AT THE STAGE-DOOR.
The patrons of the theatre must all find their way into the house
through the front doors; only the privileged few are allowed access
to the mysteries and wonders of the stage through the back door. Here
stands a gentleman, generally of repulsive mien and unattractive
manners, whose special business it is to see that nobody, not entitled
to do so, penetrates the sacred precincts, and who learns at once to
distinguish between the people who come prying around his bailiwick
merely for curiosity, and those who are there to "mash" a susceptible
ballet girl or perhaps an indiscreet member of the company. Those
who are led to the stage-door by curiosity are numerous and they are
all promptly repulsed; and the "mashers" who stand at the stage-door
after the performance is over, must get into the good graces of the
door-keeper, and retain his friendship if they desire the course of
true love to run smoother than the old adage says it runs.
In the large theatres of Eastern cities the cerberus who guards the
stage entrance generally has a little sentry box just inside the door,
with a window cut in it, a stove placed inside in cold weather, a
number of pigeon-holes for letters, and indeed all modern conveniences,
as the saying goes. Here he sits and smokes, hailing everybody who
passes in and saying a kind or snarling word to all who pass out. If
the mail has brought a letter for any member of the company, or a
"masher" has sent one of the girls a dainty little note expressive
of the sentiment that is swelling in his twenty-six-inch bosom, the
cerberus will have it, and will hand it out to the person for whom it
is intended with an appropriate and not always complimentary remark
about it. Sometimes this guardian of the theatric arcana will take
advantage of his position to tyrranize over the ballet girls and
other subordinates of a company, and will rule in his autocratic way
to his own pecuniary and other profit. In the East he is made a kind
of time-keeper, notes when the performers appear for duty and when
they are absent, besides otherwise making himself serviceable to the
management and careful of the interests of his house.
A story is told about one of them--I think his name was Bulkhead--who
was employed at a theatre where the ballet was large, and the girls
paid very liberal tribute to him. They gave him silk handkerchiefs
of the prettiest and most expensive kind to wipe his fantastic mug
on; they paid for innumerable hot drinks with which he rounded out
the waist of his pantaloons; they dropped cigars into his always
outstretched paw, and otherwise drained their own resources to make
Mr. Bulkhead as happy and comfortable as possible. He, at first, took
whatever was offered, but soon grew bold, and demanded fifty cents each
of their little five dollars a week, every salary day. The girls made
up their minds not to accede to this demand, which they deemed unjust
and exorbitant; they not only positively refused to give Bulkhead any
money, but would give him nothing else, not even a two-cent cigar. As
a result, about one-half of the girls forfeited a portion of their
salaries next pay-day. This aroused all the fury there was in the
entire ballet, and when they found out, too, that Bulkhead had driven
away their male admirers they were as wild as so many hyenas. It did
not take long for them to hit upon a means of wreaking vengeance upon
the heartless and unscrupulous door-keeper. They clubbed together what
change they had and got Bulkhead boiling drunk; by the time the show
was over on that (to him) memorable night he did not know which way
to look for Sunday. After the final curtain had fallen and the lights
were dimmed, Bulkhead sat at the door on his stool swaying like an
unsteady church-steeple and snoring like an engine when its boiler is
nearly empty. The girls picked him up and carried him into a remote
corner of the stage, where they piled a lot of old scenery around him
after tying his hands and feet securely. Then they got red and blue
fire ready, almost under his cherry red and panting nose; one of the
girls took her position at the thunder drum; another had hold of the
rain wheel; another was at the wind machine; a fourth got a big brass
horn out of the music room and a fifth got the bass drum; the remainder
stood ready to lend assistance with their hands and throats. At a
given signal the thunder rolled loudly, the wind whistled vigorously,
the rain came down in torrents, the brass horn moaned piteously, the
bass drum was beaten unmercifully, and pans of burning blue and red
fire were poked through crevices in the piled-up machinery right under
the drunken door-keeper's nostrils, while all the girls shouted at
the tops of their voices and clapped as enthusiastically as if they
were applauding a favorite. Bulkhead after opening his eyes and having
his ears assailed by the din, shouted wildly for assistance and mercy
and all kinds of things; but he got neither assistance nor mercy. The
racket continued for nearly ten minutes when quiet and darkness were
restored, and the girls quietly stole away leaving Bulkhead alone
in his agony under the pile of scenery, where he was found by the
stage carpenter next morning, a first-class, double-barrelled case of
jim-jams. He is now in an insane asylum, and employs most of his time
telling people that notwithstanding all Bob Ingersoll's buncombe and
blarney there must be a hereafter, for he has himself been through the
sunstroke section of it.
[Illustration: DECORATING A SCENE PAINTER.]
The ballet girls of another theatre played an equally effective and
amusing trick upon an obnoxious scene painter. The artist had been in
the habit of painting posts, doorsteps, etc., in the neighborhood of
the stage-door in colors that were not readily perceptible, and when
the young ladies' "mashes" came around after the performance to wait
for them to dress, they innocently sat down upon or leaned against the
fresh paint and ruined their clothes. The scene painter and his friend
were always in the neighborhood to raise a laugh when the disaster
was made known, and the result was that the gay young men would
come near the stage-door no more, and that the sweetly susceptible
creature known as the ballet girl was obliged to go home alone,
supperless. Well, one day the girls found the artist asleep against
his paint-table with a half emptied pitcher of beer by his side.
This was their opportunity. One of the girls who was of a decorative
Oscar-Wilde-like turn of mind got a small brush while another held
the colors, and in ten minutes they had that man's face painted so
that he would pass for a whole stock of scenery; the tattooed Greek
was a mere five-cent chromo alongside of him, and a Sioux Indian with
forty pounds of war-paint on would be a ten-cent side-show beside a
twelve-monster-shows-in-one-under-a-single-canvas exhibition. In this
elaborate but undecorative condition the scene painter wandered off to
a neighboring saloon, the wonder and merriment of all who saw him. He
did not understand the cause of the general stare and unusual laugh at
him, until a too sensitive friend took him to a mirror and showed him
his frescoed features. Profanity and gnashing of teeth followed, and
the artist was prevented from going back to the theatre to murder ten
or twelve people only by a thoughtful policeman who picked him up as
he flew out through the door of the saloon, and carried him off to the
calaboose. He was sorry when he got sober, and from that day to this
has not attempted to paint the coat-tails of the ballet girls' lovers.
A great many of these lovers, as they are designated, are bold
and heartless wretches, who have in some way or other obtained an
introduction to or scraped acquaintance with the sometimes fair young
creatures who fill in the crevices and chinks of a play, or air their
limbs in the labyrinths of a march, or shake them in some strange and
fascinating dance. They look upon the ballet girl, whether she be a
dancer or merely below the line of utility, as legitimate prey, and
without the slightest scruple will waylay or spread a net to catch
her in some quiet but successful manner. They forget that many girls
enter the theatre with the intention of making honorable and honest
livings; that they prize their virtue as highly as the most respected
young lady who moves in the topmost circles of the best society, and
that the theatrical profession is only misrepresented by the men and
women who give themselves up to debauchery, and allow their passions
to run riot to such an extent that they win notoriety of the most
unsavory and unenviable kind. It is only because the stage is besieged
by so many scoundrels and villains who have either bought or begged the
privileges of the back door that the profession is dangerous to young
and innocent girlhood. The stage itself is pure, and could be kept so,
if these hangers-on were only done away with and the youthful student
and aspirant for histrionic honors were allowed to pursue her vocation
unassailed by the handsome tempters who begin by flattery and after an
usually easy conquest, end the dream of love by rudely casting the
fallen girl aside to make room for another victim.
Stand here in the shadow awhile. The performance is at an end, and the
gentlemen who haunt the stage-door are beginning to assemble. There are
probably a half dozen of them. They stand around sucking the heads of
their canes and anxiously awaiting the appearance of their inamoratas.
A burlesque company has the theatre this week, and there are probably
eighteen or twenty handsome young ladies in the combination. Nearly
every one of them is a "masher," and can be depended upon to hit the
centre of a weak male heart, with an arrow from her beaming eye, at
one hundred yards. Some of them have received tender notes from the
front of the house during the night, making appointments for a private
supper at one of the free and easy restaurants; others have met their
gentlemen friends before and can depend upon them to wait at the
stage-door every night. Those who send the notes during the performance
are of what is classed as the ultra-cheeky kind. A man of this class
will do anything to make the acquaintance of a ballet or chorus girl.
I knew one, one night, to push a dozen different notes under the door
of Eme Rousseau's dressing-room, which opened into the parquette,
and he would not desist until Samuel Colville, the manager, caused
him to be dragged out of the theatre and given over to the police.
Another gentleman of the same proclivities having failed to gain Alice
Oates's attention when she was in Chicago, followed her to St. Louis,
Cincinnati, and Louisville, and still being unable to effect a proper
"mash," endeavored to introduce himself successfully and gain her favor
forever by making her a present of a pair of fast horses. Alice very
sensibly refused to accept the gift, and told the fond and foolish
young man to go home to his mother.
Many cases of this kind might be cited to show how easily the women
who enter the profession, partly for the purpose of prostituting their
art, find easy conquest among the hair-brained fellows who are only too
willing to be captives and rarely try to break the fetters of roses
with which they find themselves bound. But keep here in the shadow a
while and watch the manœuvres of the "mashers." The stage-door opens
and out comes a very modest little girl. She does not belong to the
combination playing at the house this week, but is a member of the
regular ballet of the theatre,--one of the few poor creatures who are
obliged to get into ridiculous costumes of enormous dresses or unpadded
tights, to increase the throng of court-ladies, the number of pages, or
add to the proportions of a crowd. She does not dress any better than
a girl who finds employment in a factory. She is young, however, and
stage-struck. She has gone into the profession, braving all its dangers
and with a firm resolution to go unscathed through it, carrying with
her a sincere love for art and a burning desire to attain eminence. But
alas! she has little talent, and absolutely no genius. This can be seen
and appreciated already, although she has not had two lines to speak
since entering the theatre. She has been in the employ of the house
only since the beginning of the season. The "mashers" part to make room
for her as with eyes cast down she trips along the street. Some of
them say smart and pretty things, and some have the impudence to raise
their hats and bid her good-evening. She pays no attention to them,
however, and it is probably fortunate that the tall muscular gentleman
in work-day clothes who has had a pass to the gallery or may not have
been in the theatre at all, and who is waiting a block below to escort
her home, does not know the petty insults that are put upon her or the
snares that beset her path. Every night the big burly fellow waits for
the modest little ballet girl to see her home in safety. The girl does
not tell them at home to what dangers she is exposed, and they never
learn until sometime the fall comes, when a troupe of negro minstrels
or a large comic opera chorus invade the house and lay siege to the
hearts of all the females they find behind the scenes.
Here come two laughing blondes through the stage door. The light
falling upon their faces shows that although they try to appear light
and cheery, there is weariness in their limbs and perhaps distress
in their hearts. They select their male friends at once; indeed, the
latter have been waiting for the gay burlesquers.
"Charley dear, I didn't see you in front to-night," says one.
"Neither did I," says the other; "but George was there. I could tell
him by his red eyes and cherry nose."
"Yes," responds Charley, "there was too much champagne in that last
bottle, and I didn't care about getting out of bed until half an hour
ago."
"You had considerable of the juicy under your vest, last night," the
first girl remarks; and then there is a laugh, and Charley says he
feels in a good humor for tackling more wine at that particular moment,
and the quartette move off to a hack-stand, jump into an open carriage
and with lots of laughter the party are driven away to some suburban
garden with wine-room attachment, or to some urban restaurant where
wine may flow as freely as morality may fade away with the speeding
hours, and the pleasure may last just as long as the restauranteur
thinks he is being well paid for the privileges of his establishment.
Another girl comes through the stage-door. She is probably twenty-four
years of age, is tall, handsome, and most attractive in her manners.
There is the least suspicion of the matron in her appearance, that
dignity of carriage that characterizes women after marriage being
clearly defined in her motions. She knows somebody has been waiting for
her,--a young fellow as tall, handsome, and attractive as herself. He
sees her at once as she comes out, and goes to meet her. Her footsteps
are bent in his direction also. As they come together she lays her hand
upon his extended arm, and says:--
"No, Fred, I cannot go to-night. Sister is sick at the hotel, and the
baby has no one to take care of her. I must go home to my child."
"Pshaw!" says Fred, "I had everything arranged for an elegant drive and
a rattling supper."
"I'm so sorry, Fred;" the woman pleads, "but I can't go to-night. You
will have to excuse me this once. You know it was daylight when we
parted this morning."
"I know," her friend insisted; "but what's the use in worrying about
the baby. She's probably asleep now and won't need your care. Come, go
along."
"No, I cannot. I will not to-night." But Fred continues to plead,
asking the pleasure of her presence at a supper, just for a half hour
and no more. Unable to resist the warmth of his appeals, she at last
consents, and it is safe to say, that once the evening's entertainment
begins, morning breaks upon the sleepy babe and sick sister at the
hotel before Fred and his companion are ready to part.
I knew a friend--a dramatic writer--who stood at the back door one
night and waited for a pair of pretty chorus singers. My friend had
another friend with him--a prominent merchant. The two gay and giddy
young girls, who were only foolish flirts, did not know that the
gentlemen who had invited them to a midnight ride and a late supper
were married. Indeed, they may not have cared. So when the opera of
"Olivette" was over and the pair of chorus singers emerged at the
back door of the stage and found the two gentlemen waiting patiently
for them, the girls each gave over a bundle to her particular friend
to have him carry in his pocket until such time as the quartette
got ready to separate. The bundles each contained a pair of pink
"symmetricals"--padded tights. The young ladies informed their friends
of this fact, and cautioned them to be sure to return the bundles
before leaving. Well, the night wore on joyously with wine and singing
and the usual pleasures of a late drive. At last, at 3 A. M., the girls
got ready to return to their hotel. They were driven thither, and the
entire party having imbibed more wine than was necessary, soft and
sweet adieus were so tenderly spoken that nobody thought about the two
pairs of pink symmetricals. The gentlemen ordered the carriage driver
to speed homeward with them, and he did so. First the dramatic writer
disembarked at the door of his residence, ran up stairs, pulled off
his clothes, and was soon sound asleep. The merchant was soon at his
own door, had settled with the driver and the carriage had just rolled
away when, as he was fumbling at the latch-key he thought of the pair
of tights. With one bound he cleared the steps, and running into the
street, shouted after the carriage. The driver heard him, stopped, and
was given the pair of tights to take around to the chorus girl's hotel
that day and a $5 bill to pocket for the services. It was a narrow
escape for the merchant. For the dramatic writer it was no escape at
all. He was rudely awakened at ten o'clock in the morning, and the
first sight that met his eyes was his infuriated wife holding the pair
of pink tights by the toes and stretching them out so that the sin of
the husband stood revealed to him in all its fulness.
"Where did these come from?" the exasperated wife shrieked, flaunting
them before the husband's eyes.
"Where did you get them?" He asked, trembling, and unable to think of
any good excuse to make.
"I got them in your coat pocket," his spouse shouted, piling up the
evidence and agony in a way that was excruciating.
"By jingo! is that so?" exclaimed the husband, coming suddenly to a
sitting posture in bed, and bringing his hands together vehemently.
"Now, I'll bet $4 Charley ----," giving the name of his merchant
friend, "put them there. He told me he had a pair that he was going to
make a present of to one of the "Olivette" girls at the ----."
Brilliant as this thought was, it did not satisfy the little lady.
She kept up the argument all day, and that night paid a visit to the
merchant's wife, where the affair got into such a tangle that the
two husbands brought in a bachelor friend to shoulder the blame, and
who made the excuse that the whole thing was a trick put up by a few
gentlemen (among them the bachelor was not) on the dramatic man and
merchant to get them into domestic trouble, as they had succeeded in
doing, beyond their most sanguine desires.
And now that we have been long enough at the back door of the theatre,
let us go home and come around to-morrow night to have a view of the
plagues and annoyances to be found before the foot-lights.