Chapter IV: Friday

DEAREST SALLY:

It just happened that they need a new sketch act, so they cast "ONE
CROWDED HOUR" at once and it is already in rehearsal.

BROTHER is excellent, a wistful-eyed, shabby youth who really looks
convincingly ill and coughs in a way to carry conviction. Oh, but THE
GIRL! My quaint New England spinster is gone and with her all the
point of my playlet. They've given the part to a blooming, buxom,
down-to-the-minute young person, late of "Oh, You Kewpie-Kid!" (in
the chorus) and frankly contemptuous of this rôle. And THE MAN--the
bandit--a fair-haired canary, an inch shorter than she is! They
quarrel like fishwives and scold about the number of "sides" each
other has, and refuse to play up prettily, and I'm heartsick over it
all, Sally. The producing agent says it would be utterly impossible
to "put it over" with the characters as I wrote it. He was fairly
mild and merciful with me (thanks to Rodney, I daresay) but
unbudgably firm, and at every rehearsal some touch of coyness or
kittenishness is added. As an elixir of youth, I recommend him.

The girl patronizes me until I am ready to fling myself on the floor
and squeal with rage. "Listen, girlie," she cooes, "don't you worry
about this lil' ol' act! You leave it to me, hon'! I'll put the
raisin in it!"

Rodney Harrison is hugely amused at my woe. He says I must remember
that you can't slip the Idylls of the King in between the Black-faced
Comedian and the Elephant Act. I suppose I must just bear it,
grinning if possible, until I have won my footing and then I won't
allow so much as a comma to be changed.

BROTHER is a dear. He opened his heart and gave me a five-act play of
his own to read. The stage business is much funnier than the
dialogue. After a melting moment he has--"Exeunt Mother." The old
lady was clearly beside herself. Also me.

Wearily,

JANE.

_Tuesday._

DEAR SALLY,

We open Thursday afternoon at a weird little try-out theater 'way
downtown. I am like to perish of weariness and exasperation. GIRL and
MAN have been fighting like Kilkenny cats. Yesterday she said,
"Dearie, God is my witness, he uses me like I was the dirt under his
feet!" The brother of BROTHER, a lean, clean-looking chap, lounges
about at rehearsals and comforts me vastly with his under-the-breath
comments on them. She has worked up the bit before THE MAN arrives,
when she is pretending, you remember, into screaming comedy. She
assures me it will "knock 'em dead!" And they have introduced a
dance! Yes. He shows her "the coyote lope." I'm telling you the
solemn truth, Sarah Farraday. Do you wonder that I'm an old woman
before my time?

And as if I did not have enough to annoy me, Michael Daragh has been
quite superfluously unpleasant about it. I wrote you how much he
liked it when I read the original 'script to him? Well, he has kept
talking about the glorious privilege of doing really good work and
leavening the lump, and of how the public really wants the best, only
the managers haven't faith to know it, and when I had to tell him
about the changes,--the comedy and the dance and so on, he just
looked at me and looked at me as if I were a lost soul. It was very
tiresome.

"Good gracious, Michael Daragh," I said, "you don't suppose I like
it, do you? But I've got to get my foothold. You can't be high-brow
in the two-a-day, it seems. You've got to capitulate. It's simply
what they call 'putting it over.'"

And he said, "I should be calling it 'putting it under,'" and stalked
away.

Excuse a cross letter. So am I.

J.

P.S. Just for which, I won't even tell him when or where the tryout
is to be.

_Thursday Night._

Well, my dear, they say it went fairly well. But it was absolutely
the most harrowing thing I ever had to bear. BROTHER was a gem but
GIRL and MAN messed up their lines and gave an alien interpretation
to everything. How I hated the audience for roaring at her common
comedy! They howled with delight when she pushed BROTHER over, and
the coyote lope got the biggest hand of the day. I was behind the
scenes, holding the 'script. Oh, but it's a grim land of disillusion
back there! As she came off she gave me a kindly pat and said--

"Ain't they eatin' it up? Say, girlie, didn't I tell you I'd put the
raisin in it?"

Unbelievably, heaven alone knows why, we are to open at the Palace
next Monday. Some big act is canceled owing to illness and they have
to have a sketch. We play two more performances downtown and then
rehearse day and night to smooth over the rough places. I ought to be
bubbling with thankful joy--the Palace! But I'm not. I doubt if I go
on with vaudeville work after this.

Jadedly,

JANE.

_Friday._

DEAR S.,

Something made me think of that girl I fed the other day and I looked
her up. She was actually starving and her room rent long overdue and
her landlady a regular story-book demon, so I fed her up and brought
her home and coaxed Mrs. Hills to put a cot in my room for her. Her
Burne-Jones jaw is sharper than ever and she has the mournfully
grateful eyes of a setter. She's sleeping now as if she could never
have enough,--just thirstily drinking up sleep.

Performance no better to-day. Terrific rehearsing starts early
to-morrow morning.

Hastily,

JANE.

_Sunday Morning._

DEAREST SALLY,

Rehearsal was called for nine sharp yesterday. BROTHER and his
brother were waiting. GIRL and MAN appeared at ten-ten. She said--

"Dearie, I hate to tell you, but I got bad news for you." Then,
turning to him, she said, compassionately, "Say, hon', you tell her!
I haven't got the heart."

"Why," said the bandit, regretfully, "what she means is this: she's
got a swell chance to go on tour with 'Kiss and Tell,' and she feels
like she hadn't ought to turn it down. It's more her line than this
kind of thing, you know."

I counted ten to myself, slowly, and then I said:

"Very well. I daresay you know of some girl who is a quick study and
can get up in the part by Monday, with your help."

She stared and then began to giggle. "Say, girlie, I'm the limit.
Didn't I tell you? I _married_ the boy!" At my gasp she went on,
confidentially, linking her arm in mine. "Yes, dearie. You see, it's
like this. I gotter have somebody, anyhow, to look after luggage, and
you know what this life is. A girl's gotter have protection."

When they were gone I turned to look at BROTHER. I almost thought he
was going to cry, and he began to cough, just as he does in the
sketch.

"Oh, please," I said, "don't keep doing that! We aren't rehearsing
now."

And he stopped and said, "That's just it, Miss Vail. I'm not
rehearsing. It's--that's how it is with me. That's why I knew I
could get by with the part. I thought if we got good bookings, why,
I'd be fixed to take a good long rest, afterwards,--out on the desert
or up in the snow. It isn't bad, yet. They tell me I've got a great
chance." Then his chin quivered. "That's why it kind of hits me right
where I live, having this thing go on the rocks."

"It mustn't," I said. "It can't! We won't let it!" I knew it was only
a miracle that could save us, in that breathlessly short time, but I
have a vigorous belief in miracles. "There must be a man and a girl,
somewhere----"

Then the lean, silent brother of BROTHER spoke. "I don't suppose
you'd give me a whack at it, would you? I've learned every word of
the whole 'script, watching every day the way I have. I can do it. I
can do it if you'll let me. I don't think that fellow ever had your
idea of it. Look,--the part where THE HAWK tells her what a rotten
deal he's always had, isn't this how you meant it?"--and he dropped
into a chair, took a knee between his brown, lean hands, looked off
into the empty theater for a moment--and then, Sally, he read the
lines as I'd written them. Instantly, I was happier than I'd been
since I tore the final page out of the typewriter, visualizing the
thing as I meant it to be.

"It's yours," I chortled in my joy. "You can have it on a silver
salver!"

"If only we can get a girl," BROTHER was worrying. "We ought to get
one, easy. She needn't be so much of a looker."

"And we'll cut the comedy and the dance," I said, thankfully.

"There must be a hundred girls crazy for the job, with all the idle
acts there are now. All she's got to do is walk through,--it's
actress proof, that part. If we could just get a girl, not too young,
kind of pathetic looking----"

Then, suddenly and serenely, I knew what I was going to do. And I
knew that, sink or swim, never again was I going to "put it under." I
told them to wait. I taxied opulently home. My waif was curled up in
my kimono, feeding my fan-tailed goldfish. "Hurry up," I said,
briskly. "You're holding the rehearsal!"

While she was scrambling, bewilderedly, into her clothes, I explained
to her and dug out the old 'scripts and carbons, and on the way back
I told her the story and gave her the idea of how she was to play it.
She hadn't had time to put on her sea-shell tint, but the hollows in
her cheeks filled up with pink excitement as I talked. When I marched
in with her the men gave her one look, grinned, and heaved gusty
sighs of relief. We rehearsed all day and half the night. We haven't
told the office a word about the defection of the two vaude-villains.
The printing is out, of course, and the old names will stand. She is
stiff with fright and bodily unfit for the strain, but she's giving
everything she's got, and she's delicious in quality for the part.

Yours in weary bliss,

J.

_Monday._ 3.15 A.M.

Sarah, I feel like Guido Reni (if it was Guido Reni) when he stabbed
his servant to get the actual agony for the "Ecce Homo!" My girl
fainted away in the middle of her big speech an hour ago. I have
tucked her up in bed after a rub and a cup of hot milk and she is to
sleep until noon. BROTHER'S brother tried pitifully, but he didn't
get through a single speech without prompting. I'm terrified! Suppose
they muddle it utterly, what will the Powers say to me--after not
telling them of the change in cast? I wish I hadn't asked Michael
Daragh to come to the matinée. I _must_ stop. I know I won't sleep a
wink, but I'll put out the light and lie down and shut my eyes.

JANE.

_Monday Midnight._

Oh, Sally dearest, I don't know where to begin! I'll make myself
start with the morning. I slipped out before my starveling was awake,
leaving a cheering note for her. I took the bus up to Grant's Tomb
and walked back along the river to Seventy-second Street. It was the
most marvelous blue-and-gold morning; I speeded myself to a glow on
shady paths or sat steeping for a moment in the sun. I held happy
converse with democratic dogs and reserved and haughty babies and
dawdled, but even so I found myself with a panicky margin of time on
my hands. Then I bethought myself of my never-failing remedy for
troublesome thoughts and I went joyously forth like a he-goat on the
mountains and bought a ruinous pair of proud shoes and put them on. I
knew the gloating over them would leave me small room for
forebodings. You know how I've always been. You used to call me
"Goody Two-Shoes." These are cunningly contrived to make my No. 4,
triple A, look like a 2, and I walked upon air, narrowly missing
being mown down by traffic, my eyes upon my feet. On the way to the
Palace I made myself repeat that lovely thing of Gelett Burgess's--

"My feet, they haul me round the house;
They hoist me up the stairs;
I only have to steer them, and
They ride me everywheres!"

I purchased an orchestra seat and inquired carelessly at what hour my
sketch (only I didn't say it was my sketch) went on. I found we were
sandwiched in between the newest Tramp Juggler and the Trained Seals!
Then I went behind and saw my gallant little company, made up and
dressed too soon, waiting in awful idleness with strained smiles and
ghastly cheer. I petted and patted them all round and cast an
agitated eye over the set. A grimy young stagehand made a minor
change for me with a languid, not unkind contempt. "What's the big
idea?" he wanted to know. "Goner slip 'em some high-brow stuff? Say,
this is the wrong pew, sister. They won't stand for nothing like that
here. Up in the Bronx, maybe--" I turned and basely fled. I went out
in front and found my place. The orchestra rollicked through the
overture and people poured in and ushers slid down the aisles and
snapped down the seats. I studied the people's faces as a gladiator
might have done in the arena. Thumbs up? Thumbs down? A row behind
me, across the aisle, sat Michael Daragh, but he did not see me. Two
petulantly pretty girls in regal furs sank into seats beyond me, and
a white-spatted, rosy-wattled gentleman in a subduedly elegant
waistcoat took the one on the end.

The annunciator flashed A and a pair of black-face comedians "opened
the show," but they did not get it very far open for people were
jamming in and elbows were silhouetted against the light. They
doggedly plugged away, firing their tragic comedy, making brave
capital even of the silences, but through my glasses I was sure I
could see the strained anxiety of their eyes. It was a relief to have
them go. Then the Trained Seals were with us, lovely things like
gentle, tidy, sleek-headed little girls. My heart was going like a
metronome set for a tarantella and my wrist-watch ticked
breathlessly--"Coming--Coming--Coming!"

If only we were Z instead of C!

"Funny thing, you know," said the occupant of the end seat,
conversationally, "they tell me they're easier than any other animal
in the world to train, except a pig. Fact. Circus man told me."

He had a genial face, creased into jolly patterns, and my heart
warmed to him, and to Michael Daragh and the pretty girls and the fat
old lady in front of me. Nice people, kind people. It seemed certain
that they must want real things, clean things.

I took out a pencil to make notes for corrections, but the annunciator
said D, and a lady who would have done nicely as Venus came out
attired as Cupid and the house rocked with welcome. I was cold with
conjecture. _What_ had happened back there? Had my poor starveling
fainted again? Had BROTHER'S brother died of fright? I sat shivering
through the sprightly number until C, said the electric lights, and
the orchestra began softly to play--

"In days of old,
When knights were bold--"

The curtain rose on the bleak telegraph station, on my thin spinster
in her rocking chair. It was a lean vision for eyes lately ravished
by the Venus lady's charms; programs rattled; the Tramp Juggler was
to follow. I could see her chest rising and falling jerkily with her
frightened breath and her hands shook so that she could hardly hold
her sewing. From far aloft came that loud guffaw that speaks the
vacant mind and one of the pretty girls next me giggled in echo. Then
something seemed to go through my waif; the Burne-Jones jaw was taut;
she got hold of herself; then, slowly, steadily, surely, little by
little, she got hold of the house. The man on the end who had
slouched comfortably down in his seat, sat sharply upright and the
girls stopped whispering. BROTHER came on, and his brother as the
MAN. The tempo was perfect, the acceleration blood-quickening. Laughs
came at unexpected places, friendly and cordial. The girl was like a
melody in low tones; she built up her climax cunningly, warming,
coloring, kindling.

"Good gad!" ejaculated the spatted gentleman in the aisle seat, "you
know, that girl can act!" The old lady in front lifted a frank
handkerchief; the giggling girls were raptly watching. Now the GIRL'S
big moment came. Her voice, faded and gentle before, was harsh and
strident. "_I don't care! I don't care! You hush! You keep
still!_"

When she gave him his broth she had seemed the gentlest of living
creatures; now, pushing him ruthlessly to the floor, she was a fury,
pitiless, obsessed. All the starved romance, all the pinched poverty
of her life, all the lean and lonely years she had known cried out in
hunger, not to be denied; she was a tigress doing battle for her
mate.

And then, when the rattle and roar of the train died away, BROTHER'S
hacking cough sounded from behind the closed door, and stark reality
laid hold on her again. Her thin hands went together on her breast
and then fell slackly to her sides. She seemed visibly to shrink and
shrivel. Racked and spent with her one crowded hour, she stood
looking into the bleak and empty vista of the years.

I was in the aisle before the curtain fell, speeding past the people,
the applauding people, the beautiful, kind, understanding people,
past the benediction of Michael Daragh's lifted look. The applause
followed me out through the lobby--oh, Sally dear, no choir invisible
could make half so celestial a sound!--and when I got behind the
scenes it was still coming in--solid, genuine, hearty waves of it.

I heard hurrying feet behind me but I did not pause. I guessed who it
was, but I wouldn't turn to look. In the orderly chaos of props and
people--and it was an ugly land of disillusion no longer but the land
of heart's desire, Sally--I found my gallant little band of fighting
hope, beaming and breathless after the fifth honest curtain, coming
to me on buoyant feet.

Stern St. Michael had caught up with me then, and he bent his austere
head to say very humbly, "Woman, dear, I'm so high with pride for
you, and so low with shame for me, that I could ever be doubting----"

But the grimy young stagehand, halting in front of me with an armful
of the Tramp Juggler's playthings, cut his sentence in two.

"Say,"--he held out a dark and hearty paw--"put her there, sister!
Say, I guess maybe that's poor? Say, I guess maybe that's not puttin'
it over!"

Jubilantly,

JANE.