There are few communities, comparatively speaking, with more enthusiastic theatre-lovers than are to be found in San Francisco. The play was one of the few worldly pleasures that Mr. Levice thoroughly enjoyed. When a great star was heralded, he was in a feverish delight until it had come and gone.
When Bernhardt appeared, the quiet little man fully earned the often indiscriminately applied title of "crazy Frenchman." A Frenchman is never so much one as when confronted in a foreign land with a great French creation; every fibre in his body answers each charm with an appreciation worked to fever-heat by patriotic love; at such times the play of his emotions precludes any idea of reason to an onlooker. Bernhardt was one of Levice's passions. Booth was another, though he took him more composedly.
The first time the latter appeared at the Baldwin (his opening play was "Hamlet") the Levices--that is, Ruth and her father--went three times in succession to witness his matchless performance, and every succeeding characterization but strengthened their enthusiasm.
Booth was coming again. The announcement had been rapturously hailed by the Levices.
"It will be impossible for us to go together, Father," Ruth remarked at the breakfast-table. "Louis will have to take me on alternate nights, while you stay at home with Mamma; did you hear, Louis?"
"You will hardly need to do that," answered Arnold, lowering his cup; "if you and your father prefer going together, I shall enjoy staying with your mother on those nights."
"Thanks for the offer--and your evident delight in my company," laughed Ruth; "but there is one play at which you must submit to the infliction of my presence. Don't you remember we always wished to see the 'Merchant of Venice' and judge for ourselves his interpretation of the character? Well, I am determined that we shall see it together."
"When does he play it?"
"A week from Saturday night."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I shall be out of town at the end of next week."
"Oh, dear? Honestly? Can't you put it off? I want so much to go."
"Impossible. Go with your father."
"You know very well neither of us would go off and leave Mamma alone at night. It is horrid of you to go. I am sure you could manage differently if--"
"Why, my child!"
She was actually pouting; and her father's quiet tone of surprised reprimand just headed off two great tears that threatened to fall.
"I know," she said, trying to smile, and showing an April face instead;
"but I had just set my heart on going, and with Louis too."
"That comes of being a spoilt only child," put in Arnold, suavely. "You ought to know by this time that of the many plans we make with ourselves, nine out of ten come to nought. Before you set your heart on a thing, be sure you will not have to give it up."
Ruth, still sore with disappointment, acknowledged this philosophic remark with a curled lip.
"There, save your tears for something more worthy," cut in Levice, briskly;
"if you care so much about it, we or chance must arrange it as you wish."
But chance in this instance was not propitious. Wednesday came, and Arnold saw no way of accommodating her. He left town after taking her to see the "Fool's Revenge" as a sort of substitution.
"You seemed to be enjoying the poor Fool's troubles last night," observed Dr. Kemp, in the morning; they were still standing in Mrs. Levice's room.
"I? Not enjoying his troubles; I enjoyed Booth, though, --if you can call it enjoyment when your heart is ready to break for him. Were you there? I did not see you."
"No, I don't suppose you did, or you would have been in the pitiable condition of the princess who had her head turned. I sat directly back of your box, in the dress-circle. Then you like Booth?"
"Take care! That is a dangerous subject with my family," broke in Mrs.
Levice. "Ruth has actually exhausted every adjective in her admiration vocabulary. The last extravaganza I heard from her on that theme was after she had seen him as Brutus; she wished herself Lucius, that in the tent scene she might kiss Booth's hand."
