"The actors are at hand; and by their show you shall all know that you are like to know."
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
"We got into Bungtown early next day. I went at once to the theatre. There I was happy to learn that the advance sale was good and the prospects for the evening's performance A1. We opened to a full house, and the audience appeared to enjoy the entertainment. The following evening did not pan out quite so well, in consequence of a torchlight procession through the streets and a big Grand Army parade. The night after—our farewell performance. Great Scott! A rainstorm thinned the attendance to the proportions of a fashionable church in the metropolis during summer, when the popular preacher is absent on vacation abroad, seeking after the health he never lost. How I felt can be better imagined than described. I was up against it for fair. As I told you, I was unable to settle the hotel bill at the last town, and in addition we had now the handicap of an extra hotel and railroad fare for Breadland's clerk, who according to agreement was to travel with the show until the whole account with Breadland was squared up."
"The prospects were not encouraging."
"No; but we managed, somehow or other, to get out of town; though when everything was fixed, including a few dollars to Breadland on account, it was a close shave. Fortunately, the railroad fares to our next stand were light and we had three days there. It was in that sylvan retreat by the flowing river we nearly met our Waterloo. Speak of bad business. It was something weird."
"Misfortune and you must have been running a race."
"Yes, with the filly away in the lead. But we managed to play right on. Sunday morning found me once more hors de combat, with another hotel bill unpaid and an almost empty treasury to meet it. I nearly gave up in despair. Remembering, however, that despair never yet pulled a man out of a hole, in sheer desperation I resolved once more to fall back on the expedient that carried us over the sea of troubles that beset us before we reached Bungtown."
"Great Heavens! you don't mean to say you proposed to carry another hotel clerk on your staff?" queried Fogg.
"I had to do something. Necessity is the prompter of ingenuity, and the suggestion came from that source. There is no use in going further into detail. I convinced the landlord and secured another secretary of the treasury to look after the income, and we got out of town next morning as happy as clams at high water. Well, without mincing matters, I must say we had as rough a road to travel any band of poor strolling Thespians ever struck."
"Misfortune still in the lead?"
"I should say so. Listen. We ran into the Gulf Stream of a red-hot political campaign, and I needn't tell you these torchlight processions, firework displays, and fife and drum corps knock the life out of the show business. Where we made a few dollars in one place we dropped them in another. Had it not been for a small reserve fund I had carefully treasured up for extra hazardous emergencies and my peculiar talent and diplomacy in dealing with hotel men, I verily believe it would have taken us all the winter to have reached a hospitable haven of relief, for the walking was wretched and Western railroad ties too far apart for decent pedestrianism."
"By Jove!" smiled Fogg, "you must have had an anxious time from the word go."
"Oh, that goes without saying. I managed to pull through and reached good warm-hearted Chicago with nine hotel clerks on my staff, all acting as treasurers, assistant treasurers, auditors, ticket-sellers, bookkeepers and financial agents, each one wondering why the box office department was receiving accessions to its ranks in the face of such bad business."
"An' did they never tumble to the little joker?"
"Well, I candidly admit it required the exercise of considerable tact to keep them in complete ignorance of the true situation."
"Of that I have not the slightest doubt."
Handy was silent a moment.
"Fogg, did you ever worry over a promoter's prospectus of a proposed financial scheme prepared for the edification of the public with the laudable intention of separating people from their money?"
"Some," answered Fogg, slightly mystified at the change Handy had given to the conversation.
"That being the case, you can call to mind how eloquently the promoter labors to convince prospective investors how they can get in on the ground floor and lay the foundation of a fortune to be made out of a hole in the ground?"
"I've heard of such things."
"Do you know how it was done?"
"Search me."
"Well, I, too, can do a little in that line myself. I did some of the most expert word painting to my assistant financial agents or their representatives and held them together and in good fellowship until I reached my harbor."
"If the question is not an indelicate one," said Fogg hesitatingly, "might I inquire if you ever paid up?"
"Every dollar," quickly responded Handy. "When we reached Chicago we struck smooth water and entered upon a prosperous sea for four weeks. Money fairly poured into our coffers. One by one I sent each hotel clerk back to his employer, with a check for the money I owed him in his pocket and a receipted bill in mine. I squared up with every one I was indebted to. You know when we make money we make it fast."
"And part with it as readily," added his friend.
"That has nothing to do with the case, my boy. Now, let me ask you if you think I told you this moving tale of ups and downs for the mere fun of its recital, do you?"
"Well, partly fun, kill time, and partly to a—a—a——"
"Yes, go on. Partly to a—a—a——what? Why don't you finish the sentence?"
"To illustrate the principle of a novel way to pay old debts, eh?"
"Right you are," replied Handy emphatically. "And let me add, so far as you are personally concerned——" For the first time during the narration he looked thoroughly in earnest.
"I'm listening."
"When you ever get in a bad box or are up against it, don't lay down and brood over the hardship, but set to work with a will to get square with your troubles as becomes a man."
CHAPTER XVIII
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are."
—Nursery Rhymes.
Three weeks after "The Lady of Lyons" episode Handy was once more in harness and equipped for the stage. He had captured what is technically known as "an angel" and was fairly well provided for another brief campaign. His friend Smith was engaged to accompany him and to officiate as general utility man in the broadest sense of the term. Fogg, who had been instrumental in lassoing the "angel," was engaged to be leading man of the new organization. An "angel" is one of those peculiar individuals who have stage aspirations, with money to burn; is ambitious to act, or try to, then fret a brief season behind the footlights, in nine cases out of ten fails and is never heard of more. The "angel" is generally a woman with a "friend." Her stock in trade to embark in an arduous profession requiring talent, industry, patience, intelligence, perseverance, and self-reliance consists chiefly in a good wardrobe, cheek, self-assurance, vanity, and ready cash.
It is a well-known fact that the capital stock of an "angel" melts, thaws, and resolves itself into disappointment after she has had a short practical experience on the boards. The exacting demands of the theatrical calling dims the luster that lured the deluded one recklessly to enter the seemingly attractive circle, to appear as the make-believe heroines of romance on the stage. A few weeks—perhaps not so long—at one of the theatrical factories to be found in nearly all of the large cities where Juliets are prepared at short notice, Camilles manufactured for immediate use, and actors in every department of the calling are turned out by some superfluous veteran of the stage at so much per lesson, generally in advance, fits the aspirant for a debut on a starring tour. How many enterprises of this character have started out, with thousands of dollars to back them, too, and returned to the city with rudely dispelled hopes and empty purses, it is difficult to estimate. Every season brings forth a fresh crop. The industry has grown with the times, and the appetite for theatric fame has not in the least diminished. The number of fallen "angels" scattered throughout the country would cut a respectable figure in a statistical report.
It is only a few short years ago, in one of the leading theatres of the country, a playhouse which was subsequently trampled out of existence by the march of trade, that five Juliets to one Romeo made an afternoon pitiful by the incongruity of the representation of one of the sweetest plays of the immortal bard. Every act introduced a fresh Juliet, as if to demonstrate the unfitness of each aspirant to present adequately even the slightest phase of a character which requires the art of a consummate artist to interpret properly.
Much has been said and written about the unworthiness of traveling companies in the country towns. While much of this may be true, even in the large cities as absurd exhibitions of acting may be witnessed as anywhere else. No one knew this better than Handy. To give him his due, he was usually careful in the selection of his companies. He never went half-way to work about it. When he desired to organize a troupe he endeavored to gather about him the best from his point of view.
"Indifferent and bumptious actors," said Handy to a friend, "are always looking for what they call big money. Their seasons, therefore, are short. They learn nothing from experience. They know it all. Yet they will hang on the ragged edge of starvation for weeks rather than come down in what they are pleased to name as their figures. A really good actor has little difficulty in securing an engagement at a reasonable salary. I know them, and they can't fool your uncle."
It must be admitted that Handy's experience in this line was somewhat extensive. To go into the detail of advance work and rehearsals is unnecessary. They may be left to the reader's imagination. They are, therefore, passed over in order to get more quickly to the opening night and the birth and death of a star.
"Camille" was the drama in which the "angel" decided to make her debut. The aspiring amateur, if a woman, generally makes choice of "La Dame aux Camellias." Why she does so, if not to bring to her aid a display of rich and elaborate costumes, it is difficult to say. In making such selection she unconsciously contrasts the possession of rich silk and satin frocks, together with valuable jewels, with the poverty of her histrionic resources.
The little town of Weston was the place selected as the scene of operations. The advance man, or press agent, had played his part well. "Camille" met the eye on every fence and blank wall in the place. Dodgers literally floated in the air and the town was so adorned with snipes that the uninitiated might reasonably conclude that paper costs nothing and printers worked for fun. To Handy's indefatigable exertions this was in a great measure due. Three nights he devoted to the work, and actually painted Weston red with "Camille."
"If you want to have a thing done well," he exclaimed, "you must do it yourself or see personally that it is done. There is no use in having printing unless you get it up where the public can see it. Billposters are peculiar people. They are in certain respects economical, and they have their own peculiar ideas of saving. That perhaps is the reason why you see so few posters stuck up for public edification and so many of them stowed away somewhere on out-of-the-way shelves in bill-posters' studios. They are queer fellows, these bill-posters. I've never been able to understand them. I've been, in various capacities, with many theatrical companies that were amply supplied with all kinds of printing to start out with, but when I went about town where we played looking for it I had to search pretty closely to find where it was pasted up. I therefore, in this case, determined to pay personal attention to that part of the business myself." This information or explanation was imparted to Camille through Fogg, by the way of a preliminary endorsement of Handy's remarkable energy.
Fogg was enthusiastic in praise of the manager's clever publicity display.
"I never saw a town so well billed in my life," said he, "and as you know, Mr. Handy, I have had some experience in such matters. Don't you agree with me, Miss De la Rue?" The last inquiry was addressed to the "angel" star, who was standing by his side, apparently as nervous and fidgety as if she was about to undergo an examination in a law court.
"Yes, indeed; I think the place is awfully well done," she replied, rather timidly, "but I didn't notice as many of my lithos around as I expected."
"What!" replied the manager in surprise. "Why, there ain't a saloon or cigar shop that ain't got them up. I know, for I've been in all of 'em."
Handy spoke the truth. It is a fact that cigar shops and liquor stores are the principal galleries in which the pictorial printing of theatrical celebrities and theatrical combinations are placed on exhibition. There is more money thrown away uselessly in such places, in the way of expensive printing and lithographs, than managers seem to realize. Even some of the shrewdest men in the business are not altogether free from the weakness of adorning these establishments with high-priced pictorial work. The practice at one time had at least the merit of novelty, but since it has become a regular thing it has lost much of its efficacy and ceased to be remunerative. But what is the use of objecting? Stars would be nothing more than mere rushlights if the highly colored lithos did not proclaim their prominence in the theatrical firmament to those who are ever ready to pledge women in song or story in the flowing bowl. Of course, in the interest of art.
"Do you think, Mr. Handy, that we shall have a good house?" inquired the "angel," as she stood on the stage before the performance, in a highly nervous, hesitating manner. "I should dislike to appear before a small audience; it is so discouraging, you know, to an artist."
"A good house?" echoed the optimistic manager. "We'll turn 'em away, and you can bank on it," he replied, with an air of confidence that reassured the bird of paradise and brought a smile to her face.
"I'm so glad to hear you say so! But I'm ashamed to admit it. But to you, of course, as my manager, I may confide and confess I feel awfully nervous."
"Happy to hear you tell me so, miss. Remember one thing, that all them as amounts to anything are taken that way on a first night. For instance, take Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she's a holy terror on a first night. There's Francis Wilson—well, it isn't safe to be near him when he comes off the stage of a first night. Then there's Joe Murphy, the great Irish comedian; when he plays a part, it is said, he becomes so nervous that he goes about giving every member of his company a ten-dollar bill. Sir Henry Irving was another of those so affected that he wanted to make a speech to the audience after every act, and only for the restraining influence of Bram Stoker, he would. Charley Wyndham, now Sir Charles, makes himself believe he is an incarnation of David Garrick. Nat Goodwin is that nervous of a first night that he wants to play 'Macbeth' with Maude Adams as Lady Macbeth the next time he produces a new piece. All the result of nervousness, I assure you. I am affected that way myself on every first performance I appear in. It is, strange to say, the greatest evidence we have of the possession of that gift of what is regarded as genius. That's what's the matter!"
"You really think so? Oh, it is so consoling to hear you say so! I feel easier in my mind after you telling me and placing me on the same footing with the great ones of our profession. I'll go and dress now."
The "angel" star hurried off to her dressing-room. Smith, from among the manifold duties he was called upon to perform, had just returned from the front of the house, where he had been looking after things, as he himself put it. He approached Handy and in an enthusiastic manner informed him he thought the capacity of the house would be tested.
"Oh, that won't surprise me," replied Handy. "Give me 'Camille' every time for a country audience, providing the billing is all right. 'Camille' is old enough to be young."
"Do you think we're going to give a good show?"
"As to that, I'll speak to you later on. That's another proposition. Now, then, get a move on you. Hurry up and dress, and above all things, see that your props are all right."
Smith was property man as well as prompter—two important offices which in any well-regulated theatrical company would require the services of two men. In addition to these, he undertook to double a couple of the minor parts. He was an old hand at the work, and doubling and trebling did not in the slightest disturb him. He was not always as careful as he should be in the matter of detail, and in several instances his attempts at faking did not pan out as he originally planned them.