by Unknown
“Not to night,” I interposed, hurriedly.
“I can repeat most of them,” he said, brightly.
“Rather tell me why you gave up a profession,” I said, “which you doubtless adorned.”
“Thank you,” he answered, again pressing my hand. “Well, sir, the O’Reilly has the responsibility for that.”
“You gave up acting because it interfered with your interest in her?”
“You may put it in that way. I gave up every-
thing for her. If that woman, sir, had asked me to choose between her and my press notices, I believe I would have burned them.”
“HOW has she rewarded you?” I asked, seeing that he was of a communicative nature.
“She married me,” he answered, drawing himself up to his full height. “Yes, I am her husband!”
It was I who shook his hand this time. I could think of nothing else to do. He was beginning his story, when the bell tinkled, warning us to return to our seats.
“She is on immediately,” he said, “so we must go back and give her a hand. Ill meet you here again after the second act.”
II.
DURING the second act Mr. Thorpe behaved as previously, drinking in Miss O’Reilly’s every word, cheering her comings and goings, and yawning, and even reading a newspaper, when he should have been listening to Miss Helmsley. Once I saw him make a note on his programme, and felt sure it was “All the talents in a nutshell.” I started him on his story as soon as he joined me in the smoking-room. (He had remained in his seat to shout “O’Reilly.”)
“The first time I ever set eyes on her,” he began, “was at Dublin, where we had both been engaged for pantomime. Yes, that woman once played in pantomime; and, what is more, she was only second girl. That is a strange thing to think of. I was the first villain, Deepdyeo, and the Shamrock said of my creation, ‘Another part admirably rendered is the Deepdyeo of Mr. James Thorpe, better known to fame as Jolly Little Jim. Mr. Thorpe, who was received with an ovation—’”
“But you were to tell me of Miss O’Reilly,” I reminded him.
“Ah,” he said, “I shall never forget that first meeting. It took place at rehearsal, and when I left the theatre that afternoon I was a changed man.”
“You fell in love with her at first sight?”
“Not absolutely at first sight. You see I was introduced to her before the rehearsal began, and there was no opportunity of falling in love with her then.”
“Still, she had impressed you?”
“How could she impress me before I had seen her do anything? “What is it in a woman that one falls in love with?” —
“Who can tell?” I said.
“Anybody can tell,” he answered, putting me down for a bachelor. “It is the genius in her, or rather what we consider genius, for many men make a mistake about that.”
“So you loved her for her genius?”
“What first struck me was her exit. I suppose I may say that I fell in love with it at once. Then she sang; only a verse, but it was enough. Later she danced, and that, sir, was a revelation. I knew the woman was a genius. By the time the pantomime was in full swing, she was the one woman in the world for me.”
“And she had fallen in love with your genius, too?”
“I could not be certain. You see we were not on speaking terms; she was so jealous.”
“But that,” I said, “is recognized as a sign of love. No doubt she wanted you entirely to herself. Who was the lady?”
“What lady?” he asked, in surprise.
“The lady Miss O’Reilly was jealous of,” I said.
“I never said she was jealous of a lady; though, of course, she would be jealous of the principal girl. I spoke of myself.” — .
“But how,” I questioned, “could she be jealous unless she thought you were paying attention to some other woman.”
“Oh!” he said, with slow enlightenment, “I see what you mean, but you don’t see what I mean. It was of me that she was jealous, or rather of my song. You may not be aware that in pantomime we are allowed to choose our own songs. Well, it so happened that she and I both wanted to sing the same song. It was an exquisite thing, called, ‘Do you think when you wink? ‘ and as I had applied for permission to sing it first she was told to select something else. That was why we did not speak.”
“But if you loved her,” I said, speaking, it is true, on a subject of which I knew little, “you would surely have consented to waive your rights to the song. Love, it is said, delights in self-sacrifice.”
“No doubt,” he admitted, “but you know the lines, ‘I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honor more.’ Well, my honor was at stake, for I had promised my admirers in Dublin — and they were legion (see the Shamrock for January 12, 1883) — to sing that song. And my fame was at stake as well as my honor, for I created quite a furore with ‘Do you think when you wink “?’”
“Still,” I insisted, “love is all powerful.”
“I admit it,” he answered, “and, what is more, I proved it, for after I had sung the song a week, I transferred it to her.”
“Did she sing it as well as you had done?”
There was a mighty struggle within him before he could reply, but when he did speak he was magnificent.
“She sang it far better than I,” he said, firmly, and then winced.
“It was a great sacrifice you made,” I said, gently, “but doubtless it had its reward. Did she give you her hand in exchange for the song?”
“No,” he answered, “we were not married until a year after that. She was grateful to me, but soon we quarrelled again. The fact is that I took a ‘call’ which she insisted was meant for her. She felt that disappointment terribly; indeed she has not got over it yet. She cannot speak about it without crying.”
“You mean,” I said, “that you years ago deprived her of the privilege of courtesying to an audience? Surely she would not let that prey on her mind?”
“You don’t understand,” he replied, “that fame is food and drink to an artist. It was months before she forgave me that, though she is naturally the most tender-hearted creature. Our baggage man stole fifty pounds from her, and she would not prosecute him because she knew his sister. But you see it was not money that I deprived her of, it was fame.”
“And did you win your way back into her favor,” I asked, “by letting her take a ‘call’ that was meant for you?”
“No,” he said; “several times I determined to do so, but when the moment came I could not make the sacrifice. I spent about half my salary in presents to her, but, although she took them, she refused to listen to any proposal of marriage. By this time I had confessed my love for her. Well, we parted, and soon afterward I got an engagement as chief comedian in the ‘Powder Monkey’ Company, which was then on tour. She was playing chambermaid in it. Fancy that woman flinging herself away on chambermaids! I made a big hit in my part. The Lincoln Observer said, ‘ Mr. James Thorpe, the celebrated Jolly Little Jim, created a—’”
“But about Miss O’Reilly,” I asked.
“We got on swimmingly at first,” he said.
“She had decided to forgive you?”
“No, she was stiff the first day, but I put her up to a bit of business, that used to be encored nightly, and then she accepted my offer of marriage. But a week after I had given her the engagement ring she returned it to me. I don’t blame her.”
“You admit that she had just cause of complaint against you?”
“Yes, no woman who was an artist could have stood it. The fact is, that one night I took the ‘ up’ side of her in our comic love scene. That is to say, I had my face to the audience, and so she was forced to turn her back to them. I had no right to do it, but a sort of madness came over me, and I yielded to the impulse. As soon as we had made our exits she flung the ring in my — ah, she gave me back the ring, and, for the remainder of the tour she was not civil to me. The tour ended abruptly; indeed, the manager decamped,
owing us all a fortnight’s salary, and we were stranded in Bootle without money to pay for our lodgings, not to speak of our tickets back to London. I pawned my watch and sold my fur coat, and shared what I got for them with her.”
“And so the engagement was resumed?”
“No, no; that was merely a friendly act, and it was accepted as such. The engagement was not resumed until I got a ‘ par’ about her into a Sunday paper. But that is the bell again. Ill tell you the rest after her death-scene.”
III.
Miss O’REILLY died as slowly as the management would allow her, and, when she had gasped her last gasp with her hair down, Jolly Little Jim, that was, led the tears and the cheers, cried out, “Superb, by Jove! that woman has all the talents in a nutshell,” and strutted from the stalls in a manner that invited the rest of the audience to follow. But everybody, save Mr. Thorpe and myself, remained to see the comic man produce the missing will, and so my little friend and I got the smoking-room to ourselves.
“The next time we were on tour together,” he continued, after I had given the death-scene a testimonial, “was in ‘Letters of Fire,’ with a real steam engine. I was Bill Body, the returned convict, and the Rochester Age said, ‘Mr. Thorpe, who, as Jolly Little Jim, made such a—’”
“The engagement was resumed by this time?” I asked.
“I told you the ‘ par’ had done that. However, we had another tiff during rehearsals, because I got the epilogue to speak. I daresay that would have led to a rupture had not—”
“Had not she loved you so deeply,” I suggested.
“She loved me fondly,” he replied, “but she loved fame more. Every true genius does. No, the reason she did not break with me then was that I was ‘ on’ in her great scene in the fourth act. You see, as chief comedian I had a right to a little comic byplay in that scene, and if I had exercised that right I should have drawn away attention from herself. Thus I had the whip hand of her. I am inclined to think that had I pressed the point I could have married her during the run of that piece.”
“By threatening, if she delayed the wedding, to introduce comic business into her great scene?”
“Yes, but I did not, and you are no doubt wondering why. The fact is, I thought my self-denial would soften her heart and so bring about the results I was pining for. Perhaps it would have done so, but, unfortunately, ‘Letters of Fire * did not draw (though a great success artistically), and we had to put ‘ London Slums’ on in its place. In that piece the leading juvenile played up to her so well that she began to neglect me. I was in despair, and so not quite accountable for my actions. Nevertheless, you will think the revenge I took as cold-blooded as it seemed to her. You must understand that, though our pieces were splendidly billed, the O’Reilly had fifty chromos of herself, done at her own expense, and all framed. These she got our agent in advance to exhibit in the best places in the best shops, and undoubtedly they added to her fame. They preceded us by a week, and so she was always wellknown before we opened anywhere. Well, sir, I got fifty chromos of myself framed, and ten days before we were due at Sheffield I had them put into fifty barbers’ shops there.
“Why barbers’ shops?” I interposed.
“Because they are most seen and discussed there,” he explained. “It comes natural to a man when he is being shaved to talk about what is on at the theatres. I can’t say why that is so, but so it is. Perhaps one reason is that barbers are nearly always enthusiasts on matters of art. Well, if there is a good chromo in the shop, of course it comes in for its share of discussion, and the barber tells what parts you have played before, and so on. It is a great help. However, the O’Reilly no sooner heard what I had done than she told me all was over between us.”
“Still,” I said, “the barbers would have had room for her pictures as well as for yours.”
“I got the best places,” he answered, “and there is this, too, to consider. The more chromos there are to look at, the less attention does any particular one get; and she held that if I loved her truly I would not have stepped in, as it were, between her and the public. She did not get a reception that opening night at Sheffield, and, of course, she gave me the blame. It seriously affected her health.”
“But you made that quarrel up?”
“Not for three weeks. Then she gave in. Instead of my going to her, she came to me and offered to renew the engagement if I would withdraw my chromos.”
“Which you did gladly, of course?”
“I took a night to think of it. You who are not an artist cannot conceive how I loved my chromos. Did I tell you that I had printed beneath them ‘Yours very sincerely, Jolly Little Jim?’ However, I did yield to her wishes, and we were to be married at Newcastle, when a terrible thing happened. We have now come to the turning-point of my life. At Newcastle, sir, I made my last appearance on the stage.”
Mr. Thorpe turned his face from me until he recovered command of it. Then he resumed.
“Two days before the marriage was to take place a Newcastle paper slated her and praised me. It said, ‘Miss O’Reilly ought to take a page out of Mr. Thorpe’s book. She should learn from him that the action should suit the word, not precede it. She should note his facial expression, which is comedy in picture, and control her own tendency to let her face look after itself. She should take note of his clear pronunciation and model her somewhat snappy delivery on it.’ Sir, I read that notice with mixed feelings. As an artist I could not but delight in its complimentary references to myself, but as a lover I dreaded its effect on the O’Reilly. After breakfast I went to call on her at her lodgings, and happening to pass a number of news-shops on the way I could not resist the temptation to buy at each a paper with the notice. I concealed the papers about my person, and as I approached her door I tried to look downcast. But I fear my step was springy. Perhaps she saw me from her window. At all events her landlady informed me that Miss O’Reilly declined to see me. ‘Here is something I was told to give you,’ said the woman, handing me a pill-box. It contained the ring! I compelled the O’Reilly to listen to me that night at the theatre, and she allowed that I was not to blame for the notice. But she pointed out that there could be no chance of happiness for a husband and wife whose interests were opposed, and I saw that it was true. I walked about the streets of Newcastle all that night, such was my misery, such the struggle in my breast between love and fame. Well, sir, love conquered, as it never could have conquered her, for she was a great artist, and I only a small one, though the Basingstoke Magpie said of me, ‘ The irresistibly droll Mr. Thorpe, better known as—’”
“The play will end in a minute,” I said; “how did you win her?”
“I offered,” he replied, with emotion, “to give up my profession and devote myself to furthering her fame.”
“And to live on her?” I said, aghast.
“You who do not understand art may put it in that way,” he replied, “but she realized the sacrifice I was making for her sake and doubted my love no longer. Was it nothing, sir, to give up my fame, to give up the name I was known by all over England (as the Torquay Chat said), and sink to the level of those who have never been mentioned in the papers? Why, you yourself had forgotten the famous Jolly Little Jim.”
His voice was inexpressibly mournful, and I felt that I really had been listening to a love romance. The last three hours, too, had shown me that Mr. Thorpe was responsible for some of the fame of his wife.
“The management,” he went on, bravely, “allowed me to retire without the usual fortnight’s notice, and so the marriage took place on the day we had previously arranged for it.”
“Had you a pleasant honeymoon?” I asked.
“In one sense,” he replied, “we had no honeymoon, for she played that night as usual; but in another sense it has been a honeymoon ever since, for we have the same interests, the same joys, the same sorrows.”
“That is to say, you have both only her fame to think of now? May I ask, did she, for whom you made such a sacri
fice, make any sacrifice for you?”
“She did, indeed,” he answered. “For four weeks she let her name be printed in the bills thus: ‘Miss O’Reilly (Mrs. James Thorpe),’ though to have it known by the public that she is married is against an actress.”
“And you are happy in your new occupation?”
“Very happy,” he answered, cheerfully, “and very proud.” Then with a heavy sigh he added, “But I wish people would remember Jolly Little Jim.”
There was really something pathetic about the man; but before I could tell a lie and say that I now remembered Jolly Little Jim perfectly, the audience began to applaud, and Mr. Thorpe, thrusting some bills into my hands, hurried back to the stalls to shout “O’Reilly.”
As I have said, I never met him again, nor thought of him, until I found myself at his grave. This is the inscription on the tombstone:
ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF
JAMES THORPE, AGED 38, BY HIS SORROWING WIFE, THE FAMOUS MAY O’REILLY (Of the principal theatres).
Poor Mr. Thorpe! There was something lovable about him. The O’Reilly might have put on the tombstone: “Better known as Jolly Little Jim.” It would have gratified him.
A WOODLAND PATH.
THE rosebush that taps on my window at night, as if entreating me to let it in out of the cold, hangs motionless to-day, a drop of water on the tips of many of its leaves. The paling a few yards away is a dank green, on which I could draw pictures with a stick. On the dyke six sparrows — no, seven, for another has arrived — sit in a row, at their wits’ end what to do next. A black hen seems to have lost something in the garden. Fifty yards ahead the fields fade into mist.
But it is not raining, so let us go into the wood. The high road is sloppy and has lost its grip. To jump from side to side of it in search of hard places is only to send the wood farther away. We must plod on doggedly, seeing to it that we do not leave our boots in the mud. —