At last the night came. Hot? Oh, my, hot it was! and we were so crowded
in our tiny dressing-room that some of us had to stand on the one chair
while we put our skirts on. The confusion was great, and I was glad to
get out of the room, down-stairs, where I went to show myself to Mrs.
Bradshaw or Blanche, to see if I was all right. They looked at me, and
after a hopeless struggle with their quivering faces they burst into
shrieks of laughter. With trembling hands I clutched my tarlatan skirts
and peering down at my tights, I groaned: "Are they twisted, or run down,
or what?"
But it was not the tights, it was my face. I knew you had to put on
powder because the gas made you yellow, and red because powder made you
ghastly, but it had not occurred to me that skill was required in
applying the same, and I was a sight to make any kindly disposed angel
weep! I had not even sense enough to free my eyelashes from the powder
clinging to them. My face was chalk white and low down on my cheeks were
nice round bright red spots.
Mrs. Bradshaw said: "With your round blue eyes and your round
white-and-red face, you look like a cheap china doll! Come here, my
dear!"
She dusted off a few thicknesses of the powder, removed the hard scarlet
spots, took a great soft hare's foot, which she rubbed over some pink
rouge, and then holding it in the air she proceeded: "To-morrow, after
you have walked to get a color, go to your glass and see where that color
shows itself. I think you will find it high on your cheek, coming up
close under the eye and growing fainter toward the ear. I'll paint you
that way to-night on chance. You see _my_ color is low on my cheek. Of
course when you are making-up for a character part you go by a different
rule, but when you are just trying to look pretty be guided by nature.
Now----"
I felt the soft touch of the hare's foot on my burning cheeks; then she
gave me a tooth-brush, which had black on it, and bade me draw it across
my lashes. I did so and was surprised at the amount of powder it removed.
She touched her little finger to some red pomade, and said: "Thrust out
your under lip--no, not like a kiss--that makes creases--make a sulky
lip--so!"
She touched my lip with her finger, then she drew back and laughed again,
in a different way. She drew me to the glass, and said, "Look!"
I looked and cried: "Oh--oh! Mrs. Bradshaw, that girl doesn't look a bit
like me--she's ever so much nicer!"
In that lesson on making-up was the beginning and the ending of my
theatrical instruction. What I have learned since then has been by
observation, study, and direct inquiry--but never by instruction, either
free or paid for.
Now, while I was engaged to go on with the crowd, fate willed after all
that I should have an independent entrance for my first appearance on the
stage. The matter would be too trivial to mention were it not for the
influence it had upon my future. One act of the play represented the back
of a stage during a performance. The scenes were turned around with their
unpainted sides to the public. The scene-shifters and gas-men were
standing about--everything was going wrong. The manager was giving orders
wildly, and then a dancer was late. She was called frantically and
finally when she appeared on the run, the manager caught her by the
shoulders, rushed her across the stage and fairly pitched her on the
imaginary stage--to the great amusement of the audience.
The tallest and prettiest girl in the ballet had been picked out to do
this bit of work, and she had been rehearsed and rehearsed as if she were
preparing for the balcony scene of "Romeo and Juliet"; and day after day
the stage-manager would groan: "Can't you run? Did you never run? Imagine
the house a-fire and that you are running for your life!"
At last, on that opening night, we were all gathered ready for our first
entrance and dance, which followed a few moments after the incident I
have described. The tall girl had a queer look on her face as she stood
in her place--her cue came, but she never moved.
I heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager: "That's you!" he
shouted; "go on! go on, run!"
Run? She seemed to have grown fast to the floor. We heard the angry
_aside_ of the actor on the stage: "Send someone on here--for Heaven's
sake!"
"Are you going on?" cried the frantic prompter.