CHAPTER XXIV.THE CATASTROPHE.
To die mid flame and smoke!—Halleck
To die mid flame and smoke!—Halleck
To die mid flame and smoke!—Halleck
To die mid flame and smoke!—Halleck
Heaven knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor. Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and industrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little or no employment—at most of the houses where she applied she was told that—“We never give out needle-work,” or that, “The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy habit, when it does not compromise justice and mercy—when it does not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be different in our several callings; but for Heaven’s sake, if we can possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to those who need, or who ask it of us. They may be suffering for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader, this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was Zuleime’s casethena solitary one. Nor would it be suchnow. There are many poor women, in every city, who have not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And this is one of the causes:—There are hundreds of ladies, of the middle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for themselves and children, more genteel than needful; or infurniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them suffering for a part of this very work with whichtheyare killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of innutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from month to month, or from year to year, according to their relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I think it is rathernon-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter, and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her personal appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, bright, hungry looking eyes—her hands wasted to semi-transparency. Her only gown, her black bombazine, was rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon even this account. The present was wretched—the future hopeless. She had heard of people perishing from cold and hunger, and to such an end she thought her life seemed tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime, there were many then, are many now, in much worse situations. She at least was starving in a tolerably clean room, in privacy and in peace. Far happier than some who perish in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes, reader, there are such things; theydoexist in my neighborhood, and yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes be remembered. Zuleime was dying of want. And did the people of the house know nothing of this? Yes, they knew something of it, and her German landlord trembled for his rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor thing, and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight saw it all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor, dying girl, all the work she had to give, and paid her for doing it as liberally as she could afford. But Mrs. Knight was not able, from her scanty salary, to keep up her expensive, professional wardrobe, and support two families besides. The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for the poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her head that bitter weather, and to supply the daily two pence worth of milk for the child. If a few pence were left over,they were spent in cheap pilot bread, sparingly eaten by herself. For weeks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would manage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back window of her room. When she had work, she would sit by this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the bed. When she had no work, she would still sit there and rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while. Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with its large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the south window. She found room in her burdened heart to love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river landscape, with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer, lying between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a fair mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river. That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was separated from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back alley, then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and conservatory, and so up to the Venetian back piazza of the mansion. Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and magnificent trees, and the palace-home in the midst, a picture of beauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refinement, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to look for work, she had walked quite around the square to get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the architectural beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and afine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her of her dear, lost home. Everything connected with the premises interested her, even that capacious family carriage, with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coachman, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the house on the other street, she had seen a lady in deep mourning come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servant, to whom she communicated her business. He called a waiting-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work was done by a young person, who lived companion to her mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest than ever.
Truly the worldis“full of paper walls.” How little Zuleime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste—that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn countenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank; that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its pleasure-grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that rested on her wasted bosom.
How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than adamant.
Upon that very same December night that found Mrs. Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. Andshe had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was intensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb, and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow-clad ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came a gentle knock at her door.
“Who is there?” inquired Zuleime.
“It is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress.
“Come in, Mrs. Knight.”
The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact—
“Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there is a light burning.Isshe asleep?”
“Yes,” replied Zuleime.
“Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about.”
Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weakness, from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress down stairs.
Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm coal fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set out, with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat, saying—
“I have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night, because the opera troupe are here. And so I thought I would just celebrate its commencement by a supper and a ball for two!” And she placed before her visitor a plate of oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, “I did not send for you, only to take coffee with me—I wished to speak to you on a matter of business. I have been wishing some time to do so, but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offending you.” She paused.
“Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear—I knowyoucould not think of anything to say which would—
“At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will forgive me.”
“Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity against which a woman has to break her heart and spirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything your kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grateful!”
“Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely made five shillings a week.”
“I have not made that for the last month.”
“And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with your needle, I mean.”
“Ah, no, no.”
“And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me—I have spoken rudely.”
“No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth can be told in the spirit of love.”
“And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon your sick bed—then what will become of your child?”
“Alas, God knows! If we both could die—”
“Yes, if you bothcould. Death is no evil at all.” As the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the door—fixed in an intense, suffering, almost querulous gaze—as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,” she said, looking up, suddenly. “My dear, have you any insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?”
Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before her, without replying.
“You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you absolutely refuse to go upon the stage?”
Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wound the spirit of the actress.
“Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputable?”asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, almost cross expression of the eyes.
“No,” said Zuleime, very gently, “I do not. Not the profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think it truly
“‘The youngest of the sister arts,Where all their beauties blend.’”
“‘The youngest of the sister arts,Where all their beauties blend.’”
“‘The youngest of the sister arts,Where all their beauties blend.’”
“‘The youngest of the sister arts,
Where all their beauties blend.’”
“Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on the stage yourself?”
“I am not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively.
“I do not know that. I need not tell you that you are young and pretty, and singularly graceful—nor that you have a very fine voice for singing—these form a very good foundation. And in elocution, my dear, I would myself become your instructress. What say you?”
“That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime said, very gently.
“But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly.
“No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite!”
“Why not?”
“I was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used tosociety, much less topublicity, and I am sure, that no matter how well I might be instructed in my part, when I should come before an audience, I should forget all about it, and half die of shame.”
“Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress forgets her own identity in that of the character she represents, and that enables her to go through things she could not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do not see anything else you can do; and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it is called among us, you would soon get that off.”
Zuleime shook her head.
“My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. I never thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand debut foryou. Nothing but great genius, strong vocation, and perfect self-possession on the part of thedebutante, would justify such a thing. No—the art must be acquired, as other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for you, and it entirely precludes the possibility of a stage fright,since you are gradually inured to it. Do you understand me, now?”
“No, I do not!”
“Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The opera season is about to commence, and the manager wishes to engage about half a dozen young girls as chorus singers. Will you be one? The lowest salary they ever give a chorus singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as much as you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent?”
Still Zuleime was silent.
“After the opera season is over, I make no doubt that your youth, beauty and grace, and your very fine voice, will secure you a permanent engagement at an advanced salary. Will you go with me to the manager to-morrow?”
“No,” said Zuleime, “I should not dare to go upon the stage. I could not face an audience.”
“And you need not face them! You would be in a group of young girls, and no one would notice you, except casually as a part of the scenery. The attention of the audience is taken up with the principal performers. Besides, no one will know who you are. Your name need not appear upon the bills. I will take every care of your feelings, if, indeed, you can be sensible of them when hunger and cold are felt.”
“I do not like the life,” said Zuleime. “I had almost as willingly starve.”
The actress arose and rung the bell.
“Oh! it is nothing to me, Mrs. Fairfax. Do as you please. I have no earthly interest to serve in persuading you to this step,” she said, with the old, cross, querulous look on her haggard face, and in her beautiful dark, gray eyes.
Bertha came in and cleared away the table.
Mrs. Knight walked up and down the room in a hasty. irritated manner.
“I wish I was at work again! I am sick of my holyday already! Since I cannot afford to abandon this hateful art, I wish I were always delving at it, and there came no pause for self-recollection. I wish I were perpetually Queen Katherine, Mrs. Haller, Isabella, Imogene, Lady Macbeth, Bianca Fazio, and the others, going incessantly through the circle like the earth through the signs of the zodiac. I wish I were always somebody else, anybody else than poor Ida Knight.” And she threw herself into a chair, glancing at Zuleime with a strained, appealing, accusing look. But thewan face of the dying girl, with its hectic flush, smote the rock in her heart, and she moved to her side and took her hand and said, gently, though with the same tone and look of querulous suffering. “Itisa wretched life! I feel it so—only it is not so bad as starving, and seeing your child starve. My dear, itissomething to me whether I persuade you to do this thing or not. I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Your necessities weigh upon my heart in addition to my own. And really,” she added, with the same frowning, irritated look, “really, I have such a burden of my own, that I grow restive under a feather of anybody else’s.”
“Then do not take my sorrows on your shoulders, dear lady; I can bear them myself, or die under their weight uncomplainingly. Do not take my troubles to heart!” said Zuleime, gently.
The actress looked up with a sharp, rebuking glance, saying—
“As if I could help it! You are not sincere when you ask me to do so! No, the only way I can get your griefs off my heart is to get them off your own. I must get you intolivingcircumstances. I must persuade you to go on the stage with me. It is not a pleasant profession for a lady, I grant you—neither is freezing or starving, and getting into debt and being dunned and rebuffed, pleasant—but—” she added, with a look of almost fierce self-assertion and self-defence—“neither is it actuallysinful, that I know of. It necessarily transgresses no command of God with which I am acquainted. One need not be a heathen because she is an actress. Mrs. Siddons was a member in full communion with the Church of England. The stage has its dangers, I grant you, but you may safely pass through them, if you please. I have done so! I was not born or brought up to that life, my dear; I was the daughter of an English country curate—then a nursery governess—then a traveling companion to an earl’s daughter—then I accidentally met with my husband, and we married from mutual affection. He was a tragedian—that is the way in which I became an actress. Now I follow the histrionic profession as the only means of living left open to me. I have seen the dangers—nay, I havefeltthem. But nightly—no matter how utterly wearied out with toil I may have been, I have uttered two lines of sincere prayer, that God would keep me from falling into deeper sin. And He has kept me! Does that surprise you? God is the God of thepublican as well as of the Pharisee. Who dares excommunicate me? What child of the Universal Father shall dare to say that another is excluded from His love and care and protection? Verily, the day of Judgment will be a day of startling revelations. And many that are first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” And then the actress fell into silence, and her fine countenance lost that look of captious self-defence, and settled into meditative earnestness.
Zuleime arose to go. Mrs. Knight took her hand, and said, gently—
“My dear, think over what I have proposed to you. If you decide to accept my proposition, I will take every possible care of you. You shall be as my own daughter. I will shield you from all dangers. I will instruct you in your art. And I will give you the freedom of my wardrobe. Good-night. Will you kiss me?”
And she drew Zuleime to her bosom. The poor girl pressed her lips to those of the actress, and slipping through the door, passed up in the dark and cold to her own room.
Ida went to bed, but the poor, generous, irritable woman could not sleep for sympathy, for anxiety, and for the sound of Zuleime’s racking cough. “She will never be able to sing much, I am really afraid. But she shall be paid well for dressing, and for making her beautiful face and form a part of the pageantry—that I am determined upon, if I have any influence with the management,” thought Ida, as she sank to sleep.
Rusty and threadbare clothing, broken shoes, cold, hunger, and a suffering child, are forcible arguments, and they seconded the persuasions of Ida with tremendous power.
Zuleime yielded, and was carried down the current of fate as easily, with as little resistance as the sapling beaten down by the rain, uprooted by the wind, and carried off by the flood, is whirled down the stream.
It was the fatal night of the 26th of December, 1811, the night of the burning of the Richmond Theatre, a night ever to be remembered in the annals of that city, and ever to be mourned in the hearts of her citizens. That evening more than six hundred lovers of pleasure were gayly preparing for the theatre; not dreaming, alas! that they also were doomed to take fearful part in an awful tragedy—atragedy unprecedented in the history of the stage. Before eight o’clock, more than six hundred persons, from pleasant city homes all around, assembled in the fated building; before twelve o’clock, more than one hundred had perished horribly in the flames! and the scarcely surviving five hundred, many wounded, maimed, or burned, all despairingly mourning the awful fate of nearest relatives and friends, returned or were borne back to their desolate homes!
That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others, Zuleime and her friend were preparing to go on the stage. Zuleime had no part to perform—she was as yet only an attaché—and was to appear but in one scene, as one of a group of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a peasant dress, consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray skirt, and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part. But the eyes of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she heard that hacking, racking cough, and she noticed with pain the waning face. Yes! within a few days even, the thin face had become perceptibly thinner, and the flushed cheek burned with a darker crimson. “And she will make a sorry looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with that delicate, spiritual, almost ærial face and form of hers. How absurdly inappropriate are most of the affairs we get up! Truly, our art is in the rear of all others. Now, this evening, all go on as villagers—vulgar and refined—all reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss Butchers, and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well for the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleime! To-morrow evening all go on as faries; excellent well for this ærial Zuleime, but for the Miss Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as arbitrary—and there may be peasants who have delicate, white, semi-transparent fingers, and there may be faries with large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we know.” While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white satin shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on also in silence, but too despairing, too exhausted, even to think of the wayward fate which had brought her to this pass.
At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida, as usual, rang for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and packed up and sent away the costume for the evening. Then she put her own little girl and Zuleime’s child to sleep togetherin her bed, and got Bertha to promise to look in, in the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own mantilla, and wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in answer to all expostulation—
“Never mindme, my dear! I’ve got no cough. Haggard as I look, I’m whit-leather!Youmust take care of your poor little self.”
And then they left the house, walking briskly through the biting air, and crunching the crusted snow under their quick footsteps. Though but little after sunset, owing to the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when they hurried along the streets. There was the usual number of foot-passengers abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm suddenly grasped with spasmodic force by her companion, and turning around, she saw the face of Zuleime deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear child?”
“Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; “let us hurry on.”
“But you are trembling like an aspen leaf! You have walked too far—you are not strong enough for this evening’s work; let me take you home again.”
“No, no, no, no! let’s go on!”
“Why, Zuleime—”
“Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt the presence of one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy, or perhaps the prescience of one on the confines of the unseen world. Let us hasten on.”
They hurried along. In the meantime, he who had passed them, the slight man in the military cloak, walked on down the square, suddenly stopped, muttered to himself, “Absurd! impossible!” then went on again, again stopped, as by an irresistible impulse, turned and rapidly retraced his steps, after the two ladies in black, overtook them, was close behind them, but not placing any confidence in what he termed his own wild thoughts, he dared not accost or peep under the bonnets of two reserved and closely veiled women. But he kept them in sight until he saw them enter the side door of the theatre. Then he asked a door-keeper—
“Who are those?”
“Two of the ladies attached to the theatre,” replied the man.
“Fool that I was!” exclaimed Frank Fairfax, as he turned away.
Captain Fairfax had reached Richmond that day at noon—too late, by half a day, for the stage to L——, whither he would have gone, if possible, on the wings of the wind. His mother, warned by the newspapers, had been daily expecting his arrival, and was prepared to receive him when he presented himself. He had spent the whole afternoon with her at Fairview House, and in the evening had walked out to book his place in the next day’s stage for L——. It was when hurrying along on that errand, that he passed so near his wife, electrifying her with his unknown presence, and being himself drawn to follow, and to hover near her all the evening. For when he had turned from the theatre, and hurried on and reached the stage office and secured his place, finding out that the coach did not start till three o’clock the next morning, he said to himself—
“How on earth shall I contrive to forget some of these miserable hours that must intervene before I can fly to my wife? My mother’s ill-health obliges her to retire early to bed. If I go back to Fairview House, I shall have the whole mansion to myself. I will even go to the theatre, and see if I can find out among the women there the particular one whose air and gait reminded me so strongly of my Zuleime.”
And so to the theatre he went. It was quite early, and he was fortunate in securing a seat in the centre of the first row of boxes, immediately in front of the stage. In the meantime, Zuleime had been conducted by Mrs. Knight into the theatre, and introduced into the common dressing-room of the stock actresses. This was a large room, with a broad shelf or dresser running around three sides of the walls, and about four feet from the floor. This served as bureaus, dressing-tables, and wash-stands for nine women, each of the three sides being occupied by three, who equally divided the shelf, each one having her hand-boxes under the shelf, and her looking-glass on top of it, leaning against the wall, and her wash-basin, jars of rouge, boxes of powder, pots of pomatum, etc., standing around it. On introducing her companion into this apartment, Mrs. Knight said—
“All women belonging to the theatre use this as a common dressing-room, except the ballet girls, who have one tothemselves, and the stars, who have separate and well furnished rooms.”
About half a dozen women were present now, each before her own glass, with her own tallow candle, making her toilet.
“Who’s that, Knight, that you’ve got there?” asked a coarse-featured, black-eyed girl, who always played the hoyden, or the wit, and fondly believed herself a proficient in the Rosalind and Beatrice line. “I say, Knight! is that the young ‘lady?’” she repeated, turning around with a little wad of raw cotton, dipped in carmine, between her finger and thumb, and exhibiting a face in process of being rejuvenated—namely, with one young and blooming cheek, and one prematurely old and sallow.
“Yes, this is the young lady, Barry,” said Mrs. Knight, very gravely, as she led her protégé off to her own corner of the common dresser.
“I think she might have sent her down with the ballet girls, as she is really one of them,” grumbled a large, important looking female, arranging a huge turban and curls upon her head, at the farther end of the room. Two new ideas besides that of the common dressing-room and the dressing shelf in general, Zuleime had got—namely, first, that there really was some very lofty notions of rank and exclusiveness even among the members of the stock company of a second rate theatre—secondly, that they really, after all, did not differ much in that or any other respect from people she had met in very high society, except, indeed, that they had the odious habit of calling each other “Knight” or “Barry,” as men do, without a prefix of any sort.
Mrs. Knight dressed herself for her part, as she was to appear in the early scene in the play, and then gave the use of her toilet nook to Zuleime. But the cold walk through the evening air, and the standing in the chilly dressing-room, had so increased her cough, that Mrs. Knight went out and sent a call-boy for opium, and administered a dose. It was under the influence of that stupefier that Zuleime, leaning on the arm of Mrs. Knight, entered that terra-incognita, the green-room. It was a long room, papered, curtained, carpeted, furnished with sofas and easy-chairs, and warmed by a fine coal fire—upon the whole it differed in no other respect than its motley crowd, from a large family parlor. Mrs. Knight conducted her to a corner of the sofa nearestthe fire, and leaving her sitting there, obeyed the call-boy’s summons, and went upon the stage. Composed into a dreamy state by the opium, Zuleime sat there while the strange scene, with its fantastical crowd, passed before her like the phantasmagoria of a midnight dream. And all this time Frank sat in the centre box of the front row, not seeing the play enacting before him—not thinking of it, only seeing the turnpike road to L——. Only thinking of the dearest girl in the world, whom he should meet at the end of his journey. Paper walls again!
Zuleime remained in the corner of the sofa near the fire in the green-room, not thinking at all, not even dreaming, only conscious in a vague dreamy way, that a strange vision, changing and changing like figures in the kaleidoscope, was passing before her. She was scarcely aroused by Mrs. Knight’s gentle voice, saying in her ear—
“Come, my dear, it is time for you to go on now. Come, don’t be afraid. Bless you, you are nobody, you know. No one will look at you. You will be only one of a group that forms a sort of back-ground to the scene. Come, I will go with you to the side entrance, where the others stand.”
Zuleime obeyed mechanically, and was led, between various walls of canvas, to a side entrance, at which were grouped a number of persons in villagers’ costume.
“There, just go on with the crowd, and stand there, that is all you have to do,” whispered Mrs. Knight, as she left her.
And at the same moment the group moved on, carrying the somnolent Zuleime with them, and she found herself in a dazzling glare of light, and heard the deafening rant of a stentorian lunged actor near her, and grew painfully conscious of the many hundred eyes upon the scene, upon herself, perhaps—and dared not raise her eyes an instant from the floor, upon which, with a deeply burning cheek, they were fixed. But suddenly an attraction—a fatality—I know not what—but something stronger than her fear, stronger than her will, drew her glance up to the centre box of the front row, and her eyes met Frank’s eyes. Yes, there he sat, gazing at her, astonished, fixed, spell-bound as by a nightmare, without the power of moving or waking. She! she too, gazed for a moment. She was not astonished at seeing him there, any more than she would have been astonished atdreamingof seeing him anywhere. It was all likea wild dream, everything! It seemed not unnatural that he should form a part of it. Only to her weakened and half-stupefied brain, thelast, nearestevent was the most distinct—and so, strangely, she did not think of his death or life, but only of the reproach she had brought uponhim, her proud Frank, in appearing there! and covering her face with both hands, she sank to her knees upon the floor.
It was lucky the drop-curtain fell just then. It was lucky the audience took that by-scene for a part of the play. But to Zuleime it was still like a fever-dream, from which she tried to wake. Like a dream the drop-curtain had rolled down. But not like a dream was the rough seizure of her arm by a girl who set her upon her feet, and said, in a not unfriendly tone—
“What did you do that for?Thatwarn’t a part ofyourpart.”
“I—I—have,” began Zuleime, passing her hand back and forth across her forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop my cough. I—never was used to it, and I think it has bewildered me a little; don’tyouthink so?”
“I thinksomethinghas! Wake up, and try to listen to what is going on. Mr. —— is going to sing now. Come off.”
As the girl led her away between the walls of canvas, one of those insignificant incidents occurred, upon which nevertheless the fate of hundreds sometimes hang. Away among the back scenes through which they passed to reach the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring in the draught. A boy seemed busy with it.
“Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?” exclaimed one of the players, who happened to come up.
“If I do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy.
“Confound your insolence, do you think I would give you the order, if there were the least danger! Do as you are directed, sir.”
The boy obeyed; and the scenery instantly took fire. The chandelier was hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in the rear of the stage, and a scene shifter directed to cut the cords by which the combustible material was suspended. But the man became panic struck and fled.
The performers and their assistants in vain sought to take down the scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinous composition, and the draught of wind was strong; and Zuleimeand her companion were swiftly encircled by walls of blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-stricken, left her weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten by all in the terror and confusion, sank down overpowered, suffocated by the heat and smoke. All this had happened in less than three minutes from the raising of the chandelier.
And at this time one of the performers was playing near the orchestra, and the greater part of the stage, with its appalling danger, was fatally concealed from the audience by the curtain. The flames spread with the rapidity of lightning; and the first notice the audience had of their danger, was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the performer. Even then many supposed it to be a part of the play, and were for a short time restrained from flight by a cry from the stage that there was no danger. But soon the fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity horrible and appalling. Then terror seized upon the hearts of all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved. Those in the boxes, who, had they known it, mightat firsthave escaped by way of the pit, all turned and hurried towards the only door of egress into the lobby. This door was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd, who pressed and pressed against the door, trying to push it open, but really keeping it fast closed. The fire advanced upon them, filling the house with suffocating smoke, and with flame that seized the clothing of those behind, goading them horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those before. The most frightful uproar ensued; women shrieking, praying—men groaning, expostulating; all crowding one upon another, or rather hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing towards the door that would not yield. The pit was now a lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame that wound themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fell shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, anguish and despair—children crying for lost parents, and parents calling in agony upon the names of missing children—for in the fierce pushing and struggling for life, parties got separated and families divided—children forced from the parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker unconsciously thrown down and trampled to death by the strong. Many, half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; manywith their garments in flames, maddened by pain and terror, threw themselves headlong from the windows, and met another death. Many even chanced to save their lives in that way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the door yielded; and as many as possible escaped that way; but to what a life, alas! darkened forever by the memory of dearest relatives and friends who perished in the fire. The whole building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins; and around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and raved—and around these again, an awe-struck, mourning city.