Chapter 5

The shocked "O-h-h" that escaped the audience might have come from one pair of lips, so perfect was its spontaneity, and then dead and perfect silence fell.

The actress lay near but one single piece of furniture (she was alone in the scene, unfortunately), and that was one of those frail, useless, gilded trifles known as reception chairs. She reached out her hand, and lifting herself by that, had almost reached her knee, when the chair tipped under her weight, and they both fell together.

It was awful. A deep groan burst from the people in the parquet. I saw many women hide their eyes; men, with hands already raised to applaud, kept the attitude rigidly, while their tight-pressed lips and frowning brows showed an agony of sympathy. Then suddenly an arm was thrust through the doorway; I knew it for the head carpenter's. Though in a shirt sleeve, it was bare to the elbow, and not over clean, but strong as a bough of living oak. She seized upon it and lifting herself, with scarlet face and neck and breast, she stood once more upon her feet. And then the storm broke loose; peal on peal of thunderous applause shook the house. But four times in my life have I risked throwing flowers myself; but that night mine were the first roses that fell at her feet. She seemed dazed; quite distinctly I heard her say "off" to some one in the entrance, "But what's the matter?"

At last she came forward. She was plump almost to stoutness, but she moved most gracefully. Her bow was greeted with long-continued applause. Sympathy, courtesy, encouragement, welcome--all were expressed in that general and enthusiastic outburst.

"Why," said she after all was over, "at home they would have hissed me, had that happened there."

"Oh!" exclaimed one who heard, "never; they could not be so cruel."

"Oh, yes," she answered, "_afterward_ they might have applauded, but not at first. Surely they would have hissed me."

And with these words ringing in my ears, no wonder that, figuratively speaking, I knelt at the feet of a New York audience and proudly kissed its hand.

_CHAPTER XI

STAGE CHILDREN. MY "LITTLE BREECHES" IN "MISS MULTON"_

In the play of "Miss Multon" a number of children are required for the first act. They are fortunately supposed to be the children of the poor, and they come to a Christmas party. As I had that play in my _repertoire_ for several years, I naturally came in contact with a great number of little people, and that's just what they generally were, little men and women, with here and there at long intervals a _real_ child.

They were of all kinds and qualities,--some well-to-do, some very poor, some gentle and well-mannered, some wild as steers, some brazen-faced and pushing, some sweet and shy and modest. I had one little child--a mere tot--take hold of the ribbon with which I tied my cape and ask me how much it was a yard; she also inquired about the quality of the narrow lace edge on my handkerchief, and being convinced that it was real, sharply told me to look out "it didn't get stoled." One little girl came every night, as I sat waiting for my cue, to rub her fingers up and down over the velvet collar of my cape. Touching the soft yielding surface seemed to give her exquisite pleasure, and I caught the same child standing behind me when I wore the rich red dress, holding her hands up to it, as to a fire, for warmth. Poor little soul! she had sensibility and imagination both.

The play requires that one child should be very small; and as it was no unusual thing for the little one to get frightened behind the scenes, I used to come to the rescue, and as I found a question about "Mamma" won their attention the quickest, I fell into the habit of saying, first thing: "Where's mamma? Is she here? Show me, where." And having once won attention, it had gone hard with me indeed had I failed to make friends with the youngster.

One Monday evening as I came to my place, I saw the new baby standing all forlorn, with apparently no one at all to look after her, not even one of the larger children. She was evidently on the very verge of frightened tears, and from old habit I stooped down and said to her, "Where's mamma, dear?"

She lifted two startled blue eyes to my face and her lips began to tremble. I went on, "Is mamma here?" The whole little face drew up in a distressed pucker, and with gasps she whispered, "She's in er box."

I raised my head and glanced across the stage. An old gentleman sat in the box opposite, and I knew a merry young party had the one on our own side, so I answered: "Oh, no, dear, mamma's not in the box; she's--" when the poor baby cried, "Yes, she is, my mamma's in a box!" and buried her curly head in the folds of my skirt and burst into sobs.

At that moment a hard-voiced, hard-faced, self-sufficient girl pushed forward, and explained in a patronizing way: "Oh, she's too little to say it right. She ain't got no mother; she's dead, and it's the coffin Annie means by the box."

Oh, poor baby, left behind! poor little scrap of humanity!

In another city the child was older, nearly five, but so very small that she did nicely in the tiny trousers (it is a boy's part, as I should have said before), and when the act was over, I kissed the brightly pretty face and offered her a little gift. She put out her hand eagerly, then swiftly drew it back again, saying, "It's money."

"Yes," I answered. "It's for you, take it."

She hung her head and murmured, "It's money, I dar'sent."

"Why not?" I asked.

"'Cause we're too poor," she replied, which was certainly the oddest reason I ever heard advanced for not accepting offered money. I was compelled to hurry to my dressing-room to prepare for the next act; but I saw with what disappointed eyes she followed me, and as I kept thinking of her and her queer answer I told my maid to go out and see if the pretty, very clean little girl was still there, and, if so, to send her to my room. Presently a faint tap, low down on the door, told me my expected visitor had arrived. Wide-eyed and smiling she entered, and having some cough drops on my dressing-table, I did the honours. Cough drops of strength and potency they were, too, but sweet, and therefore acceptable to a small girl. She looked at them in her wistful way, and then very prettily asked, "Please might she eat one right then?"

I consented to that seemingly grave breach of etiquette, and then asked if her mother was with her.

"Oh, no! Sam had brought her." (Sam was the gas man.)

"Why," I went on, "did you not take that money, dear?" (her eyes instantly became regretful). "Don't you want it?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," she eagerly answered. "Yes, ma'am, I want it, thank you; but you see I might get smacked again--like I did last week."

Our conversation at this embarrassing point was interrupted by the appearance of Sam, who came for the little one. I sent her out with a message for the maid, and then questioned Sam, who, red and apologetic, explained that "the child had never seen no theatre before; but he knew that the fifty cents would be a godsend to them all, and an honest earned fifty cents, too, and he hoped the kid hadn't given me no trouble," and he beamed when I said she was charming and so well-mannered.

"Yes," he reckoned, "they aimed to bring her up right. Yer see," he went on, "her father's my pal, and he married the girl that--a girl--well, the best kind of a girl yer can think of" (poor Sam), "and they both worked hard and was gettin' along fine, until sickness come, and then he lost his job, and it's plumb four months now that he's been idle; and that girl, the wife, was thin as a rail, and they would die all together in a heap before they'd let any one help 'em except with work."

"What," I asked, "did the child mean by getting a smacking last week?"

"Oh," he answered, "the kid gets pretty hungry, I suppose, and t'other day when she was playin' with the Jones child, there in the same house, Mrs. Jones asks her to come in and have some dinner; and as she lifted one of the covers from the cooking-stove, the kid says: 'My, you must be awful rich, you make a fire at both ends of your stove at once. My mamma only makes a fire under just one hole, 'cause we don't have anything much to cook now 'cept tea.' The speech reached the mother's ears, and she smacked the child for lettin' on to any one how poor they are. Lord, no, Miss, she dar'sent take no money, though God knows they need it bad enough."

With dim eyes I hurriedly scribbled a line on a bit of wrapping paper, saying:--"This little girl has played her part so nicely that I want her to have something to remember the occasion by, and since I shall not be in the city to-morrow, and cannot select anything myself, I must ask you to act for me." Then I folded it about a green note, and calling back the child, I turned her about and pinned both written message and money to the back of her apron. The little creature understood the whole thing in a flash. She danced about joyously: "Oh, Sam," she cried, "the lady's gived me a present, and I can't help myself, can I?"

And Sam wiped his hand on his breeches leg, and, clearing his throat hard, asked "if I'd mind shakin' hands?"

And I didn't mind it a bit. Then, with clumsy care, he wrapped the child in her thin bit of a cape, and led her back to that home which gave lodgement to both poverty and pride.

While the play was new, in the very first engagement outside of New York, I had a very little child for that scene. She was flaxen blond, and her mother had dressed her in bright sky-blue, which was in itself an odd colour for a little boy to wear. Then the small breeches were so evidently mother-made, the tiny bits of legs surmounted with such an enormous breadth of seat, the wee Dutch-looking blue jacket, and the queer blue cap on top of the flaxen curls, gave the little creature the appearance of a Dutch doll. The first sight of her, or, perhaps, I should say "him," the first sight of him provoked a ripple of merriment; but when he turned full about on his bits of legs and toddled up stage, giving a full, perfect view of those trousers to a keenly observant public, people laughed the tears into their eyes. And this baby noted the laughter, and resented it with a thrust-out lip and a frowning knit of his level brows that was funnier than even his blue clothing--and after that one Parthian glance at the audience, he invariably toddled to me, and hid his face in my dress. From the very first night the child was called "Little Breeches," and to this day I know her by no other name.

Time passed by fast--so fast; years came, years went. "Miss Multon" had been lying by for a number of seasons. "Renée de Moray," "Odette," "Raymonde," etc., had been in use; then some one asked for "Miss Multon," and she rose obediently from her trunk, took her manuscript from the shelf, and presented herself at command. One evening, in a Southern California city, as I left my room ready for the first act of this play, the door-man told me a young woman had coaxed so hard to see me, for just one moment, that ignoring orders he had come to ask me if he might bring her in; she was not begging for anything, just a moment's interview. Rather wearily I gave permission, and in a few moments I saw him directing her toward me. A very slender, very young bit of a woman, a mere girl, in fact, though she held in her arms a small white bundle. As she came smilingly up to me, I perceived that she was very blond. I bowed and said "Good evening" to her, but she kept looking in smiling silence at me for a moment or two, then said eagerly, "Don't you know me, Miss Morris?"

I looked hard at her. "No," I said; "and if I have met you before, it's strange, for while I cannot remember names, my memory for faces is remarkable."

"Oh," she said, in deep disappointment, "can't you remember me at all--not at all?"

Her face fell, she pushed out her nether lip, she knit her level, flaxen brows.

I leaned forward suddenly and touched her hand, saying, "You are not--you can't be--my little--"

"Yes, I am," she answered delightedly. "I am Little Breeches."

"And this?" I asked, touching the white bundle.

"Oh," she cried, "this is _my_ Little Breeches; but I shan't dress him in bright blue."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "how old are you, and how old am I?"

"Well," she replied, "I'm almost eighteen, and as you look just exactly as you did when I saw you last, it doesn't matter, so far as I can see, how many years have passed." (Oh, clever Little Breeches!)

Then, having had Little Breeches 2d kissed and honestly admired, she trotted away satisfied; and only as I made my entrance on the stage did it occur to me that I had not asked her name; so she ends as she began, simply Little Breeches.

_CHAPTER XII

THE STAGE AS AN OCCUPATION FOR WOMEN_

In looking over my letters from the gentle "Unknown," I find that the question, "What advantage has the stage over other occupations for women?" is asked by a Mrs. Some One more often than by the more impulsive and less thoughtful girl writer, and it is put with frequency and earnestness.

Of course there is nothing authoritative in these answers of mine, nothing absolute. They are simply the opinion of one woman, founded upon personal experience and observation. We must, of course, to begin with, eliminate the glamour of the stage--that strange, false lustre, as powerful as it is intangible--and consider acting as a practical occupation, like any other. And then I find that in trying to answer the question asked, I am compelled, after all, to turn to a memory.

I had been on the stage two years when one day I met a schoolmate. Her father had died, and she, too, was working; but she was bitterly envious of my occupation. I earnestly explained the demands stage wardrobe made upon the extra pay I drew; that in actual fact she had more money for herself than I had. Again I explained that rehearsals, study, and preparation of costumes required time almost equal to her working hours, with the night work besides; but she would not be convinced.

"Oh, don't you see," she cried, "I am at service, that means I'm a dependant, I labour for another. You serve, yes, but you labour for yourself," and lo! she had placed her stubby little finger upon the sore spot in the working-woman's very heart, when she had divined that in the independence of an actress lay her great advantage over other workers.

Of course this independence is not absolute; but then how many men there are already silver-haired at desk or bench or counter who are still under the authority of an employer! Like these men, the actress's independence is comparative; but measured by the bondage of other working-women, it is very great. We both have duties to perform for which we receive a given wage, yet there is a difference. The working-girl is expected to be subservient, she is too often regarded as a menial, she is ordered. An actress, even of small characters, is considered a necessary part of the whole. She assists, she attends, she obliges. Truly a difference.

Again, women shrink with passionate repugnance from receiving orders from another woman; witness the rarity of the American domestic. A pity? Yes; but what else can you expect? The Americans are a dominant race. Free education has made all classes too nearly equal for one woman to bend her neck willingly and accept the yoke of servitude offered by another woman.

And even this is spared to the actress, since her directions are more often received from the stage manager or manager than from a woman star. True, her life is hard, she has no home comforts; but, then, she has no heavy duties to perform, no housework, bed-making, sweeping, dish-washing, or clothes-washing, and when her work is done, she is her own mistress. She goes and comes at her own will; she has time for self-improvement, but best of all she has something to look forward to. That is a great advantage over girls of other occupations, who have such a small chance of advancement.

Some impetuous young reader who speaks first and thinks afterward may cry out that I am not doing justice to the profession of acting, even that I discredit it in thus comparing it with humble and somewhat mechanical vocations; so before I go farther, little enthusiasts, let me remind you of the wording of this present query. It does not ask what advantage has acting over other professions, over other arts, but "What advantage has it over other occupations for women?"

A very sweeping inquiry, you see; hence this necessary comparison with shop, factory, and office work. As to the other professions, taking, for instance, law or medicine, preparations for practice must be very costly. A girl puts her family to a great strain to pay her college expenses, or if some family friend advances funds, when she finally passes all the dreaded examinations, and has the legal right to hang out her shingle, she starts in the race of life handicapped with crushing debts.

The theatre is, I think, the only place where a salary is paid to students during all the time they are learning their profession; surely a great, a wonderful advantage over other professions to be self-sustaining from the first.

Then the arts, but ah! life is short and art, dear Lord, art is long, almost unto eternity. And she who serves it needs help, much help, and then must wait, long and wearily, for the world's response and recognition, that, even if they come, are apt to be somewhat uncertain, unless they can be cut on a marble tomb; then they are quite positive and hearty. But in the art of acting the response and recognition come swift as lightning, sweet as nectar, while you are young enough to enjoy and to make still greater efforts to improve and advance.

So it seems to me the great advantage of acting over work is one's independence, one's opportunity to improve oneself. Its advantage over the professions is that it is self-sustaining from the start. Its advantage over the arts is its swift reward for earnest endeavour.

It must be very hard to endure the contempt so often bestowed upon the woman who simply serves. I had a little taste of it once myself; and though it was given me by accident, and apologies and laughter followed, I remember quite well that even that tiny taste was distinctly unpleasant--yes, and bitter. I was abroad with some very intimate friends, and Mrs. P----, an invalid, owing to a mishap, was for some days without a maid. We arrived in Paris hours behind time, late at night, and went straight to our reserved rooms, seeing no one but some sleepy servants.

Early next morning, going to my friends' apartments, I came upon this piteous sight: Mrs. P----, who had a head of curly hair, was not only without a maid, but also without the use of her right arm. The fame of Charcot had brought her to Paris. Unless she breakfasted alone, which she hated, her hair must be arranged. Behold, then, the emergency for which her husband, Colonel P----, had, boldly not to say recklessly, offered his services.

I can see them now. She, with clenched teeth of physical suffering and uplifted eye of the forgiving martyr, sat in combing jacket before him; and he, with the maid's white apron girt tight about him just beneath his armpits, had on his soldierly face an expression of desperate resolve that suggested the leading of a forlorn hope. A row of hair-pins protruded sharply from between his tightly closed lips; a tortoise-shell back-comb, dangling from one side of his full beard where he placed it for safety, made this amateur hairdresser a disturbing sight both for gods and men.

With legs well braced and far apart, his arms high lifted like outspread wings, he wielded the comb after the manner of a man raking hay. For one moment all my sympathy was for the shrinking woman; then, when suddenly, in despite of the delicious morning coolness, a great drop of perspiration splashed from the Colonel's corrugated brow, down into the obstreperous curly mass he wrestled with, I pitied him, too, and cried:--

"Oh, I'll do that. Take care, you'll swallow a pin or two if you contradict me. Your spirit is willing, Colonel, but your flesh, for all you have such a lot of it, is weak, when you come to hair-dressing!"

And regardless of his very earnest protest, I took the tangled, tormented mass in hand and soon had it waving back into a fluffy knot; and just as I was drawing forth some short locks for the forehead, there came a knock and in bounced the mistress of the house, our landlady, Mme. F----, who, missing our arrival the night before, came now to bid us welcome and inquire as to our satisfaction with arrangements, etc. She was a short woman, of surprising breadth and more surprising velocity of speech. She could pronounce more words to a single breath than any other person I have ever met. She was German by birth, and spoke French with a strong German accent, while her English was a thing to wring the soul, sprinkled as it was with German "unds," "ufs," and "yousts," and French "zees" and "zats." Our French being of the slow and precise kind, and her English of the rattling and at first incomprehensible type, the conversation was somewhat confused. But even so, my friends noticed with surprise, that Madame did not address one word of welcome to me. They hastened to introduce me, using my married name.

A momentary annoyance came into her face, then she dropped her lids haughtily, swept me from head to foot with one contemptuous glance, and without even the faintest nod in return to my "Bon jour, Madame," she turned to Mrs. P----, who, red with indignation, was trying to sputter out a demand for an explanation, and asked swiftly:--

"Und zat ozzer lady? you vas to be t'ree--n'est-ce pas? She hav' not com' yed? to-morrow, perhaps, und--und" (I saw what was coming, but my companions suspected nothing), "und"--she dropped her lids again and indicated me with a contemptuous movement of the head--"she, zat maid, you vant to make arrange for her? You hav' not write for room for zat maid?"

I leaned from the window to hide my laughter, for it seemed to me that Colonel P---- jumped a foot, while the cry of his wife drowned the sound of the short, warm word that is of great comfort to angry men. Before they could advance one word of explanation, an aproned waiter fairly burst into the room, crying for "Madame! Madame! to come quick, for that Jules was at it very bad again!" And she wildly rushed out, saying over her shoulder, "By und by we zee for zat maid, und about zat udder lady, by und by also," and so departed at a run with a great rattling of starch and fluttering of cap ribbons; for Jules, the head cook, already in the first stages of delirium tremens, was making himself interesting to the guests by trying to jump into the fountain basin to save the lives of the tiny ducklings, who were happily swimming there, and Madame F---- was sorely needed.

Yes, I laughed--laughed honestly at the helpless wrath of my friends, and pretended to laugh at the mistake; but all the time I was saying to myself, "Had I really been acting as maid, how cruelly I should have suffered under that contemptuous glance and from that withheld bow of recognition." She had found me well-dressed, intelligent, and well-mannered; yet she had insulted me, because she believed me to be a lady's maid. No wonder women find service bitter.