THE PUMP ROOM

In the Pump-room, so admirably adapted for secret discourse and unlimited confidence.

NORTHANGER ABBEY.

THE BREATH OF LIFE IN VAUDEVILLE

The theatrical profession makes demands upon its members in proportion to their prominence. And if they are prominent they receive much publicity. Everyone knows them by sight. They are always attended by a crowd of admirers. Have you ever thought that they are living on a bubble that may burst at any moment and send them tumbling down to be forgotten? Sometimes they seem to have forgotten it. But rarely is this true. They know; they can feel the pulse of their public, and know almost at once when their popularity is on the wane. Then there is much gnashing of teeth, followed by a deep sorrow and sense of loss. It is only a matter of time when they say, as many before them have said: "I remember when I reigned in the hearts of the people who now sneer at my passing."

Not only is this true of the great actor but also of the neargreat and the many below in the just-an-act class. He feels; he, too, has had his moments of triumph, when the world seemed to be at his feet. A nasty curve in the roadway of fate changed his course, however, and in the language of the stage he was left "flat." He has continued although the going has been hard, and rewards few and far between, but his faith and hope have never waned. "Some day," he says, "I will arrive." "Some day, they will see that my work is of the better class." Each act marks a step toward the goal of their ambition; steady work and a modicum of responsiveness from their public. They have not asked for much.

They are the children of the public; a hard parent, indeed, who asks much and often gives little in return. It is fickle and fond, cold and warm, all in turn. There can be no prognostications of its mood. Even after it is well defined, there is no certainty of continuation. The smallest detail may spoil an effect that in its whole may be pleasing. The punishment meted out by this public-parent is harsh. Banishment and disgrace may accompany its judgment. As the word of an absolute monarch, so is the decision of the theatregoing public.

disdain by the public. I Particularly is it true of

Vaudeville people are held in regret to say this, but it is true. the so-called small-time performers. They remind one sometimes of ancient gladiators who came to make sport of their lives for a drunken Roman public. Their audiences are cold. In vaudeville the entertainer is viewed as a clown-and a poor one. He may break his neck, but it is thumbs down for sorrow; let joy be unconfined and hail the next victim.

Applause is the breath of life to the actor. After his "showing" at an official try-out house he looks to two things: Work for his "act" and favorable press comment. Sometimes he gets a little of the former and none of the latter most of the time. Instead the press gives him a "roast," and the "agent" delivers profound criticism that, in its entirety, can be summed up in the term most used in theatrical offices, "Rotten." The milk of human kindness, as the vaudeville performer looks at it, is only another way of saying applause. If the press is kind and his agent not too critical, i. e., the gentleman may have said, "Fair," for "Good" is a term unknown in his vocabulary, then does the showman look for work.

But work comes in driblets; a little here and a little there. Mostly there, and while he is working in this place far removed from Broadway the thought uppermost in his mind is "Where do I go from here?" Believe me, he may be singing of golden paradise, but his mind more often than

not is in the other place. Work is hard under these conditions. Imagine yourself in his place. Your family needs your support. You have a position, but you know that it is temporary, say for a week's duration. At home, awaiting good news, your family prays for your success. How would you feel? Just like entertaining two or three thousand people, I suppose. People who you feel are waiting to condemn, and even if they approve fail to show it in a fitting manner -the hands clapping out "GOOD-GOOD."

Applause says more than just "good;" it is consolation to a worried, faithful entertainer. He is never late, always in the theatre ahead of you, waiting to appear before you and give of his best for your pleasure. But, by George, he doesn't get much work. You are not always to blame for that. But perhaps if you evinced your approval in a more enthusiastic manner, it would help the booking office and the act's agent to see the light of day and play the Good Samaritan. You wonder why acts that give a clean performance and please you with their skill in one or another talent sometimes do not return to entertain you. There may be one of many reasons for this. cannot give a positive answer. Who can tell? The actor must puzzle and think. His final decision is to change the act you like and substitute something different, thus starting the old, old round again.

Even the oldest showman Certainly not you and I.

Ah, well. Life is just one thing after another, or so it has been said. The most fascinating game in life is that behind the scenes. Like the victim of an awful drug the player sometimes tries to get away. But in more cases than not he dies with his shoes on, i. e., in the old show game. Grease paint and powder! the music of the overture! There is ecstasy in the final moment before appearance on the stage! All these things combined weave a web of enchantment that never releases the captured one. Have you felt, in your dim, distant boyhood, the call of the circus arena? Have you dreamed glorious dreams of ascent upon a success that would take

you into the realm of the immortals? Perhaps your childish fancy has placed you as the owner of this grand show, or your ambition may have been only to ride the elephants. No matter what may be your ambition today, it is sacred to you; you want the one thing and will sacrifice all else to its accomplishment. You will work, you will think and plan towar its success.

Well, what about the actor? He plans, he works, he thinks. What is his ambition? Fame? Wild life? Oh, no; not always. He wants work; plenty of it, so that he can depend upon his income and plan for the future of his family and himself. And not the least thing that he wants is a mind free from worry so that he may have the time to improve his performance and thus give you greater pleasure. When you do not reward his efforts, you are discouraging a human being like yourself, in his work. He despairs of success and smiles at you through his tears. Every tear is a drop of blood, and you cannot deny it.

Audiences sit there like mummies, their faces like that of a painter's model cast in an unchanging mould. The funniest thing in the world sometimes would not make them laugh, nor would the most daring feat change their expression. Their hands are glued to the chair arms, or perhaps to protect them from the cold of their neighbors' mien they are sat upon. Exercise is good for the body. Did you ever notice that a teamster to keep himself warm on a winter day tries to pound his own back by throwing his arms about himself, just as you would do? If your hands get cold in sympathy with the coldness of your neighbors' faces, warm them up by slapping them together. It won't hurt you. It certainly won't hurt the actor's feelings if you choose as the time for your exercise the moment when his act finishes. Try it out some time.

Another thing: if you can't say something good about these people of the stage, just forget that you ever saw them. A tongue lashing may be good for those who deserve it. No

matter how inferior an actor's performance may be, remember this: he has tried. A good try is worth something besides abuse for failure. Remember also, that the man or woman upon the stage has gone through a very, very hard school. His road has been beset not with champagne suppers and a riot of joy; rather has he beaten his way to the top through the suffocation of criticism that has been heaped upon him from every source. The offering he presents has weathered the storm of a mighty wave of opposition without the smallest atom of encouragement to light the way. Abuse and discouragement have been his companions; hope his only champion and the undying will to do and the soul to live under conditions that are not wholesome to the mind or body. I speak of the footlight's sons and daughters who have made the show business their life work, and not so much of another class who are here today and gone tomorrow.

There should be a spirit of get-together between theatregoing people and the people of the theatre. Their attitudes toward one another should be tinctured with a little patience. Open up; extend a little hospitality to the actor who visits your city during the season. Make him feel welcome, not only when he is on the stage, but when you meet him on the street. He plays an important rôle in life, you know. He is one of the millions like yourself whom you read about. What applies to your own comfort often applies to his also. You are dependent upon him for a great part of your recreation, and also some of you may depend upon his trade.

Why, do you know that some hotels won't give an actor shelter? They seem to shun his presence as you and I would a victim of some horrible plague. This is true; it has happened. I fervently hope that this practice will be stopped. I'm not an actor, but I know how I should feel if a chosen hotel refused to accept my patronage. Bolshevically speaking, I would probably blow up and burst.

If you have got anything from this article, please, think about it a little bit. Treat the theatrical profession as the