Chapter 2

If there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light of the theatre is dearer than the God-given radiance of the sunlight; if the burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed of several parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunned dust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escaped illuminating gas--if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to your nostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenest pasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguished footlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without noting the quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of "acting something" thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of the ill-treated old overture dances through your blood, and the rolling up of the curtain on the audience at night is to you as the magic blossoming of a mighty flower--if these are the things that you feel, your fate is sealed: Nature is imperious; and through brain, heart, and nerve she cries to you, ACT, ACT, ACT! and act you must! Yes, I know what I have said of the difficulties in your way, but I have faith to believe that, if God has given you a peculiar talent, God will aid you to find a way properly to exercise that talent. You may receive many rebuffs, but you must keep on trying to get into a stock company if possible, or, next best, to get an engagement with a star who produces many plays. Take anything, no matter how small, to begin with. You will learn how to walk, to stand still--a tremendous accomplishment. You will get acquainted with your own hands, and cease to worry about them.

You can train your brain by studying Shakespeare and the old comedies. Study not merely the leading part, but all the female parts; it is not only good training, but you never know when an opportunity may come to you. The element of "chance" enters very largely into the theatrical life. Above all, try to remember the lines of every female character in the play you are acting in; it might mean a sudden rise in your position if you could go on, at a moment's notice, and play the part of some one suddenly taken ill.

Then work, work, and above all observe. Never fail to watch the acting of those about you. Get at the cause of the effects. Avoid the faults, and profit by the good points of the actors before you, but never permit yourself to imitate them.

One suggestion I would make is to keep your eyes open for signs of character in the real life about you. The most successful bit of business I had in "Camille" I copied from a woman I saw in a Broadway car. If a face impresses you, study it, try afterward to recall its expression. Note how different people express their anger: some are redly, noisily angry; some are white and cold in their rage. All these things will make precious material for you to draw upon some day, when you have a character to create; and you will not need to say, "Let me see, Miss So-and-So would stand like this, and speak very fast, or very slow," etc.

You will do independent work, good work, and will never be quite satisfied with it, but will eagerly try again, for great artists are so constituted; and the hard life of disappointments, self-sacrifices, and many partings, where strong, sweet friendships are formed only to be broken by travelling orders, will all be forgotten when, the glamour of the footlights upon you, saturated with light, thrilling to music, intoxicated with applause, you find the audience is an instrument for you to play upon at will. And such a moment of conscious, almost divine power is the reward that comes to those who sacrifice many things that they may act.

So if you really are one of these, I can only say, "Act, act!" and Heaven have you in its holy keeping.

But, dear gifted woman, pause before you put your hand to the plough that will turn your future into such strange furrows; remember, the life of the theatre is a hard life, a homeless life; that it is a wandering up and down the earth; a life filled full with partings, with sweet, lost friendships; that its triumphs are brilliant but brief. If you do truly love acting, simply and solely for the sake of acting, then all will be well with you, and you will be content; but verily you will be a marvel.

For the poor girl or woman who, because she has to earn her own living, longs to become an actress, my heart aches.

You will say good-by to mother's petting; you will live in your trunk. The time will come when that poor hotel trunk (so called to distinguish it from the trunk that goes to the theatre, when you are travelling or en route), with its dents and scars, will be the only friendly object to greet you in your desolate boarding-house, with its one wizened, unwilling gas-burner, and its outlook upon back yards and cats, or roofs and sparrows, its sullen, hard-featured bed, its despairing carpet; for you see, you will not have the money that might take you to the front of the house and four burners. Rain or shine, you will have to make your lonely, often frightened way to and from the theatre. At rehearsals you will have to stand about, wearily waiting hours while others rehearse over and over again their more important scenes; yet you may not leave for a walk or a chat, for you do not know at what moment your scene may be called. You will not be made much of. You will receive a "Good morning" or "Good evening" from the company, probably nothing more. If you are travelling, you will literally _live_ in your hat and cloak. You will breakfast in them many and many a time, you will dine in them regularly, that you may rise at once and go to the theatre or car. You will see no one, go nowhere.

If you are in earnest, you will simply endure the first year,--endure and study,--and all for what? That, after dressing in the corner farthest from the looking-glass, in a dismal room you would scarcely use for your housemaid's brooms and dusters at home, you may stand for a few moments in the background of some scene, and watch the leading lady making the hit in the foreground. Will these few, well-dressed, well-lighted, music-thrilled moments repay you for the loss of home love, home comfort, home stardom?

To that bright, energetic girl, just home from school, overeducated, perhaps, with nothing to do, restless,--forgive me,--vain, who wants to go upon the stage, let me say: "Pause a moment, my dear, in your comfortable home, and think of the unemployed actresses who are suffering from actual want. Is there one among you, who, if you had the chance, would care to strike the bread from the hand of one of these? Ask God that the scales of unconscious selfishness may fall from your eyes. Look about you and see if there is not some duty, however small, the more irksome the better, that you may take from your mother's daily load, some service you can render for father, brother, sister, aunt; some daily household task, so small you may feel contemptuous of it, yet some one must do it, and it may be a special thorn in that some one's side. So surely as you force yourself to do the small things nearest your hand, so surely will you be called upon for greater service."

And oh! my dears, my dears, a loving mother's declaration, "I don't know what I should do without my daughter," is sweeter and more precious than the careless applause of strangers. Try, then, to be patient; find some occupation, if it is nothing more than the weekly putting in order of bureau drawers for some unusually careless member of the family; and, having a good home, thank God and your parents, and stay in it.

And now, having added the insult of preaching at you to the injury of disappointing you, I suppose you will accuse me of rank hypocrisy; but you will be wrong, because with outstretched hands I stand and proclaim myself your well-wisher and your friend.

_CHAPTER II

THE STAGE AND REAL LIFE_

How often we hear people say, "Oh, that's only a play!" or "That could only happen in a play!" and yet it's surprising how often actors receive proof positive that their plays are reflecting happenings in real life.

When Mr. Daly had "L'Article 47" on, at the 5th Avenue Theatre, for instance, the key-note of the play was the insanity of the heroine. In the second, most important act, before her madness had been openly proclaimed, it had to be indicated simply by manner, tone, and gesture; and the one action of drawing the knee up into her clasping arms, and then swaying the body mechanically from side to side, while muttering rapidly to herself, thrilled the audience with the conviction of her affliction more subtly than words could have done. One night, when that act was on, I had just begun to sway from side to side, when from the auditorium there arose one long, _long_, agonizing wail, and that wail was followed by the heavy falling of a woman's body from her chair into the centre aisle.

In an instant all was confusion, every one sprang to his feet; even the musicians, who were playing some creepy, incidental music, as was the fashion then, stopped and half rose from their places. It was a dreadful moment! Somehow I kept a desperate hold upon my strained and startled nerves and swayed on from side to side. Mr. Stoepel, the leader, glanced at me. I caught his eye and said quick and low, "Play! play!"

He understood; but instead of simply resuming where he had left off, from force of habit he first gave the leader's usual three sharp taps upon his music desk, and then--so queer a thing is an audience--those people, brought to their feet in an agony of terror, of fire, panic, and sudden death by a woman's cry, now at that familiar tap, tap, tap, broke here and there into laughter. By sixes and sevens, then by tens and twenties, they sheepishly seated themselves, only turning their heads with pitying looks while the ushers removed the unconscious woman.

When the act was over, Mr. Daly--a man of few words on such occasions--held my hands hard for a moment, and said, "Good girl, good girl!" and I, pleased, deprecatingly remarked, "It was the music, sir, that quieted them," to which he made answer, "And it was you who ordered the music!"

Verily, no single word could be spoken on his stage without his knowledge. Later that evening we learned that the lady who had cried out had been brought to the theatre by friends who hoped to cheer her up (Heaven save the mark!) and help her to forget her dreadful and recent experience of placing her own mother in an insane asylum. Learned, too, that her very first suspicion of that poor mother's condition had come from finding her one morning sitting up in bed, her arms embracing her knees, while she swayed from side to side unceasingly, muttering low and fast all the time.

Poor lady! no wonder her worn nerves gave way when all unexpectedly that dread scene was reproduced before her, and worse still before the staring public.

Then Mr. Charles Matthews, the veteran English comedian, came over to act at Mr. Daly's. His was a graceful, polished, volatile style of acting, and he had a high opinion of his power as a maker of fun; so that he was considerably annoyed one night when he discovered that one of his auditors would not laugh. Laugh? would not even smile at his efforts.

Mr. Matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable,--and, well, just a wee bit _cranky_; and when the play was about half over, he came "off," angrily talking to himself, and ran against Mr. Lewis and me, as we were just about "going on." Instantly he exclaimed, "Look here! look here!" taking from his vest pocket a broad English gold piece and holding it out on his hand, then added, "And look there! look there!" pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box.

"Do you see that stupid dolt over there? Well, I've toiled over him till I sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh--he won't; smile--he won't."

I remarked musingly, "He looks like a graven image"; while Lewis suggested cheerfully, "Perhaps he is one."

"No, no!" groaned the unfortunate star, "I'm afraid not! I'm--I'm almost certain I saw him move once. But look here now, you're a deucedly funny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene. I'll protect you from Daly,--do anything you like,--and the one who makes that wooden man laugh, wins this gold piece."

It was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope of succeeding where the star had failed. I seized one moment in which to notify old man Davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent part in the coming scene, and then we were on the stage.

The play was "The Critic," the scene a burlesque rehearsal of an old-time melodrama. Our opportunities were great, and Heaven knows we missed none of them. New York audiences are quick, and in less than three minutes they knew the actors had taken the bit between their teeth and were off on a mad race of fun. Everything seemed to "go." We three knew one another well. Each saw another's idea and caught it, with the certainty of a boy catching a ball. The audience roared with laughter; the carpenters and scene-shifters--against the rule of the theatre--crowded into the entrances with answering laughter; but the man in the box gave no sign.

Worse and worse we went on. Mr. Daly, white with anger, came behind the scene, gasping out, "Are they utterly mad?" to the little Frenchman whom he had made prompter because he could not speak English well enough to prompt us; who, frantically pulling his hair, cried, "Oui! oui! zey are all mad--mad like ze dog in ze summer-time!"

Mr. Daly stamped his feet and cleared his throat to attract our attention; but, trusting to Mr. Matthews's protection, we grinned cheerfully at him and continued on our downward path. At last we reached the "climax," and suddenly I heard Mr. Matthews say, "She's got him--look--I think she's won!"

I could not help it--I turned my head to see if the "graven image" could really laugh. Yes, he was moving! his face wore some faint expression; but--but he was turning slowly to the laughing audience, and the expression on his face was one of _wonder!_

Matthews groaned aloud, the curtain fell, and Daly was upon us. Matthews said the cause of the whole business was that man in the box; while Mr. Daly angrily declared, "The man in the box could have nothing to do with the affair, since he was _deaf_ and _dumb_, and had been all his life."

I remember sitting down very hard and very suddenly. I remember that Davidge, who was an Englishman, "blasted" a good many things under his breath; and then Mr. Matthews, exclaiming with wonder, told us he had been playing for years in a farce where this very scene was enacted, the whole play consisting in the actors' efforts to win the approbation of a man who was a deaf mute.

So once more a play was found to reflect a situation in real life.

_CHAPTER III

IN CONNECTION WITH "DIVORCE" AND DALY'S_

"Divorce" had just settled down for its long run, when one evening I received a letter whose weight and bulk made me wonder whether the envelope contained a "last will and testament" or a "three-act play." On opening it I found it perfectly correct in appearance, on excellent paper, in the clearest handwriting, and using the most perfect orthography and grammar: a gentleman had nevertheless gently, almost tenderly, reproached me for using _the story of his life_ for the play.

He said he knew Mr. Daly's name was on the bills as author; but as I was an Ohio woman, he of course understood perfectly that I had furnished Mr. D. with _his_ story for the play. He explained at great length that he forgave me because I had not given Mr. Daly his real name, and also remarked, in rather an aggrieved way, that _he_ had two children and only one appeared in the play. He also seemed considerably surprised that Mr. Harkins (who played my husband) did not wear a large red beard, as every one, he said, knew _he_ had not shaved for years.

My laughter made its way over the transom, and in a moment my neighbour was at the dressing-room door, asking for something she did not need, that she might find out the why and wherefore of the fun; and when the red beard had started her off, another came for something she knew I didn't own, and she too fell before the beard; while a third writhed over the forgiveness extended to me, and exclaimed:--

"Oh, the well-educated idiot, isn't he delicious?"

By and by the letter started to make a tour of the gentlemen's rooms, and, unlike the rolling-stone that gathered no moss, it gathered laughter as it moved.

It was only Mr. Daly who astonished me by not laughing. He, instead, seemed quite gratified that his play had so clearly reflected a real life story.

In the business world of New York there was known at that time a pair of brothers; they were in dry-goods. The firm was new, and they were naturally anxious to extend their trade. The buyer for a merchant in the far Northwest had placed a small order with the brothers B., which had proved so satisfactory that the merchant coming himself to New York the next fall informed the brothers of his intention of dealing heavily with them. Of course they were much pleased. They had received him warmly and had offered him some hospitality, which latter he declined; but as it was late in the day, and as he was an utter stranger to the city, he asked if there was anything going on that would help pass an evening for him; and the elder Mr. B. had instantly answered, Yes; that there was a big success "on" at Daly's Theatre, right next door to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, at which the stranger was stopping. And so with thanks and bows, and a smiling promise to be at the store at ten o'clock the next morning, ready for business, the brothers and the Western merchant parted.

I happened to be in the store next morning before ten, and the elder B., who was one of my few acquaintances, was chatting to me of nothing in particular, when I saw such an expression of surprise come into his face, that I turned at once in the direction his glance had taken, and saw a man plunging down the aisle toward us, like an ugly steer. He looked a cross between a Sabbath-school superintendent and a cattle dealer. He was six feet tall and very clumsy, and wore the black broadcloth of the church and the cow-hide boots, big hat, and woollen comforter of the cattle man; while his rage was so evident that even organ-grinders and professional beggars fled from his presence. On he came, stamping and shaking his head steerlike. One expected every moment to hear him bellow. When he came up to Mr. B., it really did seem that the man must fall in a fit. When he could speak, he burst into vituperation and profanity. He d----d the city, its founders, and its present occupants. He d----d Mr. B., his ancestors, his relatives near and distant, by blood and by law; but he was exceptionally florid when he came to tell Mr. B. how many kinds of a fool he was.

When his breath was literally gone, my unfortunate friend, who had alternately flushed and paled under the attack, said:--

"Mr. Dash, if you will be good enough to explain what this is all about--"

"Explain!" howled the enraged man, "explain! in the place where I come from our jokes don't need to be explained. You ring-tail gibbering ape, come out here on the sidewalk, and I'll explain!"

Then he paused an instant, as a new thought came to him.

"Oh, yes," he cried, "and if I take you out there, to lick some of the _fun_ out of you, one of your constables will jump on to me! You're a sweet, polite lot, to play jokes on strangers, and then hide behind your constables!"

Then his voice fell, his eyes narrowed, he looked an ugly customer as he approached Mr. B., saying:--

"You thought it d----d funny to send me to that play last night, on purpose to show me you knew I had just got a divorce from my wife! And if I have divorced her, let me tell you she's a finer woman than you ever knew in your whole fool life! It was d----d funny, wasn't it, to send a lonely man--a stranger--into a playhouse to see his own misery acted out before him! Well, in New York that may be fun, and call for laughter, but at my home it would call for _bullets_--and get 'em too!"

And he turned and strode out. Mr. B. had failed to mention the name of the play when he recommended it; and the Western man, whose skin seemed as sensitive as it was thick, thought that he was being made fun of, when the play of "Divorce" unfolded before him.

When "Alixe" was produced, there was one feature of the play that aroused great curiosity. Mr. Daly was called upon again and again to decide wagers, and considerable money changed hands over the question, before people could be convinced that it was I who was carried upon the stage, and not a waxen image of me.

Many people will remember that in that heart-rending play, Alixe, the innocent victim of others' wrong-doing, is carried on dead,--drowned,--and lies for the entire act in full view of the audience. Now that was the only play I ever saw before playing in it; and in Paris the Alixe had been so evidently alive that the play was quite ruined.

When I had that difficult scene intrusted to me, I thought long and hard, trying to find some way to conceal my breathing. I knew I could "make-up" my face all right--but that evident breathing. I had always noticed that the tighter a woman laced, the higher she breathed and the greater was the movement of her chest and bust. That gave me a hint. I took off my corset. Still when lying down there was movement that an opera glass would betray.

Then I tried a little trick. Alixe wore white of a soft crépy material. I had duplicate dresses made, only one was very loose in the waist. Then I had a great big circular cloak of the same white material, quite unlined; and when I was made up for the death scene, with lilies and grasses in hand and hair, I stood upon a chair and held a corner of the great soft cloak against my breast, while my maid carefully wound the rest of it loosely about my body, round and round, right down to my ankles, and fastened it there; result: a long, white-robed figure, without one trace of waist line or bust, and beneath ample room for natural breathing, without even the tremor of a fold to betray it.

At once the question rose, was it a wax figure or was it not? One gentleman came to Mr. Daly and asked him for the artist's address, saying the likeness to Miss Morris was so perfect it might be herself, and he wanted to get a wax model of his wife. Nor would he be convinced until Mr. Daly finally brought him back to the stage, and he saw me unpin my close drapery, and trot off to my dressing-room.

The play was a great success, and often the reading of the suicide's letter was punctuated by actual sobs from the audience, instead of those from the mother. Young club-men used to make a point of going to the "Saturday Funeral," as they called the "Alixe" matinee. They would gather afterward, opposite to the theatre, and make fun of the women's faces as they came forth with tear-streaked cheeks, red noses, and swollen eyes, and making frantic efforts to slip powder-puffs under their veils and repair damages. If glances could have killed, there would have been mourning in earnest in the houses of the club-men.

One evening, as the audience was nearly out and the lights were being extinguished in the auditorium, a young man came back and said to an usher:--

"There is a gentleman up there in the balcony; you'd better see to him, before the lights are all put out."