Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 134, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 June 1911 — A Lack of Temperament [ARTICLE]

A Lack of Temperament

BY M. J. PHILLIPS

(Comrridtt. ten. by A*»oci*tad Literary Pro**.)

' "Faith, Langstroth, we were lucky t*et that girl," nodded Junius BruFltzmaurice, _ " - They were standing in the wings of the Bnttevflle opera house, the manager of the Singing Princess company. who also did "heavy," and Billy Langstroth, the comedian. There was -la rehearsal on. The opera house, of icourse, was cold. Both men wore the (hallmark of regularity and prosperity Among “troupers"—long overcoats (with fur collars. • Deapite his round, cherubic face and the upward quirk at the corners of his comical mouth, Billy Langstroth was, like most -Comedians, an incorrigible pessimist. Now he thrust ja. pudgy thumb into each pocket of (Ms fancy waistcoat and replied (gloomily: “I don't think so, Junie.” t "And why?” rumbled Fitzmaurlce, ttn his deepest chest tones. “Look at (her now, facing the footlights like a Bernhardt. She makes up well; (doesn’t know what stage fright is. Trixie MacGowan made a pretty (picture on the stage of the dim, cold theater. She spoke her lines clearly correctly, without tremor and [Without boldness—quite in keeping with the character of the girlish . princess. The orchestra struck up * the preliminary bars and she launched (into the "Welcome Song.” Trixie MacGowan did not have a great voice, but she did have a good (one. It was clear and full and flexiible. Langstroth listened with grudging admiration until she had .finished, then he trotted out to yammer (through his "business’* with the Juvenile and trotted back *out of the way of the chorus. He took up the conversation with the manager Just [where he had left off. "What you say is true, Junie,” he agreed, “but—she’s an amateur.” Fatal words on the stage! But they did not disconcert Fitzmaurlce. He pinched his gaunt upper lip reflectively between thumb and forefinger, and nodded slowly. “True, Langstroth, an amateur, yes. But an amateur with traditions. She Is a cousin of Jennie McHenry, you know.” ( “Beiqg Jennie’s cousin don’t make (her one of us, Junie," returned the jcomedlan, stubbornly. “She hasn’t |the artistic temperament.” “Tush, tush, William!” Fitzmaurlce (dropped to his chest tones again. (“With such a voice, and the stage Isense she hag displayed, and Jennie ■McHenry her cousin! Tush, tush!“ “Well, look at her now! / You never Is aw that smile on the face of one of lour people. You’d think she’d Just Wandered in from out fronLj She (knows the company’s mad and Jealous (because you went outside for a princess when Madeline Macauley was—taken sick. The women, from [the last chords girl up to Toinetta, (gave her a dab with their claws every ehance they get "She doesn’t dab back, Junie. It’s part of the show to her. She’s one of |the audience still. They can’t make (her angry, because she feels she’s (above them. She’s not one of us. She’s an outsider.” . • ‘T faith, William, you’re the wet (blanket!” Fitzmaurlce smiled, benlgnantly. “You are but giving a sop Ito fate. You feel we were too lucky In getting such a girl.”

“She won’t finish the season with ns,” persisted Langstreth. “She hasn’t the temperament, I tell you." “And that newspaper chap from iher home town will be along some :day to carry her off. He made me igive him our route. She writes to 'him every day." “Tush, William,” smiled the manager again. "Bet you five dollars a week on my salary she leaves before the season Is over!” challenged the comedian. "You pay me litre more from now on if she goes; you cut me five if she stayß.”. “Done!" boomed Fitzmaurlce. Trixie MacGowan went on. her serene way wi|h "The Singing Princess.” That she should Jump from private life to the lead in a good second-class road company was not ia matter of marveling, though she 'knew many chorus' girls and minor actresses had slaved for years without attaining such eminence. That Vas as it should be; they couldn’t all be Trixie MacGowan. They had not been the prettiest girls in their home towns; they did not have a good soprano voice. Leading roles In amateur theatricals had come to Trixie as a matter of course ever since she was In pinafores. So a regular lead on the real stagr was nothing to cause comment or undue excitement She regarded actors as queer and amusing people, in her mind the Singing Princess company was always “they”—never “we.” The men were egotistical poseurs, most diverting when they tried to make love to her; the women loudly dressed cats whose jealousy was childishly impotent “Trouplng” was a lark, like camping out In summer. She made light of the poor beds, the Indifferent meals and the early trains, as she had made light of camp discomforts. Stage door "Johnnies,” who formed iso large a part of the lives and thoughts of the other girls, were to ker merely ridiculous Incidents,

The most important thing in this wandering life was the daily letter from Jerry Valentine, back in dear old Arcadia. ;''l < ■ > ~ Jerry’s vague, mysterious hint that he might drop in on her some night was frequently reiterated and proved really exciting. Jerry had been a good friend —a very good friend — back home. They had been a month on the road and were looping back toward the east, when-Jerry came. It was a mild, starlit night in spring. Trixie’s blood was stirring expectantly when she strolled to the theater. She knew the cause of that delightful unrest when the curtain went up. Jerry was in the right hand lower box. Trixie never did better than she did that night in.Mellonsburg. They all admitted it afterward. There was a soft, suppressed fire in her acting and singing which brougbtrthe audience forward in their seats and caused that little, breathless hush, so dear to the heart of the actor, between l\er closing notes and the thunderous volleys of applause.

There was the usual crowd of “johnnies” about the stage door when it was all over. Jerry was among them, standing modestly back near the arc that lighted the brick-paved court. His eyes quickened at sight of her. S, . .(f A man stepped out of the smirking throng. He was in evening dress. The other mashers shrank back.

He took Trixie by the arm. “Oh, you kid!” he said, with thick geniality. “Come on fr a time with yer Uncle Dud. Muh car’s out here.” Anger and dislike-were mirrored in her face as she twisted out of his grasp. “Let me-alone!” she said, trembling. The masterful masher regarded her a moment in ugly silence. Then he said, deliberately, with an oath: “Say, kid, yuh can’t put anything over on me! Cut it out an* come along. Why, you ain’t nothin’ but an actress!” “Jerry!” she called, faintly. “Oh, Jerry!” Jerry was already there. He whirled the big young man around with his left hand. The nails of his right hand were cutting Into the palm. “An actorine friend, eh?” sneered the big man. Jerry, swinging viciously, struok him in the mouth. A policeman sauntered out of the shadow when the fight was over, and laid a friendly hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Better beat it, sport,” he murmured. “That guy,” he nodded to where the masher, half-unconscious, slumped against the wall, “is the brother of the chief of police. You ought t’ have a vote of thanks for trimmin’ him, but they’ll coak you if you don’t make a getaway." “Our train leaves for Piercevllle in half an hour,” volunteered Fitzmaurlce, who had been, like his company, a witness of the battle. -9Take Miss Trixie, young sir, asd hurry to the station. We’ll look after her baggage.” "We’re not going to Piercevllle,” panted Jerry. “No more such stunts as this. We’re going back to Arcadia —to get married. Come on, dearie!" He drew the girl’s hand through his arm and turned away. “Oh, Jerry!" they heard her say, in heartbroken accents, a world of shame in her voice, “did you hear him? He said I was nothing but—but an actress!" Billy Langstroth looked significantly at the manager. ‘1 told you she didn’t have the temperament, Junie!” he crowed.