Over the Foot-Lights

THE morning after my dábut I was in no haste to rise from the pillow on which I had passed a dreamless and refreshing night. I felt much as one feels who, having embarked upon a voyage full of novelty and adventure, suffers himself to be borne onward by the prevailing wind, and shifts all further responsibility upon the captain.

I was no longer my own master; if it pleased the manager to summon me to rehearsal at the midnight hour, it was my duty to answer the call, provided my bodily health was equal to the task, He could cast me for any part he pleased, though I had shipped as juvenile, and by rights was subject to nothing outside of the young lover and dutiful son business.

If I declined to enact any rôle set down to the juvenile, I was liable to a peremptory and unqualified discharge from the company; it was, however, my privilege to speak my mind freely in case I found myself doomed to assume a character that seemed eminently unsuited to my peculiar talents. All this I turned over in my mind while I congratulated myself that the bill for the evening was a repetition of the last night’s performance, and that, it was to be succeeded by a change of programme which relieved me for a night or two from any duties whatever, save that of holding myself in readiness to answer a call in case of the sudden indisposition of any member of the company whose services were in requisition.

This substitution is by no means agreeable, and the substitute, after having passed two or three hours in the swiftest possible study, is generally introduced to the audience by the manager, who makes an apology before the curtain at the beginning of the play; a pitiful consolation for the embarrassed actor who is thus led to the sacrifice an unwelcome and unwilling victim, recking with fresh cues that start at the slightest provocation and threaten to ruin all. I believe the litany of the profession contains this supplementary petition: “ From sudden calls, good Lord, deliver us! ”

It is excessively monotonous work trying to lie abed when there is no further prospect of napping. I had no rehearsal that morning, but I was getting hungry, and it occurred to me that I had not seen the morning papers. I arose, dressed, and was about quitting the room when I was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Enter the comedian from the rival theatre, whom until that hour I had known only by reputation; on the previous night he had played the first gravedigger in Hamlet, and had found time to slip over to our house and see how I was beginning my career. As a member of the profession and one having its interests at heart, he wished to congratulate me upon my success in standing still when I had nothing else to do, and in making my voice heard even to the limits of the building; two points decidedly in my favor. He proffered his sympathy and his wardrobe, and hoped we should be friends, which, by the way, we have not failed to be ever since.

This pleasant episode, though trifling, was an excellent appetizer, and I sat at breakfast that morning with uncommon composure, ordering the delicacies and the dailies of the season to the evident admiration of the youthful waiter, whose patronizing servility made me suspect that he had been one of our audience on the eventful night.

The papers were, as usual, curt, critical, and uncompromising; it was announced that “ with the exception of the usual nervousness betrayed by novices, Mr. Blank did fairly, and with patience, etc., etc., ... in the arduous, etc., etc. . . . it was not unlikely that his future would be, etc.” The same was probably left standing, ready for insertion on the occasion of the very next début.

It is hard to speak fairly of a novice; it is hard for the novice to know just what position he occupies in the profession ; after the experiences of a few weeks he ceases to be promising, and is judged according to the actual work he does.

I was still in the chrysalis state and required careful handling; all who approached me confessed it in their manner; and though the encouragement of my friends, like sunshine, was calculated to burst my shell and dry my wings for me, I was conscious of a large proportion of suspended judgment that only waited the first feeble flutter of those wings to burst upon me like a northern blast.

Since there was no rehearsal — delicious thought, how it recurred to me again and again! — since I was free, I walked; what else can one do in a strange town where he has few or no acquaintances? At the first corner I ran against the leading man from the opposition house, an old friend and a fellow of infinite talents and versatility, and together we wended our way into the suburbs.

The morning air was glorious; the willows along the bank of the sluggish river were budding and leafing, birds flitted before us with fluttering confidence, children worked their way to school by slow and easy stages, and we strolling players footed it in the best of spirits, given up to the sensuous enjoyment of liberty and nature.

Small wayside hospices were scattered over the country, for there was much travel along the river, and poor Yorick, my comrade, having earned for himself the unenviable reputation of godfather to all liquor dispensaries, was usually greeted familiarly by the portly Teutons, who seemed to he sitting in the sun for a living, they made such a business of it.

In our morning wanderings I discovered that it is not uncommon for actors to receive smiles of recognition from people who are utter strangers to them; men who have grown friendly with their faces over the foot-lights, and who, almost unconsciously, begin to claim acquaintance with them. This is sometimes pleasant, but it is oftener a bore, as a one-sided friendship is apt to be.

Yorick had played numerous and lengthy engagements in S-, and being a comedian of the genial and persuasive order, it was rather difficult to avoid smiling as one passed him, in memory of the many hearty laughs enjoyed at his hands.

“Who was that?” asked I, when we had parted with a garrulous youth whose familiarity was by no means a matter of doubt. Yorick hadn’t the slightest idea who or what he was; could n’t remember having seen him before; was always meeting such fellows and despaired of classifying more than one in a dozen.

I suppose we might have walked till doomsday on that narrow, grassy path by the river-side, and repeated the experiences of the first half-hour with little or no variation ; but it was becoming tiresome to watch the human buttresses on the sunny sides of the tap-houses, while Yorick was invariably recognized by word or look; and we returned home after a couple of hours passed in that retreat from the town and its professional associations, with the hope of a quiet moment constantly destroyed by some unfeeling spectator who advertised my friend gratuitously, not to say indelicately.

It seemed that anything like real privacy was almost impossible in the life of an actor; his face or his manner betrayed him wherever he went; he was forced to play his part in the street as well as on the stage, and was never thoroughly au naturel save alone in his own room, or in the society of some intimate friend who had bridged over the chasm that Yawns between public and private life.

I learned this lesson almost immediately and in the following manner: after my first breakfast in the profession, — I like to draw a sharp line in my brief experience and make the most of it, — after breakfast I was on my way to nowhere in particular, and consequently was not progressing very rapidly, when I discovered a show-window whose attractions were irresistible. I paused to contemplate. A couple of youngsters drew near, and one of them, recognizing me as the débutant of the previous night, nudged his companion and whispered audibly, “ That feller made his first appearance last night, and he done bully!” The whole tableau was reflected in the large plate-glass of the window, and as I stood with my hack to the youthful critic I was enabled to conceal my blushes, while the two regarded with some interest the breadth of my shoulders and the cut of my back hair.

I observed that, the postman was more polite than formerly, so soon as I had grown somewhat familiar to the public of S-; likewise that I never lacked companionship very long at a time; for if I were alone I had only to pause at a street corner or to lounge among the docks, and sooner or later some one or other would sidle up to me and begin a mild order of conversation that was not entirely disagreeable, though nothing very good can be said of it.

Had I felt at ease in my mind, all would have been well. I received much encouragement; my deficiencies in the shape of wardrobe and properties were cheerfully supplied by the various members of our company; there were some who envied me, however uncharitable it may seem, — I could not envy them. My acquaintance was sought in several quarters, and I was the recipient of much attention. Probably something was the matter with me, for I remember that one evening I appeared in Hessiantops, the property of the leading-lady, who frequently assumed male attire; silk tights belonging to the soubrette, now a blonde star in the East with her own burlesque company; a hat and ostrich feather by kind permission of the heavy villain, as well as various other articles contributed from sundry sources — and yet I was not happy!

It was hard study that discouraged me; I had ever a cue in my throat, and tasted it at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even at the late supper after the play, which is almost one of the necessities of professional life.

It seemed to me that lengths never could be learned, and the worst feature of the case was that I never knew when I had mastered them. I carried about in my mind fragments of dialogue of no earthly interest to me, tail ends of speeches with my responses fitted in between them; I had little or no knowledge of the scene itself any further than was evidenced by my personal connection with it. Few who have not attempted to commit to memory page after page of dialogue can realize the tediousness of such a task. Our manuscript plays were dealt out to us in slices, and not one of us had any thorough knowledge of the plot, for we knew only such fragments of it as we had participated in; and had the play run to this hour the chances are we should have been none the wiser.

It is easy enough for histrionic aspirants to envy the actor whose lines are learned in a few hours, and whose part has only to he repeated night after night for an indefinite period. The whole day is at his disposal, and ’there are few admirers of the drama who would not take pleasure in entertaining him. But there comes a time when the business is bad, the houses poor, the treasury low; the bill must he changed frequently in order to retain the few regular play-goers, and perhaps attract others; a new part every day for a week or two, with a long rehearsal in the forenoon, and a slow, painful, and unsatisfactory representation at night,— all this is by no means a pleasant preparation for the study of a fresh part after midnight.

Happy the man whose negative mind seizes at once upon the body of the matter, retains it long enough to answer his purpose, and then lets it fade from his memory!

One’s best study is usually done just before sleeping; I therefore found it advisable to commit as much of my part as possible after my return home at midnight, for there was only time for a single rehearsal of the play which was to be produced on the following evening. Very often I was overcome with fatigue. Sometimes it seemed impossible for me to keep my eyes open, and at the suggestion of an old stager who had been pressed with work in his day, I bound a wet towel about my head and in this way drove off sleep, though at the same time I nearly blistered my forehead, and in the end gained very little by the operation.

Of course there was a rest from these labors — precious days when my mind was unburdened, and precious nights when I was comparatively my own master; though even then, somehow I seemed to gravitate to the theatre like a moth to the flame that consumes it; why, I know not, unless it was because there and only there did I hope to find the sort of sympathy so necessary to my life just then.

My best friends held me at armslength, because they felt the invisible breach in the relationship, and new acquaintances were drawn to me by reason of my association with the theatre, an association which casts a traditional glamour over every one that comes within its magic bounds; there was the difference of sea and land between us, and when I was in the body of the house to witness a play, and should have been grateful for the privacy vouchsafed Messrs. Tom, Dick, and Harry in their characters of first, second, and third citizens, I felt the necessity of assuming an air of distraction I was far from feeling. I felt that I was being privately quizzed by the next row, and I felt it because I was an exmember of the row in question and had done considerable quizzing in my day.

All actors are subject to this merciless though silent inquisition, and their agony is increased in proportion to their popularity and the position they may occupy in the theatre. Many a sensitive and retiring man has been spared the rack of criticism off the stage by reason of the small type that usually announced him in the bills of the evening

Probably judicious advertising has more influence upon the uncultured masses than the highest dramatic art, but the personal magnetism of genius is more persuasive than either.

I have seen an actor who lacked style, versatility, and power; whose impersonations were neither finished nor original; whose voice was not charming, and whose manner was inelegant: yet there was something about him that attracted you, and every one in the house instinctively reached out to him with a cordial spirit that insured him an unqualified success.

I have seen a star whose art was evident in the exquisite pose, the melodious utterance, the fine play of the features that were in themselves a panoroma of the passions; yet he lacked magnetism, and nothing but the extravagant eulogies of the press, and a fashion of seeing celebrities, drew his audiences together. Even when they had assembled there was a coldness in the house that must have chilled the performers, and doubled the fatigue of their impersonations.

A crowded house is not often an enthusiastic one; people do not gush when they are hot and uncomfortable. A scattered audience on a damp night has been known to enter so heartily into the spirit of a performance that the actors have been roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, the curtain falling upon one of the most spirited representations of the season. As a rule, bad weather is not desirable, and the gloom of a thin house is not easily dispelled.

Once our unhappy company played to an audience that seemed possessed of the spirit of disapproval; the evening was disagreeable; a heavy mist began falling about sunset; the atmosphere was muggy and relaxing; everything was sticky, and even the jolliest of us showed little or no signs of mirth. It was a benefit night, one of all others to hope for a remunerative and indulgent audience. Our empty benches looked bleak and ragged, the gas-meter was defective, —at any rate the light was poorer than common, — and to crown all, the beneficiary had a misunderstanding with his wife at the unseasonable hour of seven P. M., and as she went into hysterics and was unable to come out of them in season, the “ delightful comedietta.” was withdrawn and a farce substituted.

The audience bad not even the spirit to acknowledge this unavoidable imposition. but sat stolidly in little melancholy groups all over the bouse, looking rather lonesome than otherwise. The farce went off without an audible sign of satisfaction or disapproval; the burlesque was called and we proceeded to recite some hundreds of doggerel lines in a very semi-amusing fashion. A whole scene passed without awakening an audible response from the front; the puns went off like squibs, there was no snap to them; it was evident that something must be done. In the off moments, while we stood in the wings, with shawls thrown over us, — our scanty costumes being scarcely sufficient for the severity of the evening, — we resolved to double our humor, to play with increased abandon, and to create some symptoms of merriment in the audience at any hazard. We did absurd things that amused us greatly, we were boisterous and belligerent, yet the audience was evidently bored. It began to be a huge joke; we actually enjoyed it; or was it delirium that caused us to laugh in each other’s faces, to skip about the stage and discharge our cues at random, utterly regardless of the proprieties and of the reputation of the house? When we had danced the last cancan in an atmosphere of red fire and tinsel, the audience deliberately turned its hack on us and shuffled toward the street, as we bowed our acknowledgment to a sympathizing friend who was doing his best to create an agreeable disturbance by trotting his cane on the floor — and this, by the way, was the first applause of the evening.

Probably such nights are not common in the career of an actor ; I trust they are not, for the salary which is drawn on the following Monday is scarcely a compensation for the moral and physical exhaustion that necessarily follows such an effort.

Matinées are a thorn in the flesh; they never seem like the genuine article, and moreover, the thought of having to repeat the performance in the evening of the same day is dispiriting. Matinée audiences are composed mostly of ladies. Now the gentler sex no doubt is appreciative, emotional, and not infrequently demonstrative, but it is a fact that women do not know how to applaud; neither can they charge the atmosphere with the subtle essence, call it what you will, which the actor feels the moment he steps upon the stnge, and which is as necessary to his professional life as the air he breathes. He recognizes it in the warm glow that seems to radiate from the body of the house; his step is lighter, his nervous energies are tuned to concert-pitch; the people play upon him as upon an instrument, and he responds in fuller harmony; he has confidence in the support of the friendly throng that has resolved itself into a unit; he precipitates himself into his rôle, and is often unconscious of himself and of the audience and of everything save the character which he is realizing for the time. It is at such moments that an actor achieves his greatest triumphs, and they are each a genuine inspiration aided by powerful and sufficient human sympathy.

We never could play to an audience of Jewesses and children, but. usually walked through our parts with a determined indifference that was as tedious to us as it must have been unsatisfactory to the auditors; it seemed to us an imposition to demand a double entertainment on Saturdays and holidays, for which the management could expect but half prices at best, and the quality of which was little better than counterfeit. I am inclined to think that no dramatic representation, the success of which depends upon the completeness of the illusion, can be given successfully in the day-time. The spirits of earth, air, and sea forbid; it is the legitimate offspring of night and mystery.

The actor should sink his individuality forever; unless he is equal to this sacrifice he is only half an actor. He withdraws from the public and becomes a medium through whose genius the creations of the poets are born again; but the moment his inspiration ceases, he is nothing more than the least of us. Yet so distinctive is his calling that it seems a breach of the proprieties to meet him in common life; he looks out of place when he enters the auditorium, and talks out of place when he seeks to be natural among every-day men. What is more jarring than to see a tragedy queen, whose death agonies have held an audience spell-bound, step out before the curtain and smile a temporary farewell to the applauding house? I strove to preserve my integrity by keeping aloof from the public save in my professional calling; I avoided the lounging-places where many of my comrades passed much of their time in familiar intercourse with people who were not of us; I walked among unfrequented streets, and courted solitude. I remember a little river-side saloon that tempted me to loiter one glorious morning when I was wandering, book in hand, my attention divided between the exquisite spring landscape and my tedious study; there was such a comely woman sitting behind such a clean bar, and not a customer in sight, besides myself; I ordered a glass of beer and seated myself on a rustic bench out under the willows. The morning was positively seductive, the river close at hand flowed musically onward, the beer was good; I dreamed over a stage copy of Louis XI. until I was sick unto death of my cues, and fell to thinking upon the vicissitudes in the actor’s life.

With infinite labor he builds up his reputation, for his pains he becomes the idol of the hour; yet in the midst of his triumphs he is subject to reverses, and has to fight his way to success in every new community he visits. While he is yet young and aspiring, a new star glimmers in the horizon, whose charming splendor already threatens to cast him into the shade; he outlives his popularity, and unless his tenacity is uncommon he descends from his high estate and plays the ancient in good earnest, with the pitiful prospect of at last making his exit from the stage of life to the mournful music of a little faint applause. Some actors never rise; the lower rounds of the ladder are crowded with aspirants upon whose heads and shoulders is borne the burden of success, the success that they are concerned in yet not permitted to share. But actors are necessary adjuncts to the complete isolation of a star performer; they are the shadows in the picture that heighten the lights, and for the most part they are entirely worthy of their obscurity by reason of a negative talent that is only serviceable in filling up the spaces.

I thought of all this as I sipped beer under the willows, and a reconsideration of the matter leads me to believe that there is more body than froth iu my conclusions. About me were multitudes of pretty spots for young actors to Study iu— bo wers, lawns, old boats, and shady bends in the river where one could begin his task with commendable relish; but somehow the birds or the bees or the boats on the river wooed my mind away, and I forgot my lines and did nothing but enjoy myself — which is perhaps what God wished me to do all the while.

At any rate I was homesick for private life and longed for liberty; I was tired of being recognized by people who were nothing whatever to me but mere people, such as the world is full of, and the most of whom one cannot afford to cultivate.

Back to rehearsal on the doublequick, having only a running glimpse of the thousand pleasant things that appealed to me; by no means perfect in my part, and dreading the long hours that were to be spent in tlie dubious half-light of the stage, everybody reading their lines and having eyes and ears for nothing else. How I struggled with my humor those mornings, and tried hard to be civil while I was spoiling for the opportunity of legitimate escape from a kind of slavery I had voluntarily assumed!

Everything about the theatre seemed hateful to me; I was choking for sweet air that did n’t smell of paint, and starving for companionship that did n't bring up associations of the business! Away off in the shadows of the dresscircle loafed some one who could go out into daylight, and stay there; I envied him with all my heart. Far up under the roof a couple of those absurd windows that get lost in the rear-wall of a theatre let in a stream of blue, dusty light that looked as though you might walk on it, it was so thick and dingy; it was about the only natural thing on the premises, and I took to it, but hated the size and shape of the windows, that seemed to mock heaven with six panes of glass, and got a bad quality of sunshine for their impudence.

In those moods I used to feel that the happiest moment of my life would come when I could step out before the green curtain and bow over the foot-lights to an immense audience that was afraid of me; while I transfixed them with the sternness of my gaze, I would address them thus : —

“Ladies and gentlemen! While thanking you for the applause with which you have been kind enough to favor me during my brief and (to my heart if not my pocket) profitable engagement, permit me to say that I have found the relationship between actor and audience so variable and uncertain, that I for one cannot feel secure in trusting my happiness to your hands.

“ But, thank God! this is a free country, and I am at liberty to go my way rejoicing, provided there is anything to rejoice at; this sequel hangs upon the returns of my farewell benefit! Till then, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to be your most obedient servant! ”

Charles Warren Stoddard.