THE SUMMER VACATION.
The close of a theatrical season, which rarely exceeds forty weeks,
and which terminates in the month of June, is always hailed by the
prosperous actor as an occasion when he can find enjoyment and rest
in some cosy spot; or if he is in the ranks, and is ambitious to be
reckoned in the constellation of dramatic stars, he looks forward
to his summer vacation as a time in which he will have opportunity
to fix up his business for the coming season; or if he has not yet
secured a manager--probably needing one with money--he can button-hole
the financiers of the "Square," as the meeting-place and mart of the
theatrical fraternity of the entire continent is termed. The stars are
becoming so numerous, and, indeed, so insignificant, that even members
of the variety profession with the thinnest pretensions in the world to
dramatic distinction, and there are few on the legitimate stage above
the ranks of utility, who have not aspirations of the same bright and
twinkling kind. The beginning of every season finds a hundred or more
new combinations, with little talent and less money, starting out on
the road; and one, two, or three weeks brings them back, either "on
their baggage," or "on their uppers,"--that is, the railroad company
carries them home and holds the baggage for their fares, or they "count
the railroad ties," which is a metaphoric way of saying they walk home.
Very few of the cheap variety artists of the present day are worthy
of even a mean place in the "legit.," as they designate the legitimate
stage; and it may be said, too, that some stars who have succeeded
in reaching the legitimate boards would scarcely be reckoned bright
ornaments among the gems of the variety stage. This, however, is a
subject beyond the purposes of this work, and so I will not go further
into it.
[Illustration: LA GRAND DUCHESS.]
The actor and actress who have settled down to the regular routine of
general work are among the persons who get most enjoyment for their
money during their summer vacation. Stars, male and female alike, who
have made money and reached a satisfactory round on the ladder of fame,
though they may not have cottages by the seaside, or summer residences
of anything like a pretentious character, can also be counted among
the number who "loaf and invite their souls" in a profitable and
pleasurable manner. Most of the male stars have nice little nooks by
river, lake, or seaside, in quiet, cool, and shady spots, while the
tragediennes and comediennes of prominence and fortune seem to prefer
either handsome residences in New York or other Eastern metropolis, or
else a watering-place cottage. Maggie Mitchell prefers Long Branch. So
does Mary Anderson, who lives a very secluded life at this gay resort.
Most of her time is passed in playing with her little step-sister on
the lawn of their pretty place. She rides on horseback a great deal,
and takes an occasional short cruise on her new yacht, "The Galatea,"
which she has named after the latest role added to her repertoire.
Minnie Palmer, about the only real rival Lotta has got, summers at
Long Branch. Emma Abbott goes to Cape Ann. Lester Wallack devotes
himself and his vacation to making short trips in his steam yacht.
John McCullough hasn't settled down anywhere yet. Last year he went to
England to work and win a London reputation; this year he is with Gen.
Sheridan in the Yellowstone Valley. Fred. Marsden likes to go fishing
at Salmon Lake. McKee Rankin has a stock farm at Bois Blanc, Canada,
where he spends his summers. John W. Norton flies away to Coney Island,
Long Branch, and a round of the Eastern watering-places, Mrs. Norton
always accompanying him. And so the category might be lengthened out.
But it is useless. Established stars have established fortunes as well
as reputations only by dint of the hardest, and, I might add, in many
cases, least appreciated kind of work, and they deserve the thousands
of dollars they make every year. Few of the great stars fall less than
$50,000 for a forty weeks' season, and there are few whose share goes
under $1,000 a week. Joe Emmet accumulates money faster, probably,
than any other man who plays to the same prices, and John McCullough
and Mary Anderson are among the reapers of the richest harvests. Booth
seldom plays a season through, but when he does he, of course, carries
off the honors.
[Illustration: JOHN W. NORTON.]
Actors and actresses, while generous as a class, save their money,
and very few are found loitering around New York "broke," during the
vacation months. Still there are cases of poverty. I have known a
former popular Irish comedian, who belongs to a family of popular and
prosperous members of the profession, to walk the streets of a Western
town many a day without a cent in his pockets and nothing to look
up to at night for shelter but the stars high and pitiless over his
bald head. Everybody has read about the English actor, who, driven to
distress, and standing at the door of starvation, donned an old gray
wig, and was found singing and begging around Union Square. It was only
when a policeman in arresting him accidentally pulled off his wig that
the actor's identity and condition were known. The former was carefully
concealed and the latter cheerfully and liberally relieved. I was at
a banquet given by the press of St. Louis to Thomas W. Keene, the
tragedian, during his first starring season, when among the few guests
who sat down to the table, between Billy Crane and Stuart Robson, was
a short, stout, gray-headed, and long gray-bearded man, whom nobody
knew. The night was bitterly cold, still the old fellow wore only a
long, gray linen duster over a thin, red woollen shirt, with a very
queer pair of pantaloons and rough brogans. His high, battered and
wide-brimmed hat rested under his chair as if he was afraid some of
the company would steal it. He swept clean every dish set before him,
emptied every glass of wine, and with bent head, and knife and fork
in hand, was waiting anxiously for each course when it came. As soon
as he was noticed the question passed around, "Who is the old gray?"
and fun was poked at him ruthlessly; but it rebounded lightly from
the folds of his linen duster, and he heeded not the blows. When the
toasts went around the old man was asked to respond to one, and got
up and spoke charmingly for half an hour or more, introducing the
Marseillaise, both as a martial hymn, and as a song and dance. Then
he explained how the city editor of a local paper had sent him to
report the banquet; how he came shivering to the marrow of his bones to
the door of the Club House--the most fashionable in the city--and
asked permission to go into the kitchen to warm himself previous to
appearing at the banquet board, a permission which was granted. The
old man spoke so eloquently in telling a pitiful story of his poverty,
Pat Short, treasurer of the Olympic, at the instigation, I think, of
Manager Norton of the Grand Opera House, picked up a hat and took up
a collection from the ten newspaper men and ten actors present. The
collection netted $39.75, which was poured in the old man's two hands,
while his eyes were wet with tears. Then he was freely plied with wine,
and danced, sang, and gave phrenological examinations for two hours,
when the crowd dispersed in the greatest good humor. Stuart Robson told
this story to a Boston _Times_ man who made a two-column article out
of it that travelled all over the country, and in which all the credit
of the charity with the figures greatly increased was appropriated
unjustly, by Messrs. Robson & Crane. But this is not what I started out
about.
[Illustration: MARY ANDERSON.]
"While the actor seeks deep shadows under the far-reaching arms of huge
trees," writes the New York _Dramatic Times_ man, "or leisurely smokes
his pipe beneath heavy boughs, thick with scented buds and blossoms,
some one is working out his programme for the next season. This 'some
one' is often confounded with the actor himself, or is taken for the
parasite who fosters and thrives on some indirect vein of the living
and active theatrical body. The sturdy man of business, who by chance
happens to pass the pavement between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, on the
south side of Union Square, fancies that the crowd of well-dressed and,
as a rule, quiet men, are idle professionals, lounging away a warm day
between gossip and beer. He little knows that this is the theatrical
exchange of the Western World, where business is carried on in the same
honorable mode as at the Stock Exchange, without the Bedlam noises, and
that the seeming drifters under the grateful shade of the Morton House
are as shrewd in looking at the run of the theatrical market as any
Wall Street broker. Every theatre or nomadic attraction throughout the
United States has, at some time during the day, a 'some one' looking
out for 'dates' and 'booking' memoranda for future contracts. Without
any agreement to meet or transact business, the 'some one' appears
with the June roses and makes it a point to pass the Rialto between
the hours of ten A. M. and four P. M. The affairs of this exchange are
gigantic (when for instance one manager gives _bona fide_ evidence that
he has cleared $40,000 in the past season), and though it would be
impossible to make an estimate of the total amount, it is safe to say
that millions are the result of these seemingly casual meetings.
"A guide published last year gives a total of about four thousand
five hundred theatres, that kept open their doors for an average of
forty weeks. Taking the poor attraction, with the star that fills the
theatre to overflowing, the average receipts would be about $150 for
each theatre, or $675,000 paid every night for amusements throughout
the United States. This would make a total for one week, of $4,050,000,
or, for the entire season of forty weeks, $162,000,000, not counting
matinees. Taking, then, an industry that brings in over $160,000,000 in
round numbers during the season, the neatly dressed men that are said
to 'hang around the Square' are the men that control or pull the wires
and set the machinery in motion. The figures above are, after all, but
approximate, and neither include matinees, which in themselves would
count one million, nor does it include the circus world, which is not
represented on the Rialto.
"On the other side of the ledger will be found twenty-eight thousand
actors drawing their salaries from these receipts; and about twelve
thousand more, consisting of carpenters, property-men, scene-shifters,
the employees of the front of the theatre, etc. Twenty dollars a week
each would make a fair average for the entire forty thousand, and
would aggregate a total of $32,000,000 in salaries alone. Add to this
the rent of the four thousand five hundred different theatres and
halls which, at a moderate calculation of say $4,000 each, would make
$18,000,000 for the year.
"The season having closed, actors seek secluded spots, revel in the
enjoyment of flannel shirts and country life, enjoying a _dolce far
niente_ either by seashore or in wooded glens, and are described as
'resting.' In the nooks many have charming households, and under their
roof-trees happiness reigns, without much reference to 'shop.' The
manager or agent, however, as soon as one season ends, procures his
'booking' book and starts for the Square. His plan may be to play his
attraction in the South. The end of his route will then likely be New
Orleans. After having his date in that city, he will 'fill up' his
time going and coming back. If the attraction be good, he fills his
time by playing in larger cities for one week; if not, he makes one or
two-night stands, which, interpreted, means that his company plays for
one or two nights in a city. Starting in September, he works his way
down by Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and then in the beaten
route through Richmond, Memphis, Atlanta, etc. This route fixing shows
the experienced manager; for should he, for instance, have the week
commencing February 1st in New Orleans, he would have a night in
Mobile, Alabama, before reaching there. To a new man the Mobile manager
might offer Saturday, giving the company time to reach New Orleans on
Monday. If this be accepted, it would show inexperience in the route
maker, as the fashionable night at Mobile is Friday, Saturday being
'niggers'' night. He should so time it as to reach Mobile on Friday,
play that night to big business, have his matinee, and do the best he
could with Saturday night. In other sections of the country he must
know when the workman's pay-day is. In the oil and mining regions, for
instance, the men are paid but every fortnight. The attraction which
reaches there soonest after the pay-day fares the best.
"Another of the grave considerations is the question of railroad fares.
All but the big attractions must take into serious consideration the
general increase of railroad rates to the profession. Some of the roads
have not joined in the pool, and still cater to theatrical custom. The
cities on these routes are likely to have a rush of attractions this
season, and, as a consequence, will before long yield poor receipts.
At any rate there is a tendency, even among the best-paying companies,
to take short 'jumps' this season (1882-3) and visit cities that
would have been passed over with contempt a short time since. But the
difference of travelling expenses one or three hundred dollars in a
day, with a company of forty people, dragging extra baggage, means a
big difference in profits.
"The man on the Square has to look out for all these things, as well as
the printing of the company, one of the most important and expensive
items of a travelling company, an item which will often make him pass
wakeful days and sleepless nights. These contracts, of course, vary for
the different organizations. The big theatrical gun as well as the
smallest, either personally or through agents, keeps himself posted
of the affairs of the Rialto. No matter as to how heavy calibre the
big gun may be, he may tell his friend he don't visit the Square, but
he does, or is sure to let it be known that he lives at the Union
Square Hotel, or at some other hotel near by, where his booking is
done. Managers of provincial theatres, eager to fill the time for
their houses, travel eastward to the Mecca of theatredom, or have
their booking done by local agents or firms engaged in this city in
that specialty--the commission for an attraction being from $5 to $7.
One firm of this kind in Union Square do the booking for more than
fifty theatres, while another and larger one in Twenty-third Street
controls entire circuits, and furnishes attractions for several hundred
theatres. The manager having laid the foundation of his plan, takes the
summer to complete it, changing a town here, or a date there, to make
his route as complete as possible, and as convenient to travel over, so
as to reach a town and have his company rest before appearing.