BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.
BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.
He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a “first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position.
Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refusedit,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision.
I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.
Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon hisEnglish face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.
But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and his fine address added to the impression hecreated of eminent respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left with a dignified bow.
Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear usen routefor the West.
In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage, and told him I would send for it immediately.
“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my baggage.”
While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find somethingwhich might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over.
But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct thesoubrette, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house,Madame,la mere, came out and informed me that her daughter could not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without asoubrette? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars.
Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling expenses, and got into pretty good working order.
When we arrived at St. Joseph we gatheredup all our strength, and came out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we were all greatly delighted.
Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to tell of the particularrôlesin which he or she had, in days gone by, electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his petrôle, and at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh flame.
“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has never been to my mind rightly given.”
Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward to such aneffort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed.
The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable.
Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in breathless expectation.
He started out with dramatic gesture,—
“‘The man who sets his heart upon a womanIs a chameleon, and doth feed on air—On air—air—’”
“‘The man who sets his heart upon a womanIs a chameleon, and doth feed on air—On air—air—’”
“‘The man who sets his heart upon a womanIs a chameleon, and doth feed on air—On air—air—’”
“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air—
On air—air—’”
Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and hissentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance.
When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”
That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings.
He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he heldthe tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only theprinciplehe objected to; it appeared penurious.
Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.
Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at LeavenworthCity, and disbanded, scattering in all directions.
I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in contact.
M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.
Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glitteringwith sunshine. The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted their scythes.
Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes, that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— from parts unknown.
The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation Igained by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell, as I said, was tall.
And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there before. Perhaps he had walked many miles.
I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them; and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess the contents of his coat-tail pocket!
Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during ourconversation told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the circumstances my interest awakened.
A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at once for his relief.
Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent, especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One appealwas sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least relieve his present wants.
There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce, blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz. And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed himself into the one shady corner.
Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the corner.
We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s disease, as we feared, was a severeform of the typhoid fever. From the lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed.
We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of those rare persons with thedelirium tremens, who had hovered on the verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,” which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now that Boydell seemed to have friends.
Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here,in the silence of this barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild, reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression, the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago. Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made two or three efforts before he spoke.
“I am going to die—”
We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better reach us.
“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen years.”
He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself, and looked anxiously about the room.
“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no matter—but tell him I am—dead.”
He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.
All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber.
Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need. Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure them it was no imposition,I wrote if they wished to send any assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, Illinois.”
About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no business of mine.
When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the check and said,—
“Three hundred dollars?”
“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.”
He held the slip of paper in his emaciatedhands, that trembled with weakness, and repeated,—
“Three hundred dollars—”
He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window. Then he said, as if asking himself the question,—
“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?”
His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up, pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out, shook his head saying,—
“Send it back.”
The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada.
A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the shadowy prairie,which stretched away, broad, level and without bound. Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night. Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that distance I knew it was Boydell.
Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and spirits he was going out of M——. Whither?