27 I discover drama

To return to more relevant matters. My young friends, no less than I, had reached a point where the impressions crowding upon us so swiftly made a sort of crazy-quilt of our thoughts, each patch of experience highly coloured and distinct, but without sequence or tangible design. The only thing any one of us was clear about was our dissatisfaction with the cramping circumstances of our lives. Laura was thoroughly the rebel. She hated gloom and growling and the unrelieved dreariness of her home. At the first possible opportunity she meant to get away—it didn’t matter where, or how she managed it. Anything would be better than that endless round of stupid chores and bitter complaints. Tilly seldom expressed any violent opinions, yet she, too, dreamed of something better than the dull service to which she was enslaved. Not with envy, but a sort of bated admiration, she sometimes spoke of the carefree existence girls like Mollie MacDonald took for granted.

As for myself, although I ranted freely enough about things I disliked, I was secretive with my dearest ambition. Ever since that day in the ugly old library, my dream had never wavered. I wanted to write. Goodness knows how many arithmetic lessons I had flunked because the fever to scribble something refused to be denied. Reams of verse, principally in the Bryant strain: mournful requiems to the weather, the woods, the timeless stream, and what not. About which beautiful silliness I was secretive as the grave.

And secretive I remained about anything I really prized. Although I have ridden many hobby horses, I never had the courage to hie me forth like Lady Godiva, stripped to the skin. If one must make a spectacle, it might as well be in plumage of sorts. After all, very few people, I soon discovered, care a fig about the natural complexion of your hide, or what you believe or hunger after for your innermost heart’s desire. Every one was equally preoccupied with his own crying want, which made it ridiculous to expect passionate concern for something which to him seemed a remote and alien abstraction. Even your own family seldom showed much sympathy for the quirks of temperament which set you apart. And since it was my misfortune to be over-serious and ridiculously sensitive about the things I deeply prized, I kept them to myself.

For instance, like most Icelanders, I was a confirmed bookworm, and what is even worse, had a natural taste for stuff that either horrified or bored my friends to death. What in the world made me want to weep over yarns like The Necklace, and work myself into a frenzy over the horrors of the Inquisition, they couldn’t imagine. It was crazy! Things that had happened ages and ages ago didn’t matter now! What did matter were pretty clothes, and a boy friend to take you places. Certainly, I agreed about the clothes. I should have liked nothing better than to slink about arrayed like Anna Held and Lilian Russell. But you couldn’t get wearing apparel at the public library.

This all-important question did begin to worry me. Perhaps I thought that Carl might tire of trotting me about in my confirmation dress. At any rate, when I chanced upon an advertisement by the Mack-Leon Players, for extras, I borrowed a dime from mamma and took the car uptown. The mere sight of the old Lyceum Theatre sent me into a dither. I’m sure I circled the block ten times before I had the courage to creep into the dark passage beyond the stage door. Pitch-black and empty, the tunnel seemed, and beyond it an equally black, yawning space.

No one was in sight, but just as I was screwing up courage to explore this strange pit, a gay laugh sounded from somewhere.

‘You do look a ghost! Come on in—it’s a grand place for spooks!’ a voice informed me.

Then I saw her, sitting on a keg, under a mountain of scenery. My eyes, adjusted to the gloom, I could see that she was young, though not such a chit as I, that she had a merry face, and curly, blonde hair. ‘I’m Hedda,’ she went on. ‘Just another stage-struck nanny. Where does it hurt most? Comedy or Tragedy?’

That was the start of a friendship and an interlude of pleasant excitement that was the happiest period of my life. Hedda was a graduate of a Chicago school of drama and oratory. What its specific name was, I forget, for it seemed of little consequence. Hedda herself was such a remarkable discovery. I had never before met any one whose entire heart was bound up in these arts.

She had real ability, and was wonderful at characterization, which was what she longed to do, and for which she had a perfect voice, flexible, sympathetic, and beautifully modulated. I think, too, she realized she had not the slightest sense of dress, and could never in the world represent a dear young thing in fluffs and billows, although she was shapely and good-looking. This may seem a curious criticism for me to make, whose knowledge of such glories was solely derived from the buxom beauties on cigar boxes. Still, it does not necessarily follow that, because you have no money to invest in fine feathers, that you cannot wear such trappings with a certain dash if they are provided.

In the months to come both Hedda and I had many an opportunity to strut in borrowed plumage, and the first and dearest compliment I ever received from Miss Leon was upon my management of an Elizabethan court dress. In farthingale and train and elaborate coiffure, Hedda made anything but a stately appearance. She looked so robustly dowdy that nothing but an elderly make-up saved her from outright comedy. I doubt that Svengali could have given her grace to walk.

However, these limitations were an asset to the kind of roles she coveted. Any kind of old harridan, any dialect, any mood, from the most tragic to the utterly ridiculous, was her dear delight. That Hedda gave up a predestined career is one of the many unsung sacrifices to which countless women give themselves for the so-called good of selfish relatives. But that was still far in the future.

At this time Hedda was in constant demand as a public entertainer, and because she was waiting for a chance to slip into the legitimate theatre she was on call for small parts. Thanks to her liking for me, I had the same chance, and, what was even more gratifying, she managed to teach me something about voice, and the necessity to create from within any characterization.

During the school holidays I spent many precious hours with Hedda, poring over all sorts of oratorical stuff. Most of it was cheaply melodramatic for, that, said Hedda, was the best possible medium to give one emotional control. But we read good poetry as well; charming lyrics, for music; Bobby Burns, for tenderness; and, of course, Shakespeare, who is every actor’s last word and testament. These readings, over which we had the greatest fun imaginable, with Hedda performing in a dozen voices, and the two of us often reduced to tears, or uncontrollable laughter, were, I think, the true incentive for the course I mapped out for myself some time later, when my own dream of a classical education turned to ashes.

Deprived of so much, I none the less made up my mind to form the habit of constructive reading, of setting myself subjects to cover in honest fashion: history, philosophy, art—of these one need not remain ignorant in this day and age, no matter what the state of the purse. Yet, perhaps I might have failed even here if I had not, by great good fortune, found an elderly, retired schoolmistress who sometimes did a bit of coaching. I wish I had the power to depict this gentle soul, as I remember her in my heart of hearts. Her whole life had been one unselfish service to the kind of mother who sits like a spider in the centre of the family web, devouring, one after the other, the vital years of her progeny.

Consequently, Miss Rudd looked exactly what she was: a little lost lady, who fed her emotions vicariously. No doubt she was a capable teacher in her generation, but even in my comparatively unsophisticated youth her romantic susceptibilities seemed faintly foolish, and I shudder to think how dangerously decadent she would have found the smart young things of the post-war generation.

She had a most amusing way of darting off on remote tangents, caught up on some far-winged thought to which she had drifted while her supposed students plodded through laborious passages.

For example, reading Richard the Third: King Edward replying to Stanley, pleading the boon of his servant’s life:

Have I a tongue to doom my brother’s death,
And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?
My brother killed no man, his fault was thought:
And yet his punishment was bitter death.
Who sued to me for him? who, in my wrath,
Kneeled at my feet, and bid me be advised?
Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love?

Miss Rudd, dreamily: ‘Ah, human passion! Poor, distraught, human passion. So many hearts rent with bitter, bitter regret. Everywhere. Yes, everywhere. Even among the most tender lovers—do you remember that precious lyric in The Princess?

As through the land at eve we went
And plucked the ripened ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
We fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave
Oh, there above the little grave
We kissed again with tears.

‘Go on—go on: “Who told me how the poor soul did forsake—”‘

Not the most scientific treatment of Shakespeare, I dare say, but a pleasing introduction to the tender vagaries of the mind. Since that far day I have been privileged to listen to many erudite mouthings, and to worry through much admirably compiled material, yet none of it inspired a more earnest desire to rightly appreciate the riches of letters than those winsome vagabond asides. For I came to see an underlying unity of purpose in those queer flights and turnings.

Time! Time! She had so little left of time. And in those kind, faded eyes that smiled on me so mistily, I seemed a likely subject for what she found most worthy in a sadly harassed world. Her goodness gave me attributes beyond desert, motives beyond fulfilling. If only I could have told her how dearly I treasured her foolish faith in me! Youth is not given to honest speeches. If only she could have known how often in the days to come that cherished faith drew out of the dark a solitary star which refused to doff its light.

But Hedda waits, in the dressing-room of the old theatre. It is a night I recall with especial vividness, because of a bit of comedy that took place in the wings. Or such it seems now, although at that time none of us, extras or company, saw much humour in it.

Willard Mack was a man of tremendous energy, and somewhat overbearing enthusiasm. Whatever the company undertook, he required that every detail should be as perfect as their combined talents and properties permitted. He demanded unreserved co-operation, and expected implicit obedience. He detested any signs of levity off the stage when a serious play was progressing. As a rule, even the extras were properly solemn, and sufficiently impressed by the subject under way not to crack a smile, much less to laugh.

But this night, the unforgivable occurred. Some one laughed, and that some one no irrepressible youngster, but our grave and stately heavy. And at the ill-starred moment of an impassioned speech by Willard, down stage near the wings. The last word uttered, out the gentleman catapulted, thunder on his brow, lightning in his eye.

‘Laugh! Damn you, laugh!’ the outraged artist roared, his fist crashing into the handsomest face in the company.

What now? Our pounding pulses throbbed. Would our handsome villain, measuring his elegant length on the dusty floor, react as actor, or mere man? Would the play go on, or a backstage brawl make history?

The play went on. With the same inscrutable composure that he faced death and damnation with in a dozen plays, the gentleman picked himself up, brushed his dishonoured trousers, and, without a word, sauntered up to his dressing-room to calcimine his eye. Which was the end of the incident, except for a lingering, purple bruise, and an increased quiet in the wings.

I should not want to give the impression that Mr. Mack was an irascible tyrant. Forceful, volatile, brilliant, he was impatient of perfection, but not at all a fearsome individual. A splendid actor, with a really fine voice, he possessed to a marked degree those qualities of interpretive invention which were to make him famous as a playwright—famous far beyond the dreams of the thousands who revelled in the production of the old Mack-Leon Stock Company.

Miss Leon was not fated to create the same stir in the world, but there must be many a sober middle-aged woman in the range towns and Duluth who remember with sentimental fondness the beautiful roles she created for their youthful enjoyment; roles as divergent as Sappho, and simple trusting Gloria; remember, too, her vivid beauty and sympathetic voice.

Less important members measured up to the best traditions of the stage. There was an ingenue who grimly finished the week, though she was coming down with a serious illness that required an operation; and her successor, a slip of a thing who took the boards on the following Monday, with less than twenty-four hours’ preparation.

I worshipped them all for the enthusiasm they radiated, the zest they had for life. They were the first group of people I had ever seen actively engaged in the pursuit of happiness. Whatever their individual difficulties, faults, and failings, they really lived. Even our stage-manager had a redeeming sparkle, although his morals were a bit blotchy. He had a fondness for the bottle and buxom wenches. Yet, he it was kept a fatherly eye upon Hedda and myself, and, on one occasion, fired a young chap whom he thought too fresh. No saint, but a fierce old watch-dog when the need arose. Nor was our romantic lead a Sunday-school hero – which was not surprising, considering the horde of temptresses that hung about the stage door.

I loved it all. The miraculous transformations, the dark clutter of jumbled scenery translated into romantic splendour: gay gardens, devoted to lovers murmuring of immortal devotion; pillared palaces, where strutted lords and ladies, glamorous and brave; classic heaths, where the grand cadences of Shakespeare wrung the heart. I loved the yawning black of the empty house at rehearsal, a fretful, dark expectancy that hung upon each nervous word like a creative challenge. I loved the musty smells, the swift irritabilities, the lightning moods, the hustle and haste and eternal anxieties; everything, from the reek of grease paint to the rosy arch of the footlights. It was a world in which to lose the mean and the commonplace, a world of noble sentiment, where the written word was clothed with living power.

There it was. That was the source of my worship. The theatre revealed, as nothing else ever had, the force and beauty and persuasion of words. That was why I was happy to warm myself at this magic fire, yet never thought of the profession as a possible vocation. Words I meant to acquire, but that I now possessed any marketable attribute had never dawned on me.

Small wonder I could scarcely believe my ears when, one night, the stage-manager rushed in to say that I could sell my legs. My legs? My legs?

‘Yes, yes, your legs, you fool! Don’t you know you have a perfect pair of legs?’ he roared. ‘What’s wrong with you? Here—let me show you! There you are! There you are! That’s something, let me tell you,’ said he, beaming down upon my startled knees.

Yes, and there was I, staring idiotically at familiar, yet utterly strange extremities, for which it appeared I could collect real money from a vaudeville house down the street. How they laughed at me, standing there clutching my skirts and eyeing suspiciously the objects under discussion. Legs, it seemed, were not always just fatted bones to cart one about. Perish the thought! There were as many kinds of legs, and to as many themes conjoined, as bungled sonnets. Legs that filled the really sensitive artists with fretful despair: too long, too short, too flabby, too muscular; yes, even shapely legs that rudely leapt from rough knees, utterly blasting the poetic promise. To put it bluntly, most of the beauties prancing the boards had to wear ‘hearts’ to hide the nasty little hollows that ruined otherwise perfect showpieces!

From such a sour calamity fate had saved me. Just think of it, I was neither knock-kneed, bow-legged, nor afflicted with those curious blemishes that give nightmares to the sensitive connoisseur of female legs. It seemed that I could click my ankles and knees together without inviting mirth. Hence this remarkable offer from down the street. My would-be benefactor, who had caught sight of these rarities in a rough-and-tumble mob scene, was instantly filled with the milk of human kindness. No matter what sort of face went with the legs, he would overlook it.

Here was my chance, said the stage-manager—and let me not imagine I’d get any other. If I had an ounce of sense, I’d thank my stars and grab it. Dear me, how lightly promises flourish, and how uselessly. Even with the best of sense, to which I lay no claim, there was still mamma to be reckoned with. Mamma, and the ancestors. The mere thought of persuading the daughter of a long line of dignified clerics that her child should gamble about in pink tights for the entertainment of dispirited business men, put me in a perfect funk. Gracious goodness, if that was my one hope of immortality I might as well resign myself to a nameless grave.

Hedda reasoned with me. So did the benevolent gentleman. If my conscience was so tender, I could wear a mask! The implication, not exactly flattering, ruffled my temper. Then and there, so to speak, I committed myself to rectitude, and a plain face. Thirty dollars a week was a fortune to be sure, but in that day I had not realized the significance of money, and certainly never dreamed how cheerfully virtue may starve, for all that any one cares. It could not be done, quoth I, little thinking I should shortly rue it. So Lady Luck simply shrugged her shoulders, and forthwith passed me by.