STAGE-STRUCK.
George McManus, treasurer of the Grand Opera House, St. Louis, in
addition to being a good story-teller, is as fond of a practical joke
as he is of three meals a day. During the season of 1880-81 George was
at the box-office window, one day, looking out at the Dutch lager beer
saloon across the street, and wondering why it was that people were so
fond of "schooners," when a tall, thin, melancholy, Hamlet-like young
fellow, with the air and clothes of rusticity, stalked slowly into the
vestibule and up to the box-office.
"Well, sir," said George, as the young man got in front of the window
and fixed his elbows on the sill.
"I want to be an actor," the young man began; "I kem here from Cahokia,
a small place you may have heern about, and I'd like to go on the stage
and play somethin' or other."
"Oh," answered George, smiling, "if that's all you want I can fix you.
When do you want to begin?"
"I am ready to start in right neow," was the reply. "I told the old
folks when I left the house last night that they needn't expect to
see me ag'in 'til my name wuz on the walls an' the sides o' houses in
letters more'n a yard long, an' I'm goin' to do it or die."
"I see you're made out of the right kind of stuff," said George,
"and I'll give you a first-class chance. You're ambitious and you're
lean--lean enough to play Falstaff--and lean and ambitious people
always make their mark. Have you ever heard of the lean and hungry
Cassius?--I don't mean a depositor at the door of a busted bank, but
the Cassius of 'Julius Cæsar.' I'll bet you feel just like him now; you
look like him."
The Cahokian candidate for Thespian honors blushed.
"Well," the practical joker went on, "you can begin work this morning.
The minstrels will be here in a few minutes for rehearsal, and they
want a new box of gags. Go over to Harry Noxon, at the Comique, and ask
him to give you a box of the best gags he's got. Tell him they're for
me."
With a face wreathed in smiles the Cahokian _Cassius_ stalked off
towards the Comique while George went out and gathered in a few friends
to enjoy the joke. The Cahokian went to the Comique, and Harry Noxon,
understanding what was meant, gave the poor fellow a box half filled
with bricks, and telling him that was all he had, directed him to go up
to Pope's and ask for Ed. Zimmerman, who would fill the box for him.
Shouldering the heavy load, the Cahokian moved bravely out towards
Pope's, six and one-half blocks away. He was pretty tired when he
got there. Ed. Zimmerman, in obedience to his request, sent the box
around to the stage-door, where the carpenter removed the lid and added
bricks enough to fill the receptacle. Nailing the lid on again the
stage-struck youth was once more presented with it. It took a great
deal of exertion for him to get the box to his shoulder, and when he
had it there he staggered along under the load like a drunken man, to
the Opera House seven blocks away. When he reached the Opera House,
McManus said the Minstrels had changed their mind about using any new
gags, and requested the Cahokian to carry them over to the Olympic.
The Cahokian looked at McManus, then took a woeful and weary look at
the box, and, wiping the perspiration from his high forehead and thin
face, he swung his slouch hat over his brow and remarked that he was
tired.
"I say, Mister," he said, "if that's what a fellow's got to do to be
a actor I'd sooner plow corn er run a thrashin'-masheen twenty-three
hours out'n the twenty-four. I thought there was more fun in the
business than carryin' around two or three hundred pounds of iron
or somethin' like it, all day in the sun. I guess I'll throw up my
engagement. Good-bye." And he strode out into the street, while George
and his friends had a laugh that was as hearty as the lungs that led in
the merriment were loud and strong.
[Illustration: KITTY BLANCHARD.]
There are a few young men and young ladies in this world who do not
take the same view of the stage that the Cahokian took: they imagine
there is a great deal of fun in being an actor or an actress, and that
it does not require any special effort to arrive at the point where
a person becomes a full-fledged professional. In this they are just
as much mistaken as was the Cahokian, and sometimes, after they have
gone into training for the profession, they tire of the hard work as
readily almost as the stage-struck young farmer tired of carrying the
box of "gags." There is a general wild desire among the young people
of this country to make players of themselves. They dream that the
stage is something like a seventh heaven where there is nothing but
music and singing and golden glory forever--admirers, wealth, and an
uninterrupted good time generally. They do not know anything about the
long and toilsome hours of work and the comparatively poor pay that
form the portion of all who are not at the top of the dramatic ladder.
They never pause to think if they are girls of the temptations into
which they will be thrown, and of the slanders that will be uttered
against their fair names upon the slightest provocation. All they see
or know of theatrical life is its bright gilded side, the tinsel that
looks valuable, the jewels that are paste, the silks and satins that
are not what they seem, and the beautiful faces and bright smiles
beneath which are wrinkles and toil-laden looks, when the actress is in
her home plying her needle or studying the long lengths that belong
to her part. It is because people are so ignorant of the realities of
dramatic life that so many become stage-struck and go around striking
tragic attitudes and rating imaginary scenery in a rabid rant through
Othello's address to the Senate, or Hamlet's scene with his mother in
the latter's chamber. There are forty thousand young ladies in this
land who want to be Mary Andersons, and as many more who think they
can kick as cutely as Lotta, while one hundred thousand semi-bald
young men imagine they could out-Hamlet Booth if they had a chance, or
lift the mantle of Forrest from John McCullough if the latter dared
enter the ring with them. A Louisville newspaper reporter gave a very
humorous description of an epidemic of this kind that prevailed in Mary
Anderson's home city some time ago. "One half the girls of the city,"
said the writer, "are stage-struck!--stark, staring stage-struck.
Hundreds of residences have been converted into amateur play-houses,
where would-be female stars tear their hair, rave and split the air
with their arms, and stalk majestically across imaginary stages to the
imaginary music of imaginary orchestras, and amid burst of imaginary
applause and showers of imaginary boquets. In the dry goods stores
young ladies rush up to the counters with inspiration dropping from
their eyes in great hunks and in hollow tones command the affrightened
clerk to--
"Haste thee, cringing vassal; pr-r-r-r-ro-duce and br-r-r-r-r-ing into
our pr-r-r-r-r-esence thy sixty-five-cent hose!"
In the ice cream saloons the maidens shove the cooling cream into their
lovely mouths and sweetly murmur to their escorts:--
"Now, by me faith, Orlando, but is't not a nectar fit for the gods?
Speak, me beloved; is't not a dainty dish that graces our festal board?"
And practical Orlando replies:--
"I bet you."
On the street-car the maiden stalks forward toward the driver and
howls:--
"What, ho, there, charioteer, give me, I pray thee, diminutive coin for
this one dollar bond an' I will upon the instant requite thee for thy
services upon this journey."
When one of them catches a flea she holds the victim at arms' length
and roars:--
"Ha-a-a-a! I have thee at last, vile craven. For many nights thy visits
to me chamber have br-r-r-ought unrest. Now at la-a-st thou art in me
clutches and I will shower vengeance upon thy thr-rice accursed head.
Die, vile in-gr-rate, and may the seething fires of perdition engulf
thy quivering soul forever-r-r-r!"
Then she opens her fingers a little to get a good squeeze at him and
the flea hops out and goes home to tell its folks about it. They have
got it bad and none of the old established methods of treatment seem to
avail.
It is the very height of absurdity to see an amateur company on a
stage, and particularly on the stage of a theatre. In the midst of the
most solemn tragedy one is compelled to laugh at them. If they have on
tights and trunks they try to get their hands into side pockets, and
if they carry swords the weapon gets tangled in their legs, and ten to
one after the blade has left its scabbard, the wearer will be unable
to get it back again. Then the way they walk upon each other's heels,
and tread upon each other's corns; jostle each other in the entrances
and stick in their lines is enough to make one of the painted figures
in the proscenium arch tear itself out of its medalion frame and die
from excessive laughter. More ludicrous even than their performance is
the frantic rush a young amateur makes for the photograph gallery to
have himself preserved as a courtier, and the equally rapid progress
the young society lady makes in the same direction--anxious to have her
picture taken no matter whether she plays a queen, a lady of honor, or
a page in tights. She has no hesitancy in displaying her awkward limbs
in a picture, although she would be ashamed to show her ankle in the
parlor.
[Illustration: MRS. LANGTRY, THE JERSEY LILY.]
Sometimes, instead of being made the subject of a practical joke on the
street, as was the Cahokian of whom I told the story at the opening
of this chapter, the joke is carried even farther--the aspirant being
taken to the stage to give a sample of his work. Occasionally the show
is given to the people of the theatre only, and the victim is quietly
let through a trap, or guyed unmercifully, until he is glad of an
opportunity to make his escape. I was present on an occasion when an
Illinoisan who had just graduated from college was allowed to go on
the stage during a matinee performance, when the house was light, to
speak his piece. He chose, of course, the selection he had inflicted on
the suffering audience that attended the Illinois college graduating
exercises. It was "The Warrior Bowed his Crested Head," a very dramatic
recitation and a difficult one even for a good reader. The debutant was
about eighteen years of age, tall, and manly looking. He came forward
trembling, and did not attempt to proceed further than about twelve
feet from the entrance,--making a school-boy bow he began. The audience
wondered at the innocence and awkwardness of the entertainer who did
not appear in the programme, but all soon understood the affair. The
debutant had not reached the second line of the second verse, when
bang came a pistol shot from the side of the stage. The speaker ducked
his head, trembled a little more than before, but went on. Bang went
another pistol shot, and again the speaker acknowledged receipt of a
shock by twitching his head and knocking his knees together. Still
he kept on reciting. Sheet-iron thunder rattled through the place,
horns were blown, drums beaten, horse-rattles kept in motion and for
more than half an hour pistol shots and flashes of fire kept coming
from both sides of the stage. Still he spoke on, making gestures,
twitching his limbs, and ducking his head until the last line was
reached,--something about the hero's weapons shining no more among the
spears of Spain,--when he bowed and retired hardly able to walk. He was
an exception, however, to the general rule that stage-struck people
are easily frightened out of their wits, under such circumstances, and
displayed such perseverance that he was complimented by the audience
that had scarcely heard a word of what he had said--a loud burst of
applause following his exit, which was continued until he came forward
again and by a bow acknowledged their kindness. He must have been a
brave fellow, for next day he was around at the manager's office asking
for an engagement.
Managers are sometimes very cruel in their treatment of young people
who are anxious to adopt the stage. I saw a newspaper item stating
that at the Buckingham, a variety show in Louisville, a drop curtain
was painted with the huge letters "N. G.," standing for "no good," and
the manager ordered that this verdict be lowered in front of every
performer who failed to show a fair degree of merit. It happened that
the first to deserve this crushing verdict was a remarkably pretty
girl, and the audience sympathized with her. She had given an execrable
dance, and was in the midst of a woeful recitation, when the "N. G."
curtain was lowered. The audience demanded her reappearance and did not
permit anybody else to perform until the police had arrested the more
gallant and noisy among them.
Amateurs who have any money to mingle with their desire to go on the
stage find ready takers. I could name several gentlemen who are now
alleged professionals, with talents that are not even mediocre, who
are tolerated in first-class company only because they pay for the
privilege. One way a moneyed, stage-struck person has of getting before
the public is to rent a theatre, and hire a company for a night or
a week or a month, as the case may be. Society swells generally do
this kind of thing, and they never succeed. Marie Dixon was, under
another name, a fairly well-to-do, well connected and popular lady of
Memphis, Tennessee. She was old enough to have a married son, but did
not appear to be more than thirty-six years. Her family had been very
wealthy before the war, but that event swept away their possessions,
as it swept away the possessions of many others. She was educated
and accomplished, but was stage-struck. She had appeared at several
amateur concert entertainments in Memphis, and the local papers having
complimented her, and her friends having remarked that she was intended
for an actress, she boldly, but foolishly, resolved to become one. She
made up her mind to rival Mary Anderson, and to overshadow the memory
of Ristori and all the great queens of the stage that have made a place
for themselves in dramatic history. She paid $2,000 for the use of a
St. Louis theatre for six nights; she hired a very bad company at, to
them, very extravagant salaries; she bought a wardrobe larger and in
some respects richer than that of any established star; then she came
to St. Louis with her aged father, whose hopes and money were staked
upon her; they put up at the Lindell Hotel, and having left Memphis
amid a flourish of trumpets, they fondly expected a wilder flourish
when they returned. Miss Dixon appeared before the St. Louis public for
six nights, and was a failure. She was no actress. She was ashamed to
return to Memphis, and at this writing is still absent from there. The
father went home, and, I hear, died of a broken heart. Disappointed
friends at first pitied, then laughed at this accomplished lady, whose
only fault seems to be that she was one of the grand army of the
stage-struck.
[Illustration: MARIE PRESCOTT AS "PARTHENIA."]
Miss Helen M. Lewis, a Charleston, South Carolina, heiress, who was
anxious to become a Sarah Bernhardt or a Siddons, was taken in recently
by an advertisement in a New York paper. The advertisement stated that
a lady with a little capital was wanted to head a first-class dramatic
combination, and that she might call at No. 602 Sixth Avenue, New York.
Miss Lewis, who was without any training, answered the advertisement,
and was told that $1,000 would be required to obtain the position,
which was leading lady in the "Daniel Rochat" Combination, which was to
begin its tour, by opening at the Boston Theatre. The negotiations were
carried on with Maurice A. Schwab and Robert J. Rummel, who received
$700 from Miss Lewis, and furnished her with an alleged instructor in
the dramatic art. In order to be near the theatre Miss Lewis took rooms
at the Revere House, Boston, where Schwab and Rummel also established
themselves, and proceeded to study her part after engaging an alleged
instructor recommended by Schwab. After two or three weeks' standing
off by the swindlers, who made constant demands on her for money for
her wardrobe and other things, she chanced to call at the Boston
Theatre to hear how the rehearsals of "Daniel Rochat" were progressing.
She was told that there were no rehearsals in progress and learned that
she had been swindled. Schwab and Hummel fled, leaving her to pay her
hotel bill, but she had them arrested in New York, and both on trial
were, I think, convicted and sent to the penitentiary, where plenty
more managers of their stripe should be.
Managers of what are known as "snap" companies are just as bad as
Schwab and Rummel. They are glad to find some young lady or gentleman
of means with lots of ready cash, and they do not hesitate to make
victims even of professional people. The snap manager has no money
of his own. He sits around a theatrical printing office all day, and
pretends to be running a circuit of several towns. He watches his
opportunity until a company comes along which he thinks he can take
over to his villages. By false representations he manages to run up a
big bill with the printer and to borrow money from the company, who go
as far on his circuit as their means will permit, when the snap manager
deserts them, leaving them to walk, or beg, or borrow their way home
as best they can. Marie Prescott, who supported Salvini during his
last American tour, and who is an actress of merit, was caught in the
clutches of one of these managers at one time and was put in a pitiable
plight. Other actresses of good reputation have accepted engagements
from strange managers only to find themselves members of fly-by-night
combinations, giving their services without even the show of a
probability of ever receiving any salary.
Even so exalted a gentleman and eminent an impresario as Col. Mapleson
is alleged to have brought a young girl from France promising he would
make a fortune for her. The girl's father and mother accompanied her,
and when the gallant colonel of Italian troupes failed to keep his
contract with the sweet singer, the father became enraged and wanted
to fight a duel with the military impresario. The family went back to
France almost penniless.
The worst class of managers in the world are those who take advantage
of the ambition of young girls to effect their ruin. In some of the
variety theatres managers pay salaries to young ladies or introduce
them to the stage for none other than a base and iniquitous purpose.
Frightful stories of this kind have been told, and the success real
managers have met with in this direction has caused numerous pretenders
to arise, and has made the theatrical profession a bait to secure
innocent girls for Western and Southern bawdy-houses, concert dives,
and low dancing-halls. I read the following advertisement in the
_Globe-Democrat_ one morning:--
PERSONAL--Wanted, three or four young ladies to join a travelling
company. Address Manager, this office.
I knew that reputable theatrical managers did not advertise in this
style--indeed, they need not advertise at all, for there is always
plenty of talent in the market--and came to the conclusion that the
"Personal" was a veil to hide some piece of dirty work. Therefore I sat
down, and, in varying feminine hands, wrote letters to the manager,
asking for an opening. Two letters, with their corresponding answers,
are here selected as specimens of the remainder, answers to all having
been received. One of the applications ran as follows:--
ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1878.
MR. MANAGER: I want to adopt the stage; have appeared as an
amateur, and will join you if I can learn. I am seventeen, a
blonde, small, and my friends say I look well on the stage. I
sing and perform on the guitar. I have a friend--a very pretty
brunette--who is very anxious to go with me, but she has never
acted. She is same age. Please let me know where I can see you, if
you have not already employed enough; but I must be particular, as
my mother does not want me to go away. Address
ETTIE HOLAN,
City Post-Office.
I will call at general delivery and get it.
The other was written in this strain and in these words:--
ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1877.
DEAR SIR: I saw your advertisement in this morning's
_Globe-Democrat_, asking for three or four young ladies to join a
travelling theatrical company, and as I am desirous of going on
the stage, and am of good form and pretty fair appearance, and
have a pretty good voice, I would wish to join your company. I
have never appeared on any regular stage, but made several amateur
appearances, which were pronounced very successful. I have an
ambition for the stage, and think I would succeed. I am seventeen
years of age, and medium height, with black hair and dark eyes, and
am a tasty dresser. I hope you will not pass over my application,
but will receive it favorably. Anxiously awaiting an early reply, I
remain, respectfully yours, etc.,
LIZZIE HILGER.
P. S.--Address your reply to me to the post-office.
These and the others were all calculated to make the "manager" feel
that he had captured a whole shoal of gudgeons. He would certainly
reply to such unsophisticated notes as these, and he did. The letters
were placed in the newspaper office box on Wednesday afternoon, and
bright and early on Thursday morning, I went around to the post-office,
presented my string of names, and met with no little opposition from
the gentlemanly delivery clerk, at first, who naturally did not like
to give an armful of mail for females to one who was not a female.
The situation was explained, however, and a half dozen rose-tinted
envelopes, all properly backed and stamped, and each containing an
epistle, was the result. They were opened one after another, and the
rose-tinted and perfumed pages of each told, in a bold running hand
exactly the same story--"pass the corner of Eighth and Locust Streets,"
at hours varying from noon to sundown on Thursday afternoon. It was
just what had been expected. Ettie Holan, the petite blonde, who could
play the guitar, was answered as follows:--
ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.
MISS ETTIE HOLAN: Your letter through the _G.-D._ at hand.
We desire to engage several young ladies for the company now
travelling, and among numerous applicants note yours, and think it
possible to fix an engagement both for yourself and lady friend. As
you are very particular about your folks, you might possibly object
to coming to our office, so if you desire the engagement, please
pass the corner of Locust and Eighth Streets with your lady friend
about four (4) o'clock P. M. to-morrow (Thursday), the 7th.
Yours, respectfully,
HARRY RUSSELL.
And Lizzie Hilger, with nothing to recommend her but a voice and figure
that she had recommended herself, was encouraged in her ambitious
aspirations in the following manner:--
ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.
MISS LIZZIE HILGER: Your favor at hand. Among numerous applicants I
have remembered yours. We desire several young ladies to strengthen
the company for our Chicago and Boston engagements, and desire to
meet you personally, if possible, to-morrow afternoon. You may
object to coming to our office, so please pass the corner of
Locust and Eighth Streets to-morrow afternoon (Thursday) about 2:30
(half-past two) o'clock.
Yours, respectfully,
HARRY RUSSELL,
Manager.
[Illustration: MME. FANNY JANAUSHEK.]
Here then was the "manager's" little game. Of course Harry Russell was
not the man's name at all, and of course he had no office to which
either Miss Ettie Holan or Miss Lizzie Hilger, or any of the four
other girls who had applied for positions through me, "might object
to coming," and of course he had nothing to do with strengthening any
company's Boston or Chicago engagements. It was evident now, if not
before, that the advertisement was a snare to trap the unwary and to
pull the wool over the eyes of the innocent and unsuspecting, and I
made up my mind to pay a visit to the locality named in the above
letters.
A visit was paid, after dinner, to the proposed place of meeting. On
the way up I met a detective friend, to whom my business was disclosed.
The detective said he would go along and "spot" the fellow for future
reference, and he did. Handsome Harry was found at his post, gazing up
and down and across the street. He was standing in front of a saloon,
on the corner, and a friend was hard by, who was to witness the success
of the little game. Now and then a young lady passed to or from her
home, and every time she came within sight "Manager" Harry began to
prepare himself for the "mash." The coat front was readjusted, the
shirt collar straightened up, the hat lifted from the head and the
fingers run through the hair, and, as a last and finishing touch, the
ends of his dainty moustache were fingered and carefully set away from
his lips with a silk handkerchief. But here came the young lady. How he
stared her in the face as she came towards him, ogled her when near by,
and cast a disconsolate and disappointed look after her as she passed.
Then he went back to communicate to his friend that she was probably
"not the one," or that "maybe she weakened," and again took his stand
to watch the next comer. This little business was gone through with
as many times as there were young ladies who passed. At last it was
evident to the two persons who had their eyes on Harry that he was
beginning to weaken, and was about to leave the place for a time at
least. Under these circumstances there was only one thing to do--to go
over and have a talk with him about the show business and make further
engagements for the young ladies who were so anxious to blossom forth
on the stage. The detective walked up to the man who was presumably
Harry Russell:
"Do you know of a man named Harry Russell stopping about here?" asked
the detective.
Harry was with his friend now, and both became almost livid in the face
and were evidently taken back by the inquiry.
"N-no; w-what is he?" stammered out Harry.
"I believe he's manager of a theatrical company."
"Harry" had somewhat regained his mental equilibrium by this time, and
answered positively: "Don't know him; never heard of him."
"Have you seen any man around in the past half hour? Russell made an
engagement to meet me here."
"I haven't been here but about ten minutes," and away "Harry" and his
friend sailed.
The detective and myself had been watching the pseudo manager for over
two hours from a room across the street, and, of course, knew there was
no truth in the measure he placed upon the time he was watching and
waiting for victims that never came. He was not a theatrical man, but
some dirty scamp.
Some time ago an advertisement of the same character as the "Personal"
quoted above, appeared in the Chicago papers, and many young ladies,
anxious to adopt the stage as a profession, applied for positions. They
obtained admission to the _quasi_ manager, who, when no resistance
was made by the applicants, shipped them to Texas and other Southern
points, where they found themselves perhaps penniless in the midst
of a life of uncertainties, into which they had been duped and to
which they had been sold. Many of these had been, and would still be,
respectable young girls and ornaments to their respective home circles,
were it not for the serpent with the fascinating eyes that peeped
out at them from under the three or four lines in the advertising
columns of that Chicago paper. Discoveries of the same kind were made
in several cities of the East, and it is dreadful to contemplate the
havoc which must have been wrought by this means, for surely many of
the hundreds of really good girls, who are always sure to answer such
an advertisement in the innocent belief that it may be the means of
making Neilsons, Cushmans, Morrises or some other equally firmamentary
individual in the galaxy of the stage of them, and who refused to be
debauched, were sorely disappointed in the result of their apparent
good fortune in obtaining the recognition of the "manager."
The following letter from a band of stage-struck young men of color is
an extraordinary document, and may be taken as a sample of the letters
received every day by theatrical managers:--
Kansas City, 1789 [1879], January 14. Mr. De Bar, Dear Sir, I take
thes opportunity of witring you theas few lines to ask you for an
engagement at the Orepry [Opera] house if you can as we would like
to get it if we can. i and my trop can do a great meny performence
on the stage. W. H. Terrell he can do the Iron Joyrl [iron jaw]
performence and do a Jig Dance and a Clog and Double Song and Dance
and other tricks. Mr. Benjermer Frankler [Benjamin Franklin] waltz
With a pail of water on his head and plays the frence harp the
sanetime on the stage and laying down with it on his head and roal
all over the floor and Jump 6 feet hiagh in the air on hand and
feet. allso and we have the Best french harp players in the world
that ever plaid on one. and leaping through a hoop of fire same
as a circus. If you can git it for me pleas write soon and let me
know. Sam Chrisman is one of my atcters. yours Truly, B. FRANKLIN.
Excuse writing and paper. This is a Cold trop.
[Illustration: ROSE EYTINGE.]
It is hardly necessary for me to say Ben de Bar did not give the "Cold
trop" an engagement. Poor old Ben was dead at that time.