CLEOPATRA'S ASP.

ACTORS accustomed only to the short journeys and civilized surroundings which are connected with a tour through the English provinces can have little notion of what it is to be "on the road" in the Western States of America. It is not only that the country and the people are less civilized, but both are so different. Side by side with the strongest marks of primitive habitation you find instances of the latest inventions. The Pullman car startles the antelope and the prairie dog in its passage; advertisements of Mustang Liniment are daubed upon immemorial cliffs; and every little township of wooden houses has its church, its newspaper, and its Lyceum.

      It was in the latter buildings (which for the benefit of the uninitiated I may explain serve much the same purposes as an English town hall) that the travelling company that I had arranged to join at Kansas city, in the spring of 188-, usually gave its performances. It is surprising, I may remark in passing, how advanced the Americans of the Western "cities" are in the arrangements of these local theatres. In most of them some decent stock scenery may be found; and the rooms are nearly always clean, and the general arrangements most systematic.

      The company I was about to join was one of those struggling combinations of which there are so many travelling the States. Upon the basis of a small amount of capital and a large stock of histrionic enthusiasm, the "leading man" of the company, who was also the manager, had "organized" the troupe for the exposition to the benighted denizens of the Far West of the beauties of the legitimate drama in general, and of his own acting in particular. His wife was a little woman from Florida, and the darkness of her complexion and a certain blueness of the tinge of her finger-nails spoke pretty decidedly of an admixture of negro blood in herself or in her ancestors. I found, soon after I joined the company, that she had been tried in Shakesperian leading parts, but had so egregiously failed in them that even to the partial eyes of her spouse the fact was evident that a substitute for her in these rôles must be found. The result was an advertisement in a New York theatrical paper, and my acceptance thereof, decided partly by the fact that I had been "resting" for a tediously long period, but more by the opportunity which seemed to be offered to me of gaining experience in the higher walks of the drama.

      I found the manager, who rejoiced in the Transatlantically aristocratic name of Calhoun, extremely polite, indeed, perhaps rather too much so, considering that his wife was a member of the company. I must say, however, that this amiability on Mr. Calhoun's part arose much more from histrionic selfishness than from anything approaching to gallantry. Like most enthusiasts, he would have sacrificed anything to improve the effect of his performances; and the fact that in me he found a leading lady who, whilst competent to sustain the characters allotted to her to the satisfaction of his audiences, was yet sufficiently modest to adopt his views of the proper treatment of a dramatic situation, had, I am sure, more to do with his cordiality than any personal admiration for myself. I need hardly say that the "views" alluded to generally dictated giving a prominence in his own performances and a retiring reserve in mine which was not in every case warranted by the author's text.

      As for Mrs. Calhoun (Pepita, as her husband called her — an example we may as well, for the sake of brevity, follow), she showed her dislike for me from the moment we met. It was, perhaps, too much to expect an actress who had made a failure in "leading business," and who had been relegated to the Charmians and Emilias of Shakesperian representations, to welcome with cordiality the individual who came to take her place. At the same time, I think Pepita might have been a little less demonstrative of her antipathy. When we met in the passages of the various theatres which we visited she swept past after the slightest of nods, turning to me with marked disdain her rounded, though somewhat swarthy shoulders; and whilst I was upon the stage I often caught a glimpse of her standing in the wings, glaring upon me with eyes that shone with the lurid glare of bitter detestation.

      I soon discovered that, in addition to her hatred of me as a dramatic rival, Pepita cherished a feeling of jealousy of another kind. Knowing how deeply artistic egotism drowned every other voice in Mr. Calhoun's breast, I was much amused at this ridiculous fancy on her part; and I am ashamed to say that, to annoy Pepita, I often elaborated the "business" between Mr. Calhoun and myself, especially in scenes of an amorous nature. I had, however, to be careful how I did this; for the tragedian, whose mind was entirely occupied with himself and the effect which he was producing upon the audience, was inclined to be uneasy at my thus putting myself forward; and I saw clearly that the day on which I cast him distinctly into the shade would be the day on which I should receive a firm but courteous "notice."

      I will pass over several weeks of experience of this sort, during which I had firmly established myself in the good graces of the various members of the company (with the exception always of the hostile Pepita), and come to the time of our visit to the little city of Selma, in the State of ——. I generally made a point, in the places in which we played, of making the acquaintance of a few of the more respectable of the inhabitants. Manners are much franker and more simple in this particular than with you in England, and a well-conducted young woman in a travelling company is received with hospitality by the unconventional people of the Western townships. During our stay at Selma I had made the acquaintance of the family of Deacon Clay, which consisted of one strapping girl and three stalwart sons, all about (or over) six feet in height. The eldest and most stalwart of these three was named Saul, and it was he who in the forenoons during the first three days of our stay at Selma showed me the "lions" of the place, the waterfall, the saw mill, and the "Maiden's Leap!" — for Selma, like other places, had its romantic traditions. On the fourth, as I, like Oliver, "asked for more," he proposed to take me on a visit to "Old Leathers." I consented, and on our way to this curious personage's abode he gave me some information about him.

      Old Leathers, it appeared, was a harmless lunatic, who lived on odd jobs and the charity of the neighbouring farmers. His particular weakness was a friendship for snakes in general, and rattle-snakes in particular. To avoid the danger of being bitten by these reptiles, he invariably wore a suit of soft leather, boots, jerkin, and all — hence his cognomen.

      We started from the town in one of those boxes upon wheels which are dignified in the West by the name of "waggons;" and after a jolting drive of several miles arrived at a glen between two "bluffs." At the top of this Saul fastened the horses, and led me carefully down the narrow path which wound its way to the bottom of the little valley. It was bestrewn with masses of rock of all sizes and shapes, three or four of which, thrown together by some convulsion of nature, formed a sort of cave between them. Pausing some twenty feet above this, Saul hallooed, and a figure, which I saw at once must be "Old Leathers," appeared in answer to the summons, like a demon through a trap in a pantomime.

      The old man was eccentrically clad in the suit of leather in which I had been prepared to see him attired, and the skin of a raccoon with the tail hanging gracefully behind, formed a characteristic covering for his grey head. His features were deeply marked with age and a hard frontier life, but had an appearance of haleness and health only seen in those habituated to an open-air existence.

      "Here's a young lady come all the way from New York to see you," said Saul, with pardonable exaggeration — Old Leathers took off his cap and bowed with the air of a polished courtier — "Can't you show her your pets?"

      "Why, yes," said the old man. "But you must not be frightened," he continued with a genial smile. "It's not every one that fancies 'em. Keep quiet and I will bring them out."

      Though considerably nervous, I concealed a cowardice which I felt that Saul would have despised, and was silent, whilst the old man took a flute from his pocket, and began to play one of those "Christy Minstrel" airs which are so popular in the United States.

      Then I saw a sight which astonished me. From under each of the numerous blocks of stone which were scattered around came a snake. "Copper-heads," spotted with copper-coloured splotches not only on the head but all over the body; "garter-snakes," grey and yellow-green, were there; but the majority of the audience at Old Leathers' concert belonged to the species designated in natural history books as the "deadly" rattle-snake. They came forward and curled and wound themselves about Old Leathers' ankles, their heads gliding upwards over his legs, moving as if in caress, and then falling to the ground, rising again to repeat the motion. The quaint figure of the old frontiers-man; the grotesque contrast between the strains of "Mother, I am dying fast," and the general surroundings; the background of rocky cliffs and irregular rock-strewn grass; and the sight of the ever-moving, silent reptiles, whom my fancy and their constant restless motion multiplied into thrice their number, had a strange effect upon my senses. Louder and longer sounded the soft notes of the flute; faster and faster coiled and uncoiled themselves the supple bodies of the snakes; till, at last, I felt a sort of mesmeric drowsiness coming over me, and had I gazed at this strange spectacle much longer, I believe, despite my horror of snakes in general, and "rattlers" in particular, I should have left, the spot where I was standing and joined in a tarantala dance with Old Leathers' favourites.

      But the music ceased, and almost before he had time to put up his instrument every snake had disappeared as suddenly as he had come. I pressed the old man to take a reward for his exhibition, but he courteously refused. "If you would like to buy one, miss," he said; "I sell many to menageries, and send some to England." Seeing my horror, he added, "You would not be the first, miss. Only this morning ——" "Oh, no!" I interrupted him in horror. Thanking him for his courtesy, we departed as we had come, but by what seemed an easier path. As we climbed it I noticed on the ground a glove. On picking it up I saw it was a woman's, and abstractedly put it into my pocket, and we gained the waggon and drove home as fast as Deacon Clay's two trotters could carry us.

      It had been arranged that we should play "Antony and Cleopatra" on that particular evening, by particular desire of the deacon and leading inhabitants of Selma, and I asked Saul to drive quickly that I might be back in time for the "call" at twelve. On arriving at the hall, I found a warm altercation going on between Mr. Calhoun and his wife. She had formerly attempted the part of Cleopatra, and I believe it was the one in which she was least unsatisfactory. But I really believe that her strongest objection to my undertaking the rôle arose from her distaste for the demonstrations of affection which the great dramatist's lines suggest between the amorous Antony and the Egyptian queen.

      I was obliged to be a listener to this connubial dispute; and from what I heard I gathered that the conduct of Pepita had of late not been entirely exemplary. She had, it seemed, been "making too free" with a party of "cow boys" (cattle-drovers from Texas) who had honoured Selma with a visit; and it was as much to teach her a lesson as to secure an adequate representation of the part that her husband refused, in not too civil terms, to alter the cast of "Antony and Cleopatra." Pepita might play Charmian if she chose; otherwise, she might "leave it alone."

      At this refusal the passionate temper of the mestizo flared into flame. She first of all poured out upon the devoted head of her husband a flood of abuse which I need not write down here; and, then turning to me, she scolded me soundly for having "supplanted" her, as she called it. "Yes," she said, her black eyes flashing, her nostrils dilated, and her hand clenched in a style that, if she could only have reproduced it on the stage, would have made her successful as a tragédienne, "you have taken my bread out of my mouth, and you have taken my husband; but, mark my word, you won't live to enjoy either!" Then, her eyes falling upon the glove which happened to be protruding from the pocket of my ulster, she cried, "Thief! Would you take everything?" snatched the glove away, and dashed, weeping wildly, out of the place.

      I was surprised to discover that it was Pepita's glove which I had picked up, and an uneasy wonder how it came to be left where I had found it hovered, so to speak, at the back of my brains for some hours. But, as these were also occupied with the very harassing work of rehearsing, it was not strange that my "secondary musings" had no definite result.

      There was a sort of suppressed hostility in Pepita's manner when we met at the theatre in the evening. She was paler than usual, and more reflective and abstracted. She played Charmian as if in a dream. There was evidently something on, or in, her mind which made her manner so unusual. Once, when her husband attempted to enter her dressing-room, she slammed the door in his face, and bolted it on the inside.

      The play proceeded, as usual, till we came to the well-known scene of Cleopatra's suicide in the last act. The actor who played the clown was ushered in by Cleopatra's handmaidens, and in answer to my question, "Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, that kills and hurts not?" delivered the speech set down for him. While waiting for my cue, I was harassed by a sound for which I could not account. It was a gentle "whirr," like a dry pea rattling in its pod. I tried dreamily to localize this noise; and it is a curious instance of the difficulty of decision in these cases that it was not until I had actually taken the basket into my hand that I found that the sound was caused by something inside it.

      The exigencies of the stage leave no time for hesitation. Come what may the business of a scene must not stop. I took the basket from the clown, and, after speaking the lines which precede the action, raised the lid, and took what I presumed was the usual "property" snake from its interior.

      I shall never forget the shudder of repulsion that ran over my body as I felt the clammy, oozing thing which I had grasped. A sort of restriction of the muscles took place which prevented my loosing my hold, even when I saw that it contained a large rattle-snake, which, stirred to a high pitch of anger by its restraint, was drawing back its head, with its neck in exactly the shape of a note of interrogation, its mouth open, and its little eyes sparkling with rage, whilst it agitated its rattle savagely. In another moment it darted its nose against my neck with a force that was startling, and, overcome with sickening horror, I fainted.

*       *       *      *

      When I came to myself I was suffering an intolerably burning. pain in my neck. Saul Clay was standing near the sofa in the dressing-room, to which I had been carried after I had fainted. In a few words of deep feeling he told me that he had witnessed the accident, and, though not able to prevent the snake biting me, had applied the rough, but generally effective, frontier remedy of placing some gunpowder upon the bleeding wound and igniting it. It was to this readiness of action on his part that I probably owed my life. The snake had escaped in the confusion.

      I was brought to the belief that, but for Saul's remedy my fate would have been sealed, by a shocking occurrence which happened the same night. It appeared that Mrs. Calhoun had determined to leave her husband, and fly with one of the cow-boys I have already alluded to. Late in the night she took the keys of the building from her husband's pocket, and came to the theatre, probably to procure some expensive dresses which were in her room behind the scenes. Whilst groping about for a light she must have trodden upon the snake, which probably dropped through a chink in the stage into her apartment; and when the janitor came in the morning, he found her stiff in death. Some letters in a man's hand, which were discovered in her pocket, explained her plans.

      This painful event broke up the company. Learning that I was about to undertake a tedious journey back to New York, the good deacon persuaded me to remain with him till I might be able to hear of another engagement. I remained, and it was not long before one was offered me. The most perspicacious of my readers will have already fore seen that it came from Saul Clay, and that the part which I was to fill was that of his wife. I accepted the rôle, and he says that I fill it to satisfaction; in fact, "leave nothing to be desired." A blue mark on my neck, which nothing can erase, is the only memento which I possess of the painful accident which led to our marriage.

(THE END)