THE TWO ACTRESSES

New Zealand Tablet, 11 February 1915, Page 7

THE TWO ACTRESSES

rhe other evening, a priest of my acquaintance called for a social visit, and as ho was obliged to leave early, I took my hat and went a short distance with him. The night was fine and beautiful.

Our conversation turned on the conversion of the famous theatrical manager, Henry E. Abbey, who was attracted to the Church first by noticing the clear business-like methods of her beliefs, especially by the system and order evidenced in her mission-work: ‘No ialtering, no doubting ; she speaks with authority, and no unbiased mind can tail to be convinced of her truth.’

‘Speaking of the stage,’ said my companion, ‘let me tell you a story of another member of the stage fraternity, who was convinced of the truths of religion by telling the results of believing them in others.’

By all means,’ 1 replied, ‘go ahead with it.’ Well, it came about this way. One of our Fathers

gave a mission in a. certain city about five years ago. As lie is one of the ablest and most powerful preachers wo have, the church was overcrowded every night. The end of the mission came, and the final sermon was on the Sacrifice of Christ on Cavalry and the all-powerful efficacy of the Mass. It was a masterpiece, and the .people, deeply impressed with the magnificent explanation and appeal to their souls, filed slowly out of the church, while the priest remained a few moments in the sacristy. ‘ As he stood there, a young lady of great beauty and distinguished appearance presented herself at the door. She advanced at once to the missionary, and said: “Father, I would like you to say a Mass for me, but,’’ she added doubtfully, “I am not even a Catholic, and I am an actress; will that make any difference?” ‘ “Certainly not, my child,” said the priest, moving toward a chair, “of course I will say a Mass for you.” ‘He turned, but the lady had gone—with ai scarcely audible, “Oh, thank, you!” True to his promise, the priest said the Mass

for the mysterious lady, thought of the matter a good deal, and then, because other important things claimed his attention, forgot all about it. Four years passed. This good Father had given many missions, and travelled many hundreds'of miles. <At a long distance from the city where he met this lady, he arrived late one evening at another city where he was to give a retreat. With the usual crowd he passed out of . the railroad station, and made his way to the church where he was due that night. He was a complete stranger in the city. He, delivered his opening sermon, and then retired.

The next morning after his Mass at 7.30, the porter informed him that a lady was waiting in the parlor, most anxious to see him.

‘ “It must be a mistake,” he said, “I have no acquaintances here.”

‘ But being assured that there was no mistake, he hurried to the parlor, for he had no time to lose. The moment he opened the door he recognised the lady whom he had met four years before in the city of X , hundreds of miles away, and who had asked him to say a Mass for her. He was amazed, remembering that she was an actress, and a. non-Catholic.

‘ “I ask your pardon, Father, for troubling you so very early,” she said; “I saw you and recognised you in the train last evening, and heard that you came here to this church. Fearing I would miss you, I made an early start. Can you spare me a few moments, Father? I have something to tell you that 1 can tell no one else.”

‘ “For anything connected with his priestly duty a priest simply has to have time,” said the Father, motioning her to a chair, while he seated himself. ‘“I thank you, Father,” said the lady. “I have been an actress for a number of years, and I have made a splendid success in my part. I was a member of the opera in the city where you preached that mission four years ago, and I am the star of the principal theatre in this city. I need not tell you my name, nor that no one knows or believes that I would ever come

to see a priest. I have everything a human heart can long for: youth, wealth, praise, love. Yet lam not happy. I have felt a longing for something, I know not what, for a long time past. I have no religion, and I have been looking among my companions of the stcige, curious to learn their inward thoughts. They live like I do, enjoying travel, change, excitement, and the too-free-and-easy life of the stage fraternity. But in all these past years I have found but one who told me she was happy. This is a young girl beginning her actress career at the foot of the ladder, so to speak. One day I talked to her quite a while, and I asked her if she really had a happy heart. Her smile was so sincere that I could not doubt her words. But I watched her, pried into her conduct day and night, and soon learned that she lived a retired life, compared with ours. She did not attend our frequent and sometimes unseemly and wild orgies after a season of success, although she was a lovely, kind-hearted, beautiful girl, I also found out that although she had many male admirers, she kept them at a distance. Then little by little 1 became aware that her life was one of absolute purity in word and deed, and I felt that I could bear no comparison with her. 1 learned that she was religious, and I determined to find it what was the religion that kept her like a lily in the midst of dissipation. When I next saw her, after many hours of thought about it, I said to her : ‘ “You are very correct and reserved. Is it because of your religion? What is it?” ‘“I am a Catholic, madam,” was her reply “I attend to the duties of my Church, and this is my sal-

vation and my happiness.” would find out something about this Catholic religion. Your mission was going on at the time, and I knew the Catholic church where you preached, Father, so I slipped away one night from my noisy friends who had a supper, and went right over to the church where you preached. "Unfortunately, it was the conclusion of the mission, so I had no chance to profit by it. But

I listened breathlessly to all you said about the great Sacrifice* of the Altar, and the thought entered ~ my mind that perhaps you could say a Mass for me—the great effects of which you so masterfully, explained and so warmly recommended, to the Catholic people. Frightened at my boldness, I went to the sacristy, where I was directed to find you, and asked you to say a Mass. Do you remember?”

M had listened without -a word to this outpouring from a soul whose sincerity I felt, and who was drawn to God by all the magnetism of His Divine Heart. I looked at the speaker. She was a noble-looking woman, still young and attractive, and of those easy distinguished manners that are given to all whose stage career is successful.

‘ “Do I remember, my child?” I said heartily. “I remember distinctly. And I said the Mass for you next day. For a long time I remembered you, and then ”

‘ “And then,” she interrupted, “you naturally forgot all about it. Well, that is not all. The good God did not forget. Not a day has passed in all these years that something did not impel me to pray in my own way that I might see you again. My prayer has been heard, and here I am. I ask you to give me instruction and receive me into that Church which is so Godlike in its pure and holy doctrines.”

‘My heart overflowed with joy, and at once I began to instruct and prepare this chosen soul for reception into the Catholic Church. Although she had never received religious instruction, the task was not hard. Her native intelligence, her quick apprehension, and above all her intense desire, made the work easy. Before I left the place I had the happiness of baptising her, of giving her the Sacraments, and of placing her on the road to a holy Catholic life. She continued in her profession, and has continued to be successful in it. But with success generally comes a sacrifice; and God required it, not from her, apparently but from another. ‘ A year later I was in another city, giving a mission in a certain parish. The pastor, during conversation, spoke of his visits to a hospital nearby, and of a young woman who had been crippled by an unfortunate fall.

‘ “She is a marvel of patience and intelligence,” he said, “and although she can move only on crutches, she is the life of the place. Sometimes when the convalescents are moody or discouraged, she gets up a little “Punch and Judy” show, or helps the Sisters with music and song. I wish you could meet her.”

‘ My curiosity was aroused, and I went to the hospital. I asked the good Sisters about this patient. At once they beamed with pleasure, and launched forth into eulogies of praise. They led me to the convalescent ward, and I saw in the distance a young woman seated in the midst of a little crowd, which parted as I approached. She smiled without the least embarrassment, and pointed to her crutches : ‘ “These wooden friends of mine, Father, must be my apology for not rising,” she said with a charming grace; “but I know you are Father So-and-so. I have seen you often, and have heard much of you, too.’ ‘ She had the face of an angel, with fair hair, and eyes like the blue heavens. I stared at her for. a moment, I was so amazed. The other patients had slipped away, and the Sister who was with me had given me a chair. I found that we were alone. ‘ “You have seen and heard of me before?” I said, in surprise. “Where, my child? And you know my name? How is this?”

‘ She folded her hands, which were very whit© and shapely, and with a beautiful smile on her face, she was silent for a moment. The act and the silence suggested something I could not grasp at once, and then like a flash it occurred to me—- ‘ “Have you ever been on the stage?” ‘ “Yes, Father.” ‘ “How does it happen that you are here?” • “I knew one of my fellow actresses'was in danger, and in saving her I myself fell. Isshall never be better,” was the quiet answer.

•< ' '‘ My heart went out to her in .pity—so "young, so beautiful, perhaps a long life before.her, and her lower limbs useless. She read my face, and answered my thoughts. - . '• > “You are sorry for me, Father. Well, do not Jity me. : lam very happy now. Being poor, I had Jfiq; place v to go, until these dear Sisters offered me a home in this hospital." And once, some years ago, I offered myself to God if He would bring to the faith a noble woman, also an actress, who is now, thanks be to His mercy, a fervent Catholic. But I did not think then it would be this kind of an offering—a cripple for life! But lam satisfied and happy, for she can do much good in her art, much better than I could with my poor talents.”

‘A light broke upon me: “ It is Madam X !” I said. “I baptised her, and received her into the Church !”

‘ “Yes, Father. She told me all about it,” said the cripple fervently. * “And you are the girl whose life behind the scenes won her to the faith 1 And I find you here, in this condition 1”

1 “Yes, Father. I am the poor girl she condescended to say was the first cause of her conversion. I shall never forget her kindness and graciousness.” ‘ “But how is it you are here? Why has she not helped you?” 1 “She has helped me, Father. She does not know how my accident happened. She was far away in a distant city. She only knows I have retired from the stage, and am ill. She would do anything for me, she said.”

‘“How did the accident happen?” I continued. ‘“A trap-door was open behind the scenes, and I knew others would be going that way. I undertook to close it, and lost my balance. It was a, dreadful fall, but another girl, who heard me cry out, was close behind, and if I had not fallen, my fate would have been hers. At first I had hopes of recovery, and it was a bitter blow when they broke it gently that I would never be wellthat I must give up all my aspirations. But, Father, is it not better to suffer and pray that one gifted soul may become perfect and closer to God than to lead an indifferent life in perfect health?”

‘ What could I say ? Here was the greater love of which Christ gave ■ the example. I arose, deeply touched. I laid my hands on the actress’s head, and prayed God to bless her, and to bless that other actress who had been led by her to the kingdom of the faith. I have never seen either of them since.’ —The Mis-

sionary.