Out in the World CHAPTER 19.
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Three days after Madeline's debut at the Musical Fund Hall, Mrs. Barling received the following letter from Mrs. Windall.
"Mr Dear Mrs. Barling: I promised to write you fully about Mrs. Jansen's first appearance. After a magnificent debut, everything has failed. I write in chagrin and disappointment beyond what I can express. It has turned out as I feared. She has talent, genius, power; but no faith in herself — nothing of that tenacity of character so essential to high achievement. But, let me come down to the plain facts, and tell the story as it occurred. On arriving in Philadelphia, we took rooms at the United States Hotel on Chestnut street, and I immediately renewed my acquaintance with several dear old friends, of high social position and much influence. The warmest kind of interest was taken in Mrs. Jansen or rather in Mrs. Aberdeen — the name by which she was introduced. I am sorry to say, that she did not respond with anything of her natural grace, vivacity, and sweetness of temper to the generous interest that everyone manifested. She was distant and cold towards all who approached her. The change that became apparent from the time of our arrival in Philadelphia was remarkable. From the beginning of my acquaintance with Mrs. Jansen, I possessed great influence over her; but that influence was strangely broken on our coming here. It seemed as though a new spirit had taken possession of her, which I had no power to exorcize.
"To be brief, Mrs. Jansen lost all faith in herself. She had no confidence in the approaching trial, and persistently talked of failure. Up to the last moment, she held back, and could she have met a single person injudicious enough to utter a doubting word, would have refused to confront the waiting audience. All this I saw, and you may be sure I was in an agony of suspense and fear.
"I took her hand as we ascended from the waiting-room below. It was like ice, and had a low, quick shiver, that sent a chill along my nerves. 'Courage!' I whispered — 'you stand on the threshold of a grand success!' She made no response. I walked out with her upon the stage, holding my breath. The decisive moment had come; I saw her shrink in the presence of an eagerly expectant assembly, and my heart stood still. Another moment, and her voice swept out low and clear — but with slight faltering. My heart went on again. I was assured. Two or three sentences, her voice steadily rising, and then she was in full command of herself. I never saw, in any of our most successful actors, a more perfectabsorption of self in the impersonation of a character than was shown by Mrs. Jansen. It was simple inspiration and wonderful! When she retired, at the close of her first piece, the whole house thundered with applause. I caught her hand and wrung it enthusiastically — I filled her ears with praises and congratulations — but she was as cold and silent as a stone. The paleness had not left her face — the chilling shiver was in her icy hand. She sat down, her lips dropping apart, and remained like a statue until the waiting audience gave signs of impatience; and even then, I had to arouse her for the new effort. As at first she advanced in the face of the audience in a spiritless, hesitating manner; but she was all life and energy when the work, from which she held back with such a strange reluctance, began. Her second effort was better than the first.
"'Glorious!' I said, as I put my arms around her on receiving her again from the platform. But I might as well have spoken to an statue. She sat down as before, in a dull, despairing kind of way, wholly irresponsive. So it continued throughout the evening. Before the audience — she was inspired, electric, passionate, wonderful! Out of their presence — she was a weak, shivering, frightened child.
"'No matter,' I said to myself, as we rode home after her triumph, reviewing in thought the strange contrast of state I have mentioned — 'she can do the work, and that is the great desideratum — how she does it is a thing of minor importance. She will get over this intense nervousness in time. The wonderful success of tonight, when she comes to review it, will give her a large measure of confidence. All is well! Her future is safe.
"But, alas! it was not safe! Arrived at the hotel, she went immediately to her room, where I accompanied her. I saw that she was much exhausted, and urged her to take a glass of wine; but she refused all refreshment, and desired me to leave her at once alone. I did not think this well — seeing in what a nervous condition the performance had left her, and determined to remain for a time. But, recognizing my purpose, she turned on me with an imperious manner, such as I had never seen her put on before, and pushed me, by will and words stronger than hands, out of her room. I had a glimpse of her character in that moment not seen before. Her husband in their late quarrel, which led to a separation, was not, I now imagine, all in the wrong. There is a slumbering volcano in her heart, and all volcanoes have their periods of eruption.
"My room adjoined Mrs. Jansen's. For two whole hours, I sat close to the partition which separated her chamber from mine, listening intently. Not a sound reached my ears. In the stillness of night, the respiration of a sleeper may be heard at a considerable distance. I hearkened for the sighing breath of Mrs. Jansen, with my ear against the partition; but all was as still as death. About twelve o'clock, I became so nervously anxious, that I went out into the passage, and going to her door, knocked gently. 'Who's there?' was instantly called out, in the clear tones of one who was evidently wide awake. 'Are you sick?' I asked. 'No!' was returned. That 'No!' was as full of repulsion as any word flung at me two hours before. I returned to my room and went to bed. It was a long time before I slept. During my wakeful hours I still listened towards Mrs. Jansen's room; but the silence there remained unbroken.
"In the morning when I awoke, the sun was shining brightly. Looking at my watch, I found that it was past seven o'clock. Hastily dressing myself, listening all the while for sounds in the next room — but hearing no movement, I went out in the passage. The door of Mrs. Jansen's room stood ajar; I pushed it open and went in. Mrs. Jansen was dressed, and sitting by the window. She turned towards me as I entered, and I saw that her face was still quite pale. Her eyes had a look of purpose in them that in no way lessened the uneasiness I felt.
"'How are you, dear?' I asked, with all the affectionate interest I could throw into my voice and manner, advancing quickly towards her, and grasping one of her hands. I stooped to kiss her — but she turned her head, and refused the salutation. Her hand gave back no pressure.
"'Very well,' she replied, coldly.
"'Have you slept soundly?'
"'No,' she said, without change in the dead level of her voice.
"'You are refreshed. The exhaustion of last night has passed away,' I continued.
"'In a measure,' she returned, with the same indifference of manner.
"'Let me repeat my congratulations at your triumphant success last night,' I said, coming to what was nearest my heart.
"'Rather,' she replied, at my escape from failure and humiliation.' She spoke calmly — I might say, coldly, turning towards me, and looking at me in full self-possession. 'The success was not anything of mine.'
"'Whose was it, please?' I asked, in surprise at her appearance and language.
'"I know not,' she answered, 'but this I know, that it was not Madeline Jansen who held that audience as in a spell, and extorted admiration and applause. In outward person, she stood in face of the assembly, and her tongue, voice and body were instrumentalities — but not her conscious soul.'
"'What folly to talk thus,' I said, interrupting her — you are giving yourself to a wild imagination.'
"'No.' How cool and self-poised she was! 'No, not this morning. I have left the region of wild imagination, and possess my reason. All night I have pondered this matter, and my conclusion is reached.'
"'What is your conclusion?' I inquired, in painful suspense, for both her manner and her language were troubling me.
'"Never again to appear before an audience,' she answered, and I saw and felt that her decision was final. There are occasions when the purpose so writes itself in the face, that mistake is impossible. I was too much confounded to speak, and she went on. 'It is due to you, after all the trouble and expense to which you have been subjected, that I give plain reasons for what I have declared. The chief reason, I have already intimated. To proceed, is to fail. Last night's success came from unknown and intangible causes. I was like one seized by a superior being, and made to act from his strength and volition. In nothing that occurred, can I recall myself — can I recognize my own skill, perception, identity. I was lost — passive — possessed — anything that you will; but not myself. To venture on this ground again would be folly, and I have, as the result of a night's reflection, determined not to venture again. It will be useless for you to argue the point with me; I have resolved, and my resolution is final.'
"I made no attempt to move her from the purpose she had expressed; I felt that it would be useless. Our relation to each other had undergone a sudden and remarkable change. A little while before, and I was conscious of an almost complete influence over her — she was passive to my will. Now she stood like one afar off, whom I tried vainly to reach and influence. She seemed lifted out of my sphere of action — removed to a distance — set in a way wherein my feet were not to walk.
"What do you purpose doing?" I asked.
"'I have no settled purpose beyond the one expressed just now. Time will show the ways wherein I must go. There are paths for all feet.'
"I left her and went back to my own room, that I might consider the case, and arrive at some conclusion. I am not one to abandon a line of conduct because difficulties rise up in the way. If I cannot climb over a hill, I generally manage to get around it. But I did not get over nor around this obstructing mountain. When I looked again into Mrs. Jansen's room — she was not there. Going down, I found her in the ladies' parlor. Approaching, I sat down near her — near her as to person; but in my soul I felt that she was at an immeasurable distance from me — that a gulf had fallen between us which it was impossible to bridge. I wished to refer again to the last night's success — to feel on that subject once more into her mind. But I could not utter a word bearing on this theme. The sentences formed in my thought were scattered like clouds in the wind, before expression could take them; instead, an inward voice uttered for me the words — 'Our ways part here!'
"And there, my friend, they parted. We held only a brief and distant communication, as if we were two strangers sojourning at the hotel. After breakfast she went out alone, and did not return for some hours. In the afternoon she went out again. I noticed, when she came back towards evening, a troubled and disappointed look in her face; but I asked her no questions, for I felt that it would be useless.
"The actual result of the evening's entertainment was a loss. At least one-third of the audience came on complimentary tickets, which were freely distributed, in order to get the prestige of a good house. Much was thrown away at the beginning in order to reach a final success. There are printing bills to pay, and other expenses to meet, for which I am, unfortunately, not in funds. Tomorrow I shall leave Philadelphia, and return to your house for a brief season. I have a hundred things I wish to say. Mrs. Jansen's conduct in the matter is bad, consider it as you will. She has caused me to waste a great deal of time, and now involves me in financial embarrassment among strangers. I am distressed and mortified at the result. But she doesn't seem to care a farthing. She is responsible for nothing.
"But I will be with you in a day or two; so adieu for the present. Agnes Windall."
"P.S. — Since writing last evening, Mrs. Jansen has disappeared from the hotel. She paid her bill early this morning, and left in a carriage before I was up. No one in the office or about the hotel could give me any information in regard to her. After breakfast, through the assistance of a porter in the establishment, I discovered the driver with whom she went away; I learned from him that he had taken her to the landing at Walnut Street wharf in time for the six o'clock New York train. I have changed my mind about returning at once to Jersey City. Some friends here are very anxious that I shall remain with them for a few weeks, and I am inclined to yield to their importunities. But I trust to see you very shortly. Meantime, I will write you often. Agnes Windall"
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