declares Mr. Forbes. "A chair car is the ideal place for
concentration." This young fellow differs from his colleagues in his
inability to work in the country. He owns and occupies a veritable
palace at Croton-on-Hudson, but he never attempts anything important
there. He says: "I find my surroundings too alluring. Only conscience
keeps me at a desk anyway, and conscience is weaker than the charm of
outdoors." One rather fancies that Jimmie's conscience--he is "Jimmie"
to his friends--is pretty rigid. He comes of Scotch ancestry, and was
reared in a Scotch Presbyterian community in Canada. "The theater was
held up to my youthful attention as a dreadful place", he told me one
night, when we were lingering over supper. "The stock story in my
family concerned a playhouse in Edinboro, which, being used
sacreligously for the representation of a scene in heaven, was
promptly burned, with every soul in it, as a divine judgment.
"This tale stuck fast in my memory. At the age of nine I stole away to
see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin', and, when the transformation showed Little
Eva in Paradise, I slipped out and waited in the street for the
theater to burn down. I was terribly disappointed that nothing of the
sort happened, and, after hanging around for the better part of the
afternoon, I went home a confirmed agnostic."
Jimmie drifted from Scotch Presbyterianism into dramatic authorship by
easy and natural stages. First he was employed in a wholesale grocery
store, then he became an actor, a newspaper man, a press agent, a
manager, and, finally, a playwright. A short story, which he had
published under the title of "The Extra Girl", suggested "The Chorus
Lady", and an acquaintance with Rose Stahl, who had been leading woman
of a company in which he had acted, lead to her being chosen for the
principal role in the one act play of that name. Mr. Forbes soon saw
the possibility of amplifying the sketch into a four act comedy, and,
though Miss Stahl was not enthusiastic about the idea at first, he
induced her to assume the part in which she has since appeared more
than a thousand times.
Mr. Forbes is a boyish-looking young man, small in stature, nervous in
manner, with a swarthy skin, and an ocean of forehead into which
descends a peninsula of glossy black hair. He is general manager for
Henry B. Harris, and has numberless business duties to perform in his
comfortable little office in the Hudson Theater. He writes exclusively
for Mr. Harris, and has an interest in the profits of his plays,
besides the regular royalties, so that he has made a considerable
fortune out of three big successes. Mr. Forbes probably is the only
dramatist in the world who, in addition to writing his play, stages
it, attends to the details of business management, plans the
advertising campaign, and supervises the press work.
Winchell Smith, who made the comedy, "Brewster's Millions", and who is
author of "The Fortune Hunter", says he chose dramatic authorship
"because you don't have to be grammatical in plays." "I couldn't write
a magazine article for a million dollars", he adds, "but dialogue
comes easy to me." However, Mr. Smith, like many others of his cult,
hates "the drudgery of composition." He likes to plan a new piece, but
wishes that the manuscript "could be got out of my head by a surgical
operation." Mr. Smith is a tall, slender, diffident young man, with a
keen sense of humor and a varied experience. He began life in the
grain and feed business in Hartford, and acted for many years in
support of that still more celebrated Hartfordian, William Gillette.
Langdon Mitchell, author of "The New York Idea", and John Luther Long,
author of "Madame Butterfly", both are Philadelphians. Mr. Mitchell
won fame as a poet, under the pseudonym of John Philip Varley, before
"Becky Sharp" brought him to the attention of theater-goers. Mr. Long,
whose ethereal fancies are so charming, pretends to practice the
prosaic profession of law at 629 Walnut street.
Eugene Presbrey, grey-bearded, vibrant, intense, devotes himself
mainly to the adaptation of novels. "I want the novel that can't be
dramatized!" he declares, and, for this reason, he found much pleasure
in doing "Raffles." It seemed a hopeless task to win sympathy for a
confirmed criminal, and Mr. Presbrey had about abandoned the task,
when, one evening in Seventh Avenue, he saw a man running at top
speed, a crowd in pursuit, and heard the cry: "Stop thief!" "The
fellow was just behind me", says the author, "and, turning around, I
got a good view of his hunted, desperate expression. Before I knew
what I was doing, I whispered: 'Get up the alley!' _And I didn't tell
the policeman._ 'No sympathy for a criminal!' I exclaimed to myself,
when I had leisure to analyze my action. 'Why, every human being is a
criminal at heart! He knows that, under certain circumstances, he
might be the fugitive, and he feels sorry for the other fellow in
proportion.'" Mr. Presbrey wrote "Raffles" in three weeks, and it has
been acted in every country that boasts a theater.
I have at my side a list of some thirty men and women who write plays
and of whom I could chat indefinitely. Each of these authors is so
interesting, all of them have lived so many stories, that it is hard
for me to admit a space limit and forebear being their Boswell. There
is George Broadhurst, lean and business-like, who made a reputation by
his farces, and then, when that had been forgotten, made another by
his serious dramas. There is Paul Potter, white-haired, rotund,
genial, the intimate friend of Charles Frohman, and the adaptor of
"Trilby." There are earnest young William C. De Mille, author of
"Strongheart"; Paul Kester, a wisp of a lad, timid and self-conscious,
who glories in swashbuckling melodramas and who did "When Knighthood
Was in Flower"; Thompson Buchanan, newspaper reporter to his finger
tips, who landed a big success in "A Woman's Way" and afterward wrote
"The Cub"; Sydney Rosenfeld, the wit and dreamer, one time editor of
Puck, who refused to turn out a book sub rosa with Augustus Thomas
because he objected to any scheme "which involved pooling our separate
fames to become anonymous"; and there are a whole army of brilliant
young chaps, like William J. Hurlbut, of "The Fighting Hope", who
lives a stone's throw from me at Shoreham, L. I., and Avery Hopwood,
who collaborated with me in producing "Clothes", and with Mary Roberts
Rhinehart in producing "Seven Days."
I should like to tell you about pretty Margaret Mayo, who has built a
villa from the proceeds of "Polly of the Circus", and whose first fame
as a playwright was achieved under circumstances described elsewhere
in this book. Rachel Crothers is a sedate, New Englandish young
woman, who used to teach acting in the Wheatcroft School, and whom I
met when she was going from office to office with the manuscript of
"The Three of Us." Rida Johnson, famed for "Brown of Harvard" and "The
Lottery Man", is tall, dark, fine-looking, and her professional career
began when she was leading woman for her husband, James Young, in her
first play, "Lord Byron." I can't make you acquainted with people in a
line--only Kipling can do that--and a proper description of all our
playwrights would fill a volume.
They are, for the most part, a quiet, unassuming lot, constituting, of
course, the brains of the theater, and lacking wholly the pose and
self-importance of their creature, the actor. They are of the stage,
and yet singularly apart from it, the glare of the footlights being
merged for them with the soft red glow of the library. I am glad to
have been their press agent this little time, for the majority of them
are almost unknown to the very throngs they entertain vicariously. The
wig-maker has his name on the program in larger letters than they,
and the chorus girl receives infinitely more attention from the
newspapers. More than any other class of men, I believe them to be
actuated by the desire to do fine things. "I want to write plays that
add to the joy of life!" exclaims one of the cult, looking over my
shoulder. "I shall never write a play that does not contain something
of hope and happiness!"
[Illustration: "_Margaret Mayo built a villa from the the proceeds of
'Polly of the Circus'_"]
_STAGE STRUCK_
Being a diagnosis of the disease, and a description of its
symptoms, which has the rare medical merit of attempting a cure
at the same time.
"From the stern life of an officer in Uncle Sam's Navy to a merry job
carrying a spear in the chorus of a musical comedy may be a far cry",
but that is the step which a metropolitan newspaper recently recorded
as having been taken by a young man named in the story whose beginning
is quoted above. On another page of this same newspaper was an article
which announced that "because pink teas, bridge whist, and dances no
longer amused her", a certain "society woman" had joined the chorus of
a company appearing at the Casino. These two cases composed a single
day's list of casualties from the malignant disease known as
stage-fever.
When my eye had finished its journey over the accounts of the
"society woman" and the naval officer, I paused to wonder whether
either of these aspirants would be checked by seeing spread-headed
over the first page of the journal in question the horrid details of a
theatrical suicide. The night before, an actress of reputation--a
woman who had won everything that these new-comers had but a faint
chance of winning--had killed herself in an hotel in Baltimore. Of
course, it had not been shown that this "star" was influenced by any
circumstance connected with her work, and, of course, it is true that
people of various professions are self-slain, and yet--I wondered.
[Illustration: "_The malignant disease_"]
If the naval officer was restrained in his resolve it was not for
long. A week or so later I saw this impetuous youth, who couldn't
stand "being bottled up on a battle-ship", on the stage of an up-town
theater. He was standing near the middle of a row of young men, waving
his hands at stated intervals, and singing "yes--yes" at the end of
every second line rendered by the principal comedian. He had but to
wave his hands a moment too soon or too late in order to incur a fine
or a reprimand. Perhaps by this time he has discovered that there are
worse misfortunes than being "bottled up on a battleship."
Whether he does or not, the stream of the stage-struck will continue
to flow like the brook poeticized by Tennyson. There is no stopping
it. Youth has a better chance of missing measles or scarlet-fever than
of escaping that consuming passion to "go on the stage." Nearly
everyone struggles with the mania for a time; the wise conquer it, the
foolish make up the comic opera choruses, the unimportant road
companies, and the stage-door-keeper's list of "extra ladies and
gentlemen." From every class and walk of life, from every town and
city troop the victims, abandoning their vocations and their homes, as
though they had heard the witching notes of a siren song. They come
with high hopes and bright dreams, most of them to the great, gay city
of New York, where they besiege the agencies, and the managers, and
the teachers of acting until their dreams fade, or their money gives
out, or they are smitten with realization. There is hardly a community
in the country so small as to be without its "amateur dramatic club",
and no one even distantly connected with the theatrical profession has
lacked his or her experience with the innoculated unfortunate who
knows that "I could succeed if I only had a chance."
Some time ago I happened to be in Syracuse, and used the long-distance
telephone to communicate with New York. My conversation over, I sat
down in the hotel lobby, and had just lit a cigar when a page
announced: "Long distance wants you." I returned to the booth. "Yes?"
I inquired. A woman's voice replied: "I overheard enough of your talk
with New York to judge that you're in the theatrical business."
"I'm indirectly connected with it", I replied.
"Well", said the voice, "I'm the long-distance operator, and I want to
go on the stage. Please get me an engagement."
I explained my misfortune in being acquainted with no manager who was
likely to consider extensive training in enunciation of "hello" and
"busy" sufficient education for the stage. The lady probably didn't
believe me, for it is the popular impression that anyone concerned in
the business of the playhouse has only to ask in order to receive a
contract for whomever he wishes to assist. That song-heroine, who
declared herself "an intimate friend of an intimate friend of
Frohman", has her prototype in real life. Moreover, no aspirant to
footlight honors ever can be convinced that actors must be made as
well as born, and that there may be a few people in the world, who,
given the opportunity, would not become Modjeskas and Mansfields.
William A. Brady once was served at dinner by a waitress whose
surliness astonished him. He made no remark, however, and at last the
waitress addressed him. "You're William A. Brady", she said; "ain't
you?"
Mr. Brady confessed.
[Illustration: "'_You're William A. Brady, ain't you?_'"]
"Well", exclaimed the duchess of dishes, "my name's Minnie Clark. I've
been a waitress since I was fourteen years old, and I think I can
stand it until about next Wednesday. Give me a job, will you?"
David Belasco had a less amusing experience with a chambermaid in
Attleboro, Mass., where he spent a night with the organization
supporting David Warfield in "The Auctioneer." This girl, whose tap at
the door interrupted the wizard producer while he was blue-penciling a
scene, had just heard of his presence in town, and lost no time
approaching him. She had been stage-struck since childhood. Hearing of
Mr. Belasco's success in teaching dramatic art, she had determined to
visit him in New York. "I saved my money for three years", she said,
"and then I went up to you. I called at your office every day, but
they wouldn't let me in. When all my money was spent I came back home,
and began saving again. I had about half enough when I found that you
were coming to Attleboro." Mr. Belasco was unable to give the girl
the least encouragement. She was wholly illiterate, and, moreover, her
death warrant was writ on her face. She was suffering from an
incurable disease of the lungs.
Collin Kemper, one of the managers of the Astor Theater, recently had
a letter from an elderly priest, who, after twenty years in the
pulpit, felt that he wanted "a larger field of expression", and
yearned to play Shakespeare. A wrinkled old woman of sixty sought the
late Edward Marble, when he was conducting a school of acting in
Baltimore, and confided in him her desire to be seen as Juliet. This
desire she had cherished nearly half a century when the death of a
relative gave her the means of gratifying her ambition. Daniel Frohman
once received a young man, who laid on his desk a letter of
introduction from an acquaintance in the West. "Ah!" said Mr. Frohman.
"So you wish to become an actor?"
"Yes", replied the young man. "I'm puh-puh-puh-perfectly wa-wa-willing
to ba-ba-ba-begin at the ba-bottom--"
[Illustration: "_A wrinkled old woman confided her desire to be seen
as Juliet_"]
He stuttered hopelessly.
The most astonishing feature of stage fever, however, is that its
ravages are not confined to the ranks of people who would be bettered
by success in their chosen profession. My wealthiest friend, a silk
importer, who owns a charming home in Central Park West, dines alone
while his wife stands in the wings of a dirty little theater in Paris,
where their only daughter earns a hundred francs a week by dancing. A
successful literary man of my acquaintance, who would cheerfully
devote his entire income, something more than fifteen thousand a year,
to making his young wife happy in his cozy apartment yields per force
to her wish to appear in vaudeville. The most valuable member of the
staff of an out-of-town newspaper, recipient of a big salary, suddenly
threw up his position two years ago, since when he has been employed
seven weeks, and that seven weeks in an organization presenting "The
Chinatown Trunk Mystery."
A. L. Wilbur, at the time when he conducted the well-known Wilbur
Opera Company, printed in the program of his performances an
advertisement for chorus girls. Successful applicants were paid twelve
dollars a week, yet recruits came by the dozens from the best families
in the territory through which the aggregation was touring. Scores of
the young women who play merry villagers on Broadway today are well
born and bred victims of the virus. "Society" has contributed even to
the ranks of the chorus men, whose caste is far below that of their
betighted sisters. When Maybelle Gilman opened her metropolitan season
in "The Mocking Bird" a male chorister, whose weekly stipend was
eighteen dollars, electrified the management by purchasing nine boxes.
This Croesus of the chorus proved to be "Deacon" Moore, a Cornell
graduate and son of one of the biggest mine operators in the West.
The germ of stage fever frequently is as slow to get out of the system
as it is quick to enter it. Douglas Fairbanks is a clever comedian,
who, after a long apprenticeship, has been elevated to the stellar
rank by William A. Brady. Mr. Fairbanks fell in love with the daughter
of Daniel J. Sully, and, according to report, was given parental
permission to marry her if he would abandon his profession. Mr.
Fairbanks retired from the stage, and was out of the cast of "The Man
of the Hour" for a trifle less than two months. Margaret Fuller came
to town a few years ago with an ambition to star. She enlisted the
help of a well-known manager, who told her that he would give her a
chance to play Camille if she could get rid of twenty pounds of
superfluous flesh. Miss Fuller presented "Camille" at a special
matinee, and has not been heard of since. She is still in the
theatrical profession, content with minor roles, but clinging
tenaciously to the vocation. There are hundreds of men and women
haunting the agencies in New York, promenading that graveyard of
buried hopes, The Great White Way, who might be enjoying the comfort
of luxurious homes and the affectionate care of doting relatives.
In nine cases out of ten the mania to go on the stage is prompted by
pure desire for glorification. Love of excitement, and the fallacious
notion that the profession is one of comparative ease and luxury, may
be alloying factors, but the essence of the virus is vanity. No other
field offers the same quick approval of successful effort, and no
other climber is quite so much the center of his eventual triumph. In
the other arts, approbation follows less promptly and is less direct.
The fortunate player hears the intoxicating music of applause a dozen
times every evening and two dozen times on matinee days. He struts
about his mimic world, the observed of all observers, conscious of the
strained attention of the thousands who have paid to see him,
profiting not only by his own achievements but by those of the author,
the director, the scene-painter and the orchestra. The newspapers are
full of his praise and his photographs, recording his slightest doing
and giving to the opinions expressed by him, or by his press agent,
an importance scarcely less than might be accorded the President of
the United States. In the course of time he even begins to arrogate to
himself the heroic virtues of the characters he impersonates. It is
sweet to see one's name on the cover of a novel, sweet to scrawl one's
autograph in the lower left-hand corner of a painting, but O, how
doubly and trebly sweet to meet one's own image lithographed under a
laudatory line and posted between advertisements of the newest
breakfast food and the latest five cent cigar!
The temptation is the stronger, as the rewards are more numerous, if
the aspirant happens to be a woman. The gentler sex may not have
greater vanity than the stronger, but it takes greater delight in
commendation and it has keener appreciation of luxury. If the
much-mentioned "society belle" longs for the glitter and gaud supposed
to exist behind the footlights, how can one blame the daughters of
poverty and squalor who make up the rank and file of the chorus?
James Forbes has embodied the minds of these girls in his Patricia
O'Brien in "The Chorus Lady." What wonder that they try to escape the
sordid commonplaces of their poor lives for the glory of the theater,
and delight to strut their "brief hour" in a palace, even if that
palace be of canvas and scantling? The prospect of diamonds and
automobiles cannot exert a stronger appeal to the men and women who
dwell in dreary drudgery than does the hope of becoming _somebody_, of
enjoying even a temporary illumination of their obscurity.
Charles Dickens vividly explained the psychology of this longing for
prominence in his chapter on "Private Theaters" in "Sketches by Boz."
In his day there were scores of these institutions in London, each
"the center of a little stage-struck neighborhood." In the lobby of
each was hung a placard quoting the price for which willing amateurs
might play certain desirable parts. To be the Duke of Glo'ster, in
"Richard III", cost £2, the part being well worth that amount
because "the Duke must wear a real sword, and, what is better still,
he must draw it several times in the course of the piece." We have no
such private theaters on this side of the water, but there are nearly
two hundred amateur dramatic clubs in Brooklyn, while other
communities possess these organizations in proportion to their size.
[Illustration: "_How sweet to meet one's own image_"]
There are three well-trod roads to the stage. One wanders through
membership in a society like those mentioned, another and straighter
is by way of the dramatic schools, while the third, and most
frequented, goes direct from the home to the office of agent or
manager. Of dramatic schools the number is legion, but only those
conducted by dishonest adventurers promise employment to the enrolled
student. "Be an actor for $1", is the alluring caption of an
advertisement carried weekly by a number of periodicals, but the
aspirants who make it profitable for that institution to go on
advertising must be exceptionally gullible. New York has many
"academies" in which useful technicalities of the art are carefully
taught, and the managers of several of these "academies" keep in close
touch with the producing interests of the country. While they
guarantee nothing, they frequently are able to place their graduates
in small parts. Grace George, Margaret Illington, and other well-known
stars have come out of these schools.
The direct path to which reference has been made is full of
difficulties and obstacles. Agencies are established with the purpose
of helping communication between managers and the actors most in
demand. They are busy places, with little time to devote to the
novice, and the average impressario is not more nearly inaccessible
than their executive heads. Every year the producing manager is less
inclined to see applicants or to make opportunities for people of whom
he knows nothing. It is all very well to be recommended by some
acquaintance of the man who "presents", but friendship is only
friendship, and nobody will risk the success of a production that has
cost thousands of dollars merely to please an associate. The current
method of selecting a company is quick and simple. A copy of the
play's cast is sent to the manager, who writes opposite each character
the name of the actor whom he thinks most likely to interpret that
role to advantage. Then the manager's secretary sends for the
fortunate Thespian. This system is undeniably hard, and perhaps unjust
to the beginner, but such sentiment as gets into the theater comes in
manuscripts, and, in these days of severe critical judgment, the
investor in drama has the fullest right to minimize his risk.