THE GREEN-EYED AND OTHER MONSTERS.
To the outside world the player's life seems always bright--a
rose-carpeted path with sunshine forever straying about the feet and
breath of the sweetest gardens always in their atmosphere. To the
players themselves, notwithstanding the hard work, it has the same
beauty and fascinations that other professions have for those who
have entered them. Lotta receiving the wild plaudits of her newsboy
admirers--for all over the country the street Arabs express their
willingness to "do ennythin' in de world fur Lottie"--accepting the
baskets of flowers they send her with the pennies they have pooled,
and doing her utmost to respond to a score of encores in response to
their appeals is as charming a little picture of perfect happiness and
contentment as we could find anywhere. Judic, the great opera bouffe
singer, peddling cherries, at the great charity fair in Paris, from
two panniers borne by a jackass, crying, "Buy my cherries, monsieur.
I don't sell them dear. Five francs, the little basket," is a noble
example of the generosity that distinguishes the profession of which
she is a member. A popular American actress selling photographs for
a little cripple she met in the street, and who had been rebuffed at
several, is another example of the leaning towards charity and the
kind-heartedness of a class of people against whom many bigots raise
their hands and to whom they turn their backs, saying, as the Rev. Mr.
Sabini said, that he didn't want to have anything to do with actors.
The reader has probably heard the story, but I will repeat it here:
George Holland, the actor, died in his eightieth year, on December 20,
1870. He was a player of exceeding merit in his day, and his demise was
widely and deeply regretted. Friends gathered around his casket in the
awful moment when they were to part with him forever. The rites of the
church were wanted for him, of course, and an actor friend went to Rev.
Sabini and asked him to officiate. He declined, saying: "I want to have
nothing to do with an actor. There is a little place around the corner
were they do these things." And sure enough there was, and the actors
took their dead friend into "the little place around the corner," and
Dr. Houghton said the last prayer over the dead player. That "place"
is now known among actors and by the public too as "the little church
around the corner." It is the Church of the Transfiguration, and is on
Twenty-ninth Street near Madison Avenue.
It is only occasionally that scandal is given by the theatrical
profession, but these few and far-between occasions are sufficient
to keep alive the bad opinion that certain people have of actors and
actresses. It is true the class is weak at many points, as are other
classes, but as I have urged before, they maintain a higher standard
of morality and adorn their circle better than any other people whose
paths are strewn as plentifully with temptations. At the beginning of
the eighteenth century the stage was in very bad condition because
society was in a worse condition, and if there is frailty in the ranks
of actresses of to-day, and weaknesses among actors, it is because
their surroundings compel them to be what they are, and even under
this compulsion they can hold their heads as high as their neighbors
and look them in the face without feeling that they are any worse than
the rest of the world, even if they are so bad. It is my purpose to
say something about the dark side of theatrical life that the reader
may see just what there is in the talk indulged by the scandal-mongers
of the anti-theatrical class, and that it may be known that their
indiscretions and their sins are no more heinous than the sins and
transgressions of other people, and that in very few instances are they
the outcome of the actor or actress's professional surroundings.
The estrangement of Edwin Booth and his wife or the divorce of Edwin
Forrest from his wife did not cause the world to think any the less
of these gentlemen as actors, and the events did not bring any
opprobrium upon the profession. Sarah Bernhardt's open avowal that her
children were fatherless and they were only "accidents" was a frank
confession of an early indiscretion that almost everybody was ready to
forgive. She was not received by society in this country, but society
knelt before her at the shrine of Thespis, as they did at the feet
of Mme. Patti, who flaunted Nicolini in the face of the public, as
the successor of the Marquis de Caux in all the rights of a husband
although there never had been any marriage ceremony to make the tenor
the legal companion of the beautiful diva. For the sake of their art
the sins of these two gifted women were partially forgotten, and while
society could not open its doors to Mlle. Bernhardt or Mme. Patti,
it went readily to the open doors through which the presence of the
actress and of the songstress was to be reached.
A New York correspondent says: "Having mentioned two French actresses,
let me drop into the true story of Bernhardt and Colombier's quarrel,
and the book about America which has been put forth in Colombier's
name. When Bernhardt came over here, she was accompanied by Jehan
Soudan, a Parisian writer. He was very small, closely buttoned up to
the neck, very bushy haired, and very much like a particularly mild
and girlish divinity student. For all that, he was the accredited
temporary lover of Bernhardt. His other errand was to write an account
of her tour, to be published as from her own pen. While in this city
he was an object of considerable ridicule, and his name was maltreated
from Jehan Soudan into Sudden Johnny. But Colombier, the fair and fat
actress of Bernhardt's company, did not regard him as comic. Quite on
the contrary, she fell in love with him, and he fell in love with her.
However, this new reciprocity of hearts was kept hidden until near the
end of the journey. Then it came out through Sudden Johnny carelessly
kissing Colombier too loud in a thin-partitioned dressing-room. The
smack was heard by Bernhardt. I don't imagine that she cared much
for Johnny, or would have missed him from the ranks of her favored
admirers; but it made her just as mad as she could be to lose him to
Colombier. Now, Colombier's beauty was marred by a deflection of her
nose to one side. That's not much, for the chances are ten to one that
the sides of your own face don't exactly agree. Try a glass critically,
and see. Well, when Colombier emerged from her room with Johnny, to go
on the stage, Sarah regarded her quizzically, and then said something
in French equivalent to:--
"'Ah, my dear, I fear you kiss too much on one side of your mouth. It
has really and truly bent your nose awry. Do let the other side have
some of Jehan's attention.'
"No more was said. But that Johnny and Colombier plotted a deep
revenge is evident, for the book appears in Paris with the name of
Colombier instead of Bernhardt as author, and among its numerous
ridiculous lies about Americans are some spiteful little flings at
Sarah. Thus Sudden Johnny gets even."
Mme. Patti, too, had a young man with her--Michael Mortier, brother
of the editor of the Paris _Figaro_--who was to write a book for her,
but in St. Louis he spoke too freely to a newspaper reporter about Mme.
Patti's relations to Nicolini, and Mortier's life was thereafter made
so miserable that he was glad soon to make a bee line for Paris, where
it is to be hoped he is at present.
A London correspondent tells us how a favorite actress of that place
faced three husbands, and as it is in order to continue turning the
crank of the scandal machine while foreign talent is the material
to be ground, I will give the paragraph. He says: "The true glory
of the Lyceum Theatre is that English Bernhardt, Miss Ellen Terry.
This blue-eyed, blonde-locked, Saxon siren is not a radiant beauty as
was the ill-fated Adelaide Neilson, but she is something better--she
is a charmeuse, as the French call any one possessing that peculiar
feminine--which she exercises so powerfully--magnetism. She is the most
gifted, and withal the most naturally graceful, woman that I have ever
seen. The little movements and artistic attitudes of Sarah Bernhardt
would seem forced and artificial beside that unborn charm and harmony
of gesture, unstudied and perfect as the ripple of tall grasses or the
swaying of the branches of a weeping willow beneath a summer breeze.
She is pure womanly, every inch of her. She cannot be awkward even
when she tries; and I saw her try the other night in 'The Belle's
Stratagem;' but instead of transforming _Letitia Handy_ into a country
hoyden in accordance with the text, she only succeeded in assuming a
pretty _espieglerie_ that, had I been _Doricourt_, would have driven
me to catch her straightway in my arms and kiss her, declaring that
she was charming anyhow. Off the stage I am told that she is quite as
fascinating as when before the foot-lights. She has proved the extent
of her power of enchantment by successfully winning and wedding three
husbands, all of whom are still living, divorce and not death having
released her from two of them. In fact, it is reported that while
walking in the Grosvenor Gallery recently, with her present spouse, Mr.
Kelly, she came face to face with her two former husbands, who were
promenading there together, and that the only embarrassed personage of
the quartette was Mr. Kelly; and they do say that the law will soon
be called into requisition to break the bonds that unite her to her
present spouse, and that she will then become the wife of a prominent
English actor. Truly this wonderful and interesting lady ought to
inscribe on her wedding-ring the motto said to have been adopted by the
old Countess of Desmond on the occasion of her fourth marriage:--
If I survive
I'll have five.
Jealousy is at the bottom of nearly every scandal connected with
the stage, or with people who have been on the stage. The story of
Lizzie McCall's crime is a peculiarly sad one. She had been a favorite
burlesque actress, and was playing young heroines with Boucicault
in 1880 when she met and married George Barry Wall, a young man of
twenty-five years, she being twenty-three. She promised him to leave
the stage forever, and in order that she might not be placed in the
way of temptation Wall made his home in New Utrecht, Long Island,
removing thence to New York. Jealousy early made its appearance in
their home, and their married life was not happy or peaceful. They
lived together for eighteen months, however, until one fine morning
after a violent quarrel she snatched up a pistol and shot her husband
through the throat.
[Illustration: THE M'CALL TRAGEDY.]
A Russian theatre not long since was the scene of a real drama which
deserves a place among the serious accidents of the stage. The two
leading actresses were Frenchwomen who had come to St. Petersburg
together as friends. They had occupied the same house, and lived on
terms of the warmest intimacy for some time. Then a young swell, who
had enrolled himself among the admirers of one of them, began to pay
court to the other. The consequence was a jealousy which finally led to
a separation of the whilom friends. They remained members of the same
company, however, and their jealousies found vent about the theatre.
One night after a dinner washed down with much champagne, the jilted
actress became very violent, and attempted to assault her rival in her
dressing-room. She was prevented, and went off threatening vengeance.
The course of the piece brought them together in an impassioned scene,
in the conclusion of which the one had to warn the other off with a
dagger. Heated with wine, her jealousy inflamed by the presence of her
faithless lover in a stage box, the jilted artiste lost control of
herself, and instead of a warning, dealt her rival a stab. The wounded
woman fell bleeding to the stage. Fortunately she was not fatally hurt,
and her assailant escaped with an authoritative order to leave Russia,
and stay away.
Miss Bertha Welby, who is a popular and talented actress, was a member
of the "Only a Farmer's Daughter" company, of which Miss Lilian Cleves
was the star. The two ladies could not get along together. Miss Welby
insisted that Miss Cleves was jealous of her rival's success; and so
it went on, until at last a low ruffian visited Miss Welby in her
dressing-room one night, after the performance, and demanded money from
her for having applauded her in several towns. She was afraid of the
fellow, she said, and so paid him the sum he asked--$15. She then told
him to go, and he went; but Miss Cleves, it appears, had assembled the
members of the company at the door of the dressing-room to witness the
payment of the man, who, as she declared, had led the claque that was
making Miss Welby a greater actress than the star. Miss Welby asserted
that the whole thing was a piece of blackmail, and that Miss Cleves had
instigated it.
[Illustration: BLACKMAILING AN ACTRESS.]
Operatic stars are violent sometimes in these exhibitions of jealousy.
It will be remembered that at the last Cincinnati music festival,
Gerster absolutely refused to sing if Miss Cary preceded her, and
the Hungarian prima donna was induced to appear only by the graceful
withdrawal of the fair American songstress. Miss Kellogg and Mlle.
Roze had a bitter war in St. Louis in 1879, on account of their
dressing-rooms, the American prima donna insisting on having the best
the Grand Opera House afforded. She got it at last, and was shocked
when she heard a story to the effect that Wakefield, then one of the
proprietors, had a peep-hole above the dressing-room which he not only
made use of himself but invited his friends to use.
The jealousy of Mrs. McKee Rankin (Kitty Blanchard) has more than
once been made the subject of newspaper articles. She thought her
robust husband went through the love scene with the _Widow_ (Miss Eva
Randolph) in the play with too lavish a display of affection, and the
green-eyed monster took possession of her. She stood in the wings every
night and watched the scene, and the more she watched it the madder
she got until at last she demanded from her husband that Miss Randolph
be dismissed. This Mr. Rankin sternly refused to do. Then Mrs. Rankin
refused to play, and a clever young lady was given the part of _Billy
Piper_. The newspapers praised the new _Billy_ so highly that Mrs.
Rankin hurried back to resume the part, but remained cold toward and
entirely estranged from her husband. After some time the wound was
healed and the couple reunited. There were several split-ups of this
kind, but Mr. and Mrs. Rankin are now living happily together, and it
is to be hoped that the success of their new play, "49," will keep them
happy forever.
[Illustration: JEALOUSY.]
Now and then the jealous actress's feelings are expressed in a rather
ridiculous manner. During the run of a spectacular play in one of
the large cities one of those old chaps who like to linger behind
the scenes and tickle the fairies under the chin succeeded in making
himself the admirer of one of the ladies--one who played a prince or
something of that kind. He brought her flowers every night, took her to
supper after the play, and often paid for a ride under the starry night
at a time when he should have been resting his hoary head upon his
pillow at home. He kept this up for a while; then he suddenly turned
his attention to another girl, who was doing a skipping-rope dance
during an interval in the play. He began to bring her flowers and to
feed her on midnight oysters, and to take her on moonlight rides. The
pretty prince stood it as long as she could; then she made up her mind
to be revenged on the old deceiver. She waited one night until she saw
him talking to the skipping-rope dancer, when she picked up a broom,
and stealing to the opposite side of the scene, made a high hit at his
plug hat, just as he was presenting the rival a bouquet, and knocked
the piece of head-gear clear into the outfield. The ancient Lothario
felt around among the few hairs on the top of his head to see whether
a piece of skull had not been chipped off; the skipping-rope dancer
laughed; the pretty prince hauled off and was about to bat the bouquet
to second base when the dancer danced, and what remained to do was
to advise the "old gray" to go, which he did rapidly after regaining
possession of his battered hat. He was advised that if he returned any
more the broom would be used upon himself instead of his hat; and the
scenes that he had haunted so long knew him no more after that night.
[Illustration: EDWARD KENDALL.]
A New York wife wondered for a long time where her husband went at
night. At least she learned that he haunted a down-town theatre. She
knew her husband was very fond of the drama, but was astonished when
she found out that he was patronizing the play without taking her
along, so she dressed up one evening and going up to the box-office,
asked the young man whose smiling face shone through the window, if
Mr. So-and-So was there? Now she had gone to the right source for
her information. Mr. So-and-So had taken away the affections of one
of the actresses from the man in the box-office; therefore the man
in the box-office manfully replied that Mr. So-and-So was back in
Miss Whatdyecaller's dressing-room. Would the man in the box-office
be kind enough to show Mr. So-and-So's wife where the dressing-room
was? He would, most gladly. Calling his assistant to the window the
treasurer took the lady in through the stage entrance and pointed out
the dressing-room. Sure enough there was Mr. So-and-So in very close
relation and very close conversation with Miss Whatdyecaller, who
being a ballet girl, in the act of getting herself into her gauze
and spangles, had little else on than her tights. The husband was
astounded; the wife was boiling over with rage; the dancer did not
know what to make of it. The husband said that there was blood in
his spouse's eye and fled the scene. Mrs. So-and-So then turned her
attention to the lady in summer costume, and there was a war of words
that ended in the actress snapping her fingers in the wife's face,
while the latter, unable to do or say anything in her rage, strutted
out after her faithless lord and master, who was afraid to return home
for three days, and did not return until he saw a "personal" in the
_Herald_ saying that all would be forgiven and no questions asked.
[Illustration: OUT IN THE COLD.]
The meanest trick, I think, that was ever prompted by jealousy was
one in which a well-known comedian and a handsome juvenile lady were
made the victims. Having determined to go to a fancy dress ball, they
borrowed a Mephistopheles and Venus costume, and having dressed at
the theatre in which they were playing, took their clothes to their
boarding-house, the comedian retaining only his ulster and the young
lady only her silk fur-lined cloak. In the same house the leading lady
roomed, and as the comedian had been somewhat attentive to her she grew
jealous when she saw him escorting the other flame to the ball, and
that both might be taught a lesson she resolved upon a plan of action
which she faithfully carried out. The comedian and his companion had
plenty of fun at the ball. They returned to their boarding-house about
three A. M. Both had latch-keys, but they wouldn't work. Somebody had
fastened down the bolt. What were they to do? It was a cold morning
with snow on the ground and snow still falling. Their carriage had
gone; they didn't wish to go to a hotel in masquerade style, so they
resolved to stick it out until the door would be opened. And they did
so. The comedian wrapped his ulster around him and sat down on the
doorstep; the young lady gathered her cloak around her as tightly as
she could and stood up in a corner of the entrance, shivering and
wondering what the people thought who passed by and looked at them.
They remained there three hours, and when the door was opened, it was
the leading lady who did the opening. She laughed as if she would lose
her life in the effort when she saw the plight the two were in, and
said as they passed up the hall that she was sorry she had put down
that bolt when she came home, but she thought they were both in the
house.
The story of an actor's jealousy is nicely told by a New York paper
in the following: A handsome young actress attached regularly to one
of the New York theatres has a husband and a baby, a sickly little
thing, and the husband is outrageously jealous, all the more that this
season he has done "job work," which has kept him "on the road" pretty
constantly. Lately he "came in," the "combination" with which he was
connected having "gone up." He arrived unexpectedly late one afternoon,
and found his wife out. On the table lay a note addressed to her in a
masculine hand. It was open and ran thus:--
"DEAR FRIEND: I do not think you have any cause to be anxious about
the baby. It is only cutting its teeth a little hard--that's all.
However, as you desire it, and say it would relieve your mind while
you are away at the theatre, I will come to-night about nine and
stay all night with you. Don't speak of the trouble. I shall only
be too glad to let you get a little sleep after being up so much
with baby.
Your true friend,
K. S. STANTON, M. D."
The husband was furious at this note, seemingly so harmless. He thrust
it into his pocket, and without waiting to see his wife strode from the
house. He had now, he thought, what he had long suspected, proof of
his wife's infidelity. Why, it was shamless! Dr. Stanton would pass
the night, would he, and blame it on the baby! but he should find that
there was a husband around ready to deal terrible vengeance upon the
betrayer. His feelings were not pleasant ones, as he lay perdue the
rest of the day, nursing his wrath, to keep it warm. When the pretty
young actress came home she was told that a gentleman had called and
gone away in a great hurry, leaving no name. At about half-past ten
that evening, while she was at the theatre, the door of her bed-room
was dragged open furiously, and the enraged husband rushed in. He
looked around under the bed and into the closets, but found no man.
There were, however, two persons in the room. One an infant slumbering
peacefully in the crib, the other a lady sitting at a small table on
which lay several little bits of white paper into which she was pouring
some globules from a tiny bottle. Her eyes were blue, her complexion a
pure pink and white, and her hair, curling in loose ringlets over her
well-formed head, was just touched with gray. She looked up astonished
and said:--
"Don't make such a noise; you'll wake the child. Are you a burglar or
what do you want?"
The husband paused in his fruitless search and replied: "I want that
man."
"What man?"
"The man that's made an appointment with my wife for to-night."
"Who is your wife and what business have you in Miss ----'s bed-room?"
asked the lady.
"Miss ----'s my wife."
"Indeed; well, you can't make me believe that she ever made any
appointment with any man she oughtn't to make."
"I can't, can't I? read that then," he said, throwing the letter on the
table and scattering the medicine. The lady read the letter and began
to laugh, which enraged the husband still more.
"Where have you hidden this Dr. Stanton? I will blow his brains out,"
he cried.
"No, you won't."
"You see if I don't."
"Well, blow then: I am Dr. Stanton, the author of that letter," said
the lady.
She had to sign her name, Kate S. Stanton, and show him that the
writing was the same as in the note, before he would be convinced, and
then he was the most sheepish-looking man in New York. The story got
out, and he was the butt of every actor in the city. They refused to
believe that he "walked home." They condoled with him on account of his
ill health, which forced him to stop acting. They recommended him to
consult a doctor, especially a lady doctor, Kate Stanton, for example.
Altogether he was so "roasted" that he will have to have more than a
mere letter in future to make him thirst for vengeance.
"Hang these women doctors!" is all you can get him to say; "if they
must be doctors, why can't they sign their full name, and not make
trouble between man and wife?"