WHAT OF THE PLAYERS?
Never before in the history of amusements has so excellent an opportunity
been afforded to look behind the scenes of the mimic world and study the
real life of the actor. To one and all, whether religionist unalterably
opposed to the theater and all its ramifications, or the devotee finding
life's chiefest pleasures contributed by musician and mummer, the stage
looms up a mystic realm, affording more interest and comment than almost
any other department of earthly effort.
When Shakespeare wrote "See the players well bestowed" in his immortal
masterpiece, "Hamlet," the term player meant something very different from
what it does today. In this day and age it is not only the poetic,
lofty-minded and learned tragedian who is rightfully accorded the title
"actor," but through time-honored custom and common usage the specialty
performer, slap-stick comedian and the interesting chorus girl are
recognized as members of the "profession"; and be it noted, although a sad
commentary on the stage, they far outnumber those of the old, legitimate
school.
So it is that in dealing with the player folk, to whom the terrifying
Iroquois experience was but an incident in a long career of vicissitudes
unknown to those who make up the great commercial, industrial and
agricultural world, it is necessary to consider the sleek, well-groomed
executive staff, the better-paid and more widely-known stellar lights of
the "Mr. Bluebeard" company, the less distinguished principals, both men
and women, the struggling chorus boy, the saucy, piquant and greatly
envied chorus girl and a small army of unheard-of yet equally important
stage mechanics.
Upwards of 150 persons--a little world of their own--made up the company
that found its merry-making tour brought to a sudden termination by a
blast that came upon them like a visitation from the bottomless pit. What
they endured, what conditions the fatal fire imposed upon them, will never
be fully known or appreciated. Merry minstrels in name, but homeless,
purposeless wanderers in fact, the dead sweep of the elements tore asunder
their little universe and left them stranded and more purposeless still,
practically penniless and among strangers, overburdened with their own
woes.
With such an organization as "Mr. Bluebeard" there are to be found two or
three fortunate mortals, whose powers to amuse and whose popularity with
the amusement-loving public place their salaries at a figure anywhere
between $150 and $300 a week. In this particular company "Eddie Foy," in
private life Edward Fitzgerald, stood out preeminently as such a player.
Then came more than a score of principals whose salaries will range from
$60 to $150 a week, depending entirely upon ability and the extent to
which fortune has favored them in casting the various parts, as the
characters are known. Next in order are the less important people, who
play "bits" (very unimportant parts), and who act as understudies for the
principals, ready to replace them in an emergency. They are largely
graduates from the chorus or comparative novices in the profession. Their
compensation may be from $30 to $50 a week, according to beauty, grace and
general usefulness.
All have their railroad fares paid and their baggage transported at the
expense of the management. They are required to furnish their own
wardrobe, however, in many instances an item of no small expense.
THE CHORUS GIRL.
And then--the chorus girl! No living creature excites such general
curiosity, interest, and perhaps admiration and envy, as this footlight
queen. She is popularly supposed to devote her time exclusively to
delightful promenades with susceptible "Johnnies" in the millionaire
class, automobile rides, after-the-show wine suppers and all manner and
form of unconventional and soul-stirring diversions that for her more
sedate and useful sister, the ordinary American girl, would mean to be
ostracized socially. Hers is generally regarded as a voluptuous life of
music, mirth and color, an endless, extravagant pursuit of pleasure.
To the wide, wide world her triumphs and escapades are heralded by
newspaper, press agent, and the callow youth of the land, who regard
themselves as "real sports" and clamor for an opportunity to provide a
supper for one of the chorus at the expense of going without cigarettes
for the rest of the month.
Whoever hears of the little, disorderly bunk of a room the chorus girl's
salary provides her with at some cheap hotel; of her struggles for
existence during the months she is out of employment almost every season;
of the glass of beer and nibble of free lunch that is often her only meal
during the long weeks of endless rehearsal that precede the opening of the
show, when absolutely without income she lives on her scant savings, what
she can borrow, and hope and anticipation of what is in store when the
tour begins! For three or four weeks she rehearses morning and afternoon
while the production is being put in shape. No salaries are paid during
that period, and it is a particularly soft-hearted manager who allows the
girl carfare. Most of the day there are marches, dances and evolutions to
be gone through with maddening monotony. She must remain on her feet, for
chairs are few about stages, and courtesy scant so far as chorus people
are concerned.
And at night, when she goes home worn with effort, there are songs to be
learned, and then to be repeated over and over again in chorus the next
day, to the accompaniment of a battered and expressionless piano shoved
into the brightest spot on the gloomy half-dark stage, or, if there be no
such thing, placed in the orchestra pit, where the musical director can
enjoy the advantage of an electric light.
THE MUSICAL DIRECTOR.
The musical director! What an autocrat he is! His rules are arbitrary and
irrevocable. His criticism stings and burns. He is tired, overworked and
under the strain of responsibility for the successful development of the
aggregation of young men and women who confront him, and who appear to him
weighted down with all the stupidity naturally intended for distribution
among a vastly larger number of individuals. He swears, raves, coaxes as
his moods change. He weeds out one here and engages a new member there.
And with every change the difficulties increase. The tunes that seem so
inspiring when heard from the comfort of a parquet seat grow dreary to
those who are living with them hourly during this period. The "catchy"
songs become so much hateful drivel and maddening nonsense, when done over
and over again to the inspiring declaration of the half-crazed director
that "the whole bunch ought to go back to the farm, back to the dishpan."
It is a tired, world-worn, weary creature that creeps away after such a
rehearsal--a woman who would be hard to recognize as the sprightly,
dashing blonde in blue tights, who tosses her head saucily in the third
act and sets the hearts of the youth of the one-night-stands aflame a few
weeks later.
THE JOY OF THE OPENING.
At last the chaos and confusion end, the great mass of detail is blended
into a production and the stage manager begins his term of storming and
fussing. The dress rehearsal is called, the shimmering silken costumes are
donned and all hands are agreeably surprised to find that there really is
a plot to the piece and some rhyme and reason behind the efforts of the
few preceding weeks' labor. The opening is at hand.
What joy it brings to all, both those of high and low degree. Brave
costumes, light, color and a mellow orchestra, in place of the old tin-pan
of a piano, work great changes in their spirits. And best of all--salaries
begin. To the chorus girl it means from $18 to $25 a week, and if she be
particularly clever perhaps a little more. That is hers, free from all
charges for transportation, baggage delivery or the furnishing or
maintenance of wardrobe. She must furnish her own "make-up" of paints,
powder and cosmetics, to be sure, and of this she uses no small amount;
but that is a minor expense.
The opening over, the critics of the press either praise or flay the
production--something that means much in determining what its future will
be. For a few weeks, possibly a month or two, it remains the attraction at
the theater where it had its birth. Conditions become pleasanter, yet a
vast amount of rehearsing continues in order to bring about improvement
or make changes in the personnel of the company. Every time a girl drops
out, voluntarily or otherwise, her successor must be put through the ropes
in order to be able to replace her. That means all those in the same
scenes must go through the dreary details again. In fact, from the time
such a show opens until it closes rehearsals never really cease, the
causes necessitating them being almost without number.
SPENDTHRIFT HABITS.
During the "run" in the opening house the chorus girl has a chance to live
at comparatively small expense. She may pay off her small debts, if she is
troubled with a conscience. What is far more important, she can replenish
her threadbare street wardrobe, for it is an unwritten managerial law that
all stage people must dress well both on and off the stage. So when the
"run" terminates and the road tour begins, nearly all the company are
pretty short financially, although they may be even with the world if they
are particularly fortunate. All actors are naturally "spenders." Their
mode of life compels it. With few family ties, the majority without a
home, their every expense is double that of the every-day sort of a man.
Their meeting place and their lounging place, whether it be for business
or social reasons, is necessarily the hotel or the bar. Under those
conditions it would be difficult for the most conservative to cultivate
frugality or economy. And actors have never been known to injure
themselves in an effort to attain either unless under stress of temporary
compulsion.
GAMBLING, PURE AND SIMPLE.
Perhaps the show has made a "hit." Perhaps not. One can never tell in
advance, for it is gambling, pure and simple, so the oldest managers
openly assert. If it proves a failure all the capital, labor and trouble
has been thrown away like a flash in the pan. The actors arrive some night
to find the house dark, the box-office receipts, scenery and properties
seized on an attachment, and their salaries and prospects gone. What
happens then with weeks, possibly months, of idleness ahead of them, can
be better imagined than described. Somehow, the people struggle through
and survive and bob up to face the same experience again. It is hard
enough on the principals with good salaries and friends purchased through
profligate expenditure of their money when all was sunshine and
prosperity, but it is a worse blow to the chorus. Yet they pass through
seemingly unscathed. They are used to it and know how.
But this is a dreary side of the picture, and all productions are by no
means doomed to flunk; those that do not go forth upon the road with a
flourish of trumpets, the glitter and glamor of carloads of courts and
palaces of canvas, tinsel and papier-mache and with everyone looking
forward to the rapid acquirement of a fortune. Verily, your actor is a
born optimist. Were it not for ambition, hope, egotism and inherent love
of publicity, notoriety and admiration, where would the stage get its
recruits?
THE SHOW ON THE ROAD.
After the production has taken to the road it may still prove a
"frost"--the theatrical term for failure. Then it is the same grim story,
with additional discouragements. There are cold, clammy hotelkeepers whose
one anxiety is to see their bills paid, and commercially inclined
railroads who will transport none, not even actors, without payment in
something more tangible than promises. Then comes the benefit
performance, the appeal to local lodges of orders the actors may be
identified with and the mad scramble to induce the railroad to carry the
people home "on their trunks." If they can get their baggage out of the
hotels the performers usually find it possible to secure transportation by
leaving their trunks with the railroads as a pawn to be released when they
raise money enough to settle the bill. Surely a pleasant prospect--to go
"home" penniless and without personal effects, clothing or even prospects.
And all this time where is the manager? He may have fled in desperation
with the few dollars that came into his hands the preceding night, or he
may be shut up in his room worse off than his employes. It all depends
upon circumstances.
All shows do not meet disaster on the road, however. Yet there is always
the distressing possibility to confront the actor. Many go on their glad,
successful way, for a time, like "Mr. Bluebeard," piling up profits and
bringing joy to the hearts of managers and owners and continued employment
to the players. Yet even then all is not as roseate as might be thought
from a casual glance taken from the front. There are epidemics, railroad
accidents, hotel fires and all manner of emergencies to be considered, not
to speak of the one-night stand.
THE ONE-NIGHT STAND.
Of all the terrors the actor faces the one-night stand is the worst. That
is the technical name applied to the city or town where the company lights
for a single performance as it flits across the continent. It is almost
impossible to so route an attraction that its time will be placed
exclusively in large cities, so they fall back on the one-night stand.
Imagine the joy of leaving Chicago Sunday morning, playing at South
Chicago Sunday afternoon and evening, taking a train after the performance
and jogging into Michigan City, Ind., with the early dawn, catching a bit
of sleep during the day, playing at night and skipping out for Logansport.
With the same programme at Logansport, Fort Wayne, Richmond, and Lima,
Mansfield or Dayton, Ohio, the company is within striking distance of
Cleveland, Cincinnati, Louisville or Indianapolis, as its bookings may
elect. And that is precisely what they all do. This is a sample week. It
is not an uncommon thing for a big attraction to cover two or three weeks
of unbroken one-night stands, and those going to and from the Pacific
coast are often compelled to play four and five, without the friendly
relief of an engagement covering a week.
Truly life under these circumstances is a horror. Train-worn, broken in
rest, with scarcely opportunity to unpack to change their linen, such
weeks mean to the performer an existence not calculated to tempt recruits
to the profession. To the principal, stopping at the best hotels and
making use of sleeping cars whenever possible, it is wearing enough and a
burden. To the chorus girl, it is a hideous nightmare. Out of her meager
salary she must pay during such weeks from $1.25 to $1.75 a day for hotel
accommodations that are far from tempting. She is driven to resort to
sleepers through self-preservation at an average of $2 a night for long
night trips, and her laundry and other incidental expenses mount up into
startling figures. Her clothing is ruined by almost ceaseless crushing
aboard trains, and unless she be thoroughly broken to such a life she is
wrecked physically.
[Illustration: AMBULANCE LOADED WITH FIRE VICTIMS.]
[Illustration: ARCH AT TOP OF STAIRWAY PACKED WITH DEAD.]
[Illustration: CARRYING OUT SOME DEAD, SOME STILL LIVING.]
[Illustration: FIREMEN CARRYING OUT THE DEAD CHILDREN.]
[Illustration: HEROIC RESCUE OF THE LIVING BY CHICAGO FIREMEN.]
[Illustration: SCENE IN DEATH ALLEY--REAR OF THE THEATRE.]
[Illustration: CARRYING OUT BODIES FROM SECOND BALCONY.]
[Illustration: MISS NELLIE REED, Leader of the Flying Ballet, killed by
the fire.]
[Illustration: FIREMEN HELPING THE CHORUS GIRLS OUT OF THE THEATER.]
[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPH OF THE STAGE OF THE THEATER IN RUINS.]
[Illustration: FRONT OF THEATER, PILING DEAD IN THE STREET.]
[Illustration: IN THE THEATER, DOORS LOCKED, PANIC, FIRE, AND DEATH.]
[Illustration: INSIDE THE IROQUOIS THEATER WHILE THE FIRE RAGED.]
[Illustration: LOOKING FOR HER CHILDREN AMONG THE DEAD.]
[Illustration: A LINE OF VICTIMS OF THE FIRE AWAITING IDENTIFICATION.]
[Illustration: DIAGRAM SHOWING HOW PEOPLE GOT OUT OF THE GALLERY.]
When she reaches a big city again she can once more creep to bed after her
work at midnight and find in unbroken hours of sleep balm for all she has
passed through. She may secure a decent room at a second or third class
European hotel for $6 a week and buy her meals where she chooses. If some
callow youth buys them for her in consideration of the pleasure of basking
in her smiles, she is that much ahead. She can live within her means in
the city and save money--if she wants to. But she seldom does, and no one
can blame her, for she feels that nothing save the pleasures secured by
extravagance can compensate her for what she has lost--comfort, repose,
dignity, social recognition, and, most of all, home.
These same conditions are experienced to a varying degree by all players
save those within the sacred circle drawn by the finger of phenomenal
success. That small handful with private cars, lackies and all the
comforts of a portable home, is so insignificant in number that it
requires no consideration here.
THE "MR. BLUEBEARD" COMPANY.
In the best and most prosperous organizations, such as "Mr. Bluebeard"
was, life is not all sunshine and roses. To be true, its members escaped
the manifold terrors of playing in the barns to be found in many large
one-night stands and dressing in their stalls, dignified by the term
dressing-rooms. The women were not compelled to dress and undress behind
inclosures made of flimsy scenery with a sheet thrown over for additional
protection. Nor did they have to live in the barn-like hotels many such
towns boast. But they had their own troubles, such as they were. The
chorus girls did not escape having to be thrown into involuntary contact
with all classes and conditions of mankind, nor did they avoid the sharp
social distinction drawn by the principals in all organizations.
Only a few weeks before the Iroquois horror they passed through a serious
fire scare in the theater where they were playing in Cleveland, an
experience that for the moment promised to rival the one that finally
overtook them. Flames in the scenery endangered their lives, but the fire
was extinguished. Therefore the incident "amounted to nothing" and little
or nothing was heard about it.
When the dread hour arrived at the Iroquois, the majority lost their all.
It was not to be expected they would leave their jewelry and money about
hotels of which they knew little. Quite naturally, they took both to their
dressing-rooms. Many were on the stage when the cry of fire came, and were
fortunate to escape with their lives, without thought of clothing, money
or jewelry, all of which were swept away. With employment, valuables,
everything gone save their hotel baggage, they were in a sorry plight,
indeed. But with the optimism that only the actor knows they rejoiced in
their escape from the fate that overtook little Nellie Reed and from the
terrible scars and burns suffered by many of their number.
A score of their number were under arrest, held as witnesses, men and
women alike. The management came to their relief to the extent of
furnishing bonds that secured their temporary release. Klaw and Erlanger
also furnished transportation back to New York for such as were at liberty
to go. Then another obstacle arose. Few had the means to settle their
hotel bills, and the proprietors of the places would not release their
baggage. At this juncture relief came from outside sources. Mrs. Ogden
Armour provided for the chorus girls, contributing $500 to settle their
bills. That night over a hundred of the players were headed back to the
great metropolis they call home, to seek new engagements, and if
unsuccessful, to do the best they could. And the majority started with
certain failure staring them in the face.
It was on Sunday, January 3, 1904, four days after the fire, that the
members of the "Mr. Bluebeard" company turned their faces homeward, for to
all players New York is "home." Just before the train started a plain
white box was put on board the baggage car. It contained all that was
mortal of Nellie Reed, the sprightly little girl who had delighted scores
of thousands by her mid-air flights from the stage at each performance.
It was her last railroad "jump." Poor little thing, still in her early
teens, she closed her earthly career with the close of the show, and went
back "home" with it! If the future has for her any further flights they
will be of celestial character, and not through the agency of an invisible
wire such as guided her above the heads of Iroquois theater audiences and
which was at first thought to have interfered with the fall of the curtain
and to have been directly responsible for the appalling holocaust.
It was a sad departure. Nearly 150 persons comprised the "Mr. Bluebeard"
party, and nearly as many more took the trip from "The Billionaire"
company, also owned by the same management. Only a day or two before the
fire that closed the "Bluebeard" show death had laid its hand heavily upon
"The Billionaire," playing at the Illinois theater only a few blocks
distant. "The Billionaire" himself died--big, rollicking Jerome Sykes, who
made famous the part "Foxy Quiller" and the opera of that name and who a
few years ago made such a hit as the fat boy in "An American Beauty" that
he outshone Lillian Russell, its star. Sykes contracted a cold at a
Christmas celebration for the members of the two companies and when he
died the production died with him.
So with the Iroquois catastrophe there were two big, obviously successful,
companies wiped out of the theatrical world at one blow and without
notice. The members of each had half a week's salary due; that was their
all. It was promptly paid and with that and their tickets all set forth in
the happy possession of their baggage, many through the charity of Mrs.
Armour.
All--not quite! There were two members of "The Billionaire" who did not
make the last "jump," two who were in the audience at the Iroquois and
perished in the maelstrom of flame and smoke. The curtain had been rung
down for them forever. They, at least, would know no more of pitiful
quests for engagements, of wearying rehearsal and momentary, superficial
conquest. They had played their last stand.
"This is the saddest day of my life," declared one of the chorus members
in the presence of the writer. "Here I am, 1,000 miles from home, no
prospects of another engagement this season, and only $5 in the world."
"I have less than you," said a frail appearing girl, with tears in her
eyes. "I lost my savings, $22, in the fire, and I have only $3 to go home
with."
"It is the life of the stage," said a matronly wardrobe woman. "The poor
girls are penniless, and if the injured were left hind it would be as
charity patients. The responsibility of the managers of the show ceases
when the production is closed. I know many of these girls are without
sufficient money to pay for a week's lodging, and it is a sad outlook for
some of them this winter."
And the wardrobe woman told the truth--it was merely a striking example, a
pitiful vicissitude of "the life of the stage."