The One I Knew Least of All, Part II

It is always difficult for women to cast of their moorings; they seem to like anchors; at any rate, the one I knew least did not find it easy, and it was even more difficult for her mother, who loved the West and all its ways. The East was very far away, and with that first experience still fresh in mind it hadn't quite the lure of other days. of course, if one were successful in the East it meant continuous work, which could not be hoped for in California where the supply far outmeasured the demand; and continuous work would bring the wherewithal for constant training; but the West was “home,” and to leave it meant a serious and a feeling break. But one thing had brought the East somewhat nearer. For a long time, the newspapers had been searched diligently for all that could be found concerning the great favorites who were playing in New York – Miss Ada Rehan, Mr. John Drew, Mr. E.H. Sothern. They were the great names, the young names, and they were carrying everything before them. These names became so real to the one I knew least that the distance between San Francisco and New York dwindled to nothing-in imagination. But the railroad lines didn't shorten, and there was a long, anxious time of waiting and indecision before a play called The Paymaster, presented by an Eastern company, reached San Francisco. The company had survived many hardships; it was not more precarious than many other traveling companies, and when an engagement was offered, it was thought best to accept it and the second pilgrimage began.

A Lesson in Martyrdom

As they made their way farther and farther East, the wanders found “realism” more and more rampant. The manager of their company, who was also the star, was alert and quick to take advantage of any opportunity that Providence might let slip; and the first thing the company knew a tank of real water was to take the place of the imaginary river into which the wicked villain nightly threw the spurnful heroine. Whether it was the watery innovation that discouraged the leading lady I don't recall, but the one I knew least found herself exalted to that important position with the chance of being a mermaid at the same time. I suppose it was natural at her age, but I fear it was the delightful idea of being a mermaid that tipped the scale. Her mother did not fancy the mermaid feature; but they were halfway to New York and she decided to go on with the venture, but with a reservation that caused bitter disappointment. At the critical moment during the struggle with the villain a change was quickly made; her mother, dressed exactly as the heroine, was thrown struggling into the real water and the new leading lady was allowed to sulk in a corner. What miseries the young endure; nothing less than martyrdom! But one night when the star, diving off the rock, struck the edge of the tank and hurt himself so seriously that he was not able to play for weeks, it dawned upon the young martyr what her mother had done for her.

The vogue for real water did not last long, but all sorts of other real things enjoyed their little day. There was a great division of feeling about this realism-the managers were of course delighted to have a novelty, while the actors resented the wretched makeshift which ignored imagination, the groundwork of their difficult art. Mr. Joseph Jefferson was one of the first to deride the novelty. His son Charles, who was a manager, was rather taken with the “real thing.” He went to his father with an extraordinarily dramatic scene for one of his plays. It was one of those so-called Western plays, written by the East; The Stockade besieged by Indians-the gate gives way-a redskin rushes to the flagpole and drags down the Stars and Strips. The heroine-after a defiant speech, which none of the Indians can understand-is about to drove a dagger into her heart when a soft strain of the regimental band is heard far in the distance. The Indians instantly cower in fear, and in an incredibly short moment the entire regiment rushes through the little gate, the hero embraces the heroine with one arm and with the other pulls the Stars and Strips to its place on high, and then-”Then,” said the young manager, “we have a wonderful new invention; an electric fan of such size that it blows a gust of air straight across the stage. Of course it strikes Old Glory, and there she is, waving in the breeze as the curtain falls.”

“Yes, Charles,” said Mr. Jefferson; “but why have only one flag? Why not have also a number of little flags placed in all parts of the stage? Then turn on your electric fan, let all the little flags wave in the breeze, and you won't need the actors at all.”

When they reached New York the manager of The Paymaster secured an opening in Niblo's Garden, one of the old, old theaters far downtown-Broadway and Prince Street. It was thought necessary to strengthen the cast; the star himself gave way to a well-known name, and the leading lady lost her place, and quite right too. She was given the role of waiting maid, an abrupt descent which hurt her feelings very much, but did not shock her judgment. She knew she was much too young; and she must have been unintentionally, rather comic. The change was a fortunate one to her; the little part was an excellent one and brought the novice a ripple of recognition, and she thought at last everything was settled; from that time on she would merely have to announce to waiting managers that she was at liberty. Of course nothing of the sort happened; weeks and weeks went by, managers absolutely callous.

[ It's interesting that she talks a little about the Paymaster even though she had been in around thirty other plays by the time that one came up. ]

Then-A Chance With Sothern

It was the year of the great blizzard, a serious inconvenience to New Yorkers, but a glorious experience for those accustomed to San Francisco, where if half a snowflake ventured down, troops of little boys rushed into the streets with packing boxes hitched to horses and galloped along the innocent asphalt. Perhaps it was too busy removing snow, bu New York paid no attention whatever to the strangers and behaved as if the anxiety of two wretched women was an ordinary thing. The two repaired to the top of a lodging house in West Twenty-seventh Street, a dreary place. Weeks and weeks went by, and grew into months and months, an no engagement offered. They made the weary rounds of the various theatrical agencies, but there was nothing. They were well-nigh hopeless and had decided to return to California when word came, through a close acquaintance, of a part for a young girl in Mr. E. H. Sothern's company, and the one I knew least was packed off to Boston.

Her mother was overjoyed; she declared the fates were more than kind, for nothing could give her child a firmer start and no one could give her greater respect for her profession than Mr.Sothern. He took the theater so seriously that an actor felt he had a stake in the universe, that he was a creature of importance, and no detail was too small, no labor too great to make himself “fit and worthy.” Then, too, Mr. Oldest, as Mr.Sothern was affectionately called-is very young, perhaps not yet thirty-was a martinet and in the theater everything moved like clockwork-priceless training for a beginner.

Out of the theater also he was a martinet-with a sort of young-fatherly eye on the company; they were all so young, and all so sure that youth was a thing that would endure and all so reckless of their strength. He was always contriving some amusement for the company and, what was not always so delightful to two of them, expeditions for their good. Whenever they found themselves with a Sunday free from railroad journeys , volunteers were called for a five-mile tramp which had an unfailing way of stretching itself into seven or eight miles-very trying to the newcomer, who hated to walk, but hated worse to be left behind. So she dragged herself over mile after mile of country roads, down fields and through hedges until her spirit was utterly broke, and she began to like the horrid sport! At dinnertime the volunteers would find themselves near some wayside inn, the stragglers would be called up, and a conference would be held to decide whether they should venture upon the neighboring place as a banqueting hall or go on to some fairer, father field. Roly - it seems strange that he could be called anything but Roly; the playbills called him Rowland Buckstone, a name celebrated in the theater of England as well as of America, but to “the company” who loved him he was “Roly”; he played all the broader comedy parts of any and every age; a delightful man; he was an old friend of Mr. Sothern, the only one in the company who dared to call him “Ed.” Though an Englishman he seemed not over fond of strenuous sports; and in the long Sunday tramps he punctuated the miles with little yowls of pain. He was sure of a blister there, or a little ache here, but no sympathy was offered him; was he not a comedian? What had he to do with pain? And on they'd plod another awful mile-Roly always pleaded for a cessation of activities. He found a sympathetic soul in Mrs. Midget-so the newcomer was called; it started with Midget; she was rather small; but Mr. Oldest said it was not dignified, and she was rechristened Mrs. Midget; she could always be counted upon to vote for the place they were in. She always wanted to stay where she was; a few steps farther outweighed any fancied improvement. Of course they all knew that dinner had been ordered and was waiting for them in that particular place, but they had all the fun and excitement of indecision with the certainty of dinner at the end of it.

After one of the delightful dinners, when they came out to face the long, dreary miles between them and the city, a carriage suddenly appeared, transformed undoubtedly from one of the melons in the field-there could be no other explanation-with just room for the women packed in quite snug. Whereupon Roly fell into a paroxysm of grief and refused to let the carriage door be shut. Failing there he planted himself in front of the horses, daring them to ride him down; he'd rather be dead then walk back to the town. As the horses were edging round him in the darkness he sprang upon the box beside the driver, belabored the horses and off they went, with jeers from the men and jeers from the ladies-comfortably packed inside the carriage. The ladies reminded Roly of the glory he was missing, not walking with his comrades. Roly assured them he would never miss it,; glory was a paltry thing, and there he perched, singing snatches of song and chuckling gayly.

[ I have read about young Maude Adams being referred to as 'Mrs. Midget' elsewhere. Here's something else to point out, and that's her first name. Although her first name is actually Maude, you will find it spelled Maud in many newspaper sources of the day. She was also referred to as Little Maudie at times. ]

”Ed's Party”

Time after time in the long tour through the West, when the hot summer nights became unbearable, the company would learn that a swimming pool had been reserved for them, and they would troop down in a body after the plan and swim for an hour. It was the moment for natatoriums-I think that was the official name-with their rods and rings and springboards, and swings and chutes to slide upon. Everyone in the company could do wonderful things in the water-everyone except Mrs. Selten, who refused to go in at all, but would consent to look on, and Mrs. Midget, she could drown without trying. It was too bad. When everything was at its best and gayety at its peak, there she'd be drowning again. It almost seemed as if she liked it. Long before the season was over it was clear that aquatic sports were not her line. She had measured the depth of every pool from Kansas City to San Francisco. Fortunately for her, there was always someone at hand, but one day it happened to be Roly, who was leaning on the balcony which surrounded the pool. She was going down for the third time; with the water gurgling in her ears she could just hear Roly's voice, all on one note, calling out “Save her, Ed.” There was no question as to who was meant, and poor Mr. Oldest, from the far end of the pool, burned the water to get to her.

As soon as she could catch her breath she remonstrated with Roly: “You were right there. Why didn't you jump in? It's a shame to bother Mr. Oldest.”

”But it's his party!” said indignant Roly.

Mr. Oldest was curiously shy, but once embarked on something interesting to him, especially anything concerning the theater, he was the most unself-conscious man alive. He had an uncanny gift for prodding one into the pursuit of knowledge. Never could one waste a comfortable moment, if it could be turned into a search for knowledge of one's craft.

It was Sunday. The season was over, and the company was leaving Oakland to begin the long journey to New York. Mrs. Selten and Mrs. Midget were waiting for the carriage to take them to the railroad station,when Mr. Oldest appeared. He insisted they should ride down with him, and he added: “On the way down I'll teach you to laugh, Mrs. Midget.” It was one of her lamentable deficiencies. She didn't realize at the moment quite what the invitation meant, or she might have fallen upon some excuse; but they started off. They were scarcely through the gateway when Mrs. Midget was told to take a long breath; then she was ordered to say slowly “ha-ha-ha,” at regular intervals, keeping time with the horses' feet. After a block or two of this, the driver was told to go faster; long breath for Mrs. Midget, and “ha-ha-ha” on the stillness of an Oakland Sunday morning. The loveliest, softest sunshine in the world, a sense of remoteness and a stillness-no, there is no word for it. Long breath, “ha-ha-ha,” the horses by this time trotting briskly. Mrs. Selton, very conventional, very “proper,” at first chagrined at the unseemly performance, was not as excited as the others; at faltering moments should would throw in a little “ha-ha-ha” of her own to help. Long breath for Mrs. Midget-faster for the horses, and “ha-ha-ha.” Again; louder “ha-ha-ha!” Poor Oakland Sunday too, but there was no stopping. Long breath, faster, “ha-ha-ha.” Long breath, faster; “ha-ha-ha.” Long breath-horses almost galloping-and “hahahaha!” they dashed into the railway station, tears of laughter streaming down the faces of the two women, Mr. Oldest in an ecstasy of triumph.

Mrs. Midget was never afraid to laugh after that morning; nothing ever made her self-conscious about it again; nothing could!

Once more in New York she sent word to Mr. Frohman that she was still anxious to be under his management; but there was nothing. A chance came in one of Mr. Charles Hoyt's plays, A Midnight Bell, a charming part, thence another little ripple of recognition; but the managers were still callous, still blind to their own interests, so she thought. And then, at last, Mr. Frohman sent for her. He was forming his new stock company, and she was to play the ingenues.

The first play, an adaptation by Mr. William Gilette, found her acting with the greater leading man of the time, Henry Miller. She was naturally terrified, a man of such great reputation, who was also renowned for temperament; and she was convinced that at the slightest mistake he would “off with her heed” and that would be the end of her. But she found him a man of great gentless and infinite patience, who would rehearse a scene again and again and again and would never admit that it was hopeless.

[ It's interesting about her not being able to swim. I never found anything in any source indicating she ever went to a beach. One group did give her a yacht, but I don't know if she ever used it. ]

Joy Kept Play Tears Away

It was in this play that her gift for serious parts was again conspicuously absent. Mr. Miller thought a stronger touch of pathos might be effective with a certain speech. Could she manage to cry a little? She thought she could. Mr. Miller told her the thing to do was to keep her mind concentrated upon her part and make herself feels as she would if she were that girl. It sounded very easy, but “twas not so easily done; in fact, for many, many years 'twas not so easily done. At that moment it was hopeless. So they groped about for other aids. She called to mind a favorite story of the great Rachel: One night at rehearsal Legouve said to the great actress, “You played that fifth act as you never will again! You became , for the time, Adrienne dying in the arms of two faithful friends.” Rachel was silent for a moment, then replied: “You are wrong. It was not for Adrienne I wept, it was for myself. I was thinking that time would obliterate every lingering memory and that soon nothing would be left of her who was Rachel.” The poor, great lady who was even then so desperately ill...no, the story was too sad.

And in her own case, what reason was there for being sorry for herself? Was she not playing a part with this great actor, the part she had waited for so long? There! No, it was gone; the joy of having the part had wiped out the misery of waiting, and tears would not come.

Mr. Miller tried to think of some mechanical aid. The footlights! If she would look at the footlights, their intense glare would certainly affect her eyes and she might cry. He didn't approve the plan; 'twas a makeshift, but many people used it. She would try it. The footlights were turned on. No, it was of no use. She begged Mr. Miller to go and let her fight it out alone. After an unconscionable time he did go, leaving her staring at the footlights. But not having him there, looking so disappointed, lifted her spirits, and away whirled all notion of tears. Nevertheless she sat for two mortal hours looking at those footlights. Result, not one tear.

After two seasons with the stock company, she went one day to see Mr. Frohman and ask his advice. It was strange to hear her say that she wanted to play comedy; she was still haughty about it, but she did not care to fall into a groove and be tearful all her life! And she added that she was ambitious and wanted to play more important parts. Mr. Frohman said he quite understood her ambition; perhaps the parts had not been entirely to her liking; perhaps she would prefer not to remain in the company? She replied that if her work were not satisfactory she wished to resign at once. Mr. Frohman said he would accept her resignation-an awful pause-she rose to go-and he would put her in Mr. John Drew's company as his leading woman. Oh!

Mr. Drew's method was entirely different from Mr. Sothern's. Mr. Sothern's seemingly unconscious comedy had everything in train, the pauses calculated to a second; the audience might interfere, one hoped they would, but the actors knew their scenes as a musician knows a page of music. Mr. Drew, on the other hand, delighted in the conscious, sophisticated comedy; he seemed to court accidents for the pleasure of conquering difficulties. One was rehearsed no less thoroughly, but one had to be ready for any little cadenzas his fertile mind injected into the play. Excellent training for a beginner.

Rehearsal With a Rose

Mr. Drew, with a word, could change one's whole notion of a part, could make it a different character; and his power of ridicule compelled sureness of onself or the sentimental little flower blew away on a gale of laughter, like dandelion ends on the breath of a wishing child. He taught one readiness to take advantage of an accident or happenchance, so that every wind that blew brought something to the good.

In one of his plays there was a curiously difficult scene. The young wife in the play, to punish her husband for some fancied wrong, pretended to be tipsy. For the first time the one I knew least encountered the serious difference between the real thing and the imagined thing, and it was a particularly difficult scene for her. As a young child she had seen a poor drunken woman bundled into a cart and taken away by the police. The sight of the poor ragged woman had made a profound impression, and when the scene in this play came to be studied, she could not rid herself of that early remembrance and it made her over-careful and self-conscious. The scene was rehearsed over and over gain, but it always fell short; it always lacked spontaneity. The inflection of the voice, the expression of the face, all that could be managed; but if she let her body sway ever a little to make it seem unsteady, instantly all delicacy was gone. What to do she did not know. One day at rehearsal someone gave her a flower, a lovely, long-stemmed one. Held at a certain angle it tipped and tilted in a delightfully tipsy fashion, but did not lose its beauty. So they went home together, the rose and she, and rehearsed and rehearsed, and after a while they formed a partnership. It became a great pleasure to play the scene, and there was no trouble with it, for the rose played the difficult part.

At one time a very stupid system obtained in this country, which created serious difficulties for actors. English plays were the habit of the time, and American stage managers were sent abroad to study the plays and give their advice as to the American actors they thought suitable for the parts. Nine times out of ten they suggested American actors who looked like the English actors, thin for thin and lump for plump, and it never seemed to occur to them that the physical resemblances did not necessarily imply like artistic gifts.

It was, of course, a stupid system, and of course it did not last. But in its final days it served to teach the one I knew least a lesson in the humanities of the theater, a lesson she never forgot. The rehearsals of an English play were going forward, and the stage manager, who had not selected her for the past she was to play, as she was already a member of Mr. Drew's company, was very grieved to find her not at all like the English actress he had hoped she would imitate. He thought she had no notion of the part whatever, and did not know what to do with her. There was a conference: Mr. Frohman, Mr. Drew and the stage manager; and after it Mr. Frohman said, “I am afraid we shall have to do the best we can.” Mr. Drew thought it would be simpler. She, of course, though they meant that she was hopeless, and went home and cried her heart out.

Frohman's Tact

After a night's sleep, her common sense restored, she went to Mr. Frohman's office prepared to give up the part. Mr. Frohman was a little surprised; he had hoped she would understand; there was no thought of taking her out of the part; her performance would not be the same as the original, but it would fit in-that was not the difficulty. Then she was told: The stage manager was the most important member of Mr. Frohman's staff, and he was an old man; he had been with Mr. Frohman many years, and neither Mr. Frohman nor Mr. Drew felt he could really be told or allowed to think that his way of rehearsing had gone by; his dignity and his pride had to be considered. Later, as opportunities offered, he was given other and very important duties in which he was entirely capable, and until his death he remained a member of Mr. Frohman's staff.

With Mr. Drew's plays Mr. Frohman began more and more to take personal charge of the rehearsals, a great boon to the actors, for he was a genius.

The most interesting member of his company was Mr. Drew's niece, Ethel Barrymore. one always thought of Meredith's line,

Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily,

so beautiful and so lovable she was, with the most charming ways, and with a delightful young seriousness about her work. Mr. Drew was very proud of her, and everyone in the company shared his pride. Mrs. Drew, who seemed one of the company, so interested she was and kind, was a very rare woman, genuine and staunch; once enlisted her loyalty never failed, and whenever one saw her, faith in all the real things of life was renewed.

When it came time for the one I knew least to choose whether she should leave Mr. Drew's company or no, it was very depressing-the future might be anything-the present was complete and happy. If only J.M. Barrie had never made a play of The Little Minister, there would have been no temptation to drift away.

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