Boydell

He was a strolling player. In February 1868, I was in Chicago, gathering a theatrical troupe to perform in the provinces. I had no trouble finding the general utility people, but I still lacked a "first old man." Everyone wanted leading business; that was exactly the problem. In the midst of my perplexity, I ran into Carey, whom I knew to be out of work, and offered him the position.

I felt this was a true act of charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his years on the stage—and he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumbfounded, when Carey refused, absolutely and positively refused—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and soon the truth slipped out. He had just married a pretty young girl, and—well, he had promised to quit the stage. That was all. But Carey suited me perfectly, and I didn't give up. I told him it was nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to take the position. Carey wavered, the old love for his profession threatening to outweigh the new love that had crept into his heart. Finally, we decided that I should call on his wife and submit the decision to her.

I found her truly young and truly pretty, but also truly serious. Carey could not go; that was certain. At the first mention of the matter, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.

Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to take the position.

A few days later, Carey brought him to me and gave me an introduction.

He was a tall man, six feet one or two, with a fine presence heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. Dramatic power was stamped on his English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell's age. I couldn't guess within fifteen years, either way. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. A few wrinkles marked his bronzed features, but they weren't the wrinkles of time. His thick brown hair was combed straight back and hung behind his ears. His dress was what might be called shabby-genteel: black from head to foot, nothing new, and one would almost think nothing had ever been new. The garments seemed to have existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back and a trifle small, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length in both body and arms.

On his feet were queer English shoes with broad, spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up like a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned with a curved rim, such as we see in portraits of Beau Brummel, was set well back on his head.

But despite these peculiarities, there was something in his bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and his fine address reinforced the impression of eminent respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was quickly accomplished. I asked him to call the next day, when I would make the final arrangements for departure, and he left with a dignified bow.

Gathering a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in particular and trying to mold them into something like an organized troupe is not the most encouraging work one could undertake. Again and again my patience wore thin, but I resolved to persevere. Several times we were almost ready to perform when someone would back out and throw us into confusion once more. Now, however, I was determined to surmount every obstacle so that the next train could carry us west.

In the midst of the morning's turmoil, Boydell appeared. I informed him of our plans, asked where he kept his baggage, and told him I would send for it immediately.

"That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, sir, is my baggage."

As he spoke, he reached into his coat-tail pocket and quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face for a hint of a smile, but not even a shadow broke its gravity. His countenance was as composed when he returned the wig to his pocket as if he had shown me a complete wardrobe of magnificent clothes. I was so struck by his aristocratic manner that the absurdity of the moment didn't fully hit me until it was over.

But I had no time to be amused, and with all the annoying trials that appeared, no inclination. When I sent for the luggage, I discovered that two of the boys had pawned their trunks at their uncle's and, at the last moment, I had to redeem them. Then I hired a carriage and went to pick up the soubrette. When I arrived at the house, the mother came out and said her daughter couldn't go unless I gave her fifteen dollars to get her front teeth back from the dentist's! What could we do without a soubrette? With a groan, I handed over the fifteen dollars.

Playing in the smaller towns along the route, we covered our traveling expenses and got into pretty good working order.

When we reached St. Joseph, we gathered our strength and appeared in full glory as "The New York Star Company." There we played for three weeks to crowded audiences. On paydays, the money was actually there—a rare occurrence for strolling actors—and of course we were all delighted.

Under such circumstances, our spirits ran high, and everyone began telling of the roles that, in days gone by, had electrified audiences and won applause. Boydell caught the fever. It so happened that we had been performing plays where the "first old man" was, at best, a stick part, and Boydell fretted over his bad luck. One night he came into the green room and, to his joy, found himself cast as "Colonel Damas" in Bulwer's comedy "The Lady of Lyons." This was his favorite role, and the news reignited his dramatic genius.

"Boys," he said, straightening his dignified form, "Boys, you will see me make a great hit tonight. The passage beginning, 'The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,' has never been rightly given."

Many of us had seen him do fairly well before, but now we looked forward to a performance unlike anything the St. Joseph stage had witnessed.

The next evening, I went to the theater half an hour early, but found Boydell already dressed. His shabby black coat looked more respectable than ever, buttoned over smooth white linen—or what he used for linen: half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand he held his single treasure, the scratch wig. A few minutes remained before his cue, and he disappeared, as he said, to "steady his nerves." Various winks and knowing looks went around; such disappearances at that time of the evening were neither rare nor surprising.

Boydell returned and went straight onto the stage. Backstage excitement mounted, because though few would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor. We clustered at the wings, breathless with expectation.

He began with a dramatic gesture: "'The man who sets his heart upon a woman Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air— On air—air—'"

Suddenly his voice grew faint, his words incoherent. Those few minutes spent "steadying his nerves" had wiped every line from his memory.

He could barely stay on his feet and stumbled through his role with a thick voice and uncertain steps. He knew his helpless state and came off with a moody, crestfallen look.

When the curtain fell, since it was Monday night, the troupe assembled for pay. Boydell stood apart, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward with a long, elaborate speech and, on behalf of all, presented Boydell with a tin snuff box to hold his wardrobe—"as a token of their appreciation for the great hit he had made and the glory it would bring the troupe."

That night, from some unknown source, Boydell scraped together two shillings.

He could drink twice as much as any other man without showing it, aside from a red nose and a flushed, glistening look about the cheeks. He had a trick of cupping his hand around the glass and pouring whiskey to the brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked why he held the glass that way, he said, "It's habit, merely habit." I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, the glasses were unusually small, and he launched into a logical argument with the bartender about the evil of it. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his trade. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him—it was only the principle he objected to; it seemed stingy.

Boxing, I found, aside from acting, was Boydell's main source of pride. If he heard of someone in the area who claimed skill, he would walk miles through rain or mud to defeat the "presumptuous fool." I couldn't help feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in English colleges, polished by the classics, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for a worthless, roving, vagabond life. Yet despite his degradation, intemperance, and occasional profanity, there remained a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.

Our expenses had steadily climbed, and our finances couldn't keep up. At least, they didn't justify a longer run. We played two weeks in Leavenworth City and disbanded, scattering in all directions.

I went home to M—— with immeasurable relief. My theatrical experience had convinced me to leave the stage alone for the time being, or try it in a different capacity. I devoted my time to a more lucrative business and heard nothing from the old troupe, nor did I care to see them again, except perhaps Boydell. I had little hope of meeting him; it would be pure chance. He might easily be in Europe or Australia by then. But we were destined to cross paths once more.

M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in western Illinois. It had built a theater and was a gathering point for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center where remnants of failed troupes straggled in to recover. The townsfolk didn't consider this a proud distinction, but in reality it was what put the place on the map; otherwise, its few thousand inhabitants might have lived forever in obscurity like their neighbors.

Early last summer, a business errand took me to the outskirts of town. The air was clear as crystal and glittered with sunshine. Cherries hung ripe on the trees; blackbirds chattered with red-stained beaks; cats stretched lazily in the sun, watching the winged robbers without much charity. The thirsty leaves barely whispered, and in the dry, pleasant fields grasshoppers held a jubilee. From distant pastures came the sound of bells, and close by the road, farmers whetted their scythes.

Coming toward me on the turnpike was a man approaching the town on foot. As we neared each other, old memories flooded back. Yes, that tall, erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— from parts unknown.

The same coat I had seen perform such good service, only shinier now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper muslin. On his feet were shoes, a present no doubt, a size or more too short; but he had fixed the problem by cutting out the backs and strapping his trousers down to cover his bare heels. I knew his high silk hat, the one from old times, had lost its crown—I discovered that only because I was on horseback and could see over. Under other circumstances I'd never have noticed, for the edges were trimmed smoothly, and Boydell, as I said, was tall.

And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of old. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was a respectable shell. But something had changed. He didn't look older, though I noticed a few strands of silver among his thick, wavy hair since we'd parted. There was something unnatural in his eyes, and a tired, weary expression sat on his face—one I'd never seen before. Perhaps he'd walked many miles.

I watched him continue toward town, thinking what an unsettled, wild, worthless life he led—this man with the divine gift of genius, this vagrant with the air of gentility. Maybe fate was against him; maybe he had higher aspirations; but without friends or home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them. And as I watched, it suddenly struck me how easily I could guess what was in his coat-tail pocket!

Some time after that meeting, when Boydell had almost slipped from my mind, a gentleman called at my office and told me about a case of destitution that had come to his attention. At first, I listened with well-bred indifference, for my experiences had cured any philanthropic tendencies I might have had. But when he told the details, my interest stirred.

A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the outskirts of town and fallen ill.

He had no money, no friends, not even a shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to throw him out, utterly helpless as he was. I immediately thought of Boydell and asked the man's name. My friend couldn't recall it, but said the fellow claimed to be an actor; the landlord doubted it, for the man had no wardrobe, and the only possession he had was a scratch wig—a blackleg might own one as easily as an actor. That destroyed any doubt: it was Boydell, and something had to be done at once.

Generosity is more prevalent in the dramatic profession than in any other, especially among its lower members. As it was rehearsal time, we went to the theater. We told of Boydell's condition, and I shared his history. One appeal was enough; the collection they took up would at least relieve his immediate needs.

We found him at the tavern in a stupor. Neglected, without the bare necessities, he'd had no medical care. He was lying on a broken bed in a room under the roof, on a worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shield him from the fierce sun or the buzzing flies. He'd been sick for eight days. On the floor, old Mounse had crammed himself into the one shady corner.

Old Mounse was a stupefied beggar whose eyelids were so inflamed they looked like raw beef. The landlady, more compassionate than her husband, had sent him up an hour earlier with some gruel, fearing Boydell might die on her hands, but Mounse had eaten it himself and was now snoring peacefully in the corner.

We summoned a physician and had Boydell moved to another room where he might escape the heat and flies. When the doctor arrived, Boydell was settled in comfortable quarters. His illness, as we feared, was a severe case of typhoid fever. From his lifeless stupor, he suddenly burst into the wild ravings of delirium, and it took all our strength to keep him in bed.

We put old Mounse back on watch, with strict orders to keep his swollen eyelids open. Old Mounse was one of those rare souls with delirium tremens who had hovered on the brink of death for thirty years and still survived. Palsied, feeble, crippled, unshaven, dirty, and whiny, he managed to stay on this side of the grave. The word "old" fit him perfectly, for his clothes, too, were ready to fall apart at any moment. His one virtue was that he was so aged he could do only what he was told and nothing more. Now that Boydell seemed to have friends, the case looked different to him.

Every day the doctor reported the patient's condition, which grew increasingly grave, until one morning he told us Boydell likely had no more than twenty-four hours to live. We went to the tavern at once. For the first time since his illness, Boydell was fully conscious. In the silence of that barren room, without the comfort of loved ones, a wild, reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if death's shadow was already reaching out to snap the last thread. His face on the pillow was haggard and gaunt, with hollow cheeks, very different from the one where that weary expression had appeared three weeks earlier. Boydell recognized me and gestured to a chair by the bed. He tried twice before he spoke.

"I am going to die."

We could only answer with silence. It was terrible to see this strong man, now weaker than an infant, lying calmly at eternity's edge. Even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids and drew back with a subdued sniffle. We asked if there was anything he wished done. After a moment, he turned his head so his voice could reach us.

"I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold themselves up in the world; it's only a disgrace wiped out; but—I would like them to know. When I am dead, I wish you would write to—to my brother. I haven't heard from him for nearly fifteen years."

He closed his eyes and seemed to dream, but soon roused and looked anxiously around.

"There was something else—oh yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector of St. Paul's Church, S——, Lower Canada." He paused, then said slowly as if repeating it for the first time: "It is no matter—but tell him I am—dead."

He feebly felt the seam of the quilt, then closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.

All day, death's phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering thread, and sometimes we thought it would break. But at nightfall, they receded, and his hold strengthened. There was a change for the better, and Boydell fell into a gentle, natural sleep.

Several days later, it occurred to me that if Boydell had well-off relatives in Canada, they ought to help him. Without telling anyone, I wrote a letter describing his illness and utter destitution among strangers. Since they had no communication with Boydell, I feared they wouldn't send money to an unknown. To assure them it wasn't a scam, I asked that any assistance be sent to "The Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, Illinois."

About a week later, that minister came to me with a letter postmarked S——, containing a check for three hundred dollars. It specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only if he promised to renounce the stage forever and return to his relatives once he was well enough to travel. I was thrilled at the plan's success, for of course he'd accept the money, and whether he kept his promise afterward was none of my business.

When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost sitting with pillows. The window shutter was partly open, and a narrow ray of sunlight fell across the bed. We told him the good news and, after explaining how it came about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect silence, without moving, and when we finished, he took the check and said, "Three hundred dollars?"

"Yes," we said, "it's three hundred dollars."

He held the slip in his thin, trembling hands and repeated, "Three hundred dollars..."

He seemed to be trying to believe it, but then a bewildered expression crossed his face as he looked from the check to the letter lying open. We asked if he wanted to hear it again, but at the second reading his confusion only grew. He looked around the bare room, his gaze finally settling on the strip of blue sky visible through the window. Then he asked himself aloud, "Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?"

His eyes came back to the money in his hand.

He folded it, pressing the creases with his thin fingers, then slowly held it out and shook his head: "Send it back."

The sunlight had crept across the room until it stretched over his broad white forehead, and we stood in awe greater than when death's angel had hovered there. A dazzling ray had flashed from the black waste of his sinful life. The uncashed check went back to Canada.

A month later, I was riding through the countryside. A purple light hung over the shadowy prairie, stretching away broad and level without bounds. Occasionally a wild bird rose and darted with swift wings to find a resting place, for the September moon was waiting for night. Nearer, tall weeds rose from the ocean of grass like masts of receding vessels.

A single wagon, the only object on the vast prairie, stood out sharp against the bright horizon, and clearly outlined against the sky, above the driver, high on the hay, was a man's figure. Even at that distance, I knew it was Boydell.

Someone had given him a little money, and with renewed health and spirits, he was leaving M——. Where was he going?