The animal nature of the audience must be satisfied.
Every year the vulgarity becomes more and more apparent. New and more suggestive novelties must be introduced to satisfy this "taste." The songs must have a "meaning"—the dances, some of which bring the blush of shame to the brow of even the most hardened theater-goers—must also arouse the passion.
The good girl first rebels at such. Day in and day out, as she rehearses, she sees other girls doing the thing that is required without kick or objection. She gradually falls into it herself. It does not look so bad after she has bowed to the manager's wishes several times.
It isn't long before the things that once caused her to blush and falter seem to be a natural consequence. The things against which she once fought are repulsive no longer.
She gradually falls into line with the others. Her innocence is a thing of the past.
She is no longer a girl—she is a woman "who knows."
It was about a year ago that I saw a young girl, a beautiful little creature scarcely nineteen years old, at a Chicago theater. She was a beauty, even in comparison with the other comely girls in the squad of beginners.
While they were resting after an act I talked with her. She frankly told me she was stage struck, but that her desire to become a great actress was inborn and not gained by association. Before she came to the city from her home in a little town out in Iowa she had seen but one show. Her ideas of the stage had been gained from books and from day dreams.
Her conversation was the essence of innocence. Her family had been particular about her rearing. They had been in moderate circumstances and had given her everything in their power. She had come to Chicago to attain her ideal—to become a great actress.
She was of the frank and innocent type. Everybody she regarded as her friend. She was enthusiastic about her art. That her ambition would be realized she did not doubt for an instant.