MRS. LANGTRY, THE JERSEY LILY.
Sometimes, instead of being made the subject of a practical joke on the street, as was the Cahokian of whom I told the story at the opening of this chapter, the joke is carried even farther—the aspirant being taken to the stage to give a sample of his work. Occasionally the show is given to the people of the theatre only, and the victim is quietly let through a trap, or guyed unmercifully, until he is glad of an opportunity to make his escape. I was present on an occasion when an Illinoisan who had just graduated from college was allowed to go on the stage during a matinee performance, when the house was light, to speak his piece. He chose, of course, the selection he had inflicted on the suffering audience that attended the Illinois college graduating exercises. It was "The Warrior Bowed his Crested Head," a very dramatic recitation and a difficult one even for a good reader. The debutant was about eighteen years of age, tall, and manly looking. He came forward trembling, and did not attempt to proceed further than about twelve feet from the entrance,—making a school-boy bow he began. The audience wondered at the innocence and awkwardness of the entertainer who did not appear in the programme, but all soon understood the affair. The debutant had not reached the second line of the second verse, when bang came a pistol shot from the side of the stage. The speaker ducked his head, trembled a little more than before, but went on. Bang went another pistol shot, and again the speaker acknowledged receipt of a shock by twitching his head and knocking his knees together. Still he kept on reciting. Sheet-iron thunder rattled through the place, horns were blown, drums beaten, horse-rattles kept in motion and for more than half an hour pistol shots and flashes of fire kept coming from both sides of the stage. Still he spoke on, making gestures, twitching his limbs, and ducking his head until the last line was reached,—something about the hero's weapons shining no more among the spears of Spain,—when he bowed and retired hardly able to walk. He was an exception, however, to the general rule that stage-struck people are easily frightened out of their wits, under such circumstances, and displayed such perseverance that he was complimented by the audience that had scarcely heard a word of what he had said—a loud burst of applause following his exit, which was continued until he came forward again and by a bow acknowledged their kindness. He must have been a brave fellow, for next day he was around at the manager's office asking for an engagement.
Managers are sometimes very cruel in their treatment of young people who are anxious to adopt the stage. I saw a newspaper item stating that at the Buckingham, a variety show in Louisville, a drop curtain was painted with the huge letters "N. G.," standing for "no good," and the manager ordered that this verdict be lowered in front of every performer who failed to show a fair degree of merit. It happened that the first to deserve this crushing verdict was a remarkably pretty girl, and the audience sympathized with her. She had given an execrable dance, and was in the midst of a woeful recitation, when the "N. G." curtain was lowered. The audience demanded her reappearance and did not permit anybody else to perform until the police had arrested the more gallant and noisy among them.
Amateurs who have any money to mingle with their desire to go on the stage find ready takers. I could name several gentlemen who are now alleged professionals, with talents that are not even mediocre, who are tolerated in first-class company only because they pay for the privilege. One way a moneyed, stage-struck person has of getting before the public is to rent a theatre, and hire a company for a night or a week or a month, as the case may be. Society swells generally do this kind of thing, and they never succeed. Marie Dixon was, under another name, a fairly well-to-do, well connected and popular lady of Memphis, Tennessee. She was old enough to have a married son, but did not appear to be more than thirty-six years. Her family had been very wealthy before the war, but that event swept away their possessions, as it swept away the possessions of many others. She was educated and accomplished, but was stage-struck. She had appeared at several amateur concert entertainments in Memphis, and the local papers having complimented her, and her friends having remarked that she was intended for an actress, she boldly, but foolishly, resolved to become one. She made up her mind to rival Mary Anderson, and to overshadow the memory of Ristori and all the great queens of the stage that have made a place for themselves in dramatic history. She paid $2,000 for the use of a St. Louis theatre for six nights; she hired a very bad company at, to them, very extravagant salaries; she bought a wardrobe larger and in some respects richer than that of any established star; then she came to St. Louis with her aged father, whose hopes and money were staked upon her; they put up at the Lindell Hotel, and having left Memphis amid a flourish of trumpets, they fondly expected a wilder flourish when they returned. Miss Dixon appeared before the St. Louis public for six nights, and was a failure. She was no actress. She was ashamed to return to Memphis, and at this writing is still absent from there. The father went home, and, I hear, died of a broken heart. Disappointed friends at first pitied, then laughed at this accomplished lady, whose only fault seems to be that she was one of the grand army of the stage-struck.
MARIE PRESCOTT AS "PARTHENIA."
Miss Helen M. Lewis, a Charleston, South Carolina, heiress, who was anxious to become a Sarah Bernhardt or a Siddons, was taken in recently by an advertisement in a New York paper. The advertisement stated that a lady with a little capital was wanted to head a first-class dramatic combination, and that she might call at No. 602 Sixth Avenue, New York. Miss Lewis, who was without any training, answered the advertisement, and was told that $1,000 would be required to obtain the position, which was leading lady in the "Daniel Rochat" Combination, which was to begin its tour, by opening at the Boston Theatre. The negotiations were carried on with Maurice A. Schwab and Robert J. Rummel, who received $700 from Miss Lewis, and furnished her with an alleged instructor in the dramatic art. In order to be near the theatre Miss Lewis took rooms at the Revere House, Boston, where Schwab and Rummel also established themselves, and proceeded to study her part after engaging an alleged instructor recommended by Schwab. After two or three weeks' standing off by the swindlers, who made constant demands on her for money for her wardrobe and other things, she chanced to call at the Boston Theatre to hear how the rehearsals of "Daniel Rochat" were progressing. She was told that there were no rehearsals in progress and learned that she had been swindled. Schwab and Hummel fled, leaving her to pay her hotel bill, but she had them arrested in New York, and both on trial were, I think, convicted and sent to the penitentiary, where plenty more managers of their stripe should be.
Managers of what are known as "snap" companies are just as bad as Schwab and Rummel. They are glad to find some young lady or gentleman of means with lots of ready cash, and they do not hesitate to make victims even of professional people. The snap manager has no money of his own. He sits around a theatrical printing office all day, and pretends to be running a circuit of several towns. He watches his opportunity until a company comes along which he thinks he can take over to his villages. By false representations he manages to run up a big bill with the printer and to borrow money from the company, who go as far on his circuit as their means will permit, when the snap manager deserts them, leaving them to walk, or beg, or borrow their way home as best they can. Marie Prescott, who supported Salvini during his last American tour, and who is an actress of merit, was caught in the clutches of one of these managers at one time and was put in a pitiable plight. Other actresses of good reputation have accepted engagements from strange managers only to find themselves members of fly-by-night combinations, giving their services without even the show of a probability of ever receiving any salary.
Even so exalted a gentleman and eminent an impresario as Col. Mapleson is alleged to have brought a young girl from France promising he would make a fortune for her. The girl's father and mother accompanied her, and when the gallant colonel of Italian troupes failed to keep his contract with the sweet singer, the father became enraged and wanted to fight a duel with the military impresario. The family went back to France almost penniless.
The worst class of managers in the world are those who take advantage of the ambition of young girls to effect their ruin. In some of the variety theatres managers pay salaries to young ladies or introduce them to the stage for none other than a base and iniquitous purpose. Frightful stories of this kind have been told, and the success real managers have met with in this direction has caused numerous pretenders to arise, and has made the theatrical profession a bait to secure innocent girls for Western and Southern bawdy-houses, concert dives, and low dancing-halls. I read the following advertisement in the Globe-Democrat one morning:—