Every actress of prominence receives letters from young girls and women
who wish to go on the stage, and I have my share. These letters are of
all kinds. Some are extravagant, some enthusiastic, some foolish, and a
few unutterably pathetic; but however their writers may differ
otherwise, there is one positive conviction they unconsciously share,
and there is one question they each and every one put to me: so it is
_that_ question that must be first answered, and that conviction that
must be shaken.
The question is, "What chance has a girl in private life of getting on
the stage?" and to reply at once with brutal truthfulness and straight
to the point, I must say, "Almost none."
But to answer her instant "Why?" I must first shake that positive
conviction each writer has, that she is the only one that burns with the
high ambition to be an actress, who hopes and fears, and secretly
studies Juliet. It would be difficult to convince her that her own
state, her own city, yes, her own block, could each produce a girl who
firmly believes that _her_ talent is equally great, and who has just the
same strength of hope for the future stage existence.
Every city in the country is freely sprinkled with stage-loving, or, as
they are generally termed, "stage-struck" girls. It is more than
probable that at least a half-dozen girls in her own circle secretly
cherish a hope for a glorious career on the stage, while her bosom
friend most likely knows every line of _Pauline_ and has practised the
death scene of _Camille_ hundreds of times. Surely, then, the would-be
actresses can see that their own numbers constitute one of the greatest
obstacles in their path.
But that is by no means all. Figures are always hard things to manage,
and there is another large body of them, between a girl and her chances,
in the number of trained actresses who are out of engagements. There is
probably no profession in the world so overcrowded as is the profession
of acting. "Why, then," the manager asks, "should I engage a girl who
does not even know how to walk across the stage, when there are so many
trained girls and women to choose from?"
"But," says or thinks some girl who reads these words, "you were an
outsider, poor and without friends, yet you got your chance."
Very true; I did. But conditions then were different. The stage did not
hold then the place in public estimation which it now does. Theatrical
people were little known and even less understood. Even the people who
did not think all actors drunkards and all actresses immoral, did think
they were a lot of flighty, silly buffoons, not to be taken seriously
for a moment. The profession, by reason of this feeling, was rather a
close corporation. The recruits were generally young relatives of the
older actors. There was plenty of room, and people began at the bottom
quite cheerfully and worked up. When a "ballet" was wanted, the manager
advertised for extra girls, and sometimes received as many as three
applicants in one day--when twenty were wanted. Such an advertisement
to-day would call out a veritable mob of eager girls and women. _There_
was my chance. To-day I should have no chance at all.
The theatrical ranks were already growing crowded when the "Schools of
Acting" were started, and after that--goodness gracious! actors and
actresses started up as suddenly and numerously as mushrooms in an old
pasture. And they, even _they_ stand in the way of the beginner.
I know, then, of but three powers that can open the stage door to a girl
who comes straight from private life,--a fortune, great influence, or
superlative beauty. With a large amount of money a girl can
unquestionably tempt a manager whose business is not too good, to give
her an engagement. If influence is used, it must indeed be of a high
social order to be strong enough favourably to affect the box-office
receipts, and thus win an opening for the young débutante. As for
beauty, it must be something very remarkable that will on its strength
alone secure a girl an engagement. Mere prettiness will not do. Nearly
all American girls are pretty. It must be a radiant and compelling
beauty, and every one knows that there are not many such beauties,
stage-struck or otherwise.
The next question is most often put by the parents or friends of the
would-be actress; and when with clasped hands and in-drawn breath they
ask about the temptations peculiar to the profession of acting, all my
share of the "old Adam" rises within me. For you see I honour the
profession in which I have served, girl and woman, so many years, and it
hurts me to have one imply that it is filled with strange and terrible
pitfalls for women. I have received the confidences of many
working-women,--some in professions, some in trades, and some in
service,--and on these confidences I have founded my belief that every
woman who works for her living must eat with her bread the bitter salt
of insult. Not even the plain girl escapes paying this penalty put upon
her unprotected state.
Still, insult does not mean temptation, by any means. But careful
inquiry has shown me that temptation assails working-women in any walk
of life, and that the profession of acting has nothing weird or novel to
offer in the line of danger; to be quite frank, all the possibilities of
resisting or yielding lie with the young woman herself. What will tempt
one beyond her powers of resistance, will be no temptation at all to
another.
However, parents wishing to frighten their daughters away from the stage
have naturally enough set up several great bugaboos collectively known
as "temptations"--individually known as the "manager," the "public,"
etc.
There seems to be a general belief that a manager is a sort of dramatic
"Moloch," upon whose altar is sacrificed all ambitious femininity. In
declaring that to be a mistaken idea, I do not for a moment imply that
managers are angels; for such a suggestion would beyond a doubt secure
me a quiet summer at some strictly private sanitarium; but I do mean to
say that, like the gentleman whom we all know by hearsay, but not by
sight, they are not so black as they are painted.
Indeed, the manager is more often the pursued than the pursuer. Women
there are, attractive, well-looking, well-dressed, some of whom, alas!
in their determination to succeed, cast morality overboard, as an
aeronaut casts over ballast, that they may rise more quickly. Now while
these women bestow their adulation and delicate flattery upon the
manager, he is not likely to disturb the modest and retiring newcomer in
his company by unwelcome attentions. And should the young stranger prove
earnest and bright, she would be doubly safe; for then she would have
for the manager a commercial value, and he would be the last man to hurt
or anger her by a too warmly expressed admiration, and so drive her into
another theatre, taking all her possible future popularity and drawing
power with her.
One other and better word I wish to add. If the unprotected young
beginner finds herself the victim of some odious creature's persistent
advances, letters, etc., let her not fret and weep and worry, but let
her go quietly to her manager and lay her trouble before him, and, my
word for it, he will find a way of freeing her from her tormentor. Yes,
the manager is, generally speaking, a kindly, cheery, sharp business
man, and no Moloch at all.
As for the "public," no self-respecting girl need be in danger from the
"public." Admiring young rakes no longer have coaches waiting round the
corner, into which they thrust their favourite actress as she leaves the
theatre. If a man sends an actress extravagant letters or flowers,
anonymously, she can of course do nothing, but equally of course she
will not wear his flowers and so encourage him boldly to step up and
speak to her some day. If the gentleman sends her jewellery or valuable
gifts of any kind, rest assured his name will accompany the offering;
then the actress has but one thing to do, send the object back at once.
If the infatuated one is a gentleman and worthy of her notice, he will
surely find a perfectly correct and honourable way of making her
acquaintance, otherwise she is well rid of him. No, I see no danger
threatening a young actress from the "public."
There is danger in drifting at any time, so it may be well to warn young
actresses against drifting into a too strong friendship. No matter how
handsome or clever a man may be, if he approaches a modest girl with
coarse familiarity, with brutalities on his lips, she is shocked,
repelled, certainly not tempted. But let us say that the young actress
feels rather strange and uncomfortable in her surroundings, that she is
only on a smiling "good morning and good evening" footing with the
company, and she has been promised a certain small part, and then at the
last moment the part is given to some one else. The disappointment is
cruel, and the suspicion that people are laughing in their sleeves over
the slight put upon her makes her feel sick and faint with shame, and
just then a friendly hand places a chair for her and a kind voice says:
"I'm awfully sorry you missed that chance, for I'm quite sure you would
do the part far and away better than that milliner's block will. But
don't distress yourself, your chance will come, and you will know how to
make the most of it--I am sure."
And all the time the plain, perhaps the elderly man is speaking, he is
shielding her from the eyes of the other people, and from her very soul
she is grateful to him, and she holds up her head and smiles bravely.
Not long after, perhaps, she does get a chance, and with joyous eyes she
watches for the coming of the man who comforted her, that she may tell
him of her good luck. And his pleasure is plain, and he assures her that
she will succeed. And he, an experienced actor, waits in the entrance to
see her play her small part, and shakes her hand and congratulates her
when she comes off, and even tells her what to do next time at such a
point, and her heart warms within her and is filled with gratitude for
this "sympathetic friend," who helps her and has faith in her future.
The poor child little dreams that temptation may be approaching her,
softly, quietly, in the guise of friendship. So, all unconsciously, she
grows to rely upon the advice of this quiet, unassuming man. She looks
for his praise, for his approval. By and by their companionship reaches
beyond the walls of the theatre. She respects him, admires, trusts him.
Trusts him--he may be worthy, he may not! But it would be well for the
young actresses to be on their guard against the "sympathetic friend."
Since we are speaking about absolute beginners, perhaps a word of
warning may be given against _pretended_ critics. The young actress
trembles at the bare words "newspaper man." She ought to know that a
critic on a respectable paper holds a responsible position. When he
serves a prominent and a leading journal, he is frequently recognized as
an authority, and has a social as well as a professional position to
maintain. Further, the professional woman does not strongly attract the
critic personally. There is no glamour about stage people to him; but
should he desire to make an actress's acquaintance, he would do so in
the perfectly correct manner of a gentleman. But this is not known to
the young stranger within the theatrical gates, and through her
ignorance, which is far from bliss, she may be subjected to a
humiliating and even dangerous experience. I am myself one of several
women whom I know to have been victimized in early days.
The beginner, then, fearing above all things the newspaper, receives one
evening a note common in appearance, coarse in expression, requesting
her acquaintance, and signed "James Flotsam," let us say. Of course she
pays no attention, and two nights later a card reaches her--a very
doubtful one at that--bearing the name "James Flotsam," and in the
corner, _Herald_. She may be about to refuse to see the person, but some
one will be sure to exclaim, "For mercy's sake! don't make an enemy on
the 'press.'"
And trembling at the idea of being attacked or sneered at in print,
without one thought of asking what _Herald_ this unknown represents,
without remembering that Miller's Pond or Somebody-else's Corners may
have a _Herald_ she hastens to grant to this probably ignorant young
lout the unchaperoned interview she would instantly refuse to a
gentleman whose name was even well known to her; and trembling with fear
and hope she will listen to his boastings "of the awful roasting he gave
Billy This or Dick That," referring thus to the most prominent actors of
the day, or to his promises of puffs for herself "when old Brown or
Smith are out of the office" (the managing and the city editors both
being jealous of him, and blue pencilling him just for spite); and if
Mr. Flotsam does not, without leave, bring up and present his chum, Mr.
Jetsam, the young woman will be fortunate.
A little quiet thought will convince her that an editor would not assign
such a person to report the burning of a barn or the interruption of a
dog fight, and with deep mortification she will discover her mistake.
The trick is as old as it is contemptible, and many a great paper has
had its name put to the dishonourable use of frightening a young actress
into an acquaintance with a self-styled critic.
Does this seem a small matter to you? Then you are mistaken. There are
few things more serious for a young woman than an unworthy or
undesirable acquaintance. She will be judged, not by her many correct
friends, but by her one incorrect one. Again, feeling fear of his power
to work her injury, she ceases really to be a free agent, and Heaven
knows what unwise concessions she may be flurried into; and of all the
dangers visible or invisible in the path of a good girl, the most
terrible is "opportunity." If you wish to avoid danger, if you wish to
save yourself some face-reddening memory, give no one the "opportunity"
to abuse your confidence, to wound you by word or deed. Ought I to point
out one other unpleasant possibility? Temptation may approach the
somewhat advanced young actress through money and power in the guise of
the "patron of Art"--not a common form of temptation by any means. But
what _has_ been may be again, and it is none the easier to resist
because it is unusual. When a young girl, with hot impatience, feels she
is not advancing as rapidly as she should, the wealthy "patron of Art"
declares it is folly for her to plod along so slowly, that he will free
her from all trammels, he will provide play, wardrobe, company, and
show the world that she is already an artist. To her trembling objection
that she could only accept such tremendous aid from one of her own
family, he would crushingly reply that "Art" (with a very big A) should
rise above common conventionalities; that he does not think of _her_
personally, but only the advance of professional "Art"; and if she must
have it so, why-er, she may pay him back in the immediate future, though
if she were the passionate lover of "Art" he had believed her to be, she
would accept the freedom he offered and waste no thought on "ways and
means" or "hows and whys."
Ah, poor child, the freedom he offers would be a more cruel bondage than
slavery itself! The sensitive, proud girl would never place herself
under such heavy obligations to any one on earth. She would keep her
vanity in check, and patiently or impatiently hold on her way,--free,
independent,--owing her final success to her own honest work and God's
blessing. Every girl should learn these hard words by heart, _Rien ne se
donne, tout se paye ici-bas!_ "Everything is paid for in this world!"
A number of young girls have asked me to give them some idea of the
duties of a beginner in the profession, or what claims the theatre makes
upon her time. Very well. We will first suppose you a young and
attractive girl. You have been carefully reared and have been protected
by all the conventionalities of refined social life. Now you enter the
theatrical profession, depending solely upon your salary for your
support, meaning to become a great actress and to keep a spotless
reputation, and you will find your work cut out for you. At the stage
door you will have to leave quite a parcel of conventional rules. In the
first place, you will have to go about _alone_ at night as well as by
day. Your salary won't pay for a maid or escort of any kind. That is
very dreadful at first, but in time you will learn to walk swiftly,
with stony face, unseeing eyes, and ears deaf to those hyenas of the
city streets, who make life a misery to the unprotected woman. The rules
of a theatre are many and very exacting, and you must scrupulously obey
them or you will surely be forfeited a stated sum of money. There is no
gallantry in the management of a company, and these forfeits are
genuine, be you man or woman.
You have heard that cleanliness is next to godliness, here you will
learn that _punctuality_ is next to godliness. As you hope for fame here
and life hereafter, never be late to rehearsal. That is the theatrical
unpardonable sin! You will attend rehearsal at any hour of the day the
manager chooses to call you, but that is rarely, if ever, before 10 A.M.
Your legitimate means of attracting the attention of the management are
extreme punctuality and quick studying of your part. If you can come to
the second rehearsal perfect in your lines, you are bound to attract
attention. Your fellow-players will not love you for it, because they
will seem dull or lazy by comparison; but the stage manager will make a
note, and it may lead to better things.
Your gowns at this stage of your existence may cause you great anguish
of mind--I do not refer to their cost, but to their selection. You will
not be allowed to say, "I will wear white or I will wear pink," because
the etiquette of the theatre gives the leading lady the first choice of
colours, and after her the lady next in importance, you wearing what is
left.
In some New York theatres actresses have no word in the selection of
their gowns: they receive plates from the hand of the management, and
dress accordingly. This is enough to whiten the hair of a sensitive
woman, who feels dress should be a means of expression, an outward hint
of the character of the woman she is trying to present.
Should you not be in a running play, you may be an understudy for one
or two of the ladies who are. You will study their parts, be rehearsed
in their "business," and will then hold yourself in readiness to take,
on an instant's notice, either of their places, in case of sickness,
accident, or ill news coming to either of them. If the parts are good
ones, you will be astonished at the perfect immunity of actresses from
all mishaps; but all the same you may never leave your house without
leaving word as to where you are going and how long you expect to stay.
You may never go to another theatre without permission of your own
manager; indeed, she is a lucky "understudy" who does not have to report
at the theatre at 7 o'clock every night to see if she is needed. And it
sometimes happens that the only sickness the poor "understudy" knows of
during the whole run of the play is that sickness of deferred hope which
has come to her own heart.
Not so very hard a day or night, so far as physical labour goes, is it?
But, oh! the sameness, the deadly monotony, of repeating the same words
to the same person at the same moment every night, sick or well, sad or
happy--the same, same words!
A "one-play" company offers the worst possible chance to the beginner.
The more plays there are, the more you learn from observation, as well
as from personal effort, to make the parts you play seem as unlike one
another as possible. A day like this admits of no drives, no calls, no
"teas"; you see, then, a theatrical life is not one long picnic.
If there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light of
the theatre is dearer than the God-given radiance of the sunlight; if
the burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed of
several parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunned
dust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escaped
illuminating gas--if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to your
nostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenest
pasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguished
footlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without noting
the quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of "acting
something" thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of the
ill-treated old overture dances through your blood, and the rolling up
of the curtain on the audience at night is to you as the magic
blossoming of a mighty flower--if these are the things that you feel,
your fate is sealed: Nature is imperious; and through brain, heart, and
nerve she cries to you, ACT, ACT, ACT! and act you must! Yes, I know
what I have said of the difficulties in your way, but I have faith to
believe that, if God has given you a peculiar talent, God will aid you
to find a way properly to exercise that talent. You may receive many
rebuffs, but you must keep on trying to get into a stock company if
possible, or, next best, to get an engagement with a star who produces
many plays. Take anything, no matter how small, to begin with. You will
learn how to walk, to stand still--a tremendous accomplishment. You will
get acquainted with your own hands, and cease to worry about them.
You can train your brain by studying Shakespeare and the old comedies.
Study not merely the leading part, but all the female parts; it is not
only good training, but you never know when an opportunity may come to
you. The element of "chance" enters very largely into the theatrical
life. Above all, try to remember the lines of every female character in
the play you are acting in; it might mean a sudden rise in your position
if you could go on, at a moment's notice, and play the part of some one
suddenly taken ill.
Then work, work, and above all observe. Never fail to watch the acting
of those about you. Get at the cause of the effects. Avoid the faults,
and profit by the good points of the actors before you, but never permit
yourself to imitate them.
One suggestion I would make is to keep your eyes open for signs of
character in the real life about you. The most successful bit of
business I had in "Camille" I copied from a woman I saw in a Broadway
car. If a face impresses you, study it, try afterward to recall its
expression. Note how different people express their anger: some are
redly, noisily angry; some are white and cold in their rage. All these
things will make precious material for you to draw upon some day, when
you have a character to create; and you will not need to say, "Let me
see, Miss So-and-So would stand like this, and speak very fast, or very
slow," etc.
You will do independent work, good work, and will never be quite
satisfied with it, but will eagerly try again, for great artists are so
constituted; and the hard life of disappointments, self-sacrifices, and
many partings, where strong, sweet friendships are formed only to be
broken by travelling orders, will all be forgotten when, the glamour of
the footlights upon you, saturated with light, thrilling to music,
intoxicated with applause, you find the audience is an instrument for
you to play upon at will. And such a moment of conscious, almost divine
power is the reward that comes to those who sacrifice many things that
they may act.
So if you really are one of these, I can only say, "Act, act!" and
Heaven have you in its holy keeping.
But, dear gifted woman, pause before you put your hand to the plough
that will turn your future into such strange furrows; remember, the life
of the theatre is a hard life, a homeless life; that it is a wandering
up and down the earth; a life filled full with partings, with sweet,
lost friendships; that its triumphs are brilliant but brief. If you do
truly love acting, simply and solely for the sake of acting, then all
will be well with you, and you will be content; but verily you will be a
marvel.
For the poor girl or woman who, because she has to earn her own living,
longs to become an actress, my heart aches.
You will say good-by to mother's petting; you will live in your trunk.
The time will come when that poor hotel trunk (so called to distinguish
it from the trunk that goes to the theatre, when you are travelling or
en route), with its dents and scars, will be the only friendly object to
greet you in your desolate boarding-house, with its one wizened,
unwilling gas-burner, and its outlook upon back yards and cats, or roofs
and sparrows, its sullen, hard-featured bed, its despairing carpet; for
you see, you will not have the money that might take you to the front of
the house and four burners. Rain or shine, you will have to make your
lonely, often frightened way to and from the theatre. At rehearsals you
will have to stand about, wearily waiting hours while others rehearse
over and over again their more important scenes; yet you may not leave
for a walk or a chat, for you do not know at what moment your scene may
be called. You will not be made much of. You will receive a "Good
morning" or "Good evening" from the company, probably nothing more. If
you are travelling, you will literally _live_ in your hat and cloak. You
will breakfast in them many and many a time, you will dine in them
regularly, that you may rise at once and go to the theatre or car. You
will see no one, go nowhere.
If you are in earnest, you will simply endure the first year,--endure
and study,--and all for what? That, after dressing in the corner
farthest from the looking-glass, in a dismal room you would scarcely use
for your housemaid's brooms and dusters at home, you may stand for a few
moments in the background of some scene, and watch the leading lady
making the hit in the foreground. Will these few, well-dressed,
well-lighted, music-thrilled moments repay you for the loss of home
love, home comfort, home stardom?
To that bright, energetic girl, just home from school, overeducated,
perhaps, with nothing to do, restless,--forgive me,--vain, who wants to
go upon the stage, let me say: "Pause a moment, my dear, in your
comfortable home, and think of the unemployed actresses who are
suffering from actual want. Is there one among you, who, if you had the
chance, would care to strike the bread from the hand of one of these?
Ask God that the scales of unconscious selfishness may fall from your
eyes. Look about you and see if there is not some duty, however small,
the more irksome the better, that you may take from your mother's daily
load, some service you can render for father, brother, sister, aunt;
some daily household task, so small you may feel contemptuous of it,
yet some one must do it, and it may be a special thorn in that some
one's side. So surely as you force yourself to do the small things
nearest your hand, so surely will you be called upon for greater
service."
And oh! my dears, my dears, a loving mother's declaration, "I don't know
what I should do without my daughter," is sweeter and more precious than
the careless applause of strangers. Try, then, to be patient; find some
occupation, if it is nothing more than the weekly putting in order of
bureau drawers for some unusually careless member of the family; and,
having a good home, thank God and your parents, and stay in it.
And now, having added the insult of preaching at you to the injury of
disappointing you, I suppose you will accuse me of rank hypocrisy; but
you will be wrong, because with outstretched hands I stand and proclaim
myself your well-wisher and your friend.
_CHAPTER II