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My Actor-Husband

<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> 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 confrères. "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 régime. 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 matinée 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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