After that memorable dinner party things were never quite the same
between Will and me. I am sure, however, that Will was unconscious of
the fact. He went about as usual. At this juncture Boy came down with
scarlet-fever. The enforced quarantine acted as a bar to any intimacy
between my husband and me. I welcomed the isolation. My feelings had not
yet recovered from the bruise I had received. How many times I had
re-lived the scene to which I had been an unwilling eavesdropper! I
blamed myself for not at once having made my presence known. I excused
myself on the ground that to have done so would have placed Will in a
ridiculous and embarrassing situation. For some inexplicable reason the
idea of embarrassing my husband was repugnant to me. My resentment was
concentrated against the woman. I felt sure she was to blame. I invented
all kinds of excuses for Will and at the same time I recognized that
they were pure inventions. I could not bring myself to kiss my
husband--at least, not for a long, long time. His arms no longer
connoted a haven. How utterly wretched I was--how lonely and
heart-hungry! Only a fierce struggle with my self-respect kept me from
throwing myself into my husband's arms and crying out my hurt against
his breast.
After Boy had recovered, Will one day remarked that I was looking tired.
He said I was stopping indoors too closely--would I not accompany him to
a little ... I tingled all over my body. I dared not trust myself to
look at him. Instead I forced a smile and shook my head in negation.
"I reckon you don't like the bunch," he quizzed.
"I fear I'm not even a little bit of a sport," I answered.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. The glance was
characteristic of Will. Often I had seen this same expression when some
one had recognized him on the street or in a restaurant. It was a
curious blend of boyish self-consciousness and exaggerated unconcern.
With the coming of summer began the annual hunt for an engagement. A
walk along that part of Broadway known as the Rialto during the early
months of the heated term leaves the impression that there has been a
lock-out of the whole theatrical profession. Actors block the corners
and hem the sidewalks. The supply far exceeds the demand. Year after
year they make the weary rounds of the agencies. Season follows season
with but a few weeks' employment for many of them. One wonders that the
impermanency of his profession does not drive the actor to other
vocations--perhaps "trades" were the better word, since the rank and
file are better adapted to plumbing than to acting. The microbe which
infects the actor is as deadly in its effect as the Tsi-tsi fly. It
produces an exaggerated ego from which the victim never recovers. The
only palliative is the lime-light. Retirement from the stage is never
permanent. Farewell tours of prominent players, like the brook, go on
forever. It is the spirit of make-believe with which the actor is
saturated which leads him to make a front even to his confreres. "Signed
for next season?" one overhears, edging one's way through the crowd.
"No, not yet--I've had several good offers, but not just what I want.
I'm in no hurry," and he twirls his cane with a nonchalant air, though
he may not have the price of next week's board-bill. And so it goes, ad
infinitum. His is the kingdom of bluff.
Will was one of the fortunates. After several weeks of haggling over
salary, he was engaged by "America's foremost producer." The actor of
established position--"established" being a mere figure of speech, since
at best the actor's position is an aleatory one--those of prominence
usually demand to read the play before signing a contract. In this
instance Will waived this privilege. Absolute secrecy was maintained as
to the character of the play. The reason for this lay in the fact that
the manager was at war with the Theatrical Syndicate. His grievances he
had made known to the public. As a lone, solitary Saint George of _art_,
fighting the monster dragon, _commercialism_, he made a "play" for the
public's sympathy--and won it.
The momentous question of employment disposed of, we started for our
summer holiday. It was Will's first idea to go to a village on Nantucket
Island. Here a group of more or less successful actor-folk had
established a summer colony. Some of them owned comfortable bungalows
or were in the throes of buying them. After maturer deliberation Will
concluded he wanted a change of "atmosphere." In other words he wanted
to get away from "shop." A residential park in the Catskills was finally
decided upon. The cottagers were for the most part staid Brooklyn
families and Will felt in this environment he was reasonably sure of
privacy. The delusion was a short-lived one. As we left the train and
made our way to the 'bus which was to convey us to the Park I heard a
whisper and titter from a bevy of pretty girls who had come to the
railway station to watch the new arrivals. "There's Mr. Blank, the
actor!" and Will understood that he was "discovered." Some of the girls
climbed into the 'bus, others followed on foot. All giggled and made
significant remarks. At the Inn it was immediately noised about that an
actor was in "our midst." We became the cynosure of all eyes. Curious
maiden ladies looked us over--at a respectful distance. Our most
insignificant movements were under observation. Now, it is one thing to
be stared at on the stage; quite another to have the minutest detail of
one's private life under constant surveillance. Will, who had planned
to live the simple life, which he had construed for himself as going
unshaved for days at a time, wearing baggy trousers and flannel shirts
all day and dining in that garb if it so pleased him, now found himself
donning white ducks (the salvage of a former season's wardrobe), playing
tennis, bridge, or lounging about the piazza answering endless inane
questions concerning the stage and its people. If we went for a walk we
were soon overtaken; if we planned a quiet day in the woods there was
arranged an impromptu picnic-party to accompany us. To be sure the
attention thrust upon us was of kindly intent, though Will declared the
pleasure was theirs and more or less selfishly bestowed. An actor and
his family at close range is a novelty apparently as much coveted as a
man at a seaside after the week-end hejira back to town.
One week of the cuisine at the Inn drove Will to dyspepsia tablets.
Instead of fresh vegetables, home-grown fowl and the other concomitants
of the country-board illusions, we were served with such delicacies as
creamed cod-fish, canned salmon and johnny cake. I came to the
conclusion that the housekeeping and servant problems had driven the
Brooklynites to a state of submission where even the fare provided by
the Inn was better than Bridget's dictation.
The rooms of the caravansary were veritable cockle-shells. The
partitions were so thin that we carried on all conversation in subdued
whispers. We wished that other guests would emulate our example, alas
and alack! Up with the lark and early morning sunbursts were not in
Will's curriculum. He said he did not object to a sunrise if he could
sit up all night with convivial friends to await it. And, when a man is
in the habit of lying abed till noon, it is difficult to change his
regime. He soon developed nerves. One morning, after futile attempts to
sleep, Will dragged himself into his clothes and disappeared. When
finally he returned he had the roguish face of a boy who had been
stealing little red apples. He had found a farm-house and after some
"dickering" on both sides he had rented house, farm and all for the
remainder of the season.
"Just think, girlie," he enthused, "what a circus it will be! There's a
garden with all kinds of vegetables, there's a cow, bushels of
chickens, an old nag, a dog, to say nothing of the pigs and----"
"Who," I gasped, "who is going to care for this menagerie?"
"We are--you and me. Besides I need the exercise. I want to take off a
few pounds of this embonpoint or I'll lose my 'figger.' Of course
there's a hired man who'll come in to do the milking and the heavy work,
and his sister will cook and 'tidy up' for us. It'll be great!" He
stopped long enough to throw out his chest, inhale deeply and to exhale
noisily while he pounded his lungs--a little trick he had of expressing
a sense of well-being. "Fresh vegetables, fresh eggs and the cow--think
what the cow will do for the kiddie! You never saw me work, did
you?--man with the hoe business, I mean. I used to love that kind of
thing when I went home to visit the old folks in the summer. Come along,
girlie, let's get things together. The coach and four will be here
soon."
He swung Boy over his shoulder and carried him pick-a-back to our room.
While we packed he told me the details of his "find." The farm belonged
to an old man and his wife, whose children--three sons--had yielded to
the call of the city. Bit by bit the lonely old couple had sold the
land, not being able to work it themselves and unsuccessful in their
attempts to induce the children to return to their heritage. For a long
time they had "hankered" to visit the boys in Brooklyn, but money was
scarce and the little farm with the live stock could not be left uncared
for. The old man had advertised the homestead for rent, furnished. "The
few who came to see had one excuse or another for not wanting it," the
old man had told Will. "Most of 'em wanted a bath and runnin' water and
they shied at the oil lamps."
"They evidently wanted the simple life with all modern appliances," Will
continued. "After talking it over with Ma whilst I waited on the porch
drinking buttermilk, Pa returned and asked if I meant business. I
assured him I did and proved it by offering to pay the summer's rent in
advance."
I caught my breath. Mental arithmetic failed me. Will had told me before
leaving New York that we were "playing pretty close to the cushion," and
I knew what that meant. If Will noticed my perturbation he evinced no
sign, but went on in the same enthusiastic vein. "Pa and Ma talked it
over again, 'If Ma ain't lost her taste for visiting Brooklyn,'--Ma
hadn't, but she wanted a week to get ready. Pa said he could pack all he
wanted in a paper bag. I said I must have the place at once or not at
all--and--here we are." I was not surprised at our sudden change of
base. Will always acted on the impulse of the moment.
When Will went down to pay our hotel bill it was lunch-time. Nearly all
the cottagers in the Park had assembled. Much regret was expressed at
our desertion of the Inn. (I quite understood that "our" was a mere form
of courtesy, inasmuch as I was looked upon as only an appendage hitched
to a star.) Will laid our desertion to the Boy. "He needs a cow," he
explained blandly to a group of admirers. "A child of his age needs one
brand of milk. One can't be too careful in hot weather, you know," and
Will's whole bearing portrayed paternal solicitude. The farm wagon
arrived opportunely. Will winked at me. He had told me that he was
"side-stepping" the lunch of dried lima beans and creamed cod-fish. "I
wanted to do it gracefully, of course. They are all nice people and it's
good business. That's the kind of thing that gives an actor his
following; just the same I'm glad to get away and relax. This being
always on parade--! They simply won't concede an actor any privacy. They
won't let you be natural. They expect you to act 'on' and 'off.'"
It was a long and bumpy drive to the farm. We could have walked it in a
third of the time by cutting 'cross country. The poor old horse driven
by Aaih, the farm hand, looked moth-eaten and worn. It hurt my
conscience to add to his burden, so Will and I climbed down and walked
the rest of the way. Will, carrying Boy first on his shoulder and then
on his back, reminded me of pictures I had seen of early settlers making
their way through the wilds in search of a home. Once in every little
while Will would burst forth in a lusty halloa which made the welkin
ring. "Halloa" came back from the echoing hills. Even Boy saluted the
great god Pan. There was an exhilaration in the air which made one glad
to be alive.
It was a noisy trio which swung into the lane leading to the farm house.
Ma was on the front porch awaiting us. She made a quaint picture in her
rusty black alpaca with her gingham apron half turned back under her
arm. At her neck there was an old daguerreotype set in a
brooch--probably a likeness of a child she had lost. The lack-lustre
eyes were kindly, almost pensively so, and the red spots in her cheeks
indicated the excitement under which she laboured. While we sprawled on
the porch she bustled about for buttermilk. Boy had taken a shine to
Aaih, and refused to leave him for the "one brand of milk," the virtues
of which Will had expounded to the lady cottagers. Pa called out a
friendly greeting from the kitchen where he was "poking up the fire" in
response to orders from his wife. The odour of cooking things whetted
our already keen appetites. "I had Pa kill a chicken at the last
minute," the dear old lady explained, "for everybody who comes to the
country hankers for fried chicken." I shot a glance at Will. Will was "a
nice feeder" and I devoutly hoped his epicurean tastes would not balk at
a freshly-killed fowl. It would be a sin not to appreciate the old
lady's kindliness. Mentally I resolved to eat every helping if it killed
me.
I fear there was poor picking for Aaih after we left the table. I helped
Ma with the dishes and after they were cleared away she showed me the
run of the house. Later we joined the men folks out of doors and made a
tour of the farm. There was something pathetic in the way they asked us
to take good care of Snyder, whose mixed breed reminded one of the much
advertised pickles. Old Ben, we were told, was not fast but he was
trust-worthy even in the face of automobiles. Good laying hens were
pointed out, but I could never remember one from the other. We made the
acquaintance of Bossy and were warned that the other cow with a calf was
not so friendly. We talked so long that at the last moment Ma got
flustered. She came very near forgetting the home-made jelly she was
taking to her niece at Kingston where they were to stay the night, going
on to New York on the morrow. When at last they drove away to take the
train, we followed the buggy to the end of the lane, then watched them
out of sight with much waving of hands and repeated good-byes. The sun
was dropping behind the peaks. Across the valley spiral coils of smoke
showed gray against the blue-green hills. How calm, how serene it was!
Neither spoke. Will was leaning against the snake-rail fence,
thoughtfully ruminating. Presently he fell to whistling softly. I
smiled. "Give my regards to Broadway, remember me to Herald Square" was
ludicrously out of joint with our surroundings. Will divined my thoughts
and smiled quizzically at me over his shoulder. "It's a long way from
Broadway, eh, girlie?"
"Not nearly long enough!" I responded. And I was right. If, upon leaving
the Inn we had deluded ourselves with the idea of retiring from the
public eye, we soon discovered our mistake. Our retreat was unearthed;
our privacy intruded upon. At inopportune moments passers-by would
appear ostensibly to inquire their way, obviously to get a glimpse of
the actor "at play." It came to be an annoyance, especially after Will
was caught in the act of clearing out a duck pond or helping Aaih to
whitewash a chicken-house. When Will indulged in manual labour he
relieved himself of all superfluous clothing. When a hero does this sort
of thing on the stage he manages somehow to look pretty. But a matinee
idol with streaks of whitewash laid across his sweating brow, sundry
snaggs in disreputable trousers, a handkerchief around his neck with
utter disregard of artistic effect, is a treat reserved for the bosom of
his immediate family only. So, after repeated offences, whilom visitors
were warned off by the threatening admonition--in more or less uneven
lettering--
"PRIVATE PROPERTY--NO ADMITTANCE."
Experience Dorset was Aaih's sister. She might have been his twin, so
alike were they. The only apparent difference was that plainness in a
man becomes homeliness in a woman. In so far as we were able to
discover, Experience belied her name. True, she made delicious bread and
crullers, and one never felt her apple dumplings after forty-eight
hours, but, other than these, Experience's experience was as drab as her
complexion. She was slow of speech--and exhaustive. Her invariable "Now,
ma'am, what'll I fly at next?" was contradictory to her deliberation.
Nothing ruffled her. In a temperamental family this asset is not to be
despised. To Experience Will was an enigma. She confided to me, soon
after allying herself with our household, that she was never sure when
Will was making believe and when he was himself. She felt certain he
must sometimes mix himself up. It was her way of explaining a dual
personality.
Will liked to play golf. Several times a week we tramped across the
hills to the Club, some two miles distant. We never left the links
without several girls in our train. It was impossible to shake them off.
Sometimes they accompanied us to the house and sat on the porch to rest.
Later they discovered that afternoon tea was an institution with me. I
am sure that Experience enjoyed these little tea-parties as much as did
the girls. Punctually at four o'clock she would appear on the porch,
neatly dressed. With scissors in hand she raided the flower-beds for
lady-slippers and clove-geranium with which to adorn the table. The
stone jar in which she kept the cookies was never empty. And when the
girls came trooping up the lane she was the first to hear them and to
rouse Will from his siesta.
Will said he felt like a bull in a china shop at these informal teas. I
thought he was charming and agreeable though he pretended he was bored.
After tea we would wander out of doors. Nearly all the girls took
snap-shots of Will. He tried to find a new pose for each of them. "The
man with the hoe" showed Will among the cabbages, resting on the handle
of the hoe. "Under the old apple tree" was effective even if the apple
tree was an oak. Reclining on a mound of hay, carted for the purpose by
the faithful Aaih, was labelled "In the good old summer time." "The
actor at play" showed Will with a golf-stick in his hand. Later Will
autographed the pictures.
Many were the questions we were called upon to answer concerning the
stage as a career. We were asked to verify all sorts of silly gossip
about players. It was well-nigh impossible to convince them that all
male stars were not in love with their leading ladies and vice versa. It
goes without saying that I should not escape the inevitable question,
"How did I feel when I saw my husband making love to another woman?" It
amused me to watch the little subterfuges to which the girls resorted to
win my favour. Bon-bons were the bribes most in vogue. One day I
overheard a newcomer to our circle tell another girl, "You didn't tell
me he was married--and a baby, too. How terribly unromantic! I'll never
go to see him act again as long as I live."
Will and I laughed over the situation, albeit there is a considerable
ground for the managerial contention that actors and actresses should
not marry, or, if married, the fact should be suppressed rather than
advertised. Indeed, who likes to think of her Romeo as dawdling a
colicky baby during the wee sma' hours about the time he should be
exclaiming with unfettered fervour, "What light from yonder window
breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" I recall a tragedy of my
own romantic youth upon discovering that a favourite actor was not only
a father, but that he wore--O, horrible, most horrible--a toupee!
There was no escaping the amateur theatricals. I predicted it early in
the summer. The proceeds of the entertainment were to be applied toward
the discharging of the debt of the Golf Club. Will was asked to take
entire charge of the programme. His position was no sinecure.
It was their first intention to give "As You Like It" in the open, but
as every young woman thought herself particularly adapted to the
requirements of Rosalind, Will found himself in a delicate position. The
young men of the community themselves cut the Gordian knot. They aspired
to be comedians. Vaudeville was finally decided upon. A quartette of
college students blacked up and gave a minstrel show. Some of the jokes
were local and aimed at the idiosyncrasies of the cottagers. Others were
purloined from Jo Miller's joke-book. There was a trombone solo by the
village farrier, several vocal duets and a selection from the Mikado.
Will contributed several monologues. But the star feature of the evening
was the performance of Dolly in a scene from the Wizard of Oz. She was a
dainty creature with Dresden china beauty and bovine eyes and had been
much admired by the male contingent of the colony. Everybody felt sure
there was a treat in store for them. There was. When Dolly entered,
leading the amiable Bossy, a gasp reverberated through the erstwhile
bowling alley. Dolly's short skirt revealed nether extremities which
would have done great credit to Barnum's fat lady or a baby grand piano!
Our vacation passed all too quickly. The day approached when we needs
must bid good-bye to our retreat.... The memory of the old farm-house
lingers still. The chill in the air at nightfall; the warmth of the
log-fire; the sense of comfort and content; the green paste-board shade
on the lamp; the rag rug on the floor. In my mind's eye I see the old
couple sitting here of winter nights; Ma, piecing together the
vari-coloured rags for the summer weaving; Pa, nodding over last week's
news; Snyder stretched out in front of the fire, whimpering in his
dreams. How far removed from the feverish walk of our life, with its
hopes, its struggles, its heart-burns, and its empty fame! Yet, they, as
we, were "merely players."