The One I Knew Least of All, Part I

It is one of the many blessings of life in the theater that we are delightfully busy being someone else, and need have scarcely an inkling of ourselves. That doubtful pleasure can always be deferred. And what a mercy! If we really knew ourselves, how could we endure it?

To make one's own acquaintance is difficult enough under ordinary circumstances; but if life is begun pretending to be Eva, the youthful heroine of Uncle Tom's Cabin, or Little Paul in The Octoroon, or this or that other little boy or girl, it becomes increasingly difficult to separate whom from which. “Ourself” becomes more and more indistinct and nebulous, much more visionary than the very real children, all written out in black and white, that we spend conscious hours in learning. They are real children, not at all intangible like the wispy thing inside us which is always asking questions that never seem to be answered!

Children take to the stage as ducks to water; and surely there can be no kinder life than that which hedges in a child of the theater, and never in all her life will she meet more gentle people. But, to the one I knew least, the theater was always a tug of war with her father. He did not which his child to “make a little goose of herself.” In the beginning, it was rather in the nature of a dare. It seems she wished to show him that she would not “make a little goose of herself,” aged five, and so that first false step was taken.

[ In this part there is verification that she acted in Uncle Tom's Cabin at some time in her career. Few sources of her actually list that and I don't know if it was an actual play that she was in, or if it was some informal play she and some other children put on for their parents. The Octoroon is an normally listed play of hers, however. Her first actual appearance was as a nine-month old infant in the play The Lost Child. ]

A Place with Huge, Dark Spaces

Just where it was or which one of her it was, I can't recall; but certainly it is in a theater I see her first of all. The scene has all the hallmarks of a first rehearsal. her mother's hands were busy with friendly greetings; a fold of a skirt was a prop and support in a great empty place with huge, dark spaces; at the edge of a still deeper blackness there was a lighted gas jet, and a man sitting under it by a table. Even great actors approached that table with a certain deference, and lesser ones with trepidation. It was there that a part was handed to her. Then quietly at home the part was read aloud to her; in a short time she could repeat it all herself, and that was all there was to the matter. Except that after a while she was allowed to put the pink and white powders on her face herself, and that was very interesting. Black on the eyes was much more difficult; it was a long time before she could manage that.

At six she liked to be consulted about the business arrangements with her managers-her salary and how long the engagement was to last. I remember distinctly her disapproving a certain engagement because the offer fell below her accustomed salary. During this period I find her rather haughty. She didn't care to act with children who were not professionals. At Christmastime there was usually a festival with singing and dancing, and many children, not of the theater, took part as fairies and sprites and gnomes. She found the rehearsals rather trying; the children seemed to have had so little experience; she felt herself distinctly a professional among amateurs.

[ I have read this about Maude Adams elsewhere, that she was able to learn her parts quite quickly, even at a very young age, so she's not bragging here, just stating a fact. Also, it's clear that from the very get-go she was taking an interest in many different aspects of acting in a theater, not just performing alone. ]

Mazeppa's Fearsome Horse

Though she was much happier when she herself was playing, it was sufficiently exciting when she was allowed to stand in the wings and watch; especially when Mazeppa was played by a beautiful Australian actress who came to California to astound and delight. Night after night Mazeppa was bound on a big white horse that, after a little show of resistance, trotted conscientiously up an inclined plane to the fly floor, that mysterious place forty or fifty feet above the stage. It was dangerous and thrilling, especially thrilling to one whose heart was divided between her love of riding and her fear of horses. In spite of a worthy desire, she never overcame her fear of them and she was never quite sure which end of a horse was the more terrifying; both ends seemed equally unaccountable. On the whole, perhaps tails had it.

Antony and Cleopatra was the pinnacle of romance; Romeo and Juliet was not a favorite. Strangely enough, at the age of ten, Cleopatra seemed everything that was proper and queenly, and Juliet was thought a little forward. Then, too, so many ladies of the theater had made sheaths of themselves for daggers that there was no confidence in that kind of death, and asps and snakes seemed a more real and solid way of getting at it.

Some of her earlier experiences made her suspicious of temperament. Perhaps that explains her complete lack of it in after years. When General Sherman came to San Francisco, a performance in his honor was given at the theater. The one I knew least escaped from school and in black satin breeches and manners irreproachable-were they not all carefully marked in the part?-she was pressed into the mold of that hapless young prince, Louis XVII. The evening of General Sherman's visit stays in mind not because of General Sherman, I am sorry to say, but for personal reasons. At the climax of the play, when the raging populace outside was seeking the young prince, the star was supposed to beg His Highness to throw himself on a sofa, which he would deign to do; then, concealing him under a large cushion, the star would seat herself beside him with affected calmness just as the populace broke down the doors and came rushing in.

The night of General Sherman's visit everyone was nervous. It was a matter of anxiety to little Louis, for the star was an excitable lady, renowned for temperament, and there was no telling what she would do. the moment came, the crowd reached the climax of its fury and then, without asking the prince his wishes or giving him time to do anything, the lady seized him, threw him into a corner of the sofa and sat upon him whole-heartedly, not merely on the edges as rehearsed. It was a relief when the run of that play was over. It remained in mind always as a very undignified play.

General Grant had returned from his voyage around the world; his ship was lying in the harbor off North Beach, and all the city went down to pay its respects. Naturally “the family” considered it a very important event, one the child would remember all her life. But unfortunately as they reached the dock, their offspring became fascinated by a beautiful white cockatoo shrieking outside one of the bathing houses, and it was impossible to drag her from the spot. General Grant-phf!- was as nothing beside the glorious bird! A disappointed by an understanding “family” arranged that she should linger with the cockatoo while the family went off to the ship by themselves. The woman in charge told beautiful stories of all the rows and rows of birds that had been brought by sailors from foreign ports. How cynicism creeps into our lives! I wonder not if any of those stories were true.

Her father was always a faithful ally. It was in the days when children were decked in black velvet coats and skull-tight white lace caps, hideous things with ribbon, pink or blue, twining in and out. Her father detested those caps; so did she, but they were the fashion. An unhappy Sunday came when the walk with Father was halted; he refused to have his child seen in one of those ridiculous caps. Her spirits lifted; but her mother was firm. What nonsense! All the children were wearing them; besides, her old hats would not go with black velvet, and at any rate they were shabby. But no one walked that day, and the cap was put away for the next Sunday.

When the next Sunday came, a mysterious thing had happened; the cap had disappeared. Her mother searched and searched, high and low; everyone searched-except her father. In the midst of the perplexity it became evident that, for no reason whatever, her mother was laughing. And presently an old hat, a favorite, was brought out, and everyone walked that day, Mother the gayest one of all.

[ It's fascinating that she was able to see two of the greatest soldiers from the Civil War, General Grant and General Sherman. The Civil War is still very fresh in the minds of Americans at the time, and tens of thousands of men (and some women) had died during the conflict. Later Maude Adams would be paid a person visit by President Rutherford B. Hayes. Maude Adams ended up rich and famous, but she didn't seem to look down her nose at anyone less fortunate than herself, although her tendency towards a severe isolationism makes it somewhat difficult to determine her own personal preferences among people. ]

Vastly Entertaining Things

'The one I knew least' was always going back and forth visiting her grandmother, and homing again to Father. At Grandmother's there were vastly entertaining things; Cows and sheep and horses and dogs and-freedom! She could go anywhere she chose, aided and abetted by a young uncle who was gifted with imagination.

This young uncle conceived the idea of tying a large tin bucked to old Tom's tail-Tom was a very old white horse-and, stuffing his young relative into the bucket, this young uncle started her off on a trouble tour of adventure. It wasn't very satisfactory to her, but it put a great deal of life temporarily into Tom.

It pleased this same young uncle to put his niece through her paces mounted on a sheep that never would go by the gate, but always spoiled the fun by turning into the corral again. It was exciting for the niece while the gallop lasted, and there was always a chance that she wouldn't fall off before the sheep got through the gate; it was a false hope, however, for she always did fall off.

But Grandmother's farm was an entrancing place, and what mattered a few broken arms and bumped noses? When nothing better offered, a cow's tail was a convenient thing to swing on. And there were fields to roam, whole fields of wild flowers, and trees to climb with cherries at the top. And oh, the sweet-smelling hay in the barn, and the swing tied to one of the rafters! she always fell out of that, two.

Then there was the railroad train, and the exciting journey back to Father across the prairies which never seemed lonely, so full were they of fairies dancing under sagebrush 'trees,' each bush a mighty oak; and there were all the friendly prairie dogs, and she wondered who lived at the end of the long road that stretched away and away till the train left it still groping toward the sunset.

The fly in the ointment of going home to her father was that it involved certain periods of school. She never understood children; they were a blank wall. She was used to older people and to the rather ceremonious manners of the people of the theater. There was a fearful feud with her young uncle; they met in the city street; he waved his hand to her and didn't raise his hat! She was seven, I think. The unpleasantness lasted for several days until, some adventure being forward, it was put aside but not forgotten. She could find no common ground with children. They were always asking such impertinent questions too. When she asked questions she asked older people whose business it was to know-not little young things, who certainly could have no information on the subject.

School itself would not have been so dreadful, had it not been for 'jography'; that was the ghastly thing in life. Those miserable rivers that were said to 'rise' here, there and the other place. In those days they were not described as 'flowing' into, but 'emptying' into something else. It was all foolish; the rivers didn't 'rise,' they went along quite flat, and if they did anything they fell. At a tender age she found herself at the mouth of the Mississippi, and the emptying process seemed to have had no effect whatever. It was very disappointing and confusing. She was always glad to escape from these fol-de-rols to the serious life of the theater, and a glorious day came when it was decided that she should not go to school at all until she was ten. her parts in the theater had taught her lessons beyond those required of children her own age at school, and she was thought too young to attempt the work of the older children. So it was decided that she should not go to school at all until she was older; a very satisfactory decision, opening up vistas of freedom and her beloved theater.

Just at that time, as chance would have it, a foreign star was playing in San Francisco; through some change of plans, she needed a larger company and there was a part for a child. the difficulty was that it meant a long engagement and a journey to New York. Her father didn't approve the venture; but to her mother the idea of seeing New York was irresistible, and whatever her mother wanted was beyond words desirable.

Unfortunately, her father was right. Traveling in the East was a very different matter from traveling in California. Every day matters seemed to grow worse. The company toiled through endless little towns; the trains were small, the hotels primitive and meager; and for the grown-up members of the company it must have been a time of more than usual hardship.

But New York was there, still beckoning; and that gave fortitude to the wanderers. It was a really very easy for the child; for always when things were too troublesome, her mother would remember some delightful story. They were leaving a tiny place early one morning and they heard a queer noise-some geese fussing under the window; and while they trotted down to the railway station, hand in hand in a world white with a waning moon, her mother told the story of Rome, and how the cackling of geese had saved the ancient city from the invaders.

The daily trials seemed very small when a real disaster came. The star decided to leave the company, and a capable but less known actress was to take her place. It was a real sadness to the company. Everyone liked the star, and trials had been a bond. Something had to be done to show a friendly feeling. The question of expense was a serious one. 'Business' had not been very flourishing. But fate had been kinder for a few days, and everyone was sure of salary for that particular week; so, true to the traditions of the craft, when a penny was in sight a way was found to spend it. The entire company joyfully decided on a supper and some silver trinket for remembrance, marked with appropriate sentiments of admiration.

[ It seems that Maude Adams preferred the company of older people and not children her own age. Part of that was probably due to her constantly being around theater-folk who were 'grown-ups.' She didn't seem to be around a lot of children much of the time, and that can cause a young child to imitate grown-up ways. Been there, done that myself, so I can understand how she developed that way. Her schooling was basically a hit-and-miss affair; she didn't attend school straight from grades K through 12 like is done today. Still, it didn't seem to have any negative effect on her, and many sources refer to her intelligence and her love of reading. ]

A Farewell Supper

The star's last night was over; the supper was delightful, and the presentation speech was made by the youngest member standing on a chair. Even in that moment the youngest member was a little disappointed; she had been coached for many hours on the presentation speech. She had been very nervous, and it seemed a little inadequate when the star responded by reciting 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star'-a ditty the youngest member had learned years before, a harmless little ditty but frivolous, she thought. However, it passed pleasantly enough. Auld Lang Syne was sung, they all said good night, and of course they'd be at the station in the morning to say good-by. And then-the manager told them; That very night , at the end of the second act, the star had attached the entire boxes-office receipts, taken all the money there was, and not a penny was coming to anyone.

Her mother said it was a great surprise, but she was cross only with herself for not realizing that such a thing could happen. Ah, dear! She never learned that such a thing could happen. Selfishness and ungenerousness remained a surprise to her all her life. And she had no patience with criticism of others, deserved or undeserved. When the youngest member piped up dismally, her mother said it was useless to fuss; it was life; big fish ate little fish; especially when the little fishes were not alert and prepared for the emergency. Ourself could understand that dimly, but couldn't understand how the star, knowing the situation, had the heart to devour so many little fishes.

There was another long journey, and there she was in a great city, New York. The hotel looked out on a little park which was called Union Square. There was a snowstorm, and indoors seemed almost as frigid; several ladies in black silk gowns with beautifully dressed gray hair sat about the drawing-room in bleak austerity. Nevertheless, they were much admired; and it was then decided that some day she would have a black silk dress and a purple silk dress and, of course, a brown silk; and for very gay occasions perhaps two gray silks, one lighter, one darker. And it would be so niche when she had gray hair to wear with them.

[ Obviously there were scoundrels back then, too. The main star taking off with all the money. It's doubtful that the group could have done anything legally to track them since the police probably wouldn't have considered a major crime worth their attention. The types of tracking technology we have today were pretty much totally lacking back then, anyhow. ]

The Dreaded Tenth Year Came

The next day was a day of disappointment. She was jostled about in a street where the cars ran in the air overhead. Halted in the crowd, she found herself by the window of a marvelous shop. There were six small fish, and when the man dragged a little fishline near the fishes they leaped forward and attached themselves to the line firmly. This was, of course, a matter for investigation. but unhappily her mother was not interested and decided that another day would answer. But it didn't. The very next day a train was boarded for California, and there wasn't a fish in San Francisco that could compare with those in New York. It was one of those black disappointments. It was always hoped that some day she would go back to New York, and somewhere around a corner that shop would heave in sight; it never did, but hope has given the lie to experience.

The dreaded tenth year came and school filled the horizon-an unhappy time, for it separated her from the family. School was very interesting, but it didn't help much as discipline. I suppose it was inevitable, but because she had been in the theater she was a child apart, and though she was given certain privileges, she was also given certain responsibilities. The children who were to recite at Commencement were put in her charge to be trained for their “pieces,” though the children were her own age, some of them older. She did not like to recite. Even her small experience had taught her her to know poems that would not 'act'; and she though any poem would be rather dull without footlights and a mysterious audience. She must have been eleven or so when a recitation came her way which she couldn't escape-and she was rather good at escaping-an old woman telling a story to her grandchild. Her teachers, who were kindness itself, allowed the minx to make conditions. She was given all the properties, rocking-chair, grandchild, knitting and the rest; and she was made up-gray hair, cap and wrinkles-this last a very difficult achievement with the ends of burnt matches. The more successful these attempts, the worse it was, for it made her too old, and gave her a sense of importance which was ridiculous. I am afraid she developed into a willful little piece, and school became a thing to be endured, but to escape from at a moment's notice.

Then the whole world was changed for the little family; news came of her father's death, a loss that grew with the years.

Looking back on the struggle it must have been, it becomes more and more amazing that her mother was always so courageous and so gay, never showing a moment of anxiety, though she and her child were great comrades. She loved the theater, but gave it up-it was so precarious- and went into some commercial business to be near the child at school; but commerce was found to be uncertain, too, and she returned alone to California and the theater. The separation proved too hard, and after a time the child was sent for and the doors of school were closed once and for all.

[ Again, a reference to her rather limited schooling, and her not really relating to children her own age at the school. Her mother went on to marry and divorce, and to nearly get married again, but the man she wanted to marry was shot to death by a jealous rival. ]

That Betwixt-and-Between Time

It was very fortunate that at this time she was apprenticed to a traveling company touring the small towns of California, a wondering gypsy life, but strangely enough, with a certain discipline. The manager of the company, an extraordinary woman, was a friend of long standing and she was to keep a watchful eye on the novice in that betwixt-and-between time it seemed that not less than ten watchful eyes were focused in a certain direction. The guardian was of a firm rectitude, but she was sweet and kindly and made one rather in love with virtual than afraid of it.

There were two young men in the company who stand out distinctly. One, of course, had discovered perpetual motion, and carried it about with him; a queer Dick who wore a very long Prince Albert and a top hat; and the discovery, which looked like a large stovepipe, was always struggling under his arm.

The other young man-he is one of the great actors today-was the property man of the company, a young person with inventive powers. The play, I think, was a comedy of the Dion Bouciacult school; the hero was a brave, one-armed soldier who had to row a boat across the river to the heroine waiting on the other side to be saved. The boat had four small wooden wheels which were concealed from the audience by strips of blue cloth stretched from side to side across the stage, and probably eighteen inches high. They were called “set waters,' and they looked even funnier than they sound. A long rope was attached to the boat and four lusty arms were to pull the craft.

Unfortunately the scene as rehearsed didn't please the young property man. It was tame; but if the boat could ride up and down on the waves it would add a touch of realism toward which the world of the theater was tending. That's a strange thing too-the world of the theater striving for realism, while the workaday world yearns for romance. So the inventive young man retired to the cellar and made new wheels for the boat. He was secret as the grave, and no one guessed the impending doom.

Dear People and Very Kindly

Night came. It was the second tableau in the third act. The curtain rose on the hero in midstream plying his one oar lustily and crying, 'Courage, lass. I am coming!' But the boat didn't budge. The men in the wings pulled and pulled and suddenly the boat leaped straight up into the air and the hero, lying prone upon his gack, gave voice to such language that the curtain had to be dropped immediately. Then it was discovered that the new wheels were octagonal in form. No one could find the property man, who disappeared for days, and once again theory gave way to practice.

It was in this company, when she was about fifteen, that the one I knew least made her first attempt as leading lady, and was, of course, a complete failure. There was an exit speech which was to elicit a round of applause that would help to edge her off the scene; but she never got that applause and night after night she was compelled to walk off in complete silence, the members of the company looking away discreetly as she passed. They were dear people and very kindly.

One of them-I think it was the leading man-took her in hand and labored with her. It seemed you could get a round of applause on any line if you knew how, no matter what the line meant. You made the attack slowly and easily and worked up increasing crescendo, and at the right moment you threw your voice or rather flung it up, and down it came and with it a round of applause! but it never happened that way with her. The leading man lost heart after a futile time, and advised her to give up all though of serious drama and try comedy. That, of course, was out of the question.

[ I wish I knew exactly what play she was referring to. Unfortunately there is very, very little information about her earliest plays, and I have as yet to find any source for the actual plays themselves.]

A Terrible Moment

In spite of all, Mother never seemed to lose confidence, and was sure if her child would study and train her voice, and if she would read poetry, and if she would have the value of rhythm and measure in prose as well, and, above all, if she would avoid monotony, and if she would learn to dance and to fence in order to master the creaking gestures, everything would come right. Burdened with so many if's, life seemed insupportable, and she had many misgivings. In the first place, though sturdy, she was the thickness of tissue paper, and she had no illusions about her qualifications for parts that had to 'look pretty'; but there she was, and something had to be done about it, what she didn't know, and she became shy and more and more self-conscious, in every way hateful to herself.

So it was a terrible moment when she learned that a manager from New York who was becoming very important, Charles Frohman, had arrived in San Francisco, and her mother had asked for an interview. It was more and more terrifying when they reached the Baldwin Hotel and climbed a great, circling, red-carpeted stairway, and entered a room with more and more red velvet-curtains, chairs, everything red velvet. Presently she was aware of a very simple-mannered man with a boyish face who seemed only a little less shy than she. nevertheless she managed to keep well out of sight behind her mother, and fled down the red-carpeted stairs the instant the interview was over.

Once home, it did not seem that the interview had been worth the anxiety and the fright; Mr. Frohman had offered no engagement whatever; he had said only; “Let me know when you bring your little daughter to New York.' And that world 'little' did not suggest the serious parts that she wished to play. This haughty attitude toward comedy was an old story; her mother always contending that 'comedy was a serious business,' and as for tragedy-well, you had to be born for the one or the other. She placed her child before a mirror and gave her a hand glass which showed her profile and she said;”Look at yourself. Do you think anyone could play tragedy with a nose like that?”

Thereafter reluctant attention was turned definitely to the lighter side of the drama.

[ This brings up a discussion of Maude Adams looks. There were references to her nose being slightly crooked. Big deal. It's actually quite interesting how many articles of the times played down her looks or even said she wasn't really that good looking at all. She was referred to as too skinny, as flat-chested, etc. The photographs I have seen of her, especially when she was around her twenties or so, to me show a woman that is absolutely beautiful. The only thing I can figure out is that the standards for beauty of that day must have been rather different from what passes for beauty today. Consider, though, the number of photos of her that were made and how eagerly they were bought. There was even court action taken over competing Maude Adams calendars! She even had fashions named after her. ]

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