Theatrical and Circus Life / or, Secrets of the Stage, Green-Room and Sawdust Arena

by John J. Jennings

DECORATING A SCENE PAINTER.

The ballet girls of another theatre played an equally effective and amusing trick upon an obnoxious scene painter. The artist had been in the habit of painting posts, doorsteps, etc., in the neighborhood of the stage-door in colors that were not readily perceptible, and when the young ladies' "mashes" came around after the performance to wait for them to dress, they innocently sat down upon or leaned against the fresh paint and ruined their clothes. The scene painter and his friend were always in the neighborhood to raise a laugh when the disaster was made known, and the result was that the gay young men would come near the stage-door no more, and that the sweetly susceptible creature known as the ballet girl was obliged to go home alone, supperless. Well, one day the girls found the artist asleep against his paint-table with a half emptied pitcher of beer by his side. This was their opportunity. One of the girls who was of a decorative Oscar-Wilde-like turn of mind got a small brush while another held the colors, and in ten minutes they had that man's face painted so that he would pass for a whole stock of scenery; the tattooed Greek was a mere five-cent chromo alongside of him, and a Sioux Indian with forty pounds of war-paint on would be a ten-cent side-show beside a twelve-monster-shows-in-one-under-a-single-canvas exhibition. In this elaborate but undecorative condition the scene painter wandered off to a neighboring saloon, the wonder and merriment of all who saw him. He did not understand the cause of the general stare and unusual laugh at him, until a too sensitive friend took him to a mirror and showed him his frescoed features. Profanity and gnashing of teeth followed, and the artist was prevented from going back to the theatre to murder ten or twelve people only by a thoughtful policeman who picked him up as he flew out through the door of the saloon, and carried him off to the calaboose. He was sorry when he got sober, and from that day to this has not attempted to paint the coat-tails of the ballet girls' lovers.

A great many of these lovers, as they are designated, are bold and heartless wretches, who have in some way or other obtained an introduction to or scraped acquaintance with the sometimes fair young creatures who fill in the crevices and chinks of a play, or air their limbs in the labyrinths of a march, or shake them in some strange and fascinating dance. They look upon the ballet girl, whether she be a dancer or merely below the line of utility, as legitimate prey, and without the slightest scruple will waylay or spread a net to catch her in some quiet but successful manner. They forget that many girls enter the theatre with the intention of making honorable and honest livings; that they prize their virtue as highly as the most respected young lady who moves in the topmost circles of the best society, and that the theatrical profession is only misrepresented by the men and women who give themselves up to debauchery, and allow their passions to run riot to such an extent that they win notoriety of the most unsavory and unenviable kind. It is only because the stage is besieged by so many scoundrels and villains who have either bought or begged the privileges of the back door that the profession is dangerous to young and innocent girlhood. The stage itself is pure, and could be kept so, if these hangers-on were only done away with and the youthful student and aspirant for histrionic honors were allowed to pursue her vocation unassailed by the handsome tempters who begin by flattery and after an usually easy conquest, end the dream of love by rudely casting the fallen girl aside to make room for another victim.

Stand here in the shadow awhile. The performance is at an end, and the gentlemen who haunt the stage-door are beginning to assemble. There are probably a half dozen of them. They stand around sucking the heads of their canes and anxiously awaiting the appearance of their inamoratas. A burlesque company has the theatre this week, and there are probably eighteen or twenty handsome young ladies in the combination. Nearly every one of them is a "masher," and can be depended upon to hit the centre of a weak male heart, with an arrow from her beaming eye, at one hundred yards. Some of them have received tender notes from the front of the house during the night, making appointments for a private supper at one of the free and easy restaurants; others have met their gentlemen friends before and can depend upon them to wait at the stage-door every night. Those who send the notes during the performance are of what is classed as the ultra-cheeky kind. A man of this class will do anything to make the acquaintance of a ballet or chorus girl. I knew one, one night, to push a dozen different notes under the door of Eme Rousseau's dressing-room, which opened into the parquette, and he would not desist until Samuel Colville, the manager, caused him to be dragged out of the theatre and given over to the police. Another gentleman of the same proclivities having failed to gain Alice Oates's attention when she was in Chicago, followed her to St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Louisville, and still being unable to effect a proper "mash," endeavored to introduce himself successfully and gain her favor forever by making her a present of a pair of fast horses. Alice very sensibly refused to accept the gift, and told the fond and foolish young man to go home to his mother.

Many cases of this kind might be cited to show how easily the women who enter the profession, partly for the purpose of prostituting their art, find easy conquest among the hair-brained fellows who are only too willing to be captives and rarely try to break the fetters of roses with which they find themselves bound. But keep here in the shadow a while and watch the manœuvres of the "mashers." The stage-door opens and out comes a very modest little girl. She does not belong to the combination playing at the house this week, but is a member of the regular ballet of the theatre,—one of the few poor creatures who are obliged to get into ridiculous costumes of enormous dresses or unpadded tights, to increase the throng of court-ladies, the number of pages, or add to the proportions of a crowd. She does not dress any better than a girl who finds employment in a factory. She is young, however, and stage-struck. She has gone into the profession, braving all its dangers and with a firm resolution to go unscathed through it, carrying with her a sincere love for art and a burning desire to attain eminence. But alas! she has little talent, and absolutely no genius. This can be seen and appreciated already, although she has not had two lines to speak since entering the theatre. She has been in the employ of the house only since the beginning of the season. The "mashers" part to make room for her as with eyes cast down she trips along the street. Some of them say smart and pretty things, and some have the impudence to raise their hats and bid her good-evening. She pays no attention to them, however, and it is probably fortunate that the tall muscular gentleman in work-day clothes who has had a pass to the gallery or may not have been in the theatre at all, and who is waiting a block below to escort her home, does not know the petty insults that are put upon her or the snares that beset her path. Every night the big burly fellow waits for the modest little ballet girl to see her home in safety. The girl does not tell them at home to what dangers she is exposed, and they never learn until sometime the fall comes, when a troupe of negro minstrels or a large comic opera chorus invade the house and lay siege to the hearts of all the females they find behind the scenes.

Here come two laughing blondes through the stage door. The light falling upon their faces shows that although they try to appear light and cheery, there is weariness in their limbs and perhaps distress in their hearts. They select their male friends at once; indeed, the latter have been waiting for the gay burlesquers.

"Charley dear, I didn't see you in front to-night," says one.

"Neither did I," says the other; "but George was there. I could tell him by his red eyes and cherry nose."

"Yes," responds Charley, "there was too much champagne in that last bottle, and I didn't care about getting out of bed until half an hour ago."

"You had considerable of the juicy under your vest, last night," the first girl remarks; and then there is a laugh, and Charley says he feels in a good humor for tackling more wine at that particular moment, and the quartette move off to a hack-stand, jump into an open carriage and with lots of laughter the party are driven away to some suburban garden with wine-room attachment, or to some urban restaurant where wine may flow as freely as morality may fade away with the speeding hours, and the pleasure may last just as long as the restauranteur thinks he is being well paid for the privileges of his establishment.