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MY
ACTOR-HUSBAND
_A TRUE STORY
OF
AMERICAN STAGE LIFE_
NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
JOHN LANE COMPANY
To
PROFESSOR CHARLES T. COPELAND
Of Harvard University
FOREWORD--A RETROSPECT
In presenting this autobiography to the public, the author feels it
incumbent upon herself to impress upon her readers the fidelity and
strict adherence to the truth, relative to the conditions which surround
the player. In no instance has there been either exaggeration or a
resort to imaginative creation. It is a true story with all the ugliness
of truth unsoftened and unembellished. Nor is the situation presented an
exceptional one. One has but to follow the career of the average actor
to be convinced that the dramatic profession is not only inconsistent
with but wholly hostile to the institution of marriage. Managers and
actors alike know and admit this to be the truth--amongst themselves.
What they say in print is, of course, merely so much self-exploitation.
The success of any branch of "the show-business" is dependent on the
bureau of publicity.
To one intimately acquainted with the life, the effusions of certain
actors' wives, which from time to time appear in magazines for women,
are ironically humourous. They are to be put down as the babbling of the
newly-weds or the hunger for seeing their names in print. To hear the
wife of a star declare that she always goes to the theatre and sits in
the wings to watch her husband act is to presage the glaring head-lines
of a divorce in the not-far-distant future. If it be not now, yet it
will come, for those players who go through life with but one, even two
marriages to their credit are the great exception to the rule. The
actor's life precludes domesticity and without domestic life there can
be no successful marriages.
Every community has its stage-struck girls. Year after year the
Academies of Divine Art turn out graduates like so many clothes-pins.
Neither aspirant nor parent appears to question her fitness for the
career to which she aspires. Both are ignorant of the conditions which
confront the tyro or they have a wholly erroneous idea of theatrical
life--ideas culled from the articles which appear from time to time in
the magazines over the signature of a prominent actress. The average
reader has no way of knowing that these articles are not written by the
actress herself, but by a needy scribbler to whom she grants permission
to use her name, for the free advertising she will get in return. "My
Beginnings," "Advice to Stage-Struck Girls Who Plan to Go on the Stage,"
etc., are alluring head-lines. The subject matter is a mass of
glittering and trite generalities. Of the real conditions, the pitfalls,
the drawbacks to be met, the outsider hears nothing. And when once in a
decade a scribe dares to express himself truthfully concerning the moral
atmosphere in the theatrical profession--(vide Mr. Clement Scott)--the
air is rent with expostulations, denials and protestations from the
members of "the profession." Interviews and letters pack the
enterprising press. Many of those who protest the loudest have the least
to lose.
It has been said that art bears no relation to morals: as well might it
be declared that the blood bears no relation to health. Art must forever
be imbued with the spirit of its delineator.
The moral status of the stage may not be a whit worse than that of half
a dozen other professions. It is possible, but hardly probable. The very
exigencies of the player's life make for a laxity and freedom from
restraint. And in no other profession are the lives of the individual
members so intimately concerned. The popular contention that a good
woman can and will be good under any and all circumstances is a fallacy.
The influence of environment is incomputable. I believe that my little
friend Leila was fundamentally a good girl: in any other walk of life
she would have remained a good girl. I believe that fundamentally my
husband was a good man: in any other environment he would have been a
good husband. The fantastic, unreal and over-stimulated atmosphere which
the player breathes is not conducive to a sane and well-balanced life.
And if, in a ruthless rending aside of the tinselled illusions which
enthrall the stage-struck girl, I have rendered a service, my own
suffering will not have been in vain.
CHAPTER I
It was our first separation. All day I had fought back the tears while I
helped Will pack his "Taylor" trunk. Neither of us spoke; once in every
little while Will would stop in the act of folding a garment, and smile
at me in approval. Then his arm would steal around my shoulders and he
would pat me tenderly.... I would turn away, pretending to busy myself
with other things, but in reality to hide the freshet of tears his
silent expression of sympathy had undammed.... Will had signed with a
star to play Shakespearean repertoire. The question of wardrobe was a
source of worry, until I volunteered my services; I was a good
needlewoman, and, from the sketches Will made, I was able to qualify as
a full-fledged costumier. For days I had pegged away, refurbishing the
old and making new ones, and sometimes Will would lend a hand and run
the machine over the thick seams.... I once read that the women of the
Commune wove the initials of those they hated into their knitting;
well, I sewed the seams of Will's dresses thick with love, and hope, and
ambition ... and dampened them with tears.... Then when the expressman
came for the trunk ... it seemed as if they were taking away a
coffin....
Not until that night, after we had gone to bed, and I felt Will's deep,
rhythmical breathing beneath my head, which lay pressed against his
breast, only then did I give way to my grief. I crept to the other side
of the bed and turned my face to the wall--I shook with convulsive sobs.
Now and then Will would half waken, and would reach out and dreamily pat
my face and smooth back my hair, as one soothes a sorrowing child. At
such times I would hold my breath, and wait until he was again quiet....
Every incident of our short married life passed in review before my
burning eyes. We had closed our season late in April, and had come back
to New York with less than seventy-five dollars between us. But what we
lacked in money was more than balanced by our enthusiasm and
illusion--the illusion of two young persons very much in love with each
other. I had been in New York only once before, and the thought of
living in the great city, of becoming an integral part of it, made me
thrill with excitement. Will and I stood on the front of the ferry-boat
and watched the panorama; he pointed out the various tall buildings with
an air of familiarity. When we passed close to a great ocean liner,
which was being swung into her dock by two fussy little tug-boats, even
Will got excited. He told me which was "fore," and "aft," and named
various other parts of the boat which I didn't understand. When we had
taken our last look, he tucked my hand under his arm and told me that
one day he and I should take a trip abroad....
Owing to the shortage in our money supply, we had decided to go to a
theatrical boarding house. Will was depending on his father to send him
an allowance throughout the summer, and while it would be sufficient for
his needs, now that he was married--well, we should have a chance to
test the saying that two can live as cheaply as one. Our marriage had
been a secret one--besides the "star" and one or two members of the
company, we had taken no one into our confidence. Will's family--his
father, a sister and brother--his mother having died about the time I
came into his life--all were intolerant of the stage and its people.
Though I was not yet a "really truly" actress, the fact that Will had
met me "in the profession" would have prejudiced them against me; added
to this was the fact that Will, himself a tyro, taking a wife at the
very threshold of his career would not be looked at through our
love-coloured glasses. The effect my marriage might have upon my own
relatives never troubled me; my father and mother belonged to that great
class of incompetent parenthood which brings children into the world
without any actual love for them. Never questioning their fitness for
child-rearing, they divine no greater responsibility than providing
bodily necessities and a more or less superficial education. When, at
the restless age of sixteen, I announced my determination to become an
actress, there was some surface opposition, but no effort was made to
enquire into my fitness for the dramatic profession, or the fitness of
the dramatic profession as a career for any innocent and unprotected
young girl. I had been highly successful as an amateur, and, as it was
not necessary that I earn my own living, the stage appeared to their
insapient minds an interesting playground for a dilettante daughter....
One week in a theatrical boarding-house was all we could endure. I
wonder why it is that the rank and file of the theatrical profession are
at such pains to impress one another with their importance. The flippant
familiarity with which they referred to "Charley" or "Dan" Frohman; the
coarse criticism of their fellow-actors, which Will called "knocking";
their easy disregard of the conventions, especially between the sexes; a
bombastic retailing of their own exploits, as "how I jumped on and saved
the show, with only one rehearsal"; talking "shop" to the exclusion of
every other subject in the world. I overheard one of the actresses at
the next table say we were "very up-stage," which Will interpreted as
"not sociable, and having too good an opinion of one's self." Neither of
us was happy in our new surroundings, and I felt a sense of relief when
Will suggested that we look for a furnished flat. I did not mean to be
critical of my husband's profession--I endeavored to agree with him that
every profession has its undesirables.
We spent days in climbing narrow stairs to look at dark, closet-like
apertures with no ventilation; even the strength-sapping humidity of
the streets seemed fresh in comparison. At last, we found something less
undesirable than the others. The building was new, and the apartment in
the rear gave upon a row of private houses with small yards; there were
flowers and a few trees--little oases in a desert of brick and mortar.
The janitor told us there were three rooms: the bedroom was an alcove
affair, divided from the parlor by pea-green portieres; the kitchen
beyond was as large as the pantry in our house at home; and the
furnishings--! The whole outfit might have been removed from a Seventh
Avenue show-window, where they advertise "Complete furnished apartment
for $49.99." The near-gold-leaf chairs were so frail that one was afraid
to sit upon them. The general atmosphere of the parlor reminded me of
the stage-settings one comes across in one-night-stand theatres.
However, the vistas of the trees and flowers decided the momentous
question. We paid a month's rent, then and there; it made a terrible
hole in our last and only fifty-dollar bill, but neither of us worried
much about it. For the next week the "show-business" was relegated to
the background. We played "house" like two children; we arranged and
rearranged the furniture, and Will made a comfortable divan from two
packing cases. We went out to market on Ninth Avenue and Will carried
the basket on his arm. Then we tried our hand at cooking; Will carried
off the honours for coffee--and hard-boiled eggs. I washed and Will
dried the dishes--I can see him now, with an apron tied high under his
arm, declaiming Shakespeare, and juggling with the landlord's dishes.
Our greatest problem was the lack of bathing facilities. We solved it by
bathing in the wash-tubs; to be sure it was a bit hazardous standing on
a sloping bottom, in danger of falling out of the kitchen window if one
leaned too much to the right, or of toppling over to the floor if
veering a bit too much to the left. But it was a bath, and, as Will
said, preferable to the communal affair in the boarding house.
The summer passed all too quickly. Those were happy, happy days....
Sometimes the money market was tight--very tight; especially when Will's
father was careless about sending Will's allowance. I cried bitterly the
first time Will went to a pawn-shop; it seemed so humiliating to have
him do it. Will laughed, and said he regarded it as so much experience.
Several times a week we donned our best clothes and made the rounds of
the theatrical employment agencies. Will had had several offers during
the summer, but we wanted a joint engagement; we had promised each
other, when we married, that nothing should cause us to be separated.
Will and I felt that to the enforced separation of married persons--the
husband in one company, the wife in another--was due the great number of
divorces in the theatrical profession. Our "star," when apprised of our
marriage, had followed his good wishes and congratulations with a heart
to heart talk with Will.
"It's all right, my boy," he said, "don't blame you a bit. She's a
charming girl, and you're in love with her. If it were any other
business but the show-business, I'd say you're a lucky dog, but--I'm
going to be frank with you--a man or a woman in the theatrical business
has no right to marry. It's all very lovely so long as you're together,
but you can't _be_ together. The chances are against it--you may be
lucky enough to get a joint engagement one season, but the next season
you're off on the road, while she's playing in New York or in another
part of the country. And what does this separation lead to in the end?
You're a human being; you crave society, companionship; gradually you
become weaned away and the inevitable happens. It's propinquity and home
ties which make marriage a success; the life of an actor precludes
domesticity. The very exigencies of his profession are not only
inconsistent with, but hostile to, the institution of marriage."
When Will retailed all this to me, it sounded very big and very
dreadful--and also very vague. Any danger from separation seemed in the
far, distant future.... We agreed that a man and wife who permitted
themselves to become estranged because of temporary separations knew
nothing of real love--such love as ours, at any rate.... And now, with
the summer going on apace and no joint engagement in sight, the fear
assumed a tangible shape, the dread of separation hung over me like a
pall. Will tried to reassure me by saying it was still early, and that
we would hold out.... I believed what he said with a child-like faith.
Indeed, I am not so sure that in these days I did not worship Will with
the same idolatry that I offered up to the Virgin Mary.... The whole
world had merged into one being--my husband. My love for my husband was
the absorbing passion of my life. Never happy in my home--my father had
married a second wife--all the pent-up tenderness and passionate love
found an outlet in my marriage. I sometimes wondered what had become of
my ambition: this, too, had centred upon him. To be sure I meant to
succeed as an actress, but I now thought of success only in the light of
an assistance to him. It was already settled between us that I should be
his leading lady, once he became a star. There should be no separations
in our life....
The weeks flew by ... the summer waned. Will became less reassuring--he
took on a worried look. I began to awaken of mornings with a sickening,
intangible apprehension. After a while I stopped going to the agencies.
It seemed so futile. And then, one day, late in the summer, when the
theatres along Broadway had begun to remove the signboards from their
entrances--it came. I knew something had happened when Will opened the
door. Instead of kissing me at once, as was his habit, he passed on to
the bedroom without looking at me, saying, "Hello, Girlie." There was
always something infinitely tender in the way he said these words, but
to-day there was a new note in his voice. It took a long time to put
away his hat and cane; then he came out and kissed me.
I was peeling potatoes. He drew up a chair so that our knees met; then
he laid a hand on each shoulder and his fingers gripped me. We looked
into each other's eyes.... After a while I managed to say, "Well, dear?"
... and when he replied his voice seemed far away. I had the sense of
returning consciousness after a blow.... I suppose I was a little
dazed....
"Well, dear, I've signed with----" (he named a boy-Hamlet, well known
throughout the middle west), "the salary is good and I'll play the King
in Hamlet, Buckingham in Richard, and, if we do the Merchant, I'll be
cast for Gratiano.... The best thing about it is the possibility of
coming into New York for a run. The star wants to play Hamlet on
Broadway, and I've been told he's got good backing.... So, little
girl.... it may not be for so long after all...."
Neither of us referred to the subject again that day; neither did we
try to make believe at being cheerful. We understood each other's
silence ... and respected it. Outside the rain poured. Will stood at the
window looking out, but I am sure he did not see the rain....
All these details passed before my mind like moving-pictures. When at
last I fell asleep, it was to dream the incongruous, disjointed stuff of
which the actor's dreams are made; the sense of being late for a cue, or
hearing the cue spoken, to realize that one is but half-dressed, or,
again, to rush upon the scene only to find the lines obliterated from
one's memory.... When I awoke, I heard Will in the kitchen; there was
the smell of boiling coffee. For a moment there was no consciousness of
my "douleureuse," then memory swept me like an engulfing wave. I cried
aloud; then Will took me in his strong arms and kissed my swollen eyes,
oh, so tenderly....
To recall the moments preceding and following Will's departure
causes--even at this late day--a tightening around the heart. There were
some red roses in a cheap glass vase on the mantle; Will had bought them
from a street vendor that morning when he went out for the papers. He
had pinned one in my dark hair.... After many false starts, and bidding
me, "Cheer up--it won't be for long," he closed the door after him....
It was our first separation.