PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS.
At seven o'clock one morning during the season of 1881-2 a tall, gawky,
angular-looking young man in a suit of smutty and wrinkled gray, under
a battered slouch hat with a bandit curl to its wide brim, stood at
the door of one of the rooms of the Southern Hotel in St. Louis. He
had a big bundle under his arm, and seemed tired, as indeed he was,
for he had climbed four pairs of stairs and walked the lower hall-ways
from one end to the other looking for the room which he had now found.
He knocked kindly at first, but got no answer; knocked again with the
same result, and again and again. The fifth time somebody said "Come
in," and the young man twisted the knob and in a moment was standing
at the bedside of the late Oscar G. Bernard, business manager of the
Couldock-Ellsler Hazel Kirke Company. Bernard was still in bed and very
sleepy.
"I've got a play I want to read to you," said the young man, shifting
the bundle he had under his arm down into his hands, where Mr. Bernard
could see it.
"A what?" the manager exclaimed, rising hurriedly upon his elbow and
looking out through drowsy eyelids at a pile of foolscap manuscript big
enough to fill a French Cyclopedia.
"A play," was the visitor's answer, in a quiet, unalarmed tone.
"Is that it?" Bernard asked, as he eyed the package of manuscript with
astonishment.
"Yes, sir; there are only 439 pages."
"Oh, is that all? How many characters, scenes, and acts, and how long
do you think it would take to play it?" asked the manager, trying to be
as sarcastic as possible.
"There are forty-seven characters in the _dramatis personæ_," the
playwright answered, nothing daunted, "nine acts, and it might take
three hours or more to play it through."
"How many people get killed in it?"
"Only thirteen."
"Oh, pshaw!" said the manager; "go and kill off thirty more of 'em
and then you will have a play worth talking about. You've got to kill
somebody off every five minutes to make it stick. You needn't leave any
more of them alive than just enough to group into a happy tableau at
the end of the last act."
"I don't think I can do it," said the playwright.
"Oh, yes, you can," the manager insisted. "Just try it once; and here,
take this pass and go and see 'Hazel Kirke' to-night. It plays only
until eleven o'clock, and we don't think it quite long enough. If
you could tone your play down so that we might use it for a kind of
prologue or something of that sort it would be better."
The young man took the pass and departed. He was the queerest dramatist
the country and century have produced, except possibly A. C. Gunter. He
was fully six feet high, large and sharp-featured, with a light like
lunacy dazzling in his black eyes and across his sallow face. His hands
were large and his feet big, and as he ambled along the hotel hall he
looked like an over-grown plowboy who had suddenly and mysteriously
turned book-peddler. Besides all this he seemed very hungry.
Early the next morning he was at Bernard's bedside again. He had seen
"Hazel Kirke," and thought over the manager's advice, but had not made
the changes suggested because he was of the opinion now more than ever
that the play would suit Mr. Bernard. Would the manager allow him to
read it out to him? Its title was "Love and the Grave." The manager
said he might leave the manuscript to be looked over during the day,
but the dramatist said he preferred to read it so that none of the
good points would be lost. Then the manager told him to call again. He
called again early the next morning. The manager was still too busy
and too sleepy to hear the play. The dramatist said he hated to part
from his manuscript; he had been five years writing the play, but he
liked Mr. Bernard and would leave it with him for twenty-four hours.
The manager suggested that there was a possibility of the play being
lost if the hotel were to take fire, but the young man answered that
he had ascertained that the hotel was fire-proof, and he was willing
to take the chances. He went away leaving the voluminous manuscript in
the manager's possession. Of course Bernard didn't read it, but when
the dramatist returned Friday morning he told him it was very good,
and if the dramatist cared he could give him a letter to the manager
of a Chinese theatre in San Francisco, who would be glad to purchase
and produce such a play. The dramatist hoisted his manuscript under his
arm, said he was sorry the Madison Square people couldn't use it, and
went out hungrier-looking and more awkward than ever. Bernard hoped
that it was the last of him.
But it was not. While Bernard was in John T. Raymond's room the
following afternoon a knock was heard at the door and in walked the
dramatist. He did not recognize Mr. Bernard but told Raymond in piteous
tones that the man he (Raymond) had recommended him to would not
allow him to read the play, and didn't want it. A light flashed upon
Bernard. Raymond laughed heartily. Bernard did not laugh. It was one
of the comedian's practical jokes. He had sent the Illinois dramatist
to the "Hazel Kirke" manager with positive instructions to insist upon
reading the Chinese play to him. After the comedian had had his laugh,
he pulled a nickel with a hole in it out of his pocket, and, turning to
the playwright, said:--
"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll match you for the play. If I win I
take the manuscript. If you win you take the nickel."
The dramatist was disgusted. He said all he wanted was money enough to
get back to Springfield, Ill., where he edited a daily paper. If he had
that he would be happy. Bernard and Raymond each gave him a $5 bill and
sent him on his way rejoicing.
The trials and tribulations of the gawky young dramatist from
the Sucker State is but a slightly exaggerated and caricaturish
recital of the difficulties that have been lying in the path of
American dramatists ever since we made anything like an attempt at a
distinctively national dramatic literature. It has been all along,
pretty much the same with the young American who wrote a play as it
was with the seedy English authors of Sheridan's time. Fresh from his
garret, and as hungry for fame and fortune as he was badly in need of a
meal, the young man who had written a drama appeared in shabby-genteel
attire at the door of the manager's office, and after introducing
himself, handed over his manuscript, which was tossed into a drawer
or box, while the poor author, trembling with agitation, was told to
return in a week or month. You may be sure the days and nights were
nervously passed until the appointed time rolled around. Then, bright
and early, still hopeful and still hungry, the author was at the
manager's door.
"Well, sir, what do you wish?" was the abrupt and startling greeting
accorded the author.
"I suppose you have read my play"--
"What play?"
The author names it and the manager sternly says: "No, sir, I haven't
read it and know nothing about it. When did you leave it here?"
"A month ago, sir."
"Well I don't think it would do me any good to read it. I haven't
either the time or the inclination. If you want it search in that box,
and if you can't find your own you can take your choice of any of those
in there."
This was, of course, a crusher. The young author moved away with a
bleeding heart, and his armful of manuscript, and the stage to which
his hopes and ambition had been attracted probably never offered him
an opportunity to have his play damned on a first night. American
dramatists are to-day pretty much in the same plight in regard to
American managers and the American stage. Very few of our dramatic
authors have received proper recognition, and few who have toiled at
writing and dramatizing for years have much fame or money to show for
their work. American managers have a rage for foreign works, and just
now are pouring thousands of dollars into the pockets of English and
French playwrights, whose work is by no means superior to that to be
found in the home market. Some years ago that very successful play of
"The Two Orphans" was purchased by an American from its French author
for a mere song. Now, Sardou gets $10,000 for a play like "Odette,"
which has so far, I believe, failed to bring that amount back to Mr.
French, the purchaser. Samuel Colville paid Messrs. Pettitt & Merritt,
of London, an enormous sum for the melodrama of "The World," which,
however, made $75,000 for him. Messrs. Brooks & Dickson bought "Romany
Rye," an untried play, from Sims, for America, paying him $10,000 cash;
Colville paid a high price for "Taken from Life," and D'Oyley Carte
planks down $12,000 to Mr. Sims for a drama, before a line of it is
written, and sells the American right to Lester Wallack on the same
terms.
All the American actors, actresses and managers nowadays want foreign
plays and are willing to pay exorbitant prices for everything that
is offered. On the other hand it is the exception when an American
playwright does well, or indeed when his work is accepted at all. Some
few late successes this side of the water have set all the ambitious
young men of play-writing proclivities to work. One day it will be
announced that John McCullough has bought a tragedy from a rising
journalist, and next day all the journalists will be writing plays for
him. So, too, with Raymond, and Mary Anderson, and a score of others.
But, few writers among journalists succeed in dramatic work. Robert
G. Morris, of the New York _Telegram_, is among the latest successes
with his "Old Shipmates," and probably one of the greatest is Bartley
Campbell, who sprang into fame in a night, after plodding patiently and
poorly paid for years. Fred. Marsden, who writes Lotta's plays, is also
among the fortunate, having, according to report, during his career
made something like $70,000.
Bartley Campbell may be taken as an excellent example of the manner
in which the American dramatist works, and the almost despairing
circumstances attending his long and weary chase of fortune. He is a
man with a history. That history he made himself. From an office boy he
has risen to a place of honor. Not that the position of office boy is
dishonorable, but very few who begin life in that sphere ever attain
as high a place as that now enjoyed by the greatest of our American
dramatists. He was born at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, some thirty-seven
years ago, and as soon as he graduated from the lap of infancy he
entered a lawyer's office with the view of studying for the bar. But
the reading of law he soon discovered was not at all to his liking,
and he was declared an unpromising student, being too poetic and
sentimental. His next move was to the office of the Pittsburg _Leader_,
where he himself says he received the munificent salary of $5 a week
for the hardest work he has ever done. Here is another illustration
of the old saying, that when you have failed at everything else make
up your mind to adopt the profession of actor or journalist. Young
Campbell chose the latter. He preferred the stationary drudgery of a
newspaper Bohemian's existence to the wandering chance-life of the
equally hard worked, and, at that time, poorly paid actor. By diligence
and close application to study he rose rapidly, and soon was entrusted
with the responsible position of dramatic critic. He must have been
a good one. It is said that he was a faithful critic; so faithful,
indeed, as to warrant the chastisement of a bad actor, and endanger the
publication of the paper with libel suits. He deserted the _Leader_ and
commenced publishing the _Mail_, and it is here, while editing this
journal, that he first attempted play-writing. His early effort was the
sensational drama called "Through the Fire," brought out in 1871; then
followed the comedy, "Peril," produced in 1872; the third was, "Fate,"
which was subsequently purchased by Miss Carlotta Leclerq, who played
it with much success for several years; then followed, "Risks," now the
property of John T. Raymond, and, in swift succession, the mill ground
out "The Virginian," "On the Rhine," "Gran Uale," "The Big Bonanza,"
which, it will be remembered, was one of the successes of 1875. "A
Heroine in Rags," "How Women Love" (later known as "The Heart of the
Sierras," and still later as "The Vigilantes"), "Clio," "Fairfax,"
"My Partner," and lastly, "The Galley Slave." It was the success of
"My Partner" that brought about the turning-point in Mr. Campbell's
fortune. That he had suffered the severity of want, he confesses
himself in a neat little Christmas story told by him to a newspaper
correspondent, who met him at the door of Haverly's Theatre, New York,
one night during the run of "The Galley Slave" in the metropolis. His
tall figure, his slouch hat, rather dishevelled hair, twelve-cornered
moustache, Prince Albert coat and disordered necktie looked just as
they did when I first saw their owner some years ago, when his luck was
away down. The statement of the night's receipts was brought him while
we stood there, and his share was a few dollars more than six hundred.
"House not as good as last night," he said, "within a couple of
dollars. Fact is, the business, although good, has not been better than
it might be."
"Why, Bartley, you don't quarrel about a couple of dollars, now you are
in the height of success? What is your income from plays, anyway?"
"I don't growl about a few dollars; but now is the time--see? When you
can growl about them do it. Well, I'm getting on an average $1,500 a
week now."
"You'll soon be rich, Bartley."
"Well, I am so accustomed to bad luck, perhaps I may meet some--see?"
Bartley Campbell always says "see" in an interrogative way without
much or any desire for an answer. In a rambling conversation about his
varied career that followed, the drift of the talk got Christmas and
poverty mixed, and Bartley told this story of his early struggles: "I
had just gone to New Orleans with my wife, arriving there just when a
newspaper had suspended, and twelve writers were, like myself, seeking
journalistic work--only, unlike myself, they had acquaintances and
friends; I neither; nor money, except five cents--see? The row was
a hard one. After various 'shifts'--one of which was starting the
_Southern Magazine_, which was brought out--we found ourselves, just
before Christmas time, with nothing of importance except a grocery
bill--see? I wrote a poem about Eddystone Light, and sent it to the
_Nineteenth Century_, then published in Charleston, S. C., by Felix
de Fontaine & Co. It was the small beginning of which the present
_Nineteenth Century_ is the great result--see?"
"Well, I marked on the MS.--price $15. Commercial poetry--see? We
confidently expected that money before Christmas. Why, we took it as
a matter of course that the money must come. If it didn't--well, that
was a view of things that we couldn't take for a moment--see? Well,
the day before Christmas came, but that money did not. I visited the
post-office again and again that day, but no letter. The situation was
gloomy then, and in the evening I said to my wife, 'I guess I'll have
to go to the grocery, anyway.' 'I wouldn't go, Bart,' she said; 'I am
afraid he'll say something about the account.' 'I can't help it--I am
going, anyhow,' I answered, and grabbed the basket and rushed out, for
fear that my wife's fears would deter me from going at all--see? He
didn't say anything about the account, and I ordered sparingly. When he
got the things all in the basket, he slipped in with them a bottle of
nice liquor, and he said: 'Now, Mr. Campbell, this is Christmas Eve.'
I went home, and I drank some of the liquor, and when we went to bed
things looked a little brighter. I got up in the morning, and they were
gloomy again--see? I started down to the post-office, my wife saying
it was a fruitless errand, and got there just before the Christmas
rule of closing at 10 A. M. shut down the delivery window. The clerk
ran through every letter, and when he had got to the last one, and as
I half turned to leave, he threw me down a letter which bore the date
mark 'Charleston.' I opened it, and there was a check for $15. My legs
couldn't carry me home fast enough. I got there, and my wife met me,
her face all aglow. 'Well, Bart,' she said. 'Well,' I said, and I felt
that she had heard the news--that some one had told her my check had
come, for to me it was the biggest piece of news ever was, and that it
was common talk was perfectly natural. 'Bartley, I have got $10,' she
cried. 'And I have got $15,' I yelled; and she, not noticing it, went
on, 'I sold the war book about women, that nobody would buy before, to
some people who wanted it. Now, don't be extravagant, Bartley, please.'
We had a bottle of champagne that day, and presently I got the position
of official reporter of the Legislature at $16 a week; but Christmas
time never comes that I do not wonder if I will have as merry and
happy a day as the one we celebrated in New Orleans just after the war."
In view of what has been said about the almost merciless treatment
the American dramatist, as a general rule, receives from the American
theatrical manager, it may be well to add here the statement
made lately by Mr. William Seymour, stage manager of the Madison
Square Theatre, New York. He exhibited to a visitor a drawerful of
manuscripts, and said, although he had read and rejected one hundred
and fifty plays within nine months, he still had almost as many more
left. As a usual thing the plays offered were, he claimed, weak
imitations of "Hazel Kirke" and kindred plays, or wretched translations
from the German or French. One or two were very original attempts.
Picking up a heavy manuscript bound with blue ribbon, and looking very
like a young girl's graduating essay or poem, Mr. Seymour said: Here
is a play in seven acts, which opens in America at some large seaport
town, the author isn't particular where, and an embarkation scene ends
the first act. In the second the ship has made its way in toward the
Arctic regions and is wrecked by an iceberg. The hero bravely cuts down
a spar, lashes himself to it and jumps overboard. In the third act he
is discovered upon an iceberg beyond the Arctic circle, starving and
almost dead, while in the distance a battle is in progress between a
pirate ship and Chinese junk. The Chinamen are destroyed, and in the
fourth act the hero is rescued from the iceberg. A marine encounter
between Chinamen and pirates in the Arctic Ocean is bad enough, but
even this is outdone in the fifth act, where the hero is discovered
upon a tropical island with his feet frostbitten. The remaining two
acts are used to get him back to America, which is done in full
accordance with the rest of the play. I have many others just as bad.
Here is one with fifty-two speaking characters, and here is another
in four acts, which would require but twenty-nine minutes to play
the whole thing through. But strange and curious as the plays are, I
think that the letters I receive from the authors are still greater
curiosities. Occasionally some of them are modest enough to admit the
possibility of failure, but as a general thing they do not hesitate
to dwell upon the beauties of their productions and the certainties
of success. Moreover, they are always ready to make terms and some
of their offers are very amusing. Here is one that will serve as a
sample:--
"DEAR SIR: The undersigned is the Author of a new three act Drama
it is romantic, Dramatic and Scenic, and has a good plot. The Story
is interesting. The dialogue is bright and Witty, the unities of
the plot are preserved, and the Situations Are Picturesque and
effective. I have had it nicely copied.
"And wish to sell it to you if you wish to become the Proprietor of
my play.
"Terms, I will sell you My copyright and Manuscript, And Give you
100 Printed copies, for the use of actors, for $1000 dols.
"The name of My Play is
"Charles Ryan.
"The scenes are in Italy, Time 1868.
"Yours, Very Respectfully, etc., etc., etc.,
"---- ---- ----
"Author.
"P. S.--I inclose my card, I don't be at Home every day, but am at
home nearly every evening bet. 8 and 10 o'clock.
"(I did not have my Play Printed yet.)"