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My Actor-Husband

<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> 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 habitués 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 clientèle. 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.... <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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