easy to make a reputation—difficult to keep one—the theatrical agent—the butler’s letter—mrs. siddons’ warning—theatrical aspirants—the bogus manager—the actress of the police court—ten years of success—temptations—late hours—an actress’s advertisement—a wicked agreement—rules behind the scenes—edward terry—success a bubble.
mankind curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. it is comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and this applies particularly to the stage.
happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the provinces and was longing for a london engagement, i asked her what her experience of theatrical agents had been.
“perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the bargain. for three whole months i have been daily to a certain office, and in all this weary time i have only had five interviews with the manager.”
“is it so difficult to get work?”
“it is almost impossible. when i arrive, the little stuffy office is more or less crowded; there are women[pg 326] seeking engagements for the music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take their hats off. it is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like jews in synagogues.
“there are children who come alone and wait about daily for an engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom i have met there every day for weeks and weeks. seventy-four days after the pantomime closed she was still without work, and i watched that child get thinner and paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the sole support of a sick mother.
“when i go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up.
“‘do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed spectacles. he jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘character or juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘what salary? whom have you played with?’ and having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘i am sorry i have nothing for you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ and this same farce or tragedy is repeated every time.”
“but is it worth while going?” i asked.
[pg 327]
“hardly; one wears out one’s shoe-leather and one’s temper; and yet after all the theatrical agent is practically my only chance of an engagement. this man is all right, he is not a bogus agent, but he simply has a hundred applicants for every single post he has to fill.”
she went back day after day, and week after week, and each time the same scene was enacted, but no engagement came of it. finally, brought to the verge of starvation, she had to accept work again in the provinces, and so desert an invalid father. she happened to be a lady, but of course many applicants for histrionic fame ought to be kitchen-maids or laundry-maids: they have no qualifications whatever to any higher walk of life.
below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go on the stage. it was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she was starring with her own company.
“... castle
“oct 19th 1897
“dear madam
“i writ you this few lins to see if you would have a opening for me as i would be an actor on the stage for my hole thought and life is on the stage and when i have any time you will always feind me readin at some play i make a nice female as i have a very soft voice dear madam i hop you will not refuse me i have got no frends alive to keep me back and every one tells me that you would make the best teacher that i could get dear lady i again ask you[pg 328] not to refuse me i will go on what ever termes you think best i have been up at the theatre 4 times seeing you i enclose my card to let you see it plese to send it back again and i enclose 12 stamps to you to telegraf by return if you would like to see me or if you would like to come down to the castle to see me no more at present
“but remans your
“obedient servant
“peter w——.”
this was a letter from a man with aspirations, and below is a letter from mrs. siddons. if this actress, whose position was probably the grandest and greatest of any woman on the stage, can express such sentiments, what must be the experiences of less successful players?
“mrs. siddons presents her compliments to miss goldsmith, & takes the liberty to inform her, that altho’ herself she has enjoyed all the advantages arising from holding the first situation in the drama, yet that those advantages have been so counterbalanced by anxiety & mortification, that she long ago resolved never to be accessory to bringing any one into so precarious & so arduous a profession.”
the deterrent words of mrs. siddons had little effect in her day, just as the deterrent words of those at the top of the profession have little effect now. consequently, not only does the honest agent flourish,[pg 329] but the bogus agent and bogus manager grow rich on the credulity of young men and women.
speaking of the bogus manager, sir henry irving observed:
“the actor’s art is thought to be so easy—in fact, many people deny it is an art at all—and so many writers persistently assert no preparation is needed for a career upon the stage, that it is little wonder deluded people only find out too late that acting, as voltaire said, is one of the most rare and difficult of arts. the allurements, too, held forth by unscrupulous persons, who draw money from foolish folk under the pretence of obtaining lucrative engagements for them, help to swell very greatly the list of unfortunate dupes. i hope that these matters may in time claim the attention of serious-minded persons, for the increasing number of theatrical applicants for charity, young persons, too, is little less than alarming.”
this remark of sir henry’s is hardly surprising when below is a specimen application received by the manager of a london suburban theatre from a female farm servant in essex:
“deer sur,—i works hon a farm but wants to turn actin. would lik ingagement for the pantomin in hany ways which you think i be fit for. i sings in the church coir and plais the melodion. i wants to change my work for the stage, has am sik of farm wark, eas last tater liftin nigh finished me.”
another was written in an almost illegible hand which ran:
[pg 330]
“honoured sir,—i wants to go on the staige i am a servent and my marster sais i am a good smart made so i wod like to play act mades parts untill i can do laidies i doant mind wages for a bit as i like your acting i’d like to act in your theter so i am going to call soon.”
truly the assurance of people is amazing; to imagine they can enter the theatrical profession without even common education is absurd. only lately another stage-struck servant appeared in the courts. although an honest girl, she was tempted to steal from her mistress to pay ￡3 7s. to an agent for a problematical theatrical engagement. she is only one of many.
one day a woman stood before a manager. she had been so persistent for days in her desire to see him, and appeared so remarkable, that the stage door-keeper at last inquired if he might admit her.
“please, sir, i wants to be an actress,” she began, on entering the manager’s room.
“do you? and what qualifications have you?”
“i’m a cook.”
“that, my good woman, will hardly help you on the stage.”
“and i’ve been to the the-a-ters with my young man—i’m keeping company with ’im ye know, and——”
“well, well.”
“and ’e and i thinks you ain’t got the right tone of hactress for them parts. now i’m a real cook i am, and i don’t wear them immoral ’igh ’eels, and[pg 331] tiny waists, i dresses respectable i do, and i’d just give the right style to the piece. my pal—she’s a parlourmaid she is—could do duchesses and them like—she’s the air she ’as—but i ain’t ambitious, i’d just like to be what i am, and show people ’ow a real cook should be played—lor’ bless ye, sir, i don’t cook in diamond rings.”
that manager did not engage the lady; but he learnt a lesson in realism which resulted in miss fitzclair being asked to dispense with her rings on the stage that night.
with a parting nod the “lady” said as she left the door:
“your young man don’t make love proper neither, you should just see ’ow ’arry makes love you should, he’d make you all sit up, i know, he does it that beautiful he do—your man’s a arf-’arted bloke ’e is, seems afraid of the gal, perhaps it’s ’er ’igh ’eels and diamonds ’e’s afraid of, eh?”
the lady took herself off.
these are only a few instances to show how all sorts and conditions of people are stage-struck. that delightful man sir walter besant lay down an excellent rule for young authors, “never pay to produce a book”—it spells ruin to the aspirant. the same may be said of the stage. never part with money to get on the stage. it may be advisable to accept a little if one cannot get much; but never, never to pay for a footing. services will be accepted while given free or paid for, and dispensed with when the time comes for payment to be received.
[pg 332]
among the many temptations of stage life is drink. the actor feels a little below par, he has a great scene before him, and while waiting in his dressing-room for the “call boy” he flies to a glass of whiskey or champagne. he gets through the trying ordeal, comes off the boards excited and streaming at every pore, flings himself into a chair, and during the time his dresser is dragging him out of his clothes, or rubbing him down, yields to the temptation of another glass. many of our actors are most abstemious, though more than one prominent star has been known to mumble incoherently on the stage.
matinée days are always a strain for every one in the theatre, and there are people foolish enough to think a little stimulant will enable them to get through, not knowing a continuance of forced strength spells damnation.
yes. the stage is surrounded by temptations. morally, extravagantly, and alcoholically the webs of excess are ready to engulf the unwary, and therefore, when people keep straight, run fair, and save their pennies, they are to be congratulated, and deserve the approbation of mankind. he who has never been tempted, is not a hero in comparison with the man who has turned aside from the enticing wiles of sin.
there is a certain class of woman who continually appears in the police courts, described as an “actress.” she is always “smartly dressed,” and is generally up before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk and disorderly”—suing her husband or some one else for[pg 333] maintenance—or claiming to have some grievance for a breach of promise or lost jewellery.
these “ladies” often describe themselves as actresses: and perhaps they sometimes are; but if so they are no honour to their profession. there is another stamp of woman who becomes an actress by persuading some weak man to run a theatre for her. sympathy between men and women is often dangerous. she generally ends by ruining him, and he in running away from her. these bogus actresses, with their motor cars and diamonds, are more dangerous and certainly more attractive than the bogus manager. they are the vultures who suck young men’s blood. they are the flashy, showy women who attract silly servant-girls with the idea the stage spells wealth and success; but they are the scourge of the profession.
good and charming women are to be found upon the stage. virtue usually triumphs; they are happy in their home life, devoted to their children, sympathetic to their friends, and generous almost to a fault. the leading actresses are, generally speaking, not only the best exponents of their art, but the best women too. the flash and dash come to the police courts, and end their days in the workhouse.
the stage at best means very, very hard work, and theatrical success is only fleeting in most cases. it must be seized upon when caught and treated as a fickle jade, because money and popularity both take wings and fly away sooner than expected. in all professions men and women quickly reach their zenith, and if they are clever may hold that position for ten[pg 334] years. after that decline is inevitable and more rapid than the ascent has been.
if a reputation is to be made, it is generally achieved by either man or woman before the age of forty. by fifty the summit of fame is reached, and the downward grade begun. one can observe this again and again in every profession.
a great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of success, and if he does not provide for his future during those ten years, ’tis sad for him. as the tide turns on the shore, so the tide turns on the careers of men and women alike.
public life is not necessarily bad. in the first place, it is only the man with strong individuality who can ever attain publicity. he must be above the ordinary ruck and gamut, or he will never receive public recognition. if, therefore, he is stronger than his brother, he should be stronger also to resist temptation, to disdain self-love or vainglory. the moment his life becomes public he is under the microscope, and should remember his influence is great for good or ill. popular praise is pleasant, but after all it means little; one’s own conscience is the thing, that alone tells whether we have given of our best or reached our ideal. the true artist is never satisfied, therefore the true artist never suffers from a swelled head; it is the minor fry who enjoy that ailment.
the temptations behind the footlights are enormous. it is useless denying the fact. one may love the stage, and count many actors and actresses among one[pg 335]’s friends; but one cannot help seeing that theatrical life is beset by dangers and pitfalls.
young men and women alike are run after and fawned upon by foolish people of both sexes. morally this is bad. actors are flattered and worshipped as though they were little gods. this in itself tends to evoke egotism. the gorgeous apparel of the theatre makes men and women extravagant in their dress; the constant going backwards and forwards in all weathers inclines them to think they must save time or themselves by driving; the fear of catching cold makes them indulge in cabs and carriages they cannot afford, and extravagance becomes their besetting sin. every one wants to look more prosperous than his neighbour, every recipient of forty shillings a week wishes the world to think his salary is forty pounds.
apart from pay, the life is exacting. the leaders of the profession seldom sup out: they are tired after the evening’s work, and know that burning the candle at both ends means early extinction, but the tottie veres and gladys fitz-glynes are always ready to be entertained.
the following advertisement appeared one day in a leading london paper:
“stage.—i am nearly eighteen, tall, fair, good-looking, have a little money, and wish to adopt the stage as a profession. engagement wanted.”
what was the result? piles of letters, containing all sorts of offers to help miss a—— to her doom. a certain gentleman wrote from a well-known fashionable[pg 336] club, the letter being marked private, saying: “i should like if possible to assist you in your desire to go on the stage, but i am not professional myself in any way. this is purely a matter in which i might be happy to take an interest and assist, if you think proper to communicate with me by letter, stating exactly the circumstances, and when i can have an interview with you on the subject.” this letter might be capable of many interpretations. the gentleman might, of course, have been purely philanthropic in his motives; we will give him the benefit of the doubt.
others were yet more strange and suggestive of peril for the girl of eighteen.
what might have been the end of all this? supposing miss a—— had granted an interview to no. 1. supposing further he had advanced the money for the novice to buy an engagement, what might have proved her fate? she would have been in his clutches—young, inexperienced, powerless, in the hands of a man who, if really philanthropic, could easily have found persons needing interest and assistance among his own immediate surroundings, instead of going wide afield to dispense his charity and selecting for the purpose an unknown girl of eighteen who innocently stated she was good-looking.
miss geneviève ward, a woman who has climbed to the top of her profession, allows me to tell the following little story about herself as a warning to others, for it was only her own genius—a very rare gift—which dragged her to the front.
here i am my dear old friend gee gee
by permission of w. boughton & sons, photographers, lowestoft.
mr. george grossmith.
[pg 337]
when she first came to england, with a name already well established in america, expecting an immediate engagement, she could not get work at all. she applied to the best-known theatrical agents in london. day after day she went there, she a woman in her prime and at the top of her profession, and yet she was unable to obtain work.
“tragedy is dead, miss ward,” exclaimed mr. b——. “young women with fine physical developments are what we want.”
it was not talent, not experience, that were required according to this well-known agent, but legs and arms—a poor standard, truly, for the drama of the country.
however, at last there came a day, after many weary months of waiting, when some one was wanted to play tragedy at manchester. it was only a twelve weeks’ engagement, and the pay but ￡8 a week. it was a ridiculous sum for one in miss ward’s position to accept, but she was worn out with anxiety, and determined not to go back to america and own herself vanquished; therefore she accepted the offer, paid the agent heavily, and went to manchester, where she played for twelve weeks as arranged. before many nights had passed, however, she had signed a further engagement at double the pay. her chance in england had come and she had won.
if such delay, such misery, such anxiety can befall those whose position is already established, and whose talents are known, what must await the novice?
[pg 338]
“i suppose i have kept more girls off the stage than any living woman,” said miss ward. “short, ugly, fat, common, hopeless girls come to me to ask my advice. there is not one in twenty who has the slightest chance, not the very slightest chance, of success. servants come, dressmakers, wives of military men, daughters of bishops and titled folk. the mania seems to spread from high to low, and yet hardly one of them has a voice, figure, carriage, or anything suitable for the stage, even setting dramatic talent aside.”
“what do you say to them?”
“tell them right out. i think it is kinder to them, and more generous to the drama. ‘mind you,’ i say, ‘i am telling you this for your own good; if i consulted personal profit i should take you as a pupil and fill my pocket with your guineas; but you are hopeless, nothing could possibly make you succeed with such a temperament, or voice, or size, or whatever it may be, so you had better turn your attention at once to some other occupation.’”
i have known several cases in which miss ward has been most kind by helping real talent gratuitously; many of the women on the stage to-day owe their position to her timely aid.
“warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, never, never to give one.”
it is no uncommon thing for a bogus agent to ask for a ￡10 bonus, and promise to secure an engagement at ￡1 a week. that engagement is never procured, or, if it be, lasts only during rehearsals—which are not paid for—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl[pg 339] is told she does not suit the part, and dismissed. thus the matter ends so far as a triumphal stage entry is concerned.
it may be well here to give an actual case of bonus as an example.
a wretched girl signed an agreement to the following effect. she was to pay ￡20 down to the agent as a fee, to provide her own dresses and travelling expenses, and to play the first four months without any salary at all. at the expiration of that time she was to receive 10s. a week for six months, with an increase of ￡1 a week for the following year.
on this munificent want of salary the girl was expected to pay rent, dress well for the stage, have good food so as to be able to fulfil her engagements properly, attend endless rehearsals, and withal consider herself fortunate in obtaining a hearing at all. she broke the engagement on excellent advice, and the agent wisely did not take action against her, as he at first threatened to do.
in the sixties edward terry essayed the stage. seeing an advertisement, the future comedian offered his services at a salary of 15s. a week.
above the door was announced in grand style:
“madame castaglione’s dramatic company, taking advantage of the closing of the theatres royal covent garden, drury lane, lyceum, etc., will appear at christchurch for six nights only.”
it was an extraordinary company, in which several parts were acted by one person during the same evening.[pg 340] there was only one play-book, from which every actor copied out his own part, no one was ever paid, and general chaos reigned. edward terry had fallen into the hands of one of the most notorious bogus managers of his time. his next engagement was more lucrative. he was always sure of playing eighteen parts a week, and sometimes received 20s. in return. matters are better now; but strange stories of early struggle crop up occasionally, and the bogus manager-agent, in spite of the actors’ association and the benevolent fund, still exists.
edward terry had to fight hard in order to attain a position, and thoroughly deserves all the success that has fallen to his lot; but all stage aspirants are not edward terrys, and then their plight in the hands of the bogus agent is sad indeed, especially in the provinces where he flourishes.
those who know the stage only from the front of the house little realise the strict regulations enforced behind the scenes in our first-class london theatres, the discipline of which is almost as severe as that of a government office. each theatre has its code of rules and regulations, which generally number about twenty, but are sometimes so lengthy they are embodied in a handbook. these rules and regulations have to be signed by every one, from principal to super, and run somewhat in this wise:
“the hair of the face must be shaven if required by the exigencies of the play represented.”
“all engagements to be regarded as exclusive, and no artiste shall appear at any other theatre or hall[pg 341] without the consent in writing of the manager or his representative.”
“all artistes engaged are to play any part or parts for which they may be cast, and to understudy if required.”
“in the event of the theatre being closed through riot, fire, public calamity, royal demise, epidemic, or illness of principal, no salary shall be claimed during such closing.”
a clause in a comic opera agreement ran:
“no salary will be payable for any nights or days on which the artiste may not perform, whether absenting himself by permission, or through illness, or any other unavoidable cause, and should the artiste be absent for more than twelve consecutive performances under any circumstances whatever, this engagement may be cancelled by the manager without any notice whatsoever.”
thus it will be seen an engagement even when obtained hangs on a slender thread, and twelve days’ illness, although an understudy may step in to take the part, threatens dismissal for the unfortunate sufferer.
of course culpable negligence of the rules may be punished by instant dismissal, but for ordinary offences fines are levied, in proportion to the salary of the offender. sometimes a fine is sixpence, sometimes a guinea, but an ordinary one is half a crown “for talking behind the scenes during a performance.” some people are always being fined.
in the case of legitimate drama the actor is not permitted to “build up” his part at his own sweet will;[pg 342] in comic opera, however, “gagging” and “business” have often gone far to make success.
the upholder of law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager. if power gives happiness he should be happy, but his position is such a delicate one, and tact so essential, that it is often difficult for him to be friendly with every one and yet a strict and impartial disciplinarian.
life is a strange affair. we all try to be alike in our youth, and individual in our middle age. as we grow up we endeavour to shake ourselves out of that jelly-mould shape into which school education forces us, although we sometimes mistake eccentricity for individuality. just as much real joy comes to the woman who has darned a stocking neatly or served a good dinner, as is vouchsafed by public praise; just as much pleasure is felt by the man who has helped a friend, or steered a successful bargain. in the well-doing is the satisfaction, not in indiscriminate and ofttimes over-eulogistic applause.
stage aspirants soon learn those glorious press notices count for naught, and they cease to bring a flutter to the heart.
success is but a bubble. it glistens and attracts the world as the soap globe glistens and attracts the child. it is something to strive for, something to catch, something to run after and grasp securely; yet, after all, what is it? it is but a shimmer—the bubble bursts in the child’s hand, the glistening particles are nothing, the ball once gained is gone. is not success the same? we long for, we strive[pg 343] to attain our goal, and then find nothing but emptiness.
if we are not satisfied with ourselves, if we know our best work has not yet been attained, that we have not reached our own high standard, worldly success has merely pricked the bubble of ambition, that bubble we had thought meant so much and which really is so little. people are a queer riddle. one might liken them to flowers. there are the beautiful roses, the stately lilies, the prickly thorns and clinging creepers; there are the weeds and poisonous garbage. society is the same. people represent flowers. some live long and do evil, some live a short while and do good, sweetening all around them by the beauty of their minds. our friends are like the blooms in a bouquet, our enemies like the weeds in our path.
what diversified people we like. this woman excites our admiration because she is beautiful, that one because she is clever, yon lady is sympathetic, and the trend of the mind of the fourth stimulates our own. they are absolutely dissimilar, that quartette, we like them all, and yet they have no points in common. it does us good to be with some people, they have an ennobling, refining, or softening effect upon us—it does us harm to be with others.
and so we are all many people in one. we adapt ourselves to our friends as we adapt our clothes to the weather. we expand in their sunshine and frizzle up in their sarcasm. we are all actors. all our life is merely human drama, and imperceptibly to[pg 344] ourselves we play many parts, and yet imagine during that long vista of years and circumstances we are always the same.
we act—you and i—but we act ourselves, and the professional player acts some one else; but that is the only difference, and it is less than most folk imagine.
love of the stage is the fascination of the mysterious, which is the most insidious of all fascinations.
