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. "Renee 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.

We had retired from the breakfast room and were arranging our plans for the day, when a sort of whirlwind came rushing through the hall, the door sprang open almost without a pronounced permission, and Madame F—— flung herself into the room, caught my hands in hers, pressed them to her heart, to her lips, to her brow, wept in German, in French, in English, and called distractedly upon "Himmel!" "Ciel!" and "Heaven!" But she found her apologies so coldly received by my friends that she was glad to turn the flood of her remorse in my direction, and for very shame of the scene she was making I assured her the mistake was quite pardonable—as it was. It was her manner that was almost unpardonable. Then she added to my discomfort by bursting out with fulsome praise of me as an actress; how she had seen me and wept, and so on and on, she being only at last walked and talked gently out of the room.

But that was not the end of her remorse. A truly French bouquet with its white paper petticoat arrived in about an hour, "From the so madly mistooken Madame F——," the card read, and that act of penance was performed every morning as long as I remained in Paris. But one day she appealed to the Colonel for pity and sympathy.

"Ah!" said she, "I hav' zee two tr'ubles, zee two sorrows! I hav' zee grief to vound zee feelin's of zat so fine actrice Americaine—zat ees one tr'ubles, und den I hav' zee shame to mak' zat grande fool meestak'—oh, mon Dieu! I tak' her for zee maid, und zare my most great tr'uble come in! I hav' no one with zee right to keek me—to keek me hard from zee back for being such a fool. I say mit my husband dat night, 'Vill you keek me hard, if you pleas'?' Mais, he cannot, he hav' zee gout in zee grande toe, und he can't keek vurth one sou!—und zat is my second tr'uble!"

Behind her broad back the Colonel confessed that had she expressed such a wish on the occasion of the mistake, he would willingly have obliged her, as he was quite free from gout.

So any woman who goes forth to win her living as an actress will at least be spared the contemptuous treatment bestowed on me in my short service as an amateur lady's maid.



_CHAPTER XIII

THE BANE OF THE YOUNG ACTRESS'S LIFE_

What is the bane of a young actress's life?

Under the protection of pretty seals stamped in various tints of wax, I find one question appearing in many slightly different forms. A large number of writers ask, "What is the greatest difficulty a young actress has to surmount?" In another pile of notes the question appears in this guise, "What is the principal obstacle in the way of the young actress?" While two motherly bodies ask, "What one thing worries an actress the most?" After due thought I have cast them all together, boiled them down, and reduced them to this, "What is the bane of a young actress's life?" which question I can answer without going into training, with one hand tied behind me, and both eyes bandaged, answer in one word—dress. Ever since that far-away season when Eve, the beautiful, inquiring, let-me-see-for-myself Eve, made fig leaves popular in Eden, and invented the apron to fill a newly felt want, dress has been at once the comfort and the torment of woman.

Acting is a matter of pretence, and she who can best pretend a splendid passion, a tender love, or a murderous hate, is admittedly the finest actress. Time was when stage wardrobe was a pretence, too. An actress was expected to please the eye, she was expected to be historically correct as to the shape and style of her costume; but no one expected her queenly robes to be of silk velvet, her imperial ermine to be anything rarer than rabbit-skin. My own earliest ermine was humbler still, being constructed of the very democratic white canton flannel turned wrong side out, while the ermine's characteristic little black tails were formed by short bits of round shoe-lacing. The only advantage I can honestly claim for this domestic ermine is its freedom from the moths, who dearly love imported garments of soft fine cloth and rare lining. I have had and have seen others have, in the old days, really gorgeous brocades made by cutting out great bunches of flowers from chintz and applying them to a cheaper background, and then picking out the high lights with embroidery silk, the effect being not only beautiful, but rich. All these make-believes were necessary then, on a $30 or $35 a week salary, for a leading lady drew no more.



But times are changed, stage lighting is better, stronger. The opera glass is almost universally used, deceptions would be more easily discovered; and more, oh, so much more is expected from the actress of to-day. Formerly she was required, first of all, to sink her own individuality in that of the woman she pretended to be; and next, if it was a dramatized novel she was acting in, she was to make herself look as nearly like the described heroine as possible; otherwise she had simply to make herself as pretty as she knew how in her own way, that was all. But now the actresses of a great city are supposed to set the fashion for the coming season. They almost literally dress in the style of to-morrow: thus the cult of clothes becomes harmful to the actress. Precious time that should be given to the minute study, the final polishing of a difficult character, is used instead in deciding the pitch of a skirt, the width of a collar, or open sleeve-strap, or no sleeve at all.

Some ladies of my acquaintance who had been to the theatre three times, avowedly to study as models the costumes, when questioned as to the play, looked at one another and then answered vaguely: "The performance? Oh, nothing remarkable! It was fair enough; but the dresses! They are really beyond anything in town, and must have cost a mint of money!"

So we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when the answer might possibly have been: "The acting was beyond anything in town. The dresses? Nothing remarkable! Oh, well, fair enough!"

I have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautiful Mrs. Russell, then of Wallack's Theatre, was the originator in this country of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. When it was known that the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of other dresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the last inch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about her splendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks of salary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, but alas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her that sprang up into a fine crop of dragon's teeth for following young actresses to gather. Qui donne le menu, donne la faim! And right here let me say, I am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly of all good things. I have much satisfaction in the present, and a strong and an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress, which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, I would not ask to go back to those days of primitive costuming. In Shakespere's day there appeared over a "drop," or curtain of green, a legend plainly stating, "This is a street in Verona," and every man with an imagination straightway saw the Veronese street to his complete satisfaction; but there were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention and to keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. One would not like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placard saying, "This is a ball gown" or "This is a Coronation robe," the imagination would balk at it. But there is a far cry between that and the real Coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. What I would ask for is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burden of senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders—not by the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous small hands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of their salaries. How generous they would be if they could be content to dress with grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that those who are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate, and sometimes at what a price, dear Heaven, at what a price!

Let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fashion—of rank. As she makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned from the opera. Therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood and opera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. Suppose, then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining of delicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth or elegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. But suppose the actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that the elaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence—a creation lined with the frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with real lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels—what happens? The cloak pushes forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob this way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloak whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten to one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner of that wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama.

Extravagance is inartistic—so for that reason I could wish for moderation in stage dressing. Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be to me! For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for the gowns of a play. I thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of "Divorce," just as I had finished paying for five dresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes for the one hundredth night. I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc., and he made answer, "Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir up fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and they will come to see the new dresses."

And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with: "Oh, of course! If we are acting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, I can't object any longer. You see, I was under the impression people came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me my error."

For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our unfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, "I am surprised at you, Miss Morris," and at my rueful response, "Yes, so am I surprised at Miss Morris," he laughed outright and pushed me toward the open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker's. I had a partial revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after one night's wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill.

Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her—that is very bitter. Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more than that one play, and next season it is out of date. When the simplest fashionable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to? There was a time when the comic artists joked about "the $10 best hat for wives." The shop that carried $10 best hats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now.

So the young actress—unless she has some little means, aside from a salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke that salary out—is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes; for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs.

Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, I think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, "Miss B. in her $500 dinner dress"; "Miss R. in her $1000 cloak"; "Miss J. in her $200 tea gown," and then later there appeared elsewhere, "Miss M.'s $100 parasol."

Now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace or beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious one, a sort of friendly "tip" on the newest things out; but those flaunting price tags lowered it all. In this period of prosperity a spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. Luxuries have become necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is forgotten. Those who published the figures and prices of their clothes were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister's heart with bitter envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by the mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their owners. Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the under girl, in the struggle for clothes!

In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes of the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for production after production, it would seem that the management must share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very much higher than they were a few years ago.

In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed.

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night—so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless class—she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois. Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau. There was none.

"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had been returned for blocking."

"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donne." A quick blow stopped further explanation.

"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American artist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between two rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "Comme elle est belle!" "Quelle aplomb!" "Matin, quelle chic!" "Elle est forte gentille!" "C'est le coup de grace!" "Le chapeau! le chapeau!" "La belle Pearl! la belle Pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment.

And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had such vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat.

If I were a young actress, I would rather be noted for acting than for originating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank God, and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. And though the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now, and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out of debt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good an actress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make the clothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, to the question of fine acting.



_CHAPTER XIV

THE MASHER, AND WHY HE EXISTS_

Thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and even appreciate it. The American brand is generally pithy, compact, and expressive, and not always vulgar. Slang is at its worst in contemptuous epithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seems likely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. No more vulgar term exists than "masher," and it is a distinct comfort to find Webster ascribing the origin of the word to England's reckless fun-maker,—Punch.

Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies,—all these terms have been applied at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that abomination,—masher. Nor am I "puttin' on scallops and frills," as the boys say. I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very much overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the window, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, "Well, she is up against it," slangily expressed the unfortunate woman's exact predicament. Oh, no, I'm not "puttin' on frills," I am only objecting with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible creature indicated by it,—masher.

In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock. Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to the teacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, "There, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'll all be quite happy." I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh commandment, "Not to say anything more about it."

Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the multiplication table. Of course fives and tens were at a premium—even very stupid little girls could get through them, and twos were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. Sevens were, however, my own especial nightmare—even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by seven. Standing in class on the platform, the sevens one day fell to me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely whispered, "Forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess," and burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us say anything more about the sevens, Miss Sands, and then we'll all be quite happy."

Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would like to cry, "Don't let us say anything more about the masher, and then we'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. The stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination. These "Johnnies" who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love—they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple. These young "taddies," with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,—each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.

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 doree.

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.

But lest the young girl writers should feel abashed over their expressions of surprise at my conduct, I will show them what good company they have had.

A good many years ago a certain famous scholar and preacher of New York City called upon me one day. I was absent, attending rehearsal. The creed of his denomination was particularly objectionable to me, but having wandered into the big stone edifice on Fourth Avenue one Sunday, I was so charmed by his clear reasoning, his eloquence, and, above all, by his evident sincerity, that I continued to go there Sunday after Sunday.

In my absence he held converse with my mother as to his regret at missing me, as to the condition of the weather, as to the age, attainments, and breed of my small dog, who had apparently been seized with a burning desire to get into his lap. We afterward found she only wished to rescue her sweet cracker, which he sat upon.

In his absent-minded way he then fell into a long silence, his handsome, scholarly head drooping forward. Finally he sighed and remarked:—

"She is an actress, your daughter?"

My mother, with lifted brows, made surprised assent.

"Yes, yes," he went on gently, "an actress, surely, for I see my paper commends her work. I have noted her presence in our congregation, and her intelligence." (I never sleep in the daytime.) "Our ladies like her, too; m-m, an actress, and yet takes an interest in her soul's salvation; wonderful! I—I don't understand! no, I don't understand!" A speech which did little to endear its maker to the actress's mother, I'm afraid.

See how narrowing are some creeds. This reverend gentleman was personally gentle, kind, considerate, and naturally just; yet, knowing no actor's life, never having seen the inside of a playhouse, he, without hesitation, denounced the theatre and declared it the gate of hell.

In the amusing correspondence that followed that call, the great preacher was on the defensive from the first, and in reading over two or three letters that, because of blots or errors, had to be recopied, I am fairly amazed at the temerity of some of my remarks. In one place I charge him with "standing upon his closed Bible to lift himself above sinners, instead of going to them with the open volume and teaching them to read its precious message."

Perhaps he forgave much to my youth and passionate sincerity; at all events, we were friends. I had the benefit of his advice when needed, and, in spite of our being of different church denominations, he it was who performed the marriage service for my husband and myself.

So, girl writers, who question me, you see there have been other pebbles on my beach, and some big ones, too.

The question, then, that has been put so many times is, "Can there be any compatibility between religion and the stage?"

Now had it been a question of church and stage, I should have been forced to admit that the exclusive spirit of the first, and the unending occupation of the second, kept them uncomfortably far apart. But the question has invariably been as to a compatibility between religion and the stage. Now I take it that religion means a belief in God, and the desire and effort to do His will; therefore I see nothing incompatible between religion and acting. I am a church-woman now; but for many years circumstances prevented my entering the great army of Christians who have made public confession of their faith, and received baptism as an outward and visible sign of a spiritual change. Yet during those long years without a church I was not without religion. I knew naught of "justification," of "predestination," of "transubstantiation." I only knew I must obey the will of God. Here was the Bible; it was the word of God. There was Christ, beautiful, tender, adorable, and he said: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment; and the second is like unto it. Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."

Add to these the old Mosaic "Ten," and you have my religious creed complete. And though it is simple enough for a child to comprehend, it is difficult for the wisest to give perfect obedience, because it is not always easy to love that tormenting neighbour, even a little bit, let alone as well as oneself. How I wish there was some other word to take the place of "religion." It has been so abused, so misconstrued. Thousands of people shrink from the very sound of it, believing that to be religious means the solemn, sour-faced setting of one foot before the other in a hard and narrow way—the shutting out of all beauty, the cutting off of all enjoyment. Oh, the pity! the pity! Can't they read?

"Let all those that seek thee be joyful and glad in thee, and let such as love thee and thy salvation say always, The Lord be praised." Again, "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver." But it is not always in giving alone that He loves cheerfulness. Real love and trust in God—which is religion, mind you—makes the heart feather light, opens the eye to beauty, the heart to sympathy, the ear to harmony, and all the merriment and joy of life is but the sweeter for the reverent gratitude one returns to the Divine Giver.

One evening, in a greenroom chatter, the word "religious" had in some way been applied to me, and a certain actress of "small parts," whose life had been of the bitterness of gall, suddenly broke out with: "What—what's that? religious—you? Well, I guess not! Why, you've more spirits in a minute than the rest of us have in a week, and you are as full of capers as a puppy. I guess I know religion when I see it. It makes children loathe the Bible by forcing them to learn a hundred of its verses for punishment. It pulls down the shades on Sundays, eats cold meat and pickles, locks up bookcase and piano, and discharges the girl for walking with her beau. Oh, no! my dear, you're not religious."

Poor abused word; no wonder it terrifies people.

How many thousand women, I wonder, are kept from church by their inability to dress up to the standard of extravagance raised by those who are more wealthy than thoughtful. Even if the poor woman plucks up her courage and enters the church, the magnificence of her fortunate sisters distracts her attention from the service, and fills her with longing, too often with envy, and surely with humiliation.

Some years ago a party of ultra-high churchwomen decided to wear only black during Lent. One of these ladies condescended to know me, and in speaking of the matter, she said: "Oh, I think this black garb is more than a fad, it really operates for good. It is so appropriate, you know, and—and a constant reminder of that first great fast—the origin of Lent; and as I walk about in trailing black, I know I look devout, and that makes me feel devout, and so I pray often, and you're always the better for praying, even if your dress is at the bottom of it—and, oh, well, I feel that I am in the picture, when I wear black during Lent."

But the important thing is that before the Lenten season was half over, female New York was walking the streets in gentle, black-robed dignity, and evidently enjoying the keeping of Lent because, to use a theatrical expression, "it knew it looked the part."

So much influence do these petted, beloved daughters of the rich exercise over the many, that I have often wished that, for the sake of the poorer women, the wealthy ones would set a fashion of extreme simplicity of costume for church-going. Every female thing has an inalienable right to make herself as lovely as possible; and these graceful, clever women of fashion would know as well how to make simplicity charming as does the grande dame of France, who is never more grande dame than when, in plain little bonnet, simple gown, and a bit of a fichu, she attends her church.

These bright butterflies have all the long week to flutter their magnificence in. Their lunches, dinners, teas, dances, games, yachts, links, race-courses—everyone gives occasion for glorious display. Will they not, then, be sweetly demure on Sunday for the sake of the "picture," spare their sisters the agony of craving for like beautiful apparel? for God has made them so, and they can't help wanting to be lovely, too.

Perhaps some day a woman of fashion, simply clad, will turn up her pretty nose contemptuously at splendour of dress at church service, and whisper, "What bad form!"

Then, indeed, as the tide sets her way, she will realize her power, and the church will have many more attendants. The very poor woman will not be so cruelly humiliated, and the wage-earning girl, who puts so much of her money into finery, will have a more artistic and more suitable model to follow.

And you are beginning to think that free silver is not the only mad idea that has been put forward by a seemingly sane person. Ah, well, it's sixteen to one, you know, that this is both first and last of the church dress-reform.

To those two little maids who so anxiously inquire "if I believe prayer is of any real service, and why, since my own could not always have been answered," I can only say, they being in a minority, I have no authority to answer their question here. Perhaps, though, they may recall the fact that their loving mothers tenderly refused some of their most passionate demands in babyhood. And we are yet but children, who often pray improperly to our Father.



_CHAPTER XVII

A DAILY UNPLEASANTNESS_

What is the most unpleasant experience in the daily life of a young actress?

Without pause for thought, and most emphatically too, I answer, her passing unattended through the city streets at night; that is made unalloyed misery, through terror and humiliation. The backwoods girl makes her lonely way through the forest by blazed trees, but the way of the lonely girl through the city streets is marked by blazing blushes.

It is an infamy that a girl's honesty should not protect her by night as well as by day. Those hideous hyenas of the midnight streets are never deceived. By one glance they can distinguish between a good woman and those poor wandering ghosts of dead modesty and honour, who flit restlessly back and forth from alleys dark to bright gas glare; but bring one of these men to book, and he will declare that "decent women have no right to be in the streets after nightfall," as though citizens were to maintain public highways for the sole use one-half the time of all the evil things that hide from light to creep out at dark and meet those companions who are fair by day and foul by night.

Some girls never learn to face the homeward walk with steady nerves, others grow used to the swift approach, the rapidly spoken word, and receive them with set, stony face and deaf ears; but oh, the terror and the shame of it at first! And this horror of the night takes so many forms that it is hard to say which one is the most revolting—hard to decide between the vile innuendo whispered by a sober brute or the roared ribaldry of a drunken beast.

In one respect I differ from most of my companions in misery, since they almost invariably fear most the drunkard; while I ground my greater fear of the sober man upon the simple fact that I can't outrun him as I can a drunken one, at a pinch. One night, in returning home from a performance of "Divorce,"—a very long play that brought me into the street extra late,—a shrieking man flew across my path, and as a second rushed after him with knife uplifted for a killing blow, his foot caught in mine, and as he pitched forward the knife sank into his victim's arm instead of his back as he had intended; and with the cries of "Murder! Police!" ringing in my ears, I ran as if I were the murderess. These things are in themselves a pretty high price to pay for being an actress.

I had a friend, an ancient lady, a relative of one of our greatest actors, who, for independence' sake, taught music in her old age. One night she had played at a concert and was returning home. Tall and slight and heavily veiled, she walked alone. Then suddenly appeared a well-looking young son of Belial, undoubtedly a gentleman by daylight. He tipped his hat and twirled his mustache; she turned away her head. He cleared his throat; she seemed quite deaf. He spoke; he called her "girlie" (the scamp!). She walked the faster; so did he. He protested she should not walk home alone; she stopped; she spoke, "Will you please allow me to walk home in peace?"

But, no, that was just what he would not do, and suddenly she answered, "Very well, then, I accept your escort, though under protest."



Surprised, he walked at her side. The way was long, the silence grew painful. He ventured to suggest supper as they passed a restaurant; she gently declined. At last she stopped directly beneath a gas-lamp, and from her face, with sorrow-hollowed eyes and temples, where everyone of her seventy-six years had been stamped in cruel line and crease and wrinkle, she lifted up the veil and raised her sad old eyes reproachfully to his. He staggered back, turned red, turned white, stammered, took off his hat, attempted to apologize, then turned and fled.

"And what," I asked, "did you say to him?"

"Say, say," she repeated; "justice need not be cruel. Why add anything to the sight of this?" and she drew a finger down her withered cheek.

'Twas said with laughing bitterness, for she had been very fair, and well guarded, too, in the distant past; while then I could but catch her tired hands and kiss them, in a burst of pity that this ancient gentlewoman might not walk in peace through the city streets because fate had left her without a protector.

Appeal to the police, I think some one says. Of course, if he is about; but recall that famous old recipe of Mrs. Glass beginning, "First catch your hare and then—" so, just catch your policeman. But believe me, they rarely appear together,—your tormentor of women and your policeman,—unless, indeed, the former is stupidly in liquor; and then what good if he is arrested? shame will prevent you from appearing against him. Silence and speed, therefore, are generally the best defensive weapons of the frightened, lonely girl.

Once through fright, fatigue, and shame I lost all self-control, and turning to the creature whom I could not outwalk, I cried out with a sob, "Oh, I am so tired, so frightened, and so ashamed; you make me wish that I were dead!" And to my amazement, he answered gruffly, "It's a pity I'm not," and disappeared in the dark side street.

After an actress has married and has a protector to see her safely home nights, she is apt to recall and to tell amusing stories of her past experiences; but I notice those tales are never told by the girls—they only become funny when looked at from the point of perfect safety, though like everything else in the world, the dreaded midnight walk shows a touch of the ludicrous now and then.