PART X. THE SUPERNUMERARY.
In the month of October, 1849, a young
woman, who was connected with one of the
theatres in a subordinate capacity, excited considerable
attention on the part of those gentlemen
who prowl about the stage, seeking
“whom they may devour.” We allude to
that class of characters, young and old, who
insult respectable women in the street, parade
opera glasses in the pit, while the dancing is
in progress, and hang around the green room,
where the actors congregate when their presence
is not needed upon the stage.
This young woman was altogether a subordinate;
she did not appear in any leading
character, but was seen as an assistant in the
ballet, or as a part of some dramatic spectacle;
in fact she was what is generally denominated
a “supernumerary.” She was about eighteen
years of age; rather tall; with brown hair,
dark eyes, a noble bust, and a walk that would
not have disgraced an empress. She was new
to the stage. Who or what she was, no one
knew; not even the manager who paid her
thirty-seven and a half cents per night for her
services in the ballet and spectacle. She had
only been engaged a week, in October, 1849,
when her beauty made a considerable buzz
among the libertines of the pit, and the loungers
of the green room. Her modest manner,
and her evident desire to remain unobserved
and unknown, only whetted the curiosity of
these vultures, who prey upon female innocence
and beauty.
One night, however, as winding her faded
shawl about her shoulders, and drawing her
green veil over her face, she left the theatre, on
her way to her unknown home, she was followed—
at a discreet distance — by one of
those gentlemen of the character named above.
He was rather portly; wore a bangup which
concealed the lower part of his face, and carried
a large bone-headed stick. The object of
his pursuit led him a devious chase. Up one
street and down another, now passing through
narrow alleys, and now along the streets, she
hurried on, until at last she reached a small
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frame house, which stood at the extremity of
a dark court, in that district somewhat widely
known as “Moyamensing.” This court is
known in the language of the District by the
euphonious name of “Dog Alley.” A lamp
standing at the entrance of the Court emitted
a faint and dismal light. When she reached
the lamp she paused, and looked around her,
as though she was conscious or afraid that she
had been followed. The gentleman with the
big stick saw her turn, and skulked behind a
convenient corner, in time to avoid her observation.
In a moment she resumed her way
and entered the frame tenement, from the window
of which a faint light shone out upon the
pavement.
The portly gentleman stole cautiously to the
window, took one glance, and then crouched
against the door of the house. That glance,
however, had revealed to him a small room
miserably furnished, with an old woman sitting
near a smouldering fire, and a young one —
the “supernumerary” of the theatre — standing
by her side, one hand laid upon a pine table,
and the other raised as if in the act of
expostulation.
The portly gentleman did his best to overhear
the conversation which took place between
the two. Pressing his ear against the chink
of the door, and balancing himself with his
stick, as he kneeled on one knee, he managed
to hear a portion of their conversation.
“So you've come — have you?” said the
old woman, in a voice between a grunt and a
growl.
“Yes, mother. And there's my week's
salary — just three dollars.”
“Three dollars! And how's a body as is
old and has the rheumatiz to live on three dollars?”
“Mother I do all that I can, I'm sure. I'd
earn more if I could.”
“Bah! If you only know'd what's what
you might earn a heap, I tell you. Here since
your father's been dead — killed by fallin'
off a buildin' four years ago — I've had all the
keer of you and tuk in washin' when you was
goin' to school. Yes, I tuk you from the Factory
and sent you to school. And now when
you've grow'd up and kin do somethin' for
your mother, why don't you do it?”
“What can I do, mother?” said the young
woman, in a voice of entreaty.
The old woman replied with a sound between
a cough and a laugh, as she said:
“What kin you do? Why if I was young
and handsom' and had a foot and a face like
yourn — and danced at the theater, I'd show
you, what I could do. Aint there plenty of
rich gentlemen, as 'ud be glad to pay you
your weight in goold if —
The rest of the sentence was lost in a
whisper, but the gentleman in the big stick,
who listened at the door, heard the reply of
the girl, which consisted in a simple ejaculation,
uttered in a tone of reproach and shame—
“My God, Mother!”
“Yes, it is easy to say My God, Mother!”
replied the old woman mimicking her daughter,
“But if you only had the spunk of a lobster
you might roll in goold an' be a great actress
and — what not!”
The listener did not wait for another word,
but pushing open the door, entered the apartment.
The old woman looked up in surprise,
her haggard face looking almost ghastly, by
lamplight, while the daughter (who had thrown
her bonnet and shawl aside) gazed upon the
intruder in evident alarm.
“Don't mind me, my good friends, don't
mind me,” said the portly gentleman, in a
thick voice, as he approached the table. “I'm
a friend, that's all. Have seen your daughter
on the stage, and would like to make a great
actress of her. Am a theatrical manager—
just over the water — in search of American
talent. Will take charge of her tuition. That
can't be managed without money, but money's
no object to me.”
And stepping between the mother and
daughter he laid five bright gold pieces upon
the pine table.
“Here's luck!” screeched the old woman,
grasping for the money.
“What say you?” asked the portly gentleman,
addressing the daughter.
“I — don't — know — you — sir —” she
exclaimed with a proud curl of the lip, as her
bosom swelled under its shabby covering. At
the same time she wrenched the money from
her mother's grasp. “Take your money
Sir.”
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There was something queenly in the look
of the young woman, as, with her form swelling
to its full stature, she regarded the intruder
with a look of withering scorn, extending his
gold pieces in one hand and at the same time
pointing to the door.
“The very thing! That voice would do
honor to Fanny Kemble! I tell you, Miss,
that nature cut you out for an actress — a great
actress.”
“So natur' did,” exclaimed the old woman,
rising from the chair — “Take the money, gal,
and let this gentleman make a great actress of
you.”
“Either you must leave this house, or I
will,” said the girl, and dashing the gold pieces
into the face of the portly gentleman, she retreated
behind the table, her eye flashing and
her bosom swelling with anger. This action
rather disconcerted the gentleman. Retreating
backward, and bowing at the same time, he
stumbled over the threshold, and gathered himself
up in time to receive the gold pieces from
the hand of the girl. She had gathered them
from the floor in defiance of the objurgations of
her mother, who earnestly sought to retain only
a single piece.
“Now, mother,” said the girl, closing the
door and placing her hand firmly on the old
woman's shoulder, “If after this I hear one
word from your lips, like those you have spoken
to-night, we part forever.”
Her flashing eye and deep toned voice impressed
the old woman with a sensation between
rage and fear. But ere she could frame
a reply, her daughter had gone up stairs, and
the old woman heard a sound like the closing
of a bolt.
“One of her tantrums. When things don't
go right, she goes to bed without supper, and
locks herself in. Lor' how they brings up
children now-a-days!”
For a long time she sat in silence, stretching
her withered hands over the fire: at length she
took the light, and hobbling to the door, unlocked
it, and went out into the court. Bending
down, the light extended in her skinny
fingers and playing over her haggard face, she
groped in the mud and filth for the gold pieces
which her daughter had flung in the face of
the portly gentleman.
“Won,” she mumbled, seizing a bright ob
ject which sparkled in the mud, when a hand
touched her lightly on the arm, and looking up
she saw the portly gentleman at her side.
He pointed to the door of the frame house,
and led the way. She followed, and after closing
the street door and the door which opened
on the stairway, they sat down together and
conversed for a long time in whispers, the old
woman's face manifesting a feverish lust for
gain, while the portly gentleman removed his
hat and suffered his coat collar to fall on his
shoulders, until his face was visible.
It was the face of a very pleasant looking
gentleman, whose forehead was relieved by
masses of curling black hair, and beneath whose
ample chin appeared a half circle of whiskers—
glossy whiskers, well oiled and curled,
and shown in contrast with a white shirt bosom,
which sparkled with a diamond pin.
This gentleman, without the hair and whiskers,
would have been at least fifty-four years old—
but with hair and whiskers (both were false)
he looked only forty-two.
There was a bright twinkle in his eye, half
hidden in wrinkled lids, and a sort of amorous
grin upon his lips. He approached the old
woman and talked in a low oily voice.
They conversed for a long time and the end
of the conversation was in these words:—
“To-morrow night, as she is going to the
theatre,” said the gentleman.
“It is election night and the streets will be
full of bonfires and devilment. She can be
seized at the corner of the street, put in a cab
which I have ready, and kept quiet until her
temper is a little managable.”
He laid some bank notes and bright gold
pieces upon the table, which the old woman
seized with a hungry grasp, as she replied:
“Yes, and Black Andy is the man to do it.
Have everything ready and it kin be done.
You'd better see Andy; he keeps a groggery
at the corner of the court.”
“The Gentleman” rose, and bidding the
dame good night, proceeded to the “Hotel”
of a huge negro, who went by the name of
Black Andy, or the “Bulgine,” in the more
familiar dialect of Moyamensing. Picking his
way through the darkness, he presently entered
a low and narrow room, filled with stench
and smoke, with negroes — men, women, and
children huddled together in one corner, and
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a bar in the other, behind which stood the negro
himself, dealing out whiskey to a customer.
The scene was lighted by three tallow candles,
stuck in as many porter bottles. The “Bulgine”
was a huge, burly negro, black as the
ace of spades, with a mouth like a gash, a nose
that looked as if it had been trodden upon, and
fists that might have felled an ox. The customer
was a white man — rather tall and muscular—
dressed in a miserable suit of grey
rags, with his hair worn long before the ears,
and a greasy cloth cap drawn low over his
forehead.
“This 'ere whiskey burns like rale —,”
grunted the customer, concluding his sentence
with a blasphemous expression.
“Dat it does. It am de rale stripe — hot as
pepper an' brimstone.”
After these words, “the Loafer” in grey
rags stretched himself on the floor, and our
worthy gentleman approached the negro.
A few words sufficed to put the negro in
possession of the object of the gentleman's
visit. He grinned horribly, as the worthy man
bent over the counter, and communicated his
desire in a confiding whisper.
“Dars my hand on it,” he said, “For a
small matter o' fifty dollars dis Bulgine put
twenty gals in a cab.”
“To-morrow night — remember. The old
lady's agreeable and I'll have the cab at the
street corner. There's twenty-five on account.”
“Y-a-s sah, dat's de talk,” responded the
negro grasping the money.
“Who's that fellow?” whispered the Gentleman,
touching with his foot the prostrate
form of the the “Loafer,” who by this time was
snoring lustily.
“Dat — eh, dat? I raly dono his name —
but he's a Killer.”
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1850], The killers: a narrative of real life in Philadelphia (Hankinson and Bartholomew, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf257].
