Following Boston, the company played Philadelphia, Baltimore and
Pittsburgh. Each city has its distinguishing characteristics, but
certain types are to be found all over the country. There is always the
"fly" married woman hanging about hotel lobbies, lying in wait for the
actor or any dapper visitor who, like herself, is seeking diversion. She
drops in for a cock-tail or a high-ball and looks things over. She has a
sign manual of her own. The headwaiters know her and wink significantly
when she comes in with her friends. These women are not prostitutes in
the general acceptance of the word. They are products of our leisure
class. Their husbands are business or professional men in good standing.
With comfortable, even luxurious homes, or a stagnant life in a modern
hotel, time hangs heavily upon their hands. They have no intellectual
pursuits other than bridge and the "best seller." They pander to their
worst desires and wallow in their alcoholic-fed passions. These are the
_stall-feds_; the drones; the wasters; the menace to the womanhood of
America. These are they who are grist to the divorce mills; who clog the
yellow press with prurient tales of passion; who stigmatize innocent
children and handicap them even before birth; who breed and interbreed
with such unconcern that it is indeed a wise child that knows its own
father. And in the end, when the Nemesis of faded charms overtakes them,
the army of harlots is swelled.
The "neglected wife" has become a hoary old joke. It is worked to death.
My husband is responsible for the statement that in nine cases out of
ten women use this excuse to condone their own infidelity. "My husband
doesn't understand me; he knows nothing but business, business,
business. He doesn't realize there is another side to my nature which is
utterly starved." Or, "My husband is interested elsewhere. What am I to
do? For the sake of the children I don't want a divorce, and I am too
proud to let him see how I feel it. I am only human."
That there are neglected wives a-plenty is a truism. But it is a
spurious brand of pride which sends a woman roaming, seeking the
consolation of the Toms, Dicks and Harrys of the world. As for the
children, there are greater evils than divorce. The influence of a house
divided against itself, the surcharged atmosphere of deceit and
degrading quarrels cannot fail to impregnate a child's mind, and
probably at a time when character is being formed.
It is a lucky thing for the honour of the family that the actor is not
less scrupulous. "They who kiss and run away may live to kiss another
day" is probably indicative of the worst of his peccadillos. He takes
the goods the gods provide and credits so much popularity unto his
irresistible self. If occasionally he is "caught with the goods" it
makes good copy for the yellows. Incidentally it advertises the actor.
The woman pays the piper. "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the
gander" is likely to remain a nebulous supposition.
* * * * *
There is only one Chicago. Other cities--Pittsburgh and Cincinnati
notably--may be commonplace or vulgar, but Chicago is the epitome of
commonplace vulgarity. It struck me forcibly as I looked over the
first-night audience. The men are commonplace; the women vulgar. The
women impress one as ex-waitresses from cheap eating houses or
sales-"ladies" who have married well. Few of the male population appear
to own a dress-suit. The women wear ready-made suits with picture hats
and a plentiful sprinkling of gaudy jewelry. Some of them "make-up"
atrociously. Their manners are as breezy as the wind from the lake and
they "make you one of them" the first time you meet. If there is a
cultured set in Chicago the actor never meets them; it probably resides
in Chicago through force of circumstances, not through choice. The
middle class is super-commonplace. The smart set isn't smart; only fast
and loose. Chicago is a good "show-town." It might be better if managers
kept their word to send out the original companies. The Western
metropolis resents a slight to its dignity.
Will's management, therefore, played a trump card when it sent the New
York production and players. The house was sold out for weeks in
advance. It was evidenced on the opening night that Will had left a good
impression in Chicago from former visits. He received a hand on his
entrance. When a supporting actor is thus remembered it proves his
popularity.
After the performance we went to the College Inn with some friends of
Will's. Everybody who is _anybody_ goes to that ill-ventilated hole
below stairs; one gets a sort of _revue_ of the town's follies. Chicago
is hopelessly provincial. There is a profound intimacy with other
people's affairs. Such purveyors of privacy as the Clubfellow and Town
Topics must find it no easy matter to get copy which is not already
common property, with the edge taken off. Our host and hostess of the
evening kept up a running fire of gossip concerning the people about us.
At a table near-by sat a gross looking woman with a combative eye. Her
escort was a pliable, colourless youth, who, I assumed, was her son.
This person was on bowing terms with many of the _habitues_ of the Inn.
A number of actors lingered at her table and laughed effectively at her
sallies. When Will told me she was a certain female critic on a Chicago
newspaper I understood the homage paid her. I did not understand,
however, her reason for marrying the youth I assumed was her son. Our
hostess said something about the "grateful age" which I didn't
understand. The lady critic wrote with a venomous pen when mood or
grudge impelled her. Many an actor writhed under her lashes. It was
rumoured, however, that her bark was a great deal worse than her bite
and that if one approached her "in the right way" "she would eat out of
your hand."
Ever since a person revelling under a euphonious _nom de plume_, which
recalls to mind the romantic days of Robin Hood, perverted the function
of dramatic criticism, imitators have sprung up all over the country.
"Imitation is the truest flattery." To be caustically funny at the
expense of truth, to deal in impudent personalia, to lose one's dignity
in belittling that of others is the construction of the gentle art of
criticism which American reviewers reserve unto themselves.
Will's friends were a convivial lot. Before the evening was over our
party had been considerably augmented. Each newcomer added another round
of drinks. "Have one with me" is a strictly American characteristic.
When we broke up I had a handful of cards and a confused list of tea,
dinner and supper engagements. Fortunately I was not the only one to
get mixed. Several of the whilom hostesses simplified matters by
forgetting the invitations they had extended.
While we were waiting for the automobile one of the women chaffed Will
in the following manner: "Why, you sly, handsome pup! You never told me
you were married when you were here before."
"I supposed you knew," was Will's response.
"O, you did! Um! I never say anything about being married, either, when
I go away for a lark.... Never mind, I'll forgive you if you'll call me
up. Where are you stopping? How long is your wife going to be in town?"
The rest was drowned in the approach of the car.
We did not go to Mamma Heward's this time. Heretofore when Will played
Chicago we had lived at a theatrical boarding-house kept by a dear
little old Scotch lady. Her's was one of the few good ones throughout
the country. Unfortunately one had to take a long trolley ride to reach
her house and Will's performances ended late. Then, too, he had heard
that the table had gone off and that the service was inadequate. I
imagine, however, that Will felt he had outgrown the boarding-house
days. He decided upon a family hotel on the north side.
During the week I called on Mamma Heward and took Boy with me. It was
the first time she had seen him and she raved over him sufficiently to
satisfy even a young mother's vanity. She enquired after Will and had
kept in touch with his progress. She had always been fond of him and had
dubbed him Bobby Burns, whom he somewhat resembled. I saw she felt hurt
by our apparent desertion and tried to assure her that we should be much
happier and more comfortable with her; that if it were not for the
distance from the theatre----
The dear little old lady patted my hand as if to spare me further
dissemblance.
"That's the excuse they all give, but it's no farther than ever it was
and the theatres are as near as ever they were," she said sadly, the
Scotch burr falling musically upon the ear. "It isn't that.... They're
forgetting me now they're getting up in the world. It didn't use to be
too far when they couldn't pay more than eight or ten dollars a week for
their board ... and the little suppers Mamma had waiting for them after
the theatre...."
She sighed but there was no trace of bitterness. "It's what you must
expect when you get old and worn out.... It's the way of the world and
God was always harder on women than he is on men."
There was no answer I could make; I could not have spoken had there been
anything to say. I felt choked and on the verge of tears. It was all so
pitiful. There was an air of desolation about the place. The warmth
which prosperity radiates was no longer evident. Where formerly there
had been leading players, even a star or two, now there were only the
lower ranks, and but few of them. Nothing remained of the good old days
save the rows and rows of photographs which lined the walls, all of them
autographed and inscribed "With love, to Mamma Heward." Arm in arm we
reviewed this galaxy of players.
"There is ----," she said, stopping in front of a well-known actor. "And
that's his first wife. She was a dear, good girl. I'm afraid Herbert
didn't treat her as well as he should. Many's the time she has cried out
her heart in Mamma's arms.... She's married again--no, not an
actor--and she's got two boys, the littlest one the size of yours....
Now could you ever guess who that is? Yes, that's ---- when he was leading
man with Modjeska. The women were crazy about him.... And he was a
dear--such a kind-hearted man. I remember once how he kept the furnace
going when our man got drunk and disappeared for three days. If only I
had a picture of him shovelling in coal--his sleeves rolled up and
spouting Macbeth at the top of his lungs.... Dear old Morry! He was his
own worst enemy...."
She sighed heavily over the actor's bad end. "And there! Do you
recognize that? And isn't the boy the livin' image of his father?"
I looked more closely at the photograph. Boy's resemblance to his father
was even more clearly marked in some of Will's earlier pictures.
"Do you remember the first time you came to me? You hadn't been married
long. You had a dog, a bull terrier pup. Let me think, now, what was his
name? Yes, Billy, that's it! And do you mind how ye locked him up in
your bathroom when you went to the theatre and how he ate the matting
off the floor while ye was gone?"
We both laughed at the recollection, though I had not laughed at the
time. I was in fear lest Billy be relegated to the cellar where he would
cry out his puppy heart. But Mamma Heward was never in a bad humour. She
was all kindness and consideration ... and now she was getting old and
could no longer please an exacting clientele. The cost of living had
gone up; rents were higher; but the little old lady could get no more
for her rooms. To make both ends meet she dispensed first with one
servant, then with another, until she and one frail daughter shared the
entire work of the house. It was no easy matter to cook and serve a
dozen breakfasts in the rooms at any and all hours; to cater and prepare
meals and then to wait up until midnight that the players might have a
hot supper after the performance. How many of those whom she had tided
over the hard times, how many who had "stood her up" for a board bill,
or whom she had nursed in times of illness, remembered her now in her
time of need?
"I'm not finding fault," she said softly, breaking a long silence while
we looked beyond the pictures. "I don't blame them for not coming here
to live ... only--I wish they'd drop in to see me sometimes when they
come to town, just for auld lang syne...."
When I told Will of my visit he looked very serious. I am sure he felt
sorry we had not gone back to her. The next day we went together to see
her. Will took her a bottle of port wine. Later he sent her two seats
for the performance and I promised her that the next time we came to
Chicago we should stay with her, even if Will were a star....