Savannah Morning News

NARRATIVE OF THE THEATRE
BY JOHN D'ARME.

An actor's Christmas! If the reader is not a professional or not acquainted with professionals and only familiar with the actor's life from the "front" (in the professional vernacular for the auditorium) it will be concluded that an actor's Christmas will be very pleasant; as actors presumptively lead a very pleasant life; sleeping late in the morning; enjoying the sunshine while business men are busy in their offices or counting rooms, the favorite of fortune, forsooth!

The professional reader or the privileged few who like myself are familiar with life in that mysterious world behind the curtain (the dividing line between the "front" of real life) will smile; for an actor's Christmas means a matinee performance. Holidays for the public is no holiday for the actor, and there is always an extraordinary matinee performance on such occasions. The only holiday in the sense of rest and relaxation from work that the actor knows, it may be observed en passant, is Sunday; and then often he is required in the theatre for dress rehearsal of the new piece to be produced the ensuing Monday evening.

It is true that to the actor out of engagement the holiday is often a day of rejoicing as affording him employment. as many performances are often prepared for the occasion only, and consequently the disengaged professionals always find work in these "snaps," as they are characterized in the vernacular of the theatre and which generally take the nature of an excursion to some rural town, going up in the morning by the train and leaving between midnight and daybreak. according to the railway schedule, after an afternoon and evening performance, with a dreary dinner between, and all generally so thoroughly tired out that they sleep all the way back.

Of course the members of the companies in the leading metropolitan theatres do not fare so badly as their less fortunate brethren and sisters who are compelled to accept these "snap" engagements or who belong to the traveling companies, playing one night or one week in each place visited, and who consequently literally "live in their trunks." But even the regulars have to appear at a matinee, which so far interferes with the domestic routine that the festivities of the day are never observed until the hours of rest and leisure after the evening's performance, when the Christmas dinner, for instance, is eaten while the rest of the world is abed dreaming over theirs.

No wonder, then, that the professional reader smiled at the mention of an actor's Christmas: for even if it comes on a Sunday, as it does every seven years or so, the popular celebration occurs on Monday, and there is the inevitable extra performance in the afternoon, for the edification of the children, the servants, the social nomads in every community who only attend the theatre on holidays, or the traveling public to whom a Christmas dinner is a sort of a mockery of the reminiscence of previous Christmas dinners at home.

The actor is still rated a vagrant on the statute books, though his social position for numerous good and obvious reasons is better now in this country and England than it has ever been. the self-respecting and accomplished members being welcomed in high society with statesmen, authors, sculptors, painters, savants; and genuine love for their art generally renders them superior to the ordeals and vicissitudes of their nomadic, superficial and, according to the popular standard, unnatural lives excepting on these occasions of the holidays, when, excepting those to whom they bring needed employment, they realize that they are after all really vagrants in the service of the public which demands to be amused and entertained in its hours of ease and recreation.

But I mean to be particular, not general, in writing of an actor's Christmas, of dear old John Downs and his dear old wife's Christmas; exactly in what city I'm not going to say, because it is not necessary to my narrative.

John Downs is the stage manager and "first old man" in the -- Theatre. He was a rosy-faced, medium-sized, burly gentleman, with a border of curly young hair around his shining bald pate, and a tendency to gout—inherited, he would declare, but his features indicated to the contrary. He had made his debut in theatrical life at the early age of 4, in England, in a pantomime, as a Lilliputian dancer. He worked his way up in the profession, playing first general utility, then responsible utility characters, juvenile and finally leading business until middle age and increasing girth and gout compelled him to go into the heavies, and at length into old men.

His wife, Betsy, was a worthy helpmeet for such a worthy, self-respecting man as her husband. John was going on 62 years of age at the date of my narrative, while she was about ten years his junior. She was a stout, amiable, little lady, almost as rotund as John, almost as rosy faced, with more gray hair than he had, devotedly attached to him, very proud of him and his abilities. They had been married for thirty-five years. Three children born to them in the early years of their wedlock were left by them in their little graves in the rural town in England where, connected with the same theatre, they had met and married. Like him, she had gone on the boards in early youth, both coming from theatrical parents; and, like him, she had played all business," from utility to leading lady, until finally her figure and age compelled her to go into the heavies; and at the time of my narrative she was playing the first old woman in the --Theatre, and between times, while his duties required him to be acting on the stage and gave her a wait, she would take her place by the prompter at his desk, and so thoroughly did she keep herself en rapport with him and his work that she could any time run the stage as well as he could.

It can be rightly concluded that they were a very happy couple, and they were indeed; and their home, a suite of rooms on a second floor, over a store, a few blocks from the — Theatre (the going to and fro which was generally the only exercise out of doors they obtained, excepting, perhaps, a stroll on pleasant Sunday mornings in the rural suburbs) was a model, if a miniature one.

I would like to take the reader, who has followed me thus far, into this little home—abundantly large enough, though, for its two sole occupants and their needs—for a peep into blissful domesticity. There were five rooms on the floor. A front room with an alcove across the hallway for the bed was the couple's chamber, which, by closing the curtains of the bed, shutting it from view, could be easily made an annex for the parlor, which was the middle room. The rear room was a dining room, while the kitchen was a little hall room attached. A serving woman, who did the cleaning and cooking that was not done by the good lady herself, appeared every morning and disappeared at night, sleeping in her own home not far away. There was nothing particularly fine about the furniture, but it had all been brought from the old country some five and thirty years ago when they came over to fill a season's engagement in the Old Bowery Theatre, in New York, and it was all old-fashioned, but as well preserved as care could keep it. There were high-backed, broad-armed chairs; there was the high, four-posted bedstead, with the tester; there was a tall, upright clock with the ships under full sail that never progressed, but year in and year out bobbed up and down on the foam-crested waves of the artist's imagination; there was the old-time carpet of small patterns, the curtains of a past age, the dining table with its thin legs. Indeed, there was nothing new about the rooms excepting some fanciful advertising designs in the way of fans or plaques, used by the good lady in decoration of her mantel or odd corners not occupied by the pictures.

The pictures! These were the most interesting features of the rooms. Everywhere on the walls of the three rooms were pictures—some in the plain, black frames of a past generation, some simply tacked on the wall by thumb tacks; some were steel prints, some lithographs, some daguerreotypes, some photographs, but all were of actors and actresses, in costume or in plain clothes; groups in plays and scenes in plays.

The connection with the old-time furniture, carpets, china (ostentatiously displayed on the brass bound sideboard in the dining room) and those valuable antiques, John and Betsy, this collection of professional portraits and scenes was peculiarly interesting. Of course, in the collection were numerous portraits of John and Betsy, from the period of their youth. and through their varied careers to the last, a year before, in the latest styles, John pointed with pride to a portrait of himself in his twenty-fifth year as the dashing hero in "Wild Oats." Near by was Betsy in her twentieth year as Juliet.

John, who was carefully arrayed in his best cloth suit for the occasion, used to declare that "actors, being vagrants on the statute book, as they be, they should only associate with themselves," and few were privileged to see the couple in their home, with its pictures and furniture, outside of the profession, unless it might be a newspaper critic, or a dramatic author, who, he declared, "were in the same" with him.

John, whose years and patriarchal ways caused him to be generally called by those in the theatres and his familiars "Pop," was always at home with his wife on Sunday evenings, and he and she always expected their friends to call on them at least twice during the regular season. Betsy gave the ladies tea and thin slices of buttered bread in the front room, while John dispensed whisky and Old Tom in the dining room, with pipes and tobacco.

As usual in professional gatherings, the talk was all of the theatre on these occasions, either reminiscent of the halcyon days of the past or of the new pieces to be produced during the season, if they were not newcomers who wished to be shown the pictures and have their histories explained, which Betsy could do as well as John, who generally preferred to remain by the tables containing the bottles, to be sure that no one was not supplied. Betsy jocularly declared that John was afraid they would take a drink without him was the reason why he would not leave the bottles, and as the departure of the visitors about midnight generally left him considerably muddled, there was probably truth in her assertion. Let it not be thought, however, for one moment that John was given to tippling, for he seldom drank excepting on these occasions. and never while on duty. He held that an actor who "went on" under the influence of liquor should be treated the same as an officer who disgraced his uniform under the same circumstances. John and Betsy came to the theatre together in the morning to attend rehearsals and went home together after midday; and then they came to the theatre together in the evening and returned home together for supper, and he would remain at home in the afternoon and read or write plays or study, unless required to return to the theatre to superintend the stage carpenter and scenic artist in preparing for the next piece. Betsy used to declare that John's jovial nature would have led him astray if it had not been for her companionship, and the old couple contrived to be never separated for more than a few hours at a stretch. A pretty picture of domestic bliss and contentment I am drawing, am I? Well, it is from life, and it's true, as well as that which follows.

Well, but how about an actor's Christmas? Wait and see; or rather, read on, my good friend. Christmas is coming! Yes, Christmas is coming, and a special bill is ordered to be got ready for the matinee that day. The sensational melodrama was proving such a popular attraction that there was no necessity to make any change in the night bill, but the manager thought there ought to be a special bill for the matinee to please the children and ladies. The manager was a white paper manufacturer, and knew very little about theatres or their management, but he liked the business and proved himself to be a good financial manager, and with John's advice and assistance he did not make many mistakes or bother himself about affairs behind the curtain.

When the change of bill was ordered John decided the play should be something appropriate to the occasion, and he adapted a domestic story of the prodigal's return on the occasion of the holiday merry-making, calling his play "The Christmas Tree," and introducing one, which the shrewd speculative manager filled with presents bought in job lots at auction and presented to the children in the audience. John did not let the manager know the play was original with him or the other would have objected to the experiment of the production; and as lots of cheap presents was consumed on the occasion in question, there never was a second performance of "The Christmas Tree," so that the manager does not know to this day that the work was original with modest John Downs. John frequently permitted himself to indulge in dramatic composition, the dramatizing of emotional stories that he and his wife had read together or to one another, and he frequently produced these, but none ever achieved the success he anticipated, and so he never acknowledged them. This clandestine authorship and ambition was an amiable weakness of John's but a carefully preserved secret between himself and his wife.

In these plays John always wrote the leading or strong parts for himself or his wife; the part, rather than the play, is the thing in an actor's estimation. In "The Christmas Tree," which was in three acts, John and Betsy, as a prosperous middle-aged couple, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, and only needing the return of the profligate son to fill the measure of their happiness, had parts well calculated to display their respective abilities. John's character was his own; a good-natured, jolly old gentleman, who was never happier than when seated by his fireside surrounded by his little ones, with the baby on his knee; while his good wife, seated opposite, had the next youngest on her lap. "I need not add that Betsy's character also suited her, and that she was a companion picture to her husband in the domestic scene of the play.

As may be imagined, the baby was to play an important part in the piece, although it was not expected to utter a word or a scream, only to keep quiet and allow itself to be affectionately dandled by the gleeful John, clucked to and chucked under the chin, and all such baby play. The "baby" was to be supplied by the wife of the low comedian of the company, and if the truth was known John decided to put up the piece more for the pleasure he anticipated deriving from fooling with the infantile specimen of humanity than to gratify his personal ambition. He would not only have the baby on the occasion of the performance, but at the rehearsal, and it was a great joy to him; for the baby that had almost been born in the wings toward the close of the previous season, had been reared in the greenroom, and from the first manifested a marked preference for him, going to his extended arms sooner than any one else's. all of which, it is needless to say, pleased him very much.

Betsy shared John's fondness for children, and tears flooded into the eyes of both of them whenever in the solitude of the twilight they would converse about their own little ones lying asleep in the rural graveyard across the water. Betsy, too, was equally fond of this little baby and not at all jealous that she—I've neglected to state, come to think of it that it was a little girl—preferred John, and scarcely a day passed that she and John did not bestow some sweetmeats or a cheery word on her as she lay on her mother's lap in the greenroom during rehearsal or reposed in her cradle in the dressing room.

That year Christmas came on a Sunday. and, of course, the popular celebration occurred on Monday. John and Betsy had managed their usual Sunday night reception, and on leaving the theatre Saturday evening all the people, even the stage hands, had promised "Pop" they would look in on him and the wife the next evening. The last rehearsal on Friday morning—the matinee Saturday prevented one that morning—had been so satisfactory—scenic artist and stage carpenter were alike ready, that it was not considered necessary to have a final one Sunday, and all the little colony employed in the theatre, and comprising John and Betsy's little world, retired in blissful anticipation of the morrow. of a jolly Sunday evening and of a successful production on Monday afternoon.

I would like to record that all these blissful anticipations were realized, but truth compels me to state that the sudden illness of the baby next morning threw the little colony, which. as if feeling its independence of the bustling, active outside world, of realities rather than shadows had nestled together in the immediate neighborhood of the theatre, into general and sincere sorrow.

The baby had caught cold either in the drafty region behind the scenes or in being transported home at midnight, and the next morning developed a severe case of croup. John was the first in attendance, Betsy passed the day with the mother and father. until towards the afternoon the doctor pronounced the baby out of danger. Of course it was decided at once that the baby could not be introduced in the play, and during the afternoon John in vain looked about the neighborhood for a substitute, but one of the right age could not be found.

"Oh. don't worry now," said Betsy, "don't worry about this. To-morrow morning I'll make a good search, and I'll be bound I'll find a nice little baby for you!"

"All right. wife; all right, wife," John replied as he busied himself with his share of the preparations for the evening—the replenishing of the bottles and of the tobacco box, while Betsy cut and buttered the bread and assorted the mixed cakes, an extra provision on this holiday occasion.

They tried to be cheerful, and so did all who came to see them; but all continually thought of the little sick one and the distressed father and mother, and none of them ever better acted their respective parts, for all felt sad and disturbed. "A baby is a great blessing in a home." said John. "If our little ones had lived they would be grown up now. Maybe they had some children of their own and they would have done for me." Then the glasses were filled and there was a dismal attempt at jollity. Then John and his companions joined the ladies in the front room. and for a while were annoyed by the chat of the young girls in the company. A message from the baby's mother telling of improvement and wishing the compliments of the season was very exhilarating. and John mixed a mild punch for the ladies, which the gentlemen could strengthen to suit their tastes. "Auld Lang Syne" was sung by the party. standing under a bough affixed to the chandelier, with uplifted and clinking glasses, and then there were several solos, and finally "Auld Lang Syne" again before separating.

Left alone to themselves, without exactly knowing why, Betsy began to weep copiously, and John, with big tears rolling down his cheeks, tried to cheer her up by his usual remark: "All's well that ends well."

"Oh, but how different everything might be," sobbed Betsy.

The door bell jingled. John glanced around the room, saying: "Somebody's left something," but not observing any forgotten articles of wearing apparel he rose and walked to the door, while Betsy controlled her emotions and dried her eyes.

"Never mind the light," said John, groping his way down stairs, "The open door gives sufficient light." Betsy walked out into the hall and looked over the bannisters, just discerning his form in the hall by aid of the light from the street admitted by the glass over the door.

John opened the door; no one was to be seen, but a bundle was on the upper step.

"A Christmas box!'' exclaimed Betsy. "What is it?" she asked, as she saw her husband pick up the bundle.

"Blessed if I know" answered John, closing the door and coming up stairs.

As he got into the light of the half open door he could see a movement of the covering of the bundle and exclaimed: "It's alive whatever it is."

"Oh, give it to me," exclaimed Betsy, taking the bundle from him and rushing into the room, closely followed by him.

With eager but firm hands Betsy removed the outer covering of the mysterious bundle, bunglingly assisted by John, and what do you think they found? A baby! A rosy-faced, chubby-fisted, blue-eyed, brown-haired baby of about a year old. Baby had been sleeping. but disturbed by them woke up and glanced about the strange place in momentary bewilderment, and then casting its blue eyes on John put out its little arms in a silent appeal to be taken up by him.

John tenderly lifted the infant from its wrappings and hugged it to his broad breast.

"What does it all mean?" he inquired as he saw his wife discover a note in the wraps.

"We'll see," said Betsy, tearing open the blank envelope.

On a half sheet, in pencil, by an unskilled feminine hand, was scrawled the following words:

"John and Betsy Downs.
You want a baby. Here is one you may have. She is honestly born, but her widowed mother is unable to support her and gives her to you as a Christmas gift. May God bless her and you."

"We'll keep her, won't we?" inquired John, joyfully.

"Indeed we will?" exclaimed Betsy, taking the baby from him and rapturously kissing it.

The clothes and wraps were very coarse but scrupulously clean, and both declared that in all their experience they had never seen a more robust and healthy looking baby. Baby, on her part, soon made herself perfectly at home, and after a hastily improvised sugar-rag fell asleep in John's arms, after gleefully pulling his hair, while Betsy dexterously converted a work basket into a cradle.

My humble pen cannot adequately describe the joy that filled the hearts of John and Betsy, who, it is needless to say, at once without discussion adopted the waif as their own.

"If she had been a boy." said John, "we would have named him after me; but as it is she takes your name, wife."

"Yes," said Betsy, "she shall bear my name."

Somehow. probably through the serving woman, who heard the story in the morning with bated breath and staring eyes, the news of the mysterious arrival soon reached the theatre, and before John left for there several of the attaches called to express their surprise and offer their congratulations. Baby was so self-possessed and gleeful that the property man, with the practical eye of expediency, suggested that she should be introduced in the new piece in the afternoon.

John had not thought of this, nor Betsy, in their surprise and joy, but both assented to the proposition, and this afternoon little "Betsy" made her debut on the stage in "The Christmas Tree."

That night Betsy bore home a big bundle of presents that baby had received from the members of the company, while in his sturdy arms John carried the little live treasure asleep from sheer weariness.

The most diligent inquiry failed to ascertain any thing about the antecedents of the baby, and since that Christmas night John and Betsy have remained in undisputed and blissful possession of her.

Now she is grown up to be a young lady of 16, and the days of the old-time stock company having been succeeded by traveling combinations—destroying the study, discipline and traditions of the theatre—she and John and Betsy are members of a company that presents a sensational drama that requires four carloads of scenery to properly present, she playing the soubrette and John and Betsy the old man and old woman. She is a pretty girl and has been admirably reared by John and Betsy; but John's story of an actor's Christmas is never told in her hearing and she does not know that she is not of their flesh and blood. never having known any other parents.