CHAPTER V

THE “NEW MAGDALEN” AT THE UNION SQUARE_

One night at the Union Square Theatre, when the “New Magdalen” was running, we became aware of the presence of a distinguished visitor—­a certain actress from abroad.

As I looked at the beautiful woman, magnificently dressed and jewelled, I found it simply impossible to believe the stories I had heard of her frightful poverty, in the days of her lowly youth.

Her manner was listless, her expression bored; even the conversation which she frequently indulged in seemed a weariness to the flesh; while her applause was so plainly a mere matter of courtesy as almost to miss being a courtesy at all.

When, therefore, in the last act, I approached that truly dreadful five-page speech, which after a laconic “Go on!” from the young minister is continued through several more pages, I actually trembled with fear, lest her ennui should find some unpleasant outward expression.  However, I dared not balk at the jump, so took it as bravely as I could.

As I stood in the middle of the stage addressing the minister, and my lover on my left, I faced her box directly.  I can see her now.  She was almost lying in her chair, her hands hanging limply over its arms, her face, her whole body suggesting a repressed yawn.

I began, slowly the words fell, one by one, in low, shamed tones:—­

“I was just eight years old, and I was half dead with starvation.”

Her hands closed suddenly on the arms of her chair, and she lifted herself upright.  I went on:—­

“I was alone—­the rain was falling.” (She drew her great fur cloak closely about her.) “The night was coming on—­and—­and—­I begged—­openly—­LOUDLY—­as only a hungry child can beg.”

She sat back in her seat with a pale, frowning face; while within the perfumed furry warmth of her cloak she shivered so that the diamonds at her ears sent out innumerable tiny spears of colour.

The act went on to its close; her attention never flagged.  When I responded to a call before the curtain, she gravely handed me her bunch of roses.

A few moments later, by a happy accident, I was presented to her; when with that touch of bitterness that so often crept into her voice she said:—­

“You hold your glass too steadily and at too true an angle to quite please me.”

“I do not understand,” I answered.

She smiled, her radiantly lovely smile, then with just a suspicion of a sneer replied, “Oh, yes, I think you do; at all events, I do not find it amusing to be called upon to look at too perfect a reflection of my own childhood.”

At which I exclaimed entreatingly, “Don’t—­please don’t—­”

I might have found it hard to explain just what I meant; but she understood, for she gave my hand a quick, hard pressure, and a kind look shone from her splendid eyes.  Next moment she was sweeping superbly toward her carriage, with her gentlemen in waiting struggling for the opportunity to do her service.  So here, again, was the play reflecting real life.