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eron knows that, and will tell you so. Kiss me, Aunt Amy, since mamma isn’t here. If you say I look nice, I’m quite satisfied. Good-bye.” And with a wave of the hand as much like her model’s as she could make it, Josie departed, looking very pretty and feeling very tragical.
Sure now of admittance, she boldly rang at the door which excluded so many, and being ushered into a shady parlour, feasted her eyes upon several fine portraits of great actors while she waited. She had read about most of them, and knew their trials and triumphs so well that she soon forgot herself, and tried to imitate Mrs Siddons as Lady Macbeth, looking up at the engraving as she held her nosegay like the candle in the sleep-walking scene, and knit her youthful brows distressfully while murmuring the speech of the haunted queen. So busy was she that Miss Cameron watched her for several minutes unseen, then startled her by suddenly sweeping in with the words upon her lips, the look upon her face, which made that one of her greatest scenes.
“I never can do it like that; but I’ll keep trying, if you say I may,” cried Josie, forgetting her manners in the intense interest of the moment.
“Show me what you can do,” answered the actress, wisely plunging into the middle of things at once, well knowing that no common chat would satisfy this very earnest little person.
“First let me give you these. I thought you’d like wild things better than hot-house flowers; and I loved to bring them, as I’d no other way to thank you for your great kindness to me,” said Josie, offering her nosegay with a simple warmth that was very sweet.
“I do love them best, and keep my room full of the posies some good fairy hangs on my gate. Upon my word, I think I’ve found the fairy out—these are so like,” she added quickly, as her eye went from the flowers in her hand to others that stood near by, arranged with the same taste.
Josie’s blush and smile betrayed her before she said, with a look full of girlish adoration and humility:
“I couldn’t help it; I admire you so much. I know it was a liberty; but as I couldn’t get in myself, I loved to think my posies pleased you.”
Something about the child and her little offering touched the woman, and, drawing Josie to her, she said, with no trace of actress in face or voice:
“They did please me, dear, and so do you. I’m tired of praise; and love is very sweet, when it is simple and sincere like this.”
Josie remembered to have heard, among many other stories, that Miss Cameron lost her lover years ago, and since had lived only for art. Now she felt that this might have been true; and pity for the splendid, lonely life made her face very eloquent, as well as grateful. Then, as if anxious to forget the past, her new friend said, in the commanding way that seemed natural to her:
“Let me see what you can do. Juliet, of course. All begin with that. Poor soul, how she is murdered!”
Now, Josie had intended to begin with Romeo’s much-enduring sweetheart, and follow her up with Bianca, Pauline, and several of the favourite idols of stage-struck girls; but being a shrewd little person, she suddenly saw the wisdom of Uncle Laurie’s advice, and resolved to follow it. So instead of the rant Miss Cameron expected, Josie gave poor Ophelia’s mad scene, and gave it very well, having been trained by the college professor of elocution and done it many times. She was too young, of course, but the white gown, the loose hair, the real flowers she scattered over the imaginary grave, added to the illusion; and she sung the songs sweetly, dropped her pathetic curtsies, and vanished behind the curtain that divided the rooms with a backward look that surprised her critical auditor into a quick gesture of applause. Cheered by that welcome sound, Josie ran back as a little hoyden in one of the farces she had often acted, telling a story full of fun and naughtiness at first, but ending with a sob of repentance and an earnest prayer for pardon.
“Very good! Try again. Better than I expected,” called the voice of the oracle.
Josie tried Portia’s speech, and recited very well, giving due emphasis to each fine sentence. Then, unable to refrain from what she considered her greatest effort, she burst into Juliet’s balcony scene, ending with the poison and the tomb. She felt sure that she surpassed herself, and waited for applause. A ringing laugh made her tingle with indignation and disappointment, as she went to stand before Miss Cameron, saying in a tone of polite surprise:
“I have been told that I did it very well. I’m sorry you don’t think so.”
“My dear, it’s very bad. How can it help being so? What can a child like you know of love and fear and death? Don’t try it yet. Leave tragedy alone till you are ready for it.”
“But you clapped Ophelia.”
“Yes, that was very pretty. Any clever girl can do it effectively. But the real meaning of Shakespeare is far above you yet, child. The comedy bit was best. There you showed real talent. It was both comic and pathetic. That’s art. Don’t lose it. The Portia was good declamation. Go on with that sort of thing; it trains the voice—teaches shades of expression. You’ve a good voice and natural grace—great helps both, hard to acquire.”
“Well, I’m glad I’ve got something,” sighed Josie, sitting meekly on a stool, much crestfallen, but not daunted yet, and bound to have her say out.
“My dear little girl, I told you that you would not like what I should say to you; yet I must be honest if I would really help you. I’ve had to do it for many like you; and most of them have never forgiven me, though my words have proved true, and they are what I advised them to be—good wives and happy mothers in quiet homes. A few have kept on, and done fairly well. One you will hear of soon, I think; for she has talent, indomitable patience, and mind as well as beauty. You are too young to show to which class you belong. Geniuses are very rare, and even at fifteen seldom give much promise of future power.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m a genius!” cried Josie, growing calm and sober as she listened to the melodious voice and looked into the expressive face that filled her with confidence, so strong, sincere, and kindly was it. “I only want to find out if I have talent enough to go on, and after years of study to be able to act well in any of the good plays people never tire of seeing. I don’t expect to be a Mrs Siddons or a Miss Cameron, much as I long to be; but it does seem as if I had something in me which can’t come out in any way but this. When I act I’m perfectly happy. I seem to live, to be in my own world, and each new part is a new friend. I love Shakespeare, and am never tired of his splendid people. Of course, I don’t understand it all; but it’s like being alone at night with the mountains and the stars, solemn and grand, and I try to imagine how it will look when the sun comes up, and all is glorious and clear to me. I can’t see, but I feel the beauty, and long to express it.”
As she spoke with the most perfect self-forgetfulness Josie was pale with excitement, her eyes shone, her lips trembled, and all her little soul seemed trying to put into words the emotions that filled it to overflowing. Miss Cameron understood, felt that this was something more than a girlish whim; and when she answered there was a new tone of sympathy in her voice, a new interest in her face, though she wisely refrained from saying all she thought, well knowing what splendid dreams young people build upon a word, and how bitter is the pain when the bright bubbles burst.
“If you feel this, I can give you no better advice than to go on loving and studying our great master,” she said slowly; but Josie caught the changed tone, and felt, with a thrill of joy, that her new friend was speaking to her now as to a comrade. “It is an education in itself, and a lifetime is not long enough to teach you all his secret. But there is much to do before you can hope to echo his words. Have you the patience, courage, strength, to begin at the beginning, and slowly, painfully, lay the foundation for future work? Fame is a pearl many dive for and only a few bring up. Even when they do, it is not perfect, and they sigh for more, and lose better things in struggling for them.”
The last words seemed spoken more to herself than to her hearer, but Josie answered quickly, with a smile and an expressive gesture:
“I got the bracelet in spite of all the bitter water in my eyes.”
“You did! I don’t forget it. A good omen. We will accept it.”
Miss Cameron answered the smile with one that was like sunshine to the girl, and stretched her white hands as if taking some invisible gift. Then added in a different tone, watching the effect of her words on the expressive face before her:
“Now you will be disappointed, for instead of telling you to come and study with me, or go and act in some second-rate theatre at once, I advise you to go back to school and finish your education. That is the first step, for all accomplishments are needed, and a single talent makes a very imperfect character. Cultivate mind and body, heart and soul, and make yourself an intelligent, graceful, beautiful, and healthy girl. Then, at eighteen or twenty, go into training and try your powers. Better start for the battle with your arms in order, and save the hard lesson which comes when we rush on too soon. Now and then genius carries all before it, but not often. We have to climb slowly, with many slips and falls. Can you wait as well as work?”
“I will!”
“We shall see. It would be pleasant to me to know that when I quit the stage I leave behind me a well-trained, faithful, gifted comrade to more than fill my place, and carry on what I have much at heart—the purification of the stage. Perhaps you are she; but remember, mere beauty and rich costumes do not make an actress, nor are the efforts of a clever little girl to play great characters real art. It is all dazzle and sham, and a disgrace and disappointment now. Why will the public be satisfied with opera bouffe, or the trash called society plays when a world of truth and beauty, poetry and pathos lies waiting to be interpreted and enjoyed?”
Miss Cameron had forgotten to whom she spoke, and walked to and fro, full of the noble regret all cultivated people feel at the low state of the stage nowadays.
“That’s what Uncle Laurie says; and he and Aunt Jo try to plan plays about true and lovely things—simple domestic scenes that touch people’s hearts, and make them laugh and cry and feel better. Uncle says that sort is my style, and I must not think of tragedy. But it’s so much nicer to sweep about in crowns and velvet trains than to wear everyday clothes, and just be myself, though it is so easy.”
