Chapter 7

One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense! Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters are his chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be sufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other door and probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist? And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait, now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the _jeunesse dorée_.

But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the "masher." The clever and promising artist, Miss G----, is not his style. He is not looking for brains, "don't yer know." He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a _demi-tasse_. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." Oh, hideous word!

Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher" proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and through them to be properly presented.

Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a "masher" to the extent of her ability, I once went, it's hard to admit it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I was made to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting "Alixe" at Mr. Daly's Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There was seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning fiercely over a "drop letter," as we called them. One evening my box held a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon club paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap. The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's were dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural type, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, the violet's blue." I might have been a little touched but for the signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was the signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitch into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of the name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another letter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was very diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his disposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter from me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to secure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to cross our biggest street--while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravely admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over before writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very night, and his seat was in the balcony,--No. 3, left side, front row,--and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.

It didn't seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "to look him over." Without a second thought, I read that portion of the letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall of A. Fix.

So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large pocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of course a line spread of canvas in the balcony. The audience, ever quick to catch on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the situation, burst into hilarious laughter. Uselessly I pleaded; at every possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such unseemly places that night.

The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common "masher," heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: "I am afraid you are cruel. I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do not remember that they did such things before last night with their handkerchiefs."

Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully upon my brow, "So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don't think I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one word, I'll help you to my plumb last cent," and truly Mr. Fix left me ashamed and sorry.

He had suffered for his name, which I believed to be an assumed one. Poor young man, I offer an apology to his memory.

One scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to be sent to a certain prominent club, that I one day laid the letters before Mr. Daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that "if Mr. B.M.B., of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receive not the answer he expected, but the one he deserved," and Mr. Daly was highly delighted when he heard that B.M.B., who was a "masher" _par excellence_, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms.

Those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at street corners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police, since they encumber the streets and are a menace and a mortification to female citizens. Let some brazen woman take the place of one of these street "mashers," and proceed to ogle passers-by, and see how quickly the police would gather her in.

But so far as the stage "masher" is concerned, dear and anxious mamma, auntie, or sister, don't worry about the safety of your actress to be. The "masher" is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam, never a danger.

_CHAPTER XV

SOCIAL CONDITIONS BEHIND THE SCENES_

"What social conditions exist behind the scenes?"

This fourth question is one that Charles Dickens would have called an "agriwator," and as it is repeated every now and again, I ask myself where is the curiosity about the theatre, its people, and its life to end? The question is, What social conditions exist behind the scenes? Now to be quite frank, the first few times this query appeared, I was distinctly aggravated. I said to myself, do these ladies and gentlemen--yes, three males are in this inquiring group--do they think we are a people so apart from all others that we require a separate and distinctly different social code; that we know nothing of the law governing the size, style, and use of the visiting card; that congratulations, condolences, are unknown rites; that invitations, acceptances, and regrets are ancient Hebrew to us, and calls, teas, dinners, and dances are exalted functions far above our comprehension? And then I read the question again, and saw I was making a ninny of myself--an easy thing to do with the thermometer at ninety-nine in the shade. That it said "behind the scenes," and with a laugh I recalled the little child who had delightedly witnessed her first Christmas pantomime; and being told afterward I was one of the people of the play, she watched and listened eagerly some time before coming and resting a dimpled hand on mine, to ask disappointedly, "Please, does all the actin' people have 'emselves jes' same as any one?"

Poor blue-eyed tot, she had expected at least a few twirls about the room, a few bounds and hand kisses; and here I was "'having" just like any one. So all my mistaken vexation gone, I'll try to make plain our social condition behind the scenes.

In the first place, then, a theatrical company is almost exactly like one large family. Our feeling for one another is generally one of warm good-fellowship. In our manners there is an easy familiarity which we would not dream of using outside of our own little company circle. We are a socially inclined people, communicative, fond of friendly conversation, and hopelessly given over to jokes, or, as we put it, "to guying."

But don't imagine there's any _socialism_ about a theatre that means community of property and association; on the contrary, we enter into the keenest competition with one another.

I dare say an outsider, as the non-professional has been termed time out of mind, watching our conduct for a few days and nights, would conclude that, though quite harmless, we are all a little _mad_. For the actor's funny habit of injecting old, old lines of old, old plays into his everyday conversation must be somewhat bewildering to the uninitiated:--

If an elderly, heavy breathing, portly gentleman, lifting his hat to a gentle, dignified little lady, remarks, "Beshrew me, but I do love thee still. Isn't it hot this morning; take this chair." Or if a very slender pop-eyed young comedian, while wiping his brow, says, "Now could I drink hot blood and hold it not a sin," and some one else calmly answers, "You haven't got those words right, and you couldn't drink anything hot to-day without having a fit." Or if two big, stalwart men, meeting in the "entrance," fall suddenly into each other's arms, with a cry of "Camille!" "Armand!" Or if a man enters the greenroom with his hat on, and a half-dozen people call, "Do you take this for an ale-house, that you can enter with such a swagger?" and the hat comes off with a laughing apology. Or if the man with the cane is everlastingly practising "carte and tierce" on somebody, or doing a broadsword fight with any one who has an umbrella. If a woman passes with her eyes cast down, reading a letter, and some one says, "In maiden meditation, fancy free." If she eats a sandwich at a long rehearsal, and some one instantly begins, "A creature not too bright nor good for human nature's daily food." If she appears in a conspicuously new gown and some one cries, "The riches of the ship have come on shore," ten to one she replies, "A poor thing, but mine own."

These things will look and sound queer and flighty to the outsider, who, not acquainted with the lines or the plays they are from, cannot of course see how aptly some of them adapt themselves to the situation. But this one is plain to all. A young girl, who was a very careless dresser, was trailing along the "entrance" one evening, when behind her the leading man, quoting Juliet, remarked, "'Thou knowest the mask of night is on my cheek,' or I would not dare tell you your petticoat is coming off;" a perfect gale of laughter followed, in which the little sloven joined heartily.

Then one morning, rehearsal being dismissed, I was hurrying away, intending to enjoy a ride on horse-back, when Mr. Davidge, Mr. Daly's "old man," lifting his hat politely, and twisting Macbeth's words very slightly, remarked, "I wish your horse swift and sure of foot, and so I do commend you to its back," and as I laughed, "Macbeth, Act III," we parted in mutual admiration for each other's knowledge of the great play.

The gentlemen are attentive to the ladies' small needs, providing seats when possible, bringing a wrap, a glass of water, fanning you if you are warm, carrying your long train if it is heavy; but never, never losing the chance to play a joke on you if they can.

There is generally some ringleader of greenroom fun; for most actors are very impatient of "waits" between the scenes, and would rather pass such time in pranks than in quiet conversation. On one occasion some of the actors had made noise enough to reach the managerial ear, and they were forfeited. The actresses laughed at their discomfiture, and revenge was at once in order. Next night, then, four young men brought bits of calico and threaded needles with them, and when their "wait" came, they all sat quietly in a row and sewed steadily. The sight was so ludicrous the women went off into unbounded laughter, and were in their turn forfeited.

Nothing excuses the use of swear words behind the scenes, and even a very mild indulgence is paid for by a heavy forfeit. One actor, not too popular with the company, used always to be late, and coming into the dressing room, he would fling everything about and knock things over, causing any amount of annoyance to his room-mates. He went on in but one act, the third, and the lateness of the hour made his lack of business promptitude the more marked. A joke was, of course, in order, and a practical joke at that.

One evening he was extra late, and that was the opportunity of the joking room-mates. They carefully dropped some powerful, strong-holding gum into the heels of his patent leather shoes, and had barely put them in place, when the ever-late actor was heard coming on the run down the passage. In he tore, flinging things right and left, overturning make-ups, and knocking down precious silk hats. He grabbed his shoes, jammed his foot into one, scowled and exclaimed disgustedly, "What the deuce! there's something in this shoe. Bah," he went on, "and in this one, too!"

"Take them off and shake 'em," suggested the dropper of the gum.

"No time," growled the victim; "I'll get docked if I'm a second late. But these confounded things feel damp in the heels," and he kicked and stamped viciously.

"Damp in the heels?" murmured the guilty one, interrogatively. "In the heels, said you? What a very odd place for dampness to accumulate. Now, personally, I find my heels are dry and smooth and hard, like--like a china nest-egg, don't you know; but _damp heels_, it doesn't sound right, and it must feel very uncomfortable. I don't wonder you kick!"

And another broke in with: "I say, old fellow, that was my India ink you spoiled then. But never mind, I suppose your heels trouble you," then asked earnestly, as the victim hastily patted a grey beard into place, "Is that good gum you have there? Will it hold that beard securely?"

"Will it hold? It's the strongest gum ever made, it can hold a horse. I have hard work to get it to dissolve nights with pure alcohol." This while the guilty one was writhing with that malicious joy known in its fulness to the practical joker alone.

The victim, rushing from the room, reached the stage at the very moment his cue was spoken, and made his entrance so short of breath he could scarcely speak. The act was very long, the gum in his shoes dried nicely, the curtain fell. He went below to his room to dress for the street. He tried to remove and lay aside his patent leathers. Alas, alas! he laid aside instead his manners, his temper, his self-restraint, his self-respect. The gum proved itself worthy of his praise; it stuck, it held. The shoes were willing to come off on one condition only,--that they brought both sock and skin with them.

Three men, with tears in their eyes, had pencils, and kept tally of his remarks as he danced about after each frantic tug at a glued-on shoe. One took down every wounding, malicious word. A second caught and preserved every defamatory word. While the third and busiest one secured every profane word that fell from his enraged lips.

Finally he poured the contents of the alcohol bottle into his shoes and, swearing like a madman, waited for the gum to soften. And the manager, who was not deaf, proved that his heart was harder than the best gum and could not be softened at all. And to this day no member of the company knows how much of the victim's salary was left to him that week after forfeits for bad words were all paid up. But some good came from the affair, for the actor was never again so late in arriving as not to have time to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurking there.

Personally, I detest the practical joke, but I have, alas! never been above enjoying my share of the greenroom fun. Some members of Mr. Daly's company were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad had we all been like them. But there were others who would have had fun with the tombs of the Egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from a graven image. Mr. Daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either the brakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picket duty. The restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play, and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man. He wore rags in his "part," and on the seat of his trousers was an enormous red patch. He had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, and nothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly: "You'll all get caught, I'm afraid. You see, Mr. Daly's so sharp, if I cough, he'll hear me, too, and will understand. If I signal, he'll see me, and we'll all get forfeited together."

For a moment we were silently cast down. Then I rose to the occasion beautifully. I took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroom doorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb. When he saw Mr. Daly in the distance, he simply was to turn his bright red patch _toward_ us--we would do the rest.

It was a glorious success. We kept an eye on the picket, and when the red patch danger signal was shown, silence fell upon the room. Forfeits ceased for a long time. Of course we paid our watchman for his services--paid him in pies. He had a depraved passion for bakers' pies, which he would not cut into portions, because he said it spoiled their flavour--he preferred working his way through them; and that small grey face seen near the centre of a mince pie whose rim was closing gently about his ears was a sight to make a supreme justice smile.

But our evil course was almost run: our little pie-eater, who was just a touch odd, or what people call "queer," on Thanksgiving Day permitted himself to be treated by so many drivers of pie wagons that at night he was tearful and confused, and though he watched faithfully for the coming of Mr. Daly, while we laughingly listened to a positively criminal parody on "The Bells," watched for and saw him in ample time, he, alas! confusedly turned his red patch the wrong way, and we, every one, came to grief and forfeiture in consequence.

Obliging people, generous, ever ready to give a helping hand. Behind the scenes, then, our social condition, I may say, is one of good-mannered informality, of jollity tempered by respect and genuine good-fellowship.

_CHAPTER XVI

THE ACTRESS AND RELIGION_

Nothing in my autobiography seems to have aroused so much comment, so much surprise, as my admission that I prayed in moments of great distress or anxiety, even when in the theatre.

One man writes that he never knew before that there was such a thing as a "praying actress." Poor fellow, one can't help feeling there's lots of other things he doesn't know; and though I wish to break the news as gently as possible, I have to inform him that I am not a _rara avis_, that many actresses pray; indeed, the woods are full of us, so to speak.

One very old gentleman finds this habit of prayer "commendable and sweet," but generally there seems to be a feeling of amazement that I should dare, as it were, to bring the profession of acting to the attention of our Lord; and yet we are authorized to pray, "Direct us, O Lord, in _all our doings_, and further us with thy continual help, that in all our work we may glorify thy holy name."

It is not the work, but the motive, the spirit that actuates the work; whether embroidering stoles, sawing wood, washing dishes, or acting, if it is done honestly, for the glory of the holy name, why may one not pray for divine help?

One lady, who, poor soul, should have been born two or three hundred years ago, when her narrowness would have been more natural, is shocked, almost indignant; and though she is good enough to say she does not accuse me of "intentional sacrilege," still, addressing a prayer to God from a theatre is nothing less in her eyes than profanation. "For," says she, "you know we must only seek God in His sanctuary, the church."

Goodness, mercy! in that case some thousands of us would become heathen if we never found God save inside of a church.

Does this poor lady not read her Bible, then? Has she not heard the psalmist's cry: "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there also; whither shall I flee from thy presence?"

Surely, there are a great many places besides the church between heaven and hell, and even in a theatre we may not flee from His presence.