For several days I lived on milk, which the janitor sent up on the dumb-waiter. I could not muster sufficient courage to go out to market. The sunlight mocked me—I resented the happy laughter of the family across the hall. The postman's ring, several days later, put new life into me. I knew the letter was from Will. I caught the postman almost before he stopped ringing, and, carrying the letter to my room, gave myself up to devouring it.
It was filled with interesting gossip about his opening, and gave humourous little side-lights of the star and personnel of the company. He bade me cheer up and not take our separation too seriously; he promised to write every day, and asked that I do likewise. I marked this precious epistle with a large "1" in blue pencil and tucked it away with the rose-leaves. Then I sat down to write—I wrote reams. It is wondrous the many modes of expressing "I love you." To distil those many pages, written in the thin, slanting hand of my girlhood, would be to extract the very essence of my life's romance—or, shall I say, tragedy.
I lived for the postman's ring. Sundays were the hardest to bear; there was no mail delivery. The weeks dragged on at snail's pace. Finally, loneliness and isolation drove me to a state of desperation, which, in turn, gave me the necessary courage to visit the agencies. Will was reluctant to have me take an engagement alone; he made me promise that I would not take such a step without first consulting him. Indeed, had he but known it, the thought of again travelling alone in a theatrical company was distasteful to me; naturally sensitive and of a retiring disposition, my first season in the dramatic profession had left some unpleasant memories. It was difficult to accustom myself to enter an hotel lobby alone, or, if in company with other members of the organization, to hear our party referred to as the "troupe." The ubiquitous drummer lounging at the hotel desk regarded us with brazen audacity, and made audible comments. Then, to enter a dining-room unattended, either to be corralled at a table with the other members of the company, or, if seated elsewhere, to be further subjected to the advances of a "travelling salesman." Again, when walking to the theatre or to the railroad station, to see the town-folk turn curiously, regarding the players with a condescending smile, which curled the corners of the mouth downward as they whispered, "Show people." In larger cities these marks of opprobrium are less pronounced, but, nevertheless, exist. I resented this attitude towards the theatrical profession until I became better acquainted with it. There be those who mistake liberty for license, and seemingly the freedom from restraint and the lack of conventionality, which the life affords, appear to be one of the chief attractions for adopting it.
However, it was expedient that I should work. I dangled before my willing eyes the reward of the future—that time when my husband and I should play together. I even planned that we should be an example to others in our devotion and high moral purpose; and so, by reducing expense of maintaining two establishments—the flat in New York and Will's living on the road—we should be better equipped to hold out for a joint engagement for the following season.
One morning, while waiting in the office of an agent to whom Will had introduced me, I was drawn into conversation with an actress whose photographs adorned the walls of the room. There was an air of importance about her, quite distinct from that of the other women who were waiting; these women wore an abject expression. They had relaxed the mechanical expression of "bien être" as the weariness of waiting wore upon them; in spite of the make-up—more or less skilfully applied—their faces were drawn and strained. Their clothes, too, told of the attempt to keep up appearances. I felt a sympathy and fellowship for these unemployed; I wondered whether they too, were, by the force of circumstances, separated from their loved ones.
Miss Burton, the lady of some importance, broke my train of thought by precipitately asking me to "come and have a cup of tea." She assured me she would not let me miss "old Tom"—calling the agent by the familiar diminutive—and that having sent for her he was bound to wait. "It makes all the difference in the world whether they send for you, or whether you go to them for an engagement," she told me, with a sententious nod of her head. She was so bright and vivacious, and so wholly un-selfconscious that, for a moment, I was drawn out of my dreamy loneliness.
We went to a near-by hotel. "You take what you like," she said, summoning the waiter. "Beer for mine!"
I took tea.
While we sipped our respective beverages she told me about herself. She was a well-known comédienne—"'soubrettes' they called them in the old days," she volunteered. She had been with "Charley" Frohman off and on for years, and expected to go back to him.
"I've been in his bad books," she went on. "I had a good thing, and I didn't know it. When I think how I got in wrong all on account of those two big stiffs—!" My inability to follow her was probably expressed in my face, for she immediately rattled on: "You see, it was like this. When Jack and I were married we were in the same Company. He was what they call the 'Acting Manager,' travelled on the road and represented the New York office—understand? Well, the next year we didn't get an engagement together; he went off on the road and I created a part in a New York production. It was simply—hell! We used to make the most God-forsaken jumps, just to be together over Sunday. Why, once I can remember I rode all night in the caboose of a freight train to some little dump of a town where Jack's Company had played on Saturday night. Can you beat it? Oh, I tell you, I had it bad." And Miss Burton buried her feeling and her face in the stein of beer. After a pause she continued: "Well, the same devilish luck followed us the next season; we couldn't dig up an engagement together for love or money—and we slipped a nice little roll to several of the agents, too. It just seemed as if managers were dead set against having a man and wife in the same company. Some of 'em acknowledge it right out loud, if you please! They claim a man and wife in the same company make trouble; either they want to share the same dressing-room, or the husband kicks if his wife gets the worst of it in the dressing-room line. Or, if the husband happens to be a manager, there's the temptation to favour his wife, and somebody else kicks up a row. Oh, they've got excuses enough, whether they're justifiable or not. Anyway, that's the kind of bunk you're up against when you marry in the profession.... Where was I?... Oh Well, after two seasons of separation, it dawned on me that Jacky wasn't so keen about making long jumps to see wifey; pretty soon I began to hear gossip—he was carrying some fairy's grip in the company he was with. Then I began to watch him ... I caught him with the goods all right.... Exit, hastily, Jacky!" and, with an expressive wave of her hands to indicate his departure, Miss Burton called for another stein.
I fear I appeared a perfect idiot in the voluble little lady's eyes. I could not muster a comment of any description. Miss Burton, however, did not notice my omission, for she raced on with the same energy of expression.
"That blow pretty nearly killed Mother, I can tell you. I was in love with Jack all right.... It broke me all up to have him throw me down for a second-rate soubrette like that. I wish you could have seen it—one of these 'I'm so temperamental' kind of dopes. She threw him down as soon as she'd used him for what he was worth.... I took to the booze. Whew! I did go it hard for a while! That's what queered me with C. F.... Then, what d'ye think I did?" Miss Burton leaned forward to better impress me with the importance of her revelation: "I tried it a second time.... This one was an actor: one of those handsome, shaving-soap advertisement kind of faces—beautiful teeth, and workin' the smile overtime to show 'em!... Black curly hair, high brow, chesty—you know—the real thing in heavy men.... Mash notes, society ladies making goo-goo eyes at him, and forgetting to invite me to those little impromptu suppers. Ha!... don't ask me! It was worse than the first.... No, ma'am, matrimony and the stage don't mix. They ought to nail over every stage door this warning: 'All ye who enter here, leave matrimony outside.' Yes, I know what you are going to say—that there are happy marriages among stage folks, and you'll name some of the shining examples. The domestic felicity of Mr. Great Star and his wife makes up well in print. But, wait awhile.... Have you finished with your tea? Let's step in the ladies' room—I'm dying for a smoke."
On our way back to the office, Miss Burton asked me about myself. When I spoke of Will, she turned sharply and looked at me with a hurt expression.
"Why, you poor kid! Why didn't you tell me you were married? Now, don't