profound humiliation. I could not forget my success in the old country. I had been, in fact, a regular stage queen, and now to realize that I was nobody, was a sensation akin to that of a royal déchéance.

In the meantime, however, my friends interceded with the management in my behalf. General Kryanovski, Governor Salomon, and Colonel Hinton, a newspaper man who had heard me recite in Polish, and with an enthusiasm inherent in his noble nature, had espoused my cause, urged the manager so much that at last he consented to give me a hearing. It seemed somehow strange to me to have to pass through this kind of examination, but I was only too glad to perceive even a slight ray of hope.

When I arrived at the manager's office with my teacher, Miss Tuholsky, he looked a perfect picture of resignation, expecting a dreadful bore. "I can only give you ten minutes," he said, "but you will excuse me if I am sincere and severe."

"Very well, but please be attentive and don't interrupt me." I played for him the last act of Adrienne, most of which is a soliloquy. Miss Tuholsky gave me the cues, and the stage was a small office, with one chair for all the furniture.

When I had finished, I asked: “Well, will you give me a night in your theater ?”

"You can have a whole week or more if you desire it."

The manager had been moved, and a thrill passed through me when I saw him furtively wiping his eyes.

This occurred at the end of July, 1877, five months after the beginning of my lessons. Fortunately, a few days afterward, Mr. McCullough arrived. The manager must have made a favorable report to him, for I soon received a summons to a rehearsal on the stage. The rehearsal of course succeeded better than the private hearing and Mr. McCullough seemed to be even more enthusiastic on my account than the temporary manager.

In a short time the papers announced the approaching appearance for a week in August of a new star, Helena Modjeska, a Polish actress.

Mr. McCullough and manager did everything in their power to assure my success. They gave me very good support. Mr. Tom Keene, then the leading man of the company, was an excellent Maurice De Saxe, and Mr. Henry B. Edwards played Michonnet, and a true and kind Michonnet he was to me on and off the stage.

When the day of my performance arrived, my friends were much more anxious than myself. I had lost that nervous fear, which I could not shake off in Poland. The satisfaction of treading again the boards of a theater, made me feel quite at home. The audience was not very large, but exceedingly well disposed and kind, and that helped, I am sure, to make the performance a smooth one.

The applause which I received sounded to me like a hearty welcome to the American stage. Next morning after reading the papers, and after the visits of a few managers, anxious to secure a new star, I could send to my husband (who was lying sick in the mountains of South California) a telegram containing one single word, "Victory."

A new career in a new country was opened to me, and the waves of the Bay of San Francisco no more called me to their cold embrace.

On a cold, gloomy morning of March, 1880, I found myself in London. There was no sun to welcome me and to lighten with its rays the sense of oppression which overcame me on my arrival. The immensity of the city, the massive structure of the buildings, the manifold appearances of enormous wealth and luxury, instead of appealing to my fancy and exciting my admiration, made me only realize my smallness, my nothingness. Everything appeared so strong, there seemed to be no place for the weak. Never in my life

have I felt myself so lost; and yet in comparison with my arrival in San Francisco I was less a stranger here. I had passed several times through London on my way to and from America. I had in England some acquaintances, and even some relatives. Lastly, my name had already figured favorably in the English papers, thanks to some American correspondents. And yet while my first landing on the American shore had been full of joyous anticipation, my arrival in London produced upon me a very decided despondency. Was it the difference in the atmosphere, the smoke and fog of London in the place of the bright sky and of that delightful balmy ozone one inhales with full lungs on the shores of the Pacific? Or, was it possibly the feeling, that America is a home open to the oppressed and the exiles of every nation, and that notwithstanding some slight attacks of knownothingism, it is always ready to broaden the scope of its civilization by new elements,-while England, in its insular seclusion, often looks down with contempt and scorn upon the efforts of human progress, when they appear outside the sacred soil of Albion? Was I moved by physical or philosophical influences? I could not say, but whencesoever they sprang, they gave to my forebodings a very somber color.

I had come to London in order to impress a final stamp upon my American achievement. My adoption of a new tongue would be, I thought, only justified definitely by the sanction acquired in the first home of that tongue. My American manager had promised to obtain a London engagement but his efforts had failed, and it was written, that now as before I should have to struggle for it myself. Fate, though kind to me, never threw success in my way with open hands; I had always to wrest it by sheer effort. I shall not describe the difficulties we had to secure an engagement; it would be very much the repetition of the story given before, only

instead of applying to one theater, to one manager, I had to apply to a score of them.

When I had almost given up my project, and was balancing in my mind, whether to return to Poland or to America, I one day received a visit from a gentleman who brought me an offer to appear at the Court Theater. The house was then, fortunately for me, under the management of Mr. Wilson Barrett, the actor so popular on both sides of the Atlantic, who, among his other qualities, possesses a great spirit of enterprise and true generosity. He had heard some favorable comments of me from Mr. Charles Coghlan, whom I did not know personally, but who had seen me play in America.

Mr. Barrett's proposition was really nothing but the tendering of a kind and friendly hand to a sister artist. He was not urged to do it by any business consideration, as he had then on the boards of his theater a very good play, which would safely run the whole season: The New and Old Love, an adaptation of The Banker's Daughter, possibly the success of an American drama inspired him with the hope for the success of an adopted American actress.

I need not say that the offer was joyfully and gratefully received. As The New and Old Love was then occupying the evenings of the Court, Mr. Barrett proposed me to play a week or two of matinées.

The selection of the play in which I was to appear took us some time. At last our choice fell upon a play called Heartsease.

The manager thought it well to excite public curiosity by posting large bills in conspicuous places, with nothing but "Modjeska" in monstrous big letters. Though my name had been mentioned in the papers, it was yet unknown to the great majority of people. "What is Modjeska? Is it alive?" was one of the questions I heard in a car. Some guessers thought it a tooth wash, or some exotic

cosmetic for the face. Even to the people whom I met socially, I remained a kind of unknown quantity. Only a few days previous to my appearance, at a reception given in my honor by a kind friend, I was approached by a lady who asked me in what language I was to perform.

The American correspondents were only of little avail to me, I fear. There was at that time a kind of distrust in London against American actors, and American praise. Englishmen were a little afraid of being taken in by Brother Jonathan.

Though on the new continent Anglomania had begun to spread through the large cities of the East, there was no such thing as Americomania in England at that time.

I had therefore uphill work before me. I was to overcome the natural distrust against a newcomer, a foreigner and an American -and the play selected by me might prove another obstacle, as it braved the English social prejudices, and preached the lesson of forgiveness in opposition to the morals of the day.

My first performance took place in the afternoon of the first day of May, 1880. The house was full. Through the influence of a Polish friend of my husband, who was attached to the person of the Prince of Wales, both the prince and princess were present. The rumor of their coming had helped to bring the representatives of fashionable society. The big letters of the posters had something to do with the filling of the galleries and pit.

What we feared as an obstacle, proved to be a help, and the pathetic story overcame all prejudices, melted the hearts of the public, and disposed them favorably to the newcomer. The reception was so warm and hearty I could hardly realize that I stood in the presence of cold-blooded Englishmen.

My performance soon became the fashion. Was I not the novelty of the day? The pit was converted into orchestra seats, my matinées were replaced by evenings. In the stores appeared heartseases