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Kansas University Weekly.
I attended none of them because of my thorough detestation of stage business and dramatic technique. I was occasionally informed of their progress; my interest, however, remained passive. I continued to cherish my darling conception. The night of the initial performance of "Othello" was at hand. My father seemed rather pleased with the prospects. He said that he had been pleasantly surprised by the competency of his support and the adequacy of a vailable stage settings.
His company was strong and versatile. The leading man was reliable. His style was not declamatory; his dignity was superb and unstudied; he was capable of the handling most delicate scenes. True, his successes had not been pronounced, but his failures had not been unpardonable.
The leading lady was a consummate artist. Beautiful, intelligent, teachable and genial, she easily won recognition and applause. I often wonder why I did not like her at first. Her work upon the stage was flawless; her intelligence was delightfully refreshing; her face and figure were model, although her individuality was unmistakable; her temperament, not painfully even, was usually happy. And yet my admiration for the woman never bordered upon adoration. Again I say, I marvel that, at the moment of our first meeting. I was not seized with paroxysms of love.
Let me see—how far had I gotten with the story? Oh, yes! up to the first night of the reproduction.
With the approach of the theatre hour my interest in the piece so soon to be produced-became active. By idle surmise, apprehension and unnecessary solicitude, I worried myself into a state of galling impatience. New thoughts tormented me. I reasoned thus: I love Desdemona,-because I know her. Suppose she should materialize, would a walking, speaking, acting Desdemona seem less real to me? Would I not love the creature who could imitate her attributes? This thought did not enrapture me, and I neither questioned nor encouraged it. The play was over all too soon. You ask me about details? I remember few of them. I saw only Desdemona, heard only her, felt only her presence. After the last curtain fall, I staggered back to the green room. It was deserted. I could hear the broken chatter from the dressing rooms. Listen! No! Desdemona had gone. I had seen her die-had wept for her, and now I caught myself straining
for the sound of a voice. One by one the actors emerged from their rooms and left the building. I had seen again and again that form, that face. Why did I stare so when she passed out of the stage door? I had never sought her company before. Why did I follow her now? Why, I loved her. The more I frowned upon myself, the more I loved.
We became friends, then companions, then lovers. The future grew bright before me. I adopted my father's profession. Love coached me in my study, and my life became serenely blissful. Our every action seemed to meet with my father's sanction. "Othello" became his strong piece. Since its first production he had given it a more elaborate setting and a richer costuming. He was, however, still dissatisfied with his Iago. One day,—oh, cursed impulse! a strange desire seized me,--a gruesome longing to play Iago. An unnatural prompting, was it not? that I who so loved Desdemona should yield to the fascinating charms of her snaky destroyer. From that time I was mysterious, dreadful, almost loathsome to myself. I told her of my odd conceit, and to father I freely expressed my secret wish. Both of them looked upon the matter with a professional eye —alas! I couldn't—; both were delighted, were enthusiastic in their encouragement; all of which rather disappointed and grieved me, for I had prayed for opposition and disapproval in this latest whim of mine. Perhaps, I feared its outcome. Why should I? What had I in common with Iago? Could mere mimicry pervert my being? Mock passion leaves no trace, teaches no habit, cannot be confounded. Why, what a drivelling fool I was! living a dual role—in thought a veritable Othello, in play a miscreant. I played the part. I play it now. I killed my Desdemona and I killed my love; for me it is now beyond recall.
Oh, fickle fancy! to make the willing intellect a cheat to dupe the soul. I loved a dream. I trusted in its fulfillment and thought I loved—a woman."
To a Cyclone.
Oh Cyclone! I can never sigh for thee
It would not do, as we have never met
So only as I love humanity
Can I for thee hold pity or regret.
But do not, Gentle Cyclone, 'er believe
That I feel sad, because we're yet to meet
I tell thee frankly, I would not deceive,
I never craved to worship at thy feet .
Yet be not sad, for should you choose to come—
I fear escape I could not, though I try:
I too, would helpless fall, as others who
Have listened to thy plaintive wail and sigh.
But as thou, Cyclone, ne'er hast sighed for me.
Why should I now be sighing loud for thee? A.A.E.