_ CHAPTER IX
The Rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning, presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle. The theatrical season was already on the wane; each day Broadway's pavements in the immediate vicinity of Forty-second Street became more congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." The Rialto--the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of every would-be Hamlet! An important section of the big town's commercial life, yet a world apart--the world of the theatre, a shallow, artificial, unreal land, with laws and manners all its own; a region of lights and tinsel and mock emotions, its people frankly unmoral and irresponsible as a child, yet ever interesting and not unlovable; luxury-loving and extravagant, flush to-day, bankrupt to-morrow; inflated with false pretense and exaggerated self importance, yet tender-hearted and ingenuous to a fault, and not without their sphere of usefulness--theirs the mission "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature," and in tragedy and comedy, move mankind to tears and laughter, while upholding the best traditions of a noble art.
Sweeping northwards from Herald Square as far as Forty-seventh Street, the Rialto, on this particular morning, did full credit to the famous public mart in Venice, from which it took its picturesque name. Here in the heart of theatredom was the players' curb market, the theatrical rendezvous of the metropolis, where the mummer comes both to talk shop with his fellow actor, and seek a new engagement. On every side luxurious theatres reared their stately facades, box-offices open for business invited all to enter, obstreperous ticket speculators jostled passersby in their eagerness to sell their seats. Street hoardings, ash barrels and sandwich men were plastered with flamboyant multi-colored show bills. The play, and nothing but the play was certainly the thing; the hapless stranger was buffetted in a maelstrom of theatrical activity. The very air reeked of calcium and grease paint.
The sidewalks were crowded with actors of all ages, some smartly dressed, others seedy-looking and down at heel. They stood chatting idly in little groups, thronged the doors of managers' offices and dramatic agencies, promenaded up and down with self-conscious strut. If some were seedy, all looked sanguine and happy. Actors and actresses both, they laughed and joked and patted one another on the back, as they strove to outdo each other in narrating wonderful experiences on the road. Right and left one heard the younger players exclaim exuberantly: "Great notices!--made the hit of my life!--am to be starred next season!--manager crazy for me to sign!" The bystanders, older than the speakers, listened politely and nodded approvingly, but did not seem otherwise impressed. Old-timers these, they knew too well the symptoms of the novice. Every beginner had these illusions, like the measles; then, as one got older in the "perfesh" one became immune. Had they not had many such attacks themselves? They had dreamed of playing Brutus, Macbeth and Romeo before crowded houses, and having their names spelled out in blazing electric letters over the entrance of Broadway theatres, yet here they were to-day, just where they stood twenty years before, playing general utility at forty dollars a week, and only thirty-six weeks in the year! Need one wonder that their eyes were tired and their faces lined? Their clothes were shabby, all ambition had been ruthlessly crushed out of them, but no matter. They still stood sunning themselves on the Rialto, listening good naturedly to the youngsters' prattle. Now and then grim tragedy could be detected stalking behind comedy's mask. Haggard faces and shabby clothes spoke eloquently of poverty's pinch. A long summer ahead and nothing saved. Well--what of it? That was nothing unusual. If times were hard and engagements few, that was the price the mummer must pay. Why did he go into the rotten business? By this time he painfully realized that all cannot be stars, to own automobiles and fine country houses and have the managers and the public worshipping at their feet. Some must be content to belong to the humble rank and file, and these were the kind that haunted Broadway.
Two loungers, one a young actor, the other a man considerably his senior, stood talking at the corner of Forty-second Street, opposite the entrance to the Empire Theatre. The younger man was pale and sickly looking, and his long hair, classic features, and general seedy appearance stamped him as a "legit," or a player whose theatrical activities had been confined to Shakespearian and the classic dramas.
Why actors who specialize in the legitimate should be invariably careless in their personal appearance has yet to be explained. Their fellow-artists, who play in modern comedy, usually appear on the street trig and well groomed. Their clothes, cut in the latest fashion, and the way they wear them, constitute valuable factors in their success. But the Benvolios, the Mercutios and Horatios and other heroes of the romantic and standard dramas, are, in private life, a queer and sad-looking lot. Their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own.
This particular actor wore a faded Fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane. His attitude was one of general discouragement, which was not surprising, seeing that after playing Shakespeare in the one-night stands all season, he found himself stranded on Broadway without a cent. While he confided his troubles to his old friend, Jim Weston, he cast envious glances at other fellow actors, more fortunate than he, who were entering a red-curtained chop house close by. As his olfactory organ caught the delicious odors of grilling steaks and juicy roasts, he winced. That morning he had breakfasted but meagerly, and when again the hunger pangs seized him there would be no chop house for him. He must slink into the little dairy round the corner and lining-up at the lunch counter, together with a dozen other thespians in like straits, shamefacedly order a glass of milk and piece of pie.
"Do you think it's any merrier for me?" exclaimed Weston, after he had listened to the other's hard-luck story. "Why, man alive, I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks, until every flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. It's something fierce!"
Jim Weston was only one of the many hundred human derelicts cast away on the theatrical strand. An advance agent of the old school, he found himself at the age of fifty outdistanced by younger and more active men. In the three decades of his life, which he had devoted to the service of the stage, he had seen the gradual evolution of the theatrical business. The old-time circus and minstrel men had been pushed aside and younger men, more up-to-date in their methods, had taken their place. Jim realized that he was a back number, but he hung on just the same. He was too old now to begin learning a new trade. He had given all the energy of his youth to the service of the theatre and now he was older and not so active the theatre had gone back on him. Often he had thought of ending it all, there and then, but that he mused, was the coward's way. There was the "missis" and the "kids." He wasn't going to desert them. So day after day, he kept on tramping Broadway, haunting the agencies, in the hope of something turning up.
His companion, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, tapped the pavement nervously with his cane, and Weston continued:
"Got a letter from the missis this morning. The kids got to have more clothes, there's measles in the town and mumps in the next village. I've just got to raise some money, or git some work, or the first thing you'll know, I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark night with a club."
"Hello, Jim!" hailed a feminine voice in greeting.
The two men quickly looked up. An attractive, stylishly dressed young woman had halted. A smile of recognition lit up the agent's wan face, and starting forward, he shook warmly the proffered hand. The actor, touching his hat, turned to go. To Weston, he said:
"If you hear of anything in my line, bear me in mind, old man."
"I will, Ned, never fear. Good-bye and good luck."
The actor strolled on and the agent turned to his feminine acquaintance:
"Why, Elfie St. Clair!" he exclaimed, "I haven't seen you for an age."
It was Elfie St. Clair, bearing, as usual, all the outward signs of prosperity. Like most women of her class, she always over-dressed. From her picture hat and jeweled neck, to her silk stockings and dainty patent leather slippers, she had them all on, and more than one passerby turned to stare. Extravagant clothes which, on Fifth Avenue would be taken as a matter of course, caused a mild sensation among the general dullness of the busy Rialto. But Elfie ignored the attention she attracted, and went on chatting, unconcerned. What did she care if people guessed how she made the money to dress as she did? She was too old at the business for that, too hardened, yet with all her effrontery, she had at least one redeeming virtue. In her days of prosperity she was never too proud to greet or help old friends. She had met Jim Weston years ago. He was press agent for the first company she joined, and she had not forgotten trifling little services he had rendered her at that precarious time. With a glance at his shabby clothes, she asked:
"What are you doing now?"
"Same as usual--nothing!" he answered dryly.
"Down on your luck, eh?" she said sympathetically.
"Never had any luck," he grumbled.
"Been out long?"
"Only six weeks the whole season. Show busted. I'm on my uppers for fair this time--eligible for the down-and-out club. No prospects, either."
The girl made a motion with her pocketbook. Kindly she said:
"Say, Jim--let me loan you a ten spot--we're old pals, you and I----"
He shook his head determinedly. Almost savagely, he exclaimed:
"No, I'll be d----d if I do! The river before that. Thank God, I still have my self respect left!" Quickly changing the topic, he went on: "I met an old friend of yours the other day."
"Who?"
"Laura Murdock."
The girl started.
"Laura!" she exclaimed. "Why, I haven't seen her for months--only once since she went to Denver and fell in love with a newspaper man. Wasn't that perfectly crazy? I was always afraid she would do something of the sort. There is a sentimental streak in her, you know. I did all I could to dissuade her, but it was no use. She had made up her mind to be good, and that was the end of it. Such a pity! She was getting on so fine. You know, of course, that she has cut out Brockton, and the rest of the crowd. I've quite lost sight of her. Where did you see her?"
The agent's thin lips then tightened into a grim smile.
"You'd hardly know her now," he said.
The girl looked inquiringly at him.
"Not know her--why?"
Hesitatingly he went on:
"Wal--you know how it is when things don't seem to go just right. Laura never was over strong with the managers unless she had a good pull, and now she's shifting for herself, they've gone back on her. She got a fairly good part at the beginning of the season, but she didn't make good. The critics hit her pretty hard, and the manager gave her two weeks' notice. Since then she's been playing such parts as she can get, but I guess she ain't averaged fifteen dollars a week the whole blessed winter."
"Where is she now?"
"At Mrs. Farley's. She has a small room there. I think she pays four dollars a week--when she pays it. You know Mrs. Farley's. I'm stopping there, too. It ain't exactly swell, but it's better than the park, especially on cold nights."
Elfie turned pale under her cosmetics. Too well she knew the horrors of poverty. She was shocked to hear that one of her own sisterhood should be reduced to such straits as these. The lightning had struck uncomfortably near home. Besides she had always been fond of Laura. Yes, she knew Mrs. Farley's, a shrewish Irishwoman, who kept a cheap theatrical boarding house in Forty ----th Street. Ten years ago, in the days when she was a stage beginner, struggling to make both ends meet, she had lived there and as she looked back on those days of self denial and humiliation she shuddered.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, her voice trembling from unaffected emotion. "Tell Laura you met me and say I had no idea of it. Tell her I'll come and see her the very first opportunity. Goodbye."
A smile and a nod, and she disappeared, swallowed up in the vortex of humanity that swirls in eddies along the Great White Way. The agent stood looking after her. With a sagacious shake of his head, he murmured to himself:
"I don't know but that she's the wise one, after all. What's the good of being decent? The world respects the man who can wear fine duds. Nobody asks how he got 'em. One's a fool to care. Every one for himself and let the devil take the hindmost."
Having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, Jim Weston proceeded on his way. Continuing north up Broadway as far as Forty-third Street, he crossed Long Acre Square and stopping in front of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the steep stoop. The house was one of the few old-fashioned private residences still left standing in the business section of the city. Some forty or more years ago, when Long Acre was practically a suburb of New York, this particular house was the home of a proud Knickerbocker family. Its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the laughter of richly-attired men and women--the society of New York in ante-bellum days. But in the modern relentless march uptown of commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept away. The house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. And a queer collection of tenants they had secured. A quick-lunch-counter man occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. Up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a Mr. Quiller--foxy Quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage.
There was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb. By the time he had reached the top, Jim Weston was out of breath. Halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until he came to an office, the door of which was opened. He entered.
In a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. That they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance. The women wore smart frocks, and the men were clean shaven, but there was an obsequious deference in their manner and a worried, expectant expression on their faces that one sees only in dependents anxious to please. In the far corner, near the window, was Mr. Quiller's private office, on the frosted glass door of which was the word "Private." Above the door, and all about the room were large cards bearing such friendly greetings as: "MY TIME'S WORTH MONEY! DON'T WASTE IT." "THIS IS MY BUSY DAY; BE BRIEF." "DON'T COME TILL I SEND FOR YOU--THIS MEANS YOU!" The other decorations consisted of a number of theatrical photographs tacked here and there on the walls and a few old playbills. At a desk near the entrance, a slovenly office boy sat reading a dime novel.
He looked up as Jim entered and nodded with familiar insolence. The advance man was no stranger there. Each day for months past, he had climbed those dingy stairs, only to get the same discouraging answer: "Nothing doing." Yet he had persevered. He never let a day go by without dropping in at least once. There was always the chance of something turning up. Approaching the desk he inquired:
"Mr. Quiller in?"
"Busy!" growled the boy. With a gesture of his hand toward the others already waiting, he said insolently: "All them people is here before you."
Actors and actresses, when they are recognized as human beings at all, are only "people" in managerial offices. The ordinary courtesies of life do not extend to the humble player. The star, the public favorite, is courted and fawned upon by the cringing theatre director, but the rank and file of the profession are just "people". If the office boy was rude, he merely reflected the scornful attitude of his superiors.
Weston quickly took a seat and waited. The others were strangers to him. Their faces were familiar from seeing them frequently in the same place, and he guessed that they had come on the same mission as himself. Secretly, he felt sorry for them, especially for the women, some of whom were young and pretty. They looked thin, careworn and sad. Ah, who knew better than he, how hard and disappointing a career it was! They were only beginners and already they were bitterly disillusioned, while he had gone through it all and come out--a wreck!
The silence was awkward and oppressive. Through the closed door of the private office was heard a man's harsh voice; then a woman's softer tones in reply. One of those waiting whispered to a neighbor and then some one laughed, which relieved the unnatural tension. All forced themselves to appear cheerful and unconcerned, each secretly ashamed to be there, humiliated at being subjected to the same treatment as menials in this Intelligence office of the stage.
Two women were talking in an undertone and Weston, sitting close by, could not help hearing what they said. One, an attractive, modest-looking girl, was almost in tears, complaining bitterly of indignities to which she had been subjected by a manager.
"I wouldn't stand for it," she said, "so he gave me two weeks' notice, on the pretext that the author didn't like me in the part. He knew he was lying--my notices were fine! Such a time as I had with him! I made a hit on the opening night. He came back on the stage and invited me to supper. As he talked of signing with me for five years, I didn't dare refuse. At supper he let me understand what the price would be. I instantly rose from the table and told him I wasn't that kind of a girl. Then he got mad. He told me to think well before I made the mistake of my life. He said no girls got along on the stage unless they consented to these conditions, and that if I refused I would be blacklisted by every manager in town. I didn't even deign to answer. I called a cab and left him. The following day I got my walking papers. I did not care so much about leaving the company. Under the circumstances I couldn't have stayed and retained my self respect. I laughed at his threat, but I've since found it was no idle one. I've been turned down everywhere."
Her companion, an older woman, more sophisticated and more worldly, shook her head sympathetically:
"Nonsense, child, that's only a coincidence. It's preposterous to imagine for a moment that reputable managers would lend themselves to anything of the kind. You happened to come across a scoundrel--that's all. Broadway's full of such human vultures--more's the pity--and they're giving the stage a bad name. But a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. Maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. Look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched. Take, for instance, Maude----"
Before she could complete the name, the door of Mr. Quiller's sanctum opened, and a young woman emerged, followed to the threshold by the dramatic agent, a jaundiced little man, with ferret-like eyes, and a greasy frock coat.
"Next!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice.
"Miss Durant!" called out the office boy.
The woman whose warm championship of the stage had been so abruptly interrupted, rose with alacrity and disappeared behind Mr. Quiller's closed door, while the young actress whose interview was ended made her way to the main entrance. Her face was veiled and she walked quickly, looking to neither left nor right, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if anxious to avoid observation. As she passed Weston, he happened to look up.
"Hello, Laura!" he exclaimed, as he recognized her. "So it was you in there with old skinflint all that time."
It was Laura Murdock, but what a startling change a few months had wrought! Who could have recognized in this pale, attenuated-looking young person, whose old-fashioned clothes, and out-of-style hat, suggested poverty's grim clutch, the famous beauty, whose jewelry and gowns used to be the envy of every woman in New York? Where the pace is so swift, those who do not keep up with the procession soon drop far behind. The girl had had a hard time of it since she bade John Madison good-bye in Colorado. He had resigned his newspaper position and had gone with a companion to search for gold. He travelled East with her as far as Chicago, where they said farewell.
"You'll be true, little one," he cried, as he clasped her in his strong arms.
"Until death, John!" she said through her tears.
They promised to write at least once a week and tell each other everything. The time would soon pass, and when he came back they would get married. And so they parted, he to Nevada; she back to New York, once more to take up her work--not her old life.
Faithful to her solemn promise, she gave up her fine apartment, and took less expensive rooms. She dressed more modestly, eschewed taxicabs, after-theatre suppers, and other unnecessary luxuries and shunned her old associates. Little champagne suppers, and the small hours, knew her no more. She was sincere in her determination to break off with that kind of life forever. Henceforth she would live within such income as she could legitimately earn on the stage.
But she soon found that it was more difficult than she supposed. Managers' offices did not seem so easy of access as before. The success of her stock engagement at Denver had not impressed the New York managers so favorably as she expected it would. When she called and stated she was at liberty, they were evasive and non-committal; the next time she called they were out. It was the same everywhere. No one seemed to want her at any price. She did not realize that at no time had the stage been clamoring for her services. She saw only that there was a conspiracy of silence and indifference around her now.
If she were willing to go on living as before, and use the influence of such men as Willard Brockton, she could have all the parts she wanted to play, but that was a price she would pay no longer. The weeks went by, and no money coming in, it was not long before her slender earnings were depleted. For a time she managed to keep the wolf from the door by selling some of her old finery, dainty creations in point lace and chiffons, which she would never wear again, but when these were gone, blank destitution stared her in the face. A brief engagement she was lucky enough to secure after unheard-of exertions, helped matters for a while, but the show came to grief, and then things were as bad as ever. Visits to the pawnshop became frequent and soon she was compelled to give up her rooms and seek still cheaper quarters. But in all her troubles, she never lost courage. Sleeping and waking, the searching, questioning eyes of John Madison were continually before her. At all times she could hear him saying: "You'll be true, little one!" And it strengthened her resolve to battle bravely on, until he came to claim her for his bride.
"I didn't see you, Jim," said Laura, sinking wearily into a chair near him. "Well, what luck to-day?"
He shook his head.
"Bad--bad. Guess you don't want to hear."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Where have you been?"
She listened with sympathetic interest, as he told her of the day's useless trampings. When he had finished, he looked inquiringly at her. Abruptly he asked:
"And you--got anything yet?"
She shook her head despondently.
"No, Jim, not yet."
He made a gesture towards the private office, which she had just vacated.
"You were in there such a long time, I made sure there was something doing."
Laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently:
"Quiller sent for me, and I hurried here thinking it was serious. Then he had the nerve to say he'd guarantee me an engagement, if I could put up five hundred dollars. I could not help laughing. 'Where would I get five hundred dollars?' I said. 'You know that better than I,' he replied. 'Surely you've plenty of admirers who'd be willing to put the money up for you.' What do you think of his impudence? I felt like slapping his face."
The advance man gave a dry chuckle.
"Up to the old game," he said. "Do you think these people live on the petty commissions we pay 'em? Not on your life! They gets just such gals as you to find an angel willing to put up the 'dough'. That's why there are so many near-actresses on the stage. It isn't talent they want nowadays, it's money." Changing the subject, he went on: "By the way, I met an old chum of yours just now. She asked after you----"
"An old chum?" echoed Laura, puzzled.
"Yes--Elfie St. Clair."
The girl's pale face reddened slightly. Involuntarily her manner stiffened. Indifferently she said:
"I haven't seen her for months. What did she say?"
"She seemed to know things weren't quite right with you. She's a bad lot, that girl, but she has a good heart. She asked where you lived."
"You didn't tell her, I hope," exclaimed Laura hurriedly.
"Yes, I did," answered the advance man doggedly. "Why shouldn't I?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "She's the last woman in the world I want to see. I never want to see her again. If she calls I won't see her." Glancing at the clock, she added: "I must be going. What are you doing here?"
Weston smiled grimly.
"Wasting time, I guess. Quiller said there might be something to-day. He's said the same every day for three months past."
"Well, I must go," she said. "Good-bye, I'll probably see you at the house."
"Yes," he nodded. "Maybe there'll be some good news to tell you, but I doubt it."
The girl disappeared and Jim resumed his seat, patiently awaiting his turn to see Mr. Quiller. _