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 rôle 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.