick.”
Alas, “those whom the Gods will destroy, they first make mad!” It is an ancient promise, and so truly was it kept with this their chosen victim, that on the dark and fatal night that was the beginning of the end for him, poor MacIlhenny saw the radiant dawn of a superb success.
The night came, and a fairly good-sized audience was present. Sandy’s reading was placed between the first and second plays, and a more ludicrous figure never appeared before the public. By some mysterious process he had forced his widely bowed-legs into a pair of very narrow, straight-cut trousers. They were of an unsympathetic nature, and as he wore low-cut shoes, they basely betrayed about two inches of white, womany-looking stockings, thus giving a strong suggestion of impropriety to his whole “make-up.”
His “wescut,” as he called it, he had brought, as he proudly declared, from Scotland, and the actors, as with one voice, had cried: “It looks the part, Sandy, it looks it!”
It was a short-waisted, low-necked vest of a plaid (of course) of red and green and blue and yellow, and the greatest of these was red, and it was velvet, and it had two crowded rows of shining, brass buttons. With quite unnecessary candor, his shirt proclaimed, through dragging wrinkle and straggling band, that it was of domestic manufacture; while an ancient black satin stock nearly choked the life out of him. And his hair—oh, Sandy, Sandy! His wife had curled it on a very small iron, and had then drawn the comb through it, thus setting it a-flying in a wild, red fuzz on whose edges the gaslight glittered, until he looked like some absurd, old Saint with his halo falling off backward!
As this figure of fun appeared, there was a ripple of laughter, and in a few minutes—in the expressive slang of to-day—the audience were “on” to him. The laughter grew and grew—and then that strangestrainof cruelty, that has come down to us from our ancient barbaric forefathers, and is so much easier to arouse in a crowd than in a single individual, was all alive. They thought they recognized a victim, and they rose to the occasion. Theybaitedhim; they bombarded him with satirical applause; they demanded certain passages over again; they addressed him as Mr. Buz-fuz, and they had just reached the point of throwing things when the reading ended.
As MacIlhenny had no sense of the ridiculous, he could not distinguish the difference between beinglaughedatand being laughedwith, so it was all like fragrant incense to him, and he came off the stage, his crossed eyes blazing at the bridge of his nose, on each cheek bone a spot of scarlet and a burr on his tongue that made his first words of triumph utterly incomprehensible to those about him. Two of us there were who drew aside, and pitying him, spoke him fair and respectfully, but the others, meaning no harm, carrying on a jest, congratulated him extravagantly, and when he went out from the theatre that night the promise of the gods had been fulfilled, for MacIlhenny was literally mad!
He never did another stroke of work. His kit of tools became strangers to him. He touched chisel and mallet but once more, and that was when he pawned them that he might buy a play-book, and a little bread, with which to quiet for a moment the two devils who tormented him, one gnawing in his brain, the other at his stomach.
In going to and from the theatre I passed the tiny, three-roomed cottage the MacIlhennys occupied, and morning and evening I could hear his high, rasping voice declaiming, ranting, pouring forth pages of old plays, while through the window I could see him brandishing a poker for a sword, and wildly rumpling his little, red flounce of hair whenever he pronounced a curse—whether he was Lear or Richelieu or Sir Giles, it mattered not, he dragged all curses from the roots of his thin, red hair.
Poor Mrs. Sandy had descended from her formerstate of bombazine, and was daily seen in black cotton, going out to jobs of washing or office-cleaning, so her neighbors told me. And once, when they missed her comfortable blanket-shawl and noticed that she shivered through the streets in an old Stella shawl, which was a creation of thin cashmere meant for summer only, they rashly spoke the sympathy they felt, and their condemnation of MacIlhenny’s course.
It was the first time and likewise it was every other time, including thelasttime they so presumed. She listened in stony silence, and then with bitter pride and icy resentment in every look and word, she demanded: “What else shall my man do? Is it for the like of him to be pounding stone forever, and he the finest actor-man in all the world to-day?”
Now Mrs. MacIlhenny was a Presbyterian of a blueness like unto indigo, and of a narrowness inconceivable—who have never in her life entered a theatre. Therefore it was but natural that one of the surprised women should ask: “But how do you know that?” And she made answer—oh! loving, loyal, old Scottish wife—with withering scorn and infinite conviction: “Why, has the man na’ telled me so hissel’?” and so went her hard way.
For many weeks MacIlhenny had made the manager’s life a burden to him—asking, praying, demanding an engagement. “Why, man,” he would say, “did you not see the public at my very feet—did you not hear their acclamations, and you know rightwell that in the absence of garlands and flowers they would have tossed to me anything their hands came upon? What are you afraid of? The enmity of your wee bit stars! I’ll see that you suffer no loss!”
Then steady disappointment told upon him. His temper began to change—he grew sullen, suspicious, and began to tell strange tales of being followed at night by certain actors—generally stars. No man could call Sandy MacIlhenny a sponge or beat. When he reached the point where he could not extend a general invitation to those present to drink—he ceased to share in the general invitations of others. And when he could no longer pay his own footing, he no longer entered the saloon, but loitered outside to talk to the actors. Imagining things were not well with him, the actor for whom MacIlhenny had read asked him to accept some payment, but with ever-ready quotation, Sandy refused, gravely repeating: “There’s none can truly say he gives—if he receives!”
Then even the outside visits grew far apart, and through my passing of his door I was the only one who knew anything of him, and I knew so little, dear Heaven! so little! Only that he studied, rehearsed, declaimed! I did not know how many,manydays passed without bringing Mrs. Sandy any job of work, and their pride-sealed lips made no complaint. The old Scotch couple were not unlike a pair of sharp, old razors—perfectly harmless if left alone in their own case, but very unsafe things for general handling—andso in the midst of plenty, they suffered the pangs—the gnawing pangs—of hunger for weary days and wearier nights, and no one knew!
One spring-like day, as I passed the cottage—the window being raised—I heard MacIlhenny’s voice at some distance, and recognized the lines of Woolsey in Henry VIII.: “Had I but served my God, with half the zeal that I have served—have served—,” he stopped—so did I. Some change in his voice held me! What was it? It was weak and husky, to be sure; but there was something else, some force, some thrill, some strange quality. Again the voice rose: “Had I but served my God with half the zeal that I have served—have served—,” almost unconsciously I gave the words, “My King,” and he, without even turning his face, took it up, saying “Aye, aye! ‘My King—he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies!’” and he laughed. As I hurried on, in all my nerves there was a creeping fear, for in his voice I had felt the subtle difference between ranting andraving—had felt the man was mad! And that very morning an actor mentioned him, saying he had seen him in liquor. “Oh, no,” I answered, “MacIlhenny never drinks!”
“Well,” insisted the actor, “when a man staggers in his walk and talks to himself on the public street, it looks as if he had been drinking too much rye.” And another standing by, laughingly said: “Perhaps the old chap has eaten too little, instead of drinking too much!”
Such cruel truths are sometimes said in jest. A few days later, having only to appear in the farce, I was quite late in going to the theatre, and as I neared the cottage, I saw lamplight streaming from its window, and heard Sandy reciting, as usual. But there was some other noise. His words, too, came in gusts and gasps, and I said to myself: “Why, that sounds exactly like two men rehearsing a combat for Richard or Macbeth!” The cottage was flush with the sidewalk and, as I came opposite the window, I could not help looking in, and there I stood and stared, for in the center of the room old Sandy and his wife were struggling desperately for the possession of a hatchet which he held! “Sandy!” she cried, “Sandy!” and all the time Macbeth’s lines poured from his lips: “They have tied me to a stake!” Almost he wrenched himself free from her: “I cannot fly, and bear-like, I must fight the course!”
At that moment his wife tore the hatchet from his hand and flung it across the room. He plunged forward to recover it, but in a twinkling she had a grip upon his arms just above each elbow, and next moment she had shoved him into the chair close to the window, and leaning over him, in spite of his writhings, held him tight.
She must have felt my gaze, for suddenly she turned her white face and saw me. Into her eyes there came both fear and furious anger, and then, without loosing her hold for one moment on Sandy’s arms, she thrusther face forward, and catching the shade between her teeth, she fiercely dragged it down! And though the rebuff was sharp as a blow in the face, yet for a moment more I stood staring, and saw on the white shade a black shadow-woman bending over and holding fast a shadow-man, and, as a kaleidoscope responds to a touch, at a single movement these shadows blurred, parted, joined again, and this time, though she still held him close, the shadow-woman was on her knees, and her head was on the breast of the shadow-man!—and ashamed to have watched so long, I hurried away and said to myself: “To-morrow I will go there, and sharp words shall not drive me away, until I learn by what route help can reach them!”
Next day I stood and rapped and rapped, but no one answered to my rapping. The house was very quiet, the room seemed empty, but when I carefully looked I saw a little smoke rising from the chimney. The following day the shade was down—I saw no smoke—but I was obstinate, and I went around to the back door and knocked there, and was instantly met by a white-faced “fury!”
“So,” she cried, “you have come to spy for them! Well, take them the news! Their work is done! They have no one now to fear—he’s gone! He that was greater than them all! Come!” dragging me by main force into the room and to the bed-room door: “See for yourself how he lies there, dead of slow starvation!” One forced glance I gave at the long, long, rigid outlineon the bed, but even that forced glance caught, mockingly peeping from under the dead man’s pillow, a yellow-covered play-book.
Wrenching myself away from the sight, I turned, and putting my arms about her trembling, old body, I held her close and said: “Oh, you poor wife! you poor, poor wife!”
She stood within my circling arms quite still for an instant, then suddenly her hard face broke into convulsive weeping. She thrust me from her, gasping: “Don’t—don’t! I say!” and fled to him, while I rushed from the house bearing my ill-news.
Everyone was shocked, and one was wounded, that Sandy had not asked his help. He did not understand the sturdy pride of the old pair who accepted nothing they had not earned and asked of the world but one thing, and that was a decent privacy to suffer in.
Three of the actors went at once to the house, the one who had felt hurt, a gentle and kindly soul, acting as spokesman. They offered help to her and burial for Sandy, but they were met with such invective and imprecation as fairly stunned them, and though, by their secret help, they later on saved poor MacIlhenny from the Potter’s Field, they were compelled to beat a retreat before his frenzied widow.
With bitter sarcasm she invited one to enter and “bring a brush and see if he could find in that house one crumb of bread!” She told them exactly “how manyweeks a man could live upon a kit of tools pawned one by one;” she reviled them as “thieves” for stealing her husband’s “great thoughts and ideas of acting;” jeered at them for “cowards,” that they had not “dared to stab him,” though they had “dogged his steps with evil intent many a dark night;” hailed them as “hypocrites,” because they hid their joy and, pretending grief, came here and offered “decent burial”—and as they slowly withdrew, she stood upon her doorstep and called after them: “Hypocrites! hypocrites! You starved him to slow death—and he was broken-hearted!”
The word seemed to catch her own ear. She paused—slowly she repeated, “broken-hearted!” Then suddenly she caught the clue—flung her gaunt arms wide—she lifted her tortured eyes to the sky, and with a burst of bitter triumph, cried: “But a broken and contrite heart, O God, shalt Thou not despise!”
And hearing that splendid declaration—that so thrills with hope!—those who had all unintentionally worked her woe, bowed their heads and breathed a quick—Amen!