Stage Confidences Part 8

So we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when the answer might possibly have been: "The acting was beyond anything in town. The dresses? Nothing remarkable! Oh, well, fair enough!"

I have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautiful Mrs. Russell, then of Wallack's Theatre, was the originator in this country of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. When it was known that the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of other dresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the last inch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about her splendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks of salary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, but alas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her that sprang up into a fine crop of dragon's teeth for following young actresses to gather. _Qui donne le menu, donne la faim!_ And right here let me say, I am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly of all good things. I have much satisfaction in the present, and a strong and an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress, which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, I would not ask to go back to those days of primitive costuming. In Shakespere's day there appeared over a "drop," or curtain of green, a legend plainly stating, "This is a street in Verona," and every man with an imagination straightway saw the Veronese street to his complete satisfaction; but there were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention and to keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. One would not like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placard saying, "This is a ball gown" or "This is a Coronation robe," the imagination would balk at it. But there is a far cry between that and the real Coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. What I would ask for is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burden of senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders--not by the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous small hands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of their salaries. How generous they would be if they could be content to dress with grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that those who are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate, and sometimes at what a price, dear Heaven, at what a price!

Let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fas.h.i.+on--of rank. As she makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned from the opera. Therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood and opera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. Suppose, then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining of delicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth or elegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. But suppose the actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that the elaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence--a creation lined with the frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with real lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels--what happens? The cloak pushes forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob this way and that, opera-gla.s.ses are turned upon the wonderful cloak whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten to one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner of that wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama.

Extravagance is inartistic--so for that reason I could wish for moderation in stage dressing. Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be to me! For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for the gowns of a play. I thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of "Divorce," just as I had finished paying for five dresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes for the one hundredth night. I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc., and he made answer, "Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir up fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and they will come to see the new dresses."

And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with: "Oh, of course! If we are acting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, I can't object any longer. You see, I was under the impression people came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me my error."

For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our unfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, "I am surprised at you, Miss Morris," and at my rueful response, "Yes, so am I surprised at Miss Morris," he laughed outright and pushed me toward the open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker's. I had a partial revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after one night's wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill.

Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her--that is very bitter. Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more than that one play, and next season it is out of date. When the simplest fas.h.i.+onable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to? There was a time when the comic artists joked about "the $10 best hat for wives." The shop that carried $10 best hats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now.

So the young actress--unless she has some little means, aside from a salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke that salary out--is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes; for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs.

Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, I think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, "Miss B. in her $500 dinner dress"; "Miss R. in her $1000 cloak"; "Miss J. in her $200 tea gown," and then later there appeared elsewhere, "Miss M.'s $100 parasol."

Now had these pictures been given to ill.u.s.trate the surpa.s.sing grace or beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious one, a sort of friendly "tip" on the newest things out; but those flaunting price tags lowered it all. In this period of prosperity a spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. Luxuries have become necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is forgotten. Those who published the figures and prices of their clothes were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister's heart with bitter envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to compet.i.tion by the mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their owners. Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the under girl, in the struggle for clothes!

In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes of the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for production after production, it would seem that the management must share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very much higher than they were a few years ago.

In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fas.h.i.+ons to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another cla.s.s, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed.

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night--so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless cla.s.s--she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois.

Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau. There was none.

"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had been returned for blocking."

"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donne." A quick blow stopped further explanation.

"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American artist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between two rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "Comme elle est belle!" "Quelle aplomb!" "Matin, quelle chic!" "Elle est forte gentille!" "C'est le coup de grace!" "Le chapeau! le chapeau!" "La belle Pearl! la belle Pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment.

And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had such vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat.

If I were a young actress, I would rather be noted for acting than for originating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank G.o.d, and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. And though the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now, and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out of debt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good an actress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make the clothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, to the question of fine acting.

_CHAPTER XIV

THE MASHER, AND WHY HE EXISTS_

Thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and even appreciate it. The American brand is generally pithy, compact, and expressive, and not always vulgar. Slang is at its worst in contemptuous epithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seems likely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. No more vulgar term exists than "masher," and it is a distinct comfort to find Webster ascribing the origin of the word to England's reckless fun-maker,--_Punch_.

Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies,--all these terms have been applied at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that abomination,--masher. Nor am I "puttin' on scallops and frills," as the boys say. I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very much overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the window, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, "Well, she is up against it," slangily expressed the unfortunate woman's exact predicament. Oh, no, I'm not "puttin' on frills," I am only objecting with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible creature indicated by it,--masher.

In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock.

Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to the teacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, "There, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'll all be quite happy." I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh commandment, "Not to say anything more about it."

Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the multiplication table. Of course _fives_ and _tens_ were at a premium--even very stupid little girls could get through them, and _twos_ were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. _Sevens_ were, however, my own especial nightmare--even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by seven. Standing in cla.s.s on the platform, the _sevens_ one day fell to me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoa.r.s.ely whispered, "Forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess," and burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us say anything more about the _sevens_, Miss Sands, and then we'll all be quite happy."

Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would like to cry, "Don't let us say anything more about the masher, and then we'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. The stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination. These "Johnnies" who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love--they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple.

These young "taddies," with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,--each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.

One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense!

Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters are his chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be sufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other door and probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist?

And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait, now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the _jeunesse doree_.

But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the "masher." The clever and promising artist, Miss G----, is not his style. He is not looking for brains, "don't yer know." He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the flas.h.i.+ng eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a _demi-ta.s.se_. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." Oh, hideous word!

Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher"

proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and through them to be properly presented.

Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a "masher" to the extent of her ability, I once went, it's hard to admit it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I was made to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting "Alixe" at Mr.

Daly's Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There was seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning fiercely over a "drop letter," as we called them. One evening my box held a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon club paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap.

The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's were dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural type, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, the violet's blue." I might have been a little touched but for the signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was the signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitch into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of the name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another letter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was very diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his disposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day pa.s.sed without a letter from me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to secure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to cross our biggest street--while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravely admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over before writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very night, and his seat was in the balcony,--No. 3, left side, front row,--and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.

It didn't seem to occur to him that such an att.i.tude would give him a very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "to look him over." Without a second thought, I read that portion of the letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall of A. Fix.

So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large pocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of course a line spread of canvas in the balcony. The audience, ever quick to catch on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the situation, burst into hilarious laughter. Uselessly I pleaded; at every possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such unseemly places that night.

The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common "masher,"

heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: "I am afraid you are cruel. I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do not remember that they did such things before last night with their handkerchiefs."

Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully upon my brow, "So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don't think I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one word, I'll help you to my plumb last cent," and truly Mr. Fix left me ashamed and sorry.

He had suffered for his name, which I believed to be an a.s.sumed one.

Poor young man, I offer an apology to his memory.

One scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to be sent to a certain prominent club, that I one day laid the letters before Mr. Daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that "if Mr.

B.M.B., of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receive not the answer he expected, but the one he deserved," and Mr. Daly was highly delighted when he heard that B.M.B., who was a "masher" _par excellence_, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms.

Those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at street corners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police, since they enc.u.mber the streets and are a menace and a mortification to female citizens. Let some brazen woman take the place of one of these street "mashers," and proceed to ogle pa.s.sers-by, and see how quickly the police would gather her in.

But so far as the stage "masher" is concerned, dear and anxious mamma, auntie, or sister, don't worry about the safety of your actress to be.

The "masher" is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam, never a danger.

_CHAPTER XV

SOCIAL CONDITIONS BEHIND THE SCENES_