My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage lifeAnonymous
General
My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage life
Anonymous
Actors -- Fiction; Married people -- Fiction; Theater -- Moral and ethical aspects -- Fiction
"He's just crazy about you, ain't he?" chaffed one of the actors. The
good-looking girl laughed and winked.
"He sure is," she answered, "and I never even gave him as much as
_that_," measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail.
A shout of laughter greeted her remark. A little later when she got
warmed up she made eyes at Will across the table and threw him violets
from her huge corsage bouquet. "Ev'ry matinée day I send thee violets,"
she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until
some days later.
Toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. Each memento was
accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the
recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. Whoever composed the
limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal
of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. After
dinner there was vaudeville. The star gave some imitations of a _café
chantant_ which brought down the house. The musical director had
composed a skit which he called "Very Grand Opera." The theme hinged on
a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. The book
consisted of one word; _farewell_. I had never realized how long-winded
the farewells of opera are until I heard the parody. The humour of it
quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine
article.
Dear old Mr. and Mrs. ---- contributed a cake-walk. No one suspected the
grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. A good old Virginia
reel and "Tucker" limbered everybody into action.
Before we dispersed, old Santa Claus--impersonated by one of the walking
gentlemen--again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a
noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the
child-actress of the company was staying. At the street end of the alley
which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them;
they _were_ noisy to be sure. But even the officer laughed when Santy
touched him on the arm and in a "tough" dialect asked him, "Say Bill, do
youse believe in fairies?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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