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My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage life

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Title: My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage life

Author: Anonymous


        
Release date: January 1, 2011 [eBook #34814]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ACTOR-HUSBAND: A TRUE STORY OF AMERICAN STAGE LIFE ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by the
Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University
Libraries.)









MY
ACTOR-HUSBAND

_A TRUE STORY
OF
AMERICAN STAGE LIFE_

NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
1913

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
JOHN LANE COMPANY

To
PROFESSOR CHARLES T. COPELAND
Of Harvard University




FOREWORD--A RETROSPECT


In presenting this autobiography to the public, the author feels it
incumbent upon herself to impress upon her readers the fidelity and
strict adherence to the truth, relative to the conditions which surround
the player. In no instance has there been either exaggeration or a
resort to imaginative creation. It is a true story with all the ugliness
of truth unsoftened and unembellished. Nor is the situation presented an
exceptional one. One has but to follow the career of the average actor
to be convinced that the dramatic profession is not only inconsistent
with but wholly hostile to the institution of marriage. Managers and
actors alike know and admit this to be the truth--amongst themselves.
What they say in print is, of course, merely so much self-exploitation.
The success of any branch of "the show-business" is dependent on the
bureau of publicity.

To one intimately acquainted with the life, the effusions of certain
actors' wives, which from time to time appear in magazines for women,
are ironically humourous. They are to be put down as the babbling of the
newly-weds or the hunger for seeing their names in print. To hear the
wife of a star declare that she always goes to the theatre and sits in
the wings to watch her husband act is to presage the glaring head-lines
of a divorce in the not-far-distant future. If it be not now, yet it
will come, for those players who go through life with but one, even two
marriages to their credit are the great exception to the rule. The
actor's life precludes domesticity and without domestic life there can
be no successful marriages.

Every community has its stage-struck girls. Year after year the
Academies of Divine Art turn out graduates like so many clothes-pins.
Neither aspirant nor parent appears to question her fitness for the
career to which she aspires. Both are ignorant of the conditions which
confront the tyro or they have a wholly erroneous idea of theatrical
life--ideas culled from the articles which appear from time to time in
the magazines over the signature of a prominent actress. The average
reader has no way of knowing that these articles are not written by the
actress herself, but by a needy scribbler to whom she grants permission
to use her name, for the free advertising she will get in return. "My
Beginnings," "Advice to Stage-Struck Girls Who Plan to Go on the Stage,"
etc., are alluring head-lines. The subject matter is a mass of
glittering and trite generalities. Of the real conditions, the pitfalls,
the drawbacks to be met, the outsider hears nothing. And when once in a
decade a scribe dares to express himself truthfully concerning the moral
atmosphere in the theatrical profession--(vide Mr. Clement Scott)--the
air is rent with expostulations, denials and protestations from the
members of "the profession." Interviews and letters pack the
enterprising press. Many of those who protest the loudest have the least
to lose.

It has been said that art bears no relation to morals: as well might it
be declared that the blood bears no relation to health. Art must forever
be imbued with the spirit of its delineator.

The moral status of the stage may not be a whit worse than that of half
a dozen other professions. It is possible, but hardly probable. The very
exigencies of the player's life make for a laxity and freedom from
restraint. And in no other profession are the lives of the individual
members so intimately concerned. The popular contention that a good
woman can and will be good under any and all circumstances is a fallacy.
The influence of environment is incomputable. I believe that my little
friend Leila was fundamentally a good girl: in any other walk of life
she would have remained a good girl. I believe that fundamentally my
husband was a good man: in any other environment he would have been a
good husband. The fantastic, unreal and over-stimulated atmosphere which
the player breathes is not conducive to a sane and well-balanced life.

And if, in a ruthless rending aside of the tinselled illusions which
enthrall the stage-struck girl, I have rendered a service, my own
suffering will not have been in vain.




CHAPTER I


It was our first separation. All day I had fought back the tears while I
helped Will pack his "Taylor" trunk. Neither of us spoke; once in every
little while Will would stop in the act of folding a garment, and smile
at me in approval. Then his arm would steal around my shoulders and he
would pat me tenderly.... I would turn away, pretending to busy myself
with other things, but in reality to hide the freshet of tears his
silent expression of sympathy had undammed.... Will had signed with a
star to play Shakespearean repertoire. The question of wardrobe was a
source of worry, until I volunteered my services; I was a good
needlewoman, and, from the sketches Will made, I was able to qualify as
a full-fledged costumier. For days I had pegged away, refurbishing the
old and making new ones, and sometimes Will would lend a hand and run
the machine over the thick seams.... I once read that the women of the
Commune wove the initials of those they hated into their knitting;
well, I sewed the seams of Will's dresses thick with love, and hope, and
ambition ... and dampened them with tears.... Then when the expressman
came for the trunk ... it seemed as if they were taking away a
coffin....

Not until that night, after we had gone to bed, and I felt Will's deep,
rhythmical breathing beneath my head, which lay pressed against his
breast, only then did I give way to my grief. I crept to the other side
of the bed and turned my face to the wall--I shook with convulsive sobs.

Now and then Will would half waken, and would reach out and dreamily pat
my face and smooth back my hair, as one soothes a sorrowing child. At
such times I would hold my breath, and wait until he was again quiet....

Every incident of our short married life passed in review before my
burning eyes. We had closed our season late in April, and had come back
to New York with less than seventy-five dollars between us. But what we
lacked in money was more than balanced by our enthusiasm and
illusion--the illusion of two young persons very much in love with each
other. I had been in New York only once before, and the thought of
living in the great city, of becoming an integral part of it, made me
thrill with excitement. Will and I stood on the front of the ferry-boat
and watched the panorama; he pointed out the various tall buildings with
an air of familiarity. When we passed close to a great ocean liner,
which was being swung into her dock by two fussy little tug-boats, even
Will got excited. He told me which was "fore," and "aft," and named
various other parts of the boat which I didn't understand. When we had
taken our last look, he tucked my hand under his arm and told me that
one day he and I should take a trip abroad....

Owing to the shortage in our money supply, we had decided to go to a
theatrical boarding house. Will was depending on his father to send him
an allowance throughout the summer, and while it would be sufficient for
his needs, now that he was married--well, we should have a chance to
test the saying that two can live as cheaply as one. Our marriage had
been a secret one--besides the "star" and one or two members of the
company, we had taken no one into our confidence. Will's family--his
father, a sister and brother--his mother having died about the time I
came into his life--all were intolerant of the stage and its people.
Though I was not yet a "really truly" actress, the fact that Will had
met me "in the profession" would have prejudiced them against me; added
to this was the fact that Will, himself a tyro, taking a wife at the
very threshold of his career would not be looked at through our
love-coloured glasses. The effect my marriage might have upon my own
relatives never troubled me; my father and mother belonged to that great
class of incompetent parenthood which brings children into the world
without any actual love for them. Never questioning their fitness for
child-rearing, they divine no greater responsibility than providing
bodily necessities and a more or less superficial education. When, at
the restless age of sixteen, I announced my determination to become an
actress, there was some surface opposition, but no effort was made to
enquire into my fitness for the dramatic profession, or the fitness of
the dramatic profession as a career for any innocent and unprotected
young girl. I had been highly successful as an amateur, and, as it was
not necessary that I earn my own living, the stage appeared to their
insapient minds an interesting playground for a dilettante daughter....

One week in a theatrical boarding-house was all we could endure. I
wonder why it is that the rank and file of the theatrical profession are
at such pains to impress one another with their importance. The flippant
familiarity with which they referred to "Charley" or "Dan" Frohman; the
coarse criticism of their fellow-actors, which Will called "knocking";
their easy disregard of the conventions, especially between the sexes; a
bombastic retailing of their own exploits, as "how I jumped on and saved
the show, with only one rehearsal"; talking "shop" to the exclusion of
every other subject in the world. I overheard one of the actresses at
the next table say we were "very up-stage," which Will interpreted as
"not sociable, and having too good an opinion of one's self." Neither of
us was happy in our new surroundings, and I felt a sense of relief when
Will suggested that we look for a furnished flat. I did not mean to be
critical of my husband's profession--I endeavored to agree with him that
every profession has its undesirables.

We spent days in climbing narrow stairs to look at dark, closet-like
apertures with no ventilation; even the strength-sapping humidity of
the streets seemed fresh in comparison. At last, we found something less
undesirable than the others. The building was new, and the apartment in
the rear gave upon a row of private houses with small yards; there were
flowers and a few trees--little oases in a desert of brick and mortar.
The janitor told us there were three rooms: the bedroom was an alcove
affair, divided from the parlor by pea-green portieres; the kitchen
beyond was as large as the pantry in our house at home; and the
furnishings--! The whole outfit might have been removed from a Seventh
Avenue show-window, where they advertise "Complete furnished apartment
for $49.99." The near-gold-leaf chairs were so frail that one was afraid
to sit upon them. The general atmosphere of the parlor reminded me of
the stage-settings one comes across in one-night-stand theatres.
However, the vistas of the trees and flowers decided the momentous
question. We paid a month's rent, then and there; it made a terrible
hole in our last and only fifty-dollar bill, but neither of us worried
much about it. For the next week the "show-business" was relegated to
the background. We played "house" like two children; we arranged and
rearranged the furniture, and Will made a comfortable divan from two
packing cases. We went out to market on Ninth Avenue and Will carried
the basket on his arm. Then we tried our hand at cooking; Will carried
off the honours for coffee--and hard-boiled eggs. I washed and Will
dried the dishes--I can see him now, with an apron tied high under his
arm, declaiming Shakespeare, and juggling with the landlord's dishes.

Our greatest problem was the lack of bathing facilities. We solved it by
bathing in the wash-tubs; to be sure it was a bit hazardous standing on
a sloping bottom, in danger of falling out of the kitchen window if one
leaned too much to the right, or of toppling over to the floor if
veering a bit too much to the left. But it was a bath, and, as Will
said, preferable to the communal affair in the boarding house.

The summer passed all too quickly. Those were happy, happy days....
Sometimes the money market was tight--very tight; especially when Will's
father was careless about sending Will's allowance. I cried bitterly the
first time Will went to a pawn-shop; it seemed so humiliating to have
him do it. Will laughed, and said he regarded it as so much experience.
Several times a week we donned our best clothes and made the rounds of
the theatrical employment agencies. Will had had several offers during
the summer, but we wanted a joint engagement; we had promised each
other, when we married, that nothing should cause us to be separated.
Will and I felt that to the enforced separation of married persons--the
husband in one company, the wife in another--was due the great number of
divorces in the theatrical profession. Our "star," when apprised of our
marriage, had followed his good wishes and congratulations with a heart
to heart talk with Will.

"It's all right, my boy," he said, "don't blame you a bit. She's a
charming girl, and you're in love with her. If it were any other
business but the show-business, I'd say you're a lucky dog, but--I'm
going to be frank with you--a man or a woman in the theatrical business
has no right to marry. It's all very lovely so long as you're together,
but you can't _be_ together. The chances are against it--you may be
lucky enough to get a joint engagement one season, but the next season
you're off on the road, while she's playing in New York or in another
part of the country. And what does this separation lead to in the end?
You're a human being; you crave society, companionship; gradually you
become weaned away and the inevitable happens. It's propinquity and home
ties which make marriage a success; the life of an actor precludes
domesticity. The very exigencies of his profession are not only
inconsistent with, but hostile to, the institution of marriage."

When Will retailed all this to me, it sounded very big and very
dreadful--and also very vague. Any danger from separation seemed in the
far, distant future.... We agreed that a man and wife who permitted
themselves to become estranged because of temporary separations knew
nothing of real love--such love as ours, at any rate.... And now, with
the summer going on apace and no joint engagement in sight, the fear
assumed a tangible shape, the dread of separation hung over me like a
pall. Will tried to reassure me by saying it was still early, and that
we would hold out.... I believed what he said with a child-like faith.
Indeed, I am not so sure that in these days I did not worship Will with
the same idolatry that I offered up to the Virgin Mary.... The whole
world had merged into one being--my husband. My love for my husband was
the absorbing passion of my life. Never happy in my home--my father had
married a second wife--all the pent-up tenderness and passionate love
found an outlet in my marriage. I sometimes wondered what had become of
my ambition: this, too, had centred upon him. To be sure I meant to
succeed as an actress, but I now thought of success only in the light of
an assistance to him. It was already settled between us that I should be
his leading lady, once he became a star. There should be no separations
in our life....

The weeks flew by ... the summer waned. Will became less reassuring--he
took on a worried look. I began to awaken of mornings with a sickening,
intangible apprehension. After a while I stopped going to the agencies.
It seemed so futile. And then, one day, late in the summer, when the
theatres along Broadway had begun to remove the signboards from their
entrances--it came. I knew something had happened when Will opened the
door. Instead of kissing me at once, as was his habit, he passed on to
the bedroom without looking at me, saying, "Hello, Girlie." There was
always something infinitely tender in the way he said these words, but
to-day there was a new note in his voice. It took a long time to put
away his hat and cane; then he came out and kissed me.

I was peeling potatoes. He drew up a chair so that our knees met; then
he laid a hand on each shoulder and his fingers gripped me. We looked
into each other's eyes.... After a while I managed to say, "Well, dear?"
... and when he replied his voice seemed far away. I had the sense of
returning consciousness after a blow.... I suppose I was a little
dazed....

"Well, dear, I've signed with----" (he named a boy-Hamlet, well known
throughout the middle west), "the salary is good and I'll play the King
in Hamlet, Buckingham in Richard, and, if we do the Merchant, I'll be
cast for Gratiano.... The best thing about it is the possibility of
coming into New York for a run. The star wants to play Hamlet on
Broadway, and I've been told he's got good backing.... So, little
girl.... it may not be for so long after all...."

Neither of us referred to the subject again that day; neither did we
try to make believe at being cheerful. We understood each other's
silence ... and respected it. Outside the rain poured. Will stood at the
window looking out, but I am sure he did not see the rain....

All these details passed before my mind like moving-pictures. When at
last I fell asleep, it was to dream the incongruous, disjointed stuff of
which the actor's dreams are made; the sense of being late for a cue, or
hearing the cue spoken, to realize that one is but half-dressed, or,
again, to rush upon the scene only to find the lines obliterated from
one's memory.... When I awoke, I heard Will in the kitchen; there was
the smell of boiling coffee. For a moment there was no consciousness of
my "douleureuse," then memory swept me like an engulfing wave. I cried
aloud; then Will took me in his strong arms and kissed my swollen eyes,
oh, so tenderly....

To recall the moments preceding and following Will's departure
causes--even at this late day--a tightening around the heart. There were
some red roses in a cheap glass vase on the mantle; Will had bought them
from a street vendor that morning when he went out for the papers. He
had pinned one in my dark hair.... After many false starts, and bidding
me, "Cheer up--it won't be for long," he closed the door after him....
It was our first separation.




CHAPTER II


The red roses had withered; their crisp petals lay scattered over the
mantel and about the floor. Stooping to gather them, I was seized with a
giddiness; it dawned on me that I had not eaten for--I did not know how
long. I went into the kitchen; the table lay as we had left it that
morning at breakfast. There was his chair and the morning paper. I
didn't cry--I felt only a heaviness, a numbness. Mechanically I set
about to put the house in order; I realized that I must get myself in
hand if only to please Will. I even managed a laugh at my own stupidity
when, after neatly folding and placing my kitchen apron upon a shelf in
the dish-cupboard, I hung the sugar bowl on a peg where the apron should
have gone, and was drenched with a shower of sugar for my pains.

For several days I lived on milk, which the janitor sent up on the
dumb-waiter. I could not muster sufficient courage to go out to market.
The sunlight mocked me--I resented the happy laughter of the family
across the hall. The postman's ring, several days later, put new life
into me. I knew the letter was from Will. I caught the postman almost
before he stopped ringing, and, carrying the letter to my room, gave
myself up to devouring it.

It was filled with interesting gossip about his opening, and gave
humourous little side-lights of the star and personnel of the company.
He bade me cheer up and not take our separation too seriously; he
promised to write every day, and asked that I do likewise. I marked this
precious epistle with a large "1" in blue pencil and tucked it away with
the rose-leaves. Then I sat down to write--I wrote reams. It is wondrous
the many modes of expressing "I love you." To distil those many pages,
written in the thin, slanting hand of my girlhood, would be to extract
the very essence of my life's romance--or, shall I say, tragedy.

I lived for the postman's ring. Sundays were the hardest to bear; there
was no mail delivery. The weeks dragged on at snail's pace. Finally,
loneliness and isolation drove me to a state of desperation, which, in
turn, gave me the necessary courage to visit the agencies. Will was
reluctant to have me take an engagement alone; he made me promise that I
would not take such a step without first consulting him. Indeed, had he
but known it, the thought of again travelling alone in a theatrical
company was distasteful to me; naturally sensitive and of a retiring
disposition, my first season in the dramatic profession had left some
unpleasant memories. It was difficult to accustom myself to enter an
hotel lobby alone, or, if in company with other members of the
organization, to hear our party referred to as the "troupe." The
ubiquitous drummer lounging at the hotel desk regarded us with brazen
audacity, and made audible comments. Then, to enter a dining-room
unattended, either to be corralled at a table with the other members of
the company, or, if seated elsewhere, to be further subjected to the
advances of a "travelling salesman." Again, when walking to the theatre
or to the railroad station, to see the town-folk turn curiously,
regarding the players with a condescending smile, which curled the
corners of the mouth downward as they whispered, "Show people." In
larger cities these marks of opprobrium are less pronounced, but,
nevertheless, exist. I resented this attitude towards the theatrical
profession until I became better acquainted with it. There be those who
mistake liberty for license, and seemingly the freedom from restraint
and the lack of conventionality, which the life affords, appear to be
one of the chief attractions for adopting it.

However, it was expedient that I should work. I dangled before my
willing eyes the reward of the future--that time when my husband and I
should play together. I even planned that we should be an example to
others in our devotion and high moral purpose; and so, by reducing
expense of maintaining two establishments--the flat in New York and
Will's living on the road--we should be better equipped to hold out for
a joint engagement for the following season.

One morning, while waiting in the office of an agent to whom Will had
introduced me, I was drawn into conversation with an actress whose
photographs adorned the walls of the room. There was an air of
importance about her, quite distinct from that of the other women who
were waiting; these women wore an abject expression. They had relaxed
the mechanical expression of "bien etre" as the weariness of waiting
wore upon them; in spite of the make-up--more or less skilfully
applied--their faces were drawn and strained. Their clothes, too, told
of the attempt to keep up appearances. I felt a sympathy and fellowship
for these unemployed; I wondered whether they too, were, by the force of
circumstances, separated from their loved ones.

Miss Burton, the lady of some importance, broke my train of thought by
precipitately asking me to "come and have a cup of tea." She assured me
she would not let me miss "old Tom"--calling the agent by the familiar
diminutive--and that having sent for her he was bound to wait. "It makes
all the difference in the world whether they send for you, or whether
you go to them for an engagement," she told me, with a sententious nod
of her head. She was so bright and vivacious, and so wholly
un-selfconscious that, for a moment, I was drawn out of my dreamy
loneliness.

We went to a near-by hotel. "You take what you like," she said,
summoning the waiter. "Beer for mine!"

I took tea.

While we sipped our respective beverages she told me about herself. She
was a well-known comedienne--"'soubrettes' they called them in the old
days," she volunteered. She had been with "Charley" Frohman off and on
for years, and expected to go back to him.

"I've been in his bad books," she went on. "I had a good thing, and I
didn't know it. When I think how I got in wrong all on account of those
two big stiffs--!" My inability to follow her was probably expressed in
my face, for she immediately rattled on: "You see, it was like this.
When Jack and I were married we were in the same Company. He was what
they call the 'Acting Manager,' travelled on the road and represented
the New York office--understand? Well, the next year we didn't get an
engagement together; he went off on the road and I created a part in a
New York production. It was simply--hell! We used to make the most
God-forsaken jumps, just to be together over Sunday. Why, once I can
remember I rode all night in the caboose of a freight train to some
little dump of a town where Jack's Company had played on Saturday night.
Can you beat it? Oh, I tell you, I had it bad." And Miss Burton buried
her feeling and her face in the stein of beer. After a pause she
continued: "Well, the same devilish luck followed us the next season; we
couldn't dig up an engagement together for love or money--and we
slipped a nice little roll to several of the agents, too. It just seemed
as if managers were dead set against having a man and wife in the same
company. Some of 'em acknowledge it right out loud, if you please! They
claim a man and wife in the same company make trouble; either they want
to share the same dressing-room, or the husband kicks if his wife gets
the worst of it in the dressing-room line. Or, if the husband happens to
be a manager, there's the temptation to favour his wife, and somebody
else kicks up a row. Oh, they've got excuses enough, whether they're
justifiable or not. Anyway, that's the kind of bunk you're up against
when you marry in the profession.... Where was I?... Oh Well, after two
seasons of separation, it dawned on me that Jacky wasn't so keen about
making long jumps to see wifey; pretty soon I began to hear gossip--he
was carrying some fairy's grip in the company he was with. Then I began
to watch him ... I caught him with the goods all right.... Exit,
hastily, Jacky!" and, with an expressive wave of her hands to indicate
his departure, Miss Burton called for another stein.

I fear I appeared a perfect idiot in the voluble little lady's eyes. I
could not muster a comment of any description. Miss Burton, however, did
not notice my omission, for she raced on with the same energy of
expression.

"That blow pretty nearly killed Mother, I can tell you. I was in love
with Jack all right.... It broke me all up to have him throw me down for
a second-rate soubrette like that. I wish you could have seen it--one of
these 'I'm so temperamental' kind of dopes. She threw him down as soon
as she'd used him for what he was worth.... I took to the booze. Whew! I
did go it hard for a while! That's what queered me with C. F.... Then,
what d'ye think I did?" Miss Burton leaned forward to better impress me
with the importance of her revelation: "I tried it a second time....
This one was an actor: one of those handsome, shaving-soap advertisement
kind of faces--beautiful teeth, and workin' the smile overtime to show
'em!... Black curly hair, high brow, chesty--you know--the real thing in
heavy men.... Mash notes, society ladies making goo-goo eyes at him, and
forgetting to invite me to those little impromptu suppers. Ha!... don't
ask me! It was worse than the first.... No, ma'am, matrimony and the
stage don't mix. They ought to nail over every stage door this warning:
'All ye who enter here, leave matrimony outside.' Yes, I know what you
are going to say--that there are happy marriages among stage folks, and
you'll name some of the shining examples. The domestic felicity of Mr.
Great Star and his wife makes up well in print. But, wait awhile....
Have you finished with your tea? Let's step in the ladies' room--I'm
dying for a smoke."

On our way back to the office, Miss Burton asked me about myself. When I
spoke of Will, she turned sharply and looked at me with a hurt
expression.

"Why, you poor kid! Why didn't you tell me you were married? Now, don't
you let anything I said worry you a bit. Everybody is apt to draw
general conclusions from personal experiences. There's always the
exception to prove the rule. Besides...." She slipped her arm through
mine and gave me a reassuring pressure.

The agent received her in his private office, and when she came out she
was in high spirits. Calling me to her, she put me on a friendly
footing with the agent, who promised to keep me in mind. I thanked her
for her kindly interest, and went home.

Desolate as the little flat was, I found strange comfort within its
protecting walls. The power of Will's personality had impregnated the
place, and I felt its soothing influence. I devoted the evening to
writing to my husband a long letter, but, strangely enough, I did not
repeat the conversation I had had with Miss Burton. That night I prayed
that he and I might be the exception to prove the rule....

The next day I visited another agency. The presiding genius was a
corpulent person, with cold blue eyes which cowed at the first glance.
She stood behind the rail which divided the office from the waiting
applicants with an air of a magistrate dispensing justice not altogether
tempered with mercy. There was something insolent in the way she shut
off the opening speeches of the applicants with, "No, nothing for you
to-day; nothing doing, Mr. Blank." Then, as a highly scented and
berouged person entered, clanking the gold baubles of her chatelaine as
she swished by, the majoress-domo swung open the gate and greeted her
with, "Come right in, dearie; I've been waiting for you." They
disappeared into the sanctum sanctorum.

The little wizened lady who sat next to me snorted with impatience:
"Humph! I suppose that means another half hour!" She fell to gossiping
with a man whose very face suggested his "line of business"--that of
Irish comedian. It was impossible not to overhear their conversation.
The gorgeous creature who had been received with such open arms was a
pet of the establishment, because of her generous and regular "retaining
fees." She had been a more or less prominent society woman from Chicago;
after a sensational divorce, she turned to the stage for the proper
outlet for her superabundant "temperament." Willing to work for a salary
upon which no self-supporting woman could exist, and able to dress her
parts "handsomely," she found no difficulty in securing an engagement.
The "retaining fees" no doubt facilitated her progress.

I afterwards learned from Will's experience that a cheque enclosed in a
letter of application to one of these dramatic employment agencies
stimulated their interest in the sender. And, even after an actor has
made a "hit," it is good business to lubricate the dispenser of gifts.
I could not quite grasp the _modus operandi_ until it was explained to
me by Miss Burton. "You see, when a manager contemplates engaging a
company, he sends to an agent for a list of names. Perhaps he wants a
leading man or a character actor, and he may direct the agent to
communicate with a certain actor whom he believes to be best suited to
the part he has in mind. Now this particular actor may not be in the
good books of the agent, or there may be another actor playing the same
line of business who is regular and liberal with his 'retaining fees.'
It is not difficult to understand which of the actors will be
suggested--even cried up--to the manager." Our own experience had been
to negotiate direct with the managers. But, in many cases, the managers
themselves send the actors whom they engage to a favoured agent to
complete the negotiations. In this way the agent is able to collect a
week's salary from the actor.

The Irish comedian figured the average income of an agent who "placed"
several hundred actors, with salaries ranging from thirty to three
hundred dollars a week, at $5,000 a year. "And from the fish-hand they
give you when you come lookin' for an engagement you'd think _we_ were
the grafters--damned old parasites!"

When, at last, the lady agent returned from her conference, I timidly
made known my wants. Perhaps I looked like a "non-retainer," as the
comedian dubbed them, for the corpulent person looked me over
suspiciously.

"Had any experience?" she broke in.

"One season," I responded.

"Well, you might leave your address," she snapped, and directed me to an
assistant.

I went back to Miss Burton's friend. Mr. Tom was an Englishman, with the
manners of a gentleman to commend him if nothing else. He greeted me
pleasantly and asked me to wait. My heart bounded in anticipation.
Presently he handed me a letter. I recognized the address upon the
envelope as that of a prominent manager. I was told to go to his office,
present the letter and return to report the outcome to the agent. I
rushed off with my mind in a whirl. Already I was outlining a telegram
to Will, telling him of my engagement. I began to plan how I should
remake my last season's dresses to avoid the expense of a new wardrobe.
Only once before had I gone direct to a manager for an engagement. I
look back upon the incident I am about to relate with amusement at my
own expense. To anybody and everybody who is interested in the stage the
name of Charles Frohman was and still remains a kind of magic. When it
was determined that the stage was to be my avocation--I use the word
advisedly, since I had never been taught to look upon any profession in
the light of a vocation--I came direct to New York with the purpose of
calling upon Mr. Frohman, and placing my talent at his command. I
remember I dressed myself carefully. I even powdered my face heavily, to
give the ear-marks of intimate acquaintance with the make-up box. When I
entered the office in the Empire Theatre Building, the office boy was
engaged in pasting newspaper clippings in a scrap-book. A pretty, pert
girl was type-writing at the other end of the room. The office boy
looked up enquiringly. I took my courage in both hands.

"Is Mr. Frohman in?" I enquired.

The boy shuffled into the adjoining room. I busied myself by looking at
the photographs of the actresses which lined the walls; my heart was
pumping fiercely, but I "acted" the part of a young lady with plenty of
_savoir faire_. The boy returned, followed by a middle-aged man who
smiled pleasantly upon me.

"Mr. Frohman?" I ventured.

"Mr. Frohman is not in," he responded with a bland smile.

I was about to enquire when he was expected when I caught the reflection
of the office boy in a mirror on the wall. He was winking broadly to the
girl at the typewriter; I felt the blood rising to my face, and I fear I
made a somewhat confused exit.

Will had many a good laugh over my credulity. I had come all the way
from an Indiana town to see Mr. Frohman, and there was about as much
chance of being admitted to his presence as the proverbial camel has of
slipping through the needle's eye. Needless to say, I never mustered
sufficient courage to call on Mr. Frohman again.

To-day, however, I was forearmed. The manager to whom I had been
recommended by the agent sent out word that I was to wait. A half hour
later I was conducted to his presence. As I entered, he was seated in a
revolving chair, one foot resting on a small sliding shelf on his desk,
and a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth. He did not rise,
but nodded to me and motioned me to the seat opposite. While he read the
agent's letter he removed his leg from the table and crossed it over the
other. He was a short, heavy man, with a preponderance of abdomen. He
had thick, loose lips, and his head was as round and as smooth as a
billiard ball; his eyes were black and snappy, and threw out as much
fire as the huge diamond he wore on his little finger.

"Well," he finally said, looking at me and shifting the big cigar to the
other corner of his mouth, "that reads all right. So you're an
_ingenue_" (he pronounced it as if it were spelled _on-je-new_), "are
you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you look the part all right.... How much experience have you
had?"

"One season on the road with Mr. O'Brien's Company, but of course I've
played in amateur theatricals for...."

"Voice strong?" he bellowed, tilting himself back in his chair.

"Oh, yes, sir," I responded, using the loud pedal to prove my assertion.

"Don't sound like it."

"Perhaps not now, but--" I hesitated.

"But what?" he queried, smiling indulgently at me.

His smile gave me courage, and I answered truthfully: "Well, I think I'm
a little scared just now."

"Scared? What of?" He removed his cigar while he spat out an end he had
been chewing. Then he lighted a match and continued talking. "You don't
want to be scared of _me_--I'm the easiest thing you ever saw...." Here
he winked at me. Then for the next minute he puffed at his cigar and
looked at me. "Stand up," was his next injunction.... "You're not very
big ... you'll look the part all right."

"What kind of a part is it?" I ventured.

"Didn't Tom tell you about it?... It's a pretty part--one of them
innocent country maidens that never saw the streets of Cairo--that kind.
She falls in love with a villain who takes her to the great city, and
then throws her down--hard. The poor girl's afraid to go back to home
and mother, and just as she's about to commit suicide a good-natured
sucker comes along and marries her. It's sympathetic and appealin'--goes
right to the heart. Can't help but make a hit. Dressin' ain't much, and
we expect to run all season in New York."

"What's the salary?" meaning to appear business-like.

"Twenty-five in New York, and thirty on the road."

I did not reply, for my mind was making rapid calculations. Twenty-five
dollars a week, with the prospect of running all season in New York!
Why, I should be able to pay my own expenses and lay aside a little
besides.

"That's a good salary," began the manager, taking my silence for
dissent. "If you make a hit, I'll raise it five. I tell you what I'll
do: I'll give you a letter to the stage manager. They're rehearsing now.
The dame we engaged for the part, way last summer, got married on the
quiet, and has got to retire for family reasons." He winked at me again,
as he took up his pen. I waited uneasily while he wrote. "Here's the
letter," he said, moistening the flap of the envelope with his lips.
"Now, run along and see Mr. Thompson at the Academy. He's the doctor."
He rose by way of dismissal, and indicated a door other than which I had
entered. I thanked him and assured him my voice was quite strong.

"You're a pretty little thing," he said as he accompanied me to the
door. "Pretty little figure ... what d'ye weigh?"

"I don't know really how much, but I think about one hundred and ten
pounds," I answered with some confusion.

"As much as that? Where do you carry it all?" He ran his fat, stubby
hands over my shoulders and down about my hips. His smile became a leer.
Before I could realize what was happening he had taken me in his arms,
and his heavy, wet lips were pressed against my mouth. His hands played
over my body, and, though I struggled to cry out and to release myself,
I was unable to do either. It seemed as if my senses were deserting me;
then, the muffled bell of the telephone sounded, and he released me.

"Damn that bell," he said. Nauseated with disgust and fright, I cowered
in the corner; he tried to draw my hands from my face, laughing as he
whispered: "Like it, like it, do you?" Then with another oath at the
continued call from the telephone, he crossed to his desk. "Run along
now," he directed, without a look....

I never knew how I found my way down the stairs to the street. I did not
wait for the elevator. I saw that people looked at me as I hurried
along the street--whither I did not ask myself. Only when I collided
with someone on the stairs did I realize that I had gone straight to the
agent's office.

"Hello, little lady!" I recognized Miss Burton's voice. "My, we're in a
hurry! For God's sake, child, what's happened to you? What's the matter?
You look as if you were going to throw a fit! Here--let's go to a drug
store."

After a dose of sal volatile, Miss Burton called a hansom and insisted
on taking me home. I did not want her to accompany me. I wanted to be
alone. When we were safely in the house I lost all control. She let me
have my cry out without asking a question. Then, when I was calmer, I
told her what had happened.

"The old blackguard! The old blackguard! I've heard that about him
before. Why didn't you hand him one? Why didn't you smack his face?"

"I'll leave that to my husband," I replied with tearful dignity.

Miss Burton contemplated me between violent puffs of her cigarette. Then
she shook her head. "Um-um, girlie; no, sir ... you mustn't tell your
husband."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Well, if you tell your husband, and he's the man I think he is, he'll
go straight up and knock the old beast down. That will get him in bad;
this manager is a power and controls a dozen attractions, as well as
theatres. Your young man may find it difficult to get an engagement in
the future."

Miss Burton paused to allow the idea to percolate into my brain.

"Then there's another side to it. If you tell your husband and he does
not go up and knock the fresh gentleman down, you'll despise him for it
... oh, yes you will! You would not acknowledge it even to yourself,
but, way down deep in the bottom of your heart, you would never forgive
your husband for not resenting the insult to you.... Better not tell him
at all...."

We both were silent for some time. I was struggling with a thousand
conflicting emotions.

"You see, girlie, you've got an awful lot to learn. You're new to the
game. That's the reason these things go so hard with you."

"Do you mean that 'these things' are a part--a regular part--of the
business?" I began, with a burst of resentment. "I don't believe it! I
can't believe it! I'm sure my experience was exceptional. I know that
girls who typewrite for a living, clerks and even housemaids have
unpleasant experiences, for I have read about it in the papers. There
are bad men in all walks of life. I travelled nearly a whole season
before I was married, and--"

I stopped short. My mind visualized a situation. When I joined the
company in which I met my husband I was singled out for marked attention
by the star. I believed this attention to be a kindly interest in a
novice. It never occurred to me to question the intent and purpose. I
was the understudy for the leading woman; the star had told me that I
had exceptional talent, and with the proper direction I should develop
into a splendid emotional actress. Quite often we would have private
rehearsals--sometimes in the theatre, but more often in the star's
apartment in the hotel. Invariably we rehearsed alone. I was flattered
and sincerely appreciative of the star's efforts to develop my talent;
we played scenes from Romeo and Juliet, and my star played Romeo with
such fervour that I quite forgot my lines. When the star's wife joined
the company the rehearsals were suspended; it seemed quite natural to me
that the star wished to devote his time to his wife. She was still a
beautiful woman, though her face was sad and bore a discontented
expression. She kept aloof from the Company, and it was said that she
did not approve of stage-folk, especially the women. I wondered why she
had married an actor. Later, when Will and I became friends, he
questioned me about these private rehearsals; then I began to notice
that he managed to drop in for a call on the star when we rehearsed at
the hotel, or he would wait about the stage when we were in the theatre.
This happened frequently as our courtship progressed. I recalled how,
one day when Will was discovered in the wings, that the star called out
to him quite irritably, "You were not called for rehearsal, were you,
Mr. Hartley? You're not needed, and your presence makes Miss Gray
self-conscious."

Shortly after that Will insisted upon announcing our betrothal to the
star. I never went to rehearsals unattended after that, and the calls
became less frequent. Soon they were abandoned altogether. Now, for the
first time, I understood Will's watchfulness--perhaps I understood why
the star's wife had so sad a face....

"And what?" Miss Burton repeated after me.

"I was thinking, that was all."

"Girlie, you'll never get on in the show business, unless ... look here,
I'm going to open your eyes to a few things that may come handy to
you.... I've been on the stage since I was a kiddie; I was born in it. I
made my first appearance in my mother's arms, and they say I never
waited for cues, but yelled right through other people's lines. I grew
up in railroad trains, hotels and theatres. I was wise to the game
before I was out of short skirts. Anything I did was done with my eyes
wide open. I was never stage-struck, like you, and so many fool girls
who look on acting as a 'divine art.' I had to make my own living, and
the stage offers a pretty good living if you are willing to play the
game." Miss Burton looked at me significantly.

"Play the game?" I asked.

"Yes, that's just what I mean.... Virtue and chastity have about as much
chance in the show-business as that famous little snowball of
purgatorial fame. I don't know of any other profession where immorality
is a virtue. I suppose that's what you call a paradox. Virtue and
success do not go hand in hand in this business--even our mothers
recognize the truth of the statement and wink at it. Your average stage
mamma values virtue in the ratio of the advancement its possession
assures. Let any star or manager cast covetous eyes upon her daughter,
let her but scent leading lady--or stardom--and she will not only lend
herself to intrigue but encourage it. She knows the game; she knows that
a girl, no matter how pretty, how talented, cannot get on in the
show-business without 'giving up.' She's got to have money or influence,
or both. I don't know what there is about the stage that brings out the
baser passions, but I do know that it's rotten to the core. And the
worst of it is, that the good is sacrificed to the bad. Girls like you
are drawn to the stage by its illusion and romance. With others, it's
the looseness, the freedom from restraint that appeals. There never was
a woman with a screw loose in her moral machinery who didn't hanker for
the stage. Why? Because it's a convenient place to show goods. Every
millionaire, every fur-tongued man about town looks upon the women of
the stage as his legitimate prey. You've only got to mention the fact
that you are, directly or indirectly, connected with the show-business,
to lay yourself open to the advances of the male creature who thinks he
is sporty. You may be as chaste as ice and as pure as snow, but the
chances are against it, if you are on the stage."

I felt choked with indignation. "I don't believe you, I don't believe
it's true," I stormed. "Look at such women as--" (I named a number of
prominent women stars). "They are honoured and respected----"

"You mean their accomplishment, their art is honoured. Each and every
one of these women has been grist to the mill. Do you suppose that side
of it ever reaches the public? No, and what's more, it's none of the
public's business. These women are successful. The price they have paid
is their own secret. Don't misunderstand me--I'm not sitting in judgment
on the women of the stage, any more than I would sit in judgment on you
if you went wrong. I'm telling you the conditions that exist--conditions
which every woman who enters the theatrical profession has got to face
sooner or later. You had your first experience to-day...."

It had grown quite dark in the room. Miss Burton got up and moved about
in the twilight. I almost hated her. I could not prevent myself from
saying, "Do you think it is nice to befoul your own nest?"

She answered me gently: "You don't understand my motive, girlie. I
wouldn't say these things to an outsider for anything in the world. Why,
if a thing like this were to be given to the public, the whole
theatrical profession would rush into print to deny it. There would be
an awful noise, but _each and every one of them knows it's the truth_,
_God's truth_, _and nothing but the truth_." We were again silent. Miss
Burton sighed heavily.

"You know, girlie, if I were an artist I should like to paint my
conception of the 'divine art.' The divine art is a soulless procuress;
she takes your youth, your beauty and your virtue. She saps you dry,
and, at the first signs of age, she turns you out."

Miss Burton stopped in front of the large photograph of Will which
adorned the mantel. After a lengthy scrutiny, she said:

"Fine head! Looks as if he would have made a good lawyer."

"He was educated for the law," I answered proudly.

Miss Burton looked out of the window with a far-away look. Then she came
to me and took both my hands in hers.

"Little girl, why don't you persuade him to give up the stage and go
back to the law?"

"Because he does not like the law, and because he has a great career as
an actor ahead of him," I retorted, feeling myself on the verge of
tears.

After Miss Burton had donned her hat and gloves, and stood with her hand
on the door-knob, she spoke again:

"I'll see Tom to-morrow, and have him set you right with that old
beast."

"Set _me_ right!"

"Yes, for not showing up at the Academy. I'll say you got in a trolley
jam, and when you arrived there they had gone. You can show up bright
and early to-morrow--don't you intend to take the engagement?"

"Not if I never got another engagement in my life!" I declared, with a
wave of disgust passing over me.

Miss Burton drew me into her arms and kissed me impulsively: "Stick to
that, girlie, and God bless you!" and she rushed off....

I didn't sleep much that night. Early the next morning came a telegram
from Will, saying he expected to be home on Sunday. His Company was to
"lay off" and rehearse two weeks, preparatory to "the assault" on
Broadway, as he expressed it. The knowledge that I should soon feel his
arms around me acted like a tonic. My resentment against Miss Burton
gave way to pity. Why were not all husbands and wives as much in love
with each other as were Will and I?




CHAPTER III


The boy Hamlet failed to attract the public. After two weeks on Broadway
the notice went up. The Company was to reorganize, which, in this
instance, meant reducing expenses--and "back to the woods." Will agreed
to double the King with the Ghost for a small rise of salary and the
condition that I be added to the roster. In return for my railroad fares
I played one of the strolling players and the Player-Queen. The Company
made one night stands only; we made early and long jumps to
out-of-the-way towns, which Will declared were not on the map. The
hotels were often so bad that we were driven to patronizing the village
grocer, and to supplement our meals with chafing-dish messes. Through
rain, snow and slush we plodded our way to the railroad stations;
sometimes there was a hack and the women rode back and forth. The
theatres were cold and the dressing-rooms filthy. The stage entrance
invariably gave upon a foul-smelling alley, and a penetrating draught
swept the stage when the curtain was up. Once, after Will in the
character of the King had been killed by Hamlet and lay dead upon the
stage, he sneezed explosively. The audience appeared to enjoy the
situation. But, in spite of the physical discomforts and the stultifying
grind, we were happy--we were together.

By the end of the season we had saved almost three hundred dollars. Then
Will played a few weeks with a summer stock company--a "summer snap," as
it is termed--and in the autumn we were able to make a stand for the
much-desired joint engagement.

When the Company gathered at the railroad station bound for a city of
the middle West, it more resembled a family party than a theatrical
organization. The manager himself played a part, and his wife was the
lady villain. The comedienne and the stage carpenter were man and wife,
and the leading lady--a girl not much older than I--was chaperoned by
her mother. Will was the leading man and I the ingenue. There was the
prospect of a pleasant season ahead. I smiled a little contemptuously
when I thought of Miss Burton's terrible arraignment of the stage. She
had been unfortunate in her association, that was all, I told myself.

The comedienne and I shared dressing-rooms. She was a beautiful woman
with a strain of Latin blood. I loved her from the first moment I met
her. I was disappointed in her husband; her superior breeding and
education caused me to wonder at her choice. Later, when I better
understood the needs of the woman, I grew to like him; he was
clean-minded and sincere--virtues I later discovered to be rare ones
among actors.

It was about the second week of the season when our family party first
showed signs of incompatibility. There had been some gossip connecting
the leading lady's name with that of the manager, but as she was
protected by her mother it appeared to me ridiculous and unwarranted.
One night, as the curtain fell on the first act, the manager's wife
ordered the leading lady's mother out of the wings. Immediately there
followed a war of high-pitched voices which penetrated the walls of our
aerial dressing-room. The curtain was held and the orchestra played its
third overture.

During the wait Margherita, my dressing-room mate, told me the
circumstances of the case. The leading lady's mother was the "friend" of
the "angel" of the Company; in this capacity she assumed privileges
which were galling to the manager's wife. Adding to this the fact that
her husband was too obviously interested in the leading lady, the
outbreak was not to be wondered at. The manager himself was one of those
round, flabby men, suggestive of a fat, spineless worm. Physique is
often coindicant of character.

This night the mother had been more obnoxious than usual. It was her
habit to stand in the wings while the manager's wife was on the scene,
and by petty distractions to goad the actress to expression.

Gradually members of the Company were drawn into the dissension; it was
an intolerable situation. Our sympathies were with the manager's wife,
but we diplomatically held aloof. Matters finally reached a climax. One
night during the performance there was a stage wait. In vain Will and
the heavy man filled in the hiatus. The manager's wife had surprised the
leading lady in the arms of her husband somewhere behind the scenes, and
thereupon slapped the girl's face. A moment later she came upon the
stage to play her "big" scene; she was labouring under great emotion,
and I thought she had never acted so well. In a speech to me (I played
her daughter)--it was part of the stage business that I take her hand in
mine; I am not sure that I did not press her hand in silent sympathy.
She drew me towards her; in another moment the lady villain was sobbing
in my arms, and there was an emotional storm not indicated in the
manuscript of the author. I led her up stage as the house fairly rose to
her splendid acting. When the storms of applause had died away we went
on with the scene as if nothing had happened.

I wonder why it is that women invariably punish their own sex and exempt
the man? Do they instinctively demand a higher code of honour from their
kind while meekly acquiescent to the conventional license for men?

Subsequently the "angel" joined the Company, and, to all appearances, an
adjustment was reached. For a time peace was restored. The leading lady
assumed an air of injured innocence, and left off rouging her cheeks to
heighten the effect. Then, suddenly--or gradually, I never realized how
it came about--it became obvious to all that the leading lady was
"making a play" for Will. Her attentions became so marked that the men
of the Company chaffed him about it, declaring the manager would
presently challenge him to mortal combat, or--and what was more
likely--discharge him from the Company. Will accepted their allusions in
good part, but I observed the subject was distasteful to him. To me he
called the woman "a little fool," and was irritated with being placed in
so ridiculous a position. Indeed I think Will suffered as much as I did.
Without being rude or boorish, there was nothing he could do to check
her advances. She was planning her _debut_ as a star the following
season, and made Will a proposition to become her leading man; she
consulted him concerning the new plays which were being submitted to
her, and planned for the current season special matinees of classic
plays with which Will was familiar. She called him to preliminary
rehearsal and discussions in her rooms at the hotel; sometimes, between
the acts of the performance, called him to her dressing-room, where she
received him in a state of _neglige_. New bits of stage business were
introduced, or the old elaborated; she would run her fingers through
his hair, or prolong the kisses which the role demanded; or, in his
embrace, she would draw her body close to his and writhe about him to a
point of indecency. In countless, intangible ways she brought her
blandishments to bear upon him. Will declared she was playing him
against the manager, whose relations with her had become strained since
his wife had interfered. In all things she was aided and abetted by her
mother, who fawned on Will and made his position the more equivocal. My
own emotions were confused; it was inconceivable that I should be
jealous of the woman. No, the sensation she aroused was nothing more
than disgust. To be jealous of my husband connoted a lack of faith, and
he had done nothing to betray my trust in him.

Jealousy had always appeared to me a debasing and an undignified
emotion.... I resented the position in which my husband was placed; I
would not add to his discomfiture by hectoring. I had promised myself
when I married that never should I be jealous when I saw my husband
making stage-love to another woman--perhaps in the back of my mind was
the hope that I should always be the other woman, his leading lady.
Nevertheless, I was determined to stand the test without flinching. It
was high time that I began to realize that the conditions which
confronted me were but a part of the game--the _game_! The word was
reminiscent of Miss Burton. I fought down the suggestion blindly,
passionately.... I began to dread going to the theatre; often, while I
was making up, I found Margherita's eyes fastened wistfully upon
me--they told how she longed to comfort me. Unhappily I could not talk
about the thing which was troubling me. What was there to say? There are
emotions which never find tangible expression. Then the idea of asking
my husband to resign from the Company suggested itself. I endeavoured to
look at the question from a material standpoint: it would not be easy to
find another engagement in mid-season, besides, there were the expensive
railroad fares back to New York--we were then touring California--and
probably another separation....

Perhaps it was the strain of hard travel, or it may have been the
certainty of my condition which I had heretofore only suspected, or a
combination of both, which made me lose my self-control. I had always
believed strongly in the influence of suggestion upon the unborn child,
and the unclean atmosphere in which I was living preyed upon my mind
until it became an obsession. I grew to hate the woman and her
witch-like mother. We had had some racking railroad jumps, and the loss
of sleep was telling on every member of the Company; the leading lady
was stimulating on champagne. Her mother stood in the wings, bottle and
glass in hand, and applied the restorative whenever the girl came off
the stage. One night, under the influence of the wine, she became more
brazen in her advances to Will; she took liberties which made even her
mother, watching in the wings, gasp with amusement. Something she said
_sotto voce_ to her mother reached my ears. I began to watch her. As the
act progressed she elaborated the detail with ever-increasing audacity,
and, when the action required her to throw herself in Will's arms, she
flung me a look of laughing defiance, coincident with a broad wink to
her mother--old Hecate of the wings--then fed upon his lips like a
vampire sucking blood.

I am not sure that I responded to the cue which some seconds later
brought her into my arms. (We were fellow Nihilists under arrest.) The
contact of her hand against mine ... Will told me afterwards he would
never have believed me possessed of such physical strength. I choked
her.... I drove my nails into her flesh.... I dragged her to the wings
and beat her with my fists.... I vented upon her the long pent-up
fury.... Oh, the shame, the ignominy of it! I, who resented a vicious
influence upon my unborn child--I, its mother, had descended to the
level of a fishwife!... It was Margherita who brought me back to
consciousness; it was she who restored to me a modicum of my
self-respect. I believe she was secretly pleased at what I had done.

That night, as she sat beside my bed, she told me something of herself.
As a young girl she possessed a wonderful singing voice. Her
parents--poor Italians--who came to America when she was a babe in arms,
could not afford proper masters. She went on the stage to support
herself, hoping to earn enough to pay for her musical education. Her
beauty attracted a patron "of the arts"; at least, that is the way he
was referred to in the newspapers. But it was not Margherita's art that
he cared about--it was the woman. He considered his money a fair
exchange for her body; Margherita was not willing to pay the price. She
struggled on, and one day, after several years of hazardous existence,
she found herself stranded in a far Western city without money, without
friends. In a state of despondency she had walked to the outskirts of
the town, and there in a lonely wood she sat down to fight out a choice
between life and death. In a moment of emotion she burst forth into
song; her troubled soul found solace in Gounod's _Ave Maria_. At the end
her voice broke, and she sobbed. A hand was laid on her shoulder. It was
a big hand, strong and sinewy. The man that went with it was big--"big
all the way through," Margherita said proudly. They were married not
long after; ever since he had remained at her side, helping to fight for
a clean career ... making her life's work his.... Dear Margherita! I can
see you now, with your glorious black eyes, your coronet of raven hair
with the poppies over your pretty ear.... Oh, the pity of it! Weakened
by the hardships and privation her life entailed, she died a few years
later....

When Will came into the room that night, he held a paper in his hand. It
was our resignation. His eyes twinkled with humour when he told
Margherita that he was taking the bull by the horns, and sparing us the
ignominy of dismissal. I was glad to see he was not angry with me. Then
Margherita whispered something into his ear. He came to the bed and took
me in his arms, and what he said concerns only a man and wife....
Margherita stole away, but before she went she kissed us both, and there
were tears in her eyes.

On the way back to New York, Will and I sat hand in hand looking out at
the monotonous stretch of desert-land. "I'm glad to have it over--I'm
glad that's out of our life," he reiterated, pressing my hand. "It was
rotten!" Suddenly he burst out laughing. He continued long and
sonorously. "Do you know, girlie," he said, "do you know that with a
little more fullness of figure and a pair of two-inch heels, you'd make
a grand Lady Macbeth? Phew!" and he laughed again.




CHAPTER IV


The question of bearing children had given me many a bad hour. My
husband felt that the coming of a child, at the outset of his career,
would be a burden and a handicap; once he was established and could
afford to maintain a home, it would be time enough, he declared. He felt
that, at best, children born and reared in the theatrical profession
were the victims of unnatural conditions. It was not practicable to
carry a young child about the country, and, if left behind, to the care
of either relatives or hired attendants, the child was robbed of its
natural protection. Obviously I must make up my mind to separate from
one or the other--my child or my husband--until the little one was old
enough to travel.

Here arose another knotty problem. Children are little human sponges;
they absorb the atmosphere of their environment. A stage-child is no
more immune to the vicious influences about it than to a scarlet-fever
germ. Should I then be willing to expose my child to dangers of more
far-reaching consequences than physical ailments, and at a time of life
when character is formed? My husband and I discussed these problems at
length, and finally concluded that, since the inevitable had happened,
the wisest course was to make the best of it. How many children, I
wonder, are conceived in the same spirit? How many births the result of
accident? How few planned with the wish to bestow the best of one's
flesh and spirit upon the little stranger? Can the influence of
unwelcome conception upon the child itself ever be computed? May not
criminal tendencies and moral delinquencies be traced to such a source?
If, at the beginning, I were guilty of misdirected sentiment, I set
myself to right the wrong as the weeks grew into months. I no longer
chafed at separation; I lived in a kind of spiritual exaltation. My
plans and dreams of the future were now transferred to the coming of my
child.

Will was so fortunate as to secure another engagement almost
immediately. His success led to the opportunity he most desired, and in
the early autumn he played his first engagement as leading man of a New
York production. The Company opened out of town; in theatrical parlance
this is what they call "trying it on the dog."

Our boy was born during Will's absence. It must have been very hard for
Will to have the nervous strain of a first night's performance and the
worry of my illness at the same time. I had gone to the hospital alone.
Will had made the arrangements before he left town. He said he would
feel better if he knew I was in skilled hands and not at the mercies of
a lodginghouse-keeper. It seemed cruel to be alone at such a time. I
cried a little when the big, cheery nurse held my boy for me to kiss....
I wanted Will's arms around me as I had never longed for them before--or
after.... The little chap had black hair like Will's, and his forehead
bulged in the same way. I had always admired Will's forehead....

Baby was six weeks old when his father first saw him. I laughed when he
held the boy in his arms--he appeared so awkward. After a successful New
York opening, the play settled down for a run. We moved from our
furnished room to an apartment. Will found it difficult to sleep with a
crying baby in the same room. With the coming of the child, and the
"front" Will's new position demanded, it was hard to make both ends
meet; for a long time I did the housework except the washing, but when
my health began to fail Will made me hire a servant.

Will was very fond of our little boy. Even as a small baby, the child
showed his preference for his father; he would stop crying the moment he
heard Will's voice. Indeed, I believe that when temptation lured him in
her most attractive form it was the child who held him close to me.

Temptation there was plenty; his success had been unqualified. The
critics hailed him as a young man with a great future. His pictures
began to appear in the magazines and in the pictorial supplements of the
Sunday papers. He joined an actors' club, where he dined on matinee
days. Will's family developed a pride in him, hitherto carefully
suppressed. They had shown decided disapproval of our marriage when it
became expedient to announce it to them. My introduction to the family,
during the week our late-lamented Company had played Will's home city,
was strained and unsatisfactory. Now, however, the sight of the family
name in print gave unalloyed joy to Will's father, who collected
newspaper clippings for Will's scrap-book with more zeal than did Will
himself. Will said this sudden interest reminded him of a story he had
heard at the club. It ran like this:

A handsome young Irishman of humble parentage had long yearned for the
footlights. Unable longer to restrain himself, he confided his ambitions
to his mother. Now, the old lady was an ardent church-goer, and looked
upon the stage as a quick chute to perdition.

"Jimmie, Jimmie, me boy! To think you'd want to be an actor! To think
you'd want to bring shame on your old mother, this disgrace on your dead
father's good name!"

The old lady rocked herself to and fro in her grief. In vain Jimmie
endeavoured to soothe her. Finally the idea occurred to him.

"But, mither, mither, darlin'," he caressed, "I'll not bring disgrace on
your name--you know actors always change their names when they go on the
stage, and no one will ever know who I am."

The old lady stopped her moaning and was silent for a moment.

"But, Jimmie," she protested, "Jimmie, supposin' you became a gr-r-e-at
mon, supposin' you became a great lion, with your pictures in all the
papers--and adornin' the fences ... then, Jimmie, how'll they know
you're me son?" ...

It was at a matinee that I first saw Will in his new part. It was the
first time since our marriage that I had not heard his lines or helped
him with his costumes. He had told me all about the play, and I knew the
cue for his first entrance almost as well as he himself. My heart
thumped so hard and fast I feared my neighbour would guess who I was.
His entrance was greeted with a burst of gloved applause, accompanied
with such exclamations as, "There he is!" "Isn't he a love!" ... "Just
wait until you see how he can make love!" I confess I hardly knew
whether to be proud, or indignant. The familiarity with which they
discussed him grated on me; I resented the proprietary tone. Then I
smiled at my silliness, for I realized that this very interest made for
popularity, the most valuable of the actor's assets. I listened to the
gush of the matinee girls, and their discussion of the private lives of
theatrical people with a good deal of amusement.

Coming out of the theatre, I heard one woman ask another whether Will
was married. I wondered what difference that would make in his
popularity.

After the matinee I went back to Will's dressing-room. Will had planned
what he called a little junket. We were to dine together at a
restaurant--a pleasure we could not often afford. While Will washed up I
told him the nice things I had overheard. I predicted he would become a
veritable matinee idol--a term which he scorned. There were some letters
lying on his make-up table. I picked them up idly; Will followed my
action.

"Read them," he said. "You'll be amused. They are my first mash-notes."
There was so much roguishness in his smile that I laughed back at him.
Some of the letters were innocent enough, written in girlish hand, with
requests for autographs and autographed photographs. One or two asked
Will's advice about going on the stage, and there was one from a
tooth-powder firm, wanting the right to use Will's picture in which his
teeth showed. There was one--a violet-scented note on fine linen,
written in the large loose vertical scrawl so much affected by smart
women--without signature. It ran as follows:

     "If you will pardon this somewhat unconventional method of making
     your acquaintance, my dear Mr. Hartley, I shall be most happy to
     have you join me at tea, after the matinee, at Sherry's (other
     drinkables not excluded). I was present at the opening night of
     your play, and was quite carried away by your splendid acting.
     Where _did_ you learn to make love? I have occupied the right hand
     proscenium box every Saturday matinee since the opening. Isn't that
     a proof of my devotion? Do I flatter myself that I have caught your
     eye once or twice as the curtain falls? I invariably dress in black
     and wear gardenias. If you are interested, you will have no
     difficulty in identifying me. For family reasons I withhold my name
     for the present. Do come, Mr. Hartley."

As I folded the letter and replaced it in its cover, I recalled that
Will _had_ glanced towards the right hand proscenium box several times.

"I think I'll put you on a car and send you home," began Will, but
something in his voice belied his words, and I made him an impudent
_moue_. "How do you like being married to a matinee idol?" Will asked,
giving the final touch to his dress.

I did not reply; I was asking myself the same question.




CHAPTER V


Will made friends easily. Perhaps it were better to use the word
"acquaintances." At any rate it was not long until he received more
invitations than he could accept. He was called on to give his services
for charitable purposes, but I noticed these hostesses never received
him in their homes. It must be said that Will rarely accepted an
invitation which did not include me, though I often realized I was
invited as a necessary evil. After supper the guests invariably played
poker, and I knew nothing about cards. The late hours sapped my
strength, and my boy always wakened early in the morning. Sometimes the
suppers were held at a well-known restaurant, like Rector's or Martin's.
I had not the proper clothes for such occasions; it was imperative that
Will dressed well, and I did not want it said that his wife was shabby.
The other women wore wonderful gowns and much jewellery.

After a winter's round of these parties, I was able to distinguish one
particular set from another. There is a smart set, a fast set and a
loose set which, though none of them can be said to be strictly "in
society," form a kind of brass-band appendage or fringe to it and differ
one from the other only in their gradations--or degradations--of moral
laxness. It is the loose set to which the actor is drawn, or inclines.
One finds in this particular stratum the artist, the journalist, the
divorcee and semi-detached woman whose name is legion. The lady who
maintains a handsome apartment and entertains lavishly is probably a
"kept" woman with an ambiguous past. Occasionally one finds a multiple
divorcee with money, playing at patroness to some impecunious
song-writer or handsome actor with more brawn than brain. But the "kept"
lady predominates. She is ubiquitous. She dresses a la mode, she is an
habituee of the smart restaurants, an inveterate first-nighter. Her
"particular friend" may be a married man of the "my
wife-don't-understand-me" brand, or he may be one of the "get-rich-quick
floaters" who joyride across the financial horizon into oblivion. It is
to this set the stall-fed woman of the leisure class turns to whet her
jaded appetite. And a hostess' Sunday AT HOME is highly suggestive of
the "obit" of a Town Topics. Individually and collectively they are
rotten. Mistaking the sex-heat aroused and stimulated by cocktails and
other alcoholic beverages for real love and passion, they wallow in the
erotic mire to their heart's content. Nobody criticizes; nobody cares;
the faster the pace the greater the joy.

It was upon this subject that my husband and I encountered our first
real rift. He had commented rather flippantly on the moral tone of a
recent supper party. We fell to discussing the players' status in
society. I had observed that with one or two notable exceptions the
actor is not received by "our best people." To be sure there are a few
cities outside of New York where quite respectable families, bored by
the drab routine of conventional society, entertain the actor as a kind
of _sauce piquante_ to their monotonous lives. But this is the exception
and not the rule. Wholly misinterpreting my motive, Will defended his
profession with a blind prejudice. After that he did not ask me to
accompany him to the various functions. It became quite a common thing
for him to telephone me from the Club that he would not be home until
late that night. I was sorry that I had expressed myself so plainly to
Will; if only I could make him understand that I wanted him to be true
to the best that was in him.... It hurt me to hear him speak lightly of
the women with whom he associated, and still continue to go among them.

Miss Burton was now a frequent visitor at our home. She adored the boy
and never failed to bring him a present when she came. She took upon
herself to lecture me for not going out with Will, declaring I was
spoiling him, and that I would make him selfish. I thought over what she
said, and resolved that I would go with Will when next he asked me. Also
I began to formulate a little circle of my own. There was a sculptor to
whom I was particularly attracted. He was a Western product, and was
preparing to go abroad to study. I had always had a fondness for
sculpture, and during my enforced retirement I amused myself at moulding
with clay. A baby's hand I had made attracted his attention one day he
had called on Will. He advised me to continue my efforts. Miss Burton
sent me a wonderful outfit and I took up my work of sculpturing in
earnest. My sculptor friend brought other friends with him, and it
became a regular thing for me to receive my friends on Sunday afternoon.
I saw that Will enjoyed my little parties, though they were simple and I
made no pretensions.

One day--it was at Christmas time--Miss Burton sent me a beautiful gown;
with the package came a characteristic note: she begged me to accept the
gown and not to feel hurt, that she was dead broke and could not afford
to make me a "decent" Christmas present. The gown, she said, had been
spoiled by the dressmaker, who had made it much too tight, and it would
make her happy if I would accept it with her love....

It was so pretty--all creamy white and fluffy, and there were little
pink flowers scattered over the net. I put it on ... and, as I looked at
myself in the mirror, I felt quite pleased with the reflection. White
was always becoming to me.... I did not tell Will about my present, but
the next time he casually mentioned an invitation to dinner I accepted
with an alacrity which surprised him.

When Sunday came, I dressed with the excitement of a conspirator, and
when Will called me to help him with his tie I walked into his room
with an air of unconcern worthy of a star. Will was delighted with my
appearance.

When we entered the house of our hostess I no longer felt the desire to
hide myself; instead, I felt quite mistress of myself. It's wonderful
what a difference clothes will make in one's feelings. Miss Burton told
me once that, whenever she was down on her luck and felt depressed, she
forthwith went on a sartorial debauch. She bought everything in sight.
Her new clothes re-established her self-respect, and somehow, some way,
a good engagement came along and helped her to pay for her prodigality.

We were a little late in arriving, and when I came down from the
bedroom, where I had left my wrap, the second round of cocktails was
being passed. Will was standing at the foot of the stairs talking with
his hostess. A large nude figure carrying softly shaded lights decorated
the newel-post, and screened me from view of the woman who was talking
to Will.

"You handsome dog!" I heard her say. "What have you been doing to Alice?
She's gone clean off her head--threatens to leave her husband, and is
drinking like a fish!"

"I haven't done anything," Will began, but at that moment our hostess
saw me and nudged Will, who joined me and we entered the drawing-room.

I felt Will's questioning eyes on my face, but I did not look at him;
instead, I gave my hand rather impulsively to my sculptor friend who was
standing alone, and I did not notice the returning pressure until my
wedding ring cut into the flesh, and made me wince. I was wondering who
"Alice" could be and what Will had to do with her. Our hostess's
"friend" was present. He was a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion,
iron gray hair and a closely cropped moustache. I had once seen him at
the Horse Show in one of the boxes, and he had been pointed out to me as
a prominent railroad man. He greeted Will noisily.

"Hello, Hartley," he yelled, "you're late on your cue. I suppose you
wanted to make an effective entrance!"

At the table I sat next to the sculptor; on my other hand was a dentist
who had leaped into fame by having been expelled from a certain European
country where he had set up a successful practice. A _liaison_ with the
wife of a man close to the throne had led to his downfall, and he had
returned to his native land to be received with open arms by the set in
which we were now travelling. He had a face such as I imagined Moliere
conceived for his Tartuffe; his voice was caressing and made me sleepy.
Opposite me sat a well-known star. He was famous for his magnetism.
Although I could not discern it, there must have existed something of
the sort, for every leading woman who engaged with him, sooner or later,
succumbed to his charm. I myself knew of one girl whose life was almost
ruined when he took up with another woman who had joined his Company to
play a special engagement. This girl was one of the prettiest I ever
saw; she was "chaperoned" by a complaisant mother. This irresistible
gentleman was married, but his wife refused to live with him and made
her home abroad. For the sake of the children she refused to divorce
him.

A comic opera singer sat beside the hostess. The dentist, assuming that
I knew the situation, asked me, _sotto voce_, how long I thought it
would be before "papa took a tumble to himself." When I confessed my
inability to follow him, he proceeded to enlighten me. The hostess was
infatuated with the singer, who was as poor as Job's turkey, and while
her protector was absent--(he was married and had several grown
children)--the lady consoled herself with song. This easy,
matter-of-fact way in which these topics were discussed, the utter lack
of restraint between the sexes, no longer shocked me. I was on the point
of asking my purveyor of illicit news whether he could tell me who Alice
was; instead, I turned to the bored man at my right, and by degrees I
got him to tell me of his ambitions, his work and his ideas of life. I
found we had much in common.

While we were talking, there was a noisy argument going on at the other
end of the table.

"I wouldn't stand it for one minute!" rang out the voice of our hostess,
and I saw her shoot a meaning glance at the singer.

"Ask an actor's wife! Ask Mrs. Hartley!" bellowed the host. "Mrs.
Hartley?"

"Yes?" I responded, not knowing the subject of conversation.

"Pardon me for interrupting so interesting a conversation, won't you,
Calhoun," he said, addressing my sculptor friend with exaggerated
courtesy. "I'll give her back to you in a minute.... Mrs. Hartley, the
ladies want to know how it feels to watch your husband make love to
another woman?"

I caught Will's eye. At another time I should have been embarrassed.
To-night, however, I felt a strange self-control.

"Oh dear, what an old chestnut!" I answered flippantly. "I believe
that's the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I've answered that
question this season." I noticed that my voice took on a bored tone.

"Well, tell us!" urged mine host.

"To tell the truth," I began, "I never give it a thought."

Will's eyes twinkled; he was seated at the far end of the table between
two stall-feds.

"It's a part of the business," I continued, "just as dictating to his
typewriter is a part of the routine of a business man. Does every wife
suspect her husband's stenographer?"

"Yes! yes!" came the chorus from the curvilinear gentlemen at the other
end of the table.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Very well, then, it seems to me, since you
gentlemen won't behave, that it is up to the women to see that you do!"
I sat down. I felt ashamed of my vulgarity. Our host suggested a toast
and scrambled to his feet. "Here's to our wives and sweethearts--may
they never meet!"

There was more laughter. The dentist murmured something about moss-grown
jokes, and the hostess asked why husbands and lovers were excluded. I
felt my mouth drawing down at the corners, and I buried my lips in the
American Beauty rose the sculptor had purloined from the centre-piece.

It was probably the frequent replenishing of the wine glasses which led
the doctor-dentist to level all his batteries of fascination upon me. He
moved nearer and closer, until even the hostess noticed his efforts; she
thought it funny. Finally, he slipped his hand beneath the table and let
it rest upon my knee. I arose and asked the sculptor to exchange seats
with me. I think he understood, for as I passed him he said to me in a
low, intense tone, "Is that beast annoying you?" I did not answer. In my
confusion I upset a glass of wine, and the wine-agent across the table
told me he was sorry I didn't like his wine.

As the dinner progressed some spicy stories were exchanged. The time we
lingered at the table seemed interminable. Mr. Calhoun told me I should
take a drink of brandy, for I was growing quite pale. He could not, of
course, realize that at that moment I had suddenly noticed that Will's
companion was dressed all in black and wore gardenias. A moment later
the hostess had called her "Alice." ... She leered at Will with
wine-shot eyes, her breath coming in quick, short gasps, and I noticed
that his right and her left hand were under the table....

As we left the table I had asked Mr. Calhoun what time it was. When he
told me it was after eleven I ran quickly up the stairs to the room
where I had seen a telephone. It was my habit to awaken my boy at
half-after nine every night to give him nourishment. He was put to bed
at five o'clock, and the period between that and morning was too long to
go without food. I wanted to ask my maid whether she had remembered my
instructions. The telephone was in a kind of closet off the hostess's
bedroom; beyond the bedroom was her boudoir, reached by a door from the
corridor. I had finished with my message, and was about to go
downstairs, where the singing had begun, when I heard someone enter the
boudoir beyond. I stopped and drew back, why, I do not know. A moment
later there were footsteps on the stairs, and Will entered the room. He
came quickly and began speaking at once.

"My dear Alice," he said, "this thing can't go on. You are making a fool
of me and of yourself. The first thing you know your husband will get on
to it and there will be the devil to pay!"

"That's right! Make it harder for me," the woman answered. "Why do you
always bring my husband into the conversation? You know how it is
between us. We haven't lived as man and wife for years. He's never
understood me and I can't go on with him any longer. I won't--that's
all!"

There was a pause before Will spoke again.

"Come on, don't go on like that; everybody will know what's happened.
You'll spoil your eyes."

Another pause. I think these silences were the hardest to bear....

"You had no right to let it go this far if you didn't care," the woman
went on resentfully.

"This far? How do you mean? There has been nothing that you need be
ashamed of--nothing that you couldn't tell your husband if it came
right down to it," answered Will.

The woman laughed angrily. "Is that so? I suppose you count a few motor
rides and a few suppers on the side nothing. I suppose you wouldn't mind
telling your wife that you had held me in your arms and kissed my eyes
and my hair...."

"Good Heavens! neither of us meant anything wrong! We were just carried
away for a few minutes--you're a fascinating devil--and the wine helped
some.... Now, don't do that, don't do any of that foolish business with
me...."

What was she doing, I wondered? Did she intend to kill him or kill
herself? I almost started to Will's rescue, then--she laughed.

"Powder your nose and let's go down. Somebody will notice our absence."

Evidently she obeyed, for there was another pause.

"You needn't worry about your wife," she said. "The giant from the West
is keeping her busy. Better keep your eye on him."

Will did not reply. My eardrums seemed on the point of bursting from the
surging of the blood to my head.

They came out into the corridor. At the head of the steps she stopped.

"I suppose it amuses you to make women love you," she said.

"My dear woman, you don't love me; I don't flatter myself to that
extent."

She laughed sneeringly.

Would they never go?

"Kiss me good-night and good-bye," she half whispered.

"This is the last one," he answered, "the last, remember."

There was a stifled cry as she clung to him, and I saw Will release
himself and run down the steps. A few minutes later she followed. I
found my way down the servants' stairs and entered the dining-room from
the butler's pantry. When Will came to look for me I was drinking brandy
frappee with the wine merchant.... That night I slept on a couch beside
my boy's crib.




CHAPTER VI


After that memorable dinner party things were never quite the same
between Will and me. I am sure, however, that Will was unconscious of
the fact. He went about as usual. At this juncture Boy came down with
scarlet-fever. The enforced quarantine acted as a bar to any intimacy
between my husband and me. I welcomed the isolation. My feelings had not
yet recovered from the bruise I had received. How many times I had
re-lived the scene to which I had been an unwilling eavesdropper! I
blamed myself for not at once having made my presence known. I excused
myself on the ground that to have done so would have placed Will in a
ridiculous and embarrassing situation. For some inexplicable reason the
idea of embarrassing my husband was repugnant to me. My resentment was
concentrated against the woman. I felt sure she was to blame. I invented
all kinds of excuses for Will and at the same time I recognized that
they were pure inventions. I could not bring myself to kiss my
husband--at least, not for a long, long time. His arms no longer
connoted a haven. How utterly wretched I was--how lonely and
heart-hungry! Only a fierce struggle with my self-respect kept me from
throwing myself into my husband's arms and crying out my hurt against
his breast.

After Boy had recovered, Will one day remarked that I was looking tired.
He said I was stopping indoors too closely--would I not accompany him to
a little ... I tingled all over my body. I dared not trust myself to
look at him. Instead I forced a smile and shook my head in negation.

"I reckon you don't like the bunch," he quizzed.

"I fear I'm not even a little bit of a sport," I answered.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. The glance was
characteristic of Will. Often I had seen this same expression when some
one had recognized him on the street or in a restaurant. It was a
curious blend of boyish self-consciousness and exaggerated unconcern.

With the coming of summer began the annual hunt for an engagement. A
walk along that part of Broadway known as the Rialto during the early
months of the heated term leaves the impression that there has been a
lock-out of the whole theatrical profession. Actors block the corners
and hem the sidewalks. The supply far exceeds the demand. Year after
year they make the weary rounds of the agencies. Season follows season
with but a few weeks' employment for many of them. One wonders that the
impermanency of his profession does not drive the actor to other
vocations--perhaps "trades" were the better word, since the rank and
file are better adapted to plumbing than to acting. The microbe which
infects the actor is as deadly in its effect as the Tsi-tsi fly. It
produces an exaggerated ego from which the victim never recovers. The
only palliative is the lime-light. Retirement from the stage is never
permanent. Farewell tours of prominent players, like the brook, go on
forever. It is the spirit of make-believe with which the actor is
saturated which leads him to make a front even to his confreres. "Signed
for next season?" one overhears, edging one's way through the crowd.

"No, not yet--I've had several good offers, but not just what I want.
I'm in no hurry," and he twirls his cane with a nonchalant air, though
he may not have the price of next week's board-bill. And so it goes, ad
infinitum. His is the kingdom of bluff.

Will was one of the fortunates. After several weeks of haggling over
salary, he was engaged by "America's foremost producer." The actor of
established position--"established" being a mere figure of speech, since
at best the actor's position is an aleatory one--those of prominence
usually demand to read the play before signing a contract. In this
instance Will waived this privilege. Absolute secrecy was maintained as
to the character of the play. The reason for this lay in the fact that
the manager was at war with the Theatrical Syndicate. His grievances he
had made known to the public. As a lone, solitary Saint George of _art_,
fighting the monster dragon, _commercialism_, he made a "play" for the
public's sympathy--and won it.

The momentous question of employment disposed of, we started for our
summer holiday. It was Will's first idea to go to a village on Nantucket
Island. Here a group of more or less successful actor-folk had
established a summer colony. Some of them owned comfortable bungalows
or were in the throes of buying them. After maturer deliberation Will
concluded he wanted a change of "atmosphere." In other words he wanted
to get away from "shop." A residential park in the Catskills was finally
decided upon. The cottagers were for the most part staid Brooklyn
families and Will felt in this environment he was reasonably sure of
privacy. The delusion was a short-lived one. As we left the train and
made our way to the 'bus which was to convey us to the Park I heard a
whisper and titter from a bevy of pretty girls who had come to the
railway station to watch the new arrivals. "There's Mr. Blank, the
actor!" and Will understood that he was "discovered." Some of the girls
climbed into the 'bus, others followed on foot. All giggled and made
significant remarks. At the Inn it was immediately noised about that an
actor was in "our midst." We became the cynosure of all eyes. Curious
maiden ladies looked us over--at a respectful distance. Our most
insignificant movements were under observation. Now, it is one thing to
be stared at on the stage; quite another to have the minutest detail of
one's private life under constant surveillance. Will, who had planned
to live the simple life, which he had construed for himself as going
unshaved for days at a time, wearing baggy trousers and flannel shirts
all day and dining in that garb if it so pleased him, now found himself
donning white ducks (the salvage of a former season's wardrobe), playing
tennis, bridge, or lounging about the piazza answering endless inane
questions concerning the stage and its people. If we went for a walk we
were soon overtaken; if we planned a quiet day in the woods there was
arranged an impromptu picnic-party to accompany us. To be sure the
attention thrust upon us was of kindly intent, though Will declared the
pleasure was theirs and more or less selfishly bestowed. An actor and
his family at close range is a novelty apparently as much coveted as a
man at a seaside after the week-end hejira back to town.

One week of the cuisine at the Inn drove Will to dyspepsia tablets.
Instead of fresh vegetables, home-grown fowl and the other concomitants
of the country-board illusions, we were served with such delicacies as
creamed cod-fish, canned salmon and johnny cake. I came to the
conclusion that the housekeeping and servant problems had driven the
Brooklynites to a state of submission where even the fare provided by
the Inn was better than Bridget's dictation.

The rooms of the caravansary were veritable cockle-shells. The
partitions were so thin that we carried on all conversation in subdued
whispers. We wished that other guests would emulate our example, alas
and alack! Up with the lark and early morning sunbursts were not in
Will's curriculum. He said he did not object to a sunrise if he could
sit up all night with convivial friends to await it. And, when a man is
in the habit of lying abed till noon, it is difficult to change his
regime. He soon developed nerves. One morning, after futile attempts to
sleep, Will dragged himself into his clothes and disappeared. When
finally he returned he had the roguish face of a boy who had been
stealing little red apples. He had found a farm-house and after some
"dickering" on both sides he had rented house, farm and all for the
remainder of the season.

"Just think, girlie," he enthused, "what a circus it will be! There's a
garden with all kinds of vegetables, there's a cow, bushels of
chickens, an old nag, a dog, to say nothing of the pigs and----"

"Who," I gasped, "who is going to care for this menagerie?"

"We are--you and me. Besides I need the exercise. I want to take off a
few pounds of this embonpoint or I'll lose my 'figger.' Of course
there's a hired man who'll come in to do the milking and the heavy work,
and his sister will cook and 'tidy up' for us. It'll be great!" He
stopped long enough to throw out his chest, inhale deeply and to exhale
noisily while he pounded his lungs--a little trick he had of expressing
a sense of well-being. "Fresh vegetables, fresh eggs and the cow--think
what the cow will do for the kiddie! You never saw me work, did
you?--man with the hoe business, I mean. I used to love that kind of
thing when I went home to visit the old folks in the summer. Come along,
girlie, let's get things together. The coach and four will be here
soon."

He swung Boy over his shoulder and carried him pick-a-back to our room.
While we packed he told me the details of his "find." The farm belonged
to an old man and his wife, whose children--three sons--had yielded to
the call of the city. Bit by bit the lonely old couple had sold the
land, not being able to work it themselves and unsuccessful in their
attempts to induce the children to return to their heritage. For a long
time they had "hankered" to visit the boys in Brooklyn, but money was
scarce and the little farm with the live stock could not be left uncared
for. The old man had advertised the homestead for rent, furnished. "The
few who came to see had one excuse or another for not wanting it," the
old man had told Will. "Most of 'em wanted a bath and runnin' water and
they shied at the oil lamps."

"They evidently wanted the simple life with all modern appliances," Will
continued. "After talking it over with Ma whilst I waited on the porch
drinking buttermilk, Pa returned and asked if I meant business. I
assured him I did and proved it by offering to pay the summer's rent in
advance."

I caught my breath. Mental arithmetic failed me. Will had told me before
leaving New York that we were "playing pretty close to the cushion," and
I knew what that meant. If Will noticed my perturbation he evinced no
sign, but went on in the same enthusiastic vein. "Pa and Ma talked it
over again, 'If Ma ain't lost her taste for visiting Brooklyn,'--Ma
hadn't, but she wanted a week to get ready. Pa said he could pack all he
wanted in a paper bag. I said I must have the place at once or not at
all--and--here we are." I was not surprised at our sudden change of
base. Will always acted on the impulse of the moment.

When Will went down to pay our hotel bill it was lunch-time. Nearly all
the cottagers in the Park had assembled. Much regret was expressed at
our desertion of the Inn. (I quite understood that "our" was a mere form
of courtesy, inasmuch as I was looked upon as only an appendage hitched
to a star.) Will laid our desertion to the Boy. "He needs a cow," he
explained blandly to a group of admirers. "A child of his age needs one
brand of milk. One can't be too careful in hot weather, you know," and
Will's whole bearing portrayed paternal solicitude. The farm wagon
arrived opportunely. Will winked at me. He had told me that he was
"side-stepping" the lunch of dried lima beans and creamed cod-fish. "I
wanted to do it gracefully, of course. They are all nice people and it's
good business. That's the kind of thing that gives an actor his
following; just the same I'm glad to get away and relax. This being
always on parade--! They simply won't concede an actor any privacy. They
won't let you be natural. They expect you to act 'on' and 'off.'"

It was a long and bumpy drive to the farm. We could have walked it in a
third of the time by cutting 'cross country. The poor old horse driven
by Aaih, the farm hand, looked moth-eaten and worn. It hurt my
conscience to add to his burden, so Will and I climbed down and walked
the rest of the way. Will, carrying Boy first on his shoulder and then
on his back, reminded me of pictures I had seen of early settlers making
their way through the wilds in search of a home. Once in every little
while Will would burst forth in a lusty halloa which made the welkin
ring. "Halloa" came back from the echoing hills. Even Boy saluted the
great god Pan. There was an exhilaration in the air which made one glad
to be alive.

It was a noisy trio which swung into the lane leading to the farm house.
Ma was on the front porch awaiting us. She made a quaint picture in her
rusty black alpaca with her gingham apron half turned back under her
arm. At her neck there was an old daguerreotype set in a
brooch--probably a likeness of a child she had lost. The lack-lustre
eyes were kindly, almost pensively so, and the red spots in her cheeks
indicated the excitement under which she laboured. While we sprawled on
the porch she bustled about for buttermilk. Boy had taken a shine to
Aaih, and refused to leave him for the "one brand of milk," the virtues
of which Will had expounded to the lady cottagers. Pa called out a
friendly greeting from the kitchen where he was "poking up the fire" in
response to orders from his wife. The odour of cooking things whetted
our already keen appetites. "I had Pa kill a chicken at the last
minute," the dear old lady explained, "for everybody who comes to the
country hankers for fried chicken." I shot a glance at Will. Will was "a
nice feeder" and I devoutly hoped his epicurean tastes would not balk at
a freshly-killed fowl. It would be a sin not to appreciate the old
lady's kindliness. Mentally I resolved to eat every helping if it killed
me.

I fear there was poor picking for Aaih after we left the table. I helped
Ma with the dishes and after they were cleared away she showed me the
run of the house. Later we joined the men folks out of doors and made a
tour of the farm. There was something pathetic in the way they asked us
to take good care of Snyder, whose mixed breed reminded one of the much
advertised pickles. Old Ben, we were told, was not fast but he was
trust-worthy even in the face of automobiles. Good laying hens were
pointed out, but I could never remember one from the other. We made the
acquaintance of Bossy and were warned that the other cow with a calf was
not so friendly. We talked so long that at the last moment Ma got
flustered. She came very near forgetting the home-made jelly she was
taking to her niece at Kingston where they were to stay the night, going
on to New York on the morrow. When at last they drove away to take the
train, we followed the buggy to the end of the lane, then watched them
out of sight with much waving of hands and repeated good-byes. The sun
was dropping behind the peaks. Across the valley spiral coils of smoke
showed gray against the blue-green hills. How calm, how serene it was!
Neither spoke. Will was leaning against the snake-rail fence,
thoughtfully ruminating. Presently he fell to whistling softly. I
smiled. "Give my regards to Broadway, remember me to Herald Square" was
ludicrously out of joint with our surroundings. Will divined my thoughts
and smiled quizzically at me over his shoulder. "It's a long way from
Broadway, eh, girlie?"

"Not nearly long enough!" I responded. And I was right. If, upon leaving
the Inn we had deluded ourselves with the idea of retiring from the
public eye, we soon discovered our mistake. Our retreat was unearthed;
our privacy intruded upon. At inopportune moments passers-by would
appear ostensibly to inquire their way, obviously to get a glimpse of
the actor "at play." It came to be an annoyance, especially after Will
was caught in the act of clearing out a duck pond or helping Aaih to
whitewash a chicken-house. When Will indulged in manual labour he
relieved himself of all superfluous clothing. When a hero does this sort
of thing on the stage he manages somehow to look pretty. But a matinee
idol with streaks of whitewash laid across his sweating brow, sundry
snaggs in disreputable trousers, a handkerchief around his neck with
utter disregard of artistic effect, is a treat reserved for the bosom of
his immediate family only. So, after repeated offences, whilom visitors
were warned off by the threatening admonition--in more or less uneven
lettering--

    "PRIVATE PROPERTY--NO ADMITTANCE."

Experience Dorset was Aaih's sister. She might have been his twin, so
alike were they. The only apparent difference was that plainness in a
man becomes homeliness in a woman. In so far as we were able to
discover, Experience belied her name. True, she made delicious bread and
crullers, and one never felt her apple dumplings after forty-eight
hours, but, other than these, Experience's experience was as drab as her
complexion. She was slow of speech--and exhaustive. Her invariable "Now,
ma'am, what'll I fly at next?" was contradictory to her deliberation.
Nothing ruffled her. In a temperamental family this asset is not to be
despised. To Experience Will was an enigma. She confided to me, soon
after allying herself with our household, that she was never sure when
Will was making believe and when he was himself. She felt certain he
must sometimes mix himself up. It was her way of explaining a dual
personality.

Will liked to play golf. Several times a week we tramped across the
hills to the Club, some two miles distant. We never left the links
without several girls in our train. It was impossible to shake them off.
Sometimes they accompanied us to the house and sat on the porch to rest.
Later they discovered that afternoon tea was an institution with me. I
am sure that Experience enjoyed these little tea-parties as much as did
the girls. Punctually at four o'clock she would appear on the porch,
neatly dressed. With scissors in hand she raided the flower-beds for
lady-slippers and clove-geranium with which to adorn the table. The
stone jar in which she kept the cookies was never empty. And when the
girls came trooping up the lane she was the first to hear them and to
rouse Will from his siesta.

Will said he felt like a bull in a china shop at these informal teas. I
thought he was charming and agreeable though he pretended he was bored.
After tea we would wander out of doors. Nearly all the girls took
snap-shots of Will. He tried to find a new pose for each of them. "The
man with the hoe" showed Will among the cabbages, resting on the handle
of the hoe. "Under the old apple tree" was effective even if the apple
tree was an oak. Reclining on a mound of hay, carted for the purpose by
the faithful Aaih, was labelled "In the good old summer time." "The
actor at play" showed Will with a golf-stick in his hand. Later Will
autographed the pictures.

Many were the questions we were called upon to answer concerning the
stage as a career. We were asked to verify all sorts of silly gossip
about players. It was well-nigh impossible to convince them that all
male stars were not in love with their leading ladies and vice versa. It
goes without saying that I should not escape the inevitable question,
"How did I feel when I saw my husband making love to another woman?" It
amused me to watch the little subterfuges to which the girls resorted to
win my favour. Bon-bons were the bribes most in vogue. One day I
overheard a newcomer to our circle tell another girl, "You didn't tell
me he was married--and a baby, too. How terribly unromantic! I'll never
go to see him act again as long as I live."

Will and I laughed over the situation, albeit there is a considerable
ground for the managerial contention that actors and actresses should
not marry, or, if married, the fact should be suppressed rather than
advertised. Indeed, who likes to think of her Romeo as dawdling a
colicky baby during the wee sma' hours about the time he should be
exclaiming with unfettered fervour, "What light from yonder window
breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" I recall a tragedy of my
own romantic youth upon discovering that a favourite actor was not only
a father, but that he wore--O, horrible, most horrible--a toupee!

There was no escaping the amateur theatricals. I predicted it early in
the summer. The proceeds of the entertainment were to be applied toward
the discharging of the debt of the Golf Club. Will was asked to take
entire charge of the programme. His position was no sinecure.

It was their first intention to give "As You Like It" in the open, but
as every young woman thought herself particularly adapted to the
requirements of Rosalind, Will found himself in a delicate position. The
young men of the community themselves cut the Gordian knot. They aspired
to be comedians. Vaudeville was finally decided upon. A quartette of
college students blacked up and gave a minstrel show. Some of the jokes
were local and aimed at the idiosyncrasies of the cottagers. Others were
purloined from Jo Miller's joke-book. There was a trombone solo by the
village farrier, several vocal duets and a selection from the Mikado.
Will contributed several monologues. But the star feature of the evening
was the performance of Dolly in a scene from the Wizard of Oz. She was a
dainty creature with Dresden china beauty and bovine eyes and had been
much admired by the male contingent of the colony. Everybody felt sure
there was a treat in store for them. There was. When Dolly entered,
leading the amiable Bossy, a gasp reverberated through the erstwhile
bowling alley. Dolly's short skirt revealed nether extremities which
would have done great credit to Barnum's fat lady or a baby grand piano!

Our vacation passed all too quickly. The day approached when we needs
must bid good-bye to our retreat.... The memory of the old farm-house
lingers still. The chill in the air at nightfall; the warmth of the
log-fire; the sense of comfort and content; the green paste-board shade
on the lamp; the rag rug on the floor. In my mind's eye I see the old
couple sitting here of winter nights; Ma, piecing together the
vari-coloured rags for the summer weaving; Pa, nodding over last week's
news; Snyder stretched out in front of the fire, whimpering in his
dreams. How far removed from the feverish walk of our life, with its
hopes, its struggles, its heart-burns, and its empty fame! Yet, they, as
we, were "merely players."




CHAPTER VII


Rehearsals for the new play began in August. The days were wilting but
the theatrical world up and doing. Every available stage, hall and loft
was requisitioned. Several companies shared the same stage, dividing the
hours between them. Will's manager had his own theatre and the
rehearsals were all-day affairs. Will studied his part at night after
"the family" had retired. Sometimes I would lie awake and listen to him,
talking aloud, reading a line first with one inflection and then trying
another. Will's voice was one of his greatest assets.

Experience had come back to town with us. Before leaving the mountains,
Will had jestingly asked her whether she would like to see Broadway. She
took him at his word. We flattered ourselves she had become fond of us.
We discovered later that it was the profession, not the family, which
lured her. She had found a new volume of faery lore. Will was the faery
prince. Sometimes I wondered just how Experience reconciled Will's
morning grumpiness with her preconceived notion of a hero. I recall how
after seeing Will in a new role he had asked her how she liked him. She
expressed herself as pleased with the play in general and with him in
particular. But after he left the room she confided to me the following:
"Ain't he the naturalest thing when he yells at that man with the
powdered hair, Jackwees or somethin' like that--'Jackwees, bring me my
sword!' I declare, ma'am, I jumped a foot and started for that sword! It
was so natural; that's just the way he yells when I forget the morning
papers."

The reliability of Experience brought me more leisure. I was free to go
about without worry over the boy. I felt that intellectually I needed
stimulus and I planned a winter's work. Of course everything depended
upon the play "getting over," to use the vernacular. Will said he did
not see how it could fail. Everyone connected with the production said
the same thing. Success was in the air. Several times I had dropped in
to see a rehearsal. I was interested to know the "method" of this
particular manager about whom so much had been written. His productions
were always effectively mounted. Magazine articles, full-page interviews
had from time to time printed his recipes for evolving successful stars
as well as money-making plays. One thrilling account in
particular--supposedly his own words--told of the strenuous training of
the tyro; how he aroused in his actors the precise degree of emotion
necessary to a given scene. "I dragged her by the hair!" or "I pictured
her own mother lying dead, foully murdered, before her until she cried
aloud at the picture I had conjured." Again, "I tied my wrists together,
I rolled about the floor, struggling to free myself; I wanted to feel
just what a man would feel under similar conditions!" These and other
highly coloured statements had from time to time been served up to the
public. It is amazing how gullibly the public bites at the press-agent's
worm. In nearly all such instances nothing could be farther from the
truth. My own observation convinced me that the man's genius lay in his
ability to select the right person for the right place. Having made the
selection he played upon the _amour propre_ of his puppets. He led them
to believe he had supreme confidence in their ability. The ruse was
successful. It is the better part of human nature to want to measure up
to the good opinion of others.

His methods of conducting a rehearsal were the simplest. He had infinite
patience and perseverance. He left nothing to chance. A scene or an
effect was repeated until the "mechanics" became automatic. His voice
never rose above a conversational tone. He knew that to command others
he must first be in command of himself. He left the roaring to petty
understrappers with inflated ideas of their own importance. Once in a
blue moon he let go. The effect was electrifying. I strongly suspected,
however, that there was more or less "acting" in these outbursts. Just
as his reluctant appearance before the curtain on first nights was a
"carefully prepared bit of impromptu acting." The frightened expression
of his face; the quick, nervous walk; the almost inaudible voice when he
thanked his audience, "on behalf of the star, the author (or co-author),
the musicians, the costumers, the scenic artists" and so on down the
line; this with his mannerism of tugging at a picturesque forelock, this
alone was worth the price of admission. First and last he was a good
showman. The star who was the stepping stone to his fame and fortune
was a lady with a past. She had entered the stage door through the
advertising medium of the divorce court. After several unsuccessful
attempts at starring she placed herself under the tuition of the
manager, then allied with a school of acting. Possessed of abundant
animal vitality--"magnetism," if you prefer--as well as "temperament,"
the ugly duckling developed into a star of first magnitude. When Will
joined the company she was at the height of her success--a success which
later dulled the finer artistic restraint and listed toward a fall. But
act she could, playing upon each reed, each stop of the emotional organ,
with a conviction of which few actresses are capable. In the choice of
plays the genius of the man again displayed itself; the right play for
the right person. Doubtless, he understood that temperament, after all,
is but the flood-tide of our natural predilections.

To the layman a rehearsal is a bewildering and murky affair. Seated in
the "front of the house," in the clammy shadow of shrouded seats, a
student of human nature finds much to interest him. Under the light of a
single "bunch" or the "blanching" irregular foots, the players look old
and insignificant. The blue white light has a cruel way of exposing the
lines and seams. They sit about or stand in groups, the blue-covered
typewritten parts in hand awaiting the call of the first act. A youngish
man, probably the assistant stage-manager, sets the stage; that is, he
marks the entrances and the boundaries with plain wooden chairs and
stage-braces. The homely wooden chair plays many parts; now it stands
for a fire-place or a grand piano, again it may be a rocky pass beyond
which are the mountains.

A fagged looking man enters the stage door with a hurried, important
air. By the bundle of manuscript under his arm shall you know him. It is
the stage-manager. He greets the members of the company with a curt,
preoccupied air and hurries down to the prompt stand. There are
consultations with the working staff and perhaps with one or two of the
players. While he is thus engaged let us enquire into the personnel of
the company; that tall good-looker in the well tailored gown is a
newcomer to the stage. She has been given a small part--a half dozen
lines at best. On twenty dollars a week she carries a maid--and a jewel
case. No, she does not _have_ to work for a living; neither is she the
spoilt child of a multi-millionaire. She belongs to that great class of
women who have no class. Time hangs heavily on her hands. It looks
better to be connected with some kind of a profession; a legitimate
profession. Besides, her vanity makes her "want to do something." The
stage has always appealed to her. With a little "influence" she gets a
part. Salary is no object. Perhaps the management has saved five or ten
dollars a week on the deal. At any rate a good-looker adds "class" to
the personnel. She drives to the theatre in a taxi; sometimes she comes
in a big limousine car accompanied by an elderly gentleman with watery
eyes. On the opening night he will send her great boxes of American
Beauty roses. After the show they will sup at Rector's, and his friends
who have been in front with him will tell her how pretty she looked. Of
course she will not go on the road with the company. Dear no! She will
leave that to some other girl who is not so young, not so pretty, but
who needs the money.

The white-haired lady with the sweet face and the stern old man who has
brought her a chair are man and wife. Theirs is one of the few stage
marriages which have endured. Perhaps it is the very rarity of the case
which makes them so popular and well-beloved. One hears them invariably
referred to as "Dear old Mr. and Mrs. So and So." One looks at them
wistfully and wonders at the secret of their success....

The actor with the monocle, oddly cut clothes and the overpowering
savoir-faire is an English importation. Managers assert that the average
English actor plays the gentleman more effectively than his American
cousin. It all depends on what kind of a gentleman the role demands.
When an Englishman is called upon to portray a gentlemanly officer of
the United States Army the effect is incongruous to say the least. The
American manager, vulgar and uncouth himself, is impressed by the
English complacency. A bluffer, he has a sneaking respect for anyone who
throws a bluff and gets away with it.

The several youngish men with a hint of effeminancy in their make-up
might be called the "stationaries" or "walking gentlemen." One of this
_genre_ is to be found in nearly every company. Too proud for the ribbon
counter, too erratic for commercial life, he drifts into the profession
because he feels the call of the artistic temperament. He plays small
parts, disseminates gossip, flatters the star--or the leading
lady--reads a little, sleeps much--and drinks more.

That beefy looking man is the leading heavy. Not many years since he was
a leading man. Now when a leading man takes on flesh he is marked for a
reduction in value. The first step down in his career is the day he
begins to play heavies. To be sure, there are heavy men who never have
been leading men; these, however, come under the head of character
heavies. The gentlemanly heavy unfailingly aspires to heroic roles. The
present incumbent of villainy had "fallen on his feet." Some seasons
previously he had played an inconsequential engagement under the same
management. The star took a fancy to him. Henceforth his engagements
were assured--until the fancy waned. Everybody understood; they shrugged
their shoulders and smiled. Nobody cared. Neither did the heavy man.

Character actors without exception are envious of the leading man. "Call
that acting?" demands the man behind the make-up. "Call it acting to
walk on and play yourself? Why, it's a cinch!"

"_O, is it?_" retorts the leading man. "You ought to try it. It's the
most difficult thing in the world to walk on and be perfectly natural.
I'd like to see some of you fellows who hide behind your wigs and queer
make-ups go on and play a straight part. Why you wouldn't know what to
do with your hands!" ...

There was something plaintive about the woman who sat in the shadow of
the set-pieces, piled high against the wall. The rouge on her cheeks but
accentuated the lines in her face. The brassy gold on her hair showed
gray against her temples. "Better days" was clearly stamped all over
her. Perhaps she was thinking of those days--when _she_ was a star; when
being a star meant something more than an animated clothes-horse. Her
mother had been a great actress in the Booth and Barrett days. She,
herself, had lisped some childish lines with them. Later, she had become
a soubrette and a star in merry little plays in which she sang and
danced and "emoted," all in one evening. There are no soubrettes
nowadays. The term has degenerated into a slangy sobriquet. "Ingenue"
has replaced it; nothing is required of an _ingenue_ but saccharine
sweetness and vacuous prettiness--and youth, youth, _youth_! O, the
harvest of age! The public which she had amused for years has forgotten
her. They scarcely recall her existence: not even a hand of recognition
on her entrance. Occasionally a reviewer will dig her out of the dust of
the past--only to speak of her as "in Memoriam." Managers, too, hesitate
to engage her. There are so many has-beens and so few parts to fit them.
Besides, there are freshly spawned pupils from the divine academies to
be had for the asking. Why waste money?...

A psychical ripple disturbs the ether. Necks crane toward the door. The
star arrives. She comes slowly, with the air of one assured of an
effective entrance. She punctuates her animated conversation with the
manager with smiles and nods. That meek-looking person bringing up the
rear is the author. He gropes his way through the dark passage to the
front of the house and is lost in oblivion.

"First act!" calls the prompter. _"First act!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

The play opened out of town. The working force was sent ahead with the
scenery and the baggage. There was a special train for the company.
Besides the regular staff there were costumers, flash-light
photographers, relatives of the players and guests of the management.
The guests included several critics from certain New York journals. One
of these had an ambitious wife who was a member of the company. The
other, rumour had it, was on the salary list of the management. This may
or may not have been true. Subsequent effusive reviews and the manner in
which these critics took up the cudgels against the enemies of the
manager did not, however, indicate unbiased opinion. "Subsidized or
hypnotized"--that was the question. The persuasive art of "fixing" is
not confined to politics.

When the train arrived in----, there was barely time for a hasty bite
before rushing off to the theatre. One felt the thrill of excitement at
the very stage door. Even the back doorkeeper was infected. When Will
stopped to look through the pigeon-holes for mail, the keeper of the
sacred portal was exhibiting a brand new litter of kittens. "Everyone of
'em black; just like their mother. Your show'll be a big success--talk
about your mascots!" Stage-folk are as superstitious as a nigger mammy.
A whole chapter might be devoted to their lore. One of the greatest
hoodoos is to speak the tag of a play before the opening night. The tag
of a play is the last several words immediately preceding the final fall
of the curtain. When it comes to the tag, the actor to whose lot the
final lines fall either stops with a gesture or perhaps he purloins
Hamlet's last words--"The rest is silence."

Back on the stage there was the sound of hammers, the shouts of the
stage-hands to the men in the flies, "drops" being adjusted, calls of
warning to some reckless person about to come in contact with a sandbag
at that moment lowered from the flies. Abrupt blasts of the orchestra
reach one's ears. The music cues are being rehearsed, the director
shouting against the din on the stage. On the "apron," with a bottle of
milk in his hand and surrounded by a half dozen coatless and perspiring
men, is the producer. A shaft of light darts from the spot-light machine
in the gallery, and hovers over the stage like a searchlight at sea.
Green, yellow, red and blue slides are tried and a weird waving moving
picture effect brings a shout of laughter from the privileged watchers
in front. In the dressing-rooms the players are making up. The wardrobe
mistress hurries from one to another, needle and thread in hand. There
are impatient calls for the head costumer; "Props" taps at the doors and
delivers the properties to be carried by the various actors in the play.
The actors talk across the partitions or run through lines of a "shaky"
scene. "Fifteen minutes--fifteen minutes!" warns the assistant stage
manager making the rounds. Below stage, the supers or "extra people" sit
about in noisy groups awaiting the call. Some of them are as "nervous as
a cat," to use their own expression. These are not the rank and file of
supernumeraries. The promise of a long run in New York ofttimes tempts
women who have "spoken lines" to go on as extra ladies. As a sop they
are given a leading part to understudy. The excitement is infectious.
With the lowering of the curtain and the first strains of the orchestra
one instinctively shifts forward to the edge of one's seat.

It is either the lights or a missing prop or a hiatus between speech and
action which the first acquaintance with the scenery develops or a
"jumbled" ensemble or something unexpected which brings the rehearsal to
an abrupt halt. The dialogue stops like a megaphone suddenly shut off.
The director hurries down the centre aisle, the prompter's head appears
at the proscenium arch. "Loved I not honour more!" repeats the actor,
looking expectantly off stage. "Loved I not honour more!" bellows the
stage-manager, getting into the game. "That's _your_ cue, Mr. Prime
Minister. Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones! Where _is_ Mr. Jones?"

"Jones! Jones!" reverberates about the stage and in the flies.

"Here I am! I hear you!" answers a muffled voice up-stage. "I can't get
through. The entrance's blocked with a sacred elephant!" There is a rush
of stage hands in the direction indicated. Simultaneously Mr. Jones
appears L. I. E. "I'm sorry," he says, "but I couldn't butt in through
the stone walls of the castle, now could I?" indicating the boxed set
which formed the outer walls of the scene.

The obstruction is removed amidst a heated confab and the stage cleared
for action. "Go back--go back to Miss Melon's entrance." Miss Melon
enters. The scene starts flatly enough. It is difficult to pick up a
scene and get back into the atmosphere at once. One must "warm up to
it."

A star requires an effective entrance. The audience must be apprised of
her approach. "Here she comes now!" (accompanied by a look off stage.)
Or, a flunkey enters and solemnly announces, "His Highness, Prince of
Ptomania, mounts the steps." These helpful hints prepare the reception
which the ushers start at the psychological moment. Many persons are
backward about applauding for fear of making a mistake: just follow the
usher. The supporting actors understand that they are expected to
"humour" the applause, either upon an entrance or for a scene. Stars,
however, do not always encourage applause for their supporting actors.
Some of them go so far as to "shut it off" by flashing on house light on
a curtain in which they do not figure, or dimming the foots or directing
the actors to "jump in" with the next speech.

In the midst of a scene which sends little shivers up and down one's
spinal column the star hesitates, stammers, repeats, then interpolates
while she searches frantically among the papers on the table for the
missing prop. "Where's the knife--the fatal dagger?" she demands,
dropping the role as one would step out of a petticoat. The man about to
be killed joins in the hunt for the deadly weapon. "I can't kill you
very well without a knife, can I, Jack? Unless I stab you with a
hatpin--" There is something so incongruous in the rapid contrasts that
everyone, including the star herself, gives way to laughter. Meanwhile
the stage-manager's yells for Props have brought that culprit from the
flies where he has been touching up a damp cloud with a paint brush.

"The knife!" a chorus hurls at him.

"What knife?" he demands, continuing to mix the silver lining to the
cloud.

"The dagger! I told you the last thing not to forget it!" fumes the
bumptious stage-manager.

"Aw, what's the matter with you?" replies Props witheringly. Then he
ambles down to the star, who by this time is lost in a little side-play
with her heavy man. "Miss Blank," he begins with punctuation marks
between each word, "Miss Blank, didn't you tell me to leave that knife
on your dressing table so you could place it where you wanted it on the
table centre?"

"I did, I did! I apologize, Johnny--I beg everybody's pardon!" She makes
a contrite bow toward the front of the house. Johnny shuffles off,
muttering to himself, and Madame's maid enters with the missing link.
"Let's begin at your cross," Madame says to the heavy. "Just before you
say, 'Darling, my life, my love, you're mine at last!' And Jack--I hope
your wooden chest protector is in place, for I'm going to strike
to-night just as I am going to do to-morrow night and turn it r-r-round
and r-r-round, as if I loved your blood--and Mr. Director," she glides
to the foots and shades her eyes from the glare, "Herr Director, can't
you play a little more _piano_ just at that point? I want my gurgle of
delight to get _over_--understand?... O, Mr. Hartley, while I think of
it----"

She toys with the ornaments on his dress as she speaks. "In our next
scene give me a little more room; play farther down stage. It's better
for our scene." Mr. Hartley smiles to himself as he disappears in the
wings; he is "on-to" the little tricks of stars and leading ladies. To
make a _vis-a-vis_ play the scene down stage is to rob him of any
effective participation in the scene. "To hog" is the vulgar but
expressive infinitive applied to this trick of the trade.

After many false starts, the end of the act is finally reached. The
players are then posed in certain effective scenes from the play and
the flash-light pictures are taken. Then comes a change of costume and
the second act is set. During the long wait members of the company come
in front to get a glimpse of the scenery or to discuss the play and the
performance with their friends. I recall an instance which will
exemplify the jealousy of one star for another, especially those under
the same management. During the early years of Will's career he had
played with a summer stock company. The leading woman of the
organization was now one of the stars under Will's present management.
She had come on from her country home--(her own season had not yet
opened)--and was an interested spectator of the dress rehearsal. She and
Will had kept up a desultory interest during the intervening years and
were on a friendly footing. "What do you think of the play?" he asked,
sitting down beside her.

"It's a sensation," she predicted. "How does your part pan out?"

"O, it's a fair part. I've got a couple of big scenes, but the _heavy_
makes circles all around him. If I had read the play before I signed, I
believe I should have turned it down."

"What do you care--you're the _hero_, and that is what counts with the
women. It fits you like a glove; and, speaking of parts, what do you
think of _that_ for a star-part? Did you ever see anything like it?
She's the whole show.... When I think of the _also-ran_ I am playing for
a star part ... let me tell you--just between ourselves--that he'll have
to hand me out something fatter next season or there'll be something
doing in another direction. Little Abe's syndicate has been making eyes
at me and--you never can tell. Glory! I never saw such an acting part in
my life! Why, she isn't off the stage two minutes during the whole first
act!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It is past midnight when the curtain goes down on the second act. The
lights have worked badly and for an hour the electricians have been put
through the paces until the desired effect is reached. Spirits begin to
flag. The Englishman's wife sets up a tea basket; friends and relatives
are sent out for sandwiches and "something to wash 'em down." At this
stage of the siege one becomes a mere machine. There is no attempt at
acting. It is now a mechanical perfection. When the scenic effects
refuse to act on cues or "anticipate" the same, or the supers jumble and
everybody grows cross and "on edge," one shudders to realize that the
opening night is close at hand. One hopes and prays things will not go
like this to-morrow night. There is consolation in the old adage: "A
poor dress rehearsal--a good first night."

We leave the theatre when the milkman is making his rounds. A day of
fitful sleep with its undercurrent of tension; the opening night with
nerves tuned to the highest pitch, then success or failure, who can
tell? The box office is the arbiter.

The opening night is not the only strain attendant upon a new
production. One is on tenter-hooks for days, perhaps weeks, to learn
whether the play has "caught on" or not. Favourable, even laudatory,
reviews will not drag the public into the theatre if they do not like
the offering. Stars may have a certain drawing power, but "The play's
the thing." No star ever yet saved a bad play from oblivion or spoiled a
good play with bad acting.

I am sure that Will and the members of the company watched the "houses"
from the peep-holes in the curtain as eagerly as the star and the
management kept an eye on the box-office receipts. "How was the house
last night?" was the daily question I put to Will with his morning
coffee. Finally we settled back with the assurance of a season's run
ahead of us. I set in motion the plans I had outlined for myself. I
induced Will to study languages with me for a time, but his hours were
so uncertain that he finally dropped out. Music was a passion with me. I
went through a whole season of the Opera treat I had promised myself for
years. Will was fond of music, too, and sometimes we would go together
to the Sunday night concerts at the Metropolitan. Of course there were
still the dinner-parties and the supper-parties and matinees for
benevolent purposes. Will seemed to have tired of the parties and spent
more and more of his time at the Lambs. He never came home to supper
after the theatre nowadays. I missed my little talks with him across the
supper table. There was no longer any need to throw cold water in my
face to keep myself fresh until his coming. Sometimes when I was wakeful
I would hear him come in; it was generally daylight. Sometimes, on
Sunday morning, if he found me awake he would hand me the Morning
Telegram. No wonder they call it "the chorus girl's breakfast." Among
other things I did not like about the Lambs was that irritating way the
telephone boy had of asking "Who's calling, please." Will said they do
that at all Clubs.




CHAPTER VIII


By this time I had my own little _coterie_ and I prided myself it was a
cosmopolitan gathering which graced our little apartment on the second
and third Sundays of the month. There was so much to learn, the
interests were so diversified that I eagerly welcomed members of other
professions than our own--if they were worth while. Our sculptor friend
brought men who had travelled in remote parts of the world; they in turn
brought others. We numbered several army and navy officers, a German
scientist, men and women journalists, a cartoonist and an artist, women
engaged in Settlement work and the quaint old French professor who
taught me the language. When we could overcome his diffidence he was a
mine of information. He had witnessed the Commune of Paris and was
working on a book on that subject.

It is an interesting study to divide the _pastiche_ from the real. The
time-killers and the curious soon dropped out. It was not difficult to
limit our _coterie_ to the dimensions of our home. I could not but
contrast my simple "at homes" with those of the Dingleys. We had
received several cards for their Sundays and Will said we must go to at
least one of them. The Dingleys had sprung from humble beginnings. They
were jocosely referred to as the "ten, twent' and thirt's."

When I was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a
repertoire company which played our town during County Fair week. The
repertoire comprised such good old timers as The Two Orphans, the
Danites, East Lynne, the Silver King, Streets of New York, Camille and
The Ticket-of-Leave Man. Mrs. Dingley was the leading lady and her
husband the utility man. She was my ideal of a heroine--in those days.
Her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black
velvet dress with a long train. That black velvet (later experience told
me it was velveteen) played many parts. It was a princess, and for
evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. Or, when the heroine was
ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a
full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. Again, it was used as a
riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat
wound round with a veil. With a good deal of crepe drapery from the
bonnet, the same gown passed muster as widow's weeds. Mentally, I
resolved that when I became an actress I should have just such a
prestidigital gown in my wardrobe.

By dint of hard work on Mrs. Dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the
part of her husband they had finally arrived on Broadway. They had
recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and I
understood it was Mrs. Dingley's idea to establish a _salon_. Certainly
she was successful in drawing a crowd. The house was strikingly
furnished. There was much gold furniture and antique bric-a-brac;
canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. After a personally conducted
tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth
of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of
having had an exercise in mental arithmetic.

It seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the Dingleys behind
their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. Two smart
looking women whom I recognized as members of Mrs. D's. company appeared
to get no little amusement out of the coat of arms on Mrs. Dingley's
bed. "Why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a japanned
tray?" I heard one say.

"Or a Holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton," the other giggled.

I failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though I saw the
humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls
of the library. "Why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books,
like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall space in his
library?"

"Pshaw! It would be cheaper to use props," scoffed the other.

I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning,
as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a _faux
pas_, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to
my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early
days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The
way she said, "Yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she
did not care to remember her beginnings.

While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups--the history of which
was being retailed by our host--there was a commotion and a craning of
necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late
arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a
small pleasant-faced man with a Van Dyke beard entered the room. Our
host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "Here comes the
king--here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking
significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley
paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful
proprietorship. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and
flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured
heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my
neighbours who the little man was.

"Is he a manager, or a producer, or?--?" I whispered.

There was a peal of laughter before I was answered.

"O, he's a producer, all right! Why, don't you know who he is? He's the
goose that laid the golden egg!" taking in the gold furniture with a
comprehensive sweep of her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward
me. "He's Mr. ----!" I recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. "Is
he?" I queried, trying to get another look at him.

The women relapsed into their confidences. "How do you suppose she
explains it to ----?" calling Mr. Dingley by his first name. The other
woman shrugged her shoulders. "She doesn't have to explain; money
talks."

On the way home I asked Will what they meant.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "They do say that the little man
is an 'angel.'"

"Well, suppose he is?" I began indignantly. "There is such a thing as
clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives.
All art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers
than ----?"

Will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to
reassure me.

"I haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means
without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. I also believe that hen's
teeth are rare."

       *       *       *       *       *

There were other near-salons to which we were invited. Some of them were
highly temperamental gatherings. Every large city has its artistic set,
but New York may safely claim the medal for the half-baked neurotics who
wallow in illicit cults which they sanctify in the name of art. One of
the most typical and, by the same token, the most amusing of these
esoteric feasts was presided over by a lady-like creature who had spent
some time in the Far East. We were met at the outer portal by a jet
black, down-South negro done up in full Eastern regalia. An air of
mysticism permeated even the box couches against the wall. They had a
peculiar "feel" to them and one sank into their enfolding depths as one
is taught to sink into the arms of Nirvana. It must have been awful for
short, fat persons to scramble to their feet, after once being beguiled
into sitting on these couches. The mysticism was enhanced by burning
incense, shaded lights, draperies, and the host himself, who received us
in Eastern garb, resplendent with the famous jewels, a gift from some
potentate or other. We were conducted to a dais where the guest of
honour--an oily, complacent Swami--received us. If we were pretty, the
Swami held our hands longer than the amenities of good society demand.
Some of the guests were highly sensitized beings. Some were lean like
Cassius; perhaps they "thought too much." There was a preponderance of
Greek and other classic dresses, over un-classic figures. (Why _will_
doctors condemn the corset?) Hair-dressing was simplicity itself; in
fact, the simplicity suggested a lick and a promise. Sometimes there
were beads woven in the scrambled mess.

The sockless damsel was in evidence and nobility was represented by a
certain antique Baroness with a penchant for baby blonde hair. Affinity
hunters abounded. By the dreamy longing of their watery eyes shall ye
know them. Some there were who had made several excursions into the
realms of free and easy love, but _all_, all had returned empty-handed,
unsatisfied. O cruel Fate! And so they go, hunting, hunting....

After a call to silence, the Swami with the ingratiating smile and good
front teeth made an address. It was a mystical, tortuous, rambling
discourse which sounded to me a good deal like an advocation of free
love. He told what ailed us; he said we didn't love enough. He assured
us it was O, so easy to get our slice of the wonderful, all-pervading
ether with which we were saturated. We simply didn't know how to use it.
He had come to teach us: his the mission to prescribe for us.
Electricity had been harnessed, why not love? I shuddered when I thought
of the possibilities of a love-trust. Of course it would be cornered by
some of the millionaires.

After the address everybody clustered around the dispenser of Oriental
pearls. The Swami slipped little printed matters into the palms of the
neophytes. They told how farther enlightenment could be attained, on
given days at given hours and given prices.

Later our brute element was fortified by wafers and a mysterious punch.
I felt sorry for the late-comers who missed the intellectual feed and
arrived just in time for the refreshments. Wafers are not very
sustaining. The punch was a mysterious and subtle concoction with a
tendency to promulgate the tenets of the Swami's new religion. Before we
took our leave I thought the eyes of the new disciples had grown more
languishing and were considerably lit up. It may have been, of course,
that the Swami had taken the lid off a few vats of his cerulean ether
which was too highly rarefied for those present. As we closed the door
and stepped out into the winter night, we instinctively inhaled the cold
air, which, though it may not be full of love, is full of common-sense
ozone.

"When Boston people want to be naughty they go to New York." Our hostess
nodded sententiously across the table as she made the statement.

"Why confine it to Boston? Why not Philadelphia, Washington or ----?"

"Because I don't know anything about those cities, and I do know my home
city," interrupted his wife.

"I guess you're right," Mr. Mollett answered. "It's the same spirit
which keeps alive Le Rat Mort, or Maxim's, or any of those resorts in
Paris. You rarely meet a Parisian at these show-places. If it were not
for the foreigners--principally Americans and English--they'd have to
shut up shop."

"That's precisely my contention. One does things in Paris or New York
one would never think of in Boston."

Will had met Mr. Mollett at a Lambs' Gambol one Sunday night during the
recent season in New York. They had taken a shine to each other, to use
Mr. Mollett's expression, and had exchanged cards. "I liked your husband
from the start," Mr. Mollett once said to me. "He's not a bit like an
actor; he's natural and not a bit of a _poseur_." It appears that when
anyone wants to pay an actor a particularly high compliment he tells him
he is not a bit like an actor! This is not flattering to the rank and
file of players, who labour under the misapprehension that to be
effective they must act on and off the stage.

On the opening night of the following season in Boston Will was pleased
to find a card from Mr. Mollett and a note from his wife, asking whether
I was in town; if so, would I waive the formality of a call and join
them at "beans" on Saturday night after the performance.

Mrs. Mollett's Saturday suppers were as much of an institution as the
beans themselves. Our hostess was a bright, intelligent little woman
without the pretense of the intellectual. Externally, she had all the
ear-marks of a Boston woman. She wore the practical but disfiguring
goloshes of a Boston winter and she carried a reticule. Her dress might
have been made in Paris, but it had a true New England hang to it. It
wasn't a component part of her; it was _a thing apart_. Her skin was
rough and fretted with pin-wrinkles. I never saw a jar of cold cream on
her dressing-table.

The Molletts enjoyed a comfortable income which they appeared to use
judiciously. Their home was comfortable and in good taste. Their library
was a treat; not merely fine bindings and rare editions. The volumes
showed an intimate acquaintance with the owner. By the process of
elimination they had formed a selected chain of the better class of
actors, who found a warm welcome awaiting them whenever they played
Boston. The Molletts' leaning toward the artistic had no taint of the
free-and-easy predilection. The element of illusion furnished by their
player friends was precisely the variety needed to counteract the
monotony of their daily routine. Both sides benefited by the exchange.

Boston was the first stand on tour. The second season had opened with a
six weeks' engagement in New York and one, two or more weeks were booked
in the larger cities. The original company was advertised and--rare
integrity--maintained. Will decided that it was cheaper to carry the boy
and me on the road than to keep up two establishments. Luckily we sublet
our apartment. I was for sending Experience back to her home, though I
had become sincerely attached to her and so had Boy. Will declared we
could not manage without a nurse. I assured him we could. "You don't
suppose you can carry that Buster around in your arms, do you? And
wouldn't I look nice climbing on and off trains, and coming into hotels
with a baby in my arms? Pretty picture for a matinee idol! No, ma'am,
Experience remains. Besides," he smiled at me, "a nurse and a valet help
to make a good front. It'll keep the management guessing."

Unfortunately the management were not the only ones kept guessing. Good
hotels were expensive and Will's position did not permit him to stop at
any other kind. It worried me a great deal to see Will's envelope come
in on Tuesday and scarcely anything left on Wednesday when we had paid
the bills. I suspected, too, that Will had some debts hanging over from
last season. I knew he had drawn on the management during the summer. We
foolishly took a cottage at Allenhurst on the sea, where we spent our
holidays. The week-end parties proved expensive. It was easily
accessible to New York and I never knew how popular Will was with the
profession until that summer. I regretted we had not gone back to the
farm in the Catskills.

I saw a great deal more of Will on the road than I had in New York.
There was no Lambs' Club and, though Will had guest-cards to clubs in
various cities, there was not the lure of intimate association. We took
long walks together, browsed in the book-shops, visited public buildings
such as the library in Boston, and sometimes lunched or "tead" with
friends. Will did not care to accept invitations to dinner; he said it
made him "logey" to dine late and interfered with his evening
performances. Altogether we came nearer to the old intimacy and
comradeship than we had known for several years. At Christmas time we
planned the boy's first tree. We believed he was now old enough to
appreciate it. Santa Claus now became a name to conjure with; it acted
as a bribe to good behaviour or a threat of punishment.

Will and I went shopping together. The big toy-shops proved the most
fascinating things in the world. We spent hours looking at the wonders
of toy-land which the present-day child enjoys. Will said it made him
feel like a boy and surely it brought out all the youth in his nature.
His eyes would snap and sparkle with delight over a miniature railway
with practicable engine and carriages, electric head-lights, block
signals and the like. "Gee! What wouldn't I have given for an outfit
like that when I was a kid!" he would exclaim. As for me, I couldn't
make up my mind which I enjoyed the most; the pretty children who
crowded the shop or the toys they came to see.

We made several visits to Santa Claus land without being able to decide
what would best please Boy. Experience advised us to have him make his
own choice. When Experience took him for a tour of the shops he decided
upon everything in the place. Suddenly the whole world faded into
insignificance: "Senyder!" he stuttered, pointing imperiously to a dog
whose breed seemed as indeterminate as the prototype. All dogs were
Snyders to Boy, but perhaps the perpetual motion of the tail which
wagged automatically reminded him most strongly of the original. It did
no good to tell him that Santa Claus would bring Snyder down the
chimney. Boy had his own ideas about fairies and their ilk. He refused
to leave the shop without the dog. Needless to say the dog went home
with us. Will never could endure Boy's shrieks. But, in extenuation,
let it be said that not one of the toys Boy found grouped about his tree
on Christmas morning--and their name was legion--gave him the joy he
found in the mongrel pup. Miss Burton sent a box from far-off San
Francisco, where she was playing. The Chinese dolls interested him for a
moment, but his heart was true to Snyder. He slept with him, shared his
food with him, sobbed out his childish grief with Snyder in his arms,
and refused to part with his faithful friend even when old age robbed
him of his woolly coat and shiny eyes.

The star gave a party on Christmas Eve. When the curtain went down on
the last act, the applause was choked off by the flashing on of the
house lights. The stage-manager gave the order to strike, and in a short
time the stage was clear. The carpenters then put together the
improvised banquet board--great long planks of lumber resting upon
saw-horses. From the iron landing of the first tier of spiral stairs
upon which Will's dressing-room gave I watched the caterer's men lay the
table. I had spent the latter part of the evening in the cubby hole--a
rare occurrence, since I seldom went behind the scenes except with
friends of Will's who had attended the performance and who wanted to
see what the back of the stage looked like.

Shortly before twelve o'clock the members of the company and a few
outside guests assembled on the stage--where they were received by the
star-hostess. In the midst of the chatter the lights went out. At first
everyone thought it an accident until a bell in the distance chimed the
witching hour. As the last stroke died away a faint jingle of sleigh
bells wafted across the air. Nearer and louder they came, interspersed
with the snap of a whip. A great shaft of light from above shot
obliquely across the stage. From out of the clouds, as it seemed, a
full-fledged Santa Claus descended like a flying machine. With the aid
of a little "sneaky" music furnished by the orchestra and the faithful
spot-light which dogged his very footsteps, Santy placed the huge tree
in the centre of the table and unloaded his pack. With many a grotesque
antic he surveyed his labour of love and finally, having sampled the
contents of a decanter which graced the table, he rubbed his much padded
pouch in satisfaction, laughed merrily, shouted a "merry Christmas to
you all," and disappeared into the clouds. The effect was so bewitching
and so eerie that old Kris received a spontaneous "hand" on his exit.

I thought of Boy and how much he would have enjoyed the scene. Myriad
little lights twinkled like stars upon the wonderful trees. A warm, red
glow poured from imaginary fireplaces off stage. To the accompaniment of
ohs! and ahs! and a merry potpourri from the orchestra we took our seats
at table. I am sure any audience would gladly have paid a premium for
tickets to this special performance.

The supper proved to be an eight-course dinner. There was everything
from nut-brown turkey to hot mince pie. The drinkables were varied and
plentiful. I noticed that after the third or fourth course everybody was
telling everybody else what a good actor he or she was. It developed
into a veritable mutual admiration society. Will kicked me under the
table several times when the character man told him what a good actor he
was; it was common property that the character man "knocked" Will behind
his back. The tall, good-looking girl I had noticed at rehearsals passed
around a new diamond pendant she had just received from her friend in
New York.

"He's just crazy about you, ain't he?" chaffed one of the actors. The
good-looking girl laughed and winked.

"He sure is," she answered, "and I never even gave him as much as
_that_," measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail.

A shout of laughter greeted her remark. A little later when she got
warmed up she made eyes at Will across the table and threw him violets
from her huge corsage bouquet. "Ev'ry matinee day I send thee violets,"
she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until
some days later.

Toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. Each memento was
accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the
recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. Whoever composed the
limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal
of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. After
dinner there was vaudeville. The star gave some imitations of a _cafe
chantant_ which brought down the house. The musical director had
composed a skit which he called "Very Grand Opera." The theme hinged on
a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. The book
consisted of one word; _farewell_. I had never realized how long-winded
the farewells of opera are until I heard the parody. The humour of it
quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine
article.

Dear old Mr. and Mrs. ---- contributed a cake-walk. No one suspected the
grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. A good old Virginia
reel and "Tucker" limbered everybody into action.

Before we dispersed, old Santa Claus--impersonated by one of the walking
gentlemen--again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a
noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the
child-actress of the company was staying. At the street end of the alley
which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them;
they _were_ noisy to be sure. But even the officer laughed when Santy
touched him on the arm and in a "tough" dialect asked him, "Say Bill, do
youse believe in fairies?"

If Will had any experiences in Boston only one came under my notice;
rather, it was forced upon me. It was during the second week of the
engagement that Will began to bring me violets. Now, he had not shown me
this attention for several years. I was too much flattered at the time
to notice that the flowers always came on matinee days, after the
performance. Will generally took a walk after a matinee. He said it
refreshed him for the evening performance. He would come in, glowing
from the exercise, simply radiating health and energy. I knew what time
to expect him and I would sit listening for the elevator to stop on our
floor. I knew Will's step the minute he came down the hall. When he
opened the door I instinctively sniffed the fresh air he brought in with
him. I liked to feel his cold cheek against mine ... and to hear him
puff and growl to amuse Boy as he pulled off his heavy coat. He was
irresistible. The violets came in a purple box with the imprint of the
florist in gold letters. The first time he brought them he set the box
on the table without handing them to me. One of my weaknesses is
flowers.

"What's this?" I asked, pouncing upon the box.

"Open it and see," he answered with one of his quizzical sidelong
glances.

"For me?" I asked a little dubiously. I lost no time in opening the box.
If the shadow of a thought that an admirer of Will's had sent him the
flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in Will's smile as he
answered,

"For my best girl."

I buried my face in their cool depths. "Violets! O, the beauties! I like
the single variety best, don't you, Will? They're so fresh and woodsy."
Then my conscience smote me. Violets are expensive this time of year.
"Will--weren't they _horribly_ expensive?" Just the same I was pleased
to death--as I had heard matinee girls say--and I made up my mind to
forego something I needed to offset Will's flattering extravagance. I
nursed and tended those violets until the next matinee day came round.
When they faded I pressed them between blotting paper, intending when I
got back home to put them away with other flowers Will had given me....

It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs.
Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after
the Christmas matinee were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The
huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs.
Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will,
who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I passed
through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there
was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but
none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me--I had so few
acquaintances in Boston--and anticipating a pleasant surprise I followed
the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I
stopped in the portiered doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of
the room was a tall person--whether woman or girl I could not discern.
She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she
glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go.
The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "That's the lady who asked
for you over there." He approached the girl, who turned timidly.

"You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she."

It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of
a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at
the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion.

"There is--there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing
herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "I asked to see Mr.
Hartley--Mr. William Hartley," she called after the boy, though her
voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered
manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so
distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of
_savoir faire_ or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a
kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs.
William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?"

For a full minute we stood and looked at each other. Under the full
light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure
were sharply limned. A tall woman has always the best of it in any
controversy, though I am sure my _vis-a-vis_ did not realize her
advantage. If her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to
be pitied. She was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of
plainness. Nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there
was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a
speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the
eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. Perhaps she
realized the niggardliness of her gifts. There was an evident attempt at
primping. Her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the
hair-dresser's art. The shoes, too, I felt, were painful: they were so
new and the heels so high, and unstable--a radical departure from the
common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet
themselves. I visualized her home, her life and her commonplace
associates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... Will's magnetism,
combined with the perfections and never-failing nobility of the stage
hero.... I saw it all as clearly as I saw the strained,
vari-expressioned face before me. All this in a brief fleeting moment. I
smiled encouragingly. Her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and
drooping rested upon the violets--and we both understood....

"Won't you sit down?" I said, leading the way to a divan with the idea
of easing the situation. "Do have a pillow!--there, is that more
comfortable? These sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... I'm
sorry Mr. Hartley is not in. Usually he _is_ in at this hour, but
to-night he is dining out. I know he will be sorry to have missed you,
for I am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers.
Yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in
sending them. I hope Mr. Hartley wrote and properly thanked you,"--I
rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. "He is, as a
rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the
extra matinees--" I finished with an expressive shrug. There was a
disheartening silence.

"I think I must be going," she faltered at last, waiting for me to rise.
"I'm afraid I've kept you too long.... You've been very kind.... I hope
you haven't been shocked by ... by ... the unconventional way I...." Her
speech came in jerks.

"Not at all," I answered, jumping in and anticipating my cue. "Not at
all!" I reiterated, injecting more warmth in the confirmation than I
intended. I walked with her to the elevator. "I'm sorry it is so late or
I would ask you to stop for a cup of tea. But you will come again, won't
you?--perhaps you'll telephone me one morning--not _too_ early----" I
laughed a little as I pressed the button--"we're not early risers, and
we'll arrange a time when Mr. Hartley can be with us. I want you to meet
the boy--O, yes, we've got a baby, too! Of course, _we_ think him the
most wonderful baby in the world. Aren't parents a conceited lot?" ... I
pressed her limp hand and smiled good-byes as the lift bore her out of
sight.

Then the smile went out of me. I felt angry with myself: I felt I had
overdone it. What was the woman to me that I should exert myself to put
her at ease with herself? She was but one of the silly creatures who
"chase" the actor and pander to his vanity. I regretted the impulse
which prompted me to ask her to tea. Truly, I had made a fool of
myself.... At least, I had prevented her from making a farther fool of
herself--and of me....

I went to my room but did not turn on the light for fear of attracting
Experience, whose room was across the court. She was probably waiting
for me. I wanted to be alone. I removed the violets from my coat. My
first impulse was to throw them out the window; then I thought better of
it--and of her. They represented a woman's illusions--no, two women's
illusions.... Will had deliberately fooled me; even Miss Merdell, the
tall good-looker, knew he was fooling me. That was what she meant when
she chaffed him about the violets at the Christmas party. Perhaps it was
not of great consequence, but, does a woman ever forgive a man for
wounding her self-respect?...

I did not look at Will when I told him of the visitor. He extricated
himself gracefully. He said he thought my perspicacity would have made
me tumble to the truth and when I didn't he concluded it was a shame to
put me wise. And, after all, what did it matter? He had brought the
flowers home to me when it was an easy matter to have turned them over
to the extra girls....

Miss Gorr--that was her name--came to tea; in fact, she came several
times. Will declared she was in a fair way of becoming a bore.

"For Heaven's sake, don't turn her loose on me," he expostulated. "I'm
willing to give her photographs and advice but I don't want to be seen
about with a freak like that!"

I caught myself wondering--and I was ashamed of the thought--whether
Will would have been bored were Miss Gorr not so hopelessly plain. Alice
was _smart_ and there had been others and would probably be more to
come. I reached the point where I could shrug my shoulders
indifferently. It was all a part of the game and I was learning to play
it....




CHAPTER IX


Following Boston, the company played Philadelphia, Baltimore and
Pittsburgh. Each city has its distinguishing characteristics, but
certain types are to be found all over the country. There is always the
"fly" married woman hanging about hotel lobbies, lying in wait for the
actor or any dapper visitor who, like herself, is seeking diversion. She
drops in for a cock-tail or a high-ball and looks things over. She has a
sign manual of her own. The headwaiters know her and wink significantly
when she comes in with her friends. These women are not prostitutes in
the general acceptance of the word. They are products of our leisure
class. Their husbands are business or professional men in good standing.
With comfortable, even luxurious homes, or a stagnant life in a modern
hotel, time hangs heavily upon their hands. They have no intellectual
pursuits other than bridge and the "best seller." They pander to their
worst desires and wallow in their alcoholic-fed passions. These are the
_stall-feds_; the drones; the wasters; the menace to the womanhood of
America. These are they who are grist to the divorce mills; who clog the
yellow press with prurient tales of passion; who stigmatize innocent
children and handicap them even before birth; who breed and interbreed
with such unconcern that it is indeed a wise child that knows its own
father. And in the end, when the Nemesis of faded charms overtakes them,
the army of harlots is swelled.

The "neglected wife" has become a hoary old joke. It is worked to death.
My husband is responsible for the statement that in nine cases out of
ten women use this excuse to condone their own infidelity. "My husband
doesn't understand me; he knows nothing but business, business,
business. He doesn't realize there is another side to my nature which is
utterly starved." Or, "My husband is interested elsewhere. What am I to
do? For the sake of the children I don't want a divorce, and I am too
proud to let him see how I feel it. I am only human."

That there are neglected wives a-plenty is a truism. But it is a
spurious brand of pride which sends a woman roaming, seeking the
consolation of the Toms, Dicks and Harrys of the world. As for the
children, there are greater evils than divorce. The influence of a house
divided against itself, the surcharged atmosphere of deceit and
degrading quarrels cannot fail to impregnate a child's mind, and
probably at a time when character is being formed.

It is a lucky thing for the honour of the family that the actor is not
less scrupulous. "They who kiss and run away may live to kiss another
day" is probably indicative of the worst of his peccadillos. He takes
the goods the gods provide and credits so much popularity unto his
irresistible self. If occasionally he is "caught with the goods" it
makes good copy for the yellows. Incidentally it advertises the actor.
The woman pays the piper. "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the
gander" is likely to remain a nebulous supposition.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is only one Chicago. Other cities--Pittsburgh and Cincinnati
notably--may be commonplace or vulgar, but Chicago is the epitome of
commonplace vulgarity. It struck me forcibly as I looked over the
first-night audience. The men are commonplace; the women vulgar. The
women impress one as ex-waitresses from cheap eating houses or
sales-"ladies" who have married well. Few of the male population appear
to own a dress-suit. The women wear ready-made suits with picture hats
and a plentiful sprinkling of gaudy jewelry. Some of them "make-up"
atrociously. Their manners are as breezy as the wind from the lake and
they "make you one of them" the first time you meet. If there is a
cultured set in Chicago the actor never meets them; it probably resides
in Chicago through force of circumstances, not through choice. The
middle class is super-commonplace. The smart set isn't smart; only fast
and loose. Chicago is a good "show-town." It might be better if managers
kept their word to send out the original companies. The Western
metropolis resents a slight to its dignity.

Will's management, therefore, played a trump card when it sent the New
York production and players. The house was sold out for weeks in
advance. It was evidenced on the opening night that Will had left a good
impression in Chicago from former visits. He received a hand on his
entrance. When a supporting actor is thus remembered it proves his
popularity.

After the performance we went to the College Inn with some friends of
Will's. Everybody who is _anybody_ goes to that ill-ventilated hole
below stairs; one gets a sort of _revue_ of the town's follies. Chicago
is hopelessly provincial. There is a profound intimacy with other
people's affairs. Such purveyors of privacy as the Clubfellow and Town
Topics must find it no easy matter to get copy which is not already
common property, with the edge taken off. Our host and hostess of the
evening kept up a running fire of gossip concerning the people about us.

At a table near-by sat a gross looking woman with a combative eye. Her
escort was a pliable, colourless youth, who, I assumed, was her son.
This person was on bowing terms with many of the _habitues_ of the Inn.
A number of actors lingered at her table and laughed effectively at her
sallies. When Will told me she was a certain female critic on a Chicago
newspaper I understood the homage paid her. I did not understand,
however, her reason for marrying the youth I assumed was her son. Our
hostess said something about the "grateful age" which I didn't
understand. The lady critic wrote with a venomous pen when mood or
grudge impelled her. Many an actor writhed under her lashes. It was
rumoured, however, that her bark was a great deal worse than her bite
and that if one approached her "in the right way" "she would eat out of
your hand."

Ever since a person revelling under a euphonious _nom de plume_, which
recalls to mind the romantic days of Robin Hood, perverted the function
of dramatic criticism, imitators have sprung up all over the country.
"Imitation is the truest flattery." To be caustically funny at the
expense of truth, to deal in impudent personalia, to lose one's dignity
in belittling that of others is the construction of the gentle art of
criticism which American reviewers reserve unto themselves.

Will's friends were a convivial lot. Before the evening was over our
party had been considerably augmented. Each newcomer added another round
of drinks. "Have one with me" is a strictly American characteristic.
When we broke up I had a handful of cards and a confused list of tea,
dinner and supper engagements. Fortunately I was not the only one to
get mixed. Several of the whilom hostesses simplified matters by
forgetting the invitations they had extended.

While we were waiting for the automobile one of the women chaffed Will
in the following manner: "Why, you sly, handsome pup! You never told me
you were married when you were here before."

"I supposed you knew," was Will's response.

"O, you did! Um! I never say anything about being married, either, when
I go away for a lark.... Never mind, I'll forgive you if you'll call me
up. Where are you stopping? How long is your wife going to be in town?"
The rest was drowned in the approach of the car.

We did not go to Mamma Heward's this time. Heretofore when Will played
Chicago we had lived at a theatrical boarding-house kept by a dear
little old Scotch lady. Her's was one of the few good ones throughout
the country. Unfortunately one had to take a long trolley ride to reach
her house and Will's performances ended late. Then, too, he had heard
that the table had gone off and that the service was inadequate. I
imagine, however, that Will felt he had outgrown the boarding-house
days. He decided upon a family hotel on the north side.

During the week I called on Mamma Heward and took Boy with me. It was
the first time she had seen him and she raved over him sufficiently to
satisfy even a young mother's vanity. She enquired after Will and had
kept in touch with his progress. She had always been fond of him and had
dubbed him Bobby Burns, whom he somewhat resembled. I saw she felt hurt
by our apparent desertion and tried to assure her that we should be much
happier and more comfortable with her; that if it were not for the
distance from the theatre----

The dear little old lady patted my hand as if to spare me further
dissemblance.

"That's the excuse they all give, but it's no farther than ever it was
and the theatres are as near as ever they were," she said sadly, the
Scotch burr falling musically upon the ear. "It isn't that.... They're
forgetting me now they're getting up in the world. It didn't use to be
too far when they couldn't pay more than eight or ten dollars a week for
their board ... and the little suppers Mamma had waiting for them after
the theatre...."

She sighed but there was no trace of bitterness. "It's what you must
expect when you get old and worn out.... It's the way of the world and
God was always harder on women than he is on men."

There was no answer I could make; I could not have spoken had there been
anything to say. I felt choked and on the verge of tears. It was all so
pitiful. There was an air of desolation about the place. The warmth
which prosperity radiates was no longer evident. Where formerly there
had been leading players, even a star or two, now there were only the
lower ranks, and but few of them. Nothing remained of the good old days
save the rows and rows of photographs which lined the walls, all of them
autographed and inscribed "With love, to Mamma Heward." Arm in arm we
reviewed this galaxy of players.

"There is ----," she said, stopping in front of a well-known actor. "And
that's his first wife. She was a dear, good girl. I'm afraid Herbert
didn't treat her as well as he should. Many's the time she has cried out
her heart in Mamma's arms.... She's married again--no, not an
actor--and she's got two boys, the littlest one the size of yours....
Now could you ever guess who that is? Yes, that's ---- when he was leading
man with Modjeska. The women were crazy about him.... And he was a
dear--such a kind-hearted man. I remember once how he kept the furnace
going when our man got drunk and disappeared for three days. If only I
had a picture of him shovelling in coal--his sleeves rolled up and
spouting Macbeth at the top of his lungs.... Dear old Morry! He was his
own worst enemy...."

She sighed heavily over the actor's bad end. "And there! Do you
recognize that? And isn't the boy the livin' image of his father?"

I looked more closely at the photograph. Boy's resemblance to his father
was even more clearly marked in some of Will's earlier pictures.

"Do you remember the first time you came to me? You hadn't been married
long. You had a dog, a bull terrier pup. Let me think, now, what was his
name? Yes, Billy, that's it! And do you mind how ye locked him up in
your bathroom when you went to the theatre and how he ate the matting
off the floor while ye was gone?"

We both laughed at the recollection, though I had not laughed at the
time. I was in fear lest Billy be relegated to the cellar where he would
cry out his puppy heart. But Mamma Heward was never in a bad humour. She
was all kindness and consideration ... and now she was getting old and
could no longer please an exacting clientele. The cost of living had
gone up; rents were higher; but the little old lady could get no more
for her rooms. To make both ends meet she dispensed first with one
servant, then with another, until she and one frail daughter shared the
entire work of the house. It was no easy matter to cook and serve a
dozen breakfasts in the rooms at any and all hours; to cater and prepare
meals and then to wait up until midnight that the players might have a
hot supper after the performance. How many of those whom she had tided
over the hard times, how many who had "stood her up" for a board bill,
or whom she had nursed in times of illness, remembered her now in her
time of need?

"I'm not finding fault," she said softly, breaking a long silence while
we looked beyond the pictures. "I don't blame them for not coming here
to live ... only--I wish they'd drop in to see me sometimes when they
come to town, just for auld lang syne...."

When I told Will of my visit he looked very serious. I am sure he felt
sorry we had not gone back to her. The next day we went together to see
her. Will took her a bottle of port wine. Later he sent her two seats
for the performance and I promised her that the next time we came to
Chicago we should stay with her, even if Will were a star....




CHAPTER X


Will's friends certainly provided one continual round of pleasure, if
dissipation may be classed under that head. I was brought to wonder how
they found time for "the petty round of irritating concerns and duties"
of life. They appeared always to be dining or lunching out. One met them
in the various restaurants at all hours, drinking round upon round of
cocktails, and polishing them off with cognac. The Pompeian room at the
Annex between five and six in the afternoon is Chicago typified. The
artistic gentleman who conceived the decorative scheme of the Pompeian
room had a sly sense of the eternal fitness of things. He also knew his
Chicago. The great bacchic amphorae--copies of those classic receptacles
utilized as relief stations by old Romans who had wined too well--are
concrete reminders of his sense of humour. I have seen more women in
Chicago under the influence of liquor than in any other city in the
world. This probably accounts for their low standard of morality as
well as for the emotional debauches in which they indulge.

There was one couple typical of the class of high-flyers in which
Chicago abounds. The husband was a throat specialist with a splendid
practice. He was popular among stage-folk. Will had met the doctor and
his wife during a former engagement. The wife expressed herself as
"strong for" Will. Scarcely a day passed without a telephone message or
a call from Mrs. Pease. She would drop in at the most inopportune times.
"Don't mind me," she would say, settling herself comfortably. "I've seen
gentlemen in dressing-gowns before. That red is very becoming to your
peculiar style of beauty, sir. Nothing if not artistic."

Mrs. Pease was a tall woman, built on the slab style. She affected
mannish tailormades and heavy boots. When she sat down she invariably
crossed her legs. The extremities she exhibited were not prepossessing.
She was also expert in innuendo and _double entente_. She flirted
outrageously with Will and made me feel like the person in the song,
"Always in the way." In fact I came to the conclusion that wherever we
went I was accepted as a necessary evil--among the women. There was
always a "pairing off" after dinner or supper; surreptitious
_rendezvous_ in the obscure cosey corners; _sotto voce_ conversations,
not intended for my ears. I found myself getting the habit of talking
stupid nonsense with persons in whom I was not interested, simply to
cover the follies of the others.

The men flattered me. Flattery is a habit with men; they think most
women expect it--and they do. After a little practice a woman can tell
to a certainty just what a man is going to say under certain conditions.
How can any one be flattered by the saccharine platitudes which are
ground out automatically like chewing-gum from a slot-machine? So few
women have a sense of humour. They have less self-respect.

Chicago lake-wind claimed me for a victim. I came down with a bad
throat. Will insisted upon my consulting his physician friend. He was a
handsome chap--this popular Doctor Pease--as blonde as Will was dark,
but already marked with the ravages of dissipation. He had a genial
raillery which made it almost impossible to take him seriously. I did
not know whether it was a part of the treatment to unbare my throat and
shoulders and sound my lungs and to let his hand linger on the uncovered
flesh, but I didn't like it. Neither did I believe my age, my weight and
my bust measure had any connection with my throat trouble. Of course I
didn't tell Will anything about it, but the next time I needed treatment
I asked him to accompany me. Will liked the doctor, so I kept my own
counsel.

One noon-day Mrs. Pease telephoned that they were going off on a motor
trip for a tour of the country clubs, at one of which they had planned
to dine. They wanted me to join them and after the matinee they would
send a car to pick up Will, and return him in time for the evening
performance. I told Will I did not want to go, giving the excuse that my
throat was still sore. Mrs. Pease answered that the doctor said the air
would do me good and that he would be responsible for me. I endeavoured
to compromise by promising to meet them at the theatre after the matinee
when they picked up Will, but the doctor himself came to the 'phone and
Will decided for me.

When the telephone announced the arrival of the party I went down to the
reception room, where I found the doctor awaiting me. He bundled me
into my great fur coat and insisted upon my wearing a fur cap his wife
had sent me. He cautioned me to wrap up well, as the car was an open
one. When we went out, as I supposed, to join the others, I was
surprised to find that the doctor was alone.

"The rest of them have gone on ahead," he answered my enquiring look. "I
was detained at the office and told them not to wait on us. We'll
overtake them if the car is in good shape."

I felt strangely uncomfortable as I took my seat beside him in the
racing machine. He secured the robes about me with his easy familiarity
and tucked me in with a good deal of care. As he seated himself at the
wheel and drew on his gloves he smiled at me and asked whether I was
timid. He said he made it a rule to kiss a woman whenever she screamed.
That was not a propitious beginning, I thought. The doctor drove
skillfully, although recklessly.

The boulevard system of Chicago is an excellent one. We covered miles of
smooth paving, from which the snow had been removed, before we reached
the country roads. After he had "let her out a bit" and showed me what
she could do, he slowed up and turned to me with a little laugh, "That's
going some, isn't it?" It struck me at the time that "going some" was
probably the motto on the city's escutcheon. Everybody wants to be
faster than everybody else.

The air _was_ exhilarating. My face tingled from the contact with the
wind. The doctor's glances made me uncomfortable. "You look like a
rosy-cheeked boy," he said. "I'd like to bite you." I silently thanked
the stars the car was an open one.

Farther on we stopped at a country club. The doctor said it was a long
time between drinks. As we drove into the club-grounds I noticed another
motor under the shed. I hoped it might belong to other members of the
party. The doctor made straight for the shed. When I looked at the deep
snow, and only a narrow path cleared to the club house, I apprehended
some silliness on the part of my host.

Disregarding his suggestion to sit still while he put up his machine, I
climbed down and picked my way over the slippery path. I had not gone
far when the doctor overtook me and, seizing me from behind, lifted me
in his arms. Not even the presence of the men shovelling snow prevented.
My first impulse was to free myself, and I believe I administered a kick
or two. The more I remonstrated the more he laughed. The picture of
making a ridiculous show of myself made me submit to being carried the
rest of the way.

After ushering me into the living-room the doctor had the good sense to
leave me alone for a while. By the time he appeared I had sufficiently
recovered my equilibrium to receive him frostily. My dignity was lost on
him. He pulled up a great armchair in front of the roaring fire and bade
me drink the hot scotch the waiter at that moment brought in. A subdued
titter from an obscure corner of the room sent the doctor in search of
other occupants. He discovered them behind a screen.

"Aha!" he greeted them in mock-seriousness. "Discovered!"

"Stung"; responded a masculine voice. "So this is why you wouldn't join
our party, eh? You sneaked off by yourselves. I didn't think anybody but
me would have the nerve to try this place so soon after the snow-storm."

"Neither did we!"

"For Heaven's sake don't give us away, will you?" It was the woman who
spoke.... "Who've you got with you?" she added in a lower tone.

"O, a little friend of mine," answered the doctor. "Come over and meet
her. I think you know her husband--Hartley, the actor."

I fear the couple whose _rendezvous_ we had discovered were not
impressed with the popular actor's wife. My conversation was limited to
monosyllables. The omission, I fancy, was not serious. They had their
own topic of conversation. It revolved chiefly around the tenth
commandment. In fact, one might conclude with perfect assurance that the
seventh and the last of the commandments are the _raison d'etre_ of all
conversation among that set.... I lost count of the drinks. The doctor
said that in the future he would provide Maraschino cherries by the
bottle for my especial delectation.

When we left the club it was dark. The doctor's friends went at the same
time. They had a chauffeur. The doctor's bloodshot eyes made me wish we,
too, had one. The cold air, happily, set him right. He drove more
carefully than earlier in the day. Perhaps he recognized his own
condition. Once he slowed down and looked at his watch.

"We're going to be late," he said. "I've half a mind to telephone that
we've picked up a puncture and have gone back to town for repairs. What
do you say?" He appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, but
I could see that he was not taking me into consideration.

"No, we can't do that," I said without too much emphasis. "Mr. Hartley
would be worried."

He smiled at me as he replaced his watch. "Yes, I guess you're right; it
will have to wait until some other time." He patted the covers above my
lap. "Little Girl," he murmured, rather too tenderly. I was glad I could
not see his eyes. The car shot ahead. For the next half hour I had a
bewildering sense of flying over the snow-clad earth, coming now and
then in contact with it as the car struck a rut. The lights, striking
against the stalactited branches of the trees and foliage, scintillated
like the tiara of a comic-opera star--or the Diamond Horseshoe on
society night at the Metropolitan.

We were the last ones to arrive at the country club where we were to
dine. This time the doctor dropped me at the door. Someone was drumming
the piano as I came in. By the time I had taken off my wraps the doctor
joined me. There was a general noisy greeting when we entered the great
hall. Nearly all of the women I had met before. "I thought the doctor
had smashed you up," one of them said. "Or punctured a tire and gone
back to town," another added, giving the doctor a broad wink.

"Leila's gone back to town to get Mr. Hartley," volunteered someone
else. (Leila was Mrs. Pease.)

I settled myself in a niche of the chimney-seat, hoping to thaw out
eventually. I was chilled to the very depths of my being, and it was not
altogether physical. There were lots and lots of cocktails before
dinner. Judging from the spirits of the company there had been a few
before we arrived. When I heard that Mrs. Pease herself was driving the
car in which she had gone to fetch Will, I had visions of his being
dumped into a snow-bank or of colliding with a trolley. It seemed an
interminable time until they appeared. We had reached the entree. There
was a noisy greeting and a round of sallies.

"Explain yourself!"

"We thought you'd eloped or got locked up for speeding!"

"Stopped on the road, I'll bet," said the doctor, who had risen and
grasped Will's hand. Will waved to me across the table.

"O, you actor!" came from the woman at my right but one. I recognized
the person who had reproved Will after the supper at the College Inn on
the opening night.

When the champagne was served Will raised his glass to me.

"Drink it--it won't hurt you; you look tired," he said, in a stage
whisper.

"Stop flirting with your wife!" remonstrated Mrs. Pease. "Doc--_Doc_!"
(The doctor was busy with a little blonde lady on the left.) He turned
enquiringly to his wife's bleat. "You're neglecting your patient.
Handsome Willy here says his wife is pale and wants to know what you've
been doing to her!"

The doctor leaned over me solicitously. "Never mind--I'm the doctor."
For the rest of the meal he devoted himself to me.

During the dinner a party of five came in and sat at another table. Two
of them proved to be the couple we had met at the other country club.
The man winked discreetly to the doctor.

"Ye gods!" exclaimed the woman at my left but one. "It's Sid!--and I'm
supposed to be home, sick in bed with a headache!"

She looked at the man I had met and I assumed he was "Sid." "Damn such a
town, anyway, where you can't go out without running into your own
husband. Doc, who's he got with him?" She leered across the room at
"Sid's" good-looking companions.

"Never mind, Bell," soothed the doctor, "neither of you have got
anything on the other."

Bell blew him a kiss. "Dear old pain-killer!" she purred.

A little later "Sid" came over to the table and the doctor joined the
other party. Sid's wife started to introduce him to me.

"I've met the lady," he interrupted, not giving me credit for any
discretion.

"O, you have," she said in an unpleasant tone.

As he passed on behind her chair he said to her _sotto voce_,
"Headache, eh? I like the way you lie."

"O, you go to hell!" was the gentle rejoinder. There was still a trace
of the anger which illuminated her bleary eyes when she turned to me.
"What do you think of him trying to put it over me?"

She steered back to the subject which was on her mind. Where had I met
her husband and when? I told her I didn't recall--that he was probably
mistaken. She knew I was lying. I am sure I don't know why I did it.

Someone started telling funny stories. They were not really funny; only
smutty. The women were more daring than the men. Will always declared
that women were "whole hoggers" when once they started. I presume they
labour under the impression that it is sporty or that it pleases the men
"to go them one better." Ever since Eve was made for Adam's pleasure the
female sex has been as pliable as the original mixture of mud and a
floating rib. Women, generally, are what men want them to be....

As time went by I began to fret lest Will be late for the evening
performance. Finally I caught his eye and he understood my message. He
looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. "Doc, what's the best time
your machine can make? I've got precisely twenty minutes before the
curtain goes up."

"I'll get you there," answered the doctor as he left the table.

"I'll drive him in," called the doctor's wife.

"No, I guess not!" he answered over his shoulder. I devoutly, if mutely,
thanked heaven. I am sure the doctor realized that his wife was "three
sheets to the wind"--to use Will's favourite expression.

I made my adieus and rose to follow Will.

"Where are you going?" called Mrs. Pease. "No, you don't--you don't
shake us like this! Willy, tell your wife to sit down and behave
herself." In vain I expostulated that I must go back to the baby. "Never
mind the kiddie; he's asleep and don't even know he's got a mother." She
followed us into the hall where the doctor and Will were hurrying into
their fur coats.

"You can't go this trip, little lady," and the doctor pushed me out of
the draughty doorway. "There's no room in the car and we're going to
ride like hell." I appealed mutely to Will, who drew me aside.

"Stick it out a little longer, girlie. They'll feel hurt if you don't.
You can telephone to the hotel if you're anxious about the boy." He
kissed me lightly. I felt on the verge of rebellion.

"Shall you be late?" I managed.

"No--unless something breaks down on the way. I'm not on until after the
rise, and if necessary I'll go on without my make-up."

"Come on, Hartley!" The doctor was already at the wheel. We watched them
spurt ahead.

"I hope your husband's insured," gurgled one of the women.... I felt
sick and wretched. I wanted to go home, even if it were only a hotel
room. Home was where Boy was. I had a wild impulse of stealing out
unnoticed and asking my way to the nearest trolley line. Then I
remembered I had not a cent in my purse.

The return of the doctor relieved my mind as to Will's safe arrival. I
comforted myself with the thought that the party would soon break up.
The diners across the room had joined us before the return of the
doctor. There was another round of liqueurs and at last someone moved to
break up. "Sid's" w

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