Thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and even
appreciate it. The American brand is generally pithy, compact, and
expressive, and not always vulgar. Slang is at its worst in contemptuous
epithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seems
likely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. No
more vulgar term exists than "masher," and it is a distinct comfort to
find Webster ascribing the origin of the word to England's reckless
fun-maker,--_Punch_.
Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies,--all these terms have been applied
at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and
to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that
abomination,--masher. Nor am I "puttin' on scallops and frills," as the
boys say. I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very much
overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her
gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the
ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the
window, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, "Well, she
is up against it," slangily expressed the unfortunate woman's exact
predicament. Oh, no, I'm not "puttin' on frills," I am only objecting
with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible
creature indicated by it,--masher.
In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted
teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock.
Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one
else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called,
and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to the
teacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks
of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent
floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue
and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words,
"There, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'll
all be quite happy." I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh
commandment, "Not to say anything more about it."
Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the
multiplication table. Of course _fives_ and _tens_ were at a
premium--even very stupid little girls could get through them, and
_twos_ were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed
daily. _Sevens_ were, however, my own especial nightmare--even to this
day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by
seven. Standing in class on the platform, the _sevens_ one day fell to
me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance
forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table
so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely
whispered, "Forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct
destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in
figures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess," and
burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and
then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and
was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder
by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us say
anything more about the _sevens_, Miss Sands, and then we'll all be
quite happy."
Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would
like to cry, "Don't let us say anything more about the masher, and then
we'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, let
me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. The
stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is
a product of the imagination. These "Johnnies" who hang about stage
doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the
stage are not in love--they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple.
These young "taddies," with hair carefully plastered down, are as like
one another as are the peas of one pod,--each wishes to be considered a
very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a
fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that
reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.
One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic
sense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown some
merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip
or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses
full fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have
made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense!
Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect
herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters are
his chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one
cares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent without
a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes to
hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be
sufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other door
and probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist?
And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does
exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly
supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait,
now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or
ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the
conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them,
on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves,
will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one
hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should
be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate
sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly
condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend
itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself
in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to
these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons
who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with
perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the
stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the
_jeunesse dorée_.
But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another
reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over
is not often attractive to the "masher." The clever and promising
artist, Miss G----, is not his style. He is not looking for brains,
"don't yer know." He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the
flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest
kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome
compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little
free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of
supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the
democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would
taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a
_demi-tasse_. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough
that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of
evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few
half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed
smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." Oh, hideous word!
Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in
love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher"
proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined
efforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and through
them to be properly presented.
Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a
"masher" to the extent of her ability, I once went, it's hard to admit
it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I was
made to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting "Alixe" at Mr.
Daly's Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be
lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There was
seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning
fiercely over a "drop letter," as we called them. One evening my box
held a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon club
paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap.
The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's were
dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals
and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than
understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural
type, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, the
violet's blue." I might have been a little touched but for the
signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could
not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and
down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was the
signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitch
into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of the
name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another
letter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was very
diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his
disposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter
from me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to
secure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home,
and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to
cross our biggest street--while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravely
admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I
might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over
before writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very
night, and his seat was in the balcony,--No. 3, left side, front
row,--and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold
high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.
It didn't seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a
very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "to
look him over." Without a second thought, I read that portion of the
letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when
that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis
James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall
of A. Fix.
So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a
group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large
pocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of course a
line spread of canvas in the balcony. The audience, ever quick to catch
on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the
enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the
situation, burst into hilarious laughter. Uselessly I pleaded; at every
possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand,
while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such
unseemly places that night.
The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common "masher,"
heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by
writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more
confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: "I am afraid you
are cruel. I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do not
remember that they did such things before last night with their
handkerchiefs."
Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact
standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully
upon my brow, "So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don't
think I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness
comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one
word, I'll help you to my plumb last cent," and truly Mr. Fix left me
ashamed and sorry.
He had suffered for his name, which I believed to be an assumed one.
Poor young man, I offer an apology to his memory.
One scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to be
sent to a certain prominent club, that I one day laid the letters before
Mr. Daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that "if Mr.
B.M.B., of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receive
not the answer he expected, but the one he deserved," and Mr. Daly was
highly delighted when he heard that B.M.B., who was a "masher" _par
excellence_, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms.
Those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at street
corners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police,
since they encumber the streets and are a menace and a mortification to
female citizens. Let some brazen woman take the place of one of these
street "mashers," and proceed to ogle passers-by, and see how quickly
the police would gather her in.
But so far as the stage "masher" is concerned, dear and anxious mamma,
auntie, or sister, don't worry about the safety of your actress to be.
The "masher" is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam,
never a danger.
_CHAPTER XV