Transcript of October 10, 1897 San Francisco Call article titled: "DARK-SKINNED LION TAMER IN THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY"
"There is nothing weak, nothing temporizing about her. She is exquisitely loyal. Not even the awful, cumulating misfortunes of Sarah Althea Terry's terribly tragic life could weary the devotion of this tenacious, faithful old black woman. She has been a good friend. I don't doubt that she can be a relentless enemy." - Miriam Michelson, reporter for the SF Call
DARK-SKINNED LION-TAMER IN THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY: MAMMY PLEASANT, IN WHOSE HEART LIE BURIED THE SECRETS OF THE BELL FAMILY
I find to my surprise that the Bell case is not so great a function as other court trials I have attended.
The audience is smaller. There are fewer women present. The reporters take Iife more easily. An attorney now and then betrays a womanish desire for the last word, and repeats a thing upon discovery that it is a good thing. People titter applausively and without fear of the bailiff's gavel, at the Judge's facetious asides, which like all stage asides are significant, to be uttered in a distinct voice, and to be listened to at least with smiling deference, though a lively hilarity would better testify to one's appreciative powers. It is all rather informal, though, and I suppose the judicial ermine does become rather irksome if the burden is never to be lifted from one's shoulders. But the Bell case is very interesting despite the lack of scenic accessories. It has the attraction, the only legitimate attraction, which all family squabbles have — the exhibition of human nature in various phases, the showing-up of character. **** Here's a son whom his mother has denied—a weak, obstinate, dissipated boy, who has taken the bit between his teeth, who tugs and strains with all the strength of stubborn weakness to wound those who have been nearest to him. He has been wronged, or fancies he has — I haven't been long enough in court to decide which— and besides, as Judge Coffey remarked to Fred Bell's lawyer, "You're not the judge." The boy declares his mother, or his foster mother, incompetent; wholly under the control of Mrs. Pleasant, their colored housekeeper. He wishes her removed from the guardianship of the minor Bell children. And she, in defending herself, heaps disgrace upon him. It's a pitiable, shameful story, and the details are tenfold more pitiable, more shameful. "You're a drunkard, mother, an imbecile — and worse." "You're a drunkard, son, a petty blackguard — and worse." And they ring the changes on this and amplify and explain charge and counter charge. And one feels ashamed for them and sick at heart; but they, fortunately or unfortunately, are intoxicated with the strong wine of revenge. Each heeds not, knows not his own suffering in his mad glee at his enemy's pain. **** The widow of the late Thomas Bell, millionaire, of Mysterious Manor 1661 Octavia street, is what people used to call a "dressy woman." She appeared in court in a black and green, silk gown, lace trimmed, with a large white hat with lace and black plumes upon it. Her face is hard, sharp featured, but she has fine eyes and quantities of brown hair. Her manner tells of anything but the diffident incompetence I anticipated. Mrs. Bell may be, as her son insists she is, a child in the hands of that wonderful old woman. Mammy Pleasant; but in the courtroom she neither looks toward nor consults the old black nurse. She advises with her lawyer, speaking positively and decidedly, and emphasizing her remarks with the ineffective gesture of the gloved female hand. She stands at times so near to the willful angered boy who has called her mother for nearly twenty years that one would think she could not resist laying a motherly hand, with both appeal and forgiveness in its gentle touch, upon his broad shoulder. But, apparently, the thought of reconciliation is as far from him as from her - and I wouldn't describe Mrs. Bell as a motherly woman. So there she stands and whispers into her lawyer's ears the facts and dates which shall expose the shameful details of this wild boy's life. And there he sits and moodily murmurs that into his attorney's ear which shall embarrass and humiliate and shame the wife of his father. **** Miss Marie Bell— Miss Marie Therese Bell, as her brother calls her, in stilted imitation of the legal phraseology he has been hearing of late — sat apart from the other celebrities the day I was in court. She, too, was gayly dressed— the outlines of her round, childish face, with its watchful eyes, sketched dimly behind the mask of a white chiffon veil, above a white chiffon vest and broad green velvet revers. She wore red roses in her light hat. There was a repose about the young girl that contrasted with Mrs. Bell's quick movements and strained, intent posture, But it may have been simple stolidity — merely the patience of a phlegmatic temperament. While on the stand Fred Bell, under the lawyer's sharp questioning, was compelled to state that in the course of a drive with disreputable companions he had pawned his young sister's ring. It wasn't curiosity that made me look toward the girl then. I felt apologetic, pained that I and others should have listened to that which must have hurt her sorely. But Marie's round, young face was smiling behind the thick white veil - smiling with a sort of innocent, babyish
triumph that the enemy had been drawn into making a damaging statement. My sympathy was quite wasted Surely the Maker of women who are destined to become law-court celebrities tempers the thickness of human integument to the winds that shall blow thereon. Or perhaps Nature, that practical dame, bending all her wonderful, housewifely energy to meet the emergency, heaps additional flesh and-blood wraps upon the nerves that would tingle and quiver and bleed with the agony of public humiliation. There isn't anything funny in hearing one's brother confess publicly that he reads letters addressed to his sister and, forgetting to return them, uses them later in the preparation of his case. There isn't anything funny in listening to one's brother admit that he pawned his sister's ring that he might have more money to
use in living as no brother would have his sister know that he lives. There isn't anything funny in being present in a crowded courtroom when one's brother defiantly asserts that five, or even six, days out of seven he was in the habit of spending at the corner grocery. There isn't anything funny— to a sister, at least, though the judicial sense of humor is probably more highly developed —in learning that one's brother, while yet a schoolboy, ran away from school with a soubrette, disappearing from his relatives' ken for weeks or months.
But if poor little Miss Marie Bell can find a gleam of fun in all the wretched, painful story I for one would not deprive her of it. It must be bard enough to have for a brother such a man as Fred Bell says
he has been. If this girl does not feel the ache of the tragedy as others might it is better for her— and no worse, probably, for him. * * * * If I were Fred Bell, or, rather, if I had been the old Fred Bell (the new Fred Bell, a reformed, well-intentioned fellow, according to himself, dates from an over-the-banister fall about a year ago), I should not conduct myself on the witness stand as Mr. Bell did last Wednesday. If one has sinned and— which is sometimes to poor human nature as vital as the sin itself— if the knowledge of one's sins is the property of one's opponent, it
is a graceful act, as well as sound business sense, to admit one's errors rather than to have admissions wrung from one in a manner prejudicial to one's case.
Young Mr. Bell is not a good actor. His role, I should say, should be the frankly penitent one. His voice should show the grief the remembrance of his faults produces in one who is crying "Mea culpa!" for to favorably impress his audience he must affect sincerity if he have it not, and his manner, to be effective, must be that open, candid willingness to admit each and all of his sins— that fullness of self condemnation which by its very completeness disarms and makes superfluous further criticism. And above all he must remember that it is altogether out of character to smile when his past misdeeds are
recalled. The true penitent must lose his sense of humor. Young Fred Bell may have been wronged by Mrs. Bell and her housekeeper, his mother may be all he says she is, and his own mistakes may be the fruit of a childhood that was not fitly guarded, not warmly cherished. He may in all honesty intend to attempt that greatest and noblest and most difficult of battles— subjugation of self; of a self that has been indulged since childhood, and has daily grown stronger and bolder. and more terrible with indulgence, till it takes a moral Napoleon to conquer the monster. All this may be, yet Mr. Bell does out
so impress the casual listener at the Bell trial. His manner is truculent when it needn't be. He was not always being insulted. He is resentful of the attorney's questions when his own regret should be, or should appear to be, stronger than resentment. His answers do not produce the impression of disingenuousness. He contradicted his own testimony flatly within five minutes the afternoon I listened to him, and then was amazed to find himself quoted as saying quite the other thing than he says he intended. He seems inclined to quibble like a child in a scrape. And indeed he is only a boy, a fair-haired, rebellious boy, with a muddy complexion, a weak profile and gray eyes, which look challengingly at the questioner from beneath scowling ash-blonde brows.
"Mr. Bell," asked Fisher Ames, "did you unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe — did you take a key and unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe?" "I did not," severely. Mr. Bell on the witness-stand uses no elisions. His manner is slightly theatrical. "Did you not unlock Mrs. Ball's wardrobe?" "I did not unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a key," repeated Fred Bell's boyish, uncultivated voice, sturdily. "What with, then?" "I did not unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a key. I unlocked Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a buttonhook."
What an Ollendorfian anti-climax **** Attorney Ames did a cruel thing last Wednesday. He asked Fred Bell which was greater five-sevenths or seven-tenths. This was apropos of the time young Mr. Bell spent at the grocery before mentioned. Mr. Bell hesitated. With reason. Who wouldn't hesitate? Then he answered the question, and was promptly marked failure on his response. Then he changed his answer, only to be confronted with a greater difficulty. "How much greater, then, is five-sevenths than seven-tenths?" Mr. Bell flushed boyishly and cast his eyes up to the ceiling. "Five-sevenths," explained Judge Coffey in a patient, pedagogical voice, "is five
out of seven, and seven-tenths is seven out of ten.'' Still Mr. Bell hesitated. Everybody in court was still, too. Every brain there was absorbed in mental calculation. "Three-fifths," at last said Mr. Bell. And then his attorney interfered. "Oh, you can't get this young man out of the trouble I'll make for him if I can," said Attorney Ames gleefully. Mr. Bell folded his arms defiantly and scowled. "Yes, if you can," he sneered. "Oh, you'd put him in jail!" said Attorney Schooler, losing his temper and burlesquing the dignified demeanor of Fisher Ames. "There isn't a person in this courtroom that can solve that problem," Schooler declared indignantly. "I don't believe he can himself." "The common denominator," began Mr. Ames dispassionately, "is seventy. Five - sevenths equals fifty-seventieths. Seven - tenths equals forty-nine seventieths. The difference is one-seventieth." "He said one-fiftieth a moment ago," declared Schooler. "I did not," said Ames. "He did." "I did not." "You did." "I did not." "You— " "Gentlemen," purred Judge Coffey's soft voice to his lead pencil, "please keep further apart." * * * * One day a few years ago when I was on a Sutter-street car the gripman halted at Octavia street. The length of time we waited attracted my attention finally, and I looked up to see who the important personage was for whom that lordly being, a streetcar conductor, waits. I expected to see a beautifully dressed, charming young girl— for even a car conductor is human— or a puffing millionaire, writ all over with the assertion that wealth is privileged, or a cripple, dumbly pleading that misfortune is exempt from the strict letter of streetcar law. But it was none of these. A spare old negress walked up briskly, but not with undignified haste, entered the car and again the wheels of business turned. She wore the plainest of black gowns, scant rather in the skirt, a long, large, full immaculate white apron, a green plaid shawl, a large black straw bonnet, tied down over her ears with a broad black silk ribbon, and a white collar at her thin wrinkled throat. "It's Mammy Pleasant," explained the gripman. "We always wait for her and she pays us well for it." * * * * When Mammy Pleasant walked into court Wednesday afternoon and was called to the witness-stand a courtroom fiend behind me whispered: "There she comes. She's smarter' n the whole shootin' match." I'm inclined to believe that no character, however great it may be, is as great as its reputation. This gaunt, tall black woman, the most interesting figure in San Francisco to-day, compels such respect for her mental qualification — leaving out of the question her moral worth or unworth— that reporters have probably been tempted to add to the reputation she has for managing, for controlling, for using the power of the mentally strong over the weak. On the other hand a great lawyer, in closing his argument in the Sharon case, said of Mammy Pleasant: "This old woman, without whose advice Sarah Althea Hill says she did nothing, wrote nothing, promised nothing, has missed her vocation. If she has strength of character sufficient, not only to influence, but to guide and control such a woman as Sarah Althea Hill Van Amburgh would have been glad to hire her as a lion-tamer." The dark-skinned lion-tamer walked to the stand. Her face is very, very thin. One can scarcely see her hollow, dark eyes under the shadow of her scoop bonnet. Mammy Pleasant is aging but not weakening. She walks with a firm, quick step and her voice is full, decided and has less of the negro accent than the voices of many white girls of Alabama or Mississippi or Kentucky. This old colored woman is as self-possessed as — as Bernhardt. She hasn't a particle of self-consciousness. She is possessed of a simple, natural dignity that makes the stares, the presence of a crowd of strangers utterly indifferent to her. She sat up straight in the witness chair and answered questions with a prepossessing readiness. When a long dispute interrupted the course of her testimony she drew up another chair, rested her feet upon its rungs and covered her face with her long, black hands. But it was not to escape the inquisitive gaze of the people in court. It was simply that she was weary. Her habit of command betrayed itself twice — once when Attorney Schooler
asked her what sort of book was missing. "Bring 'em to me— those books over there," she said, brusquely, "an' I'll show you what it's like." Later, when she had left the stand and had asked permission to go home, she stopped beside Miss Bell's chair to talk for a moment. "Give me that chair — you take another,'' she said to the man who was seated beside Miss Bell. And evidently it didn't occur to him to demur. * * * * Mammy Pleasant, for all I know, may be the vile, mercenary intriguer her enemies say she is, or she may be possessed of that "great white heart beneath a black skin" of which her friends assure me. But her faults and her virtues must be those of a strong temperament. There is nothing weak, nothing temporizing about her. She is exquisitely loyal. Not even the awful, cumulating misfortunes of Sarah Althea Terry's terribly tragic life could weary the devotion of this tenacious, faithful old black woman. She has been a good friend. I don't doubt that she can be a relentless enemy. * * * * My interview with Mammy Pleasant should rightly be written up under the head, "People I Haven't Met." If a foreign Prince comes to San Francisco your managing editor, through an influential friend, may arrange a short meeting for you, when only stereotyped questions may be asked. If a famous murderer is to be hanged soon you may talk to him, provided your questions are not too personal or indelicate. If a great lady's daughter is to be married she will grant you an interview, if you will be sufficiently grateful. But tell me, ye gods of the pull, what is the magic string that will open Mammy Pleasant's door and Mammy Pleasant's lips! I went up the steps at 1661 Octavia street and rang the bell and waited and— no one came. Again I waited, and again, and presently a pretty-faced lad of about 14 appeared at the door. He was gentle, even smiling, but he was delightfully firm. All hail to Mammy Pleasant! Any one who can secure service such as this must be a power. Mrs. Pleasant was very busy. She was engaged. No, he couldn't really take my card up. He wouldn't think of disturbing her. Did he know when one could see Mrs. Pleasant? He couldn't say, really. And Mrs. Bell? Mrs. Bell was not up. He was sorry. Evidently not a workingwoman — Mrs. Bell. It was 10 o'clock in the morning. And Miss Marie Bell? Miss Bell was out of town, lisped the gentle, courteous little liar. Too bad! and he didn't know when Mrs. Pleasant could see one? He relented at this — just a shade. "She might — might happen to see you from the upper window as you are going out and call you back— if you walk very slowly." I'm ashamed to admit that I walked very, very slowly. And I'm still more humiliated to confess that she didn't call me back! * * * * I tried again a few days later. This time an elderly woman admitted me. I was so surprised at really being on the inside of that charmed door that I could only look about me in silent amaze. A very, very wide, generous, deep hall, with broad staircase starting half-way back and — suddenly, from above, a deep, imperious voice: "Who's the lady? Who's the lady?" it demanded. I wasn't engaged in any dark, diabolical scheme. But that authoritative voice made me feel as if I were. I haven't felt just that guilty tremor since the first school-teacher I had bade me read from a page that was Greek and Sanscrit and shorthand to me. "I'm bringing up her card and the letters," said the gentle, timid voice of the woman who had admitted me. - "I can't see anybody. What's your name? ' Up toward the undistinguished darkness I confessed my name and quality, or lack of it. "You were here the other day." "Yes," I admitted, like a culprit. "Well, I can't see you. I'm too busy. I don't want to see anybody. If I want you, I'll send for you." I laughed aloud at this. It was so unexpected; said so simply, though. The harsh voice softened almost imperceptibly. It bade me good-by. and repeated not so crossly, "If I want you, I'll send for you!" * * * * Up to the present time — and The Call's about to go to press — I haven't been sent for. Is it possible that Mammy Pleasant doesn't want me? Miriam Michelson.
MAMMY PLEASANT, Who Holds the Key to the Mysteries of the Mansion of the Bells.
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I find to my surprise that the Bell case is not so great a function as other court trials I have attended.
The audience is smaller. There are fewer women present. The reporters take Iife more easily. An attorney now and then betrays a womanish desire for the last word, and repeats a thing upon discovery that it is a good thing. People titter applausively and without fear of the bailiff's gavel, at the Judge's facetious asides, which like all stage asides are significant, to be uttered in a distinct voice, and to be listened to at least with smiling deference, though a lively hilarity would better testify to one's appreciative powers. It is all rather informal, though, and I suppose the judicial ermine does become rather irksome if the burden is never to be lifted from one's shoulders. But the Bell case is very interesting despite the lack of scenic accessories. It has the attraction, the only legitimate attraction, which all family squabbles have — the exhibition of human nature in various phases, the showing-up of character. **** Here's a son whom his mother has denied—a weak, obstinate, dissipated boy, who has taken the bit between his teeth, who tugs and strains with all the strength of stubborn weakness to wound those who have been nearest to him. He has been wronged, or fancies he has — I haven't been long enough in court to decide which— and besides, as Judge Coffey remarked to Fred Bell's lawyer, "You're not the judge." The boy declares his mother, or his foster mother, incompetent; wholly under the control of Mrs. Pleasant, their colored housekeeper. He wishes her removed from the guardianship of the minor Bell children. And she, in defending herself, heaps disgrace upon him. It's a pitiable, shameful story, and the details are tenfold more pitiable, more shameful. "You're a drunkard, mother, an imbecile — and worse." "You're a drunkard, son, a petty blackguard — and worse." And they ring the changes on this and amplify and explain charge and counter charge. And one feels ashamed for them and sick at heart; but they, fortunately or unfortunately, are intoxicated with the strong wine of revenge. Each heeds not, knows not his own suffering in his mad glee at his enemy's pain. **** The widow of the late Thomas Bell, millionaire, of Mysterious Manor 1661 Octavia street, is what people used to call a "dressy woman." She appeared in court in a black and green, silk gown, lace trimmed, with a large white hat with lace and black plumes upon it. Her face is hard, sharp featured, but she has fine eyes and quantities of brown hair. Her manner tells of anything but the diffident incompetence I anticipated. Mrs. Bell may be, as her son insists she is, a child in the hands of that wonderful old woman. Mammy Pleasant; but in the courtroom she neither looks toward nor consults the old black nurse. She advises with her lawyer, speaking positively and decidedly, and emphasizing her remarks with the ineffective gesture of the gloved female hand. She stands at times so near to the willful angered boy who has called her mother for nearly twenty years that one would think she could not resist laying a motherly hand, with both appeal and forgiveness in its gentle touch, upon his broad shoulder. But, apparently, the thought of reconciliation is as far from him as from her - and I wouldn't describe Mrs. Bell as a motherly woman. So there she stands and whispers into her lawyer's ears the facts and dates which shall expose the shameful details of this wild boy's life. And there he sits and moodily murmurs that into his attorney's ear which shall embarrass and humiliate and shame the wife of his father. **** Miss Marie Bell— Miss Marie Therese Bell, as her brother calls her, in stilted imitation of the legal phraseology he has been hearing of late — sat apart from the other celebrities the day I was in court. She, too, was gayly dressed— the outlines of her round, childish face, with its watchful eyes, sketched dimly behind the mask of a white chiffon veil, above a white chiffon vest and broad green velvet revers. She wore red roses in her light hat. There was a repose about the young girl that contrasted with Mrs. Bell's quick movements and strained, intent posture, But it may have been simple stolidity — merely the patience of a phlegmatic temperament. While on the stand Fred Bell, under the lawyer's sharp questioning, was compelled to state that in the course of a drive with disreputable companions he had pawned his young sister's ring. It wasn't curiosity that made me look toward the girl then. I felt apologetic, pained that I and others should have listened to that which must have hurt her sorely. But Marie's round, young face was smiling behind the thick white veil - smiling with a sort of innocent, babyish
triumph that the enemy had been drawn into making a damaging statement. My sympathy was quite wasted Surely the Maker of women who are destined to become law-court celebrities tempers the thickness of human integument to the winds that shall blow thereon. Or perhaps Nature, that practical dame, bending all her wonderful, housewifely energy to meet the emergency, heaps additional flesh and-blood wraps upon the nerves that would tingle and quiver and bleed with the agony of public humiliation. There isn't anything funny in hearing one's brother confess publicly that he reads letters addressed to his sister and, forgetting to return them, uses them later in the preparation of his case. There isn't anything funny in listening to one's brother admit that he pawned his sister's ring that he might have more money to
use in living as no brother would have his sister know that he lives. There isn't anything funny in being present in a crowded courtroom when one's brother defiantly asserts that five, or even six, days out of seven he was in the habit of spending at the corner grocery. There isn't anything funny— to a sister, at least, though the judicial sense of humor is probably more highly developed —in learning that one's brother, while yet a schoolboy, ran away from school with a soubrette, disappearing from his relatives' ken for weeks or months.
But if poor little Miss Marie Bell can find a gleam of fun in all the wretched, painful story I for one would not deprive her of it. It must be bard enough to have for a brother such a man as Fred Bell says
he has been. If this girl does not feel the ache of the tragedy as others might it is better for her— and no worse, probably, for him. * * * * If I were Fred Bell, or, rather, if I had been the old Fred Bell (the new Fred Bell, a reformed, well-intentioned fellow, according to himself, dates from an over-the-banister fall about a year ago), I should not conduct myself on the witness stand as Mr. Bell did last Wednesday. If one has sinned and— which is sometimes to poor human nature as vital as the sin itself— if the knowledge of one's sins is the property of one's opponent, it
is a graceful act, as well as sound business sense, to admit one's errors rather than to have admissions wrung from one in a manner prejudicial to one's case.
Young Mr. Bell is not a good actor. His role, I should say, should be the frankly penitent one. His voice should show the grief the remembrance of his faults produces in one who is crying "Mea culpa!" for to favorably impress his audience he must affect sincerity if he have it not, and his manner, to be effective, must be that open, candid willingness to admit each and all of his sins— that fullness of self condemnation which by its very completeness disarms and makes superfluous further criticism. And above all he must remember that it is altogether out of character to smile when his past misdeeds are
recalled. The true penitent must lose his sense of humor. Young Fred Bell may have been wronged by Mrs. Bell and her housekeeper, his mother may be all he says she is, and his own mistakes may be the fruit of a childhood that was not fitly guarded, not warmly cherished. He may in all honesty intend to attempt that greatest and noblest and most difficult of battles— subjugation of self; of a self that has been indulged since childhood, and has daily grown stronger and bolder. and more terrible with indulgence, till it takes a moral Napoleon to conquer the monster. All this may be, yet Mr. Bell does out
so impress the casual listener at the Bell trial. His manner is truculent when it needn't be. He was not always being insulted. He is resentful of the attorney's questions when his own regret should be, or should appear to be, stronger than resentment. His answers do not produce the impression of disingenuousness. He contradicted his own testimony flatly within five minutes the afternoon I listened to him, and then was amazed to find himself quoted as saying quite the other thing than he says he intended. He seems inclined to quibble like a child in a scrape. And indeed he is only a boy, a fair-haired, rebellious boy, with a muddy complexion, a weak profile and gray eyes, which look challengingly at the questioner from beneath scowling ash-blonde brows.
"Mr. Bell," asked Fisher Ames, "did you unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe — did you take a key and unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe?" "I did not," severely. Mr. Bell on the witness-stand uses no elisions. His manner is slightly theatrical. "Did you not unlock Mrs. Ball's wardrobe?" "I did not unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a key," repeated Fred Bell's boyish, uncultivated voice, sturdily. "What with, then?" "I did not unlock Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a key. I unlocked Mrs. Bell's wardrobe with a buttonhook."
What an Ollendorfian anti-climax **** Attorney Ames did a cruel thing last Wednesday. He asked Fred Bell which was greater five-sevenths or seven-tenths. This was apropos of the time young Mr. Bell spent at the grocery before mentioned. Mr. Bell hesitated. With reason. Who wouldn't hesitate? Then he answered the question, and was promptly marked failure on his response. Then he changed his answer, only to be confronted with a greater difficulty. "How much greater, then, is five-sevenths than seven-tenths?" Mr. Bell flushed boyishly and cast his eyes up to the ceiling. "Five-sevenths," explained Judge Coffey in a patient, pedagogical voice, "is five
out of seven, and seven-tenths is seven out of ten.'' Still Mr. Bell hesitated. Everybody in court was still, too. Every brain there was absorbed in mental calculation. "Three-fifths," at last said Mr. Bell. And then his attorney interfered. "Oh, you can't get this young man out of the trouble I'll make for him if I can," said Attorney Ames gleefully. Mr. Bell folded his arms defiantly and scowled. "Yes, if you can," he sneered. "Oh, you'd put him in jail!" said Attorney Schooler, losing his temper and burlesquing the dignified demeanor of Fisher Ames. "There isn't a person in this courtroom that can solve that problem," Schooler declared indignantly. "I don't believe he can himself." "The common denominator," began Mr. Ames dispassionately, "is seventy. Five - sevenths equals fifty-seventieths. Seven - tenths equals forty-nine seventieths. The difference is one-seventieth." "He said one-fiftieth a moment ago," declared Schooler. "I did not," said Ames. "He did." "I did not." "You did." "I did not." "You— " "Gentlemen," purred Judge Coffey's soft voice to his lead pencil, "please keep further apart." * * * * One day a few years ago when I was on a Sutter-street car the gripman halted at Octavia street. The length of time we waited attracted my attention finally, and I looked up to see who the important personage was for whom that lordly being, a streetcar conductor, waits. I expected to see a beautifully dressed, charming young girl— for even a car conductor is human— or a puffing millionaire, writ all over with the assertion that wealth is privileged, or a cripple, dumbly pleading that misfortune is exempt from the strict letter of streetcar law. But it was none of these. A spare old negress walked up briskly, but not with undignified haste, entered the car and again the wheels of business turned. She wore the plainest of black gowns, scant rather in the skirt, a long, large, full immaculate white apron, a green plaid shawl, a large black straw bonnet, tied down over her ears with a broad black silk ribbon, and a white collar at her thin wrinkled throat. "It's Mammy Pleasant," explained the gripman. "We always wait for her and she pays us well for it." * * * * When Mammy Pleasant walked into court Wednesday afternoon and was called to the witness-stand a courtroom fiend behind me whispered: "There she comes. She's smarter' n the whole shootin' match." I'm inclined to believe that no character, however great it may be, is as great as its reputation. This gaunt, tall black woman, the most interesting figure in San Francisco to-day, compels such respect for her mental qualification — leaving out of the question her moral worth or unworth— that reporters have probably been tempted to add to the reputation she has for managing, for controlling, for using the power of the mentally strong over the weak. On the other hand a great lawyer, in closing his argument in the Sharon case, said of Mammy Pleasant: "This old woman, without whose advice Sarah Althea Hill says she did nothing, wrote nothing, promised nothing, has missed her vocation. If she has strength of character sufficient, not only to influence, but to guide and control such a woman as Sarah Althea Hill Van Amburgh would have been glad to hire her as a lion-tamer." The dark-skinned lion-tamer walked to the stand. Her face is very, very thin. One can scarcely see her hollow, dark eyes under the shadow of her scoop bonnet. Mammy Pleasant is aging but not weakening. She walks with a firm, quick step and her voice is full, decided and has less of the negro accent than the voices of many white girls of Alabama or Mississippi or Kentucky. This old colored woman is as self-possessed as — as Bernhardt. She hasn't a particle of self-consciousness. She is possessed of a simple, natural dignity that makes the stares, the presence of a crowd of strangers utterly indifferent to her. She sat up straight in the witness chair and answered questions with a prepossessing readiness. When a long dispute interrupted the course of her testimony she drew up another chair, rested her feet upon its rungs and covered her face with her long, black hands. But it was not to escape the inquisitive gaze of the people in court. It was simply that she was weary. Her habit of command betrayed itself twice — once when Attorney Schooler
asked her what sort of book was missing. "Bring 'em to me— those books over there," she said, brusquely, "an' I'll show you what it's like." Later, when she had left the stand and had asked permission to go home, she stopped beside Miss Bell's chair to talk for a moment. "Give me that chair — you take another,'' she said to the man who was seated beside Miss Bell. And evidently it didn't occur to him to demur. * * * * Mammy Pleasant, for all I know, may be the vile, mercenary intriguer her enemies say she is, or she may be possessed of that "great white heart beneath a black skin" of which her friends assure me. But her faults and her virtues must be those of a strong temperament. There is nothing weak, nothing temporizing about her. She is exquisitely loyal. Not even the awful, cumulating misfortunes of Sarah Althea Terry's terribly tragic life could weary the devotion of this tenacious, faithful old black woman. She has been a good friend. I don't doubt that she can be a relentless enemy. * * * * My interview with Mammy Pleasant should rightly be written up under the head, "People I Haven't Met." If a foreign Prince comes to San Francisco your managing editor, through an influential friend, may arrange a short meeting for you, when only stereotyped questions may be asked. If a famous murderer is to be hanged soon you may talk to him, provided your questions are not too personal or indelicate. If a great lady's daughter is to be married she will grant you an interview, if you will be sufficiently grateful. But tell me, ye gods of the pull, what is the magic string that will open Mammy Pleasant's door and Mammy Pleasant's lips! I went up the steps at 1661 Octavia street and rang the bell and waited and— no one came. Again I waited, and again, and presently a pretty-faced lad of about 14 appeared at the door. He was gentle, even smiling, but he was delightfully firm. All hail to Mammy Pleasant! Any one who can secure service such as this must be a power. Mrs. Pleasant was very busy. She was engaged. No, he couldn't really take my card up. He wouldn't think of disturbing her. Did he know when one could see Mrs. Pleasant? He couldn't say, really. And Mrs. Bell? Mrs. Bell was not up. He was sorry. Evidently not a workingwoman — Mrs. Bell. It was 10 o'clock in the morning. And Miss Marie Bell? Miss Bell was out of town, lisped the gentle, courteous little liar. Too bad! and he didn't know when Mrs. Pleasant could see one? He relented at this — just a shade. "She might — might happen to see you from the upper window as you are going out and call you back— if you walk very slowly." I'm ashamed to admit that I walked very, very slowly. And I'm still more humiliated to confess that she didn't call me back! * * * * I tried again a few days later. This time an elderly woman admitted me. I was so surprised at really being on the inside of that charmed door that I could only look about me in silent amaze. A very, very wide, generous, deep hall, with broad staircase starting half-way back and — suddenly, from above, a deep, imperious voice: "Who's the lady? Who's the lady?" it demanded. I wasn't engaged in any dark, diabolical scheme. But that authoritative voice made me feel as if I were. I haven't felt just that guilty tremor since the first school-teacher I had bade me read from a page that was Greek and Sanscrit and shorthand to me. "I'm bringing up her card and the letters," said the gentle, timid voice of the woman who had admitted me. - "I can't see anybody. What's your name? ' Up toward the undistinguished darkness I confessed my name and quality, or lack of it. "You were here the other day." "Yes," I admitted, like a culprit. "Well, I can't see you. I'm too busy. I don't want to see anybody. If I want you, I'll send for you." I laughed aloud at this. It was so unexpected; said so simply, though. The harsh voice softened almost imperceptibly. It bade me good-by. and repeated not so crossly, "If I want you, I'll send for you!" * * * * Up to the present time — and The Call's about to go to press — I haven't been sent for. Is it possible that Mammy Pleasant doesn't want me? Miriam Michelson.
MAMMY PLEASANT, Who Holds the Key to the Mysteries of the Mansion of the Bells.
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