Out in the World CHAPTER 18.
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Mrs. Barling was a kind, generous, hospitable woman; and it went hard with her, after Mrs. Jansen had been in her house for a month, to let an intimation drop, on the presence of a fitting occasion, to the effect, that it was time she was beginning to try her strength in the world. Of herself, she could not have done this. It was Mrs. Windall who spoke through her.
That hint was sufficient, and Mrs. Jansen, stung to the quick, made almost immediate preparation to leave. It was in vain that Mrs. Barling remonstrated, and in all sincerity urged her to remain longer. The native pride and independence of Mrs. Jansen was hurt, and nothing could reconcile her to stay. The question of going clearly settled, that of when andwhere was fairly opened, and grave discussions followed that only showed Madeline how dark and difficult was the path lying before her, and left her mind deeper in labyrinthine doubts. Half maddened by the pain of her situation, the unhappy woman at last gave up, and dropped, passively, into the hands of Mrs. Windall.
A few months of training for the new work upon which she had so reluctantly consented to begin, was considered necessary both by Mrs. Windall and Mrs. Barling, and after strong persuasion and repeated apologies and explanations from the latter, Mrs. Jansen consented to remain her guest during this time of preparation.
In Philadelphia the first trial was made by Mrs. Jansen, just six months after the fatal day of separation from her husband. The newspapers, jointly with posters displayed all over the city, announced that a Mrs. Aberdeen would give dramatic readings at the Musical Fund Hall, on a certain evening. The program embraced a few well known passages from Shakespeare; the "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," by Mrs. Browning; "Horatius," from Macaulay's Days of Ancient Rome; "The Raven," and "The Bells," of Poe; with humorous pieces interspersed.
Mrs. Windall had many old acquaintances in Philadelphia, and she did not hesitate about calling on them, notwithstanding her collapse in that city some years before. She trusted to a weakness of memory, the softening influence of time, and her own assurance, for a re-establishment of former friendly relations. Some, who did not easily forget, and others who could not renew a confidence once betrayed, kept her at a distance; but she found enough ready to forget and forgive the past, and through them was able to create a warm interest in her young and attractive friend, and secure for her a fair audience.
As the hour for Madeline's first appearance in public drew near, a nervous anxiety about the result took possession of her. An active imagination kept the scene in which she was about to participate too vividly before her mind. She saw herself standing alone before a large concourse of people, and felt herself speechless in their presence. How could she lift her voice in calm assurance? How could she lose self-consciousness, and dwell in the ideas and characters she was to represent? It seemed to her impossible. Mrs. Windall, who saw, with deep concern, the state into which she was falling, used all the means of reassurance that were suggested to her thoughts — but without apparent success. The paleness of Madeline's face, its anxiety, and the expression of dread or fear that was settling over it — alarmed her for the result of the evening's experiments.
"This will never do," she said, half kindly, half chidingly, as the evening approached. "Confidence creates success, even where ability is small. In your case, where there is so much talent, all that is needed for triumph is self-assurance. Throw all this timidity to the winds. You are standing at the threshold of a brilliant career; do not, by any unwomanly weakness, put the result in jeopardy."
"I have no faith in myself," Madeline replied gloomily.
"While I have all faith. Forget yourself; and be, for the time, the character you assume."
"I cannot forget myself." Some irritation appeared in Mrs. Jansen's manner. "What I am — where I am — and what I am about doing, hold my thoughts in bondage. I see myself shrinking, trembling, speechless in the presence of a multitude. Oh that I could fly away to some desert, and escape this fiery trial!"
Mrs. Windall was alarmed. She had given Madeline credit for more strength of nerve; had built confidently on success. What was to be done? Madeline's nerves were excited — she must tranquilize them if possible. She took one of her hands. Its coldness struck her with surprise.
"I'm afraid you are not well," she said.
"My head is aching badly," Madeline answered.
"How long has this been?"
"It has been aching all day. Slightly during the forenoon — and intensely for the last two hours."
"Why didn't you tell me of this?" said Mrs. Windall, a little sharply. They had been sitting close together, facing each other. Mrs. Windall arose, and standing near Madeline, drew her head against her side. There was a feeble effort on the part of Madeline to remove herself from this contact — but Mrs. Windall smoothed her hair softly with one hand, while she used some force with the other to retain the head where she had placed it. In a few moments, Mrs. Jansen was entirely passive.
"Is your head easier?" asked Mrs. Windall.
"Yes."
"You should have mentioned this before. There is magic in my touch. I have the gift of healing."
Mrs. Jansen made no reply — but sat with her head leaning heavily against Mrs. Windall, like one who had abandoned herself to the enjoyment of that easeful rest which follows pain. A dull kind of stupor followed, from which it required some effort on the part of Mrs. Windall to arouse her. Slowly the mind of Mrs. Jansen came back to a realization of the actual. The audience, in presence of which she had, in imagination, stood weak and shivering, had faded from her eyes. She had forgotten everything external in the dreamy quiet which this enchantress had thrown around her spirit. Now, as thought was released from bonds, and imagination went wandering again in the mazes from which it had been withdrawn, the old quiver shook her nerves — the old throb beat in her temples — the old fear took possession of her heart.
"I shall fail!" she said, with visible agitation. "Miserably fail! What folly! Oh, that there were time to recall the announcement."
"If there was one quality above all others for which I gave you credit," replied Mrs. Windall, "it was courage. I never imagined, for an instant, that the woman who could face the issues you have faced alone, standing up so bravely in your own strength — could be coward in so small a thing as this. Think of what is to follow — success or failure! If you succeed, you are independent of the world. If you fail, what then? Forget whatever may seem unpleasant in the means — for the sake of the end. Look to the end — to the endmy dear Mrs. Jansen! Away to the goal, and not down to your feet, dreading lest you stumble and fall. The confident command success; the timid and hesitating are sure to fail. Summon the native strength of your character. Let pride come to your aid. Spurn, as unworthy, all that is man-pleasing or man-fearing. Stand up strong, heroic, daring!Confidence is inspiration!"
Madeline turned her face away. There was no power in all these sentences to help her. She felt herself growing weaker and weaker. She was frightened at the prospect before her.
The afternoon had worn away until five o'clock. At eight, Mrs. Jansen was announced to appear at the Musical Fund Hall. Only three hours intervened.
"If you could fall asleep," said Mrs. Windall, who had become alarmed for the result.
"Sleep calms the mind, and restores its lost equipoise. Lie down. I will close the blinds. Perhaps you may lose yourself. Even a few minutes of forgetfulness will do much good."
"Sleep!" returned Madeline, almost passionately, "you might as well ask the martyr to sleep on his bed of coals!"
"All this is unworthy of you," said Mrs. Windall, in a rebuking voice. "You are a woman, equipped for life's battle; not a half-grown child. Will you cower and skulk in face of an enemy? Run at the first encounter? For shame!"
The spur went pricking into the sensitive flank, and the dull blood leaped along in fuller currents. The heart of Madeline was a little stronger. She struggled with weakness, and grew brave.
"All this is unwomanly," she said. "I must rise above it."
"Spoken like your own self," answered Mrs. Windall. "Yes, you "must rise above all these petty weaknesses. Strength comes of will. Look onward to achievement; not aside atdifficulties. If there are lions in the way, the brave heart shall find them chained."
Evening came. At eight o'clock Madeline passed up from one of the small ante-rooms on the first floor, to the platform, and stood facing the audience, a vision of beauty that sent admiring murmurs throughout the hall. She was not dressed according to her own taste and sense of propriety; nor yet in a manner to satisfy Mrs. Windall. There had been a compromise on this head between manager and debutante. The former contended for low neck, short sleeves, and pink satin; the latter for plain black and a modest arrangement of her dress. A dove-colored silk, rather profusely trimmed, with some hair ornaments, and a mirthful sash, exhibited this compromise. As there was not much in Madeline's attire to draw attention from her face, which was almost colorless as she advanced in front of the audience, all eyes scanned it with curious interest.
This was the critical moment. Mrs. Windall, who had accompanied her on the stage, held her breath in painful suspense. Madeline, as she stood thus confronting a sea of upturned, curious, expectant faces, felt the old sense of weakness and terror stealing over her. But, rallying herself with a desperate effort of will, she threw out her voice in the opening piece of the entertainment. It was low and unsteady at first, causing a hush throughout the assembly; but soon gained firmness and volume. There were some faults in the elocution; but so much in the whole rendering of the scene she had chosen, which took the audience by surprise, that she was greeted with an electric outburst of applause as she turned from the reading desk, and disappeared from the platform. Her second and third pieces were more enthusiastically cheered than the first. In a humorous effort that followed, she was not successful. Her mind was not strung to anything like this. "The Raven" that came afterwards was a surprise, and had to be repeated. Grandly she gave "Horatius," stirring all hearts with a battle scene. Tenderly, and with almost unequaled pathos, she read "the Lady Geraldine's Courtship." Mrs. Browning herself, had she been present, must have felt some passages quite as deeply as when they thrilled her soul in the first fervors of poetic inspiration.
It was a triumph. Rarely has it occurred that such complete success attended a first appearance in public. One thing was noticeable. The paleness did not leave the face of Madeline. Her beautiful eyes flashed and changed, and her countenance was mobile to every passion and sentiment; but the whiteness remained. A few friends, made during her brief sojourn in Philadelphia, came into the ante-room below after the performance, to offer their congratulations. They found her in an exhausted condition, like one whose strength had been greatly over-tasked. She manifested no pleasure when they spoke enthusiastically of her success; and seemed only desirous to get away.
On reaching her room at the hotel, Madeline, who had remained wholly unresponsive to Mrs. Windall, (that person was in a kind of ecstasy over the evening's triumph) asked to be let alone.
"You will have something," said Mrs. Windall, lingering.
"Nothing," replied Madeline coldly.
"You are exhausted by so unusual an effort. Let me send for a glass of wine." Mrs. Windall made a movement as if about to pull the bell.
"No — no!" said Madeline, in a quick, impatient voice. "I said that I wished to be alone," she added, with an assertion of will that took Mrs. Windall by surprise.
The latter withdrew; as she shut the door after her, Madeline turned the key, that she might be safe from further intrusion. Then disrobing herself, she got into bed, and shrinking down among the clothes and pillows, lay as still as if sleep had fallen upon her instantly. But sleep was very far from her eyelids. Every faculty of mind was awake and in action. She had succeeded in her first public reading, far beyond even Mrs. Windall's anticipations. As for herself, she had counted on failure. A nervous fear had, almost up to the last moment, oppressed her. How she overcame the weakness, was not clear. She had lost the chain of mental action. A link was missing that she could not find. Blindly she had stepped over a chasm into which she had expected to fall — blindly, and so the way across that chasm was lost, and she could not approach it again in any hope of a safe passage.
As the case stood with Mrs. Jansen, there was no assurance in the future from this night's success. The triumph was only an accident — not a consequence. It was the question of advancing or receding, which now fully occupied her thoughts; a question that she meant to determine before the next day dawn. How she determined, will appear in the following chapter.
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