"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.
[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "The Sphinx"_]
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