Rehearsals for the new play began in August. The days were wilting but
the theatrical world up and doing. Every available stage, hall and loft
was requisitioned. Several companies shared the same stage, dividing the
hours between them. Will's manager had his own theatre and the
rehearsals were all-day affairs. Will studied his part at night after
"the family" had retired. Sometimes I would lie awake and listen to him,
talking aloud, reading a line first with one inflection and then trying
another. Will's voice was one of his greatest assets.
Experience had come back to town with us. Before leaving the mountains,
Will had jestingly asked her whether she would like to see Broadway. She
took him at his word. We flattered ourselves she had become fond of us.
We discovered later that it was the profession, not the family, which
lured her. She had found a new volume of faery lore. Will was the faery
prince. Sometimes I wondered just how Experience reconciled Will's
morning grumpiness with her preconceived notion of a hero. I recall how
after seeing Will in a new role he had asked her how she liked him. She
expressed herself as pleased with the play in general and with him in
particular. But after he left the room she confided to me the following:
"Ain't he the naturalest thing when he yells at that man with the
powdered hair, Jackwees or somethin' like that--'Jackwees, bring me my
sword!' I declare, ma'am, I jumped a foot and started for that sword! It
was so natural; that's just the way he yells when I forget the morning
papers."
The reliability of Experience brought me more leisure. I was free to go
about without worry over the boy. I felt that intellectually I needed
stimulus and I planned a winter's work. Of course everything depended
upon the play "getting over," to use the vernacular. Will said he did
not see how it could fail. Everyone connected with the production said
the same thing. Success was in the air. Several times I had dropped in
to see a rehearsal. I was interested to know the "method" of this
particular manager about whom so much had been written. His productions
were always effectively mounted. Magazine articles, full-page interviews
had from time to time printed his recipes for evolving successful stars
as well as money-making plays. One thrilling account in
particular--supposedly his own words--told of the strenuous training of
the tyro; how he aroused in his actors the precise degree of emotion
necessary to a given scene. "I dragged her by the hair!" or "I pictured
her own mother lying dead, foully murdered, before her until she cried
aloud at the picture I had conjured." Again, "I tied my wrists together,
I rolled about the floor, struggling to free myself; I wanted to feel
just what a man would feel under similar conditions!" These and other
highly coloured statements had from time to time been served up to the
public. It is amazing how gullibly the public bites at the press-agent's
worm. In nearly all such instances nothing could be farther from the
truth. My own observation convinced me that the man's genius lay in his
ability to select the right person for the right place. Having made the
selection he played upon the _amour propre_ of his puppets. He led them
to believe he had supreme confidence in their ability. The ruse was
successful. It is the better part of human nature to want to measure up
to the good opinion of others.
His methods of conducting a rehearsal were the simplest. He had infinite
patience and perseverance. He left nothing to chance. A scene or an
effect was repeated until the "mechanics" became automatic. His voice
never rose above a conversational tone. He knew that to command others
he must first be in command of himself. He left the roaring to petty
understrappers with inflated ideas of their own importance. Once in a
blue moon he let go. The effect was electrifying. I strongly suspected,
however, that there was more or less "acting" in these outbursts. Just
as his reluctant appearance before the curtain on first nights was a
"carefully prepared bit of impromptu acting." The frightened expression
of his face; the quick, nervous walk; the almost inaudible voice when he
thanked his audience, "on behalf of the star, the author (or co-author),
the musicians, the costumers, the scenic artists" and so on down the
line; this with his mannerism of tugging at a picturesque forelock, this
alone was worth the price of admission. First and last he was a good
showman. The star who was the stepping stone to his fame and fortune
was a lady with a past. She had entered the stage door through the
advertising medium of the divorce court. After several unsuccessful
attempts at starring she placed herself under the tuition of the
manager, then allied with a school of acting. Possessed of abundant
animal vitality--"magnetism," if you prefer--as well as "temperament,"
the ugly duckling developed into a star of first magnitude. When Will
joined the company she was at the height of her success--a success which
later dulled the finer artistic restraint and listed toward a fall. But
act she could, playing upon each reed, each stop of the emotional organ,
with a conviction of which few actresses are capable. In the choice of
plays the genius of the man again displayed itself; the right play for
the right person. Doubtless, he understood that temperament, after all,
is but the flood-tide of our natural predilections.
To the layman a rehearsal is a bewildering and murky affair. Seated in
the "front of the house," in the clammy shadow of shrouded seats, a
student of human nature finds much to interest him. Under the light of a
single "bunch" or the "blanching" irregular foots, the players look old
and insignificant. The blue white light has a cruel way of exposing the
lines and seams. They sit about or stand in groups, the blue-covered
typewritten parts in hand awaiting the call of the first act. A youngish
man, probably the assistant stage-manager, sets the stage; that is, he
marks the entrances and the boundaries with plain wooden chairs and
stage-braces. The homely wooden chair plays many parts; now it stands
for a fire-place or a grand piano, again it may be a rocky pass beyond
which are the mountains.
A fagged looking man enters the stage door with a hurried, important
air. By the bundle of manuscript under his arm shall you know him. It is
the stage-manager. He greets the members of the company with a curt,
preoccupied air and hurries down to the prompt stand. There are
consultations with the working staff and perhaps with one or two of the
players. While he is thus engaged let us enquire into the personnel of
the company; that tall good-looker in the well tailored gown is a
newcomer to the stage. She has been given a small part--a half dozen
lines at best. On twenty dollars a week she carries a maid--and a jewel
case. No, she does not _have_ to work for a living; neither is she the
spoilt child of a multi-millionaire. She belongs to that great class of
women who have no class. Time hangs heavily on her hands. It looks
better to be connected with some kind of a profession; a legitimate
profession. Besides, her vanity makes her "want to do something." The
stage has always appealed to her. With a little "influence" she gets a
part. Salary is no object. Perhaps the management has saved five or ten
dollars a week on the deal. At any rate a good-looker adds "class" to
the personnel. She drives to the theatre in a taxi; sometimes she comes
in a big limousine car accompanied by an elderly gentleman with watery
eyes. On the opening night he will send her great boxes of American
Beauty roses. After the show they will sup at Rector's, and his friends
who have been in front with him will tell her how pretty she looked. Of
course she will not go on the road with the company. Dear no! She will
leave that to some other girl who is not so young, not so pretty, but
who needs the money.
The white-haired lady with the sweet face and the stern old man who has
brought her a chair are man and wife. Theirs is one of the few stage
marriages which have endured. Perhaps it is the very rarity of the case
which makes them so popular and well-beloved. One hears them invariably
referred to as "Dear old Mr. and Mrs. So and So." One looks at them
wistfully and wonders at the secret of their success....
The actor with the monocle, oddly cut clothes and the overpowering
savoir-faire is an English importation. Managers assert that the average
English actor plays the gentleman more effectively than his American
cousin. It all depends on what kind of a gentleman the role demands.
When an Englishman is called upon to portray a gentlemanly officer of
the United States Army the effect is incongruous to say the least. The
American manager, vulgar and uncouth himself, is impressed by the
English complacency. A bluffer, he has a sneaking respect for anyone who
throws a bluff and gets away with it.
The several youngish men with a hint of effeminancy in their make-up
might be called the "stationaries" or "walking gentlemen." One of this
_genre_ is to be found in nearly every company. Too proud for the ribbon
counter, too erratic for commercial life, he drifts into the profession
because he feels the call of the artistic temperament. He plays small
parts, disseminates gossip, flatters the star--or the leading
lady--reads a little, sleeps much--and drinks more.
That beefy looking man is the leading heavy. Not many years since he was
a leading man. Now when a leading man takes on flesh he is marked for a
reduction in value. The first step down in his career is the day he
begins to play heavies. To be sure, there are heavy men who never have
been leading men; these, however, come under the head of character
heavies. The gentlemanly heavy unfailingly aspires to heroic roles. The
present incumbent of villainy had "fallen on his feet." Some seasons
previously he had played an inconsequential engagement under the same
management. The star took a fancy to him. Henceforth his engagements
were assured--until the fancy waned. Everybody understood; they shrugged
their shoulders and smiled. Nobody cared. Neither did the heavy man.
Character actors without exception are envious of the leading man. "Call
that acting?" demands the man behind the make-up. "Call it acting to
walk on and play yourself? Why, it's a cinch!"
"_O, is it?_" retorts the leading man. "You ought to try it. It's the
most difficult thing in the world to walk on and be perfectly natural.
I'd like to see some of you fellows who hide behind your wigs and queer
make-ups go on and play a straight part. Why you wouldn't know what to
do with your hands!" ...
There was something plaintive about the woman who sat in the shadow of
the set-pieces, piled high against the wall. The rouge on her cheeks but
accentuated the lines in her face. The brassy gold on her hair showed
gray against her temples. "Better days" was clearly stamped all over
her. Perhaps she was thinking of those days--when _she_ was a star; when
being a star meant something more than an animated clothes-horse. Her
mother had been a great actress in the Booth and Barrett days. She,
herself, had lisped some childish lines with them. Later, she had become
a soubrette and a star in merry little plays in which she sang and
danced and "emoted," all in one evening. There are no soubrettes
nowadays. The term has degenerated into a slangy sobriquet. "Ingenue"
has replaced it; nothing is required of an _ingenue_ but saccharine
sweetness and vacuous prettiness--and youth, youth, _youth_! O, the
harvest of age! The public which she had amused for years has forgotten
her. They scarcely recall her existence: not even a hand of recognition
on her entrance. Occasionally a reviewer will dig her out of the dust of
the past--only to speak of her as "in Memoriam." Managers, too, hesitate
to engage her. There are so many has-beens and so few parts to fit them.
Besides, there are freshly spawned pupils from the divine academies to
be had for the asking. Why waste money?...
A psychical ripple disturbs the ether. Necks crane toward the door. The
star arrives. She comes slowly, with the air of one assured of an
effective entrance. She punctuates her animated conversation with the
manager with smiles and nods. That meek-looking person bringing up the
rear is the author. He gropes his way through the dark passage to the
front of the house and is lost in oblivion.
"First act!" calls the prompter. _"First act!_"
* * * * *
The play opened out of town. The working force was sent ahead with the
scenery and the baggage. There was a special train for the company.
Besides the regular staff there were costumers, flash-light
photographers, relatives of the players and guests of the management.
The guests included several critics from certain New York journals. One
of these had an ambitious wife who was a member of the company. The
other, rumour had it, was on the salary list of the management. This may
or may not have been true. Subsequent effusive reviews and the manner in
which these critics took up the cudgels against the enemies of the
manager did not, however, indicate unbiased opinion. "Subsidized or
hypnotized"--that was the question. The persuasive art of "fixing" is
not confined to politics.
When the train arrived in----, there was barely time for a hasty bite
before rushing off to the theatre. One felt the thrill of excitement at
the very stage door. Even the back doorkeeper was infected. When Will
stopped to look through the pigeon-holes for mail, the keeper of the
sacred portal was exhibiting a brand new litter of kittens. "Everyone of
'em black; just like their mother. Your show'll be a big success--talk
about your mascots!" Stage-folk are as superstitious as a nigger mammy.
A whole chapter might be devoted to their lore. One of the greatest
hoodoos is to speak the tag of a play before the opening night. The tag
of a play is the last several words immediately preceding the final fall
of the curtain. When it comes to the tag, the actor to whose lot the
final lines fall either stops with a gesture or perhaps he purloins
Hamlet's last words--"The rest is silence."
Back on the stage there was the sound of hammers, the shouts of the
stage-hands to the men in the flies, "drops" being adjusted, calls of
warning to some reckless person about to come in contact with a sandbag
at that moment lowered from the flies. Abrupt blasts of the orchestra
reach one's ears. The music cues are being rehearsed, the director
shouting against the din on the stage. On the "apron," with a bottle of
milk in his hand and surrounded by a half dozen coatless and perspiring
men, is the producer. A shaft of light darts from the spot-light machine
in the gallery, and hovers over the stage like a searchlight at sea.
Green, yellow, red and blue slides are tried and a weird waving moving
picture effect brings a shout of laughter from the privileged watchers
in front. In the dressing-rooms the players are making up. The wardrobe
mistress hurries from one to another, needle and thread in hand. There
are impatient calls for the head costumer; "Props" taps at the doors and
delivers the properties to be carried by the various actors in the play.
The actors talk across the partitions or run through lines of a "shaky"
scene. "Fifteen minutes--fifteen minutes!" warns the assistant stage
manager making the rounds. Below stage, the supers or "extra people" sit
about in noisy groups awaiting the call. Some of them are as "nervous as
a cat," to use their own expression. These are not the rank and file of
supernumeraries. The promise of a long run in New York ofttimes tempts
women who have "spoken lines" to go on as extra ladies. As a sop they
are given a leading part to understudy. The excitement is infectious.
With the lowering of the curtain and the first strains of the orchestra
one instinctively shifts forward to the edge of one's seat.
It is either the lights or a missing prop or a hiatus between speech and
action which the first acquaintance with the scenery develops or a
"jumbled" ensemble or something unexpected which brings the rehearsal to
an abrupt halt. The dialogue stops like a megaphone suddenly shut off.
The director hurries down the centre aisle, the prompter's head appears
at the proscenium arch. "Loved I not honour more!" repeats the actor,
looking expectantly off stage. "Loved I not honour more!" bellows the
stage-manager, getting into the game. "That's _your_ cue, Mr. Prime
Minister. Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones! Where _is_ Mr. Jones?"
"Jones! Jones!" reverberates about the stage and in the flies.
"Here I am! I hear you!" answers a muffled voice up-stage. "I can't get
through. The entrance's blocked with a sacred elephant!" There is a rush
of stage hands in the direction indicated. Simultaneously Mr. Jones
appears L. I. E. "I'm sorry," he says, "but I couldn't butt in through
the stone walls of the castle, now could I?" indicating the boxed set
which formed the outer walls of the scene.
The obstruction is removed amidst a heated confab and the stage cleared
for action. "Go back--go back to Miss Melon's entrance." Miss Melon
enters. The scene starts flatly enough. It is difficult to pick up a
scene and get back into the atmosphere at once. One must "warm up to
it."
A star requires an effective entrance. The audience must be apprised of
her approach. "Here she comes now!" (accompanied by a look off stage.)
Or, a flunkey enters and solemnly announces, "His Highness, Prince of
Ptomania, mounts the steps." These helpful hints prepare the reception
which the ushers start at the psychological moment. Many persons are
backward about applauding for fear of making a mistake: just follow the
usher. The supporting actors understand that they are expected to
"humour" the applause, either upon an entrance or for a scene. Stars,
however, do not always encourage applause for their supporting actors.
Some of them go so far as to "shut it off" by flashing on house light on
a curtain in which they do not figure, or dimming the foots or directing
the actors to "jump in" with the next speech.
In the midst of a scene which sends little shivers up and down one's
spinal column the star hesitates, stammers, repeats, then interpolates
while she searches frantically among the papers on the table for the
missing prop. "Where's the knife--the fatal dagger?" she demands,
dropping the role as one would step out of a petticoat. The man about to
be killed joins in the hunt for the deadly weapon. "I can't kill you
very well without a knife, can I, Jack? Unless I stab you with a
hatpin--" There is something so incongruous in the rapid contrasts that
everyone, including the star herself, gives way to laughter. Meanwhile
the stage-manager's yells for Props have brought that culprit from the
flies where he has been touching up a damp cloud with a paint brush.
"The knife!" a chorus hurls at him.
"What knife?" he demands, continuing to mix the silver lining to the
cloud.
"The dagger! I told you the last thing not to forget it!" fumes the
bumptious stage-manager.
"Aw, what's the matter with you?" replies Props witheringly. Then he
ambles down to the star, who by this time is lost in a little side-play
with her heavy man. "Miss Blank," he begins with punctuation marks
between each word, "Miss Blank, didn't you tell me to leave that knife
on your dressing table so you could place it where you wanted it on the
table centre?"
"I did, I did! I apologize, Johnny--I beg everybody's pardon!" She makes
a contrite bow toward the front of the house. Johnny shuffles off,
muttering to himself, and Madame's maid enters with the missing link.
"Let's begin at your cross," Madame says to the heavy. "Just before you
say, 'Darling, my life, my love, you're mine at last!' And Jack--I hope
your wooden chest protector is in place, for I'm going to strike
to-night just as I am going to do to-morrow night and turn it r-r-round
and r-r-round, as if I loved your blood--and Mr. Director," she glides
to the foots and shades her eyes from the glare, "Herr Director, can't
you play a little more _piano_ just at that point? I want my gurgle of
delight to get _over_--understand?... O, Mr. Hartley, while I think of
it----"
She toys with the ornaments on his dress as she speaks. "In our next
scene give me a little more room; play farther down stage. It's better
for our scene." Mr. Hartley smiles to himself as he disappears in the
wings; he is "on-to" the little tricks of stars and leading ladies. To
make a _vis-a-vis_ play the scene down stage is to rob him of any
effective participation in the scene. "To hog" is the vulgar but
expressive infinitive applied to this trick of the trade.
After many false starts, the end of the act is finally reached. The
players are then posed in certain effective scenes from the play and
the flash-light pictures are taken. Then comes a change of costume and
the second act is set. During the long wait members of the company come
in front to get a glimpse of the scenery or to discuss the play and the
performance with their friends. I recall an instance which will
exemplify the jealousy of one star for another, especially those under
the same management. During the early years of Will's career he had
played with a summer stock company. The leading woman of the
organization was now one of the stars under Will's present management.
She had come on from her country home--(her own season had not yet
opened)--and was an interested spectator of the dress rehearsal. She and
Will had kept up a desultory interest during the intervening years and
were on a friendly footing. "What do you think of the play?" he asked,
sitting down beside her.
"It's a sensation," she predicted. "How does your part pan out?"
"O, it's a fair part. I've got a couple of big scenes, but the _heavy_
makes circles all around him. If I had read the play before I signed, I
believe I should have turned it down."
"What do you care--you're the _hero_, and that is what counts with the
women. It fits you like a glove; and, speaking of parts, what do you
think of _that_ for a star-part? Did you ever see anything like it?
She's the whole show.... When I think of the _also-ran_ I am playing for
a star part ... let me tell you--just between ourselves--that he'll have
to hand me out something fatter next season or there'll be something
doing in another direction. Little Abe's syndicate has been making eyes
at me and--you never can tell. Glory! I never saw such an acting part in
my life! Why, she isn't off the stage two minutes during the whole first
act!"
* * * * *
It is past midnight when the curtain goes down on the second act. The
lights have worked badly and for an hour the electricians have been put
through the paces until the desired effect is reached. Spirits begin to
flag. The Englishman's wife sets up a tea basket; friends and relatives
are sent out for sandwiches and "something to wash 'em down." At this
stage of the siege one becomes a mere machine. There is no attempt at
acting. It is now a mechanical perfection. When the scenic effects
refuse to act on cues or "anticipate" the same, or the supers jumble and
everybody grows cross and "on edge," one shudders to realize that the
opening night is close at hand. One hopes and prays things will not go
like this to-morrow night. There is consolation in the old adage: "A
poor dress rehearsal--a good first night."
We leave the theatre when the milkman is making his rounds. A day of
fitful sleep with its undercurrent of tension; the opening night with
nerves tuned to the highest pitch, then success or failure, who can
tell? The box office is the arbiter.
The opening night is not the only strain attendant upon a new
production. One is on tenter-hooks for days, perhaps weeks, to learn
whether the play has "caught on" or not. Favourable, even laudatory,
reviews will not drag the public into the theatre if they do not like
the offering. Stars may have a certain drawing power, but "The play's
the thing." No star ever yet saved a bad play from oblivion or spoiled a
good play with bad acting.
I am sure that Will and the members of the company watched the "houses"
from the peep-holes in the curtain as eagerly as the star and the
management kept an eye on the box-office receipts. "How was the house
last night?" was the daily question I put to Will with his morning
coffee. Finally we settled back with the assurance of a season's run
ahead of us. I set in motion the plans I had outlined for myself. I
induced Will to study languages with me for a time, but his hours were
so uncertain that he finally dropped out. Music was a passion with me. I
went through a whole season of the Opera treat I had promised myself for
years. Will was fond of music, too, and sometimes we would go together
to the Sunday night concerts at the Metropolitan. Of course there were
still the dinner-parties and the supper-parties and matinees for
benevolent purposes. Will seemed to have tired of the parties and spent
more and more of his time at the Lambs. He never came home to supper
after the theatre nowadays. I missed my little talks with him across the
supper table. There was no longer any need to throw cold water in my
face to keep myself fresh until his coming. Sometimes when I was wakeful
I would hear him come in; it was generally daylight. Sometimes, on
Sunday morning, if he found me awake he would hand me the Morning
Telegram. No wonder they call it "the chorus girl's breakfast." Among
other things I did not like about the Lambs was that irritating way the
telephone boy had of asking "Who's calling, please." Will said they do
that at all Clubs.