Mummers in Mufti/Chapter 5

N a dressing-room at the Lyceum Theater, Tilly Marshall was making up her eyelashes, while in the corridor outside a tired, slightly snarling voice was droning along in an endless argument consisting, for the most part, of a futile, uninspired, unemphatic sort of profanity.

The whole scene was one which could have been highly ridiculous if there had been any one within range to consider it so, but there were no high spirits in the "Eleanor" company at just that hour, least of all in the dressing-room of Tilly Marshall.

Off the stage, Tilly Marshall was a quiet and pleasantly good-looking girl; on the stage she had a dainty and fragile beauty; but at the present moment scrupulous art could not have succeeded in making her more completely comic. Around her shoulders was a towel streaked with red finger-marks. Above it, her rather thin hair had been drawn viciously back from her forehead and twisted into a knob at the rear of her head, giving her the effect of a faintly pretty but wholly inept little rustic slavey. In her left hand was a black stick of "Cosmétique," not unlike a stick of old-fashioned salve, and on the shelf before her was a lighted candle. At slow and deliberate intervals she would rub the blunt end of a hairpin over the stick of Cosmétique, hold it an instant in the flame of the candle, making the latter splutter and sizzle, then carefully apply the hairpin to her lashes. From this was slowly being evolved what was, at close range, a rather monstrous but, at the same time, rather fascinating result. As she worked, Miss Marshall held her face only three or four inches away from the mirror, her eyes peering into it with that relentless, almost cruel contraction of the pupils common to all women when they study themselves in a glass.

Outside, in the corridor, the tired voice still droned on and on in its dull, monotonous, unaccented profanity, increasing, with every moment, the girl's disgust and depression. It was not the profanity that she minded or, particularly, the owner of the voice, but the whole point of view, the circumstances, which it represented.

The voice was that of Charlie Barnes, the comedian, a wizened little man almost fifty years old, a typical old-time trouper but, oddly enough, in his first season with a "Broadway company." Charlie Barnes was what in the army would be called a "barrack lawyer," and what in theatrical circles is known as a "bellyacher." The word must, unhappily, be used, for there is no other. In every large theatrical company there is one of these internal politicians. Sometimes it is a woman and more often than not the "heavy woman," but in any case it is one of the principals, who finds himself or herself more at home among the members of the chorus than among the other principals, who acts as a go-between for the upper and lower ranks of the company, who may, on rare occasions, be an invaluable ally to the management but, more often, is just a trouble-maker, a natural anarchist, and a general nuisance.

In the case of Charlie Barnes there were certain excuses. Too much of his life had been spent in the lower ranks of theatrical life for him to find himself much at home anywhere else, and to an old actor of his type a certain amount of grumbling and querulousness is always allowed as a perquisite.

To Tilly Marshall, Charlie Barnes was professionally merely a type, and personally he was wholly negative. Since he was a man without one atom of breeding it was, perhaps, a point in his favor that he was also a man without one atom of manner, but, curiously enough, although he was a very good comedian, in some respects a highly finished comedian, yet, out of character, he had no real sense of humor. Tilly Marshall herself had a very keen sense of humor. When she was not mentally ill, as she was at the time, she had almost a merciless wit, and, like most young women possessed of this deadly gift, she was all too apt to rate or misrate other people wholly in accordance with its standards. In the case of Charlie Barnes, she could quite easily have overlooked his commonness of person if it had not been for the utter commonness of his mind. As it was, she despised him completely for both. At the present moment, the longer he droned outside her dressing-room door, the more nearly was she beginning to hate him actively, not because he was worse than the rest of her associates in the "Eleanor" company but because she now saw him to be so hopelessly typical of them all.

Theatrical companies differ as widely in personnel as do ships' companies, and for no greater reason—the law of averages. In five years of stage experience, Tilly Marshall had seen many kinds. In one or two almost the entire membership had been as attractive as the average house-party and far more clever. In most of them there had been at least one or two girls with whom she could be fairly congenial and one or two men who were, at the worst, more or less amusing. Certainly she had never seen a company so uniformly awful as this one.

Technically, this was the most important company with which she had ever played. The musical comedy "Eleanor" was a bona-fide "Broadway show" with the "original cast" still intact, yet many others besides Tilly Marshall had long before this begun to wonder what was the matter with it. Its producers were Harcourt & Gay, a young and vigorous firm which had, within six or seven years shot up to meteoric prominence and which had, up to the present season, had almost a uniform record of huge successes. Its score, libretto, and lyrics had been written by a writer and composer who commanded the highest royalties in their professions. Its principals were all playing parts of a sort in which the public had always acclaimed them. One of them, Charlie Barnes, had been, in a mild way, hailed by one or two critics as the "find" of the year.

"Eleanor" had opened in the city the previous August. None of the reviews had been particularly hostile, and most of them had been favorable indeed. After playing two months in New York, the company had withdrawn in perfectly good order and begun its legitimate pilgrimage toward Chicago, but the owners knew perfectly well that the strategic retreat had been merely another name for a rout. They were confident, nevertheless, with that vain and singular confidence so common to men of their profession, that the "provinces" would be either acute enough or stupid enough—they themselves were not sure which they meant—to give them a success where New York had only given them a failure. Up to now, the provinces had returned the same verdict as had New York, but, being only the provinces, had seemed doubly ungrateful to the producers and to the actors for rendering such confirmation.

Naturally the members of the company were not ignorant of the continuous shadow which lay over their progress. The billing, "Fresh from its New York triumphs," did not deceive them, although most of them felt, sulkily enough, that it ought to deceive such cities as Leicester. Dull mentally as most of them were, they were not dull enough to be wholly ignorant of the comparative shallowness of the craft which they were attempting to navigate, but the basis of their resentment rather bears an amazed examination.

Compared, let us say, to "Hamlet" or to "The Merry Widow," both producers and company knew that "Eleanor" was a very superficial effort indeed, but they did not compare it to "The Merry Widow" or "Hamlet." They compared it instead to a long line of "Eleanors" which had just preceded it—a two or three years' succession of "Helénès" and  "Marjories" and  "Janes" which had been produced with immense success for all persons concerned. What exasperated Harcourt & Gay, as it exasperated the company now in the Leicester Lyceum Theater, was the fact that "Eleanor," weak as it was, did not share the rich inheritance of its equally weak predecessors. It seems never to have occurred to any of them that a public which had shown a fondness for pie would not necessarily go on eating pie indefinitely, or, better, that a simple, unexacting class of theater-goers which had been assiduously instructed in dramatic primers might not some time outgrow those very primers and begin to look around for first readers, especially when it began to dawn on them that first readers might really exist. All the members of the  "Eleanor" company were endlessly prattling about the insufficiency of their  "parts," but none of them seemed to realize the relation between an inadequate part and an inadequate whole.

Even Tilly Marshall, who was being borne down more than all the others by the depression which hung over "Eleanor," gave no real thought to what might be the matter. Superior in mentality as she was to most of her associates, with them she shared the peculiar and helpless fatalism that is characteristic of the theatrical profession. Most theatrical people seem to vision a special and vicious Providence which exists for no other reason than to turn a wheel that shall make one show a success and another a failure. That under these successes and failures must lie certain fundamental and self-renewing laws which could be applied, not necessarily with uniform success but in a way which would insure a steady advance, they disregarded as an idea unworthy of a "practical" and cynical profession, one which is founded on intellect but in which intellect is invariably singled out for amused contempt.

Charlie Barnes was the only member of the "Eleanor" cast who made any real effort to find out what might be the matter and, having found it, to preach his doctrine morning, noon, and night. But Charlie Barnes was merely a barrack lawyer, a newly promoted "ham," and no one paid any attention to him except the chorus people, who simply hoped that if they could gain the favor of Charlie Barnes, he might speak a word for them when any new "bits" were given out or when the cast might be reduced in numbers. The other principals hopped and smirked at performances, apparently with a rare zest, but between performances, they sat and gloomed. They were Maida Maine, the Junoesque prima donna around whom the show had been built; Adrian Bellony, the technical "hero," a tin-faced man who should have been driving a truck and would have been if nature had not endowed him with one of those metallic and piercing tenor voices which galleries are supposed to adore; Tommy Knight, an eager enough Irish-American boy—a beady-eyed dancer; Elsie Winner, a straw-blond theatrical type who, with Tilly Marshall shared the two equal soubrette parts; Tilly Marshall herself; and, lastly, old Celestine Trip, a comedy woman of two hundred pounds who played a dowager part, technically "opposite" Charlie Barnes. "Fifty-eight people" were advertised to travel with the "Eleanor" company, but to secure this impressive total the electrician and the stage-hands were all counted. The seven above mentioned were all who were of any particular concern to the public or to themselves.

For fifteen minutes Tilly Marshall remained with her face held rigidly in front of the mirror, completing her make-up and doing her hair; then, simultaneously, occurred two events of some slight psychological importance. In the corridor the droning voice ceased abruptly, leaving a distinctly appreciated feeling of peace. At the same moment Tilly Marshall removed the grimy towel from her shoulders. The effect was magical, even to her. Her dress still hung in front of a sheet on the wall, but her appearance was not materially different from what it would be a few minutes later. Looking into her mirror she realized—not without genuine surprise in her present embittered mood of self-depreciation—that she was amazingly pretty. For a moment, more under the dictates of her mood than genuinely, she tried to sneer at herself for the sudden slight exultation that her appearance gave her, but, irresistibly, she felt happier than she had for days and, after a moment, ceased to combat the respite from her depression. Suddenly feeling, not a distaste, but an anticipation for the performance ahead of her, she turned and took her blue first-act gown from its hooks.

In the corridor outside various steps and swishings now brushed back and forth. In the dressing-room next to hers Tilly Marshall heard voices and knew that the mulatto woman who acted as dresser for all the women principals in the company except the star would come to her next. She sat down and waited. A momentary silence settled down over the corridor; then a heavy irregular step came thumping along and there was a knock at her door.

Whether or not he actually had one, the stage-doorkeeper of the Lyceum Theater walked as if he had a wooden leg. In the two days' residence of the "Eleanor" company, Tilly Marshall had already become familiar with his thump, thump, thump, and she opened the door without hesitation. The man handed her a note, at which she stared in surprise.

"Is there any answer?" she asked instinctively.

The doorman grinned. "I don't know, Miss. That's probably for you to say."

Tilly Marshall flushed crimson to the edges of her gown, which still hung, unhooked, over her shoulders. The thought in the doorkeeper's mind had been the farthest from her own, and she was rather chilling in her dignity as she took the note and tore it open. One glance was sufficient to show her that the envelope contained nothing but a sparse, flimsy prescription-sheet from Dr. MacVickar. She turned and nodded to the man. "No answer."

The doorman still stood rubbing his head for a moment and grinning whimsically, then turned and thumped away down the corridor like Long John Silver. Tilly Marshall closed the door and resumed her seat, but not without a certain vague disappointment.

Like all women who had ever met him, especially those who would never in the world have thought of marrying him, Tilly Marshall had at first sight voted Dr. MacVickar a "dear." Her second consultation with him, that afternoon, had increased this feeling, but she had to admit that, for one wild second, in her sudden good humor, she had expected something more exciting than the prescription which he had promised that afternoon to send to her hotel and which had apparently been forwarded to her from there.

Nevertheless a doctor's prescription was better than nothing, and she took the flimsy little sheet idly from its envelope, prepared to see what Dr. MacVickar had to say about Rx Bro 2XX and Sulph Carb NZ. To her pleased surprise the sheet was not an order on a pharmacy at all but a personal note, and, taking it to the light by the mirror, she glanced it through eagerly:

The door was silently opened and the mulatto woman entered. Without a word, she began to hook up Miss Marshall's gown while the girl read the letter to its end. She looked up into the mirror and again was surprised to see her own eyes dancing with gaiety. After all, it was a pleasant surprise. She had known that something amusing was about to happen. She did not, of course, take the doctor's description of Arnold Bellsmith at its face-value. Indeed she was quite prepared to believe that that was the doctor's gruff masculine method of preparing her to meet an unusually attracttive [sic] man.

Suddenly the inevitable thought came to her. Could this Mr. Bellsmith be the man she had seen at the office that afternoon? At once she hoped that it was, for he too had looked quite a "dear." She tried to remember the exact location of the seats which she had reserved for the doctor. "H, 6 and 8"—she was sure those were the ones—"H, 6 and 8 right," but, like all stage people, she was, for the moment, compelled mentally to face backward in order to visualize their location, for "right" on the stage and "right" in the house are the exact opposites. She must remember—eighth row, on the aisle, on her own left hand.

The dresser swiftly and silently completed her work and prepared to leave. Among all the women whom she attended Miss Marshall caused her the least trouble, although, poor thing, she could hardly know that this was because Miss Marshall could hardly bear to have her touch her.

"Is there anything more, Miss Marshall?" The dresser had to repeat the question before the girl came out of her preoccupation.

"No, thank you, Francie."

The dresser slipped out, leaving the door wide open. A moment later the assistant stage-manager came bustling through the corridor, stopping before each door and announcing:

"Overture and beginners!" Tilly Marshall put down the note and turned instinctively toward the door, although her first entrance would not come until after the second number. At the end of the corridor she could hear the members of the chorus pushing and scuffling down the iron circular staircase, and, far in the distance, like the dimmed horns of a circus band, could be heard the opening notes of the orchestra. Darkness, then lights, began to succeed each other in the wings of the stage, finally settling into a warm steady glow which came in beams through the openings in the scenery. As Tilly Marshall came into the wings, rough shapes could be seen in the dark spaces peering through the gaps at the stage. "A rotten house," she heard some one say: then there was a sudden instant of absolute silence. A harsh voice called something from the regions above. The music was again audible. In a ragged, hesitant way the chorus began to sing. There was a slow, crinkling sound. The instrumental music became suddenly very loud, and a wave of warm, hot-house air swept over the stage to where Tilly Marshall was standing.

The curtain was up. On with the play!