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 répertoire. 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 portières; 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 être" 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 comédienne—"'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 ingénue" (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 comédienne 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 ingénue. 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 comédienne 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 début 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 matinées 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 négligé. 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 rôle 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 matinée 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 matinée 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 matinée 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 matinée 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 matinée 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 matinée, 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 matinée 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 moué. "How do you like being married to a matinée 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 divorcée 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 divorcée 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 à la mode, she is an habituée 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 Molière 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 frappée 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 confrères. "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 régime. 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 matinée 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 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.

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 rôle 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 rôles. 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. "Ingénue" has replaced it; nothing is required of an ingénue 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 rôle 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-à-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 matinées 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."