_PERILS OF THE STAGE_
Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep One—The Theatrical
Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical
Aspirants—The Bogus Manager—The Actress of the Police
Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s
Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the Scenes—Edward
Terry—Success a Bubble.
Mankind curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. It is
comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly
fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and
this applies particularly to the stage.
Happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the
provinces and was longing for a London engagement, I asked her what her
experience of theatrical agents had been.
“Perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the
bargain. For three whole months I have been daily to a certain office,
and in all this weary time I have only had five interviews with the
manager.”
“Is it so difficult to get work?”
“It is almost impossible. When I arrive, the little stuffy office is
more or less crowded; there are women seeking engagements for the
music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse
jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the
legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take
their hats off. It is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in
hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like Jews in synagogues.
“There are children who come alone and wait about daily for an
engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose
parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one
girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom I have met there every
day for weeks and weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime closed
she was still without work, and I watched that child get thinner and
paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the
sole support of a sick mother.
“When I go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up.
“‘Do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed
spectacles. He jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘Character or
juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘What salary? Whom have you played with?’
And having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series
of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘I am sorry I have nothing for
you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ And this same farce or
tragedy is repeated every time.”
“But is it worth while going?” I asked.
“Hardly; one wears out one’s shoe-leather and one’s temper; and yet
after all the theatrical agent is practically my only chance of an
engagement. This man is all right, he is not a bogus agent, but he
simply has a hundred applicants for every single post he has to fill.”
She went back day after day, and week after week, and each time
the same scene was enacted, but no engagement came of it. Finally,
brought to the verge of starvation, she had to accept work again in
the provinces, and so desert an invalid father. She happened to be a
lady, but of course many applicants for histrionic fame ought to be
kitchen-maids or laundry-maids: they have no qualifications whatever to
any higher walk of life.
Below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go
on the stage. It was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she
was starring with her own company.
“... CASTLE
“_Oct 19th 1897_
“DEAR MADAM
“i writ you this few lins to see if you would have a opening for me
as i would be an Actor on the Stage for my hole thought and life
is on the stage and when i have any time you will always feind me
readin at some play i make a nice female as i have a very soft
voice Dear Madam i hop you will not refuse me i have got no frends
alive to keep me back and every one tells me that you would make
the best teacher that i could get Dear lady i again ask you not to
refuse me i will go on what ever termes you think best i have been
up at the theatre 4 times seeing you i enclose my Card to let you
see it plese to send it back again and i enclose 12 stamps to you
to telegraf by return if you would like to see me or if you would
like to come down to the Castle to see me No more at present
“but remans your
“Obedient servant
“Peter W——.”
This was a letter from a man with aspirations, and below is a letter
from Mrs. Siddons. If this actress, whose position was probably the
grandest and greatest of any woman on the stage, can express such
sentiments, what must be the experiences of less successful players?
“Mrs. Siddons presents her compliments to Miss Goldsmith, & takes
the liberty to inform her, that altho’ herself she has enjoyed all
the advantages arising from holding the first situation in the
drama, yet that those advantages have been so counterbalanced by
anxiety & mortification, that she long ago resolved never to be
accessory to bringing any one into so precarious & so arduous a
profession.”
The deterrent words of Mrs. Siddons had little effect in her day,
just as the deterrent words of those at the top of the profession
have little effect now. Consequently, not only does the honest agent
flourish, but the bogus agent and bogus manager grow rich on the
credulity of young men and women.
Speaking of the bogus manager, Sir Henry Irving observed:
“The actor’s art is thought to be so easy—in fact, many people deny it
is an art at all—and so many writers persistently assert no preparation
is needed for a career upon the stage, that it is little wonder deluded
people only find out too late that acting, as Voltaire said, is one of
the most rare and difficult of arts. The allurements, too, held forth
by unscrupulous persons, who draw money from foolish folk under the
pretence of obtaining lucrative engagements for them, help to swell
very greatly the list of unfortunate dupes. I hope that these matters
may in time claim the attention of serious-minded persons, for the
increasing number of theatrical applicants for charity, young persons,
too, is little less than alarming.”
This remark of Sir Henry’s is hardly surprising when below is a
specimen application received by the manager of a London suburban
theatre from a female farm servant in Essex:
“DEER SUR,—I works hon a farm but wants to turn actin. Would lik
ingagement for the pantomin in hany ways which you think I be fit
for. I sings in the church coir and plais the melodion. I wants to
change my work for the stage, has am sik of farm wark, eas last
tater liftin nigh finished me.”
Another was written in an almost illegible hand which ran:
“HONOURED SIR,—i wants to go on the staige i am a servent and my
marster sais i am a good smart made so i wod like to play act mades
parts untill i can do laidies i doant mind wages for a bit as i
like your acting i’d like to act in your theter so i am going to
call soon.”
Truly the assurance of people is amazing; to imagine they can enter the
theatrical profession without even common education is absurd. Only
lately another stage-struck servant appeared in the courts. Although an
honest girl, she was tempted to steal from her mistress to pay £3 7_s._
to an agent for a problematical theatrical engagement. She is only one
of many.
One day a woman stood before a manager. She had been so persistent for
days in her desire to see him, and appeared so remarkable, that the
stage door-keeper at last inquired if he might admit her.
“Please, sir, I wants to be an actress,” she began, on entering the
manager’s room.
“Do you? And what qualifications have you?”
“I’m a cook.”
“That, my good woman, will hardly help you on the stage.”
“And I’ve been to the the-a-ters with my young man—I’m keeping company
with ’im ye know, and——”
“Well, well.”
“And ’e and I thinks you ain’t got the right tone of hactress for them
parts. Now I’m a real cook I am, and I don’t wear them immoral ’igh
’eels, and tiny waists, I dresses respectable I do, and I’d just give
the right style to the piece. My pal—she’s a parlourmaid she is—could
do duchesses and them like—she’s the air she ’as—but I ain’t ambitious,
I’d just like to be what I am, and show people ’ow a real cook should
be played—Lor’ bless ye, sir, I don’t cook in diamond rings.”
That manager did not engage the lady; but he learnt a lesson in realism
which resulted in Miss FitzClair being asked to dispense with her rings
on the stage that night.
With a parting nod the “lady” said as she left the door:
“Your young man don’t make love proper neither, you should just see
’ow ’Arry makes love you should, he’d make you all sit up, I know, he
does it that beautiful he do—your man’s a arf-’arted bloke ’e is, seems
afraid of the gal, perhaps it’s ’er ’igh ’eels and diamonds ’e’s afraid
of, eh?”
The lady took herself off.
These are only a few instances to show how all sorts and conditions of
people are stage-struck. That delightful man Sir Walter Besant lay down
an excellent rule for young authors, “Never pay to produce a book”—it
spells ruin to the aspirant. The same may be said of the stage. _Never
part with money to get on the stage._ It may be advisable to accept a
little if one cannot get much; but never, never to pay for a footing.
Services will be accepted while given free or paid for, and dispensed
with when the time comes for payment to be received.
Among the many temptations of stage life is drink. The actor feels a
little below par, he has a great scene before him, and while waiting
in his dressing-room for the “call boy” he flies to a glass of whiskey
or champagne. He gets through the trying ordeal, comes off the boards
excited and streaming at every pore, flings himself into a chair, and
during the time his dresser is dragging him out of his clothes, or
rubbing him down, yields to the temptation of another glass. Many of
our actors are most abstemious, though more than one prominent star has
been known to mumble incoherently on the stage.
_Matinée_ days are always a strain for every one in the theatre, and
there are people foolish enough to think a little stimulant will enable
them to get through, not knowing a continuance of forced strength
spells damnation.
Yes. The stage is surrounded by temptations. Morally, extravagantly,
and alcoholically the webs of excess are ready to engulf the unwary,
and therefore, when people keep straight, run fair, and save their
pennies, they are to be congratulated, and deserve the approbation of
mankind. He who has never been tempted, is not a hero in comparison
with the man who has turned aside from the enticing wiles of sin.
There is a certain class of woman who continually appears in the police
courts, described as an “actress.” She is always “smartly dressed,”
and is generally up before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk
and disorderly”—suing her husband or some one else for maintenance—or
claiming to have some grievance for a breach of promise or lost
jewellery.
These “ladies” often describe themselves as actresses: and perhaps
they sometimes are; but if so they are no honour to their profession.
There is another stamp of woman who becomes an actress by persuading
some weak man to run a theatre for her. Sympathy between men and women
is often dangerous. She generally ends by ruining him, and he in
running away from her. These bogus actresses, with their motor cars and
diamonds, are more dangerous and certainly more attractive than the
bogus manager. They are the vultures who suck young men’s blood. They
are the flashy, showy women who attract silly servant-girls with the
idea the stage spells wealth and success; but they are the scourge of
the profession.
Good and charming women are to be found upon the stage. Virtue usually
triumphs; they are happy in their home life, devoted to their children,
sympathetic to their friends, and generous almost to a fault. The
leading actresses are, generally speaking, not only the best exponents
of their art, but the best women too. The flash and dash come to the
police courts, and end their days in the workhouse.
The stage at best means very, very hard work, and theatrical success
is only fleeting in most cases. It must be seized upon when caught
and treated as a fickle jade, because money and popularity both take
wings and fly away sooner than expected. In all professions men and
women quickly reach their zenith, and if they are clever may hold that
position for ten years. After that decline is inevitable and more
rapid than the ascent has been.
If a reputation is to be made, it is generally achieved by either
man or woman before the age of forty. By fifty the summit of fame is
reached, and the downward grade begun. One can observe this again and
again in every profession.
A great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of
success, and if he does not provide for his future during those ten
years, ’tis sad for him. As the tide turns on the shore, so the tide
turns on the careers of men and women alike.
Public life is not necessarily bad. In the first place, it is only
the man with strong individuality who can ever attain publicity. He
must be above the ordinary ruck and gamut, or he will never receive
public recognition. If, therefore, he is stronger than his brother,
he should be stronger also to resist temptation, to disdain self-love
or vainglory. The moment his life becomes public he is under the
microscope, and should remember his influence is great for good or
ill. Popular praise is pleasant, but after all it means little; one’s
own conscience is the thing, that alone tells whether we have given
of our best or reached our ideal. The true artist is never satisfied,
therefore the true artist never suffers from a swelled head; it is the
minor fry who enjoy that ailment.
The temptations behind the footlights are enormous. It is useless
denying the fact. One may love the stage, and count many actors and
actresses among one’s friends; but one cannot help seeing that
theatrical life is beset by dangers and pitfalls.
Young men and women alike are run after and fawned upon by foolish
people of both sexes. Morally this is bad. Actors are flattered and
worshipped as though they were little gods. This in itself tends to
evoke egotism. The gorgeous apparel of the theatre makes men and
women extravagant in their dress; the constant going backwards and
forwards in all weathers inclines them to think they must save time or
themselves by driving; the fear of catching cold makes them indulge
in cabs and carriages they cannot afford, and extravagance becomes
their besetting sin. Every one wants to look more prosperous than his
neighbour, every recipient of forty shillings a week wishes the world
to think his salary is forty pounds.
Apart from pay, the life is exacting. The leaders of the profession
seldom sup out: they are tired after the evening’s work, and know that
burning the candle at both ends means early extinction, but the Tottie
Veres and Gladys Fitz-Glynes are always ready to be entertained.
The following advertisement appeared one day in a leading London paper:
“STAGE.—I am nearly eighteen, tall, fair, good-looking, have
a little money, and wish to adopt the stage as a profession.
Engagement wanted.”
What was the result? Piles of letters, containing all sorts of
offers to help Miss A—— to her doom. A certain gentleman wrote from
a well-known fashionable club, the letter being marked _Private_,
saying: “I should like if possible to assist you in your desire to
go on the stage, but I am not professional myself in any way. This
is purely a matter in which I might be happy to take an interest and
assist, if you think proper to communicate with me by letter, stating
exactly the circumstances, and when I can have an interview with you
on the subject.” This letter might be capable of many interpretations.
The gentleman might, of course, have been purely philanthropic in his
motives; we will give him the benefit of the doubt.
Others were yet more strange and suggestive of peril for the girl of
eighteen.
What might have been the end of all this? Supposing Miss A—— had
granted an interview to No. 1. Supposing further he had advanced the
money for the novice to buy an engagement, what might have proved
her fate? She would have been in his clutches—young, inexperienced,
powerless, in the hands of a man who, if really philanthropic, could
easily have found persons needing interest and assistance among his own
immediate surroundings, instead of going wide afield to dispense his
charity and selecting for the purpose an unknown girl of eighteen who
innocently stated she was good-looking.
Miss Geneviève Ward, a woman who has climbed to the top of her
profession, allows me to tell the following little story about herself
as a warning to others, for it was only her own genius—a very rare
gift—which dragged her to the front.
[Illustration:
_By permission of W. Boughton & Sons, Photographers, Lowestoft._
_Here I am_—
_my dear old friend!_
“_Gee Gee_”
MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.]
When she first came to England, with a name already well established
in America, expecting an immediate engagement, she could not get work
at all. She applied to the best-known theatrical agents in London. Day
after day she went there, she a woman in her prime and at the top of
her profession, and yet she was unable to obtain work.
“Tragedy is dead, Miss Ward,” exclaimed Mr. B——. “Young women with fine
physical developments are what we want.”
It was not talent, not experience, that were required according to this
well-known agent, but legs and arms—a poor standard, truly, for the
drama of the country.
However, at last there came a day, after many weary months of waiting,
when some one was wanted to play tragedy at Manchester. It was only
a twelve weeks’ engagement, and the pay but £8 a week. It was a
ridiculous sum for one in Miss Ward’s position to accept, but she was
worn out with anxiety, and determined not to go back to America and own
herself vanquished; therefore she accepted the offer, paid the agent
heavily, and went to Manchester, where she played for twelve weeks as
arranged. Before many nights had passed, however, she had signed a
further engagement at double the pay. Her chance in England had come
and she had won.
If such delay, such misery, such anxiety can befall those whose
position is already established, and whose talents are known, what must
await the novice?
“I suppose I have kept more girls off the stage than any living woman,”
said Miss Ward. “Short, ugly, fat, common, hopeless girls come to me to
ask my advice. There is not one in twenty who has the slightest chance,
not the very slightest chance, of success. Servants come, dressmakers,
wives of military men, daughters of bishops and titled folk. The mania
seems to spread from high to low, and yet hardly one of them has a
voice, figure, carriage, or anything suitable for the stage, even
setting dramatic talent aside.”
“What do you say to them?”
“Tell them right out. I think it is kinder to them, and more generous
to the drama. ‘Mind you,’ I say, ‘I am telling you this for your own
good; if I consulted personal profit I should take you as a pupil and
fill my pocket with your guineas; but you are hopeless, nothing could
possibly make you succeed with such a temperament, or voice, or size,
or whatever it may be, so you had better turn your attention at once to
some other occupation.’”
I have known several cases in which Miss Ward has been most kind by
helping real talent gratuitously; many of the women on the stage to-day
owe their position to her timely aid.
“Warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, _never_, NEVER to
give one.”
It is no uncommon thing for a bogus agent to ask for a £10 bonus, and
promise to secure an engagement at £1 a week. That engagement is never
procured, or, if it be, lasts only during rehearsals—which are not paid
for—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl is told she does
not suit the part, and dismissed. Thus the matter ends so far as a
triumphal stage entry is concerned.
It may be well here to give an actual case of bonus as an example.
A wretched girl signed an agreement to the following effect. She was
to pay £20 down to the agent as a fee, to provide her own dresses and
travelling expenses, and to play the first four months without any
salary at all. At the expiration of that time she was to receive 10_s._
a week for six months, with an increase of £1 a week for the following
year.
On this munificent _want_ of salary the girl was expected to pay
rent, dress well for the stage, have good food so as to be able to
fulfil her engagements properly, attend endless rehearsals, and withal
consider herself fortunate in obtaining a hearing at all. She broke
the engagement on excellent advice, and the agent wisely did not take
action against her, as he at first threatened to do.
In the sixties Edward Terry essayed the stage. Seeing an advertisement,
the future comedian offered his services at a salary of 15_s._ a week.
Above the door was announced in grand style:
“Madame Castaglione’s Dramatic Company, taking advantage of the closing
of the Theatres Royal Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum, etc., will
appear at Christchurch for six nights only.”
It was an extraordinary company, in which several parts were acted by
one person during the same evening. There was only one play-book, from
which every actor copied out his own part, no one was ever paid, and
general chaos reigned. Edward Terry had fallen into the hands of one of
the most notorious bogus managers of his time. His next engagement was
more lucrative. He was always sure of playing eighteen parts a week,
and sometimes received 20_s._ in return. Matters are better now; but
strange stories of early struggle crop up occasionally, and the bogus
manager-agent, in spite of the Actors’ Association and the Benevolent
Fund, still exists.
Edward Terry had to fight hard in order to attain a position, and
thoroughly deserves all the success that has fallen to his lot; but all
stage aspirants are not Edward Terrys, and then their plight in the
hands of the bogus agent is sad indeed, especially in the provinces
where he flourishes.
Those who know the stage only from the front of the house little
realise the strict regulations enforced behind the scenes in our
first-class London theatres, the discipline of which is almost as
severe as that of a Government office. Each theatre has its code of
rules and regulations, which generally number about twenty, but are
sometimes so lengthy they are embodied in a handbook. These rules and
regulations have to be signed by every one, from principal to super,
and run somewhat in this wise:
“The hair of the face must be shaven if required by the exigencies of
the play represented.”
“All engagements to be regarded as exclusive, and no artiste shall
appear at any other theatre or hall without the consent in writing of
the manager or his representative.”
“All artistes engaged are to play any part or parts for which they may
be cast, and to understudy if required.”
“In the event of the theatre being closed through riot, fire, public
calamity, royal demise, epidemic, or illness of principal, no salary
shall be claimed during such closing.”
A clause in a comic opera agreement ran:
“No salary will be payable for any nights or days on which the artiste
may not perform, whether absenting himself by permission, or through
illness, or any other unavoidable cause, and should the artiste
be absent for more than twelve consecutive performances under any
circumstances whatever, this engagement may be cancelled by the manager
without any notice whatsoever.”
Thus it will be seen an engagement even when obtained hangs on a
slender thread, and twelve days’ illness, although an understudy may
step in to take the part, threatens dismissal for the unfortunate
sufferer.
Of course culpable negligence of the rules may be punished by instant
dismissal, but for ordinary offences fines are levied, in proportion
to the salary of the offender. Sometimes a fine is sixpence, sometimes
a guinea, but an ordinary one is half a crown “for talking behind the
scenes during a performance.” Some people are always being fined.
In the case of legitimate drama the actor is not permitted to “build
up” his part at his own sweet will; in comic opera, however, “gagging”
and “business” have often gone far to make success.
The upholder of law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager.
If power gives happiness he should be happy, but his position is such
a delicate one, and tact so essential, that it is often difficult
for him to be friendly with every one and yet a strict and impartial
disciplinarian.
Life is a strange affair. We all try to be alike in our youth,
and individual in our middle age. As we grow up we endeavour to
shake ourselves out of that jelly-mould shape into which school
education forces us, although we sometimes mistake eccentricity for
individuality. Just as much real joy comes to the woman who has
darned a stocking neatly or served a good dinner, as is vouchsafed
by public praise; just as much pleasure is felt by the man who has
helped a friend, or steered a successful bargain. In the well-doing is
the satisfaction, not in indiscriminate and ofttimes over-eulogistic
applause.
Stage aspirants soon learn those glorious press notices count for
naught, and they cease to bring a flutter to the heart.
Success is but a bubble. It glistens and attracts the world as the
soap globe glistens and attracts the child. It is something to strive
for, something to catch, something to run after and grasp securely;
yet, after all, what is it? It is but a shimmer—the bubble bursts in
the child’s hand, the glistening particles are nothing, the ball once
gained is gone. Is not success the same? We long for, we strive to
attain our goal, and then find nothing but emptiness.
If we are not satisfied with ourselves, if we know our best work has
not yet been attained, that we have not reached our own high standard,
worldly success has merely pricked the bubble of ambition, that bubble
we had thought meant so much and which really is so little. People
are a queer riddle. One might liken them to flowers. There are the
beautiful roses, the stately lilies, the prickly thorns and clinging
creepers; there are the weeds and poisonous garbage. Society is the
same. People represent flowers. Some live long and do evil, some live
a short while and do good, sweetening all around them by the beauty of
their minds. Our friends are like the blooms in a bouquet, our enemies
like the weeds in our path.
What diversified people we like. This woman excites our admiration
because she is beautiful, that one because she is clever, yon lady is
sympathetic, and the trend of the mind of the fourth stimulates our
own. They are absolutely dissimilar, that quartette, we like them all,
and yet they have no points in common. It does us good to be with some
people, they have an ennobling, refining, or softening effect upon
us—it does us harm to be with others.
And so we are all many people in one. We adapt ourselves to our friends
as we adapt our clothes to the weather. We expand in their sunshine and
frizzle up in their sarcasm. We are all actors. All our life is merely
human drama, and imperceptibly to ourselves we play many parts, and
yet imagine during that long vista of years and circumstances we are
always the same.
We act—you and I—but we act ourselves, and the professional player acts
some one else; but that is the only difference, and it is less than
most folk imagine.
Love of the stage is the fascination of the mysterious, which is the
most insidious of all fascinations.