though I were-as though I had never lived." His face was burning; he quickened his pace. "Your father is getting ahead of us, is n't he?"

It was well after ten o'clock that evening when a dark-blue limousine car edged out of the lower Hanover traffic and, turning into one of the branch streets, stopped beside the curb. The driver of the car leaned back to speak through an open window, touching a reverent cap. "I think he is here, Miss."

"Just wait, then."

It was as strange to Elinor Coolidge's eyes as a street in Timbuctoo, with its innumerable bright globes and its inscrutable shop legends, its walls populous with heads, its ragged babies, pausing in their games among the grown-up legs to stare at the glossy car, big-eyed with curiosity.

A little way off, on the other side of the street, an old man was grinding a street-organ in a circle of dancing children. He was a curious, careless old man. He ran from one tune to the next without a shadow of pause, making erratic gestures with his free hand, grinning, scowling, sticking out his tongue, all the time keeping fierce watch of the ragamuffins, approving or rebuking with graphic fingers, as though his very life hung upon their awkward little twistings.

But even this distracted old fellow was not so strange as Dana Peabody, leaning against the end of the machine, a peeled and half-eaten banana beating time in one hand, the other arm thrown carelessly across the shoulders of a handsome, heavy girl. He, too, kept watch of the dancers, but sourly, shaking his head vigorously now and then, and again hushing the drum with a tentative palm.

Elinor leaned forward from the cushions at sight of him.

"How very-extraordinary!" she murmured. Opening the door on the street side, she stepped out.

"I shall be gone a moment," she said to the driver. His face showed for an instant a decorous stupefaction.

"Alone?"

She nodded, and gathering the grayhooded cape a little closer about her, stepped across the shining cobbles. Only those nearest to her stared and nudged one another as she passed and came into the fringe of people about the dancers.

It seemed that Dana had come to the end even of his impatience.

"I tell you it is abominable," he protested to the girl-"bad-very bad! He loses everything-everything! If he 'd only let me-ah—”

The girl, understanding from his eyes what he wanted, reached out and dragged the old man from his precious handle, scowling down his mute amazement with the passionate ruthlessness of youth.

"You do," she commanded Dana. "You do good."

"Well, it's like this," he explained, taking up the interrupted thread of "Tipperary" with one hand, while with the other he beat gently at the air, like Dr. Muck of the orchestra. "Very much slower here, to give you some effect when you do come to that multo presto. As for the drum-the man who wrote that drum part had no feeling, that 's all I can say.”

"But why," he asked after a moment, "have the children stopped dancing?"

His mortification was so sincere that at least one out of his little audience could not help clapping her hands and crying a modest bravo. He looked up, his face a rich crimson.

"I thought I'd pick you up on my way home, Dana," she called.

Without a word he followed her across the street and got himself into the car, his cheeks still the color of flame. The purring machine had come out into the stream of Hanover Street before he spoke.

"I say there, I forgot to say good-by to those folks." The light coming in the window discovered his face set and rebellious.

"I don't care a hang," he broke out, his eyes defiantly ahead of him. "You may laugh, Elinor, but that old deaf-and-dumb chap has gotten hold of a very real thing, somehow, somewhere. You saw I could

n't make them dance-oh, there's no use; you can't understand."

For upward of a crowded block they sat in silence, the man moody, the woman inscrutable. By and by Dana took off his hat and stared at the soggy wreck.

"I suppose," he mused-"I suppose I have-well-'ruined my life,' as they say. I was at Symphony Hall-but you would have heard of that. I have a suspicion they thought I was intox-no, I have heard a better word, 'soused."

Her continued silence began to work on his nerves. As he had said, he did not care, but he wished she would say something. He fidgeted, and peered at her cornerwise. Then he turned full face, immeasurably startled.

She had done no more than let the gray cape fall back from her shoulders, leaving the fine curves of her neck free, touched by a fleck of passionate color on her bodice. Her cheeks acknowledged his question with a sudden radiance; she could not keep her eyes from shining as she lied to him.

"Why I don't know, Dana."

He burst out with an abandon strange to him, the utter rashness of the outcast, who has nothing to lose.

"You are so lovely, Elinor,-no, no, you can't stop my saying it,-you—you— scorch one. I-I-have never laid eyes on you before. Why are you-why-oh, I don't know how to say it, Elinor."

She laughed happily, just touching his hand with the tips of her fingers. "We're all chameleons, poor dears. That's why, Dana."

"Chameleons?" He did not follow.

be a fool-just once.'

There was trouble with his throat, all the moisture having departed miraculously. Once more he had the sense of being a balloon, but this time it had lost its anchor.

"Why?" he said.

With a simple interrogative he had demanded of her a complete philosophy of life. She had no time just now for all of that, but fluttering it off her hands, filled in with a kind of breathless whimsicality:

"Because a man has to have a little of the fool in him to be able to care for a woman-to care for-me, Dana."

His arms seemed to be made of wood, with joints. He moved awkwardly to touch her hair and her cheeks. He spoke with a naïve ignorance of having said the same thing upon another occasion.

"You make me feel, Elinor, as though I had never lived."

A

WHILE ago I read of an experiment in realism in a Paris theater,

in which the actors, sitting in front of an open fire, with their feet on the fender, as they love to do on the other side of the big water, had the backs of their chairs to the footlights, and played the scene right through without once letting their faces be seen by the audience. By their voices alone these players had to make manifest every necessary detail of difference in their characters, and they were said to have succeeded perfectly. I wonder whether we on the American stage could stand such a test of one of the simplest parts of our art. Often I think that among us far too little attention is given to the great importance that voice is to an actor.

Acting, real acting, is something from the head and something from the heart, so wonderfully blended that no one can tell which part is the result of thought and which the outcome of feeling; and no one who has not been given this power of fusing the head and the heart can possibly acquire it. Call it a gift from Heaven, call it a natural talent, call it whatever you like, acting cannot be taught and cannot be learned. No one need apologize for not being an actor; but there is no excuse for not having one's voice, at least, in proper control. Any one may acquire that power with patience and the right kind of practice. When George Bernard Shaw, in his "Pygmalion and Galatea," makes his coster flower-girl, merely by cultivating her voice, mistaken for a duchess, he is of course treating us to more of his customary sardonic wit at the expense of society; but like most Shavianism, it has a far deeper strain of truth in it than appears at the first rehearsal. There is nothing truer than the old adage about open

ing one's mouth and putting one's foot in it. No one who neglects the importance of voice can ever be a good actor.

To my mind, the proper voice is equally as important for a character as the proper make-up. From some points of view it might be thought even more important, for the eye may miss the meaning of many little details in a make-up, but the ear will catch even the finest shadings of tone. Without the proper voice to fit the character, the best possible make-up will be useless. To take the broadest example, of what use would it be for a girl to come on in a Western outfit and talk in an Eastern voice? Instead of creating the illusion of being a Western girl, she would be laughed at. But voice goes still further than that. In many cases two characters, say, two men or two women of New York to-day, of equal age and class, will be able to show little distinction in their dress, therefore the main method of showing fine distinction of character between them must be in their voices. Very often an actor fails in some part, and no one can tell why. Generally the true reason is that he has not had the right voice.

An actor has, therefore, to regard voice from several points of view. First, he must get a voice; then he must know the natural peculiarity that belongs to certain tones; lastly, he must learn the knack of character tone. In order to obtain a voice, I should most strongly urge young actors-and of course by that word in general statements I always include actresses to learn to sing. I should go as far as to say that it is the first thing they should learn, and the more of it they learn the better.

I am not one of those who think our theater has degenerated. There can be no

question but that acting has made enormous strides in a generation. What degeneration exists is really in the audience, and that is not due to their having been dragged down by the theater, but is due to the advance among the people having produced vast bodies of new theater-goers whose tastes are naturally somewhat in the stage long left behind by old playgoers. When they catch up, and they will one of these days, the art of the theater in America will make great strides. I hope to live not only to see it, but to have part in it, too. Yet when one thinks of the old school of actors, one has to admit that, however wrong their art was, there were many among them who had voices which could not easily be matched to-day.

Of all the things to eschew, elocution schools stand first. Actors should know nothing of the rules of elocution as taught in any school of which I have ever heard. I can always tell at the first glance whether an actor is a student of elocution. No good elocutionist was ever a good actor; that is, no good reciter-and elocution schools produce only reciters—is ever a good actor. Reciting and acting are two entirely different arts. The reciter is never natural, never can be. A while ago one of the most distinguished professors of elocution in America, -he had the chair of elocution at one of our biggest universities-came to be an actor. thought that he would be something wonderful because of his knowledge and gift of elocution. He went back to teaching. He could do that better than most, but his acting was bad. All the rules of elocution an actor ever needs can be obtained in singing-lessons.

It was

Now, proper enunciation of words is a different matter. An actor should not have to be taught that; but if he does need it, it is a pretty bad need, and he should never rest until he has lost all slovenly habits. Some of my friends think I am too severe on this point. I am not. One cannot be too severe. It is clean-cut work, perfect in its smallest details, that makes for perfect illusion on the stage, and I am always for such work. No actor should

be content with anything less. One might just as well represent a man of culture and refinement as uncleanly in his person and dress as make him slovenly in his talk. It is an outrage, and often destroys acting that otherwise would be fine. Of course common sense must be used. Pedantry is abominable. One takes correct usage for granted. But without proper enunciation, the ends of words and even of sentences will not get over the footlights, and the mind of the audience will be left confused. It is very important for an actor to understand some of the peculiar phenomena that belong to voice sounds. He must know that to obtain the right effect in the audience the words alone are not sufficient; they must be spoken with the right tone-color. Otherwise the words will ring untrue, and the result be disastrous. As a matter of fact, the emotions are stirred more by the tone, the mere sounds, than by the actual words. Music is doing this all the time. Everybody has heard of how Sarah Bernhardt has moved audiences to tears, and yet has simply repeated the names of the letters of the alphabet. There is nothing at all impossible in that.

All sounds produced as the result of emotions arouse similar emotions in the hearers. It is the sound and not the sense of what is spoken that does this. The sounds stimulate the very same muscles and nerves in the hearer as those used by the voice which makes them, and by reflex action they create in their hearer the same feeling as causes the sounds. This curious fact has only to be realized, and at once we understand the vast importance of getting the correct tone even to the finest shade. For the wrong tone stirs the wrong muscles, and, at the best, mixed emotions, partial feelings, are the result. Under the influence of powerful emotions the vocal organs are greatly affected. The buccal cavity is given a different shape by every emotion, and so each emotion has its own particular and distinct voice. This is felt very realistically by everybody who has experienced great fear. We all know, too, the peculiar tone of sickness and of grief. It is impossible

for the sick to speak in their natural voices. They cannot do it while in pain, no matter how valiantly they may try. When the pain is momentarily over, the mind, involuntarily seeking for sympathy, often forces them to simulate the same tone for the purpose of obtaining sympathy. Watch children and even domestic animals, and you will see that they know. these tricks of voice tone by a wonderful kind of uncanny instinct.

Pitch and loudness have also to be thought of, for they, too, are governed by rules which appear to have been fixed by nature, and must be followed by the actor. These natural laws of voice cannot be altered, and so must be obeyed, or failure follows. All supplications spoken in real life are pitched in tones above the middle register, and so are all interrogations. This is probably due to the necessity of specially attracting the attention of the hearer, because a reply is wanted, and the use of high tones is the result of ages and ages of experience. Everybody uses these tones now without ever stopping to ask why or to reason out that lower tones would be less effective. On the other hand, declarations and assertions made in real life are always given in sounds below the middle register. Warnings and commands are ordinarily pitched below the middle register when spoken without marked emphasis having to be expressed. If they are pitched higher, it is because they are to be given with greater loudness for a more imperative effect. Mere narrative goes in the middle register, and is neither high nor low in pitch. These laws are the outcome of man's long experience in expressing his thoughts by sounds, and have become instincts. The actor has to know them, and train himself, because in simulated situations he may not be able to rely on the natural instinct carrying him through.

Loudness is used instinctively to express strength and power. Duration of tone instinctively takes the place of loudness where loudness would not fit in with the feelings that are finding expression. For instance, we speak of "love's whispers."

A lover naturally puts a cooing tone into his voice, and to express the strength and depth of his feelings he lingers over his syllables in what we have come to call a "loving tone." "loving tone." A beggar begs with a high-pitched whine, a "begging tone." He could not beg with a loud shout. But, to suggest the extent of his misery, he instinctively uses duration of tone. Dogs obey these laws with great fidelity, having picked them up from man by keen observation. Notice the long, low, but high-pitched, whine of a dog locked out in the cold and appealing for the door to be opened. Contrast his loud, staccato barks of joy with his low, deep growl of anger. Watch the effect on yourself of a dog's bark, and you will find that his joyous bark makes you feel glad, and his whine will move you irresistibly to pity. How much more effective should an actor's voice be! But when the emotions are only simulated, and the conditions are unreal, as on the stage, it is not always easy to put oneself into the proper state of feeling to produce the right sound involuntarily as we do in real life, and therefore an actor must know the laws in order to get the desired effect by art.

When I have to simulate some emotion to create it in the audience, I always think of some color. A separate color belongs to every emotion. For stirring passion, I keep red, deep-burning red, in my mind. Feeling and power seem always to go with red. For gentleness, I think of lavender, and for sparkling wit, the brilliant yellow of burnished gold. In drab, sordid conditions, don't think of red or yellow, or at once you lose the tone; think only of gray. For downright restlessness take sky-blue, and if you would be soothed, seek the blue of the deep sea. I really don't know whether these colors are, as some people think, associated in any way with our mental and nerve waves, but at the least using them consistently certainly acts very handily as a support for the mind in the effort an actor has to make to stir up his own emotions in order to get into sympathetic touch with the emotions of his audience.