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