CHAPTER IX.
The Rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning, presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle. The theatrical season was already on the wane; each day Broadway's pavements in the immediate vicinity of Forty-second Street became more congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." The Rialto—the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of every would-be Hamlet! An important section of the big town's commercial life, yet a world apart—the world of the theatre, a shallow, artificial, unreal land, with laws and manners all its own; a region of lights and tinsel and mock emotions, its people frankly unmoral and irresponsible as a child, yet ever interesting and not unlovable; luxury-loving and extravagant, flush to-day, bankrupt to-morrow; inflated with false pretense and exaggerated self importance, yet tender-hearted and ingenuous to a fault, and not without their sphere of usefulness—theirs the mission "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature," and in tragedy and comedy, move mankind to tears and laughter, while upholding the best traditions of a noble art.
Sweeping northwards from Herald Square as far as Forty-seventh Street, the Rialto, on this particular morning, did full credit to the famous public mart in Venice, from which it took its picturesque name. Here in the heart of theatredom was the players' curb market, the theatrical rendezvous of the metropolis, where the mummer comes both to talk shop with his fellow actor, and seek a new engagement. On every side luxurious theatres reared their stately facades, box-offices open for business invited all to enter, obstreperous ticket speculators jostled passersby in their eagerness to sell their seats. Street hoardings, ash barrels and sandwich men were plastered with flamboyant multi-colored show bills. The play, and nothing but the play was certainly the thing; the hapless stranger was buffetted in a maelstrom of theatrical activity. The very air reeked of calcium and grease paint.
The sidewalks were crowded with actors of all ages, some smartly dressed, others seedy-looking and down at heel. They stood chatting idly in little groups, thronged the doors of managers' offices and dramatic agencies, promenaded up and down with self-conscious strut. If some were seedy, all looked sanguine and happy. Actors and actresses both, they laughed and joked and patted one another on the back, as they strove to outdo each other in narrating wonderful experiences on the road. Right and left one heard the younger players exclaim exuberantly: "Great notices!—made the hit of my life!—am to be starred next season!—manager crazy for me to sign!" The bystanders, older than the speakers, listened politely and nodded approvingly, but did not seem otherwise impressed. Old-timers these, they knew too well the symptoms of the novice. Every beginner had these illusions, like the measles; then, as one got older in the "perfesh" one became immune. Had they not had many such attacks themselves? They had dreamed of playing Brutus, Macbeth and Romeo before crowded houses, and having their names spelled out in blazing electric letters over the entrance of Broadway theatres, yet here they were to-day, just where they stood twenty years before, playing general utility at forty dollars a week, and only thirty-six weeks in the year! Need one wonder that their eyes were tired and their faces lined? Their clothes were shabby, all ambition had been ruthlessly crushed out of them, but no matter. They still stood sunning themselves on the Rialto, listening good naturedly to the youngsters' prattle. Now and then grim tragedy could be detected stalking behind comedy's mask. Haggard faces and shabby clothes spoke eloquently of poverty's pinch. A long summer ahead and nothing saved. Well—what of it? That was nothing unusual. If times were hard and engagements few, that was the price the mummer must pay. Why did he go into the rotten business? By this time he painfully realized that all cannot be stars, to own automobiles and fine country houses and have the managers and the public worshipping at their feet. Some must be content to belong to the humble rank and file, and these were the kind that haunted Broadway.
Two loungers, one a young actor, the other a man considerably his senior, stood talking at the corner of Forty-second Street, opposite the entrance to the Empire Theatre. The younger man was pale and sickly looking, and his long hair, classic features, and general seedy appearance stamped him as a "legit," or a player whose theatrical activities had been confined to Shakespearian and the classic dramas.
Why actors who specialize in the legitimate should be invariably careless in their personal appearance has yet to be explained. Their fellow-artists, who play in modern comedy, usually appear on the street trig and well groomed. Their clothes, cut in the latest fashion, and the way they wear them, constitute valuable factors in their success. But the Benvolios, the Mercutios and Horatios and other heroes of the romantic and standard dramas, are, in private life, a queer and sad-looking lot. Their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own.
This particular actor wore a faded Fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane. His attitude was one of general discouragement, which was not surprising, seeing that after playing Shakespeare in the one-night stands all season, he found himself stranded on Broadway without a cent. While he confided his troubles to his old friend, Jim Weston, he cast envious glances at other fellow actors, more fortunate than he, who were entering a red-curtained chop house close by. As his olfactory organ caught the delicious odors of grilling steaks and juicy roasts, he winced. That morning he had breakfasted but meagerly, and when again the hunger pangs seized him there would be no chop house for him. He must slink into the little dairy round the corner and lining-up at the lunch counter, together with a dozen other thespians in like straits, shamefacedly order a glass of milk and piece of pie.
"Do you think it's any merrier for me?" exclaimed Weston, after he had listened to the other's hard-luck story. "Why, man alive, I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks, until every flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. It's something fierce!"
Jim Weston was only one of the many hundred human derelicts cast away on the theatrical strand. An advance agent of the old school, he found himself at the age of fifty outdistanced by younger and more active men. In the three decades of his life, which he had devoted to the service of the stage, he had seen the gradual evolution of the theatrical business. The old-time circus and minstrel men had been pushed aside and younger men, more up-to-date in their methods, had taken their place. Jim realized that he was a back number, but he hung on just the same. He was too old now to begin learning a new trade. He had given all the energy of his youth to the service of the theatre and now he was older and not so active the theatre had gone back on him. Often he had thought of ending it all, there and then, but that he mused, was the coward's way. There was the "missis" and the "kids." He wasn't going to desert them. So day after day, he kept on tramping Broadway, haunting the agencies, in the hope of something turning up.