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FAMILIAR CHATS
W I 111 1 HK
QUEENS OF THE STAGE.
BY
ALAN DALE,
AUTHOR OF
A Marriage below Zero," "Ax Eerie He axd She," Etc., Etc.
When in the chronicle of wasted time.
I see descriptions of the fairest wights.
And beauty making beautiful old rime.
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights.
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's hest.
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now."
Shakespeare,
^
NEW YORK:
Copt RIGHT. 1890. bt
G. IV. DiUingham, Pnbiishef,
Successor to G. \V. Carleton & Co.
• i MDCCCXC.
All Rights Reserved.
Co
Bak K-i.'iNw IDDIE
PRL-^TING AND IJOOK- BINDING Co.,
Jersey City, N. J.
TO
LEANDER RICHARDSON,
UNDER WHOSE GUIDING AND STOUTLY FEATHERED WING I
FIRST SAW THE LAND THAT MOST OF THE STAGE
QUEENS, HERE DISCUSSED, CLAIM AS
THEIR OWN,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME IN ALL GRATITUDE.
Alan Dale.
CONTENTS.
Introduction
I'liKo
• 9
Lillian Russell
,
.
• 43
Mrs. James Brown-Potter
■ 57
Rose Coghlan . .
.
. 69
Fanny Davenport
• «3
LOTTA .
• 93
Helena Modjeska
105
ISABELLE UrQUHART
117
Sadie Martinot
129
Georgia Cay van
•39
Mrs. Langtry .
153
Mary Anderson
4- •. •
■^3
Agnes Booth
nz
Minnie Palmer .
>85
Ivl
VI
CONTENTS.
Emma Jucii
Marie Jansen .
Marie Wainwright .
Louise Beaudet.
Pauline Hall .
Marion Manola
Effie Ellsler .
Mrs. D. p. Bowers .
Ada Rehax
Georgie Drew Barrymore
Little Gertie Homan
Lilly Post
Ellen Terry
Clara Morris .
Rosina Vokes .
Nellie McHenry
Pa^e
205
223
247
259
287
301
311
321
345
0/5
385
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Lillian Russell
. /
\onti
J'HKe
spiece
Mrs. James Brown-Potter
.
• 57
Rose Coghlan .
. 70
Fanny Davenport
. <S4
LOTTA .
• 93
Helena Modjeska
. 106
ISABELLE UrQUHART
.
118
Sadie Martinot
130
Georgia Cay van
140
Mrs. Langtry .
153
Mary Anderson
164
Agnes Booth
174
Minnie Palmer .
186
Emma J ugh
'
196
iLLi >ikAi U):>b.
Makie Jansex .
Marie Wainwrigiit
Louise Beaudkt.
Pauline Ham .
Marion Manola
Effie Ellsler .
Mrs. D. p. Howers
\ Rehan
Georgie Drew Bakrvmork
Li'm.E Gertie Homax
Ellen Terry
Rosina Yokes
Nellie McHexrv
Page
. 205
. 224
• 234
. 247
. 260
• 274
. 288
. 322
• 334
• 345
• o/^
. .^.86
Introduction,
ET nobody who takes up this
book for perusal, imagine that
I am about to assume the role
of a biographer, or that I have
the very smallest ambition in
that direction. I am afraid
that I could never be a Bos-
well to anybody's Johnson, for the simple rea-
son that I was born without the bump of vener-
ation. Pity me, kind readers, all of whom, I
sincerely trust, are possessed of every beautiful
phrenological attribute known to Dr. Gall. The
ability to venerate is a delightful gift ; the ina-
bility a veritable disaster, bringing forth enemies
by the score. I always envy the man who can
lO INTRODUCTION.
find a hero or a heroine without any difficulty.
He is a brother of the hicky individual who
accepts exquisite intentions for indifferent deeds.
These people are of distinct value to the com-
munity. They are some of the wheels that help
to move society. Everybody likes them. You
have heard of the lady who pathetically and
melodiously remarked, "Oh, would I w^ere a
bird !" Well, I have always felt inclined to
adapt this to myself, and to exclaim " Oh, would
I were a wheel !"
What a flamboyantly felicitous individual he
must be who can see Edwin Booth as Hamlet
one night, and James Owen O'Connor in the
same role the next night, and yet find kind words
to say of either ! Picture to yourself the para-
disaical life of him who can gush ecstatically over
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in *' La Tosca," and still
find that his adjectival eloquence has not been
exhausted when he witnesses the performance of
Miss Fanny Davenport in the same play. There
INTRODUCTION. j i
are many such. I have met them, and they
have been more wonderful to me than any dime
museum freaks. I have broken the tenth com-
mandment time after time. Whenever I have
come in contact with any of these bits of human
sunshine I have coveted their priceless posses-
sion — the bump of veneration. I have yearned
for it. I have tried to cultivate it, but have
come to the conclusion that I might as well
attempt to grow an apple tree in a bag of saw-
dust.
Now a man who tries to deal biographically
with a score of actresses ought to be a person
literally saturated with the milk of human kind-
ness, otherwise he will be absolutely unable to
keep comparisons and opinions from his work.
If the same person write the lives of Ada Rehan
and Estelle Clayton, with anything more than
the dates of the production of the various plays
in which they have appeared, he will, unless he
be one of the rose-tinted creatures to whom I
12 INTRODUCTION.
have referred, surely give offence to one of the
ladies. Miss Rehan may sue him for libelous
ridicule ; Miss Clayton may ask her manager to
interview him with a club for derogatory state-
ments. I do not mean to say that the discreet
individual is not to be found who could evasively
satisfy both ladies, and still avoid being rose-
tinted. But I do dare to assert that such
biographies will be singularly uninteresting to
the non-theatrical public.
When my publisher, Mr. Dillingham, asked
me for sketches of a number of actresses whom
he named, I trembled in my shoes. I thought
he meant biographies, and the horror of becom-
ing a theatrical biographer almost overwhelmed
me. Then came the joyous information that
biographies were not necessary. All that was
wanted was a series of gossipy sketches, or inter-
views, or notes, to which Mr. Dillingham would
supply some charming pictures. His task, I
realized, was an easier one than mine. He crot
INTRODUCTION. 1 3
the lovely faces — I, the careers they have helped
to make. Not a soul can object to his beautiful
and costly photogravures, while I may be clubbed
out of existence and twenty irate ladies may
dance a can-can on my grave. But I do not
repine. I frankly admit that there is more of
Dillingham than of Dale in this book, and that
his work is better in every respect than mine.
For some years I have had a great deal to do
with actors and actresses, in the shape of inter-
viewing, criticising, paragraphing. They have
been happy years for me. I have met some of
the most entertaining people in the world, some
of the queerest, some of the most ridiculous,
some of the most amusing.
At the risk of being considered egotistical, I
must say that I think my experience with the
ladies and eentlemen of the stao^e has been as
acute as that of anybody I know. While most
of the metropolitan critics sit at their desks all
day, and see the people they criticise at night
14 INTRODUCTION.
only, it has been my lot to meet actors and
actresses in the day-time and criticise them at
night. Even my enemies will admit that my
criticisms have been as frank and out-spoken as
any in New York. Picture the condition of the
man who condemns an actor in vigorous terms in
a criticism, and meets him with a smiling face
the next day, expecting to be well received.
I assure you, my readers, that there have been
days when I dreaded to present myself on
Broadway ; when visions of outraged actors and
avenging pistols have forced themselves upon
me. But I have never absented myself, and I
still live to tell the tale. I have discovered that
nearly every actor and actress writhes in agony
at the very suggestion of condemnation ; an insin-
uation is sufficient to throw them into ecstasies
of indignation. On the other hand, they receive
praise ungraciously and disappointingly, as
though it were their due. Nobody despises the
universal gusher more thoroughly than the actor,
INTRODUCTION. 15
yet nobody is more furious if he change his pMc
That sounds paradoxical, does it not? li is a
fact, however.
Once upon a time, I had a great admirer in a
young actor, who never let an opportunity of
showering upon me fulsome compliments escape
him. I had never seen him act.
*' Alan," he said to me one day, ** do you know
I couldn't get on if I were not able to read your
criticisms. I have them forwarded to me when- •
ever I leave town."
Of course I was profoundly touched by this
example of unbounded appreciation. Every man
likes to hear pleasant things said of himself —
even if he isn't an actor. A few months later
this amiable youth was cast for a part in a
metropolitan production. It was my duty to
criticise the production. I did so. My appre-
ciative friend was simply atrocious. If he had
been my brother I should have hated his per-
formance just the same. I came out next day
1 6 INTRODUCTION.
with my. honest views, and then forgot all about
the matter. A couple of weeks after this I met
the young actor and shook hands with him. He
was so cold that he chilled me to the very
marrow.
*• I am awfully sorry," he said, **that you have
stopped writing criticisms."
I looked at him in amazement. "You are
mistaken." I remarked ; "I am still at my old
post."
*• Well," he declared, '' I repeat that you have
stopped writing criticisms. You don't criticise
any more. That stuff you indulge in is simply a
cruel attempt to undermine the careers of those
before the public."
Ye gods ! The charge almost took away
my breath. I felt that it was my duty to be
indignant, but I couldn't fulfil my duty. The
ridiculous side of the situation struck me so
forcibly that I roared with laughter. When I
had composed myself I found that I was alone.
INTRODUCTION. 1 7
My indignant friend was striding down the a/e-
nue, freighted with his wrath.
On one occasion an actor informed me that
he had a little play that was to be produced at
a city theatre. If it proved to be a success, he
intended sending it out for a tour of the country ;
if it were not a success — well, there would be
nothing lost.
" Now, my dear fellow," he said, *' I particu-
larly want you to come and see it. If you like
it, say so ; if you don't like it, please don't hesi-
tate to express your opinion for the sake of any
kindly feelings you may have towards myself."
That was a very neat way of putting it, was
it not ? The privilege of saying that I didn't like
the play in case it proved objectionable, was
surely a delicate piece of consideration. The
performance took place in due course. How
sincerely I hoped that it might prove worthy.
The first act was so prodigiously awful that
everybody in the theatre appeared to be laugh-
l8 INTRODUCTION.
ing. The play was a tragedy. I tried to believe
that it was a farce, and to like it as such.
Impossible ! As a tragedy the play was bewil-
dering ; as a farce, it was a piece of prosy stupid-
ity. I went home and said exactly what I
thought about it. All the other papers roasted
it, but the actor seemed to single me out for his
particular ire. He did not visit me, thank good-
ness ! but he vilified me to all my friends. I
was incapable of criticism ; I was corrupt ; I was
an absurdity, and so forth and so on. Yet I had
merely done what he asked me to do. I had
said I didn't like the play because I didn't.
Not unfrequently actors and actresses use
diplomatic methods to express their disapproval
of your criticisms. They write anonymous letters
or pen effusions signed, " An admirer of Mr. So-
and-So," "A friend of justice,'' or (when they
want to be particularly insinuating), " One of
your most appreciative readers."
In a play I went to see not very long ago, a
INTRODUCTION. I9
very good-looking English actor appeared.
His dramatic value was of less consequence
than his good looks. His Adonisian qualities
were invariably emphasized. I said something
to that effect. Two days later I received a
letter signed *' An English Girl."
*' After reading your article," wrote my corres-
pondent, ''I went to see the play. You are
always bright and witty, but are you not a little
hard on Mr. Blank, and isn't it rather shabby
of you to take him so continually for your vic-
tim ? Surely there are other English actors here
whom you can pick to pieces equally as much
as Mr. Blank — for instance, Wilson Barrett,
Terriss, the beautiful (?) Conway, and lots of
others equally faulty. I was surprised to see
Mr. Blank act so well. I don't think you should
blame him for being good-looking, but attribute
that to America for producing such ugly men.
Isn't it only natural that American girls, seeing
only plain men, should set up Mr. Blank for an
20 INTRODUCTION.
Adonis? You may walk the avenue and find
hundreds of pretty girls, but they can't find ten
good-looking men unless among the actors, and
then they are English. Your articles, Mr. Alan
Dale, are always well written and amusing, and
we look forward to them ; but take my advice
and 'let up' on Mr. Blank for a bit. Pick some
one else to pieces and then when you go back
to him (as I see he is your stand-by), your
articles will be read with more interest, for then
they won't be so stale, or (pardon me) ' chest-
nutty.
Now, I feel perfectly sure that the writer of
this entertaining letter Avas none other than Mr,
Blank himself, or one of his most acute friend^
who had taken up the pen at his instigation.
Had I written six volumes of warmest praise, I
should never have heard from him. He would
have accepted it as his due without a murmur.
One night I went to see a new play at a
down-town theatre. The piece did not possess
% INTRODUCTION. 2 1
much dramatic value, but some of the "special-
ties " introduced were excellent. The dancing
of one young man was so clever and unusual,
that it impressed me greatly. I praised him
rather enthusiastically next day. He was an
oasis of entertainment in a desert of rubbish.
Two or three days later I was introduced to
him.
** I have been wanting to meet you," he said
fervently, "to thank you for the kindest words
that have ever been applied to a performance of
mine. I shall be grateful to you for life."
I assured him that there was no reason for
this luminous gratitude. I had merely done my
duty. I had expressed my sincere opinion, a
task which I was paid to perform. He shook
my hand, and almost wept on my bosom. I ear-
nestly wished I had been worthy of his enthusi-
asm, and began to realize that there must be a
great deal of sweetness in doing a genuinely
2 2 INTRODUCTION.
benevolent act. I knew, however, that there
was no benevolence in this.
The following Christmas-day I was dum-
founded to receive a box containing a Christmas
card and a beautiful pair of white satin braces.
There was not a word in the parcel explanatory
of its source. I tortured mv brains to discover
the donor, but without any success. I took the
braces home, and showed them to my wife.
She was fearfully indignant.
'• So those horrible actresses have been sending
you braces — braces, of all things in the world,"
she remarked, furiously. '* Oh ! of course you
are pleased. I might have expected that. I
wonder what you'll get next. Braces ! A more
suggestive and brazen present I couldn't imag-
ine. Who sent them ?"
I answered feebly that I had no idea on that
subject. That made her still more irate.
*' No idea?" she sneered. "Well, I have.
Put them on at once. Pray, don't mind me."
INTRODUCTION. 23
I gave the braces away next clay. I found a
friend who wanted a pair, and who had never
dreamed of anything so lovely as white satin.
A few days later I received a letter from Chi-
cago.
''I am a trifle disappointed," it ran, "at no
acknowledgment of my letter, or the box I sent.
I know it didn't amount to much, but I wanted
you to know that I appreciated your kindness."
I had received no previous letter. I looked at
the signature of this one. It came from the
enthusiastic young actor whose dancing I had
praised. I almost foamed at the mouth. It
was so annoying to receive a present from a
comparative stranger, and under such ridiculous
circumstances !
The next time I saw him was in a comic
opera that proved to be a terrible fiasco. He
did as well as he could with a bad part. I said
this and nothing more. I met him next day and
there were '' braces " in his eyes.
24 INTRODUCTION.
" That was very unkind," he said. '' I think
you m/^/i^ have said something nice about me."
He looked as though he meant to add "under
the bracing circumstances of the case."
Some time aofo I received a letter from an
actor whom I had met, enclosing me tickets for
a performance which he was most anxious to
have criticised. " I hope that my performance,"
he said, "may please you. I think you will find
that all actors admire your criticisms, even
though you bring them up with a round turn,
for they believe what you say is what you think,
and respect you, as a man, for your honesty.
I believe that the critic, who, without prejudice,
shows you your bad faults," (bad faults is excel-
lent) " is the best friend a man can have who
wishes to become an artist. I will close by say-
ing that I hope at some future time to have the
pleasure of taking you by the hand."
Well, I went to see this amiable youth, and I
admired his performance immensely. It was
INTRODUCTION. 25
really an excellent piece of work. But he was
playing a part that had been created by an actor
of reputation, and he imitated this actor in an
amazingly servile manner, even indulging in the
peculiar mispronunciation of certain words that
his predecessor had favored. I praised the young
man very warmly, but I spoke of the servile
imitation, and deplored it. It was totally
unnecessary. A few days later I received a
letter from my unseen friend. The good things
I had said of him were comparatively unnoticed.
The imitation business had- evidently wounded
his sweet, sensitive nature. I am convinced
that, at this moment, he is not nearly so anxious
to take me by the hand.
I used to find great difficulty in answering
that much vexed problem : Would you sooner
look a greater fool than you are, or be one ? I
can answer it now. I would sooner be a greater
fool than I am, for experience has taught me
that it would be impossible for me to look a
26 INTRODUCTION.
greater fool than I look. A nice, meek, gentle-
manly young idiot, is what many theatrical peo-
ple take me to be. I have seen this again and
again. As I am perfectly convinced that I am
not an idiot I am forced to believe that I
must look like one, and the reason is this : I
listen to what every man or woman has to say,
and maintain a resolute silence. If I am
obliged to speak I generally acquiesce. If an
actor tells me that he is the greatest artist on
earth, I let him think that I have accepted his
statement. If an actress deluge me with elo-
quence on the subject of her remarkable imper-
sonation, I smile happily and seem to agree with
her. If, later on, I see this actor and actress on
the stage, and dislike their performance, I say
so. That surprises them. They had come to
believe that I had no opinions of my own, and
that they had carefully impregnated me with
their own views. When next I meet them, they
are very cold, and very amazed. This has hap-
INTRODUCTION. 27
pened a hundred times within the last five years.
It is only by adverse criticism that the eccentrici-
ties of dramatic people come to the surface.
Some year's ago, I was living in a little
French boarding-house in West Twelfth street.
It wasn't at all swell, and it was for that
reason that I selected it. My purse lacked
embonpoint. This boarding-house suited its
emaciated state very nicely. In this place I met
the little lady who was once queen of the comic
opera stage in America. She is dead now. I
suppose I may as well give her name. It was
Marie Aimee. She stayed at the West Twelfth
street house when in the city. She lived there
expensively, and everybody adored her. I have
never since met so charming a little woman.
Aimee had a heart as large as her reputation.
She was, moreover, an artist to the finger tips.
She has had many imitators, but they have
fallen far short of the original.
One day I thought that I would write a short
28 INTRODUCTION.
artFcle on Aimee in this boarding-house. I did
so. I pictured her daintily smoking the after-
dinner cigarette, surrounded by the admiring
folks of the establishment, who were all fighting
for a place in her good graces. The article was
published. The next day, when I presented
myself at table, there was dead silence. I was
absolutely ignored. I spoke of the weather,
but my remarks were unheeded. I passed the
pickles, but they were declined without thanks.
I soon became distinctly uncomfortable. Next
day I was approached by Mme. Hortense, the
landlady.
" Sir," she said, " you have tried deliberately
to harm me, and I shall never forgive you. You
have written an article that makes Us all ridicu-
lous, and if you can find it convenient to look for
other quarters, I shall esteem it a favor."
There was only one word to express my sen-
sations. It is not pretty, but I shall use it. I
INTRODUCTION. 29
was flabbergasted. For some minutes I could
not speak.
*' Madame," I said, when I had partly
recovered, '' I assure you I said nothing in my
article to which anybody could reasonably take
offence. Please tell me wherein I have sinned ?"
She cast upon me a look of withering scorn.
"It is easily told," she remarked. " I will say
nothing of the anger of my two Belgian boarders,
who of course recognize themselves in tiie cari-
cature you have made of ' two bald-headed
dudes.' They can fight their own battles. You
have, however, insulted Mme. Aimee. You
alluded to her as smoking cigarettes. She is
furious, and so am I. Do you imagine that I
would permit any woman to smoke cigarettes in
my house ?"
I hesitated for a moment. The cigarettes /md
been smoked, and I did not see why I should
allow myself to be brow-beaten without any
defence.
30 INTRODUCTION.
"Surely I saw Mme. Aimee smoking" — I
began meekly.
The meekness was all on my side.
•' Supposing you did ?" declared my landlady,
with strenorth enouorh for us both. '* It was not
necessary to say so. I do not court newspaper
notqriety, and I will not have it."
I packed up my goods and chattels next day
and departed. I did not discuss the subject
with Aimee at the time, but I subsequently heard
that she did not mind the cigarette affair in the
least. Her sole objection to the article was
that I had mentioned the fact that she lived in a
boarding-house. She did not want this known,
as she imagined that people would think she
hadn't money enough to go to a hotel. I
may add (as every story ought to end happily)
that I met Aimee afterwards, and that there was
no boarding-house cloud between us.
A theatrical writer offends a great deal more
frequently, unconsciously than consciously. I
INTRODUCTION. 31
once knew a very clever old actress. She is
alive now. She was old, and rather feeble, an
entertaining and thoroughly amiable woman.
One day, thinking that I could serve my news-
paper and help her at the same time, I wrote a
short article about her. I began it with ** Old
Mrs. Blank," for the simple reason that she was
nearer seventy than sixty. She met a friend of
mine afterwards aad sent me a message.
** Tell him," she said, ''never to mention my
name again ; he called me 'old.' I should like
to let him know that there are many older peo-
ple on the stage. The idea of such a thing ! I
never want any more newspaper notices. Old,
indeed !"
I have since discovered that the older an
actress becomes, the more intense is her desire
to appear in soubrette and ingeritce roles. Mrs.
Langtry touched upon this idea, when, in her
confession, written for the London ErUy she
answered the question " How would you like to
32 . INTRODUCTION.
spend your old age ?" with the words, '' Playing
ingenues''
But the height of theatrical absurdity is
reached when actors and actresses want to see
proof sheets of the article you are writing about
them. Not long ago I wrote to an actress
noted for her good looks rather than for any
dramatic ability, asking her for a few '' points "
concerning her stage life. In reply I received
this :
" I am not disposed to be hypercritical, or
over exacting, but so many things have been pub-
lished about me which were certainly false and
without foundation, in fact things having a direct
tendency to injure me before the public, to
whom I look for support, that some time ago I
placed my affairs in the hands of able counsel.
I am especially cautioned not to give my con-
sent to the publication of any article that I do
not approve. On reflection you will see how a
faithful observance of said caution will protect
INTRODUCTION. 33
me In the future against the appearance of any
article whose tendency is injurious, and against
which I have a color of procedure."
Then she went on tq ask for proofs. As I
was not writing an advertisement for her special
benefit, but was trying to interest the public, to
whom I also look for support, I could not see
the whereforeness of her request, though she
had, of course, a perfect right to deny me any
information she did not care to give.
An actress sent me a note a couple of years
ago, asking to see me concerning an article I
had written about her. As it was full of well-
deserved praise, I accepted the invitation with all
due buoyancy. She was, however, cold and
indiornant.
** Do you think," she asked, "that it is quite
the correct thing to allude to me as a woman ?
Does it not occur to you that the word * lady '
would be preferable ?"
This time I indulged in a little indignation on
34 INTRODUCTION.
my own account. When I had entered her
room my attention had been particularly attract-
ed by a large family Bible that lay on one of the
lower shelves of a book-case. Quick as a flash I
took possession of it. It was an inspiration. I
opened it at the Book of Genesis. In Chapter
III., I found the following verse, which I read to
her :
'* And when the woman saw that the tree was
good for food, and that it was pleasant to the
eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise,
she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and
gave also unto her husband with her, and he did
eat."
Then I closed the book. '* The woman men-
tioned," I said, " was Eve, the mother of the
human race. Would you sooner allude to her
as the first lady and to Adam as the first gentle-
man ?"
She laughed heartily, though at first I think
she was inclined to be angry. She has never
INTRODUCTION. 35
objected to any word or phrase of mine since
that day. She often alludes to this little inci-
dent, and enjoys talking about it to her friends.
I have related these few anecdotes in order to
show my readers that the life of the theatrical
writer who is determined invariably to tell the
truth and shame the devil, is not always a bewil-
dering joy ; also, that it is much easier and fre-
quently more felicitously resultful to gush indis-
criminately over the sweet creatures of the
stage. I have heard many men say, *' I would
sooner that those people were my friends than
my enemies." Precisely. That is my case, but
I don't want friends under false pretences. My
books, *' A Marriage below Zero," and ''An
Eerie He and She," were ruthlessly slaughtered
by most of the literary critics. Naturally I
would sooner know the men who said kind-
things than those who portrayed me as the vil-
lain of the aoe. But the evil criticisms rolled
pleasantly away from me, just as water is said to
36 INTRODUCTION.
slide from the back of a duck. The very worst
that was said didn't cause me five minutes
anguish. I weighed every criticism for what it
was worth, and any points that were obviously
just, I resolved to profit by in the future. Hon-
est criticism is a boon. It is necessary for the
novelist, the playwright and the actor. Injus-
tice can always be detected. But there is far
more justice than injustice in the dogmatic and
literary criticisms of to-day.
Many folks wonder at the prominence given
to actors and actresses. They speak sneeringly
of the public interest in Miss So-and-S6's private
house, and Mr. This-or-That's bachelor apart-
ments.
Say they, '' Actors and actresses should be left
severely to themselves when in private life. We
are concerned with their dramatic work, and that
is all."
I deny this entirely. Actors and actresses
are a most fascinating class. By their efforts
INTRODUCTION. 37
we are drawn from ourselves into a vivid world
of fiction in which we live for the time being
realistically. Play-going is licensed selfforget-
ness — about the only means we have of finding
that delight. No novelist, no painter, no poet
can lead towards self-oblivion with any large
degree of success. The theatre is the safety
valve of the community. What this city would
be without its play-houses, it is very difficult to
imagine.
Is it at all wonderful that we want to know all
that we can of the men and women whose lives
are devoted to our amusement, with whom we
laugh, with whom we weep, who can call forth
our noblest natures, and hold our sincerest sym-
pathies ? I think not.
The newspapers feel the daily pulse of the
people. They hold it throbbing in their col-
umns. They minister to its requirements, and
they minister carefully and judiciously in spite of
all that is said. And the newspapers have long
38 INTRODUCTION.
recognized the Importance of the dramatic
world. There is a great deal of trash written
on the subject of sensational journalism. Sup-
pose the American is so built that sensational-
ism is absolutely necessary to his welfare ? I
have often thought that this is the case. If the
newspapers positively decline to be sensational,
he will seek his food elsewhere, and very often
to his detriment. A newspaper is surely justi-
fied in providing the food that is in demand. If
its effect be harmful, as is the case with some
news, there is the editorial as an antidote. If a
people crave fascinating anecdote, and neatly
told stories, you can't make them accept dry
statistics and verbatim reports of the doings of
Congress. Nor do I see any necessity for try-
ing to do so. The newspaper is the mirror of
the community. It reflects its good, it reflects
its evil. If there be more of the evil than of the
good, that is the fault of the community. The
regret of the evil, the knowledge that it exists
INTRODUCTION 39
will tend more towards the remedy of the dis-
ease, than its propagation.
The desire of the public for all the dramatic
news it is possible to get, is, to my mind, a sign
of the healthy condition of that public. Other
people may think differently. A newspaper that
rigorously excludes from its columns all dram-
atic gossip will find its circulation in a very
feeble condition. Actors and actresses are the
children of the public, nourished at the breast of
the public, clothed at its expense. We love to
investigate them thoroughly, and we have a
right to do so. Then the theatrical industry is
very vast. According to the World almanac,
there are some three thousand theatres in the
United States; some five thousand actors and
actresses actively employed. Hundreds of
thousands of dollars are invested annually in
this great plan of entertainment, this delightful
education. Putting the matter practically,
Americans are certainly not the people to spend
40 II^TRODUCTION.
their hundreds ana thousands of dollars upon
those with whom they are virtually unac-
quainted. They like their money's worth, and
so do we all.
Are you not quite as interested In knowing
that Henry Irving has a comfortable house In St.
John's Wood, as in being informed that Queen
Victoria has left London for Balmoral ? Don't
you think that the fact of Mme. Sarah Bern-
hardt's sleeping in a coffin Is quite as thrilling
and as useful as the intelligence that the Prince
of Wales was seen walking in Pall Mall wearing
a pair of tan kid gloves? Isn't a dinner given
to Mr. Toole, or Mr. Wilson Barrett worth as
much mention as the banquets presided over by
many of the brainless '' society " folks ? I rather
think so.
But I am getting philosophical and prosy, and
without any reason. This book really didn't
need a preface. Its contents deal with subjects
INTRODUCTION.
4'
popular, and deservedly popular with the public,
and so, my kind friends, I will leave these sub-
jects for your consideration.
Alan Dale.
Lillian Russell.
IMAGINE Lillian Russell, **airy,
fairy, Lillian," as she is fondly called,
being the daughter of the formidable
Cynthia Leonard, who ran for the
mayoralty of New York! Picture
; the velvety, cooing Lillian having for
' mother an advocate of woman's
rights ! It does seem rather incongru-
ous, doesn't it? It is a fact all the
same.
43
44 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
I don't believe that Miss Russell has the
faintest sympathy with mamma, whose motto is
rather a desperate sort of an affair for a queen of
comic-opera to be expected to tolerate. But no
difficulties have ever been known to exist
between Miss Russell and her family, and it is
said on very good authority, that the singer is a
financial prop upon which many of her relatives
lean rather heavily.
We are so accustomed to hear of Miss
Lillian's whimsicalities and frivolities that few
people know anything at all about the better
side of her nature. She is one of the most
kindly and most generous women in the theatri-
cal profession. I can't help relating a couple of
incidents which will substantiate what I say.
These instances came under my personal atten-
tion.
While Miss Russell was at the Broadway
Theatre singing in " The Queen's Mate," one of
the stage hands appeared one night in a brand-
LILLIAN RUSSELL. 45
new, serviceable overcoat. He hung it on a peg,
and went about his usual work. Later on, it was
necessary that he go out to make a purchase.
When he came to the peg upon which he had
hung his overcoat, he found that the garment
was missing. He searched for it everywhere, but
in vain. At last, in despair, the poor fellow was
forced to leave without it. Miss Russell heard
the story, and her heart was touched. She sent
for one of the men who had seen the coat, and
instructed him to go at once to a large clothier's
shop, close at hand, and buy a counterpart.
This was done. Miss Russell hung the coat
upon the peg which had held the other. When
the stage hand returned he was overwhelmed
with joy to see his overcoat staring him in the
face.
On another occasion one of the carpenters
missed a sum of mioney from his purse. He had
placed it there for the purpose of making a pay-
ment which was due. The loss was to him a
46 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
very serious affair. It came to Miss Russell's
ears during the evening. She sent for the man.
" How much have you lost?" she asked.
" Seventeen dollars," he said, the tears in his
eyes. Without another word, Miss Russell
drew her purse from her pocket, and handed the
deliofhted man the sum.
Miss Russell was very indignant the other
day because a few years were tacked on to her
age. As a matter of fact she is under thirty,
though her stage career, which began virtually
at Tony Pastor's, has been so checkered, and she
has been so conspicuously and continually before
the public that people are inclined to make her
out older than she is. This is always the way.
I heard somebody say the other day, perfectly
seriously, " Maggie Mitchell must be eighty, if
a day." Now the fact is that she is under fifty-
nine, but she came before the public at an early
age, and has remained before it ever since.
LILLIAN RUSSELL. 47
Hence the many mistakes that are made on the
subject of her age.
Miss Russell was married when very young to
a man named Braham. She was afterwards
wedded when less youthful to the ubiquitous
Mr. Edward Solomon, with whom she went
abroad, and encountered disasters that would
frighten any prima donna. The marriage was
not a very happy one.
" I had to be satisfied with one dress and a
cheap bonnet," declared Miss Russell when talk-
ing on the subject, *• while he had no less than
sixteen suits of clothes in his wardrobe."
No wonder, under such circumstances, that
there was war in the camp. Miss Lillian might
have condoned infidelity, have forgiven cruelty,
have forgotten deceptions, but tolerate this
excess of clothes — never !
Miss Russell has a slight souvenir of " Teddy "
in the shape of a charming little daughter, of
whom she is alarmingly fond. Her treatment of
48 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
the child is peculiar. One moment she is over-
whelming it with endearments and doing her
utmost to spoil the baby ; at another time she is
the personification of maternal dignity, correct-
ing the youngster with the methods of an accom-
plished disciplinarian. Miss Lillian and her
child, when in New York, live in an exquisitely
furnished apartment. She has a skilled cook, a
nurse, maid, and other myrmidons. Her rooms
are luxurious, and well worth seeing. Miss Rus-
sell, herself, pays very little attention to dress,
but she is one of the few women who can look
bewilderingly beautiful even in a calico wrapper.
The little child has the most astonishinof ear
for music. She was able to sing from beginning
to end the florid bolero, which was the feature
of her mother's vocal efforts in *' the Queen s
Mate " at the Broadway Theatre. This was of
course a great delight to Miss Russell, who
fondly believes she has the only living example
of a feminine little Lord Fauntleroy. She has
LILLIAN RUSSELL. ^g
recently been photographed with her Httle girl,
and the picture is very charming. Still, it is not
a good thing to circulate among the dudes and
young bloods whose feeble intelligence could
never imagine their lovely Lillian portrayed in
what they consider the milk-and-water beauty of
maternity.
Not so very long ago Miss Russell was sued
by a rebellious dressmaker, and the trial was
perhaps the funniest of the many funny trials I
have attended. To have heard the fair Lillian's
testimony, one would have imagined her the
veriest pauper. She had no diamonds, no jew-
elry ; her living expenses were really ridicu-
lously small ; her flat was the very least expen-
sive abode she could select ; her debts were very
many ; in reality she did not receive all her sal-
ary, her manager deducting a certain sum each
week with which to efface a loan he had made
her — and so on. I don't fancy that Miss Lil-
lian's pleas of poverty impressed very many peo-
50 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
pie, and I have since heard that the suit was
compromised.
Of late Miss Russell seems to have settled
down to business. She has now been singing at
the Casino an unusually long time — for her. It
must be nearly a year since she has broken a
contract. She is in admirable voice, and comic
ooera lovers realize the fact that she is the best
sinofer of her kind that New York has. Miss
Lillian no longer appeals to dudes and young
bloods. Her really excellent voice pleases the
music-loving community. If only her erratic
moods leave her unmolested, she still has a
promising future.
Miss Russell has one great admirer of whom
New Yorkers know very little. I refer to her
father, Charles Leonard, the junior member of
the firm of Knight and Leonard, printers, of
Chicago. Mr. Leonard is a popular man, and is
known around Chicago by his appreciative
friends, as " Charlie."
LILLIAN RUSSELL. 5 I
He is extravagantly fond of his ** airy, fairy"
daughter, and has been known to jump on a
train and travel a thousand miles, just to hear
her sing. On these occasions, he always returns
to Chicago immediately after the performance.
Miss Russell is invariably in a state of anxiety
about her voice, and always imagining that she
is losing it. She is irritable and cross when she
has the slightest cold, and I am afraid that the
golden dudes, who hang, in saccharine suspen-
sion, upon that lovely smile of hers, would not
care to interview their goddess when she is
affected by what is prosaically known as a cold.
Lillian pays as much attention to her voice as
does Patti, although I have never heard that she
sleeps with a handkerchief around her neck, as
Signor Nicolini's wife is reported to do. She
has faith in cold water, as a remedy for any
vocal ailment. She does not believe, like Herr
Wachtel, that a glass of sweet oil is any use,
neither does she credit the statement made by
52 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
many of the Teutonic interpreters of Richard
Wagner's " Goetterdaemmerung," that a few sips
of beer are beneficial. She has heard of all sorts
of remedies for vocal troubles, but does not
attach any importance whatsoever to them. She
says, however, that it is only by the most extra-
ordinary care of the body that the beauties of
the voice can be retained.
If Miss Russell feels that her vocal cords are
in the least affected, she declines to sing. Think
of this, ye unbelieving ones, who imagine that
the life of a comic opera manager is one of per-
petual joy, moving along on beautifully lubri-
cated rollers. Picture the man who is at the
mercy of a woman with troublesome vocal cords !
Then, if you are ever disappointed by the non-
appearance of your favorite prima-donna, blame
her — not him.
Long journeys affect Lillian's voice. On
occasions when she has to move from city to city
she takes a night off, for the move, and rests
LILLIAN RUSSELL.
53
most charmingly. Then, when she appears .n
the new town, she is as fresh and vocally deli^dn-
ful as ever.
There is probably no singer on the stage who
cares so little for criticisms, good or bad, as does
Miss Russell. They are positively without
effect upon her. An adverse criticism of her
voice, if well written, will make her feel that she
ought to do better, and she will try to do better.
But the flimsy and would-be funny paragraphs
that are often hurled at her, rather maliciously,
cause her amusement. She knows her own
worth. Will you kindly point out to me a suc-
cessful comic opera singer who doesn't? She
would be a curiosity, indeed.
Miss Russell owes a great deal to her husband,
"Teddy " Solomon — he of the sixteen suits. He
did more for her voice than anybody she has met
before or since. He saw in it a quality that
with care and some little education might be
made most valuable. When she went abroad
54 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
with him, although they were in horrible straits,
and encountered alarming misfortunes, he would
never permit her to sing anywhere but in places
where her vocal reputation could be enhanced.
He assiduously cultivated her voice ; he
labored with it artistically. Much of its present
delicacy and — to use the language of the Wag-
nerian maniacs — tone color, is due to little Mr.
" Teddy's " valiant efforts. Lillian knows this.
In time it will doubtless cause her to forget the
horrible tragedy of the sixteen suits. She will
never lose her voice if attention to its every
caprice is of any avail. The most appetizing
wine, the most fascinating dish will not tempt
her, if she think that the indulgence will inter-
fere with her music.
I have already spoken of Miss Russell's unos-
tentatious charity. I must here say that she is a
stern woman of business, able to drive a bargain
better than ten husbands. She is thoroughly
alive to her own interests, and she is quite cap-
able of looking after herself.
LILLIAN RUSSELL.
55
I heard one of her devoted slaves, in an amor-
ous ecstasy, remark : *' Think of that brave little
woman fighting her v^^ay through the world alone,
unaided, forlorn."
It was too funny. I was obliged to laugh.
Miss Russell could probably retire at the pres-
ent time, but she has not the least intention of
so doing. She was penniless, comparatively
speaking, when she returned from abroad.
Since that time, the money has been flowing into
her coffers in a lively stream.
I saw her the other day at the benefit given to
Harry Sanderson, the manager of Tony Pastors
Theatre. She came in a carriage and sat through
the performance. It was a graceful thing to do,
because, as before hinted, it was Tony Pastor
who brought her out. Before she came to New
York, she sang in the chorus of Alice Oates'
company, and of Rice's ''Evangeline." Tony
Pastor heard her sing, and put her on his pro-
gramme — at the end of it, mind you — as an " ele-
56 LILLIAN RUSSELL.
gant vocalist," and a '' fascinating songstress."
She sang ballads, and on the " list " with her was
Ella Wesner, and other people of the variety
stage.
That was in 1880. Tony Pastor it was who
christened her Lillian Russell. His present
manager, Harry Sanderson, was there at the
christening. On February 7, 1881, Miss Russell
sang at Tony Pastor's, the role of Mabel in *' The
Pirates of Penzance," or as it was called " The
Pie Rats of Penn Yan." In the cast with her
were May and Flora Irwin, William Lester,
Florence Merton, John Morris and Frank
Girard. Then she appeared in '' Olivette," or
" Oily Vet," as Tony called it. George Olmi,
Dan Collyer, and May Irwin were in the cast.
It was Tony Pastor who " lent " Lillian Rus-
sell to Col. John A. McCaull, because that
manager wanted her to sing in " The Snake
Charmer." Mr. Pastor is very proud of Miss
Russell. He feels that he had something to do
with her success. I think he had. Don't you ?
Photo by FALK.
ffll^S. (3AMES Br^OWN BOIPJIIBI^.
Mrs. James Brown-Potter.
VERY diminutive edition of
Mrs. Langtry is Mrs. James
Brown-Potter, with none
of that lady's shrewdness,
none of her wonderful
business capacities, and
but a slight flavor of her
dramatic worth. While the Langtry bursting
upon a long-suffering public with little to recom-
mend her but the pleasant notoriety conferred
by the fact that she was reported to have
slipped a lump of ice down the back of the
Prince of Wales, bowed her head in meek humili-
ation to the unflattering truths of criticisms,
learning the lessons that were honestly taught
her with her own inimitable grace, Mrs. James
57
58 . MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
Brown -Potter emerged from the lovely insip-
idity of society in the full belief that she was to
be a Charlotte Cushman or a Sarah Bernhardt,
with drawing-room amendments.
Her career began interestingly. Nothing that
will ever be written upon the manners and cus-
toms of the nineteenth century will more aptly
describe their condition than the story of Mrs.
Potter's appearance upon the dramatic stage.
She was something of a pet in society, and
clever enough, while extracting from it all the
nutriment that it offered, to see its hollowness.
Cora Urquhart Potter butterflied around, but she
remembered each flower that supplied her with
sweetness, she knew the exact measure of that
sweetness. If her cleverness had been less super-
ficial, she would not be at this time of writing
wending her way to the far-off Australia, bent on
conquering new fields, w^hile those of her native
land are still unvanquished as far as she is con-
cerned.
MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER. 59
Mrs. Potter, who is the wife of a Wall street
man, of whom I have never heard a word spoken
but in praise and admiration, was for some time
before her appearance on the stage an amateur
actress of some merit. Amateurs are as a rule so
distinctly bad ; their work is such a parody
upon true dramatic efforts, that I am quite sure I
shall be paying Mrs. Potter no supreme compli-
ment if I declare that she was a good amateur
actress. She played for charities. You know
how fond society people are of ''charity." If a
dear young, ruby-lipped dSbutante (I use the
approved word) feels that she would like her
friends to see how charmingly she can enact a
certain role, she always has an excuse in charity.
Charity, in the world of society, is a delightful
scapegoat for much that would otherwise be
intolerable.
Mrs. Potter met with success as an amateur in
'* The Romance of a Poor Young Man." " The
Old Love and the New," "Cape Mail," "A
6o MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
Russian Honeymoon " and " A Moonlight Mar-
riage." She herself boasted, not so very long
ago, of the money that had been realized by the
charities for which she had appeared. It was by
them, however, that Mrs. Potter was able to
realize her ambition. The debt is liquidated, if
it ever existed.
Then came the grand coup-cT dtat in '' Os'ler
Joe," which so shocked sweet ingenuous Wash-
ington society. It brought Mrs. Potter more
prominently before the public than anything she
had previously done. It was Bismarckian. It
was consummate. A cleverer stroke could never
have been made. Nobody but a keen student
of American foibles could have done as much.
But watch the progress of events. Mrs. Pot-
ter did not immediately announce her intention
of going upon the stage. Oh no ! Soon after
the " Os'ler Joe " episode, discreet rumors were
circulated to the effect that she probably would
appear upon the boards. Her friends were mys-
MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER. 6 1
terious ; her enemies profitably venomous. Her
next step was to endorse a face cream, in con-
junction with Patti, Langtry and other well-
known people. This was also clever. Why on
earth should any woman consent to mother a
printed testimonial, if she had no use for seeing
her name, as it must inevitably appear ? Finally,
when the ground had been really most felici-
tously prepared, this clever, but short-sighted,
lady went to Europe.
The Prince of Wales lives in Europe. If he
one day abandoned his princedom in disgust, I
should attribute his action to weariness of the
people who live in order to advertise themselves
through his medium. Kindly, unsuspecting
prince ! You have been of some use to human-
ity ! You have lent the assistance of your name,
ungrudgingly, to many an eager woman. You
have never been tempted to deny the silly-profit-
able stories in circulation.
Mrs. Potter, of course, met the prince, and he
62 MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
was — equally, of course — charming. Fearfully
interested in her, don't you know, and all that
kind of thing. Mrs. Paran Stevens, of great
society pretensions, was in London, very fond
of "dear Cora" and anxious to help her.
Mrs. Stevens is fifty times cleverer than Mrs.
Potter. With such an ally, " dear Cora " swam
smoothly along the London stream. No, it was
not a case of drifting. She swam. Every
stroke told.
Then came her opening at the Haymarket
Theatre. She herself says that she first ap-
peared in London to gain experience. To that
staternent I must reply forcibly and inelegantly
(please excuse me) by the simple word "bosh."
Mrs. Potter knew that Anglomania raged in her
own country. Her appearance at the Haymar-
ket Theatre was calculated to give additional
prestige to her New York debut.
I was present when that interesting event
occurred at the Fifth Avenue Theatre. An
MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER, 63
audience of more striking brilliancy I have
rarely seen ; a performance of more deadly dull-
ness I have certainly never sat through. Since
that day Mrs. Potter has been a soured woman.
" I never read criticisms," has been her un-
varying remark when her attention was called to
the newspapers. Mrs. Potter bitterly resented
every piece of advice. She had her own ideas,
and used them, with a rather disastrous result.
Her vaulting ambition oerleaped itself. She
was not satisfied to plod steadily towards the
goal of dramatic merit. The curiosity excited
by her appearance died rapidly. A fatal cold-
ness set in. Then she made another effort and
appeared in *' Antony and Cleopatra," which
attracted attention. What she would have done
next, had she remained in America, it would be
futile to try to imagine. Her American career
seems to have come to an end, and she has noth-
ing to blame but her own impulsive folly.
What a lesson the career of Mrs. Potter
64 MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
teaches. What a keen satire upon society, upon
the stage, and upon other equally misjudged
institutions is this Potter history. If I were a
cynic, I could dip my pen into gall in no better
cause. But I am no cynic, my enemies notwith-
standing. Mrs. Potter's intense conceit has
been her bitterest foe.
On one occasion, after a '' charity " performance,
a friend remarked to her : " If you were to go
upon the stage you would create as great a sen-
sation as did Mrs. Langtry."
'' Do you really think," asked Mrs. Potter, her
eyes aglow with the fever of ambition, " that I
could ever attract the attention that Mrs. Lang-
try has attracted ?"
She excited quite as much curiosity as did
Mrs. Langtry. But as I said before, she had
none of the braininess of that now excellent
actress. She was not bright enough to see that
the curiosity she aroused was curiosity and noth-
ing more; that with no more subtle foundation
MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER. 65
the dramatic fabric must eventually collapse in
contact with criticism, as surely as does a sand
castle subjected to the action of the sea. Lang-
try quickly fortified herself by deference to the
opinions of authorities. Potter spurned them as
outrageously superfluous.
Mrs. Potter never liked newspaper men,
though she received them, and was always
affable. She smiled at the influence of the
press — too myopic to understand the mightiest
mundane voice. She is superficial. Talk with
her for twenty minutes and you will discover that
fact, if you are an observer, though she will
charm you by her bright talk and delightful
manners.
Mrs. Potter is lovely. There is no denying
that fact. No prettier woman could have sought
the stage. But personal loveliness is not every-
thing, though to be sure it goes a great way. It
is the beautiful woman, who is frequently able to
accomplish what the most daring man could
66 MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
never hope to succeed with. History is full of
examples in substantiation of this assertion.
But to her beauty must be added a mentality of
no mean value.
Here is a little story concerning Mrs. Potter.
Her P^randmother had an unsettled claim of
$40,000 against the Government for property
destroyed during the war. Her mother, Mrs.
Urquhart, had never been able to obtain the
slightest satisfaction. Mrs. Potter decided to
see what she could do. She went personally to
Senator Hiscock and laid before him the merits
of the case. Hiscock shortly afterwards made
a speech in its favor. Friends in the Senate
got the claim passed. Then Mrs. Potter called
upon President Grover Cleveland and his sig-
nature was soon obtained. It was not long after
this that Mrs. Potter was able to present the
$40,000 to her mother.
Do you imagine that you or I, if we had
devoted ten years of our lives to the endeavor,
MRS. JAMES BROWN-POTTER.
67
could have achieved this result ? You smile at
the mere idea of it. So do I. Lovely woman,
my friends, is a great power, and when that
lovely woman has a correspondingly beautiful
intellect, the world is hers, if she wants it.
Rose Coghlan.
LEASE excuse my attire.
I have only just got
up, and as It is Sun-
day, I thought that I
would just indulge in
a little breakfast, en
negligL''
I wish you could have seen the attire that
Miss Coghlan asked me to excuse. I had to
bite my lip to restrain a desire to laugh. She
was clad in one of the most luxurious peigjioi7^s
I have ever seen. It was of white and crushed
strawberry (I hope I am correct) and it looked
as thouorh it miofht have come from Paris. Ex-
cuse her attire ! I sincerely trust that she
69
70
ROSE COGHLAN.
excused mine, which didn't look as though It
might have come from Paris. The lovely Rose
was stopping at the Hotel Marlborough, and was
playing an engagement at the Fourteenth Street
Theatre. She was at
breakfast, and appear-
ed to be enjoying her-
self, for Miss Coghlan
makes no pretense
of living upon rose-
leaves and dew-drops,
as do many actresses
whom I have had the
honor of meetinor.
•^*v '' There Is an English
book," said Miss Rose,
delicately dissecting an atom of — shall I tell
what? Well, yes — bacon, "that gives a short
account of my career — a very, very short
account, because I didn't supply any data.
However, I have really done a great deal of
ROSE COG H LAN. J\
work in England, before I came to this country,
that has never been chronicled. If 1 were to
tell you everything, it would fill a volume, and
you wouldn't be at all grateful."
She spoke the truth, but she wouldn't have
liked me if I had assented, so I muttered one of
those little " Ohs " that mean really nothing, and
fidgeted in my chair to put her at her ease.
** My family wasn't at all dramatic," began
Miss Rose, ''until my brother Charles went
upon the stage. He had been destined for a
lawyer, but, in some way or other, he fell in with
stage associates, and joined them. He was
quite a lad when he made his first appearance.
When my father died, I knew that I must do
something, so my thoughts fled to Charles and
the stage. He had married an actress, so he
was quite theatrical."
Miss Coghlan laughed. The bacon was
growing beautifully less, so there was an induce-
ment to devote herself to her narrative.
72 ROSE COGHLAN.
" I appeared at Greenock, in England, when I
was fourteen years old. No, sir, I will not tell
you the date, and help you to add up my age.
I was fourteen at the time — no matter what the
time was. I played all kinds of small parts, and
played them fairly well. When I was sixteen, I
joined Mr. Rousby. I looked a great deal older
than I was. Think of my agony when Rousby
wanted me to appear as Lady Macbeth. Lady
Macbeth at sixteen ! ' How old do you imagine
I am !' I asked, indignantly. ' Twenty-four,'
was the answer. Well, they insisted upon my
attempting the role, and I was so frightened that
I ran away. I knew I couldn't play the part,
and then I had no costumes."
Miss Rose couldn't help smiling at her youth-
ful modesty.
*' I went right up to town, which means Lon-
don," she resumed, " and soon secured a position.
You see, I had already gained a great deal of
experience, as I had played all kinds of parts,
ROSE COGHLAN. ^^
from a singing witch in ' Macbeth,' to heavy
leads. I had eve') appeared in the pantomimes.
No, that isn't at all dreadful. In those days, a
manager, when he put on a pantomime, utilized
the services of each member of his company.
In London, I appeared with Toole at the Gaiety
Theatre. He used to play a ' first-piece ' and a
burlesque. Oh ! I assure you that my English
experience was very varied. I was liked in
London, but did not make any particular hit at
that time. In 1872, I first came to America. I
w^as still in my teens."
I couldn't refrain from just a little mental
calculation. The year 1872 was eighteen sum-
mers ago. Supposing that Rose were then in
the last of her teens — nineteen — she would then
be—
*' I came to America," quickly resumed Miss
Rose, •* with Mr. Henderson. He was to have
produced * The Woman in White,' in this coun-
try, but for some reason or other, the scheme fell
74 1<0SE COGHLAN.
through, as theatrical schemes will do, occasion-
ally. I was in America, so Mr. Henderson
suggested that I join Lydia Thompson's com-
pany. I really made my debut in this country
with that organization in * A Happy Pair,' after
playing Jupiter in ' Ixion' at Wallack's Theatre."
The idea of Miss Coghlan as Jupiter, '' the
most powerful of all the gods of the ancients,"
was rather funny.
" Why did I first come to America ?" she went
on, repeating a question of. mine, " Oh, because
the offer I had was a good one. I was getting
£^ in England. I was offered ;^i5 to go to
America. Mr. Lester Wallack saw me the first
night I appeared, and at once engaged me for
his regular season. I played in the meantime
with Sothern, and then went back to England to
spend my vacation, intending to return to Amer-
ica to Lester Wallack, who had offered me $ioo
per week. That happened seventeen years
ago."
ROSE COGHLAN. 75
"Eighteen years," I suggested.
'•This is 1890 — " in a startled tone. "Yes,
eighteen years ago. Isn't that a fearful thing ?
Well, as I said, I went back to England, and at
once got an engagement with Charles Mathews.
I appeared with him as Miss Grantham in ' The
Liar.' That was my first real comedy part. I
remembered that I was shortly to return to
America to Wallack. Then came an offer to
play Viola in a big production of 'Twelfth
Night,' in Manchester. I was offered ;^2o per
week — what I was to get at Wallack's — so I
promptly broke my little contract with the
American manager."
Miss Coghlan said that, as though it were a
matter of course that she should disregard a
contract that had no longer any charms for her.
And it is a matter of course with many actresses,
to whom a contract means little more than the
paper upon which it is written.
"'Twelfth Night' was a great success," she
76 ROSE COGHLAN.
said. ''It ran for three months. Then 1 went
back to London, and opened in * East Lynne,'
at the St. James'. You see my career in Eng-
land, before coming here, was, as I told you, very
varied. My appearance in ' East Lynne ' was
really my first London opportunity for good
work. It brought me under the notice of the
English critics. Oxenford and the others were
all very kind to me. Barry Sullivan saw, and
engaged me. The following season I traveled
with him all over England, playing in all the big
cities. It was while with him that I had offers
to return to London. I accepted one and
opened at the Mirror Theatre, Holborn, in a
play called ' Self,' that was a dead failure. It
was a lovely company, however. The people in
it were charming. They next produced ' All for
Her,' which ran for a year and a half."
Miss Coghlan remembered all these details.
Not a note did she consult. In fact she was sit-
tine at the breakfast table, from which the bacon
had vanished.
ROSE COG H LAN. ']']
" I told you I broke my contract with Wal-
lack," she went on. " Well, in spite of that, he
sent for me to play leading roles. I thought
that by this time my experience was large
enough to justify my acceptance of the position.
I came to America for the second time in 1877,
and have never acted out of the country since
that year. I won't go all through my American
experiences, for they have been published. Yes,
I have made America my home. My mother is
here, my brother is here, I have had a sister
here, and I have a little daughter — an adopted
daughter."
Miss Coghlan married a few years ago Mr.
Clinton Edgerly, a good-looking young lawyer.
She surprised everybody, of course, but that
never does any harm in the theatrical business.
Miss Coghlan has no children of her own.
''I took my little girl," she said, " when she
was six weeks old, and I have kept her ever
since. She is a great comfort to me. She is at
y^ ROSE COGHLAN.
present with my mother, who lives on the West-
ern Boulevard — her grandmother, as the child
says. She is a sweet little thing, and very, very
bright. I also have my sister's child at the
present time staying with my mother."
" Of course, your little girl will appear upon
the stage ?"
" If I cannot make a fortune large enough, she
might do so. But the stage is not the life I
should select for a girl. This perpetual travel-
ing about is dreadful. It is a very hard life, and
the temptations " (Miss Rose sank her voice)
'* are very great. A girl has no resources when
she adopts the stage. In other days, when there
were stock companies, and you could go to your
theatre in August, remain there all the winter,
make a home of your own, and surroundings of
your own, stage life was another thing alto-
gether. But living in railway trains, and that
awful * one night stand ' system, make life some-
thing of a strain. If there were anything else
ROSE COGHLAN. 79
that a girl could do, I would advise her to do it.
The greatest blow to art and to the future of
the stage, was the abolishment of stock compa-
nies."
Miss Coghlan spoke very emphatically.
There is no detail connected with stage work
that she cannot discuss, and discuss interest-
ingly, too.
'* How do you study your roles ?" I asked.
" I go over the lines in bed," said Miss Cogh-
lan with a smile. (I didn't blush. I thought at
the time that perhaps I had better do so, but I
reconsidered the matter, and came to the con-
clusion that there was nothing for the most
prudish being to redden at.) '' I repeat them
over and over aofain. But before I touch the
lines, I have made myself thoroughly conversant
with their meaning, and the meaning of the play.
I identify myself with the character, and I try to
act it as it should reasonably be acted. Of
course, every actress has, or ought to have, a
8o ROSE COGHLAN.
personality which is better adapted to some parts
than it is to others, physically and otherwise. I
think some of my greatest successes have been in
such plays as ' Diplomacy,' VA Scrap of Paper,'
* Forget-me-not,' ' Masks and Faces,' * School for
Scandal,' * London Assurance,' ' She Stoops to
Conquer,' and * Impulse.' If I had my choice,
however, I would play Shakespearian comedies,
and nothing else. I adore them. But it is im-
possible to produce them with any success nowa-
days. They require a very fine company, and a
magnificent production. You can't cast a
Shakespearian comedy at the present time. The
salary list, if you wanted a good actor for every
part (and to present Shakespeare properly this
ought to be the case) would be simply enormous.
Then actors and actresses don't like playing sub-
ordinate parts even for big salaries. They w^ant
the centre of the stage. Oh ! I am very fond of
Shakespearian comedy. There is some satisfac-
tion in it. You can learn something from it.
ROSE COGHLAN. 8 1
But it is impossible, for the reason I have
stated."
By this time, I thought I had stayed quite
long enough. Miss Coghlan had a cold, and I
felt that she ought to save up her voice for the
theatre, instead of lavishing it so nobly upon me.
So I said farewell, and left. As I went down-
stairs, I heard the waiter approach to remove the
breakfast things.
"I'm not ready yet " — came from Miss
Coghlan. At any rate, I reflected, I hadn't
impaired her appetite. Could there still be more
bacon ? Oh, healthy Rose.
Fanny Davenport.
F you called at any of the thea-
tres where Miss Fanny Dav-
enport has played, and inter-
viewed the stage-hands on
the subject of this popular
actress, the eulogies with
which you would be over-
whelmed would be sufficiently voluminous to
fill a good-sized book. Miss Davenport, by
many little delicate acts of kindness and wo-
manly consideration, has contrived to win the
affection of all those theatrical people of whom
the public see so little personally, but whose
admiration is of very valuable assistance to an
actor or actress.
Miss Davenport never leaves a theatre at
which she has played an engagement, without
83
84 FANNY DAVENPORT.
depositing a cosy little sum of money for the
scene-shifters, stage carpenters and other myr-
midons of the theatrical manager. She has
always a bright, en-
couraging word for
everybody ; she nev-
er displays any of
the well-known petu-
lance of the success-
ful star ; in a word
she treats these hard-
j working subordinates
as her friends, and
the result is that
they adore her, and
would give her hours of their leisure time if she
needed it.
" Now, boys," I heard her. say on one occasion,
'* let me see if you can't set that scene a little
differently. I think it would be better arranged
so. Don't you ?"
FANNY DAVKNPORT. 85
She appealed to them, as though she were
thirsting for their opinion on the subject. The
men had already labored diligently at that par-
ticular scene. A command from her would of
course have been obeyed, but the work would
have been done in a half-hearted way, and prob-
ably in a slipshod manner, too. But Miss Dav-
enport won their hearts by this consultation.
The result was that the scene was set exactly as
she desired it, and each one of those men
thought he was doing her a personal favor.
Miss Davenport was certainly born for the
stage, if that be possible. She is the daughter
of the late Edward Loomis Davenport, an actor
well known to our fathers and mothers. Fanny
Lily Gipsy Davenport is her name in full,
though she has graciously consigned the Lily
Gipsy to oblivion. She was born forty years
ago in London, just opposite the British Mu-
seum, and was educated in the public schools of
Boston. She is one of the few women who, sue-
86 FANNY DAVENPORT.
cessful as a child actress, has increased her pop-
ularity in womanhood.
Miss Davenport first appeared upon the stage
at the Howard Athenaeum in Boston, playing a
child's part in "Metamora." In 1862 she was
first seen in the metropolis at Niblo's Garden,
the play being " Faint Heart Never Won Fair
Lady." But her success begins from the time
when she attracted the attention of Augustin
Daly, while playing at the Arch Street Theatre
in Philadelphia. The far-seeing Augustin was
at once struck with Miss Davenport's possibili-
ties, and he engaged her services. In 1869, she
appeared at the Fifth Avenue Theatre under
his management, and then began a long series of
triumphs.
The roles in which she won fame were Lady
Gay Spanker in " London Assurance," Dion
Boucicault's still famous play, Nancy Sykes, in a
dramatization of Charles Dickens' " Oliver
Twist;" Lady Teazle, in ** School for Scandal;"
FANNY DAVENPORT. 87
Lu and Fanny Ten Eyck, in " Divorce ;" Leah,
in the play of that name ; and Mabel Renfrew, in
" Pique."
Miss Davenport discarded Augustin Daly as
though he were the proverbial old glove. By
him she had mounted the ladder to success.
His ladder she felt she could afford to kick
away. She kicked it away with considerable
vigor.
She went to London and produced a play by
Miss Anna Dickinson, entitled *' An American
Girl." She was not a great success in the Eng-
lish metropolis. She had become — to put it
nicely — more than delicately plump ; in fact too
plump to play any of the parts for which she
felt she was fitted.
Miss Davenport began to "bant," and so
severe was the ordeal through which she volun-
tarily passed, that she to some extent regained
her lissomeness, and is to-day of admirable pro-
portions. Miss Davenport starved herself, and
SS FANNY DAVENPORT.
submitted to the most horrible i^egime. Only
a woman of an iron will could have suffered as
she suffered. It is a well-known fact that people
with a tendency of embonpoint are very fond of
the good things of this world. Miss Daven-
port was no exception to the rule. But she
positively declined to gratify herself. She took
amazingly long walks, and lived a life of torture.
She told a friend not long ago that she had
ruined her health. '' I never know a single
moment," she said, *' absolutely free from pain.
I suffer all the time. ' I have certainly won
that for which I strove, but the game was not
worth the candle."
Whenever Miss Davenport hears of a young
woman who is trying to reduce her " fleshiness,"
she sends for her, and advises her in the most
emphatic terms to desist. She graphically details
her own experiences, with the resqlt that the
avoirdupois-fatigued damsel comes to the conclu-
sion that there are worse things in the world than
plumpness.
FANNY DAVENPORT. 89
Miss Davenport is at present. Mrs. Melbourne
D. McDowell. A few months ago she was
quietly married to her leading man, though all
her friends scouted the idea of her marriage, and
Miss Davenport herself was understood to have
indignantly denied the possibility of such an
event. Just before marrying McDowell, Miss
Davenport secured a divorce from Edwin H.
Price, a former leading man, whom she married
in 1879. H^ ^^^ ^^^ husband for ten years, and
that isn't so bad for a prominent actress, is it ?
The divorce case was tried with the utmost
secrecy. Reporters scoured the city for details ;
every effort was made to discover the testimony.
But Mr. and Mrs. Price were legally separated
in the most tranquil manner. Those who say
that Price interposed any objections to the
divorce have no grounds upon which to base the
assertion. He seems to take it in the most
cheerful manner. Price is a genial, good-tem-
pered fellow. He, this season (1890), man-
90 FANNY DAVENPORT.
aged a company playing " The Bells of Hasle*
mere," but with small success. Miss Davenport
is one of the best paying *' stars " in the country.
Her first success after she left Daly was made
with Sardou's ** Fedora." This she played for
several seasons, and the financial results were
very gratifying to her. Next came " La Tosca,"
from which I was told on very good authority,
that last season she cleared $90,000.
Mrs. McDowell is a rich woman. She is kind-
hearted and charitable. She adopted two chil-
dren that were left orphaned by her sister Lilly.
This lady came to America in 1854 and married
Mr. Thorn. She was drowned on the yacht
belonging to Mr. Garner of the New York
Yacht Club. Miss Davenport cared for the two
children for a long time, and finally adopted
them.
But in spite of her financial prosperity, Miss
Davenport is thrifty. Her company is by no
means an expensive one. A short time ago, she
FANNY DAVENPORT.
91
took a day or two *' off," and I understand
deducted the salaries that those days would have
called for, from the members of her company.
There was some revolt, and one young man, at
least, was dismissed. He is at present suing the
fair Mrs. McDowell. He told me the other day
that when he demanded his salary rather peremp-
torily, she posted up a notice in the green-room
declaring that he had been guilty of *' ungentle-
manly conduct."
Actors, however, are very difficult people to
manage. They are self-opiniated, stubborn and
unruly, as a general rule. I cannot imagine that
Mrs. McDowell would be very hard to please.
She dislikes notoriety, strange to say. Just
before she produced " La Tosca," and at a time
when the theatrical profession was prophesying
her divorce from Mr. Price, I had occasion to
write a short article on some of the difficulties of
Americanizing ** La Tosca." For instance, there
was one scene, when she kills Scar/f/a, and then
92 FANNY DAVENPORT.
takes up a crucifix and places it at his feet, that
it was thought would be indignantly received by
an American audience. Miss Davenport was
anxious that the scene should be given just as it
was presented in France. Mr. Price wanted it
omitted. It was understood that there was
some little heated argument upon the subject at
rehearsal. I chronicled this in due course, as a
piece of "green-room gossip."
The next day Miss Davenport sent for me,
and I quaked in my shoes. She assured me that
the point had not been discussed ; that the
rehearsals had been extremely pleasant.
'' You were wrong to state that Mr. Price and
I had differed," she said at last. " We are in
perfect accord on the question of * La Tosca ;'
I should like that understood."
I comprehended. Miss Davenport was so
afraid that the meaning of my article might be
construed into a breach between herself and her
husband, that she had been angry at it. As,
FANNY DAVENPORT.
93
however, the interest of the article concerned
the play *' La Tosca," and had been inspired by
no idea of ruptured domesticity, I was hardly
able to appreciate Miss Davenport's agony.
At this writing, she is living very placidly in
a handsomely furnished flat, and taking life
easily.
liOTTA.
LOTTA,
RABTREE is not at all
pretty as a surname, is it ?
Even for you or me who are
not continually flaunting our
names on bill-posters circu-
lated through the highways
and by-ways of the city,
Crabtree would have but scant charm. There-
fore, I say, it is hardly to be wondered at
that such a dainty little lady as Miss Lotta
should scornfully decline to recognize the title.
There was no need to change it. Miss Lotta
simply declined the assistance of any surname at
all. Lotta she has always been, and Lotta she
will remain to the end of her interesting chapter.
95
96 LOTTA.
Only her enemies call her Lotta Crabtree. It
sounds horrid, doesn't it ?
Now, I didn't intend to say a word about the
year when Lotta was born. Natal events are
sometimes best forgotten, but as Mr. Augustin
Daly upon the programmes of his last Shakes-
pearian production " As You Like It," has set
forth in cold type this cruel announcement, —
well, I suppose I might as well face it.
Yes, the piquant little lady, who pouts and
pirouettes like a veritable enfa7it terrible before
the public, will, in this year of our Lord 1890,
celebrate her forty-third birthday. I saw her
only the other day sitting perched up childishly
at the Harlem Opera House, and I wondered
why it Is that time frequently deals so kindly
with the children of the stage, while he furrows
and wrinkles us up, and plays the very deuce
with our personal appearances. Yet they say
that paint and powder are ruinous to the com-
plexion. I am not at all sure of that. The old
LOTTA.
97
women of the stage are Infinitely less time-worn
than their sisters In other walks of life. Look
at old Mrs. Gilbert, at Mrs. Yeamans. at Mme.
Ponlsl. They are far less wrinkled than women
of their age who have never been behind the
footlights.
But to go back to Lotta. The little lady was
born In Grand street, New York, on the seventh
day of November, 1847. When she was about
seven years old she went to California, and at
eight years of age, although such precocities as
the recent little Lord Fauntleroys were unwotted
of In those days, she made her first appearance
In public. I believe It was as a vocalist. In
1858, she appeared as Gertrude In *'The Loan of
a Lover," in a Callfornlan town rejoicing in the
simple name of Petaluma. Lotta was first seen
in New York In 1864, when she played at Nib-
lo's saloon, making a rather unfavorable impres-
sion. Then she travelled through the west,
accompanied by mamma and papa Crabtree.
98 T.OTTA.
It was not until 1868, after her engagement at
Wallack's Theatre, that she became the celebrity
she has since remained.
Everybody knows that Lotta is one of the
richest women on the stage, but everybody
doesn't know that she owes her cosy financial
condition to the shrewd management of old Mrs.
Crabtree. Mrs. Crabtree is a financier to the
backbone. She has oruarded Lotta's earnino^s
with the energy of the dragon of whom we have
heard in connection with St. George. The little
lady has never been permitted any extravagance.
In the height of her affluence, her companies
have been organized with as much care and
financial precision as though Miss Lotta were
about to risk a barnstorming tour.
They tell me that Miss Lotta has a mortgage
of $280,000 on a well-known hat factory in New
York. At any rate she owns the Park Theatre
in Boston, free from all encumbrances, and
LOTTA.
99
brother Jack manages it for her — nominahy, at
any rate.
Mrs. Crabtree is a terror to the actors and
actresses In her daughter's company. Said a
lady to me the other day : " Lotta is a dear little
soul. I can get on with her admirably. But the
mamma! Oh, dear me, I cannot endure her!"
Lotta is completely under mamma's control.
If she were a child in the nursery she could not
be more utterly mothered. In fact, it is almost
absurd to see the two together, and recollect
that Miss Lotta is old enough to have adult
children of her own.
I called upon the little actress one day just
after her return from England. She was stop-
ping in Twenty-third street near Ninth avenue.
She was attired in the most juvenile manner, in
a white muslin dress, with a broad blue sash tied
with infantine grace In a big bow at the back.
I wanted to " Interview " Miss Lotta about her
season In England. But if you imagine that
IpO LOTTA.
poor little Lotta was allowed to say very much,
you know nothing whatever about dear old
Mamma Crabtree. Towards the close of the
interview, Lotta contrived to utter a few words.
Indeed, Mrs. Crabtree, I rather imagine, began
to think it best that she should do so. Lotta
told me a stereotyped story about her big suc-
cess, though the cable reports had related stories
diametrically different.
But there has never been but one Lotta.
This little lady has founded a school. Her
imitators are to be counted by the thousands,
and on the principle that imitation can never
equal the original, Lotta still has no rival. She
has encountered strong opposition from Miss
Minnie Palmer, but, as an artist. Miss Palmer
can no more be compared to Mrs. Crabtree's
daughter than chalk can to cheese, or brass to
gold. Lotta is a jealous little lady, too. Like
most stars, she wants to monopolize the honors
of the performance ia which she appears. Her
LOTTA. 10 1
leading man must never sing too well, or act too
convincingly ; her leading lady must never be
guilty of a personal comeliness that is too much
in evidence. This is a trait that Lotta shares
with nearly every star on the stage. I should
astonish you were I to tell you all I know of the
petty jealousies that mar the characters of those
who seem to us, when on the stage, to embody
all the charms that flesh is heir to.
But in private life Lotta is delightful, or as
delightful as Mrs. Crabtree will permit her to be.
The mamma is the daughter's shadow, ever
present, ever assertive. Lotta dotes on her
brother Jack, who is known as a rather wild
young man, with a very good heart.
N She is superstitious, like most members of the
theatrical profession. I verily believe that even
if danger were ahead she would stop to pick up
a horse-shoe she happened to see in the street.
Lotta never permits one of these symbols of
luck to remain unmolested. She captures and
gleefully keeps the bit of iron.
] 02 LOTTA.
Lotta is credited with a belief in spiritualism,
though I don't know that religion comes under
my province. Some time ago a number of
actresses wrote upon the subject to a New York
newspaper, and their statements were really
pathetically amusing. Mrs. Langtry declared
that she never played a new part without falling
upon her knees and offering up a prayer. Miss
Fanny Davenport asserted that she invariably
tried to follow the life of Christ, which led the
witty Truth to remark: "Miss Davenport has
kindly told us what she thinks of God, but no
amount of journalistic enterprize can Inform us
what God thinks of Miss Davenport."
Miss Lotta has been '* resting" during the
present season, but she has not retired, as many
people profess to have thought. Retire, with
Mamma Crabtree in the field ? Never !
Lotta's not to reason why,
Lotta's but to act or die.
LOTTA.
TO3
And so we may 'expect to see the little lady
before us until she is as old as Miss Maggie
Mitchell, which will give us exactly fifteen more
years in which to enjoy her performances.
Helena Modjeska.
H, there is no use mention-
ing the subject of age.
Suffice it to say, that my
wife belongs to the gener-
ation that brought forth
Adelina Patti, Sarah Bern-
hardt and Christine Nils-
son.
I was enjoying a little chat with the Count
Bozenta, husband of Mme. Modjeska, in their
handsome suite of rooms, No. i8 West Thirty-
first street. The accomplished countess was out,
indulging in the feminine luxury of shopping.
Her liege lord was up to his ears in ink, floun-
dering in some '' recollections " dictated by his
io6
HELENA MODJESKA.
wife. In fact, he was a beautiful picture of a
marital amanuensis.
Be quite sure that I was not guilty of indeli-
cately asking Mme. Modjeska's age. No, my
friends, experience has taught me that such
questions are as un-
w^ise as they are
unavailing. Every
actress is induced to
deal with the sub-
ject of years as did
the adventuress in
the comedy. This
lady remarked pla-
cidly, '' Let me see ;
I have a son twenty-eight years of age. I must,
therefore, be at least twenty-nine." The Count
Bozenta merely mistook my inquiries anent his
wife's earlier years for a desire to learn the year
of her birth.
Count Bozenta, by-the-bye, is an excellent
Hl.l.h.NA MoDJK.nKA. 107
fellow. The husbands of actresses are always
looked upon with suspicion, simply because they
are the husbands of actresses. Many of them,
I admit, are useless idiots. Count Bozenta is
distinctly an exception. He is a man of culture
and intelligence. He dotes on his Helena, and
is, I am told, inclined to be jealous upon the
least provocation, which is another point that is,
in my opinion, in his favor.
Modjeska, at the present time, is engaged in
preparing a number of magazine articles and
autobiographical sketches. It is the Count who
writes them, Modjeska supplying him with the
notes. And he enjoys it, the good fellow. It
gives him an opportunity to be useful, as Nature
has denied him the privilege of being ornamen-
tal. He has a keen eye for business. I could
not help laughing at his anguish when I
informed him that I wanted to write just a few
lines about his wife, for this book.
" Ah, my good sir !" he exclaimed, the moisture
I08 HELENA MODJESKA.
of desperation making Its appearance upon his
brow, " if you make a sketch of my wife, of
what use will it be that she writes auto-
biographies and articles ? They will be of no
value. I speak as a man of business."
I assured his agitated countship that I had no
intention of cutting him out, and as for conflicting
with the literary effusions of his better half,
why, I might be a villain, but to such a depth
of iniquity I was not prepared to sink without a
struggle.
Mme. Modjeska herself is a delightful woman
to meet. An atmosphere of refinement seems to
halo her. She is daintily interesting upon any
subject she chooses to discuss. The coarsenesses
and trivialities of every-day life seem to be less
conspicuous in her presence. She is the sort of
woman you occasionally meet in novels, but less
rarely in real life.
She Is a consummate woman of the world ; as
good an actress off as on the stage. But her
HELENA MODJESKA. 1 09
artificiality is not in evidence. It is to be merely
suspected. I must say I like artificial people a
great deal better than those brusque, good-
natured creatures, who mean so fearfully well,
but who ofYend your sense of refinement.
If you drop in to see Modjeska, and ask her
for her views on the drama, she will roll you
off a dear little essay on Shakespeare, whom, of
course, she adores. She will tell you how it was
always her ambition to interpret this great
English master, and how there are no stage
creations that can hold a candle to such
beauteous heroines as Juliet, Desdemona,
Imogen, Isabella, Beatrice, Portia, Ophelia and
Lady Macbeth.
If, on the other hand, you are more earthly,
and are desirous of hearing Modjeska propound
her ideas — well, let us say on the subject of cor-
sets, she will be quite ready to meet you. She
will declare that she never wears such abomina-
tions, and that the lissomeness of her figure is
no HELENA MODJESKA.
undoubtedly due to that fact. She will show
you (if you are a woman) some chamois leather
substitute in which she envelops her form, and
will descant on its advantages just as though
she owned the patent and were trying to *'push "
the article.
Should you wish to pen a little article on the
American girl, Modjeska will be on hand. She
knows all about the American o-Irl, and, of
course, thinks her charming. (She is playing in
the American girl's country, you must remember,
and pocketing the dollars earned by the Ameri-
can girl's papa.) She will compare her with the
European damsel, and make such neat little
points that you will be utterly charmed, and
wonder why this joy has never come to you
before.
The advisability of the smoking woman, the
pros and cons of early marriage, the public
school system of education — Modjeska is thor-
oughly au courant with the intricacies of these
HELENA MODJESKA. I 1 I
subjects. She will unfold her views with such
delicious volubility that even the Count will
look at her in astonishment. I am quite con-
vinced that Bozenta himself has not fully gauged
the extent of his charming wife's knowledge.
Modjeska is thoroughly Americanized. She
still has " estates " in Poland, but her ranch in
California is more to her taste. She was born in
Cracow, and was the daughter of a music-teacher
named Opido. She had brothers and sisters
enough to satisfy any man or woman, and she
was the youngest of the bunch. There was a
Simon and a Felix and a Joseph. Mr. Opido
named his youngest daughter Helena on account
of her Grecian head, which I think it was
extremely kind of Mr. Opido to do. How many
Greek heads come into the world, and, unappre-
ciated by their parents, become known as Mary
Anne, and Susan Jane. If all parents had a
due respect for the prospective feelings of their
offspring, there would be no more Bridgets and
112 HELENA MODJESKA.
Delias, and Jameses and Johnnies and William-
ses. The world would be peopled by Helenas
and Paulines, and Valentines and Stephanies
and Maro[uerites.
Modjeska worked very hard as a young girl.
She helped her mother to keep house. She
polished the furniture, and cooked the food, and
labored in the kitchen, and made herself gener-
ally useful. I wish I could add that she milked
the cows. But I can't. History does not tell
us whether Mr. Opido kept such articles of lux-
ury. I may, however, say this : If there were
any cows, Modjeska milked them.
She saw her first theatrical tragedy when quite
a child, and of course was immediately impressed.
But she did not make an appearance upon the
stage until several years later. She gave her
hand and heart at an early age to a young Pole
named Modrzejewskl. How he pronounced his
name — if he ever dared to do so — I should be
ashamed to try and guess.
HELENA MODJESKA. II3
Modjeska played for several years in her
native country; then, in 1876, having married
Bozenta, she visited America, going to California
with the laudable intention of founding there a
Polish community. This sounds very nice in
theory, but I am afraid that the Polish commu-
nity was not an astonishing success. At any
rate, the thoughts of Modjeska tended stagewards
once more, and as the Countess Bozenta, she at
once appealed to a certain Mr. Harry Sargent.
I have always thought that Mr. Sargent, in the
wilds of California, was more dazzled by the fact
that Modjeska was a real, live countess, than by
any dramatic possibilities. I have omitted to
say that before Mr. Sargent began to manage
Mme. Modjeska she had already appeared with
John McCullough.
Sargent advertised her as " Helena Modjeska,
Countess Bozenta," and from that day to this,
fortune has smiled upon her. Modjeska is an
artist, and artists very rarely, pass through the
114 HELENA MODJESKA.
world unrecognized. I shall always believe,
however, that it was the little magical word
*' countess" that first attracted Mr. Sargent to
Mme. Modjeska, and thus hastened a reputation
that must, however, have come sooner or later.
Modjeska was a great success in London,
where she first appeared in '' Odette." Upon
her return to this country she was more popular
than ever. She secured Mr. Daniel Frohman,
and was by Mr. Frohman's clever methods
'* boomed " up to the skies. Mme. Modjeska
has enjoyed the inestimable privilege of seeing
managers fight for her. Only last year, Messrs.
Nixon and Zimmerman, of Philadelphia, with
Mr. Lawrence Barrett, were contending for her
possession. Barrett won her, and this year she
has been *' starring " with Edwin Booth in " the
Booth-Modjeska combination," as it was known.
Modjeska has one child, whose father was the
gentleman with the unpronounceable name.
Shall you look upon me as brutal if I mention
HELENA MODJESKA. I T 5
that she is a grandmother ? I hope not, for I
feel It is my duty to announce to you that fact.
Some (gw years ago her son was quietly
wedded in this city at the little Polish church in
Stanton street. Modjeska was there, and the
details of the ceremony were given in the daily
newspapers.
In my opinion, the sons and daughters of
actresses ought never to be so unkind as to
make their mothers grandmothers. A grand-
mother is a delightful institution, but managers,
as a rule, don't like any but their own. Still,
this relation has not affected Modjeska in the
least. To be sure, she seems to have dropped
Juliet from her repertoire, lately. But her other
roles are played as charmingly and artistically as
ever.
The stage cannot afford to lose Modjeska.
Indeed, I hope she will be with us even when
she is a great-grandmother. Art cannot age,
and Modjeska is art's child.
ISABELLE URQUHART.
MOST fascinating visit was
that I paid to Miss Isabelle
Urquhart, of the Casino, the
other day. If I were an im-
pressionable youth, I should
immediately wring from the
dictionary of my mind all the
gushful adjectives it contains, and lavish them
unhesitatingly upon that afternoon. But I am
not impressionable, and I am not a youth, and
so am not tempted to '* do this thing."
Miss Urquhart, at the present time, occupies a
demure looking little flat overlooking the stately
Metropolitan Opera House. Mamma lives with
her ; so does aunt, and the charming air of
domesticity was enhanced by a prevailing aroma
117
ii8
ISABELLE URQUHART.
of Stew on the particular afternoon of which I
speak. I Hke a stew-y odor. There is some-
thing homelike about it. When your nostrils
are preparing for a vigo-
rous attack, headed by
patchouli and musk, stew
is distinctly refreshing.
-^ Miss Urquharts flat is
beautifully furnished.
Arm-chairs of various
degrees of comfort, tempt-
ing sofas, pictures, bam-
boo portieres and all the
rest of it. But I no-
ticed on the window-sill
other indications of desires as domestic as the
odor of stew. I saw a pocket-book that looked
as though it had just been shopping, and told
me that the Urquhart's soul did not rise above
the bargain counter. I caught a glimpse of dis-
carded gloves that had probably just been
ISABELLE URQUHART. 1 19
removed from Miss Isabelle's tapering fingers.
These little features put me at my ease, for I am
bashful and retiring. I kept saying to myself,
'* Stew, pocket-book, gloves ; gloves, pocket-book,
stew — well, she can't be very formidable."
There was the sound of an opening door
behind me, and a moment later a black-clad fig-
ure stood before me.
It was the lovely Isabelle herself, swathed in a
dark, diaphanous gown, freighted with scintillant
beads. Miss Urquhart's face was devoid of
'* make-up ; " her hair was decidedly en negligd,
and — good gracious ! how delighted I was to
recognize the fact — she had been eating that
fragrant stew. She was smacking her lips, if I
may use such a vulgar expression. And, after
all, I reflected, why not ? Casino beauties must
smack their lips occasionally just like other
people.
''Yes, I am very domesticated." said th^
Urquhart, making herself at home, and inviting
I20 ISABELLE URQUHART.
me to do likewise. " We enjoy ourselves in
this little flat, I assure you. But I don't like it.
I pine for a house. I yearn for stairs. I mope
for want of exercise. As there is an elevator
here, of course I always take it. But I really
must have stairs, soon. I can't do without
them.'^
The picture of the stately, Juno-esque Urqu-
hart frantically running up and down-stairs was
an extremely edifying one to me. I couldn't
help smiling. She saw this, and sympathetically
assisted me by smiling also. Then, if there had
been any ice at all between us, it was instantly
broken, and Miss Isabelle chatted in a sort of
Tennysonian brook-like way about herself and
her career.
" I have not been before the public so very
long," she said, as if apologetically, " for before
1 88 1, I had never been upon the stage. I had
sung in choirs in the convent where I was edu-
cated."
ISABELLE URQUHART. 121
Urquhart in a convent ! I felt inclined to
say, '' Prince ! This is too much !" but I bit
my lips and looked as meek and stupidly unin-
teresting as usual.
" In 1 88 1," she went on, " I sang at the Stand-
ard Theatre in ' Billee Taylor.' The house was
then under the management of the late William
Henderson. I had not a very large voice, and I
have not improved in that direction I am quite
sure " (very modestly) *' but I think I did the
best I could with the scanty material at my dis-
posal. Then I was seen for three consecutive
evenings in an opera called ' Elfins and Mer-
maids.' Ha ! Ha ! It makes me laugh when I
remember that production. It was called ' a
serio-comic opera in two acts by Charles Brown.'
I was getting twelve dollars per week, but I was
happy, until I heard that the manager had run
off with the money, after he had given three per-
formances. Then I felt just a trifle less elated,
as you may imagine. After ' Elfins and Mer-
122 ISABELLE URQUHART.
maids ' I sang a very small part in a comic opera
called ' Claude Duval,' in which D'Oyly Carte
was interested, and then, for the time being, my
connection with comic opera came to an end."
Miss Urquhart puzzled charmingly for a few
minutes. Then she resumed : '* Next I went to
Daly's Theatre, and appeared in the legitimate.
That Is where I ought to be this minute, if,
indeed, I ought to be anywhere on the stage."
I interrupted, as I was bound to do, and mur-
mured : " Indeed you ought !" When I come to
think of it, my words were somewhat vague in
their meaning. But Miss Urquhart evidently
understood my good intentions, for she went on :
'* I played in * The Passing Regiment,'
' Odette,' ' Needles and Pins,' and an old woman
of ninety-seven in 'The Squire.' I was seventeen
at the time, so I am not quite sure that I relished
appearing as a nonogenarian. I played the
role, however. Why did I leave the comic-opera
stage ? Because, my dear sir, I wanted to act.
ISABELLE URQUHART. 123
I was always possessed with the idea of being a
Lady Macbeth, I thought a position at Daly's
would be a splendid thing for me, so I jumped at
his offer. If I had stayed there, I should have
amounted to more than I do now."
She paused and I said something pretty and
consoling. I love the task of comforting people.
'* I went back to the comic opera stage for
mercenary motives. You are better paid there.
In the legitimate you have to work for years for
a reputation. A man named Harry Pitt told me
that Daly would never do anything for me, and,
unfortunately for me, I believed all he said.
Before returning to the comic opera stage I went
with this Mr. Pitt's comedy company, and played
in ' Forgiven ' and * The Two Roses.' The
enterprize was not at all successful. Upon my
return to the Standard Theatre I sang in * The
Merry Duchess ' with dear Selina Delaro. After
that, I made a debut in burlesque in * Orpheus
and Eurydice,' and later, succeeded Pauline Hall
124 ISABELLE URQUHART.
in the role of Mars in * Ixion.' Am I wearying
you ?
Wearying me? Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! As though I
could be wearied by this silver chatter, studded
occasionally with jewels of wit. I said all this,
in less stilted language.
*' I first went to the Casino when Lillian Rus-
sell returned from Europe. I sang with her in
' Polly ;' after that I returned to my beloved
'legitimate,' and appeared with Lawrence Barrett
in Shakespearian plays. I was Portia m 'Julius
Caesar ;' Gertrude in 'Hamlet' and Hero in ' Much
Ado about Nothing.' But all the time I was with
Barrett, I was studying singing. I had come to
the conclusion that opera was my forte. I got a
night off, and appeared at a concert with my pro-
fessor's pupils. I suppose it was because the
pupils were all so bad that I appeared to advan-
tage. At any rate I made a hit, sang subse-
quently at a number of benefits, then joined the
Casino company, with which I have remained
ever since."
ISABELLE URQUHART. 1 25
Miss Urquhart had certainly given me an
imposing array of facts. Her own little reflec-
tions came afterwards.
" I prefer legitimate drama to comic opera,"
she said. *' I would give anything in the world
if I could be successful with it, and never, never
appear in a comic opera again."
Oh ! cruel Urquhart ! Oh ! pitiful *' dudes !"
Oh ! forlorn, wretched baldheads !
*• Comic opera is so very unsatisfactory, " she
said. '' People go to comic opera simply to see
pretty, bright young women."
''Well?" I dared to interrupt, trying to make
eyes.
'' Oh, I am bright enough, and all that," she
said, '' but how long will it last, and what is to
become of me when it is over ? Pretty girls are
always springing up, and crowding out those
who have been for any length of time before the
public. If you outstay your time, people say,
* Why, I remember her twenty years ago ; she
126 ISABELLE URQUHART.
must be ninety !' It Is really sad. I am so
much In love with the stage, that I don't want
my career to come to an end just as soon as any
good looks I may possess happen to leave me.
I am passionately fond of the stage. I like it
better to-day than I did when I first tried It.
Don't Imagine that I am finding fault with the
Casino. I am charmingly treated there. I am
merely dissatisfied because I can't help picturing
a time when I shall have out-lived my comic
opera usefulness, and be unable to do anything
else. Even If I were very, very rich — which I
am not — I would still act. If I go to the
theatre and see a good play, I can't enjoy it,
because I always say to myself, ' Well, why am
I not in It ?' An awful condition of things, Is it
not ?"
Miss Urquhart showed me albums filled with
photographs of herself, in all costumes. She
possesses a picture of herself in that very slight
attire which, a few months ago, caused so
ISABELLE URQUHART. I 27
many unflattering remarks to appear in the
newspapers.
** I was miserable," said Miss Urquhart, "and
my appearance in that awful dress was not
through my own fault, either. When I saw it,
I went to the stage manager, and begged him
not to let me wear it. I knew it would create an
uproar. I was beside myself with anxiety.
'Miss Urquhart,' said he, 'I am directing this
production. You are under my direction. You
must wear that dress.' So I wore it, and one
wretch in a weekly paper declared that my — my
— legs looked as if they would support anything
from the Equitable building to the Brooklyn
Bridge. And so they did. It was the effect of
the top boots, w^hich consumed yards and yards
of patent leather. It was a most trying expe-
rience for me. Now, however, I design all my
own clothes, and have them made. I get extra
money for this, and it is far more agreeable for
me.
128 ISABELLE URQUHART.
An awful idea that the fragrant stew I have
before mentioned might by this time be cold,
and that Miss Isabelle might need a little more
before consigning it to the oblivion of the larder,
caused me to seize my hat with sudden resolu-
tion. Miss Urquhart said very many pleasant
things, and I tried to say as many more. In fact
we kept up this little game of complimentry bat-
tledore and shuttlecock until I found myself
locked in the elevator, en route for the street.
Yes, that visit to Miss Isabelle Urquhart was
certainly very fascinating.
Sadie Martinot.
EAR little, bubblesome Sadie !
I feel that I am not in
the least disrespectful
in thus alluding to
Miss Martinot. I knew
her before she was
stately ; before she
could address her French maid in irreproachable
French ; before her pictures were in very great
demand. Under the circumstances, nobody will
deny me the right to exclaim, and even to re-
peat : Dear little, bubblesome Sadie !
Miss Martinot is an excellent example of how
a bright, pretty woman can push her way rapidly
to the front in the theatrical profession. Miss
Sadie is of lowly origin, though history is rather
[1 291
I30
SADIE MARTINOT.
dead upon the subject. I believe she was discov-
ered in Boston by Fred Stinson, a young theatrical
man. He was attracted by her charming face,
dulcet voice and dainty manner. He married
her. For some time
Miss Sadie Martlnot
was Mrs. Fred Stin-
son. Now the Sadie
could be a prima
donna If her desires
ran In that direction,
while Stinson is peg-
ging away at man-
agement, his latest
scheme In that direc-
tion being aimed at
Miss Mary Shaw.
Miss Sadie Martlnot was originally — and I say
it in no perverse mood, for to my mind, it is no
grave fault — Sarah Martin. She became Martl-
not when she went upon the stage. She is still
SADIE MARTINOT. 131
Martinot. Numbers of comely young women
whom I could name, would not in the least mind
being Martinot. The young woman was born
in 1 86 1. She is so pretty that if I were to name
1 87 1 as her natal year, you would feel no incli-
nation at all to dispute my statement. But I
am in love with the truth, and the truth it
shall be.
I first met Sadie in 1883 in London. She
was then playing at the Comedy Theatre in Pan-
ton street, in the opera of " Rip Van Winkle."
Miss Martinot was the Katrina ; Miss Violet
Cameron was singing the leading feminine role.
Sadie was a very meek, unpretentious little
lady in those days. She got ^20 a week and
thought herself lucky. She was the protegee of
Dion Boucicault, and that keen discoverer of
talent saw the bright possibilities of the little
Martinot girl. When she left the London fogs,
for New York sunshine, — and she hated London
with true American consistency — she appeared
132 SADIE MARTINOT.
in New York In a series of Dion Boucicault's
plays, meeting with considerable success. Later,
she was seen In " Confusion," at the Fifth
Avenue Theatre.
I saw Sadie some years after, and how time
had changed her ! She had just returned from
a home that she had furnished In Vienna. She
had left the stage for some time, and had been
living abroad. Her return to this country was
made In order that she might assume the title
role In " Nadjy," at the Casino, where she had
made a great hit In " Nanon."
Sadie was Inclined to put on what Is called
"frills." She was stopping at the Vendome
Hotel, and she received me In a magnificent
suite of rooms. Her attire was regardless of
expense. She was swathed In a white gauze
peignoir, with furbelows up to her eyes. It was
negligently open at the corsage, for Sadie has a
neck and throat that half the society women In
New York would give ten years of their lives to
SADIE MARTINOT. I33
possess. Mamma was there. Mamma is a very
discreet individual, who wears black alpaca and
talks in a neutral tone.
'' I was quite a success, was I not, mamma T*
asks Sadie.
And mamma says, ** Yes, dear."
" I had no intention of doing such and such a
thing, had I, mamma ?" pouts Sadie.
And mamma says, *' No, dear."
This is merely to give you an idea of how use-
ful a stage mamma is on certain occasions. Mrs.
Martinot is generally in the vicinity of her
pretty daughter, but sometimes she stays at
home while Sadie goes abroad.
Well, Miss Martinot never appeared in " Nad-
jy." Miss Jansen filled her place. Though
Sadie bought costumes and made all imaginable
preparations, she declined to submit to the arbi-
trary stage management at the Casino, and re-
signed Her indignation when she told me of
this was amusing enough to have brought smiles
134 SADIE MARTINOT.
to the face of the weeping philosopher, Herac-
litus.
'* The idea !" she exclaimed. " I am an artist,
and do not care to be instructed in details. I
went to great pains abroad to see how the part
was to be played, and I could have made it ex-
tremely interesting. But to have mere details
insisted upon — well, I would not submit to it.
So I resigned, and one of these days I hope to
have another opportunity at the Casino. I am
on the best of terms with Mr. Aronson, am I
not, mamma ?"
And mamma said, ''Yes, dear."
Miss Martinot created a sensation when she
appeared at Amberg's Theatre last season. For
the plucky little lady had mastered the German
language sufficiently to be able to sing the lead-
ing role of Bettitia in ''The Mascot," with Mr.
Amberg's German company.
Oh ! wily Amberg ! How well he knew that
the presence of the Martinot would fill his house
SADIE MARTINOT. I 35
with the dudes and the jeunesse doree of New
York as it had never been filled before, and will,
in all likelihood, never be filled again. Sadie
made a delicious little Teuton. Her accent was
simply enviably good, and though Sadie's chic is
considerably greater than her voice, her effort
was distinctly creditable.
Miss Martinot is at great demand at benefits
when pretty girls are required to sell bouquets
and cajole good men into purchasing them.
And nobody can do this better than Sadie. A
well-known man about town went on one occa-
sion to a certain theatre, where an important
benefit performance was being given. Sadie was
selling flowers in the lobby. She was bewilder-
ingly beautiful and she knew it — petite coqtmie !
The gentleman looked at the buds and looked
at Sadie. She was the fairest flower of the bou-
quet. He picked up one of the blossoms, the
intrinsic value of which was perhaps two cents.
But he felt very magnanimous as he glanced at
the comely seller.
136 SADIE MARTIN.OT.
** I'll get a smile from her at any rate," he
mentally resolved.
Fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a five-
dollar bill, and put it down in front of the charm-
ing Martinot. There was no smile upon her
face. There was even a little expression of pique
hovering around her red lips.
*' Only five dollars !" she exclaimed with a sigh.
"Why, that is the very smallest sum that has
been offered this afternoon, and all the other
girls have got better prices."
It was a picturesque little bit of fiction, but it
was wildly successful. The gentleman took from
his pocket a bill. He looked at it. Then he
frowned. It was worth $20. He had no change.
Miss Sadie saw his perplexity, and in a moment
one of the most luscious smiles that he had ever
seen was all his. She even spoke to him, in rip-
pling mirth. Of course he was only human, and
he was instantly overcome. His bud had cost
him $25.
SADIE MARTJNOT.
^Z7
At the present time Miss Martinet is doing
nothing, theatrically. That is her own fault.
She is generally in demand.
Georgia Cayvan.
HAD never met Miss Georgia Cay-
van until I called upon her
in her dressing-room at the
Lyceum Theatre the other
day. But I had criticised her
performances, and it occurred
to me with horrible force, as I
waited at the stage door to be admitted into her
presence, that I had once called her ** precise and
podgy." I became seriously frightened. Who
could tell what she might not do to avenge her-
self ? Suppose she locked the door of the dress-
ing-room as soon as I entered, and stabbed me with
a pair of scissors or a penknife. It would be an
advertisement for her, but it might be a seri-
ous inconvenience, or more, to me.
139
I thought
140 GEORGIA CAY VAN.
it all over. I felt that the jury would acquit
Cayvan, and saw that she might even be
''starred " on the strength of her exploit.
*' Miss Cayvan will
see you in five min-
utes."
I heard the voice
at my elbow, and
turning, saw a meek
little woman with fair
hair. She wore an
apron, and looked
" v-^lf S very subdued. In
my anguish, I at
once jumped to the conclusion that Georgia was
utilizing the fivQ minutes in sharpening her
penknife, or putting a keener point to her scis-
sors. I felt that I was " in for it." I could now
only await events.
The five minutes passed all too quickly. At
their expiration, the fair-haired girl in the apron
GEORGIA CAYVAN. 141
appeared again, and beckoning to me to follow
her, led the way into the dressing-room of the
talented Georgia. Miss Cay van was attired in
the sumptuous ball dress worn in the second act
of "The Charity Ball." She looked charming.
Her bodice, cut low, showed a neck that was a
revelation. How could I have called her "pod-
gy ?" Her arms glistened in their rounded sleek-
ness, while her large brown eyes seemed to look
me through and through. She was so polite
that all my fears vanished. There were no scis-
sors in sight to disturb the equilibrium that I had
nearly secured.
" I am very glad indeed to see you," said Miss
Cayvan (perhaps she hadn't read the " podgy "
paragraph) "and I hope you will excuse the dis-
order of this room."
I glanced around the apartment. It was as
pretty a little place as an actress could ask for.
It was about the size of a band box; lighted by
electricity, and draped everywhere with pale blue
142 GEORGIA CAY VAN.
cretonne. There were looking-glasses, a nice
comfortable sofa, a wardrobe from which glimp-
ses of silks and plushes could be obtained, and a
dressing-table covered with the appliances of
stage " make-up."
I can't say that I felt at home. It would be
absurd to pretend that I was completely at my
ease in this dressing-room, with the gorgeous
Cayvan eyeing me half suspiciously, and the fair-
haired girl — who was none other than Miss Alice
Cayvan, Georgia's sister — passing and repassing,
in a fit oi tidiness.
I asked Miss Cayvan to tell me all she could
about herself, and sat down to listen to her.
"You are Mr. Alan Dale?" she asked, half
incredulously.
" Surely."
I was not surprised at Georgia's query. I
was a little bit flattered — at my own expense.
I saw that she found it difficult to believe that
the stupid looking creature in the black overcoat
GEORGIA CAY VAN. 143
could have a single idea of his own. As I said
before somewhere, I have come to the conclusion
that I look a fool. Georgia's question was
additional confirmation.
** My family was not a bit dramatic," began
Georgia, presently. " I believe that my eldest
sister played twice in private theatricals, but if I
have ever done anything for the theatre " (with
cast down eyes) " it wasn't because I inherited
any tendency in that direction. I was born in
Maine, but we moved to Boston when I was a
very little child. My mother says that when I
was three years old, I held a candle at a church
entertainment, wore a nice little white night-
gown, and had to say 'good-night.' I made a
great hit."
Miss Cay van looked at Alice, as though
expecting her to say something, but the sister
was hard at work arranging Miss Georgia's cos-
tumes.
" Later," said Miss Cayvan, " we met with
144 GEORGIA CAYVAN.
reverses, and I felt that I had to do something to
help my family. So I resolved to be a reader,
and soon found that the occupation was enjoy-
able and profitable. I supported myself entirely
in this way, and even paid for my own schooling.
It was very delightful. I met charming people,
and made a good deal of money. Even now, I
often come across men and women I knew in
those days. I made some splendid friends.
The associations of the life of a reader are excel-
lent. I had told my mother, when I was five
years old — so she says — that I meant to go upon
the stage, but I forgot that until, at one of my
readings, I met Steele Mackaye. He told me
that if he ever had a theatre he would like to
have me in it. Of course that put the idea into
my head once more, but I did not appear until
1880, when I made my debut at the Madison
Square Theatre."
^'In 1880?"
** Certainly," laughed Miss Cayvan. " I seem
GEORGIA CAY VAN. 1 45
to have been millions of years before the public,
don't I ? Now confess that you thought I first
appeared in 1820, and that I am just reaching
rny ninetieth year ? You won't confess ? Very
well. I went upon the stage against the advice
of everybody on earth. They all had something
to say against it. I remember I promised I
would buy my mother a pair of lovely horses,
but I haven't done so yet."
Miss Cay van sighed, but it was not a mourn-
ful sigh. She wasn't foolish enough to pretend
that she wasn't satisfied with herself. She has
done great things. In ten years she has gained
the position of leading lady in one of the best
stock-companies in the American metropolis.
" Since I have been on the staore," she said,
" I have appeared in hardly any plays that have
not had long runs. I don't like that at all. I
find that long runs narrow one terribly. It has
narrowed me. I used to think when I was read-
insf that the stao^e would be delio^htful for the
146 GEORGIA CAYVAN.
simple reason that an actress had to appear In
but one character each evening, while in reading
she had to impersonate several. But now I see
that I like plenty of variety, I don't get it. I
appear in plays that run for two hundred nights.
That is one of the penalties you must pay for a
successful manager. A long run is a boon to
him. He pockets his profits and has nothing to
think about. We, poor things, have to go on
stagnating. I would play anything for the sake
of variety. I'd even be Topsy, for a change."
My imagination could not stretch to the point
of picturing the gorgeously attired woman
before me, with a black face, exclaiming, " I
'spect I growed," with the Topsy accent.
" Of course, before I went upon the stage, I
wanted to be tragic," she resumed, ** but I don't
mind now what I play, though I feel I am very
bad in comedy. I generally play emotional
parts. I suppose you think I am very phleg-
matic and placid ?"
GEORGIA CAYVAN. I 47
The horrible belief that she was going to say
" podgy," when she began to utter the word
" jolacid " struck me. I grew crimson in the face,
and I am now firmly convinced that she knew
the reason for this. I answered hesitatingly
that I had been slightly inclined to the belief
that she was phlegmatic and placid.
*' That's what everybody thinks," she said,
rather scornfully. " Well, I am not. I am fear-
fully nervous, and am always under treatment
for my nerves."
I looked at the smooth white throat revealed
by the low cut bodice ; I glanced at the plump
arms, and the full face. No, Georgia hadn't
converted me.
" I suffer fearfully from stage fright," she con-
tinued, "and am really pitifully shaky on a first-
night. If you ever saw me at rehearsal, and
were manager of the company, you would dis-
charge me. I do the most awful things. I
really behave more like a cow than anything
else."
148 GEORGIA CAY VAN.
This was getting embarrassing. What could
I say?
'* Fortunately, Belasco, our stage manager,
knows me. We had a dress-rehearsal of the
' Charity Ball.' There was nobody In the house
but. one or two of the Lyceum directors, whom I
knew, but I was so frightened that I couldn't do
anything. Do I feel the parts I play ? Oh,
Alice, he asks me if I feel the parts I play."
Miss Cayvan cast a look of withering con-
tempt upon me, and turned to her sister. Miss
Alice Cayvan was not a clever confederate.
She didn't seem to know what to say. So she
said nothing, and left Georgia to fight her own
battles.
•'Do I feel the parts I play?" repeated Miss
Cayvan, in accents of sorrow. ** Do I feel the
parts I play ? You may not like my acting, but
surely — well, I will simply say that I have terri-
ble weeping fits ; that for days and days I don't
eat ; I don't sleep ; and I subsist entirely upon
beef tea."
GEORGIA CA^\ AN. 1 49
Again I looked at the smooth white throat
revealed by the low cut bodice ; I glanced at the
plump arms, and the full face. No, Georgia
hadn't converted me.
" I never learn a line of a part until I thor-
oughly know what it is all about," she said. " I
never study a part until I have acquired every
bit of the dramatic action. The lines come later
on. I find that when I have completely mas-
tered the meaning of a part, the lines are learned
very easily. I know other people do differently,
but I can't help thinking that my method is the
best. I do all I can to improve myself, men-
tally. An educated person can do much more
upon the stage than an uneducated one. I
always have a book with me on the cars, and I at-
tend lectures — and so on. People laugh at Bos-
ton girls, and call them bluestockings, but I assure
you that a Boston training is a great thing — and
a great help for the stage, too. I think that my
reading experience assisted me a considerably."
150 GEORGIA CAYVAN.
Miss Cay van had very little to say on the
associations of the stage. ** My experience has
been an exceptional one," she remarked. ''You
see I began at the Madison Square Theatre, and
have been mostly in New York companies, which
are like large families. Here, at the Lyceum
Theatre, I feel as though I were at home. Of
course, for sixteen weeks I ' barnstormed.' I then
had an opportunity of seeing what the associa-
tions of the stage might be. An actor's nature is
peculiar. He is essentially different to other
men. He is placed in queer surroundings, and, of
course, he is affected by them. No matter how
hard you try, you have the flavor of the stage
hovering around you. I suppose I have some
of it, myself."
'' Have you reached your theatrical goal ?" I
asked.
*' I don't know," she said. '' I have not real-
ized my dreams. There is a saying that if you
are true to your dreams, they will be realized. I
GEORGIA CAY VAN. 151
suppose that I have not been true to mine. But
of course my position is a very comfortable one,"
(briskly). " Here I am in an excellent company,
passing myself off as leading lady " (laughing). " I
suppose I couldn't be a star. Starring isn't dig-
nified, anyway. A star requires great notoriety,
great beauty," (with a glance at the mirror) "or
some mental exaltation that leads her to believe
she is greater than anybody else. Some people
are fitted for stock companies and for nothing
else. I believe that I am one of those people."
At that moment Miss Cay van was called to the
stage. " My order of dancing, please, Alice," she
said as she picked up her train and made for the
door. The little programme was handed to her
by her sister, and with a bright smile she took
her departure. Alice didn't look at all encour-
aofinor, so I decided to follow suit.
After all Georgia hadn't been so terrible.
Copyright 1887, bv NAPOLEON SARONY.
CQl^S. JJANGIPI^Y.
Mrs. Langtry.
NE day, about a week after
the first arrival of Mrs. Lang-
try in this country, two news-
paper men met. One was
mild and dapper ; the other
was enthusiastic and seedy.
It was this other who spoke
first in a genial burst of confidence.
" George," he said, ** you know I interviewed
Mrs. Langtry the other night. I'm an old hand
at that sort of thing, old fellow, as you are
aware, but confound it, if I didn't succumb to
her." And, sinking his voice to a whisper, " I
think I must have made an impression, for she
gave me this."
153
154
MRS. LANGTRY.
He held up a portrait of the beauteous Lang-
try. On Its back was inscribed this legend:
'*With sincere regards, from Lillie Langtry."
The sallow face of the enthusiastic and seedy
young man flushed with an elaborate joy. The
mild and dapper youth was silent. Then he
carefully drew from his pocket an envelope,
opened it, and produced another portrait of Mrs.
Langtry, exactly similar to the first, and bearing
the same bland and interesting legend.
*' She gave me this," he said. It was a sad
blow to the seedy enthusiast. He began to real-
ize that all that glittered was not necessarily
gold, and without a word went his way.
This little anecdote, which has the merit of
truth, is illustrative of Mrs. Langtry s character.
Of gentle birth, and accustomed to mix in most
exclusive and ultra-cultivated circles, she brought
to her theatrical surroundings all the delicacies
of refinement. In reality the newspaper men she
met were simply treated as a well-bred hostess
MRS. LANGTRY. 1 55
would treat guests. But so unusual was this
*
method to the frequently insulted interviewers,
that each imagined himself to be an especial
object of her favor.
Mrs. Langtry won a great deal of her success
in America by the newspapers. Like the Hon.
Chauncey M. Depew, she made it a point to be
particularly and effusively kind to the gentlemen
of the press ; to answer all their questions and to
receive them as friends. It is generally admitted,
in Mr. Depew's case, that to this policy is
largely due his almost universal popularity. And
it has also been the case with Mrs. Langtry. It
has been said that the most influential figure on
a newspaper is the reporter. While I do not
admit this very entirely, I assert that the state-
ment contains many grains of truth.
Let me give you an instance of Mrs. Langtry s
delicacy. With half a dozen other newspaper
men, I once called at her house in West Twenty-
third street, after her arrival from England.
156 MRS. LANGTRY.
The house, which was the property of Mrs. Beach
Grant, mother of Miss Adele Grant, had been
taken, in its exquisitely furnished condition, by
Mrs. Langtry. It stands back from the street
and pedestrians still look at It, as they '* pass by."
We were admitted by an admirable specimen
of the English flunky, with a delightfully stolid
look of know-nothing-ism written upon his
features. He showed us into a reception-room
that was simply a feast for the eye. Tapestry
hung upon the walls, the portieres were of yellow
silk, the carpets of the thickest velvet, and in all
directions were quaint little tables loaded with
daintiest brie- ^-brac, and "articles of virtue," as
Mrs. Partington would say.
Mrs. Langtry frou-froued into the room In a
few moments, and before we were aware of it we
were at home. A more charming hostess was
surely never revealed. It is a melancholy fact
that a number of misguided people suppose that
the American newspaper-man is not completeb^ at
MRS. LANGTRY. 1 57
his ease until he is at the flowing bowl. A
more gross calumny has never been imagined.
Perhaps years ago, when the country was young,
and any Tom, Dick, or Harry who could sign
his name was permitted to write for the daily
journals, this may have been the case. At the
present time, the journalists of the metropolis are,
for the most part, gentlemen by birth and educa-
tion.
Well, I suppose Mrs. Langtry had been told
what she ought tp do under the circumstances —
to offer wine. This lady, however — I use the
term advisedly — did the thing in her own grace-
ful manner. This is how she managed it. She
rang the bell. James, the know-nothing-istic
flunky appeared.
'' I am dying with thirst," she said to him,
**and after my journey, I niiist have a glass of
champagne. Please bring me a bottle, James.
Don't think this awful of me," she added, turning
to us, '* but I am truly fatigued, and if you arq
158 MRS. LANGTRY.
charitable, and want to put me at my ease, you
will join me."
Could anything be more tactful or delicious ?
I, who had registered a vow never to ** quaff"
with actors or actresses was disarmed. So was
everybody else. We had a most enjoyable visit,
and, be quite sure that the Langtry had made no
enemies.
I have met Mrs. Langtry a score of times at
her house and at the theatre. On every occasion
I have found her the same. Of course she is a
clever woman. She calculates upon the effect of
everything she does, but in an artistically
imperceptible manner.
To her subordinates Mrs. Langtry is always the
quintessence of politeness. That flunky of hers
adores the ground she walks upon. Although
she is now in England, and he is in the city in
the service of her boon companion, Mrs. Baron
Blanc, I am convinced that, at one word from
Langtry, he would meet her, were it at the farthest
end of the earth.
MRS. LANGTRY. 1 59
A friend of mine, a newspaper man, who had
been asked to write up a series of articles upon
Mrs. Langtry's menage, had occasion, of course,
to visit her very often. One winter day he
slipped upon the icy pavement, broke his leg,
and was taken, helpless, to the hospital. Mrs.
Langtry heard of this, and every day for the fol-
lowing month her carriage was to be seen at the
hospital. She visited the sick man, took him fruit
and flowers, and did it all in such an irresistibly
fascinating manner, that if to-day the object of
these attentions were called upon to offer him-
self up for her, I am quite sure that he would not
hesitate.
There was a funny side to this episode. The
young man in question was engaged to be mar-
ried to a pretty girl who lived exactly opposite
Mrs. Langtry in Twenty-third street. She, of
course, saw her fiance visiting the actress, and
made things so " hot " for him that he finally
discontinued these visits.
l6o MRS. LANGTRY.
Mrs. Langtry used to give artistic little dinners
at her Twenty-third street house every Sunday
night when she was in the city. Her mother,
Mrs. Le Breton, and her little niece were gener-
ally living with her. Her guests generally in-
cluded Mrs. Baron Blanc, Mr. Frederick Geb-
hardt and Mr. Porter Asche, not necessarily at
the same time.
Of Mrs. Langtry, as an artist, I shall say but
little, for has not this been spoken of in the daily
journals since her first appearance in 1883 ? She
has vastly improved. Her Lady Ormond in *' A
Wife's Peril " is a distinctly creditable piece of
work, and the conscientious efforts of the keen-
witted woman to rise above the mere level of a
professional beauty have been extremely visible.
It was a great blow to her when Mrs. Potter
produced " Antony and Cleopatra." She had in-
tended to do this herself. Still she was not com-
pletely daunted. In her intense desire to win
dramatic fame, she appeared at the Fifth Avenue
MRS. LANGTRY. l6l
Theatre last season as Lady Macbeth, Every-
body accorded her performance the highest
praise. She was a revelation.
Poor Langtry ! The public declined to patron-
ize her in this — for her — novel role. They
wanted her Worth-arrayed, jewel-bedecked, a
drawing-room doll. " Macbeth " was a financial
failure, and Langtry went to Europe. At
this writing she is " touring " the English
provinces. She will undoubtedly return to this
country, to which she owes her success. Mrs.
Langtry is a rich woman. She owns a great
deal of American real estate, and has a lawyer
on this side of the' Atlantic who looks after her
many interests. She, herself, is a consummate
woman of business, and what she doesn't know
about America and American modes of life —
well, it is of no consequence to anybody.
Mary Anderson.
HE Our-Mary-ness of Miss
Anderson is fast wearing
away. It is being gradually
replaced by a Their-Mary-
ness that may enhance her
value in the eyes of Anglo-
maniacs, but which, to true
Americans must be rather
galling. To be sure, art is universal. Still,
men and women like to remember that the artist
is bound to them by that poetic tie of nation-
ality, which no naturalization papers on earth
can ever really sever.
Mary Anderson, the American girl, now
resides in England. The land which gave her
birth, the country in which she made her first
163
1 64
MARY ANDERSON.
success, Is hardly good enough for the dainty
lady to live in. She makes periodical visits In
the approved style, with an English company,
and then goes back
to London to spend
there the good dol-
lars she has earned.
During her visit in
1889, the Westerners
attacked her rather
savagely, and poor
Mary, not under-
standing that rabrd
patriotism was un-
consciously at the
root of the attack,
was very much hurt. In fact, many people
consider that the severe and unjustifiable
treatment she received in St. Louis was the
cause of that " nervous prostration " that ren
dered her unable to carry out her season's
MARY ANDERSON. 1 65
engagement. She went back to England to
recuperate in its finer atmosphere. Inter-
viewers on this side of the water were treated
with rigid contempt. Miss Anderson declined
to explain herself. But no sooner was she upon
the shores of Albion than she indulged in the
unbosoming process. It was the difference in
the air, I suppose, that rendered this possible.
I remember the occasion of Miss Anderson's
return to this country, after her first success in
London. The susceptible hearts of all New
York's interviewers fluttered bewilderingly at
the delightful prospect afforded them by an
Anderson interview. The arrival of the steam-
ship that brought her here was eagerly awaited.
Columns of the most interesting gossip were
confidently expected.
The morning following her arrival, however,
showed clearly the vanity of human wishes.
Meek little paragraphs appeared in the morning
papers announcing Mary's advent, and giving.
1 66 MAR,Y ANDERSON.
third-personly, the details of her plans. The
only paper that published an interview, such as
it was, was the Tribune ; such a wretched,
rambling, disconnected affair, too ! And can
you guess how it was obtained? Why, the
interviewer managed to get on board the vessel
at Quarantine, and listen to stray remarks that
fell from Mary's lips as she conversed with a
companion. Of these he attempted to make a
" talk." Miss Anderson positively declined to
be interviewed. It wasn't English. It wasn't
dignified. If ever a disgusted set of men existed
in New York, it was the set whose hopes had
been dashed to the ground by the Anderson.
Contrasted with this superlative exclusiveness
is the story told me by a gentleman who lived in
Louisville and knew Mary when she was a
young girl.
Said he, ''Why, I have seen her mount the
wash-tubs and recite from * Romeo and Juliet '
with a wealth of gesticulation that was astonish-
MARY ANDERSON. 1 67
inor. Her audience was a colored washerwoman
and cook. They were amazed at her perform-
ance, and used to applaud it vigorously. Her
arrival in the kitchen was a signal for the cessa-
tion of all work. Juliet on the tubs was quite
an institution."
Mary Anderson is not a Louisville girl, as
many people suppose. She was born in Sacra-
mento, California, in 1859, but her parents
moved to Kentucky when she was very young.
She went to school in Louisville, but rebelled at
the routine work of the institution. In fact,
Mary's love for the stage really seems to have
begun very young, and to have been sincere and
worthy. She studied Shakespeare with earnest-
ness, and was perpetually poring over the works
of the great dramatist.
J. M. Farren tells us that she paid a visit to
Charlotte Cushman on one occasion. The old
actress took Mary's hand, and patted her affec-
tionately on the cheek. " You have three essen-
I 68 MARY ANDERSON.
tial qualifications for the stage," she is reported
to have said, " voice, personality and gesture.
With a year's longer study and some training,
you may venture to make an appearance before
the public."
Mary first made this venture in Louisville, at
Macauley's Theatre, in 1875, i" ^^^ character of
Juliet, a role for which she is absolutely unfitted,
which she has played many times since, and
which she may continue to play for years to
come, without even realizing Shakespeare's
meaning. The idea of Mary Anderson playing
Juliet has always seemed to me grotesque.
Sarah Bernhardt in one of Charles H. Hoyt's
farce-comedies would not be more misplaced.
In 1877 she was first seen in New York, and
since that day has always been able to '* draw "
large audiences in this city. It is Miss Ander-
son's beauty rather than her talent that first
attracted attention. Her dramatic worth has
always been questioned until she appeared in
MARY ANDERSON. 1 69
" A Winter's Tale ; " her beauty nobody has
ever attempted to deny.
I do not beheve that any woman has been
photographed as persistently as has Miss Ander-
son. Her pictures have literally adorned the
city's highways and by-ways. And it has been
the same in London. Her personal charms won
instant recognition.
Miss Anderson's work in '' A Winter's Tale,"
in 1889, was really the first dramatic effort she
has made that met with general approval. As
Hermione and Perdita, her dramatic force was
absolutely convincing. The absence of any
aggressively amorous episodes in these roles v/as
the reason of her success. Miss Anderson fails
utterly when she attempts to interpret any of
the characteristics resulting from the dominion of
sexuality. You feel that the failure is not due
to lack of study, but merely to an inability to ex-
press the more subtle shades. Her Rosalind is
charming ; but it is not Shakespeare's Rosalind,
170 MARY ANDERSON.
It is a Rosalind who is by no means passionately
in love with Orlando.
Miss Anderson is always accompanied on her
travels by her fond stepfather, Dr. Hamilton
Griffin, a very amusing old gentleman with a
colossal business eye. He has steered Miss
Mary through many a critical shoal. He has
been on hand when, alone, she might have foun-
dered in the dramatic sea. He is very proud of
his Mary, and is on more than mere friendly
terms with himself. Before Miss Anderson
went to England she used to spend a great deal
of time in Long Branch, where she owned a
charming cottage. But Long Branch has been
forgotten. Nice has taken its place. Perhaps
Dr. Griffin sighs for the old days. If he does,
he bears his affliction very nicely.
Miss Anderson is an indefatigable worker.
She never considers herself and her own powers
of endurance when she undertakes any enter-
prize. She will attend rehearsals, when many a
MARY ANDERSON. I 71
** Star " would send a substitute in a stage mana-
ger ; she will drill " supers," and arrange a stage
as she thinks it should be arranged.
Miss Anderson has very many admirable traits.
Every man or woman who has played in her
company has a good word to say for her. She
treats her subordinates with charming consider-
ation. She invites confidences, and herself
remedies grievances.
One young girl, a member of the company,
went to Miss Anderson, on one occasion, and
begged for her protection from certain slights
to which she had been exposed. The girl was
playing a very small part, and was unknown in
the theatrical world. Miss Anderson instantly
investigated the matter, set everything right,
and entreated the girl to let her know if anything
of a disagreeable nature should again occur.
Miss Anderson has been married half-a-dozen
times — by report. She is one of the women of
whom the public is anxious to know more than
172 MARY ANDERSON.
there really is to know. Miss Anderson is not a
bit sensational. She ought to be, but she isn't.
Yet Dame Rumor is ever busy. Mary has
snubbed the Prince of Wales ; she has made all
arrangements to enter a convent ; she is particu-
larly chummy with this big-wig and that big-wig ;
she is going to be married to Lord Tomnoddy,
or about to retire from the stage and live in
seclusion.
Perhaps if Miss Anderson's position were not
financially what it is, she might find this craving
on the part of the public extremely profitable.
But Mary is rich, and if she wishes to retire
from the stage she can do so comfortably. Still,
she might gratify us occasionally, and give us
just a triHe to talk about. Even her recent
marriage with Antonio de Navarro, was con-
ducted in a bewilderingly unsensational manner.
Agnes Booth.
AM a terrible disappointment to
interviewers," said Mrs. Ag-
nes Booth one day, as we
sat chatting, in her delight-
ful little flat in West Thirtieth
street. ''In fact, I may say
that I am a gigantic failure
as far as the interviewing question is con-
cerned."
All of which was, of course, a mistake. Mrs.
Booth is a failure at nothing. As an actress she
has for years commanded the attention of the
metropolis in both her emotional and her come-
dy work. As a hostess she is the most charm-
ing embodiment of tact and grace, putting her
visitors at their ease in an incredibly short space
173
1/4
AGNES BOOTH.
of time, and showing an amount of conversational
facility that is astonishing, even for an actress.
Mrs. Booth is a thoroughly domesticated wo-
man. Few people
outside the theatrical
profession know very
much of her person-
ally. It is their loss,
I assure you. Her
home is deliciously
unostentatious ; her
methods those of the
sedate and accom-
plished matron. Her
husband, John Schoef-
fel, the partner of Messrs. Abbey and Grau in
some of their enterprises, is one of the few the-
atrical husbands who cannot complain that stage
work causes his wife to neglect the duties of the
hearth.
*' Few people know," said Mrs. Booth during
AGNES BOOTH. I 75
the course of our talk, " that in my native coun-
try, Australia, I was a dancer. It is a fact. I
worked fearfully hard at this vocation, practiced
six or seven hours a day, and used to dance in
Sydney, between the acts. I might have been
dancing now," she added with a laugh, "if heart
trouble had not rendered it imperative for me
to abandon that life. I had heart trouble
then, and I have had it ever since. I was pas-
sionately fond of dancing. In fact, in Australia,
I had not the faintest intention of acting. I had
the thorough training of a ballet dancer, and was
conversant with all the requirements of that call-
ing. While I was quite young, I went to San
Francisco, and danced in opera ballets. I ap-
peared in * Un Ballo di Maschera " with Adelaide
Phillips, I think it was. Yes, my career has been
a very checkered one. I like to look back upon
its phases."
Mrs. Booth spoke as few actresses speak. She
even remembered dates, and spoke unhesitatingly
176 AGNES BOOTH.
of the sixties. Now it has been my frequent
experience that the women of the stage are
either unable or unwilling to remember anything
further back than ten years. In many cases five
years is the extent to which they permit their
memories to retrograde.
** I have played nearly every part imaginable,"
she went on, smiling. " I have played old women
when I was a very young one, and before I even
played young women. I have almost played old
men. My stage experience has been a beautiful
mixture."
Mrs. Booth laughed. She really enjoyed her
own criticisms of herself. And she was not
inclined to be at all flattering. In fact she
embarrassed me at times, for I felt that I really
ought to deny some of the statements she made
about herself.
"For six years I played in San Francisco,"
she said. " Then I came east and appeared
with Mr. Forrest at Niblo's Garden. On the
AGNES BOOTH. I 77
off-nlghts I played in ' Arrah-na-Pogue.' Then
I went to the Boston Theatre and played every-
thing you can possibly think of, and supported
nearly everybody you can mention, including
Jefferson, Montgomery, and a German actor with
an awfully unpronounceable name. I always
remember that German gentleman. One night
when we were playing, I got a very severe
bruise in the face from his spurs. He had to
fall on a sofa, and I had to go to him. He fell
rather suddenly. His feet went up in the air,
and I was hurt. He couldn't speak a word of
English. I forgave him. It sounds funny now,
but I failed to see the humor of the accident at
the time. I came to New York — let me see,
how inany years ago was it ?"
Mrs. Booth covered her face with her hand
and reflected. '' Sixteen years ago," she said,
presently. '' I always reckon dates by the age of
my son Sidney. He is the landmark for my
memory. Yes, I came to New York sixteen
178 AGNES BOOTH.
years ago, and have remained here ever since,
with the exception of three years when I starred.
My husband, Mr. Junius Brutus Booth, had lost
$100,000 with Booth's Theatre, and I felt that I
must do something. It was not at all a pleasant
experience. I had four little babies, and I wor-
ried and grizzled and pined. I could not stand
it any longer, and came home. Then I went to
the Union Square Theatre, and appeared in
'The Pink Dominoes,' and later in 'A Cele-
brated Case' under Mr. A. M. Palmer's manage-
ment. Then I was seen in ' Sardanapalus ' at
Booth's Theatre, and in ' Old Love Letters,'
' Champagne and Oysters,' ' Engaged,' and * Fair-
fax,' at the Park. After that I went to Mr.
Daniel Frohman at the Madison Square Theatre,
and appeared there in ' Esmeralda,' also playing
in 'Young Mrs. Winthrop.' I left him, and after
a few more experiences, joined Mr. A. M. Palmer,
opening in ' Sealed Instructions.' I have never
left Mr. Palmer. I am with him still."
AGNES BOOTH. I 79
Mrs. Booth had certainly given a very concise
account of herself. Her son Sidney came in at
that moment and was affectionately greeted by
his mother. He is a comely, frank-looking
young man, with a very evident admiration for
his accomplished parent.
** People often ask me," said Mrs. Booth,
" which I prefer playing — emotional or comedy
roles. I tell you frankly that I have no prefer-
ence in the matter at all. Of course sentiment
wears a good deal more than comedy, and I
really feel very deeply when I play such
emotional parts as those I assumed in *Jim, the
Penman,' and 'Captain Swift.' But I would just
as soon play an emotional as a comedy part. It
really doesn't matter in the least to me. I have
been before the public so long that I have very
little pride. Sometimes I think that I am pretty
bad in both sentiment and comedy."
This was no little bit of fishing for compli-
ments. From most actresses that is exactlv
l8o AGNES BOOTH.
what it would have been. But Mrs. Booth was
completely in earnest. All the glamor of the
profession seems to have worn off for her. She
is artistically matter-of-fact.
" Although I have been before the public so
long," she resumed, " I am the most fearfully
nervous creature on a first night that you can
picture. I am in perfect agony. I never see a
soul on first nights except my fellow-actors and
actresses. You find it difficult to believe that,
don't you ? It is a positive fact, I assure you
solemnly. A new play is to me a frightful ordeal.
I try to reason with myself, but it is not the
least use. The present play running at the
Madison Square Theatre, caused me a good deal
of anguish. I have to sing that song 'If you
want to know the time, ask a p'liceman.' I have
never sung a note in my life, and am lament-
ably wanting in that direction. The song was a
perfect bugbear to me. It haunted me night
and day. I very nearly threw up the part on its
AGNES BOOTH. l8l
account. After one rehearsal I said to my hus-
band, 'John, I think I shall give up my part in
"Aunt Jack." That song will kill me!' He
wouldn't hear of such a thing, so I determined to
make the best of it. I shall never forget the
first night of 'Aunt Jack.' It will be the same
when we present the play in Boston. I shall
not know whether I am standing on my head or
my heels. Mr. Palmer often jokes me about this
role in ' Aunt Jack,' and another role, that of Co^i-
stance in Shakespeare's ' King John,' of which I
was very proud. Constance is the best piece of
acting I have ever done. It is so utterly opposed
to ' Aunt Jack ' that to mention these two roles
as being played by the same actress is really
funny."
Mrs. Booth is very much opposed to the long
runs that now prevail at metropolitan theatres.
She says that people get so fearfully tired of
playing one part night after night for months.
This complaint has been made by many people
1 82 AGNES BOOTH.
outside of the theatrical profession. But if a
manager finds that he can make money with one
play for six months, he is not going to the
expense and trouble of risking a second. Long
runs in a big city, which draw people from the
outside as well as from the inside, are inevitable.
I could have stayed and talked to Mrs. Booth
for hours. Luckily for her, that was impossible.
I am always very careful never to outstay my
welcome anywhere, but I really felt a distinct
regret at tearing myself away from this brilliant
woman's home. I trampled upon my feelings,
however, like a veritable martyr, and withdrew in
time.
Mrs. Booth is a great favorite with theatrical
people. Do you know why ? Simply because
she never seems to know that she is great.
Theatrical people like that kind of a woman,
because there are not many such to be found.
I always remember the professional matinee
given at the Star Theatre by Mme. Sarah Bern-
AGNES BOOTH. 1 83
hardt. All the actors and actresses In the
metropolis were there. At the conclusion of the
performance, a little group of theatrical women
stood discussing it. Sarah Bernhardt was not at
all kindly criticised. This fault and that fault
were discovered in the methods of the tragedi-
enne. There was a pretty general sort of a feel-
ing that ''we could have done it as well."
But Mrs. Booth was enthusiastic. '* I have
never before seen anything like It," she said.
"It shows me how little I know, and what a
failure I am."
Minnie Palmer.
OME years ago I was for-
tunate enough to attend
a meeting held by those
vivacious ladies who pre-
tend that they want to
vote, and who ask us to
believe that they really
think themselves to be
the equals of men. I was particularly fasci-
nated by the lady who presided, a comely,
rosy-cheeked woman, who looked not a day
over forty, and who was most artistically
attired. Her presidency was most amusing. The
poor little woman had heard of the Parliament-
ary rules of debate, and imagined, I suppose,
that she understood them. But her dismay.
1 86 MINNIE PALMER.
when half a dozen verbose women spoke at the
same time, rose to points of order, objected, and
indulged in other of the fascinating luxuries con-
nected with debate, was intense.
I felt sorry for her. She didn't
look a bit strong-minded. In
fact she appeared to be thor-
oughly ill-at-ease. After I had
talked to her for some time, I
discovered that she was Mrs.
Kate Palmer Stearns, the mo-
ther of little Miss Minnie Pal-
mer. Of course I imagined
that the president of such a
club must naturally despise such frivolities as
" soubrettes." I hesitated before even mention-
ing Miss Minnie. I need not have done so. I
soon discovered that Mrs. Stearns was very fond
of her daughter. It was *' dear Minnie " this,
and "dear Minnie" that. She was so lonely
when Minnie was away; so happy when she
MINNIE PALMER. 1 87
could welcome her home ; so eager to see her
on the stage ; so dehghted to testify to her im-
provement ; and so on.
Mrs. Kate Palmer Stearns is quite as interest-
ing as her daughter. I don't feel a bit guilty at
having mentioned her here.
Miss Minnie Palmer is a very winsome, ami-
able little lady, unaffected, blithe and amusing.
She has been before the public many years, and
folks are inclined to think her older than she
really is. Miss Palmer, however, is quite young.
I positively decline to mention her age, for her
mother's sake. If you had met Mrs. Stearns,
you would appreciate my delicacy as it deserves
to be appreciated.
Miss Minnie has been more venturesome that
other American actresses. She has played in
nearly all the English speaking countries on the
face of the globe. Her husband, Mr. John R.
Rogers, had his own ideas as to the methods of
"making" an actress. He set to work, and
1 88 MINNIE PALMER.
through his labor Miss Palmer has attained her
present position.
John R. Rogers is the most consummate
"advertiser" it is possible to imagine. He has
a deep and strong-rooted belief in the influence
of the newspaper paragraph. He waylays jour-
nalists and pours interesting stories into their
willing ears ; he manufactures pleasant little
" yarns ;" devises agreeably sensational schemes ;
there is nothing that he will not do in order to
be paragraphed. At one time he has a thrilling
story of a detective who passes his life in jeal-
ously guarding Miss Minnie's wonderful dia-
monds ; then it is a rumor that Miss Palmer has
been robbed by students at the theatre ; another
time it is the pleasant intelligence that Miss
Palmer is spending a month with Queen Victo-
ria's cousin in London.
It is safe to say that no actress w^as more
indulgently treated by the newspapers than Mrs,
John R. Rogers. But after a time, this kind of
MINNIE PALMER. I 89
thing became rather sickening. It was fatiguing
— this constant Minnie Palmer-ism. Mr. Ro<i-
ers' methods were soon known, and there was a
reaction. The time came when dramatic editors
were afraid to use Miss Palmer's name for fear
they might be accused of unduly advertising
her.
I know of one editor who said to Mr. Rogers,
** Johnny, if I heard that the theatre had burned
down, with Minnie in it, I should hesitate before
using the article, believing it to be one of your
clever little advertisements."
Mr. Rogers is personally a very good fellow.
He is most devoted to his charming little wife.
He is a man of business, against whose reputa-
tion for integrity no single word has been
spoken. He has made a great deal of money
with Miss Palmer. When in the city, Mr. and
Mrs. Rogers live in magnificent style. Their
home, recently fitted up in the Westminister
Hotel annex, is really a sumptuous place.
igo
MINNIE PALMER.
It is filled with treasures collected from the
principal cities of the world, and arranged with
perfect taste. Miss Palmers music-room is
a joy. Japanese portieres conceal it from the
view of the chance visitor. The walls are hung
with portraits of the best known composers ; the
piano is a superb instrument ; dainty bric-a-
brac, queer little tables, autograph portraits, and
ornaments of all descriptions, are to be found
everywhere. The carpets, of heaviest velvet,
would make a clodhoppers footstep sound
fairy-like ; tapestry hangings, and beautifully-tint-
ed curtains rendered the apartment most artistic.
The drawing-room is simply gorgeous. It
is as full of art treasures as a room destined
to be inhabited could be. Rugs, tapestries,
lamps, cabinets, silver ornaments, knick-knacks
in gold, porcelain, ivory, a Dresden china clock,
a bronze statuette of Salome, easels, tables,
vases, pictures, portraits of the Prince and Prin-
cess of Wales, bisque figures, etchings — all are
MINNIE PALMER. I91
in this drawing-room. I must say it does credit
to the good taste of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.
Many people with plenty of money are not
artistic enough to know how to spend it. No-
body can thus accuse either Miss Minnie Palmer
or her husband.
In the dressing-room is a cabinet which Mr.
Rogers declares was made from wood cut from
the ancestral park of Sir Henry A. Clavering.
It is certainly a very handsome and unconven-
tional looking piece of furniture.
Mr. Rogers' writing-room is a lovely "den."
I should like it for myself. In fact I may say I
have been guilty of breaking the tenth command-
ment and coveting my neighbor's wTiting-room.
That desk ought to be able to inspire priceless
thoughts, while the theatrical *' trophies " are
interesting themes for any number of " special
articles." Mr. Rogers has scores of books.
The sleeping-room is as pretty as any other
apartment in this charming home. It is fur-
192 MINNIE PALMER.
nished in the style favored by Marie Antoinette.
Anybody who has visited Versailles will have
seen the Marie Antoinette "souvenirs" there.
Miss Palmer has copied them as closely as possi-
ble.
Miss Minnie reposes beneath blue silk bed
coverings, which are adorned with filmy Valen-
ciennes lace. The carpet is deep blue ; the hang-
ings are of a corresponding hue.
Mr. Rogers fitted up this home quite recently.
He had been storing his treasures ; many of
them had been for years in safety vaults. Mr.
Rogers makes a capital host. He is always very
proud of showing his friends through his home.
As an actress, Miss Palmer has improved very
much of late. When I first saw her, I wondered
at her popularity. She was little more than a
boisterous, self-conscious imitation of Miss
Lotta. But Miss Palmer is more polished at the
MINNIE PALMER. I 93
present time. Her aims so far have not been of
the most elevated order, but I fancy that she is
not only capable but anxious to attempt better
things than such medleys and concert hall enter-
tainments as '' My Sweetheart," and '' My
Brother's Sister." In fact, Miss Palmer has
appeared in legitimate comedy. She made a
great success in W. S. Gilbert's " Engaged," and
has been seen in other plays. Mr. Rogers told
me some time ago that Miss Minnie intended to
produce little one-act plays of the style made
popular by Miss Rosina Yokes. She will be
admirably suited for this kind of work, and I
prophesy success if she attempt it. I was very
pleased with Miss Palmer in the little sketch
entitled " The Ring and the Keeper."
Emma Juch.
HERE is a joyous star-span-
gled-bannerism about Miss
Emma Juch that is positively
pleasant to contemplate.
The days when the divine
but dollaresque Patti can^
float over to American shores
and demand fivQ thousand
for a single warble, are surely passing away.
American singers will soon be recognized all
over the world, and even in their own country, I
believe. The vocal superiority of the American
is being rapidly recognized. And it is just such
delightful young women as Miss Emma Juch
who will win over the foreignly-disposed rrfinds
of their own countrymen.
195
196
EMMA JUCH.
At the present time Miss Juch Is at the head
of her own opera company, singing through the
United States, and meeting with some success —
more than might have
been expected. I con-
? fess that I had very little
faith In the success of the
organization, even -after
I had heard It Interpret
" MIgnon," and recog-
nized the excellence of
the Interpretation. Amer-
icans like their sonor-birds
from abroad, glittering with
gems presented by Euro-
pean potentates, veneered by the conserva-
tories of London and Paris and Berlin and
Vienna, and endorsed by the music-lovers of
the old world. And so It Is that American girls
with splendid vocal equipments cross the ocean
and do Europe pretty thoroughly before they ven-
EMMA JUCH. 197
ture to set foot again on their native heath.
Even then they have to contend with those who
have had the advantages of foreign birth.
Now Emma Juch did have that advantage.
It was so slight, however, that even her most
managerial manager would be unable to avail
himself of It. She was born in Vienna while her
parents, who were both citizens of the United
States, were testifying in a law-suit in that city.
Now, it is generally conceded, that though you
may be born in a stable, there is no law of logic that
will necessarily make you a horse. So Miss Juch,
though her birthplace was Vienna, is an Ameri-
can by reason of her American parents. If this
is not absolutely clear, I withdraw from the con-
test, rather than discuss it. An American paper
said some time ago : '' America may forgive Miss
Juch for coming into the world abroad, since she
was sufficiently patriotic to be born on the Fourth
of July." I hope America will forgive Miss Juch.
and will permit her to take that place which
198 EMMA JUCH.
would have been hers even before this, had she
been what is popularly known as "a foreign
artist."
She is an amiable, industrious young woman,
and her American traits are at once discover-
able in her independence and good-fellowship.
Although traveling as an operatic star, she
declines to patronize any of the ways of the
prima donna. The other day when she was
arriving in Washington, her managers sent a
carriage to the station to meet her and convey
her to her hotel.
" I ride while the members of my company
walk ?" she asked in surprise. " If the roads are
good enough for them, they are good enough for
me.
And so the prima donna of the opera company
took her way on foot with the most humble
members of the organization. This is Ameri-
canism of a very pronounced description ; so pro-
EMMA JUCH. 199
nounced indeed, that it isn't much practised
among the stage people of America.
Miss Juch knew that she had a "voice" at a
very early age. Her father, Justin Juch, tried
very diligently to nip this knowledge in the bud.
He did not like the idea of his daughter becom-
ing a singer, and declined to allow her to study
with that end in view. Emma, however, worked
quietly at her music, alone. She took lessons,
and advanced so rapidly that she was soon asked
to take part in a concert given by the pupils
of the professor with whom she studied. She made
great preparations for this most important event,
and fondly imagined that her father knew noth-
ing about them. Mr. Justin Juch was, however,
lynx-eyed. He was one of the men in whose
household there can be nothing surreptitious.
When Miss Juch appeared at her first concert,
she saw, much to her consternation, that her
father was seated in the house. He occupied
one of the most conspicuous seats, and was
200 EMMA JUCH.
orlarine. She resolved to win him, and set about
the task with a great deal of determination.
Papa Juch was very much affected. According
to Miss Emma, he arose and left the hall.
When his daughter returned home he wept, and
kissed her, and declared that he had been very
unjust, — and all that sort of thing. Henceforth
Miss Juch was not unaided in her struggle for
vocal fame. Her father devoted a great deal of
his time and money to training her voice. He
put her through a severe schooling, and the
young girl profited greatly by his teachings. It
was Mme. Murio-Celli, however, who trained
Miss Juch for her operatic career.
She made her debut as a grand opera singer
in 1 88 1, as Filina in Ambrose Thomas' opera
" Mignon," in London, under the management
of Col. Mapleson, and during the season sang in
"Rigoletto," ''The Magic Flute," ''Martha,"
"Faust," "The Huguenots," and "Robert le
Diable.' She sang for three seasons under
EMMA JUCH. 20 1
Mapleson's management. Miss Juch's next en-
gagement was a delightful one for her. She
accepted an offer from Theodore Thomas' man-
ager to share the duties imposed upon Mmes.
Nilsson and Materna, in the tour of the Wagner
artists, Materna, Winkelmann, and Scaria. Miss
Juch and Mme. Nilsson sang the "role of Elsa in
*' Lohengrin " on alternate nights.
Miss Juch was the first artist engaged for the
American Opera Company. She sang in this
organization for three seasons, in ''The Magic
Flute," "Lohengrin," '* The Flying Dutchman,"
/' Orpheus," '' Nero," and '' Faust." In " Lohen-
grin," when that opera was sung in New York
by the American Opera Company, Miss Juch
very nearly lost her life by the falling of a heavy
piece of iron. The opera had nearly come to atk
end, and Miss Juch insisted upon finishing it,
though she was hurt, and weak from the loss of
blood. She remained at the theatre until the
final curtain fell.
202 EMMA JUCH.
Miss Juch, during the years she has been
before the public, has not been afflicted with too
much unoccupied time. Besides appearing
operatically, as I have mentioned, she has sung
in musical festivals in New York, Boston, Phila-
delphia, Cincinnati, Chicago, St. Louis and San
Francisco, and in such organizations as the New
York Philharmonic, the Boston Symphony, the-
Brooklyn Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Sym-
phony, the Thomas popular concerts, the
Gericke orchestral concerts, the New York
Liederkranz, and the St. Louis Saengerfest.
Miss Juch has a great future if she is not
spoiled or wrongly managed. She is a wholesome,
industrious young woman, but she is not a Patti.
A great deal of twaddle has been written about
Miss Juch. Here is a paragraph that strikes me
as being particularly idiotic : " To friends, Miss
Juch occasionally tells off charming psychological
experiments showing the influence of music upon
two pet dogs, Bruno and Dutchie. Possessed of
EMMA JUCH. 203
the highest artistic temperament, generous to
a fault in giving to the unfortunate and poor, no
young woman needing directions as to whither
lie the portals of the temple of music, ever yet
failed to receive from Emma Juch as much as
was in her power to give. To her, beautiful
flowers are a mild intoxicant. Hers is literally
so Elysian a nature that dumb beasts and chil-
dren follow with big-eyed faith, and are happiest
when near her. But so are all who once have
come within the spell of her wonderfully sym-
pathetic voice."
Gracious goodness ! and likewise goodness
gracious ! Miss Juch is a nice, plump, good-
looking girl. She needs food a great deal more
nourishing than " beautiful flowers," and I am
quite sure that she gets it, too. For the benefit
of the orentleman who thouo^ht that to Emma
Juch flowers were a mild intoxicant, I will quote
her own words :
" On returning to my hotel after a perform-
204 EMMA JUCH.
ance, I partake of a light supper, consisting of
cold turkey or chicken, celery, bread, butter and
apollinaris water."
A singer who can sit down to cold turkey and
celery at midnight, isn't going to be even mildly
intoxicated by beautiful flowers. Miss Emma's
friends can't succeed in making of her a hot-
house plant. She is a comfortable, fragrant,
every-day sort of a blossom, excellently trained.
Copyright by B. J. FALK.
fflAi^iE (Hansen.
Marie Jansen.
N G all the comic opera
singers of to-day, I do not
believe that there is one who
has created more of a flutter
than the bewitching, little,
devilish Jansen, with her
naughty, scintillant eyes, her
bewildering, laughing dimples, and the poetically
rounded limbs that we have all been permitted to
discreetly admire. The Jansen is a lady who
doesn't appeal to that mighty monster known as
general susceptibility. She isn't pretty, she isn't
saccharine, she isn't purring, and she isn't wonder-
fully voiced. Miss Marie is chic, piquante, insin-
uating. There is more of Paris than of New
York about her. She is a delight to the educated
idea; a suggestion and nothing more, to the gallery
♦ 205-
206 MARIE JANSEN.
god. Marie Jansen, like caviare, is an acquired
taste ; Lillian Russell, like candy, appeals to the
palate of the world. If both these singers were
transferred to France, Jansen would be the
winner. It would be Marie who would arouse
to enthusiasm \.h^ gommeux blasd \ Lillian would
have to be satisfied with a less desirable constit-
uency.
Jansen is a sweet, lovable little woman, with
sterling qualities ; an amusing, wholesome young
girl, who can be very much in earnest, and who
enjoys life thoroughly, in a perfectly legitimate
and enviable manner. Of course, you all know
her views on the subject of goodness. They
were contained in that inimitable song in *' The
Oolah." To see the demure, pouting Jan-
sen standing before those admiring maidens, her
eyes aglow with deviltry, and that quaint little />-
ne-sais-quoi pucker at the corner of her mouth,
indulging in musical advice, was a privilege that
we enjoyed not very long ago.
MARIE JANSEN. 207
This is part of her moral :
Since those days the boys have wooed me ; they
have bothered and pursued me ;
And I've always tried to do the best I could ;
And how often, oh, how often, when I've seen their
glances soften,
I have whispered to them warningly, "be good !"
When your lover urges, presses, tries to dally with
your tresses.
Vows he'd twine them round his heart-strings if he
could.
You will surely be astonished how he's silenced when
admonished.
By the whisper of those mystic words " be good !"
Marie Jansen has not been before the pubHc
very long. Nobody can yet say, " Oh, I remem-
ber her years ago," as young men about town
(bless their dear, fluttering, idiotic hearts !) are so
fond of remarking about the divinities of the
comic opera stage.
She was born and educated in Boston, and is
still very partial to the Hub of the Universe.
" My father," she said on one occasion, " wanted
me to be a regular Boston girl like other Boston
girls, and then settle down and be a regular Bos-
208 MARIE JANSEN.
ton woman !" Think of a girl with Jansen's
eyes and Jansen's disposition settling down into
placid, monotonous Bostonianism ! She found
that she was musical at a very early age, and her
father gave her every opportunity to cultivate
her talent. He sent her to the New England
Conservatory of Music, where she studied long
and diligently, finally appearing at concerts in
the Hub's Music Hall. Jansen says that it was
John Braham who first saw that she was fitted
for the stage. She still feels very grateful to
John, for it was he who gave her that advice by
following which she has become famous.
" He told me that I had a 'stage presence,' "
said Jansen. " I didn't know exactly what that
was, but I felt it was a nice thing to possess."
Through his influence she was introduced to
the manager of the Comley-Barton Opera Com-
pany, where she obtained her first position.
Her family were very angry at first, as families
generally manage to be when circumstances
MARIE JANSEN. 2O9
which they have not expected or arranged for,
arise. Jansen, however, was all determination.
Just study her face a little, if you please, and
you will not find this fact a very difficult one to
realize. She now declares that she had a sort of
a "weeping" for worlds to conquer, and thought
that they could best be vanquished from behind
the footlights. No regret at her choice has she
ever felt. Jansen has conquered a great deal.
I will not overwhelm her by declaring that she
has nothing more to win. She has, and what-
ever it be, she will win it.
She first appeared in a musical comedy by
Ben Woolf, which was a failure. It was called
" Lawn Tennis." Jansen liked it. but the public
didn't, which is not the only instance of disa-
greement between artist and judges. The fail-
ure of ** Lawn Tennis " however, had no very
unfortunate results. The comic opera was with-
drawn, and '' Olivette " was substituted. Jan-
sen's luck came to her aid. The luck in this case
2IO MARIE JANSEN.
reminds me of the fable of the frog and the
naughty boy who pelted it with stones. " What
is fun to you," remarked the frog, " is death to
me." Miss Catherine Lewis, who was singing
the leading role in " Olivette," fell ill, and Marie
Jansen took her place, making an immense suc-
cess.
Later she went with the McCaull Opera Com-
pany, where she was very popular.
" I have had the felicity of knowing a score of
comic opera queens," said the former manager of
that organization to me the other day. '' I have
suffered, as perhaps few men have suffered, from
their whims and caprices. But Jansen — dear
little Jansen — she did not cause me a single
pang. She never wanted the earth, and she
realized that there were other people in the com-
pany besides herself."
No higher tribute than this could have been
paid to Miss Jansen's nature. Perhaps you
don't see the full force of the eulogy, my unso-
MARIE JANSEN. 2 I I
phisticated readers. If you do not, it is because
you have never managed a comic opera com-
pany. You can congratulate yourselves upon
your lucky escape.
Charles Wyndham, the English actor, saw
Jansen when she was singing with the McCaull
company. He was about to produce at his Crite-
rion Theatre, London, a piece called " Feather-
brain," an adaptation of '' Tete de Linotte." He
remembered Jansen, and sent for her.
'* I hesitated very long before I accepted the
offer," said Marie. *' It was something entirely
new to me. I asked the advice of everybody I
knew. I was told to go to London. ' You
won't have to act,' said one friend, * you have
simply to be Marie Jansen, and that will be all
the '' Featherbrain " necessary !' I am not sure
that this was particularly flattering, but I went to
London."
Miss Jansen tells many interesting stories of
her London experience. It was the most sue-
212 MARIE JANSEN.
cessful that she has yet had. Mr. A. H. Canby,
the manager of Francis Wilson's opera com-
pany, told me that Jansen might have made her
London visit the event of her life.
**The late John T. Raymond, who saw her in
' Featherbrain,' " he said, '' told me that if she
had taken his advice, and bought the rights to
'Featherbrain' for America, she would have
leaped into the eminence of a successful star on
the strength of her artistic performance."
Jansen says that when she reached London
she begged Wyndham to announce her on the
programmes as " the American actress." Wynd-
ham laughingly advised her not to insist upon
this.
" Don't do it," he said. " If you prove to be
worthy, people will ferret out all the information
they want about you. If you fail to sign your-
self ' cyclonically yours,' you'll be glad that you
didn't get any sort of prelude."
The patriotic Jansen soon grew homesick.
MARIE JANSEN. 213
When Mr. Wyndham put on '' The Candidate,"
and she found that there was no part in it for
her, she refused the manager's tempting offer to
remain, and returned to America, resuming 'her
position with the McCaull opera company, and
finally joining the Casino.
Perhaps it was just as well that Miss Jansen
did not buy the '* Featherbrain " rights. If she
had done so, she would never have appeared in
** Nadjy " at the Casino.
Her appearance in '' Nadjy " was, like that
early experience to which I have already alluded,
the result of an accident. Sadie Martinot was
to sing the part. She had been extensively
advertised. She had taken a trip to Paris, and
bpught magnificent costumes. But Sadie was
too quick-tempered. She quarrelled with the
stage manager.
Jansen was just about to indulge in a nice,
lazy holiday at her father's country house in
Winthrop, when Rudolph Aronson, desperate at
2 14 MARIE JANSEN.
the Martinet complication, wrote and begged
her to help him. Jansen described her per-
plexity later to Mrs. Sallie Joy White of the
Boston Herald :
" I had seen neither the music nor the
libretto," she said, ** and of course did not know
anything about the dance, which was very diffi-
cult, and was a special feature of the play. At
first it did not seem as though I could do it ; it
was a tremendous undertaking. But the man-
agers were pledged, they had been to a great
deal of expense, and the advertising was tre-
mendous. So to help them out of a bad fix,
I undertook the role. How I did work for the
next four days ! Yes, and nights, too, for that
matter, for I took literally hardly no sleep. I
worked every minute. I managed the words
and the music well enough, but the dancing !
• I practiced three or four hours at a time, and I
gave every minute to it that I could. The exer-
cise was so unusual that it seemed sometimes as
MARIE JANSEN. 215
though I should drop from sheer exhaustion. I
was rubbed after the dancing lesson, to see if I
could get a little of the weariness taken out of
me, and had it not been for this treatment, I
should have been unable to go through such a
tremendous physical strain. Of course all my
friends were as anxious and as interested as I
was, and they all encouraged me with the kind-
est words and prophecies. The Saturday before
the play was to be brought out, I met a friend
on the street, who asked me if I was going to be
ready. I told him, 'yes.' 'And will the curtain
go up sure, on Monday?' he asked, a little scep-
tically, I thought. I assured him that it would
go up at the usual hour, that ' Nadjy ' would be
played, and that I would play it. * Plucky girl,'
he said, 'we'll all be there to see you.' And so
they all were. The house was full I heartily
confess I was very nervous. It was no small
matter to take, at four days' notice, the place of
one who had made such a study as Miss Marti-
2l6 MARIE JANSEN.
not had made, and who had been so widely
advertised. But I succeeded."
The Jansen attracted a great deal of attention
by this performance. Such columns of adulation
as those poured upon this effort, it would be hard
to duplicate. She laughs at them herself, but
she has them all clipped carefully from the news-
papers in which they appeared, and pasted
neatly in a nice green scrap-book. She showed
them to me, and the following rhapsody from the
Louisville Post is so funny that I can't resist the
temptation of giving it verbatim. Here it is:
** Marie Jansen — she of the Circe eyes, the rav-
ishing dimples, and poetic legs — was a big favor-
ite with the Louisville folks, but it isn't a marker
to what she is with the Gothamites. All of New
, York almost, from the exclusive 400 to the dregs
of the Bowery," (imagine the dregs of the Bow-
ery at the Casino) '' nightly worship at her
fleshly shrine, and drink in the intoxication of
her eye, lip, and limb. In a slightly different
MARIE JANSEN. 21 7
way, it is another case of Phryne and the Athen-
ians " (Jansen would have a lovely libel suit) *' of
Lois and the Carthagenians."
Jansen dotes on all these little tributes to her
personality. Here is another item descriptive of
Marie at the sea-shore, which certainly deserves
to go down to posterity, (of course it will do so
in this book). Jansen cut it out with her own
fair fingers, and prizes it excessively. It runs as
follows :
*' That sleepy little settlement bordering on
the white sands of Winthrop beach, known as
Ocean Spray, has at last a real sensation. It
arrived the other day, and has thrown the cot-
tagers into a state of indescribable excitement.
The young men of the place are more directly
affected by the presence of the invader than are
the young ladies, although their sensibilities
have received a shock that it will require all the
winter months to subdue. Singular as it may
seem, the cause of this extraordinary commotion
2l8 MARIE JANSEN.
is a little bundle of salmon-colored Japanese silk.
What in the world could be found in a package
of this kind that its presence has created such a
furore? Listen. This flimsy material when
examined, shows that it has been made into two
garments. There are two pieces : one is a little
pair of 'pants,' no more than sixteen inches long,
while the other looks like a ballet dancer's dress.
Who owns them, and what are they for? Why,
that's Marie Jansen's bathing costume — haven't
you seen her with it on ? No ! then go to the
beach immediately, and enjoy the sweet divinity
when she takes her daily dip in the 'briny.' It
is a sight for the gods. Marie has become quite
a natatorial expert during her sojourn at Ocean
Spray, and enjoys her morning bath as keenly as
the small boy who steals from school for a swim.
When Nadjy rolls over on her back, and does
the floating act, she looks like a small bundle of
sunset clouds riding the waters. Her move-
ments are as graceful as a speckled trout's. She's
MARIE JANSEN. 219
not looking for flies, however. She is satisfied
with admiration, and she gets it, too. But the
great dimax is reached when Marie lifts herself
from the waters, and runs up on the beach in
search of her long cloak, which she throws over
her shoulders after finishing her sport. Of all
material, Japanese silk is the most clinging when
wet. Is it any wonder then that Marie creates a
thrill of admiration among the privileged observ-
ers when her pink toes trip along the sea-kissed
skirts of the continent ?"
Isn't that a gem ? I wish to goodness I knew
the name of the paper in which it appeared. I
wouldn't for the world be accused of trying to
purloin such a jewel. Marie laughs at all the
witty paragraphs written at her expense. If you
could see the gruesome pictures of her that have
been published, you would wonder that she could
still smile. Many of these pictures look as
though they had been sketched in the Chamber
of Horrors of the Eden Musee.
220 MARIE JANSEN.
But Jansen is a dear, good-natured little girl.
She likes newspaper men, as every sensible
actress, with an eye to the vast assistance of
advertising, should do. When a newspaper man
wants opinions on any subject connected with
the stage, he flies to Marie Jansen, and the sweet
young woman rushes into print, and very clev-
erly, too.
A Chicago paper asked Jansen for a criticism
on Madame Jane Hading. She wrote one, and
wound it up as follows :
*' An old Irishwoman once said to a party who
shall be nameless : * Ah, sure, thim two eyes w^uz
niver put in yer head for the good av yer sowl !'
Could that woman see Madame Hading, she
would, I'm sure, repeat herself. Did you ever
see such eyes ? I never did, and never shall I
forget them. Now, what I've said, may sound
like gush, but it isn't ; it's honest."
Here are a few lines that Jansen wrote to me :
" I have never been married " (a very ferocious
MARIE JANSEN.
221
dash under the adverb) "and at present have
no desire to be. As to my ambitions — what
shall I say? I sometimes think I am one mass
of contradiction. When the final verdict is
given, however, I should like it to be, * She has
caused more smiles than tears !' "
Marie Wainwright.
NE of the actresses who may
be described as " getting
there," is Miss Marie Wain-
wright. She was lucky
enough to secure a manager
who toiled for her with the
zeal of an enthusiast, who
literally thrust her into the position she now
occupies. He is dead now — poor Gus Morti-
mer. During Miss Wainwright's recent engage-
ment at the Fifth Avenue Theater, he passed
away. The play went on just the same. Not a
single performance was sacrificed to the memory
of its engineer. Truly, there are members of the
theatrical profession who lose their charms the
instant that the glamor of the footlights is
removed.
223
2 24
MARIE WAINWRICxHT.
Miss Wainwrlght is a very pretty woman,
thoroughly educated. She is the daughter of
the late Commodore Wainwright and the grand-
daughter of Bishop
Wainwright. She
was brought up to
regard the stage —
well, certainly from
a discreet distance.
Miss Marie was an
impulsive maiden, it
is said. I find it dif-
ficult to believe this,
but as I had not the
felicity of knowing
her in those young
days, I must accept what I am told as fact. She
married a gentleman named Slaughter, under
romantic circumstances, and by him had two
pretty daughters. One of them is as tall as Miss
Wainwright herself at the present time— a
MARIE WAINWRIGHT. 225
pleasant-faced, amiable-looking damsel. Her
father is now dead, and Miss Wainwright is
the wife of Louis James, an excellent actor,
intelligent and magnetic.
The actress always had a hankering for the
stage. She was a Philadelphia girl, and I can
understand Philadelphia people hankering for
anything that will take them away from Philadel-
phia. She used to slip away from home and go
to the theatre. Its fascinations tempted her
strongly. And when once the fever of the stage
seizes you, there is nothing to do but to plunge
into its vicissitudes. If you are fortunate, its
beauties will still remain ; if unfortunate, you
will see its emptiness. Under no other circum-
stances can you obtain this knowledge.
Miss Wainwright was plucky. She has a charm-
ing personality. It would have been strange if
she had not met with success. There is always
hope for pretty women. The public want to
see them. It is easier to forgive an awkward
226 MARIE WAINWRIGHT.
manner than an unlovely face. Miss Wain-
wright made her debut at Booth's Theater,
appearing with George Rignold as one of his
six Juliets. Rignold, at his benefit, played
Romeo with a different Juliet every night, and
Miss Marie was one of these lucky women.
She was greatly impressed with the part of
Juliet. Nearly every actress is. It is the most
remarkable thing in the world, hov/ women who
are unsuited in every way to such parts, long to
moan and gurgle and languish as Shakespeare's
beautiful Italian. Juliet is a disease, a virulent,
contagious disease. At times it even becomes
an epidemic. Miss Wainwright has recovered
from the malady. I believe that sensible Gus
Mortimer rooted it out of her. If it could only
be eliminated from the systems of a score of
actresses at present before the public, how delight-
ful it would be !
After her appearance with Mr. Rignold, Miss
Wainwright did some more Juliet-ing at the
. MARIE WAINWRIGHT. 227
Boston Museum. Then she appeared as the
Countess in " Diplomacy." This she did not like
at all. The Juliet fever was still raging, and she
looked upon it as retrograding to play such a
part as the Cotmtess in a modern Sardou effort.
A great deal of sound advice was lavished upon
the ambitious young woman, and such good
effect did it have that in a short time she was
singing Josephine in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera
" Pinafore." I believe she was the original Jose-
phine. I have never ceased to regret that I did
not see the performance. I can imagine that
Miss Wainwright must have been delightful in
this pretty opera. She considered that she had
lost her dignity. She wept bitterly, and made
herself thoroughly miserable. It certainly was
rather unnatural {0x2. Juliet to be capering about
as Josephine, but it is by just such experiences
that an actress is made. Mrs. Agnes Booth would
never have been to-day in the exalted position
she holds, if her work had not been equally as
228 MARIE WAINWRIGHT.
varied as the instance now under consideration.
As I have said elsewhere, Mrs. Booth remarked
to me, •'! have played everything— almost old
men."
Miss Wainwright was a very successful /<?^^-
phine. She played the part for nineteen weeks. It
was her first and last experience in comic opera.
After that she went back to the "legitimate " and
stayed there. She first met Mr. James, now her
husband, while playing in ''The Exiles." She
then went with him to Lawrence Barrett's com-
pany, where the two remained for a long time.
But Miss Wainwright was very ambitious,
and it was not long before she was attacked by
the starring mania. This purely theatrical
malady must have treated her very cruelly. She
was unable to resist its influence, and it was not
long before she had the felicity of seeing her
own and her husband's name in flaming letters on
the posters of the city's highways. Mr. and
Mrs. James met with much success. Their work
MARIE WAIN WRIGHT. 229
was very excellent. I saw her as Lady Teazle,
and enjoyed the performance very much indeed.
One day Broadway gloated over the rumor that
Mr. and Mrs. James were to separate theatrically ;
that is to say, he was to head one company, and
she another. I spoke to Gus Mortimer, their
manager, about it.
Said he, ''You see she doesn't care to play
second fiddle to him in certain plays, and he
doesn't care to appear in a similar position with
regard to her in other plays. Hence the separa-
tion."
Can you, my untheatrical readers, understand
such a condition, of things ? If you are able to
do so, you will astonish me greatly, for it is
only after long and varied experience with the
eccentric beings of the stage, that I have been
able to master their whims and their caprices.
I nevertheless found it almost impossible to
understand this case. Here was a married
couple, appearing before the public in the lead-
230 MARIE WAINWRIGHT.
ing roles of their plays, positively jealous of each
other. She didn't like to see him take prece-
dence In certain parts ; he hated to subordinate
himself to her. The partnership made money.
It was a sheer case of that fearful vanity that
rages behind the footlights. It makes brutes of
men whom the public only see smiling and smirk-
ing in their rouge and their finery ; it converts
into veritable demons the apparently guileless,
lovable women who impersonate the models of
feminine virtue and heroism that the playwright
paints.
The separation took place, and the husband
and wife are now in different companies. She
has nobody who can possibly draw a grain of
attention from herself ; he is the lord and master
of his organization. I hope they like it. I can't
help thinking that the public have a sneaking
regard for a husband and wife in a single com-
pany. Every kiss he gives her they look upon
(foolishly, of course) as an evidence of sincere,
MARIE WAINWRIGHT. 23 1
legitimate love ; every fond glance she casts in
his direction they like to believe (wrongly, of
course) is genuine and proper.
Miss Wainwright's Viola in "Twelfth Night"
is a beautiful piece of work. Her recent engage-
ment at the Fifth Avenue Theatre was probably a
financial success. As I said, the actress is " get-
ting there." She suffers a great deal from self-
consciousness, but I presume that this defect will
be remedied as time rolls on. She is shapely and
pretty, and is aware of both facts. When she
appeared as Rosalmd in ** As You Like It," her
manager was particularly careful to circulate
some dainty little stories about the Ganymede
dress she, would wear. It was a delicate way of
calling attention to Miss Wainwright's shapeli-
ness. These dainty little stories, however, were
not received with the undisguised pleasure
expected. There are several actions favored by
Miss Marie in the male episodes of Rosalind and
Viola, that might more gracefully be omitted
232 MARIE WAINWRIGHT.
There are, however, many theatre-goers who
only endure these roles for the sake of the revel-
ations that they make possible. The ** doublet
and hose" ought to be absolutely delicate. Any
interpretation which robs Viola and Rosalind of
any of this delicacy is un-Shakesperian.
Miss Wainwright has a brilliant future. Her
defects are few, and they can all be remedied.
Louise Beaudet.
DEFTLY arranged crown of
copper-tinted hair ; a row
of pearl-white teeth per-
petually revealed by an
irresistible smile ; a trim
little figure, which the
people who try to es-
chew English vjouXd C2i\\ petite ; and a creamy
complexion unmarred by " make-up " of any
sort, formed a combination of pretty character-
istics that I saw one morning at the Hotel
Belvedere, when I called upon Miss Louise
Beaudet. In fact they existed in Miss Louise
Beaudet, the vivacious little comic opera singer,
whose art was revealed most conspicuously to
New Yorkers when she sang the role of Chilina
233
234
LOUISE BEAUDET.
in " Paola " at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, with
the Duff comic opera company, not very many
months ago.
Miss Beaudet has already had a very checkered
career, though she is still
young and — I was going to
say foolish. Well, I will say
it, because I consider that
winsome little Louise has
not thoroughly realized her
own artistic worth as a comic
opera singer, or she would
never have spent years play-
ing Shakespearian roles, and
courting comparison with artists who had made
them a specialty. Of course she told me that
she didn't know what to say about herself, and
equally of course, I found, with a little cross-ex-
amination, that she did.
I drew her out gradually, and she proved to be
quite interesting. " Of course you know that I
LOUISE BEAUDET. 235
am French," she began. I didn't, and I could
hardly believe it, as her English is perfect, with
no foreign accent whatever. " I was born in
Tours, France, and I came to America with my
parents when I was a little bit of a child. When
the * Pinafore ' craze was at its height, I appeared
in one of the juvenile companies, at fourteen
years of age. After that Mr. Duff began a search
for a girl that could sing the role of the Duchess
in 'The Little Duke,' and look very young at the
same time — a combination that was not the easi-
est thing in the world to discover. I had been
singing for a few months, and it seemed that I
was just what he wanted. So he engaged me,
and thus it was that my stage career really be-
gan."
Miss Beaudet folded her hands, sat bolt up-
right, and adopted a pertly fascinating look that
I should very much like to have captured for a
picture.
" I was in luck," continued Miss Beaudet.
236 LOUISE BEAUDET.
** ' The Little Duke ' was produced at Booth's
Theatre, and Mme. Aimee, who was going to
present the opera in French, saw it. She and her
manager, Mr. Grau, Hked my performance, and
engaged me for the French production. So I
created the part of the Duchess in New York in
English and in French, and at the same theatre.
It was really strange. I had even the same dress-
ing-room for both productions. I enjoyed the
French production immensely. I was speaking
my mother-tongue, and it seemed delightful to
me. I was completely infatuated with the stage,
and my early education had not taught me that
there was anything objectionable about it, as most
American girls learn to believe. To be an artist
is, in France, a very great thing, and of course I
wanted to be an artist. We all do."
Miss Beaudet laughed in a very kittenish way
— that is to say, if a kitten ever laughed, which Is
open to question, it would laugh just as did Miss
Beaudet.
LOUISE BEAUDET. 237
**The first time I ever went to the theatre,"
she said, "my mother took me to the Comedie
Fran^aise, and I longed to play one of those
lovely parts. But to continue: I stayed six
months with Mme. Aimee. She was very, very
charming. I owe everything to Aimee — poor
Aimee ! She did not seem to look upon me as a
member of her company. I was very young, and
she was very attached to me. She taught me her
parts. When she was in San Francisco she was
prostrated by a very severe cold. She knew it
was coming on, and she instructed me in her part
without saying a word to anybody. I had a re-
hearsal with the leader of the orchestra, and
Mme. Aim6e then told Mr. Grau that she would
be my sponsor. I was only a child. Grau
couldn't believe that Aimee was in earnest. But
she was, and I had the honor of appearing as
Serpolette in * Les Cloches de Corneville.' She
taught me four of her parts. I can never for-
get her. Anything that I have ever done in
comic opera I owe to Aimee."
238 LOUISE BEAUDET. .
Miss Beaudet lost herself in meditation for a
few moments. Apparently they were not of the
most cheerful nature. She appeared to be think-
ing about less pleasing incidents in her stage
career.
" I left the comic opera stage," she said sud-
denly, " and went into the drama. My voice
seemed to have given out. I suppose that I sang
too much at a time when any undue strain upon
the voice would be likely to prove dangerous.
In San Francisco I joined the Baldwin stock
company. I was the ingenue, I studied Shake-
speare diligently, and by those wonderful plays I
perfected myself in the English language. It
was the best schooling I ever had. It was a great
company. Clara Morris and other stars would
come to San Francisco, and we would support
them. But I had become a roamer, and I did not
stay in California. I went to Australia, India,
China and Japan, playing Shakespearian parts.
I have been more varied than you could possibly
LOUISE BEAUDET. 239
Imagine. I dG3.rly loved yu/i'e^ 3indRosa/md3ind
Portia and Desdeinojta, Physically I think this
arduous work Injured me, but It was an educa-
tion, and an education that will benefit me even
now, when I have returned to the comic opera
stage, and am not likely to try Shakespeare again.
I like to remember my success In the far-off lands,
and I can do so by these souvenirs."
Miss Beaudet showed me an enormous port-
folio containing newspaper clippings culled from
India and China.
" On one occasion, in Calcutta," she said, " I
played Hamlet — yes the role of the melancholy
Dane — and at the close of the entertainment I
sang portions of Patience.' Read this : ' We
had hardly recovered from our amazement, when
she sang Patience. She had divested herself of
the depths of manly passion, and stood before us
as a pretty dairy-maid.' In Shanghai I made a
speech, which was a great hit. The newspapers
treated me most kindly. While abroad I made
240 LOUISE BEAUDET.
a few attempts at comic opera, and sang in ' La
Grande Duchesse ' — I blush to think of it ; and
my pet part, that of Rose Michon in ' La Jolie
Parfumeuse.' Was I not versatile ?"
I was bound to admit that she was. So much
variation in such a little lady seemed almost
impossible.
" I do not think that I am destined for a
Juliety' she went on. '* Americans want large,
lovely women, and they have Mary Anderson.
I am afraid that I should never be remembered
in this country for my Shakespearian work, but
before returning to comic opera, I indulged once
more. Mr. McVicker, of McVicker's Theatre,
Chicago, was going to produce ' The Tempest,'
and I made up my mind to study the part of
Ariel. I played the part, and I enjoyed it
thoroughly. It was very, very difficult, but oh !
so lovely."
Miss Beaudet clasped her hands, and then, with
pardonable femininity, produced a photograph
of herself as Ariel, and asked me to look at it.
LOUISE BEAUDET. 24 1
" I think that Ariel is one of the most beauti-
ful parts that Shakespeare ever wrote," she said.
'' It is certainly the most poetical to my mind. I
believe that I appreciated it more than anything
I had ever played. Chicago was very kind to me,
and one writer in particular was certainly flatter-
ing.
She gave me a slip from a newspaper, and
turned away with an assumption of coyness,
while I read a description of herself. It was
beautiful, yet Chicago-esque. In fact I cannot
refrain from reproducing it. " Her complexion
is clear, but pale, and her large eyes are dark
brown — the wave-washed onyx that goes with
genius ! Her rich brown hair, seeming as if
sprinkled with gold dust, is brushed well back
over the pale, intellectual forehead, and provides
an excellent setting for regular features and a
face of rare animation !"
The Journal gentleman certainly surpassed
himself in his adjectival eloquence. I told Miss
242 LOUISE BEAUDET.
Beaudet that it was indeed truly beautiful, and
she laughed, though she dearly appreciated the
compliments.
" Then," she resumed, " I returned to comic
opera. My voice had come back to me, and my
friends told me that comic opera was my forte, if
I had any. Friends are so funny. Sometimes
they tell you one thing; sometimes another.
However, I intend remaining in comic opera
now, and am really going to settle down, and
find a resting place for the sole of my foot. I
still consider France my home, but I am an
American citizen, with full rights to enjoyment of
the privileges of Uncle Sam's country. I took
out naturalization papers two years ago. Yes, I
am very proud of being an American, I can
assure you. though I still love dear old France.
I suppose I can love France, and still be loyal to
my adopted country, can't I ?"
Miss Beaudet arched her eyebrows in naive
inquiry. I hastened to assure her that nobody
LOUISE BEAUDET. 243
who had spent five minutes in her society would
venture to accuse her of treason.
" I frequently take a run over to my native
country. My mother, who lived here for a num-
ber of years, returned to France, and her dutiful
daughter visits her whenever she can spare the
time. I have travelled so much that a trans-
Atlantic crossing is not a very formidable under-
taking for me. I should love to play in France.
That is really one of my ambitions. Before I
became an American citizen, I had an offer to
return to France, with prospects that might have
resulted in a pleasant engagement there. I did
not know what to do, or how to decide. I didn't
want to give up America, and I hated to let the
French opportunity slip through my fingers.
So I did what women are very fond of doing —
asked everybody's advice, determined to adopt
that which I considered most agreeable. My
friends told me to stay in America by all means.
They said that I had already done a great deal of
244
LOUISE BEAUDET.
work here, and had been very kindly received.
They thought it would be folly on my part to
begin all over again in France, where I had
never appeared. So I followed this advice. I
still hope that one day I may get an opportunity
to appear in my native country. But in the
meantime I am making the most of my oppor-
tunities in this country, and am not going to let
them be disturbed by any idle dreams that may,
after all, never be realized."
*' And do you like the life of a comic opera
singer ?" I asked. My interrogations had been
very few, and I felt that I could not tear myself
away without a questioning word.
*' Do I like it ? It is delightful to me. There
is variation, and there Is not very much hard
work. It is a pleasure to me to sing. Then
New Yorkers treated me very kindly. I have
just been singing Pitti-Sing in 'The Mikado.' I
almost cried when Mr. Duff gave me the part.
But it was well received, and I am not sorry that
LOUISE BEAUDET
245
I sang it. I ought to be satisfied. I have good
friends and good opportunities. What more
does a girl need ?"
I didn't know.
Photo by FALK.
L^AUlilNE iQAhh.
Pauline Hall.
OMETIMES I am inclined
to believe that if the dig-
nified but symmetrical
Goddess of Liberty chose
to desert the pedestal
from which she surveys
the incoming and outgo-
ing vessels in New York
Bay, to mundanely seek a position in a comic
opera company, her success in that walk of life
would be nothing but a question of time. You
see, she has plenty of shape, which seems to
be the main qualification for the career of a
comic opera ''star," nowadays.
I am not at all sure that if the queenly (I say
" queenly " because in this case I wish to be con-
247
248 PAULINE HALL.
ventional,) Pauline Hall had been less superbly
fashioned from a physical point of view, she
would be in the elevated position she now graces.
The dudelets and the golden youths of the great
American metropolis would not be paying out
papas money for the privilege of watching the
beautiful Pauline at the Casino ; nor w^ould the
dear old glistening bald-heads be fighting for the
front seats, and, in ecstatic scrutiny, flinging bou-
quets at the feet of Miss Hall.
The comic opera world is an eminently pecu-
liar one. It is governed by other rules and
regulations than those which prevail in the legiti-
mate dramatic fields. Vocal merit is not neces-
sarily an essential in the success of a favorite.
Of course it hastens the desired result. But
given a handsome woman, with a knack of keep-
ing herself before the publie, and it is tolerably
easy to speculate upon her chances.
When Apothecary Schmidgall of Cincinnati
saw his little dark-eyed daughter artlessly frol-
PAULINE HALL. 249
icking in her western home, I am quite sure
that never in his most prophetic moments, could
he have pictured her estabHshed in a metropoH-
tan suite of rooms, calmly deigning to recognize
her own success. I used the word " frolicking."
It sounds rather grotesque applied to the
statuesque Miss Pauline Hall. As easy would
it be to imagine my friend the Goddess ot
Liberty pirouetting upon her pedestal.
Miss Hall was nde (as they say in the society
papers) Pauline Frederica Schmidgall. It is a
melancholy fact that we are none of us able to
regulate our own surnames. We are born, sur-
named ; all we can do is to rectify the error when
we reach years of discretion. John Brodrib was
of the opinion that his name displayed on Lon-
don play bills would hardly be inviting, so he
became Henry Irving. Pauline Frederica Schmid-
gall was evidently of a similar mind. The
Schmidgall has faded into deserved oblivion.
Pauline Hall is now before us. Long may she
remain !
250 PAULINE HALL.
Cincinnati, as I have already hinted, had the
honor of supplying us with Pauline. New York
is proverbially selfish. In the teeming contest
for a World's Fair that was recently so vigorous-
ly waged, New York attempted to down every
other city. Now, I hold that in return for the
inestimable boon of Pauline Hall, New York
ought to have gracefully resigned all her claims
to the World's Fair in favor of Cincinnati.
I believe in reciprocity. I am quite sure that
not one of my readers will venture to assert that
Pauline Hall isn't worth at least half a dozen
World's Fairs.
Miss Hall is about thirty years of age, plump,
pretty, and well-formed. Her large, lustrous
eyes are perhaps her greatest charm, though her
shapeliness is admired by all. Miss Hall looks
even more charming in the street than she does
on the stage. She is one of the few women who
have the knack of knowing what clothes suit her
best, and of wearing those clothes. She is a
PAULINE HALL. 25 I
model of sedate luxury ; a walking essay on the
absurdity of over-dressing. If you met her on
Broadway you would notice her garments
because they are so beautifully made, and
because you have an artistic eye. The masses
woulcj pass her by, because she doesn't wear
greens, and blues, and flaming reds, and dia-
monds. But if she doesn't wear diamonds, she
has them. Ah ! my dear young friends, I wish
you had as many. I, myself, would be satisfied
with just half.
Pauline became stage-struck in the year 1875.
Please recollect that year. Write it in letters of
red upon the tablets of your mind. She was
first seen in a ballet, in a play produced under
the management of Colonel R. E. J. Miles, of
Cincinnati. Yes, fifteen years ago Pauline Hall
was one of a number of young Terpsichorean
bread-earners, dancing in Cincinnati. Colonel
Miles evidently recognized the possibilities of a
career or the stately Pauline. Her next engage-
252 PAULINE HALL.
ment was also under his management. She
traveled with the American Racing Association
and Hippodrome, posing in tableaux and being
otherwise ornamental. Then she joined the
Alice Oates opera company, and appeared in a
piece called ** Folly."
Many of my readers may be surprised to know
that Miss Hall has appeared in legitimate drama.
She "supported" Mary Anderson (lucky Mary
to have such a beautiful pillar to lean upon !) I
never saw her when she played with Miss Ander-
son. In fact I can hardly realize that she could
have been Lady Capulet in " Romeo and Juliet,"
and the Widow Melnotte in " The Lady of
Lyons." But she impersonated both of these
creations.
Miss Hall was a member of Rice s Surprise
Party in "Pop;" she was seen in " Orpheus and
Eurydice " at the Bijou in 1883 ; in " Bluebeard,"
in "The Seven Ravens," and in 1885 in " Ixion."
Miss Hall has even sung in German. She was
PAULINE HALL. 253
heard in the " Fledermans" at the Thalia Thea-
tre in 1885. But her first actual success was
made at the Casino, and she has remained at
that theatre since 1886. Miss Hall's voice is not
at all extraordinary. In fact it is somewhat
metallic in quality. Her dramatic powers are by
no means great. She walks gracefully through
her parts, filling the eye with her personal charms.
As I hinted before, however, the public often
receives a handsome woman better than it does
a talented one. .
Says Reid : '* All the objects we call beautiful
agree in two things, which seem to concur in our
sense of beauty. First, when they are perceived,
or even imagined, they produce a certain agree-
able emotion or feeling in the mind ; and,
secondly, this agreeable custom is accompanied
with an opinion or belief of their having some
perfection or excellence belonging to them."
So when we see Pauline Hall in her sumptuous
Casino garbs, when we notice the lustrous dark
254 PAULINE HALL.
eyes, and the tumultuous beauty of her form, we
are tempted to believe that her voice is purer
than it really is, and that her dramatic powers are
greater than in our cooler moments, removed
from her personality, we would care to admit
them to be. We are all so disgracefully human
where a pretty woman is concerned.
Pauline Hall is rich, but unlike those stage
favorites who live stupidly in the present, and
fritter away the wealth that pours in upon them,
Miss Hall casts one of those lovely eyes of hers
in the direction of the future. She is a sensible
woman, and a shrewd one. She is said to be
worth about $100,000, which she has most profit-
ably invested. One of these days she will
retire. The career of a comic opera singer is a
short one. The more famous she happens to be,
the shorter her career. A quick fire burns itself
out more rapidly than a slow one. Miss Hall
realizes this. Should she retire at the present
time, she could live comfortably for the rest of
PAULINE HALL. 255
her days. But she will probably remain with
us*for some years to come. Her voice, at the
present time, is better than it has ever been.
Miss Hall lives very quietly when she is in the
city. She has a little flat in West Thirty-Fifth
Street near Seventh Avenue, and lives there
with "Dora," a secretary and "general man-
ager." Miss Hall was at one time married to
Mr. Edmund R. White, who was known as " a
man about town," and whom she first met in
San Francisco in 1878, and later in St. Louis.
But Miss Hall tired of being Mrs. White. She
secured a divorce, one of the grounds for which
was (no, don't laugh) non-support. Yes, Mrs.
Pauline Hall White declared that her husband
didn't support her. She obtained her freedom
and I don't think she will be foolish enough to
forfeit it again. I hope not, for the sake of the
man. The husband of a comic opera " queen '*
has my most sincere sympathy. If Mr. Fox
were alive, I would suggest that he include all
256 PAULINE HALL.
such husbands in a revised edition of his
"Book of Martyrs."
Miss Hall thoroughly recognizes the necessity
of always keeping her name before the public.
She likes people to know where she spends her
summers, and how she is cultivating her voice,
and other equally interesting facts concerning
herself.
To meet, she is most charming. She can
always furnish a topic of conversation, and will
invariably say something amusing.
She is kind hearted and womanly. Her
brother, Fred Hall, was a member of the Casino
company, probably at her instigation. The
young fellow died a. few weeks ago, succumbing
to the disastrous weather of 1889 and '90. Miss
Hall was at his bedside night and day, giving up
her own engagements, and devoting herself
exclusively to her brother. She nursed him
carefully, and was with him when he died. A
better sister surely never lived. I like to think
PAULINK HALL.
257
of this trait in Miss Hall's character, and to
show you that a popular comic opera prima
donna need not necessarily forget the instincts
of gentler womanhood.
As a rule it is only the frivolities of a metro-
politan favorite that reach the public ear.
Marion Manola.
HAD a nice long talk with little
Miss Marion Manola the other
day. I called upon her at the
handsome house No. 42 West
Thirty-Fourth street and had
quite a pleasant chat. The
Manola is a quiet, unaffected
young woman, with no " frills " about her consti-
tution. In the street, she isn't a bit *' actressy ; "
she doesn't paint, she doesn't overdress, she
doesn't flaunt. When she is not upon the
stage she is Mrs. Mould, invariably accompa-
nied by her pretty little nine-year-old daughter,
whose age she candidly tells, without a blush and
without the least hesitation.
It was this damselette who asked me to
259
26o
MARION MANOLA.
excuse " mamma " for a few minutes, and who
spoke to me as though we were the oldest and
best of friends.
I excused '* mamma " very
readily, and she did not
keep me waiting very long.
She entered the room,
greeted me cordially, and
before I could realize the
fact, we were in the midst of
an entertaining talk.
" I always feel," said Miss
Marion, '* that I am going
through life on a rush. .1
have no time for anything.
Singing every night and
rehearsing every day — that is my yearly routine.
Yes, I like it, of course. I agrees with me."
It certainly did. Miss Manola was the picture
of health. She had none of the lanquid can't-
help-it-ism that the prima-donna loves to affect.
MARION MANOLA. 26 1
She was happy. She was talking to somebody
who was going to write something about her,
and she let me see that it pleased her. Sensible
woman ! I admire that kind of candor. I
despise the woman who says to you, '* Don't
write a word of what I have said," and who cuts
you dead the next time you meet her, because
you followed these instructions.
'* I have been very lazy to-day," said the
Manola, " I have only just come down-stairs "
(it was two o'clock in the afternoon), " and I
have been taking my breakfast and luncheon as
one meal. Isn't that really very dreadful when
you remember that I have a daughter growing
up, ready to follow bad examples ?"
She laughed, and I, not having an answer
ready, did likewise. It is always safe to laugh at
anybody else's humor. People appreciate such
laughter a great deal more than a witty response,
or a sparkling bit of repartee. I asked the
Manola to tell me something about her stage
262 MARION MANOLA.
career. She seemed rather frightened. I put
her at her ease by informing her that I knew all
about it, but yearned for her own personal nar-
ration.
" I haven't any sta^e career," she declared
rather ruefully. ** I have really only been before
the public for five years. You don't mean to
say you'd like to know where I was born ?"
I asserted that I pined for this little scrap of
knowledge.
"Well I don't know that I need mind confess-
ing," she remarked after a pause. " My name
was Stevens. I was born in Oswego. No,
please don't laugh, Oswego is a lovely place —
grand, beautiful and all that sort of thing. At
any rate, if it were the most odious town on
the surface of the globe, I can't help it. I was
born there."
Miss Manola seemed to be positively defiant.
She looked at me as if she were saying *' The
murder is out. Now condemn me." I com-
MARION MANOLA. 26;
forted her quietly, and suggested that everybody
couldn't be born in London and Paris and New
York. Oswego was rather a pleasing birth-
place.
" I used to act a good deal in private theatri-
cals in Cleveland,'' she said, "and when society
turned out to be amused, I generally managed
to be one of the amusers. I sang in ' Pinafore,
as an amateur, and worked really very hard.
But there was not much satisfaction in it. I was
very ambitious. I longed to go upon the stage,
as nothing less than a grand opera singer.
Comic opera ? No indeed. It never entered
my mind. I yearned for grand opera. The
dream of my life was to appear as Marguerite in
' Faust,' with two lovely golden pigtails, and a
sweet white frock."
Miss Manola's first hopes seemed to rise before
her eyes — spectre-like, as the penny-dreadfuls
say. She sighed a little, and frowned a little,
and bit her lip a little, and reddened a little.
264
MARION MANOLA.
"I went to Paris," she resumed, "and took
lessons with the famous Madame Marchesi. I
told her, of course, that I wanted to be a grand
opera singer, and desired that she should train
my voice with that end in view. How I worked.
I had to be at her house at nine o'clock every
morning, and I stayed there until one in the
afternoon. Then I went home and practised
there for two hours. I really devoted all my
time to the study of music. Some people can
harrow up their souls by remembering lost
opportunities. I am thankful to say that I can-
not do this. I made the most of my time.
Madame gave me lessons for nine months. Her
teaching was excellent, but she had one fault.
She pays too much attention to the high notes
of the voice, and too little to the middle register. ,
Marchesi dotes on high notes. I heard one of
her pupils the other day. She sang her high
notes charmingly, but the middle register was
really melancholy. I believe I should have
MARION MANOLA. 265
known Marchesi's pupils, even if I had not been
informed of that fact before I heard her."
Miss Manola's criticism was good, as far as the
young woman she mentioned was concerned.
'' When I left Marchesi," she said, " I went to
England. My husband, Mr. Mould, known
upon the stage as Carl Irving, had lost his
money — what little he had — and I was obliged
to do something there and then. All my hopes
of grand opera had to be put aside. I was only
too glad to take the first engagement I could
get. It nearly broke my heart. I had such a
very excellent opinion of my own ability, don't
you know?"
She smiled, a little bitterly, and I allowed her
to proceed without interrupting her story.
'* I accepted a position with Lingard and Van
Biene's comic opera company, and was cast for
an important part in * Falka.* I really was very
lucky, though I did not think so at the time.
Most girls have to serve an apprenticeship in the
266 MARION MANOLA.
chorus, or in very small parts, before they have
any opportunity to really sing. I served no such
apprenticeship. I was never in the chorus in
my life. I made my first appearance with my
husband in * Falka,' at Bath, and met with the
approval of the management, though I was by
no means an extraordinary success. Lingard
and Van Biene wanted to make me sign a con-
tract for five years. I needed the money that
such an engagement would bring me, badly
enough, but I could not sign such a contract. I
was very unhappy. My comic opera surround-
ings were very new to me and not particularly
pleasant. Then I was miserable in England. As
I told you, I had never been on the stage in my
own country. I longed to get back to America.
My husband was quite as anxious as I was to
leave England. So we said good-bye to Albion,
sailed for Uncle Sam's shores, with some very
nice letters from our managers, and were fortu-
nate enough to secure an engagement at the
C* >>
asmo.
MARION MANOLA. 267
Miss Manola, however, did not seem to have
looked upon this as a piece of good fortune very
long.
*' I was not a success at the Casino," she
declared, very emphatically. " I went to Chicago
with the company, and the newspapers pitched
into me so fiercely that I really wished I had
never been born."
The idea of Miss Marion reading adverse
criticisms, her short hair standing on end, and
the longing for death paling her face, was
slightly amusing, and I could not repress a
smile. She smiled, too. It was an experience
not at all unpleasant to look back upon from the
security of present success.
'' I had no confidence in myself," she said.
"That may sound strange to you, but it is a fact.
I liked my own voice, but not as much as I did
before I had made my first appearance. I have
found that confidence is absolutely necessary to
success, on the comic opera stage, at any rate.
268 MARION MANOLA.
If you feel that you are going to sing a part
creditably, you will sing it creditably. If you
predict failure, failure it will be. That has been
my experience. I always say to myself now
before I sing a new part, * Manola, that suits you
admirably. You are going to make a great hit'
Confidence is everything. Well, I felt I was
such a failure at the Casino that I sent in my
resignation to Mr. Aronson. I really hoped and
half believed that it would not be accepted. But
it was. Oh ! the blow to my pride ! when I
knew that they were willing to lose me ! I could
have fainted, so great was my anguish. The
exalted opinion of my own ability that I had
once held, was lost forever."
Such blows to vanity are often the salt of life,
spurring men and women on to greater efforts.
But I did not say this to Miss Manola. I felt
that she would not agree with me. After all, it
is the kind of salt that w^e none of us want.
" Then I joined the McCaull Opera Company,
MARION MANOLA. 269
with which organization 1 remained for four
years — up to the present time in fact. I was
very happy with this company. I had lovely
parts to sing, and I believe I appeared in sixteen
or seventeen operas. ' Boccaccio ' was the opera
in which I felt I did best. The people were all
very kind to me. I was completely at home."
'' And your grand opera hopes ?" I suggested.
" They are still with me," she said, laughing.
" I still trust that the day will come when I can
be MargMerite. I have not forgotten the golden
pigtails and the white dress. I believe that my
voice would suit the role very well. Grand
opera, however, appears to have gone out of
fashion, doesn't it ? It is a dreadful thing that
such should be the case, is it not? But I think
that it will be as popular as it once was before
long. I do not regret my comic opera life. Not
a bit of it. The financial inducements have
been very great. Comic opera singers are very
well paid, and as they nearly all of them want
2/0 MARION MANOLA.
money, they are generally satisfied with their
lot. The excellent remuneration of the comic
opera stage is a great thing in its favor, as far
as we are concerned. One gets careless, how-
ever, perpetually singing in comic opera. It
does not give much scope to the voice. I like
florid, difficult music, but this belongs very
seldom to comic opera, so I have to reserve
my florid, difficult efforts for my own personal
edification."
" You sing for your own amusement ?"
" I am always singing," she replied. " I sing
things that I think will improve my voice. I
really love music."
There was a piano in the room, and I half
hoped that Miss Marion would trill something
for my delectation. But I did not venture to
suggest this to her, so she will probably be sur-
prised when she learns that I craved a few notes.
I felt, however, that if I stayed much longer that
I should be unable to refrain from making the
MARION MANOLA,
271
request. So I delicately led the conversation to
the weather, and from the weather to the door
there is but a short step.
^mm
Effie Ellsler.
ITTLE Miss Effie Ellsler Is, in
private life, Mrs. Frank Wes-
ton. She is married to an ac-
tor, who, in comparison with
herself, is big and burly ; and
it is his name that she assumes
^ at all times except in the thea-
Miss Ellsler is an unpretentious little lady,
who goes quietly through the world, playing
through the United States during the theatrical
season, and spending the rest of the year with her
mother. Such a theatrical family as it is, too !
First of all, there Is Miss Effie's father, John
Ellsler, who Is still an actor of repute, generally
a member of his daughter's company, but who
has appeared with all the great stars, and who
273
tre
2 74
EFFIE ELLSLER.
travelled with Joseph Jefferson through the South
as his partner. Then there is Miss Effie's mo-
ther, once an actress, known in her girlhood as
Miss Murray, later as Mrs.
Myers, and finally as Mrs.
s Ellsler. Mr. and Mrs. Ells-
ler met at Foster's Theatre
in Philadelphia, and were
married. Then there is
Miss Annie Ellsler, who has
also been on the stage, and
who sings charmingly ; and
goodness knows how many boy Ellslers. I have
tried to count them, but I get fearfully " mixed "
in the attempt. Whenever I see the Ellslers I
always think of the song that used to be popular
in London, and that rejoiced in this refrain :
" We are a merry family,
We are— we are— we are."
I called upon Miss Effie Ellsler a short time
ago at the Ashland House, where the family gen-
EFFIE ELLSLER. 275
erally stays. While I was waiting for Miss Effie,
I heard the following little bit of conversation
between Frank Weston and Miss Fannie Hur-
lick, one of Miss Ellsler's friends :
'* Oh," exclaimed Miss Hurlick, enthusiastical-
ly, "your wife is a charming little thing, Mr.
Weston. Such a sweet little lady ! I assure
you that I am quite in love with her."
"So am I," replied Mr. Weston, bowing.
• That was of course very pretty. The hus
bands of actresses as a rule generally parade their
affection for — well, perhaps I had better not say
it. It would be uncharitable.
Little Miss Ellsler came in a moment later
from rehearsal, looking as dainty as a spring
flower, and as unruffled as a summer lake. She
wore a dark green cloth dress, tailor-made (oh I
of course tailor-made ! ) and a little impudent hat
of the kind that the English call *' pork-pie."
There was nothing conspicuous or in the least
actress-y in her attire. Her manner was easy and
276 EFFIE ELLSLER
unconventional. I remarked as much to her, and
she laughed.
'*I have no eccentricities at all," she said. '' I
am just plain, every-day Effie Ellsler. You never
see. my name in the papers, except in connection
with my stage work, do you } No, I am quite sure
you don't. I never do things,— you know what I
mean ! 1 don't know why it is, but I like to pass
my life quietly, and when not on the stage devote
myself to my family. The newspapers treat me
beautifully, and I always flatter myself that I
appeal to them on my merits. You would be
astonished if I told you how few newspaper men
I know. It is not because I do not wish to know
them, but because — well, you understand — be.,
cause, as I said before, I am plain, every-day Effie
Ellsler."
Mrs. Weston smiled at her husband, but he
was busy in conversation with a young actor who
had just entered the parlor.
*' My husband and I," she said, ''have not been
EFFIE ELLSLER. 277
separated for any length of time since we have
been married. We met in the theatrical profes-
sion, and we always appear together.- I believe
with Mrs. Kendal, that actors should marry ac-
tresses, and actresses should marry actors. I also
think that if an actress marry a man who is not
in the profession, she ought to leave the stage at
once. It is her duty to her husband, and the
only way in which she will be able to find married
happiness. But, you know, I like to see a mar-
ried couple on the stage. There used to be an
absurd idea that an actress became uninteresting
to the public as soon as she was married ; that
people did not care to see her when she had a
husband. That time has passed. Nay, I believe
that people are positively attracted toward a mar-
ried couple on the stage. It is nice to know that
the clever actor and the talented actress who
seem to be in such excellent accord are in reality
husband and wife. Look at Mr. and Mrs. Ken-
dal, Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence, Mr. and Mrs.
278 EFFIE ELLSLER.
Barney Williams, and Miss Claxton and her hus-
band. There are instances for you."
Little Miss Ellsler became quite interested on
the subject, and it was only by an effort that I
could wean her from it, and lead to her stage
career, of which I wanted to hear.
*' Mine is such a thoroughly theatrical family,"
she said, ** that I can hardly speak of going upon
the stage. I was really born into the theatrical
profession. I think that I made my first appear-
ance as the child in ' A Sea of Ice.' Then I
played the child part in 'Ten Nights in a Bar-
room,' and Eva in * Uncle Tom's Cabin.' Yes, I
was one of the army of Evas with which the
United States has been invaded. I had to do
my little turn, of course. After I had played
these baby roles, I went to school. My stage
education began in the stock company of my
father's theatre in Cleveland. I was pushed more
rapidly than you can imagine. Very few people
nowadays know that I was educated for the oper-
atic stage."
EFFIE ELLSLER. 279
I didn't know it myself. Miss Ellsler surprised
me. She laughed at my look of amazement.
** Don't be so terribly astonished," she said.
'* My career has been a very varied one. Yes, I
made my first appearance on the operatic stage as
Arline in 'The Bohemian Girl.' Then I sang in
' Martha ' and * The Daughter of the Regiment.*
I used to devote my time to singing in these
operas, and playing such parts as Rosalind in
* As You Like It,' and Portia in ' The Merchant
of Venice.' A varied career.^ Yes, indeed. I
have sung Josephine in ' Pinafore' one week, and
played y^^/^^Z in ' Romeo and Juliet' shortly after-
wards. I have appeared in 'Trial by Jury' and
' Othello.' Don't you believe me when I say
that my career has been varied ?"
Again Miss Ellsler burst into merriment. I
had known very little about her earlier life, be-
fore she had made her appearance in the metrop-
olis.
*' I was to have gone abroad," she went on, *' to
28o EFFIE ELLSLER.
Study music. Mr. Hess, the manager of the
opera company in which I sang, offered to make
me his prima donna. But I was afraid of my
voice. I had always thought that I was more
fitted for a dramatic than an operatic Hfe. Some-
how or other I beHeved that though I might be a
very fair singer, I could never attain any great
eminence. You see I know my own voice exact-
ly, and dearly as I loved music, I thought it best
to give up all idea of singing in opera."
*' Then the time you devoted to comic opera,
was really time lost," I said.
It was not a very brilliant remark, but I felt
that I had to say something to keep up my repu-
tation.
'' Not at all," remarked Miss Ellsler. '' A
knowledge of music is a very great help to actors
and actresses, even if they have no designs upon
opera. Why, I have known actors who were
absolutely unable to vary their tones as a stage
manager instructed them to do. They would see
EFFIE ELLSLER. 28 1
no difference between the way he spoke the lines,
and the way they spoke them. Their musical
education had of course been neglected. Oh,
no ! I do not look upon the time I devoted to
comic opera as lost, by any means."
I was silent, because I thought I might make
another wrong suggestion if I spoke.
" Before I came to New York," said Mrs. Wes-
ton, " I had the pleasure of playing leading busi-
ness with Edwin Booth, John McCullough, Law-
rence Barrett and others. I first appeared in New
York in ' Hazel Kirke,' at the Madison Square
Theatre. It was intended that I should play the
part of Dollyy but for business reasons I played
the title role. Steele Mackaye was very pleased.
He said that I had been sent to him. I became
identified with the part of Hazel Kirke, I played
it so much that my health broke down at last, and
my doctor ordered me rest. But it is strange
how thoroughly one becomes identified with a
part. On the road my name was hardly remem-
282 EFFIE ELLSLER. *
bered, while that of the role I played was in all
mouths. A lady in New Orleans was asked if
she would like to meet Effie Ellsler. * Effie Ells-
ler ! who's that 7 she demanded. She was told
that it was Hazel Kirke, and was very anxious to
know me."
** Of course you dislike long runs ?"
*' Indeed I do," replied Miss Ellsler, warmly.
" I believe that they make people mechanical.
It does an actor or an actress no good to be iden-
tified with one part for a long time. Whatever
he or she may do afterwards, critics will always
find some traces of the long-played role in their
work. Then we lose our interest in parts after a
certain time — for actors and actresses are ex-
tremely human, although the public is inclined to
forget that occasionally — and, as soon as the in-
terest is gone, the work becomes purely mechani-
cal. Nothing is worse than a mechanical actor
or actress."
Miss Ellsler said that after she left '' Hazel
. EFFIE ELLSLER. 283
Kirke " she became a star, and has been starring
ever since. Now starring is one of my pet sub-
jects. It seems to me such a terrible thing that a
talented actor and actress, who would be an ac-
quisition in a city of culture and refinement,
should elect to go barnstorming through the
country, for the sake of being at the head of an
organization, and in a play possessing one strong
part for the star, and weak, pitiful roles for
everybody else. I tried to say as little as possible
on this subject to Miss EUsler. I have said a
great deal about it at times, and written a great
deal about it, too. But she understood me
very quickly.
''Nobody can say," she declared, "that I ap-
pear in one-part plays. I do not believe that any
true artist would do it. I am sure that I am
anxious for every actor and actress in my compa-
ny to get as much applause as possible. People
require good performances ; they want to see
every member of the company act well. Oh ! I
284 EFFIE ELLSLER.
assure you that the public wants the best of
everything nowadays. Of course there are one-
part plays, in which the star has everything, but
I believe the time is coming when such plays will
not be tolerated. It is mostly ' specialty ' people
who are afraid of having good actors and ac-
tresses in their companies. I would always rather
have my audience leave the theatre and say that
they have seen a thoroughly good performance,
than find nothing to talk about but Effie Ellsler.
There are too many of these specialty people.
It seems to me that America s most important
theatrical production is the Simon Puresoubrette.
The legitimate soubrette has yet to come. Miss
Annie Pixley is perhaps the nearest approach to
her that we have."
*• What kind of work do you prefer for your-
self ?" I asked.
*' I have no preference at all," replied Miss Ell-
sler, **and I have found that actresses who have
passed the greater part of their life on the stage
EFFIE ELLSLER. 285
always answer the question in that way. My
schooling has been a very thorough one, and it
enabled me to do everything — well, at least intel-
ligently. Perhaps I may believe that I am more
successful in emotional work, and in the finer
comedy roles. But I really always try to avoid
thinking this. I am an actress, and it is my duty
to play anything. I told you that I had appeared
in Shakespearian roles. Can you imagine a tiny
little woman like me playing Rosalind ? I played
all through the country in ' As You Like It,' and
was very kindly received. Yes, I am very fond
of Shakespeare, but people nowadays seem to
hanker for modern plays, and pictures of every-
day life. Shakespearian productions are not very^
successful. The public grows natural. The old
stage methods and plays no longer find favor in
the eyes of the people. I must say, however,
that never has Shakespeare been better played
than to-day. He becomes more human, if I may
say so, in the hands of our actors and actresses.
286 EFFIE ELLSLER.
His heroes and heroines live with a life far dif-
ferent to the stilted, stereotyped portrayals we
used to see."
Mr. Weston interrupted his wife's Interesting
discourse at this point, and joined in the conver-
sation. He is a bright, amiable fellow, with a
keen eye for business. His career has been
about as varied as that of his wife, and he has
also sung in comic opera. He is an excellent
actor, and his impersonations are always pictures
of manly intelligence.
Mr. Weston married into a very pleasant the-
atrical family, when he became the husband of
Miss Effie Ellsler, and he knows it. I am quite
sure of that.
Mrs. D. p. Bowers.
ICTURE to yourself a dainty
little parlor in the
Sturtevant House,
filled with the thou-
sand and one trifles
that are dear to
the heart of woman,
and pleasing to the eye of man. Imagine, in the
centre of the pretty things, a sweet-faced, serious-
looking lady, with bright, canary-like eyes, and a
certain nervousness of manner that compels per-
petual attention. That is what I saw when I called
upon Mrs. D. P. Bowers, of whom Americans
are always proud, and whose name will go down
to posterity in the history of the American stage.
Mrs. Bowers is seldom alone. She is generally
287
288
MRS. D. P. BOWERS.
surrounded by young people, in whose society
she finds a great deal of pleasure. Her parlors
in the Sturtevant are very frequently besieged.
Amateurs with dramatic
tastes, novices anxious
for points, and friends
desiring to hear what
Mrs. Bowers has to say
on the theatrical ques-
ions of the day, are
always on hand. Mrs.
Bowers receives her vis-
itors most charmingly.
She is frequently assist-
ed by her friend Miss
Courtney Vale, a handsome lady with a com-
manding presence, and a conversational finesse
that is very attractive.
I managed to induce Mrs. Bowers to talk about
herself, which she is not very fond of doing,
strange to say. When she had once begun, how-
ever, her subject appeared to interest her.
MRS. I). P. BOWERS. . 289
*' The manner in which I came to go upon the
stage," she said, " is not so very extraordinary.
My brother, Mr. Crocker, was a member of a
stock company in New York, and I used to goto
see him act. It was my custom .to steal away at
night, and get into the theatre. No member of
my family ever knew I did this. It was my
greatest pleasure. The plays I saw used to give
me a kind of mental exaltation for which I could
never account. After I had returned home I
would go straight to my bed-room and recite. I
bought plays and read them aloud, and they gave
me more pleasure than any novel could possibly
have done. The chairs made me a nice audience,
— not an enthusiastic one by any means, but one
that was politely attentive, and warranted not to
interrupt."
I remembered that many actresses upon whose
careers " many moons " have beamed, have prob-
ably had just such audiences, and not in their
own private rooms, but in the theatres in which
they were billed.
290 MRS. D. P. BOWERS.
" One day," continued Mrs. Bowers, " I man-
aged to secure a very old drama, and learned by
heart the leading role. I went over It most care-
fully, and firmly impressed it upon my mind.
Then I said to myself, ' Elizabeth, my dear, you
shall go upon the stage. I will do all in my
power to help you.' With this determination
throbbing through my pulses, I set out for the
house of an old stage-manager whom I knew —
Thomas Barry, by name. He was having tea
when I arrived, but, perfectly undaunted, I was
shown into the dining-room, which was also the
sitting-room and kitchen.
** * What is it you want?' asked Mr. Barry. (I
suppose that tea was rather interesting at that
moment, and that I was not.)
" ' I want to go upon the stage,' I replied with
courage. He laughed. His wife looked at me
strangely. She evidently thought that I was a
queer, old-fashioned looking little thing, and so
1 undoubtedly was. Mrs. Barry, however, asked
MRS. D. P. BOWERS. 29 1
her husband why he didn't try me to see what I
could do. He thereupon asked me to read the
part in the play which I had brought with me. I
did this, and he dropped his fork to listen to me.
When I had finished he rose and went to an old
book-shelf, from which he drew a play entitled
' A Child of Nature.'
'* * Now, Miss Crocker,' he said, ' take that
home, study the part I have marked, and on
Wednesday come with it, letter-perfect, to the
theatre.'
" I was thoroughly happy. I walked home on
air, said ne'er a word to anybody, but set to work
and mastered the part.
" Well, I went to the theatre at the stipulated
time, and the first person I met there was my
brother. We indulged in a little scene. He was
disousted at me. I was deceitful and sly. I had
very little to say, but I was perfectly determined
that I would stay where I was.
" Mr. Barry was very cross with me at first, but
292 MRS. D. P. BOWERS.
it wore off. When I had finished, he patted my
head. The members of the company came up to
me and spoke kindly, and the leading lady put
her arms around me and kissed me. Leading
ladies don't do that nowadays."
Mrs. Bowers laughed. No, I was obliged to
admit that leading ladies of the present time were
by no means given to lavishing embraces on
ambitious young novices.
" I was cast for the part I had studied in * A
Child of Nature,' " resumed Mrs. Bowers. '' My
name, as you know, was Elizabeth Crocker, but
I appeared merely as ' a young lady.' I made a
success, and I attributed this to the fact that I
had absolutely no fear of the public, and, for the
matter of that, no fear of anybody in the world.
I think that my first night's performance of that
part was the best that I ever gave of it. I played
that part for five weeks before my name ever
appeared upon the programmes. After that I
was cast for all kinds of business — boys, sou-
MRS. D. P. BOWERS. 293
brettes, and old women. There was nothing that
I did not do, and it was a capital school for me.
Finally, I became leading lady of the company.
Then I went to Philadelphia, where I was known
as a full-fledged leading lady. It was in Phila-
delphia that I made my. hit as Lady Macbeth. I
had a stock company of my own in that city.
Philadelphia is very dear to me. It has one of
the greenest spots in my memory. Socially and
professionally, I was very happy when I was in
the Quaker City. I always call it even now my
home, though of course it isn't."
Mrs. Bowers sighed, and was silent for a few
minutes, which I spent in looking around the
pretty, femininely decorated room.
'' It was in Philadelphia," she went on, ** that I
first met Mr. D. P. Bowers, who afterwards be-
came my husband. He was a light comedian.
I was very young when I married him. We had
three children, who are living. When I am not
at the Sturtevant House, and not acting, I am
294 MI^S. D. p. BOWERS.
generally visiting my married daughter, who lives
in Washington. But — let me see — I am getting
too domestic. Where was I ? "
She thought for a second, and resumed the lost
thread.
" Later," she said, *' I went to London, and I
shall never forget my English experience, which
was a truly delightful one. I appeared at the
Lyceum Theatre in ' Peep o' Day,' and played
for four hundred nights. Of course I settled
down for the time in England. I had a lovely
little home in the suburbs, and used to receive
my friends on Sunday nights. I met some of
the most interesting people on the other side, and
among them Charles Dickens. Then I was also
introduced to the lady known to the novel-reading
public as Ouida. I have heard many people des-
cribe her as masculine and unkempt looking. I
always thought she was particularly feminine.
She dressed in the daintiest manner, and was
very fond of woman's little adornments. She
MRS. D. P. BOWERS. 295
said some smart things, and was rather severe
upon the men, which rather surprised me, for in
her books it is always the women who fare badly,
while the men appear as heroes. Millais, the
artist, was also one of my acquaintances, but I
was not greatly impressed with him. However,
I suppose I ought not to be critical. I enjoyed
myself very much in England, and took away
many charming souvenirs. One of them was a
signet ring, which is said to have been worn by
Queen Elizabeth, and which I still possess."
I glanced at Mrs. Bowers' hands, but the pre-
cious ring did not encircle her finger. Perhaps, I
reflected, she used it as a bit of stage property as
Elizabeth.
"After my London engagement," she said, "I
returned to America, and started in on a starring
tour, which really lasted for twenty years. I
think I can truthfully say so. I have played all
over the country. In those days we did not take
an entire company >yith us. The star and the
296 MRS. D. P. BOWERS.
leading man did the travelling, and they were
supported by the companies belonging to the the-
atres at which they played. I think that my
greatest successes have been as Elizabeth and
Lady Audley. I made a thorough study of Eliz-
abeth. I really felt I was the woman when I was
on the stage. I have played with most of the
well-known stars, — Forrest, Edwin Booth and
Salvini. I was in the great production of
' Othello' at the Metropolitan Opera House, as
Emilia, My Shakespearian repertoire has also
included Desdemonay Rosalind^ Lady Macbeth,
Portia, and other roles."
*' And your favorite role ?" I asked.
" I love them all," she said. '* My career has
been one that I can look back upon with pleas-
ure, and it has been full of incidents. When
I first appeared in California — I think it was in
1868 — E. J. Buckley was in the cast. When I
last appeared there, twenty years later, Mr. Buck-
ley's daughter, a young woman, was with me.
MRS. D. P. BOWERS. 297
She was not born at the time of my first engage-
ment there. It seemed so strange to me, and so
pathetic, too. I remember that I made a speech
upon that occasion, and I was deeply touched.
**On one occasion in California I had quite an
exciting experience. We used to play in the
mining camps. One night after playing at
one of the camps, I wanted to get to Denver,
and could only do so by taking a stage coach.
My husband was with me, and we had a great
deal of money with us — several thousand dollars,
beside valuable jewelry. Just before we started
we heard that the coach was to be * held up,' but
as it was only a vague sort of a rumor, we were
willinor to doubt it. When we took our seats, we
found to our dismay that we were the only pas-
sengers in the coach. W^e concealed our money
very neatly. It was stitched into our clothes.
That ride I shall never forget as long as I live.
It was wild and uncanny. The ground was un-
even, and we were jolted in a most distressing
298 MRS. D. P. BOWERS.
manner. Suddenly the coach gave a lurch that
t was impossible to withstand. We were thrown
out. It was pitch dark, but for a moment only.
When we arose, we saw three men with lanterns
before us. One of them pinioned the driver.
The other two devoted themselves to us. I was
nearly frightened to death, and so was my hus-
band. We were unarmed, and absolutely in the
power of these villains. But an idea occurred to
me, and it proved to be a brilliant one. These
wretches were looking for Mrs. Bowers. How
did they know her? Filled with this idea, I
called out to my husband, ' If you had only con-
sented to wait for Mrs. Bowers, we should not
have been in this trouble. She is safe, and
we '
" It was a happy thought of mine. The
thieves, who had already wended their way into
our pockets, and found nothing, seemed to be
immediately struck with the force of my remark.
With oaths, and murmurs of disgust, they finally
MRS. D. P. BOWERS. 299
told US to get back into the stage, and you can
be quite sure the injunction was not disobeyed.
When we arrived in Denver, I was ill from the
excitement and worry. That awful night will
never be forgotten by me."
After the death of Mr. D. P. Bowers, Mrs.
Bowers became the wife of James C. McCollom,
who is now dead. By him she had no children.
During the present season (1890) she has sup-
ported Salvini in his farewell American tour.
'• I am just as devoted to the stage as ever,"
she said. ** I live for it. When I am away from
it I feel as if I must return. It is impossible for
me to think of retirement. I always say that
when I see the footlights I am like a war horse
that scents battle;"
„ „, c;ARONY.
pDA I^EHAN.
Ada Rehan.
BELIEVE it was Pope who
defined fame as "a fancied
life in others' breath," — not
that it matters much. Every
one who thinks about such
matters seems to have decided
that the joys of fame are hol-
low, unless they be linked with the more sub-
stantial delights of life. The actor who, in his
solitary room, reads of the pleasure that he con-
fers upon hundreds of thousands, may be par-
doned if, glancing round his silent chamber he
wonders why no real pleasure is conferred upon
him ; the author who sees his books in the
market eagerly bought up, looks into the bar-
ren reality of his life, and sighs at the will-o'-the-
wisp-like quality of fame.
301
302 ADA RERAN.
I am about to write a few lines on the subject
of Miss Ada Rehan, an actress with whose
stage life most of my readers must be tolerably
familiar ; a woman whose talent has delighted
the old world and the new. And I cannot
repress the above thoughts when Rehan is in my
mind. Her smile which the world sees, does
not impress me. There always seems to me to
be something wanting.
This grand Rehan lives alone and undisturbed
in a handsome flat in Thirty-ninth street. When
she leaves the theatre at night, weary and
broken, as are most of the hard-worked mem-
bers of Mr. Daly's company, there are no home
voices to cheer her ; no gentle, waiting women to
distract her thoughts from the channels through
which they run so persistently. She has a maid.
She has servants. Her flat is luxuriously
furnished. She is reported to own it, and all the
other flats in the house. But she sees few
friends ; her life outside of the theatre is a
ADA REHAN.
303
blank. The charming qualities which Ada
Rehan undoubtedly possesses are left either to
rust or to be used in the fictitious life of the
stage. To me, this seems eminently deplorable.
Just the same as an author who lives for the
creations of his mind must miss the primary
objects of life, so must the actor and actress, too,
completely enclosed in the pictures behind the
footlights, parody the living, breathing man and
woman they were intended to represent.
Miss Rehan is the slave of Augustin Daly,
and there is no use mincing words in saying so.
Daly has made her a great actress. Without
him she would probably have never been known,
outside of the world of barnstormers. He
recognized her talent ; he advanced her ; he
made plays to fit her. She has amply repaid
him. To the ambition which he implanted in
her bosom, she has sacrificed her life. Yes, I
say she has sacrificed her life, and I place all due
emphasis on the sacrifice. The world is thank-
304 ADA REHAN.
ful for this. It has gained everything. In my
opinion Ada Rehan Is the finest actress of her
kind in the world. Beside her, Ellen Terry Is
insignificant and almost pitiful ; compared with
her Mme. Jane Hading is worthless.
Wilson Barrett was discussing Ada Rehan a
short time ago. Said he: "I have never seen
anybody like her. I consider her a genius. It
is so easy to detect, In the refinement of her
work, the advantages of birth and education."
That is exactly where Mr. Barrett and a great
many others fall into grave error. Miss Rehan
is a self-educated woman. She was born In
Limerick, Ireland, and came to this country
when very young, making her first appearance
on the stage at the age of fifteen. A very good
authority says that she first saw the light of day
on the twenty-second day of April, 1859.
Augustin Daly, however, has just made out a
list setting forth the ages of celebrated people.
The list is long. It has been cleverly made to ^
ADA REHAN.
305
end with the name of Ada Rehan, who, if it is to
be believed, was born in i860. At any rate.
Miss Rehan looks a great deal older than she is,
and I don't wonder at it. If I were to tell you
of the severity of the labor imposed by Mr. Daly
upon his people, your hair would stand on end.
As somebody has very justly said, he owns their
souls and bodies. Not only does he undertake
to regulate their conduct while in his theatre,
but he permits his rules to haunt them when
they have shaken the dust of his house from
their feet. When they are tucked up in their
little beds at night, he likes them to remember
that they are still members of Daly's Theatre.
Miss Rehan is not permitted to speak with
newspaper men. None of Daly's people are
allowed to do this. They are also prohibited
from habitually walking on Broadway in the day-
time, as it is the custom of many actors and
actresses to do.
Ada Rehan going to rehearsal is really a
306 APA REHAN.
remarkable sight. In the first place she dresses
execrably. You have seen her on the stage, and
have probably been fascinated by the beauty of
her costumes. Do you imagine that they were
her ideas? Not a bit of it. They emanated
from the brain of Augustin Daly. He planned
them, he gave them to the dressmaker, he saw
that they hung gracefully. In the street Miss
Rehan generally wears dark colors. Were she
to permit herself the luxury of light shades, I am
sure that we should see her in greens, yellows
and pinks atrociously combined. Her walk is
peculiar. It is hardly a walk. It is a slouch.
She looks neither to the right nor to the left.
While actresses far less known than Rehan can
walk hardly a hundred yards on matutinal
Broadway without having to bend their heads in
recognition of a score of people, Miss Rehan is
unmolested by acquaintances. She belongs to
Daly's Theatre. Nobody disturbs her.
I heard an actor one day talking of Rehan in
ADA KKIIAN
307
her girlhood, before Daly had secured her ser-
vices. She was then playing in a theatre in
Albany, and he laughed as he remembered the
raw, awkward girl, who seemed more suited to
any work than that of the stage. She was
accustomed to giggle, and she was fearfully
ingenuous and refreshing. Miss Rehan played
for two seasons at Mrs. Drew's Theatre in Phil-
adelphia, before she came to Daly's.
The only real pleasure in which Ada Rehan
indulges is a visit paid every Sunday to her
mother in Brooklyn. To this she looks forward
with a great deal of pleasure. She has two
sisters. Miss Hattie Russell, who a season ago
played with Mrs. Langtry at the Fifth Avenue
Theatre, and who resembles Miss Rehan a great
deal ; and Mrs. Byron, wife of Oliver Doud
Byron, the actor. Then she has a brother,
Arthur Rehan, a genial, good-natured fellow,
who manages what is known as Arthur Rehan's
Comedy Company, playing out of town the
3o8 ADA REHAN.
pieces that Mr. Daly makes known to the
metropolis.
As an artist, Miss Rehan has overcome even
the prejudices of Londoners. When she first
visited England, the apparent affectation of her
manner was censured. She is an acquired taste,
like olives, and it is only lately that Miss Rehan
has been accepted in London at her full worth.
The London papers gushed ecstatically over her
performance of Katherine in ** The Taming of
the Shrew."
New Yorkers simply adore Rehan. Every-
thing she has done has been applauded. Among
her principal successes are roles in '' Seven-
Twenty-Eight," ''Needles and Pins," "The
Country Girl," " The Squire," " Love on
Crutches," ''Nancy and Company," "The
Taming of the Shrew," "The Merry Wives of
Windsor," and " As You Like It."
Her Rosalind is a creditable piece of work. It
is being played at the time of this writing. Still
ADA REM AN.
309
it was something of a disappointment. It is by
no means the best impersonation that Miss
Rehan has given, and everybody seemed to
think that her Rosalmd vfo\\\d be a surprise, an-
other instance, I suppose, of realization falling
short of anticipation.
Many people have asked me if I thought that
Miss Rehan knew how great an artist she was,
her utter want of self-consciousness seeming to
warrant the belief that she did not. I cannot
help smiling at such refreshingly innocent ques-
tions. Just as though any actor or actress that
ever lived did not know exactly their standing
with the public !
Miss Rehan, believe me, dear reader, charm-
ing as she is upon the stage, and fascinating as
she certainly can be off the boards, is by no
means above the queer little feelings that agitate
the profession. She was said to have been
fearfully jealous of little Miss Edith King-
don, now Mrs. George Gould. Miss King-
3IO . ADA REHAN.
don received some favorable notices in Paris,
while Miss Rehan was comparatively unno-
ticed. There was a regular '' rumpus," (if you
will pardon the apparent slanginess of the ex-
pression) in the Daly camp as soon as the
notices had been digested. Miss Kingdon was
treated rather cruelly, and Mr. Daly took imme-
diate steps to prevent the recurrence of such a
frightful catastrophe as the recognition of a
member of his company who was not Ada
Rehan. It was generally believed that Miss
Kingdon's marriage with Mr. Gould was precipi-
tated by the unpleasant results of her success in
Paris. And Miss Ada Rehan was credited with
being responsible for these unpleasant results.
Georgie Drew BarryiMore.
CANT resist the temptation of
saying a few words about
Mrs. Barry more, who has
made theatre-goers through-
out the country applaud her
efforts, and whose presence
in a cast generally means
incessant laughter whenever she is upon the
stage. She has recently " stabbed with laugh-
ter " those who saw William H. Crane's play,
"The Senator," at the Star Theatre. The
role of Mrs. Hillary ^ which she assumed in
this invigorating comedy, was perhaps one of the
best efforts she ever made. Mrs. Barr>^morc.
herself, looked upon it as one of the greatest
opportunities she ever had. She certainly made
the most of it.
3"
312
GEORGIE DREW BARRY MORE.
Mrs. Barrymore Is as amusing in private life
as she is upon the stage. She is a typical Ameri-
can, vivacious, entertaining and irresistible, and
f^ . in her charming lit-
tle flat in East
Fifty-ninth street,
she is one of the
most accomplished
hostesses imagina-
ble. It is at her
home that she pre-
fers to be seen. I
wanted a little talk
with her about her
stage career, and
wrote asking when
I should call. The followinor letter is character-
istic :
" Will you come up to our flat some night
after the theatre, and take supper with Mr.
Barrymore and myself? I think it will be so
GEORGIK DREW BARRYMORE. 313
much easier to talk, and you can do more in
half-an-hour at that stage of the game with me
than in s'teen interviews."
The Barry mores have three lovely little chil-
dren, of whom they are intensely proud. These
children have been the tie that long separations
and the distractions of vigorous stage life have
been powerless to dissolve. If all husbands and
wives, seeking their livelihoods upon the stage,
had the same souvenirs of early married life, a
pretty home like that possessed by Mr. and Mrs.
Barrymore would be less unusual among dra-
matic couples.
If it is possible to be born dramatic, Georgie
Drew must have thought of the green-room
while she manipulated her nursing bottle ; she
must have anticipated grease-paint when mam-
ma powdered her baby face. She has been sur-
rounded by actors and actresses from the
moment she made her first appearance in the
world ; she has lived among them ever since.
314 GEORGIE DREW BARRYMORE.
The Drew family is one of the landmarks of
the American stage. Mrs. Barrymore's father was
the descendant of a dramatic family, and was
himself a clever actor. He was an Irishman,
and came to America at an early age. He
played his first important engagement in this
city, at the Old Bowery Theatre, in 1845, appear-
ing there as Dr. G Toole. He was an Irish
comedian, and an interpreter of light comedy
roles. Early in the fifties he became manager
of the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia. He
died in 1862 when Georgie was a child, leaving
several children, among them John and Sidney.
Mrs. Drew, the mother of this ultra-dramatic
trio, is an actress whose praises it is unnecessary
to sing. During the present season (1890) she
is still acting in support of Messrs. Jefferson and
Florence, though the "support" might come as
easily from them as from Mrs. Drew. Her Mrs.
Malaprop in "The Rivals" is simply a joy.
Mrs. Drew is an Englishwoman, and played
(;k()R(;ik dkkw ii\KmMr»HF. 315
juvenile roles in England before she came to
this country. She was first seen in America in
1827, when she was nine years old, as the Duke
of York to the Richard III, of the elder Booth.
She is a stately and rather formidable old lady,
inclined to dwell, with pardonable pride, upon
the immense advantage of being " a Drew.'
She is very proud of her children, and is gener-
ally present at the first performance of. any play
in which they appear, when her duties do not
conflict with such an arrangement. She is ver)'
frank in her criticisms, and if her children's work
fails to meet with her approval, she is not at all
slow in acquainting them with that fact. Mrs.
Barrymore can only remember one occasion
when her mother succumbed to emotion. She
tells the story so funnily that I am almost
ashamed to put it into cold print.
A well-known actress of Mrs. Drew's com-
pany, now one of the most popular women in
New York, (Mrs. Barrymore did not mention
3l6 GEORGIE DREW BARRYMORE.
names, but I will tell you that I suspect it was
Ada Rehan) was playing the part of an
Indian girl. She had been ill, and the doctor
had ordered her to shave her head, which she had
done. Between the acts she sat in her dressing-
room without her wig. Her head was white as
snow ; her face as red as half-a-dozen roses,
thanks to the grease-paint she had used rather
profusely. Mrs. Barrymore was roaring with
laughter at the remarkable spectacle she pre-
sented. Mrs. Drew, indignant at the noise,
appeared to quell it. She cast one glance at the
hairless, painted maiden. The sight was too
much for her. "Merciful Heavens !" she cried.
Then she fled precipitately.
Mrs. Barrymore's brothers are very popular
in this city. John is a member of Mr. Daly's
company. He first appeared under the charge
of his mamma, of whose teaching the great
Augustin Daly must have thought a great
deal for he engaged from her theatre, John and
GEORGIE DREW BARRVMORE. 317
Georgie Drew, and Miss Ada Rehan. .Mrs.
Barrymore's second brother, Sidney, is also a
clever young actor. He redeemed a very bad
play called " A Legal Wreck," from much of the
contempt that it deserved. Mrs. Barrymore is
very interested in her brothers, and justly so.
They are clever young men, and owing to their
mamma, their opportunities have been many
and excellent.
Mrs. Barrymore made her first appearance on
the stage when she was seventeen^ years of age
in ''The Ladies Battle." She played the youth-
ful role, and her mother that of the countess.
Mrs. Drew was not at all anxious that her chil-
dren should appear upon the stage. Exactly
why she should have objected to this is not
known. I have generally found, however, that
actors and actresses, even the most successsful
of them, are very slow in recommending the
stage to aspirants. John Drew appeared in
direct opposition to his mother's wishes. Mrs.
3l8 GEORGIE DREW BARRYMORE.
Barrymore was suffered to appear under protest.
But she met with success from the start, and
vanquished her mother's objections. She has
supported Edwin Booth, John McCullough,
Lawrence Barrett, and a number of other cele-
brated theatrical stars. Mrs. Barrymore now
says that she thinks she can understand why her
mother was desirous of her following any other
career than that of the stage. The public ought
to feel thankful that Mrs. Barrymore, like
Katisha, had ** a will of her own."
Mrs. Barrymore first met her husband, the
well-known actor, Maurice Barrymore, while a
member of Daly's company, in which organiza-
tion he also held a position. Barrymore is a
delightful fellow to meet. He is an English-
man with a thorough education. He can talk
on any subject, and he isn't a bit shoppy. He
and his wife are on terms of complete " good-fel-
lowship."
I would like to bet, however, that the three
GEORGIE I>KhW bAkkVMORE.
319
little Barry mores will never be seen upon the
stage. I know nothing at all about it, but I am
convinced that Papa Maurice would have a fit at
the idea, while Mamma Georgie would indulge
in the feminine equivalent — a nice swoon.
Little Gertie Homan.
HAVE had occasion to write
a great deal upon the subject
of stage children, whom I
have always regarded as
well-oiled little machines,
speaking their lines and
making their gesticulations
in the manner prescribed by fond mammas
and zealous stage-managers. I have always scout-
ed the idea of these juvenile actors and actresses
possessing inherently any of the dramatic "affla-
tus." I have always wanted to scout this idea,
for the notion of an infant, born, as it were, with
the power to impersonate somebody else, before
it has learned to interpret its own mission in Jife,
is somewhat repulsive. I must confess, however,
321
322
LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN.
that I felt inclined (only inclined, mind you) to
waver in my views after my visit to sweet little
Gertie Homan the other day. This dainty little
maiden, who made such an immense success in
*' Partners," ''The Burg-
lar," and '' Booties Baby"
at the Madison Square
Theatre, and in '' Little
Lord Fauntleroy" out of
town, is simply just as
much of a surprise off,
as upon the stage.
Gertie lives with her
homely, unpretentious
parents in a neat flat at No. 452 Wythe avenue,
Williamsburg, and it was there that I saw her a
few mornings ago. The little maiden was waiting
for me at the top of the stairs. Such a fragile,
winsome little thing ! She wore a red dress, and
her dark, fluffy hair made an ebon halo around
her rather pallid face, which was lighted by a pair
of the most lustrous eyes I have ever seen.
LITTLE GEKili: II'.MW.
323
" Mr. Dale?" she queried, in a perfectly self-
possessed manner, as she shook my hand (she
isn't eight years old yet) and led the way into the
room.
I followed the child, and we entered a plainly
furnished but tasteful little parlor.
Gertie had a doll almost as large as herself in
her arms, and she seemed to be extremely proud
of it.
" I have thirty dolls," she said gleefully. "Love
them ? I just kiss them all day long when I am
at liberty."
At liberty ! The regular stage expression from
the mouth of this mite !
I sat down opposite her, and she introduced
me to her father, a gray-haired, amiable old man.
whose tongue seemed to be singularly inactive.
I wanted to hear something about this child, whom
I have always admired, but I wondered how I
could hear it from this silent papa. I did not
imagine that the child herself would know how
to tell her story. I made a very great mistake.
324 LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN.
"I'm not acting now," she said demurely, seem-
ing to divine my embarrassment. "Mamma
thought I needed a rest. I didn't. I am so fond
of acting, and have hardly had a day idle In a
year. It isn't work for me, Mr. Dale."
She spoke with the assurance of a woman. I
felt that my embarrassment was so ridiculous in
the presence of this matter-of-fact young lady,
that I made a great effort, and resolved to talk
to her just as though she were full-fledged.
" And you find no trouble in learning such
long parts ?"
'* Oh, none at all," with surprise, " I can learn
a part in two days. I got ' Little Lord Faunt-
leroy ' — let me see " (meditatively) "one Satur-
day, and I had to play it the following week.
That part, you know" (very solemnly) "is as
long as ' Hamlet.' But my favorite part was the
little girl in ' Partners.' I thought it very sweet
and very sympathetic" (these were her own
words, I assure you). " I had a great deal of cry-
ing to do, and I liked it so much."
LITTLE GKRTIE HOMAN. 325
" She is very fond of stage crying," put in the
father, with a fond glance at little Miss Pertness.
" Then," she went on, not heeding papa s
interruption, " I liked the part of Editfia in
' The Burglar.' Editha was an awfully nice
child — a cunning little thing, you know. In
' Bootle's Baby,' Mignon was really very like
myself — more like myself than any other
parts I have played. So it wasn't at all diffi-
cult."
Miss Homan stroked her doll's flaxen hair
with maternal hands, and sat bolt upright in her
chair. She was evidently enjoying herself. I
felt that if I didn't hurry on, she would interview
me. I saw the desire in her eyes.
'' Is Gertie your only daughter, Mr. Homan?"
I asked.
Gertie laughed. *' Papa had ten children,"
she said, before he could ailswer, " and I am the
youngest. There are seven living. Come and
see the picture of five of us taken together."
326 LITTLE GERTIE ROMAN.
Mr. Homan brought me the photograph in
question. No wonder that he looked proudly
upon it. Five comely girls in a group, and all
his own daughters ! Gertie was among them,
the prettiest of the lot. I believe that the mite
knew this, too. Mrs. Homan and her daughter
Lulu entered the room as I was lost in admira-
tion of the pretty domestic photograph, Mrs.
Homan is a foreigner, with a face not unlike
that of Mme. Modjeska. She was born in
Dresden, and educated in Paris. The coarse
black dress, and the plain white apron she wore
could not conceal her charming dignity, and the
intrinsic refinement of her manner. I always
think that the most delightful being on earth is
a motherly mother. Such was Mrs. Homan.
She beamed upon Gertie and upon Lulu, and it
wasn't done for effect, either, as I was very quick
to perceive. I have mixed too much with the-
atrical people to be easily taken in.
Mrs. Homan told me that she was a relative
LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN. 327
of Charles Schiller, a writer living in Paris.
She had been in this country a number of years.
"We settled in New Orleans," she said, "and
it was there that Gertie, at the age of three
years, recited for Sunday School entertainments.
She made such a hit that a gentleman in New
Orleans said to me, ' If you don't take that child,
and put her on the stage, it will be a sin !' Ger-
tie was born in New Orleans, within a half mile
of where Jefferson Davis lived. Well, we came
on to New York, and were lucky at the very
beginning. The only trouble I seemed to find
was that Gertie was too perfect for some of the
juvenile parts — too perfect to be natural. But
it was a very satisfactory fault, and it never
stood in her way. She has never had one day's
sickness. I have never had a doctor for her.
She is a thoroughly healthy child."
Gertie listened to her mother in a condescend-
ing way. She had settled herself upon the lap
of Miss Lulu, a pleasing girl of about seventeen
328 LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN.
years of age, who fondled her little sister as
though she were a doll.
" Gertie gets along so admirably with the
people in the companies with which she plays,"
continued the fond mamma.
*' I love Miss Burroughs, of the Madison
Square," interrupted Gertie, eagerly. " She is
so pretty, and so amiable. And as for young
Mr. Salvini, I like him well enough to marry
him. There, now !"
Miss Lulu laughed reprovingly.
" I have been advised to keep the child on the
stage until she is thirteen years old," resumed
Mrs. Homan. " I went to Mr. A. M. Palmer
and asked for his advice. * By all means, Mrs.
Homan,' said he. ' Keep her on the stage.'
When she is thirteen, I intend to send her to
Paris, and let her remain there until she is nine-
teen."
" Oh. dear !"— from Gertie.
** I believe in giving her a thorough education.
LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN. 329
It is just as necessary, and even more necessary
for the stage than for other walks in life."
*' Do you teach Gertie her parts?" I asked.
" Sometimes I, and sometimes Lulu," replied
Mrs. Homan. "She is very quick to learn
them."
"Indeed she is," said Miss Lulu, "and she
understands them, too. I say to her, * Now,
Gertie, suppose you were that little girl. How
would you say those words ?' She immediately
answers, ' I would say them like this, or like
that,' and she generally strikes the right method.
I think that is the very best way to teach chil-
dren. It is an appeal to themselves, and they
rarely forget what they have been taught in a
reasonable manner. Very often Gertie needs no
instruction in gesticulation at all. It really
seems to come quite naturally to her."
" I don't like my child to leave New York,"
said Mrs. Homan, " but she has been obliged to
go out of town with companies. Lulu traveled
330 LITTLE GERTIE ROMAN.
with her. Gertie got a weekly salary of eighty
dollars, and all expenses paid. I put all her
money aside for her education. Next season I
think I shall travel with her myself."
" Are any of your other daughters on the
stage ?" I asked.
*' No ; Lulu played a few nights in ' Bootle's
Baby,' as Humpy, Mignons nurse. But my
children, though not ypon the stage," she added
proudly, " are all clever. Lulu has done a great
deal of writing — "
''Oh, mamma!" — from the bashful Lulu —
" and one of my daughters draws and paints
beautifully. All those pictures " (pointing to
some very pretty sketches on the wall) "were
done by her. I have a daughter who is cashier
in a large clothing establishment. Oh ! I assure
you that my children are clever. I call them
my jewels. They are all I have."
Mrs. Homan showed me a handsome book
presented to Gertie by the members of the
LITTLE GERTIE HOMAN. 33 1
Madison Square Theatre company when Gertie
left that organization. It contained the signa-
tures of all the actors and actresses who had
played with her.
Then Gertie dragged me off to see her play-
room, situated at the other end of the flat. 1 1
was a large, light apartment. At one end was a
bookcase, of the two lower shelves of which
Gertie had made a doll's house. She had
divided each shelf into two roomlets, which she
had carpeted and furnished.
Then she had a large kitchen, with a real
stove in it.
" See," she said, '' I can put on coal, and dump
my fire, and rake it, and cook beautiful things."
I was glad to see that she could be genuinely
amused with the toys that please children of her
age. Above her stove was a picture of little Miss
Elsie Leslie, another child actress.
"You like Miss Leslie?" I a ked. a little
curiously.
332 LITTLE GERTIE ROMAN.
"I think she is beautiful," replied Gertie
readily, ** I always keep her picture in my kitchen.
I met her once at a reception given to stage
children, and I fell in love with her. I have
seen her act, and I think she acts splendidly."
That sounded nice. I liked to hear it. I
looked into the large, honest eyes of the child
and could not doubt her possession of a sweet,
lovable disposition, that contact with the stage
had in no way harmed. I was charmed with the
Homans — mother, father, Lulu and Gertie.
** Are you going so soon ?" asked Gertie regret-
fully, as I rose to leave.
And I shouldn't have been human, if I had not
liked her all the better for that little bit of inter-
rogation.
Lilly Post.
ILLY POST is in private life
Mrs. William H. Morton.
Her husband was formerly
manager of the Columbia
Theatre in Chicago, and is a
very energetic gentleman. It
is rarely that a comic opera
prima donna has a theatrical husband of such
good standing as Mr. Morton. The husband of
the prima donna is, as a rule, a gentleman with a
superb scorn for hard work ; one of those amia-
ble, fragrant creatures, who look upon "wifey"
with admiring eyes, and are very glad indeed that
she is so popular with the public. But Mr. Mor-
ton is not one of those conjugal hangers-on. If
Miss Post were to retire, I rather imagine that
Mr. Morton would interpose no objections.
333
334
LILLY POST.
When I called upon Miss Post at the Hotel
Vendome, she kept me waiting so long in the
parlors of the hotel that I began to imagine that
she was going to be very ceremonious. I am
always suspicious of a
doctor who permits a pa-
tient to sit for hours in an
ante-chamber, unless this
doctor be somebody of
national reputation. I
would never pin my faith
to a lawyer who adopts
this policy, because I know
it to be one of the tricks
of the trade. With a
comic opera singer or an
actress, there is very fre.
quently a tendency to affect the procession of
callers, each waiting impatiently for his little
five minutes.
So I began to believe that I was not going to
LILLY POST. 3|35
like la Post. I had never met her, though I had
frequently heard her sing, and admired that fresh,
pure voice, which seems almost too good for a
comic opera singer. Just as I was on the verge
of the fidgets, a portiere was swept aside, and a
lady with an extended hand stood before me. I
at once recognized Miss Lilly Post, though I was
bound to admit that it was difficult to do so.
Mrs. W. H. Morton is a very different woman to
Miss Lilly Post. The former is majestic and
portly ; the latter arch and inclined to be kitten-
ish. The matron is simple and rather timid ; the
singer is vivacious and conspicuous. I no longer
wondered at the delay to which I had been sub-
jected. It was before noon, but Miss Post was
absolutely resplendent. She wore a costume that
nothing on earth could ever induce me to attempt
to describe. It was brown in many shades, and
it was bef rilled and befurbelowed, and bewilder-
ing. Diamonds of purest ray serene glistened in
Miss Post's dainty ears.
336 LILLY POST.
" I am sure I have nothing to say about my-
self." began my fair hostess, with genuine modes-
ty. "It is quite a new experience for me to talk
about Miss Post. What is there to tell ? Really
I do not know."
I convinced the winsome Vum-Vum that her
career was surely interesting, as is that of every
woman who has succeeded — by which I do not
mean to infer that those who have not discovered
success could not be even more entertaining and
instructive to the public. But people prefer to
hear about success, because it generally means
merit, though lack of success does not always
signify want of merit.
•* I was originally," she began, " a church sing-
er. I used to lend my soprano tones regularly
to church services in San Francisco, where I v/as
bom, and I had no more intention of ever appear-
ing before the public in comic opera than you
have yourself at the present moment." (Miss
Post could have used no more emphatic argu-
LILLY POST. 337
ment, as far as I was concerned.) " My appear-
ance was purely accidental. I was one of the
numerous * Pinafore ' debutantes. A single per-
formance of 'this charming little opera was given,
and the manager was hunting for a Josephine,
My position as the church soprano was rather a
prominent one, and he happened to think of me.
He broached the subject to me, and though my
people were fearfully opposed to any such thing,
I consented to appear, and did appear as Jose-
phine. After that I sang the role at the Bush
Street Theatre in San Francisco with the Emily
Melville company. That is how I happened to
go upon the stage. Not a single member of my
family had ever been theatrical. Indeed, my
father was a very quiet, unassuming citizen of
San Francisco, and in a bank in that city. Since
I have been before the public, a younger brother
emulated my example, and went upon the stage."
Miss Post was beginning to see that she could
be interesting. It is astonishing how appetizing-
ly a career can be dished up, with a little care.
338 LILLY 'POST.
*' I came east with the Emily Melville com-
pany," resumed Miss Post, "and when it was
combined with the McCaull opera company, I
was there at the consolidation. The organiza-
tion was known as the * McCaull Comic Opera
Company,' and with it I remained for six years.
I sang in all the operas that McCaull pro-
duced. Since I left the company I have been
roaming around, so to speak. Of late I sang
with the Henderson company in * The Gondo-
liers,* and I am now with Mr. Duff. Yes, I like
the life very much, but comic opera was not the
goal of my ambition."
Miss Post laughed, and I knew what was
coming.
" I had great thoughts of grand opera," she
said, laughing, " I had a repertoire of ten operas.
Think of that ! You know I have really worked
very hard with my voice. I studied in Paris for
a short time, and when I returned to this coun-
tr\-. I continued to labor very assiduously. In
LILI.V POST. . 339
San Francisco I had the very best musical culti-
vation that money could purchase. One of my
teachers had been a pupil of the celebrated
Mme. Marchesi in Paris. Have I given up all
thoughts of grand opera? Well, perhaps I had
better say that I have."
Miss Post said this with such charming can-
dor, and her manner was so unconventional and
free from restraint, that I mentally begged her
pardon, and wondered how I could possibly have
dreamed of ceremony in her connection.
*' I practice every day," said Miss Post, "and
when you came, I was exercising my voice.
That is why I am hoarse at the present time."
(She wasn't.) "When I neglect practising, I
never sing so well at night, as I have discovered
to my cost. Opera singers should never go
upon the stage unless they have previously gone
over the scales. No matter how short the exer-
cise may be, practice is absolutely necessar)'. If
only ten minutes each day can be spared, those
340 LILLY POST.
ten minutes will be very valuable. I used to
stay at a hotel where Herr Fischer, the German
singer, whom you have undoubtedly heard at the
Metropolitan Opera House, with his wife, used
to occupy rooms directly beneath mine. Every
morning I used to hear him arise, and before he
could possibly have time to dress, he would go
to the piano and run over the scales."
I ventured to remark that, in Miss Post's
place, I should have selected another part of the
hotel.
** But he was most considerate," she resumed,
laughing. " He always sang pianissimo, and I
was very much interested. What Fischer did
was much better than all the absurd preparations
and voice tonics that singers take before appear-
ing upon the stage. I used to imagine that I
couldn't possibly sing unless I drank a glass of
sherry, or ate a raw ^gg. This is utter non-
sense. Some people, I believe, even drink a
glass of sweet oil, and this, it seems to me, is
LILLY POST. 341
really injurious. Oil will clog up the throat,
unless the singer happens to have a cold Only
in that case will it possibly prove beneficial.
Just before appearing, the very best thing to do
is to exercise the glottis. Teachers of profes-
sional singers give them an exercise by which
they can work the glottis without uttering a tone.
just as pianists with a silent piano can exercise
their fingers without producing a sound. Some-
times I take a little bit of rock candy, and that
is positively the extent of my vocal prepara-
tions."
'' You have never appeared in anything but
comic opera ?" I asked.
She smiled.
*' I am a little ashamed to say," she replied,
*' that I played in the burlesque extravaganza
known as ' Bluebeard, Jr.' I was doing nothing,
and I thought I might as well do this in Chi-
cago. The costumes were lovely, and my role
was a nice one, but I don't care to think about
;^2 LILLY POST.
it too much, you know. You may have discov-
ered that I am just as ambitious now as I ever
was. I thought, when I married Mr. Morton,
that I would give up the stage, and settle down
into a nice, quiet, domestic wife. I tried it, and
I found" (Miss Post made a queer little wry
mouth) "that I could not possibly give up my
lovely stage. Life seemed too tame without it.
There was no aim in anything. I might even
have gone back to church singing, and made a
great deal of money by it, too. But I had
scented comic opera, and I had found it to be
positively irresistible. There is something about
the fascination of the stage that I am utterly
unable to explain. I only know that it exists.
What it is, and why it is, I have never been for-
tunate enough to discover, though I have
attempted to analyze myself and my motives.
There is a something — a je-jie-sais-quoi, as the
French say, that defies description Since we
have been married, Mr. Morton and I have lived
LILLY POST.
343
in Chicago. He tells me that there is a possi-
bility of Denver in the future, and 1 rather dread
the idea of it."
Miss Post has sung a great deal in the comic
operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. She is ex-
tremely fond of Sir Arthur's music One of the
roles upon which she looks favorably is that of
Mabel in " The Pirates of Penzance," as she con-
siders that in its florid music she has opportuni-
ties for vocal efforts. She has lately been sing-
ing the part of Yum-Yum in *' The Mikado" at
the Broadway Theatre, and she is not at all fond
of the part. Miss Post prides herself upon her
high notes, and is never thoroughly happy unless
she can bring them into play. She has all the
physical development of the successful opera
singer, and I think that she could very advan-
tageously attempt roles of a more arduous nature
than those with which she has been identified.
Miss Post is no longer a pet of those connois-
seurs of comic opera success, known as the gilded
344 LILLY POST.
youth. There was a time when the dear chap-
pies used to drop in for an hour, don't you know,
to hear the Post. That was at the time when
she was singing in " The Black Hussar," with
the McCaull Comic Opera company. • Since she
became Mrs. Morton, Miss Post has been cruel
enough to desert the metropolis, comparatively
speaking, and to devote herself to the financially
interesting, but by no means artistically appreci-
ative West. Her interests, of course, are there.
Miss Post's photographs are not at all kind to
her. In fact, they treat her rather cruelly,
accentuating the peculiar lines of her mouth,
which is her least desirable feature. She is a
very comely woman, with pretty light hair and
eyes, and a clear white complexion.
Photo bv SARQNY.
CLLjBN ©bi^i^y.
Ellen Terry.
HE big steamship, Fulda, had
just steamed into Quaran-
tine with an unusually large
freight of sea-weary passen-
gers, who flocked to the rail
that surrounded tlie deck
and gazed eagerly at the
signs of busy humanity, as a
welcome picture relieving an ocean-tossed condi-
tion of chaos.
Hardly had the Fulda cast a temporary
anchor, than a little yacht, upon which were a
number of city people, including your humble
servant, approached. A tall, lank being and his
companion, a sunny-haired, smiling woman, were
distinctly visible, uttering farewells to the Fulda's
34 5
346
ELLEN TERRY.
passengers, and preparing to descend a flight of
steps leading from the imposing vessel to the
comparatively ridiculous yacht.
The lank individual was Henry Irving, stately
even after his sea voyage ; classical after the
utter prose of the transatlantic crossing. His
companion was of course Miss Ellen Terry, as
supremely charming as though she had just
stepped from her London home. They were
soon on board the yacht, regretfully watched by
the less-welcomed passengers.
Miss Terry became emotional as soon as we
had started for the city. A tear or two lurked
in her eyes, and she talked rather wistfully of
home. I imagined that this was a little bit of
affectation, devised to please the newspaper men,
who were watching her every movement with
lynx eyes. I was mistaken, and learned later
that Miss Terry, in her private life, is as emo-
tional as in any of the roles she is called upon to
portray.
ELLKN TEKRV.
347
That was the first glimpse I had of her — on
board that little yacht. She talked very charm-
ingly, but very informally, and when not thus
engaged, devoted herself to her little daughter,
Edith Wardell, who accompanied her.
I say "little daughter." Perhaps, however,
I am unnecessarily gallant. Miss Terry is one
of the few actresses who ''make no bones" about
telling their ages. While in this country, she
celebrated her fortieth birthday, the year of her
birth being 1848. So, under the circumstances,
I will tell the truth, and say Edith Wardell, when
I first saw her, was a great, big, awkward girl, with
a rather incongruous assumption of juvenility.
She was evidently very proud of " mamma," and
rarely budged from her side.
Miss Wardell is not at all pretty. She cer-
tainly betrays little resemblance to her lovely
mother, which induces the inference that
Wardell, himself, could not have been a beauty.
I believe he was an artist, and that he died
recently.
348
ELLEN TERRY.
Miss Terry always treats Irving with great
respect. On one occasion, speaking of him to
an American, she said : ''I look upon him as a
god." In fact, there is a sort of mutual admira-
tion society between these two artists. Irving
never loses an opportunity of praising Miss
Terry, and in nearly all his speeches allusions
are made to **that charming actress, Miss Ellen
Terr}', whom you have all admired."
I had the felicity of accompanying Mr. Irving
and Miss Terry to West Point when they played
*' The Merchant of Venice," without scenery, at
the Military Academy. It was an occasion I
shall never forget, so completely different to the
prosaic everydayness of things. I have seldom
seen such genuine pleasure shown by a human
being as that manifested by Ellen Terry. The
applause of the cadets seemed to afford her the
keenest delight. After the performance she
held a little court of her own. She was literally
an island surrounded by cadets. They asked
ELLEN TERRV.
349
her questions, she answered them gladly, and if
all those boys didn't melt beneath the warmth
of those Terry smiles, lavished upon them with a
reckless disregard of the adult visitors who were
comparatively out in the cold — well, I am no
judge.
'' I hate to leave West Point," said Miss Terry.
as she stepped into the sleigh that was waiting
to convey the party from the academy to the
railway station. "Those dear boys! That is
the sweetest audience to which I have ever
played."
Miss Terry is something of a ** dowdy " in her
attire, when not on the stage. I met her at
some private theatricals given in aid of the
Neighborhood Guild, and at which her daughter
Edith played. I was rather astonished at her
dress, which was of the style popularly known as
" Susan's Sunday out." Let me see if I can
recall it. She wore a dark green silk, as old-
fashioned as the hills, and it was made in an
350 ELLEN TERRY.
ancient, unlovely style. In fact, if I recollect
rightly, she wore a " panier," an article which I
believe was the rage when Mr. and Mrs. Noah
walked into the ark.
But Miss Terry's sun-kissed tresses (though I
am not at all sure that they are golden by means
of the sun) and her clear-cut cameo face, called
all glances very quickly away from her dress.
With such personality, anybody could afford to
disregard the sartorial question.
I might here say that Miss Wardell certainly
showed none of her mother's dramatic talent. I
believe the occasion to which I have referred was
the first time that the young girl had played a
speaking part. She had appeared as witches
and fairies in the production of " Faust." Miss
Terry has a son, who was educated at Heid-
elberg, and who has lately appeared with her in
London, in '♦ The Dead Heart," at the Lyceum,
if I am not mistaken.
And now just a word about the career of this
ELLEN TERRY. 351
actress, who has defied criticism by her natural-
ness, and absolute absence of all self-conscious-
ness. She first appeared in 1856. That sounds
fearfully long ago, doesn't it ? But I must hasten
to remark that, at the time, Miss Terry was but
eight years of age. She played the part of
Mamilius in ** The Winter's Tale," at the time
when Kean was managing the Princess Theatre,
London. Two years later she appeared as
Arthur, in what we now call " a great produc-
tion " of "King John."
It is a mistake to suppose that Miss Terry
was unknown before Mr. Irving engaged her.
She made a distinct success in 1863, when she
appeared at the Haymarket Theatre with Soth-
crn in ''The Little Treasure;" in 1867 as Rose
de Beaurepaire in " The Double Marriage ; " and
in 1874 as Susan Morton, in " It Is Never Too
Late to Mend." Miss Terry, at the opening of
the Lyceum Theatre by Henry Irving. Decem-
ber 30, 1878, appeared as Ophelia to the Hamlet
^^2 ELLEN TERRY.
of Mr. Irving. She was certainly recognized as
an artist of purest ray, and since that time
nobody has been able to dethrone her. Ellen
Terry is more natural on than off the stage, if I
may be indulged with such a paradox. The effer-
vescent girlishness, the spontaneous good-humor,
and the delicate bits of '' business " that she intro-
duces into her roles, are unrivalled in their excel-
lence. In my opinion, she is at her best as Bea-
trice in " Much Ado About Nothing."
Clara Morris.
HERE have been few ac-
tresses who have been more
discussed and analyzed in
their day than Miss Clara
Morris, the ** queen of emo-
tion ;" few actresses have en
joyed a more brilliant ana
more successful day. If Miss
Morris were to retire at the present time, she
would do so in comparatively unrivalled glor\
The indications, however, are that she will pla
herself into old age, struggle with those odious
comparisons, which, miasma-like, are beginning to
arise, and end in the sorrowful way made known
by the great Ristori, who returned to America
for a last tour, to ruin a perfect fortification of
illusion.
353
254 CLARA MORRIS.
Of one thing I am deeply regretful. It is that
I never saw Clara Morris at her greatest ; when
the American people raved about the sublimity
of her emotional work and listened eagerly to
countless stories of her studies in mad-houses, of
her nocturnal visits to hospitals and dissecting
rooms, and to various other little tales as profit-
able as they were interesting. I saw Clara Morris
within the last five years, and set her down as the
" queen of spasms." The electrical effect of her
work is undoubtedly as forcible as it ever was ;
she can still thrill an audience with the absolute
reality of her emotion ; the women can yet weep,
as they look at Miss Morris' eyes, into w^hich the
real wet tears well so genuinely, but save for these
spasms, I must confess that Miss Morris was to
me a grievous disappointment. In her quieter
moments, she appeared crude and unrefined, and
there were times when I could quite understand
the feelings of those who portrayed her as " wild-
ly western."
CLARA MORRIS. 355
But in spite of all her faults, Clara Morris is a
case of genius, and her name in the annals of the
American stage is luminous for all time.
Miss Morris has won her fame amid obstacles
that in the present state of the drama, when
pretty faces and handsome forms are looked upon
as unquestioned passports to success, would seem
unconquerable. She has a face that is far. from
beautiful, and a figure that is gaunt and unlovely.
I always think of Gilbert and that " left shoulder
blade, which is a miracle of loveliness," when I see
Clara Morris. I do hope that she possesses this
boon, even if we are never to know the truth for
ourselves. She looks like a thoroughly healthy.
robust woman, and it requires the most vivid im-
agination to give credence to the stories of her
ineffably exhausted state, her broken nerves, her
need of drugs, and other requirements.
It would be awful to believe that so great an
artist would have recourse to feeble fictioa
When, however, one sits for half an hour in utter
2^6 CLARA MORRIS.
impatience between every act of a performance,
to be told that Miss Morris' nerves need attend-
ing to, the inner self talks unkindly.
Actresses, strange to say, love to give the im-
pression that they feel the griefs they portray so
intensely, that it affects their domestic life. Sarah
Bernhardt would have a fit if you dared to sug-
gest health to her. Only the other day I read of
her intense suffering, during which she sat up in
bed, in a white satin night-gown, her hair in pic-
turesque confusion, and her room filled with art-
ists, who took turns sitting by her bedside. Think
of the intense suffering that will permit such ob-
trusive idiocy ; picture the tortured frame in the
white satin frills, or the throbbing head with the
Psyche knot !
Miss Clara Morris is very much in this style.
When a newspaper man asks her if she is well,
this is a specimen reply :
•"Well, did you say? Yes, for me; but not
perfectly well. I never expect to be that in this
CLARA MORRIS.
357
world. Perhaps when I get to a bciu-r. with a
good many other people, I may enjoy perfect
health for the first time."
Now, Miss Morris is one of those women who
thoroughly enjoy this wicked world. Why it
should make her ill, I can't make out. She has a
devoted husband, F. C. Harriott, and a lovely
home at Riverdale-on-the- Hudson. When she is
not acting, she is placidly enjoying herself. She
is an accomplished equestrienne, and is a well-
known figure, on horseback, in the leafy lanes of
Riverdale. Supreme health seems to hover
around her. Isn't it funny that these stage peo-
ple can't be absolutely natural off the stage ? Is
it not equally ludicrous that perfect health, God s
most lovely gift, should be looked upon as unro-
mantic, prosaic, detrimental to success? Our
consumptive Sarah, and our nerve-racked Clara
are peculiar instances of those idols the people
love to worship. Sarah's tuberculosis is a dainty
little recognition of the requirements of her sup.
2^8 CLARA MORRIS.
porters ; Clara's nerves have made a fortune all
by themselves.
Miss Morris was born at Morristown, Canada,
in 1848, and began her stage career in Cleveland,
in 1862.
'• I was living in Cleveland," said Miss Morris,
*' and there boarded in the same house with my
mother, a Mrs. Bradshaw, an actress, and her
daughter Blanche. John Ellsler produced 'The
Seven Ravens,' and Blanche had a place in the
ballet. She worried my mother to let me join
her, and made my mother's life miserable until
she gained her consent. Blanche took me down
to the theatre, but Mr. Ellsler said I was too lit-
tle, and that unless he could find somebody to
inarch with me, he could not give me a place. I
burst into tears. John Ellsler seemed to be sorry
for me. He patted me on the head, and told me
to come to the theatre. He secured an old-fash-
ioned little woman to walk with me, and every-
thing went well. I appeared as a fairy, and a
CLARA MORRIS.
359
very strange fairy I looked. After that 1 was a
zouave, and went on the stage in boy's clothes.
Blanche and I used to chew gum, and it didn't
seem to interfere with our acting. * The Seven
Ravens ' ran for two weeks, and my salary was
$3 per week. Mr. Ellsler asked me if I would
remain with him the following season. My mo-
ther refused his request at first, but finally gave
her consent, saying that I might as well do this
as anything else. That is how I came to go upon
the stage."
Miss Morris lived in Cleveland for a number
of years, and appeared in Buffalo in i866. She
also played in Cincinnati, where for one season
she occupied the position of leading lady, at a
salary of $35 per week. She supported her mo-
ther, and, as may be imagined, was not able to
enjoy a very luxurious life. Her local reputation
as an actress was excellent, but actresses don't
care very much for local reputations, unless the
locality be the metropolis. Miss Morris, how-
360 CLARA MORRIS.
ever, received some very good offers, one from
Augustin Daly, of New York city. She packed
up her trunk, bade a temporary good-bye to her
mother, and set out for the metropolis, at her
own expense.
When Miss Morris first came to New York,
she had in her pocket a contract with Mr.
Maguire, of California. He pledged himself to
give her $100 per week " in gold," two benefits,
and the right to choose her own parts as leading
lady. But Miss Morris sighed for New York ;
it was the Mecca of her hopes. She had but
two dresses in the world, and a very meagre stage
wardrobe. She possessed none of those sartorial
'* dreams " that actresses of the present day seem
to consider as necessary as dramatic talent.
Talking of dresses reminds me that on one occa-
sion I had to criticise a feminine star who was
playing the part of a governess. To my aston-
ishment, she appeared in the most gorgeous
gowns, Worth-made and exceedingly costly. I
CLARA MORRIS. 36 1
mentioned the Incongruity of a governess don-
ning such garbs. This was her reply :
" I know they are gorgeous, but if I appear
out of town in cheap clothes, people will say that
I am not a success, and am unable to wear
startling dresses. I have got to make an
* appearance.' "
This, by-the-way, of course.
Miss Morris describes her own appearance
when she presented herself before the austere
Augustin Daly for the first time, as follows :
" Mr. Daly had been accustomed to the mag-
nificence of Miss Morant, Fanny Davenport,
Agnes Ethel, and others of his splendid stock
company. He looked down upon my five feet
three inches, clad in a rusty linen gown, and
carrying a satchel. He shrugged his shoulders,
and there was doubt expressed in every line of
his face. He engaged me to play any part save
that of soubrette and general utility. My salary
was to be $40 per week, with the understanding
362 CLARA MORRIS.
that if I made a distinct hit, it was to be doubled.
Upon this sum I was to live, support my
mother, and buy my stage dresses."
Miss Morris declares that when she had
brought her mother to New York, and settled
down, she had not one dollar to her credit.
Mother and daughter were so cramped for
means, that meat once a day was a luxury. The
young actress was often so weak at rehearsal,
that she was unable to do herself justice. Her
mother used to ask if she would have her chops
to rehearse upon or to act upon. Miss Morris
often used to think that in those days Daly was
convinced that she would make a fearful fiasco.
She suffered very acutely herself. Her stage
wardrobe was no use at all for the modern society
plays in which she was called to appear, while the
tortures of shabbiness were felt when she minorled
at rehearsal with the beautifully dressed women
of the company.
Miss Morris met with her first metropolitan
CLARA MORRIS. 363
triumph through the usual accidents. In theatri-
cal life, accidents are very frequently blessings.
Mr. Daly was to present ** Man and Wife," a
dramatization of Wilkie Collins' famous novel.
Miss Agnes Ethel was cast for the part of Anne
Sylvester; Miss Morris was to appear as Blanche,
a comparatively insignificant role. At the last
moment Miss Ethel refused to act, with the
charming caprice of the successful actress. Miss
Morris received the part, and was told that she
would be required to play Anne Sylvester that
night. She did so unhesitatingly. It is in just
this way that dramatic reputations are made. Her
Anne Sylvester was a triumph. She was called
five times before the curtain on the opening
night. Her metropolitan reputation was estab-
lished.
Miss Morris has made her principal successes
as Camille, as Mercy Merrick in "The New
Magdalen," as Cora in "Article 47." as Alixe
and as Renie de Moray,
364 CLARA MORRIS.
Her Camille has always attracted a great deal
of attention. The death scene is a wonderful
piece of work. Miss Morris has always disliked
the part, and declares that she never really
intended to play it. She first appeared as
Dumas' consumptive heroine very unwillingly.
She had just returned to New York after a long
absence, to find that the theatres had decided
upon giving an entertainment for the benefit of
the poor. The winter had been a hard one, and
the distress in New York, in the tenement dis-
tricts, had been very great. Miss Morris con-
sented to appear, and a list of parts was given to
her to select from. It was headed by Camille,
through which she immediately drew a pencil.
Her wish was disregarded. A couple of days
before the performance she found that she must
appear as Camille, or remain out of the pro-
gramme.
Miss Morris made the best of matters, and
studied the objectionable role. There was but
CLAKA MUkKlS. 365
-one rehearsal, and Frank Mayo, well known now
in connection with "Nordeck" and "Davy
Crockett," was the Armand Duval, The fateful
night arrived, as fateful nights have a way' of
doing. Miss Morris selected her dresses with a
great deal of care. Her manager was having
scenery painted for a new French play that he
was to produce. It was never produced.
"Camille" was a gigantic success, and Mi>^
Morris found the part foisted upon her.
She then made it a special study. " I learned
from my physician," she said upon one occasion,
*' that there are two coughs peculiar to lingering
consumption. One of them is a little hacking
cough that interferes with the speech, and injures
the throat ; the other is a paroxysm brought on
by extra exertion. I chose the paroxysm, and
introduced it in the first scene, after I have been
dancing. Camille says at one time that all pain
is gone. My doctor told me that this was on
366 CLARA MORRIS.
account of entire loss of the lungs. He cautioned
me against saying much after that, and told me
that the tubes of the throat could be used for a
few words. I studied Camille in this manner,
and not in the coarse way that has been attrib-
uted to me."
A great deal of nonsense has been written
on the subject of Miss Morris' ideas. Probably
but very little of it emanated from the artist
herself. The St. Louis Post Despatch printed
a very interesting account of Miss Morris' views
on emotion, and as her manager has had the
talk printed for circulation, it is worth giving in
part:
"You cannot affect other people except by
feeling yourself," she said. "You must feel, or
all the pretty and pathetic language in the world
won't make people sympathize with you. You
must cry yourself, and tears alone won't do it.
There must be tears in your voice, in order to
CLARA MORRIS. 367
bring them forth from other people. Before I
appear on the stage, I am in a nervous tremor.
all because I am afraid that I shan't cry in the
play. I spend an hour or two with my company,
making just as much fun as I possibly can, so as
to get all the laughter out of me. Then I shut
myself up, and work up an artificial agony. 1 >
do this, I think of some sad incident, or read a
sad story. One of Bret Harte's books supplied
me with emotion for two years.
" I get the story fixed in my mind, and
dwell upon the most pathetic incident in it until
my feelings are completely aroused. Then I cr)\
and the whole thing is done. I have to look
out for the other danger, and keep from being
overcome. All the false sobs in the world will
never take the place of real emotion. There
must be real tears in eyes or voice. This is very
hard on the eyes, of course. Mine are sometimes
so inflamed that I can scarcely use them. We
368 CLARA MORRIS.
cannot play emotional scenes as they were
formerly played. It used to be that there was
only one way of dying on the stage. All that
has been changed."
Clara Morris is an ardent admirer of Sarah
Bernhardt. "Her Camille is perfect," she said
on one occasion. " She has a wonderful voice,
that thrills her audiences, but she does not make
you cry. She is a supreme artist. I went to see
her in 'Adrienne Lecouvreur,* and w^as begin-
ning to be deeply moved. But the crisis came
too quickly. The large audience was waiting
in pained expectancy. I leaned forward and
listened. Every word fell upon my ear. I
was harrowing rapidly, when — she cleared
her throat. The spell was broken. Noth-
ing could move the audience. Too much
nature is unpardonable; too much art is
death."
Miss Morris is frequently asked whether she
CLARA MORRIS. 369
loses her own identity in the character she plays.
Here is a story she tells :
" Once, in New York, when a number of us
were at dinner, Mr. Stuart, one of the party,
asked me the same thing. I told him to wait
until after the play, and he would see if I lost
myself in my role. We were very merry at din-
ner — you know I can be merry — and when it was
over, Stuart, who had been laughing uproarious-
ly, said, ' You needn't think you can make me
cry to-night, after seeing your mirth at this table 1'
Well, we went to the theatre. The play was
' Miss Multon.' It has a very strong climax.
The scene is very forcible. It is brought to a
close by Miss Multon casting herself, or rather
falling upon the floor, very nearly in convulsions.
I fell down as usual. I felt the part ver>^ acutely.
My heart was beating violently, and I was
red with excitement. As I lay there, I hap-
pened to look at the box overhead. There I
370 CLARA MORRIS.
saw Stuart. Even in my anguish, I recognized
him.
"His nose was red from excessive weeping,
and 1 could distinctly see the tears tracing them-
selves down his cheeks. I caught his eye, and —
yes, I will say it — ^gave him a very decided wink.
He was furious, and made some remark. The
audience hissed him, and he went quietly to
the back of the box. He has always declared
that he would never forgive me for that
wink."
Miss Morris says that it is dangerous to be too
sympathetic. Nature must be tempered with art.
" I must cry in my emotional roles, and feel
enough to cry ; but I must not cry enough to
mumble my words, to redden my nose, or to be-
come hysterical."
Although the actress relies very little upon the
attractions of her person, she does not despise
dress. She thinks that good clothes have a great
CLARA MORRIS. 37
deal to do with a part, and she is decidedly cor-
rect. Miss Morris, however, deals very artisti-
cally with this question. Her motto is not
** Worth; encore Worth; toujotirs Worth." On
one occasion, in the days to which I have before
referred, when her stage wardrobe was decidedly
meagre, her waiting-maid appeared in a pink silk
dress, with lace and diamonds. Miss Morris has
never forgotten that. The maid entirely eclipsed
the mistress.
Many a maid nowadays would be willing to do
the same thing. The question of dress is far too
forcibly emphasized. Women who are known
to dress well stand far better chances of engage-
ment than those who are not. And it is the
same with the men. Visit the dramatic agencies.
and you will always hear the same thing : ** He is
a good dresser "; or " He has an excellent ward-
robe." Very few stars appear in plays that give
them no opportunity to " dress." Of course, I do
372 CLARA MORRIS.
not include the Shakespearian actresses. Even
playwrights have become aware of the fact that
plays without a drawing-room scene, or a recep-
tion incident where costumes can be as extrava-
gant as possible, are unwelcome.
Miss Morris can discuss the question of dress
as readily as she can those connected with the
more important questions of theatrical interests.
She has read a great deal, and has digested all
that she has read. She studies intricacies very
carefully, and does not cast them aside as unnec-
essary, as many less worthy actresses are inclined
to do. The greater the artist, the more willing
will he or she be to clutch at every possible hint
that may be given.
Miss Morris is always extremely interesting.
She understands her profession from its alpha
to omega, and is always willing to talk. She
has been frequently misrepresented, but it has
done her little harm. As I said before, her name
CLARA MORRIS.
373
in the annals of the American stage is luminous
for all time. She should, however, not abide
with us until her greatness has become a
memory.
»- ^^=' --■:;;_»it^
RosiNA Yokes.
CCUPYING a nice little place
all by herself on the American
stage, her particular line being
refined comedy, is Miss Rosina
Yokes. She is a charming lit-
tle lady, as sprightly and amus-
ing in private life, where she is
known as Mrs. Cecil Clay, as she is behind the
footlights.
Miss Yokes was the daughter of a London
costumer, who did a little for Queen Victoria's
realms in the way of supplying them with popu-
lation. Jessie, Yictoria, Fred and Rosina were
all Yokes', very much of an age, and all drama-
tic. When managers wanted a child for a play
to be produced, they used to go to Mr. Yokes.
375
3/6
ROSINA YOKES.
** Have you a child of the necessary age ?"
they would ask.
The proud father would promptly reply :
" I have a child of any age."
^gr" j " I commenced my
f ^ J stage career," said
J^ttitS^L. M Miss Yokes, *' at the
age of three. Per-
haps I had better say
that I was born in
London, October i8,
1858; witness the
family Bible, in which
the following remark-
able entry occurs :
'Rosina Theodosia, third daughter of Fred-
erick Mortimer Stratford Yokes, and Sarah
his wife.* I was carried on the stage by Mr.
Creswick, the eminent English actor. (I don't
mean that he was eminent because he carried me
on, but eminent on his own account.) He carried
ROSINA YOKES.
377
me round his neck, whilst he fought a broad-sword
contest with seven villains. I nearly ended the
eminent actor's eminent career then and there by
hanging on to his wind-pipe with ten small but pen-
etrating fingers. My sister Jessie played all the
classical juveniles at the Drury Lane Theatre.
The mantle and the rest of the costume descended
successively on Victoria and myself. We
branched out as the Yokes children in Scotland,
and afterwards as the Yokes family, making our
first appearance in London in 1870, with the
Drury Lane pantomime. We first appeared in
America at the Union Square Theatre in the
spring of 1872, in ' The Belles of the Kitchen/
and played in this country the best part of five
seasons, going back each Christmas for the panto-
mime at the Drury Lane Theatre. I left the stage
in 1877, and when I returned to this country.
eight years afterwards, it was with the very dif-
ferent style of plays that we are now presenting.
I believed that there was room for some such
378 ROSINA VOKES.
light and unpretentious, but refined entertain-
ment, and have every reason to be deh'ghted with.
and grateful for our reception in all quarters."
Miss Voices and her husband spend the greater
part of their time in this country. They occupy
a pleasant little flat in Fifth avenue, and vary
flat life with a short sojourn at the St. James
Hotel. They travel all over the country, always
closing their season in New York. Then they
go to England for the summer. Mr. Clay has a
house in London which is always rented during
his absence here, and a little country place in
Devonshire. It is to the Devonshire retreat that
Miss Voices always flies as soon as she gets to
England.
" We might as well stay in New York as in
London," says Mr. Clay, "barring the humid-
ity."
Miss Vokes is delightfully domesticated. When
she is off the stage she forgets all business cares.
<;ho is not what the members of the theatrical
ROSIN A VOKKS. ^yg
profession call ♦' shoppy." In fact she can rarely
be induced to talk of the theatre at all, and as a
rule it is Mr. Clay to whom she refers all visitors.
She lives very quietly indeed, and is not in the
least eccentric.
Miss Yokes is a hard worker. She directs all
rehearsals of plays in which she is to appear,
making suggestions from start to finish. Some-
times she produces little comedies, in which her
leading actors appear, and in those cases she re-
lies upon the actors themselves, believing that
this is the wisest policy, when she can afford
to do so. Her great anxiety is that ever}'
member of her company shall have a chance.
She is one of the most unselfish "stars" that
I have ever met. She does not believe in
'' one-part " plays, and makes it a point to
secure comedies that do not rely entirely for
success upon her own bright individuality. '* A
thoroughly good performance all round ** is the
criticism that is most pleasing to Miss V^okes.
380 ROSINA YOKES.
Mr. and Mrs. Clay read about eight hundred
plays each year. They are deluged with the ef-
forts of young playwrights, who think it an easy
matter to write one-act comedies like those pro-
duced by Miss Yokes. But it is a case of the
survival only of the fittest.
*' We read everything," said Mr. Clay, as we
chatted together one afternoon in the lobby of
the St James. " I think it was Talleyrand who
remarked that he saw every caller for fear he
might miss the man he had been waiting to meet
for twenty years. That is our idea. If we did
not read all the manuscripts submitted to us, we
might lose our greatest chance. We have at the
present time a great many more plays, accepted
and paid for, than we shall be able to produce."
In studying a part the very last thing Miss
Yokes does is to learn the lines. She knows all
the points of the play, and the smallest details
of the role she is to play, before she has com-
mitted to memory a single word. She has com-
ROSINA YOKES. 381
pletely realized the character before she is able
to rehearse it. The songs she introduces
very carefully selected, and on no occasion arc
they ever completely irrelevant to the play.
After Miss Yokes* retirement from the stage,
she used to appear in private theatricals. On
one occasion she was a member of an amateur
company from which great things were expected.
Sir Charles Young and a number of other well-
known people were in the cast. There was some
difficulty, and Miss Yokes found herself left with
these people, all their plans having evaporated
She made contracts with them ; the organization
was too good a one to lose. She made the com-
pany her own, and returned to the stage.
Hundreds of young girls apply to Miss \'okes
each year for ''advice," and she is always ready
to give the best she can. She says that she
would like to engage them all, but that of course
would be impossible, especially as some of them
have nothing to offer the stage but their good
382 ROSINA VOKES.
looks. Miss Yokes considers a stage career very
seriously. She does not believe in adopting it in
a patronizing way. Great industry and sincerity
she looks upon as absolutely necessary to achieve
success. One of her favorite stories is that of
the little boy, who, when his papa asked him
what he wanted to be when he grew up, replied
that his ambition was to become a policeman.
The father entertained grave doubts as to his
son's success in that walk.
"Well, papa," said the boy "you know that
if the worst comes to the worst, I can be an
actor."
Two of the members of the old Yokes family
are dead — Jessie and Fred. Yictoria came to
America during the present season (1890) as a
star, but did not meet with much success. Faw-
don Yokes, who was not a son of the costumer,
but merely a Yokes professionally, is still playing
in England.
When asked as to her hopes. Miss Yokes
ROSIN A YOKES.
383
always says : " My ambition — personal ambition,
that is — is to do small things well, so that no-
body can know that I couldn't do big things
well if I tried."
Nellie McHe.xrv
IKE a draught of champagne is
Miss Nellie McHenry, re-
freshing, invigorating, and
more-ish — with a thousand
excuses for the last adjective.
which I know is not to be
found in Webster's Una-
bridged. She is known in private life as Mrs.
John Webster, though, if she take her husband's
name. I don't know why she shouldn't be Mrs.
*' Johnny" Webster. It is not the easiest thing
in the world to catch a glimpse of Miss
McHenry. It is still more difficult to make her
the subject of an interview, as she is generally
roaming through the United States. She occa-
sionally plays even through the summer months.
385
VS6
NELLIE MCHENRY.
Vet Mr. and Mrs. Johnny Webster have a
delightful residence In the Highlands of New
Jersey, on the banks of the Shrewsbury river,
and when they are at home
— well, they are "at home "
with a vengeance. They
keep open house as far as
their friends are concerned.
The house on the Shrews-
bury is "Liberty Hall."
Mr. and Mrs. Webster are
royal entertainers.
In spite of her perpetual
peregrination, Miss Mc-
Henry is growing stout,
and I half suspect that it is
owing to this fact that she is anxious to aban-
don the " rough and tumble " business of the
farce-comedy soubrette, and adopt more serious
roles. Her manager, Mr. Frank Maeder,
informed me that she wanted " lights and
NELLIE MCHENRV. 387
shades" and intended to have them, as she
believes that more dignified comedy would suit
her admirably. So do I.
I had the pleasure of calling upon Miss
McHenry when she was playing in New York a
few weeks ago, and I put her through her
*' paces" without any hesitation. She is de-
liciously unconventional and "free and easy.**
Miss McHenry doesn't know the meaning of the
word " frills " as applied, perhaps rather vulgarly.
to manners. She is not at all impressed with
the sense of her own importance, and. after all,
it is rather nice to meet an actress who isn't.
There is something of the unusual about them. I
am inclined to think. Miss McHenry was in her
dressing-room, between the acts of " Green-room
Fun," in which she was playing at the Harlem
Opera House. She was willingly reminiscent,
and my ears — both of them — were more than
at her service.
" Sometimes . say to myself," began Miss
388 NELLIE MCHENRY.
McHenry, *'when I see all these theatrical sur-
roundings, and feel this play-house atmosphere,
that life is a strange thing, after all. I know that
is rather a conventional" (Miss McHenry said
" chestnutty ") " utterance, and I like to be original
at times, but it does seem peculiar that a whole
career should sometimes hinge upon a mere
incident. The most trivial happening is some-
times sufficient to change the whole course of a
life. Don't look so impatient. I am making a
point. You agree with me, don't you ?"
Of course I did. It is my business to agree
with everybody, until I have a nice pen and ink
in front of me.
"I went upon the stage by the purest acci-
dent," said Miss McHenry. '' My family was
not theatrical. I had no idea of ever earning my
living behind the footlights. Listen to an ac-
count of the accident : A comedian named Will
Wiggins lived in the same house as that occupied
by my father and mother. Of course I became
NELLIE Mchenry ^gg
acquainted with him. One day I was returning
home from school, and who should I meet but
the amiable Mr. Wiggins. He asked me where
I was going, and I, being a nice, affable, well-
behaved school-girl, told him that, as it was a
half holiday, I was about to seek some girls 1
knew, and have a good time.
" ' Have you ever been to a theatre ?' asked
Wiggins.
'* I never had. I looked up to Wiggins im-
ploringly. I was longing to go. ' Come along/
he said, and I need not remark that he did not
repeat the injunction. I followed him like a
little lamb. Mr. Wiggins was going to a
rehearsal, he told me. I didn't exactly know
what a rehearsal was, so I was silent, not wishing
to betray my ignorance. I was not at all im-
pressed with the sight of the theatre. It was
dark and gloomy, and so untidy that it gave me
a positive pain. Everything seemed to be topsy-
turvy. I began to wonder how it could possibly
390
NELLIE MCHENRY.
look gay and festive at night, and why people
paid so much attention to what seemed to me
such an undesirable looking place. The play
that they were rehearsing was Octave F'eulllet's
'Romance of a Poor Young man.' Lawrence
Barrett was to play the leading part. Now
conies the accident. Of course you know that
a child is needed in * The Romance of a Poor
Young Man,' to play the part of the flower-girl.
Well, on this afternoon, the girl was not able to
come to the theatre. Her mother was ill, I
believe, or something of the kind. Mr. Barrett
saw me standing on the stage, and I heard him
say to the manager, ' Who Is that child ?'
" ' I don't know,' was the reply. * I'll find out.
Perhaps she can play thq flower-girl. I don't
believe that the other child knew her part, any-
way.'
" I was just a little bit frightened .when Law-
rence Barrett came up to Aie and took my hand.
He asked me if I could read. That put me on
NELLIE MCHENRV,
39'
my mettle, and I replied, rather fiercely, that of
course I could. Said Lawrence, taking mc
immediately at my word : ' Well, my little girl.
come over here, and read this part for mc
Remember that I want you to read it just as
though you were talking to one of the little girls
with whom you go to school. See if you can do
that. You must forget that you are among
strange people, and in a strange place. Tr)- to
imagine that you are a flower girl. I wonder if
you can do it. I don't believe you can.' I
didn't believe I could, either, until he uttered
those words. They finished me. I was perfectly
determined that I would do my ver)' best I
was not afraid any more. Taking up the manu-
script, I read deliberately the words that I saw.
Since those days, I have wondered at my s#lf-
assurance. Lawrence Barrett is, and was. an
actor of recognized ability, and very few girls
would read a part for the first time before him
without some very conspicuous hesitation. When
392
NELLIE MCHENRY.
I had finished, all the people standing around in
that dark, cold theatre, clapped their hands and
smiled at me. Mr. Barrett patted my cheek, I
thought that was very nice of him.
•* * 1 wonder,' he said, presently, looking at me
very carefully, ' if you could learn what you have
just read, by heart, and come and act here
to-night.'
•* I don't remember exactly what I said. He
took my breath away, and, at any rate, I could
not have been very coherent. A short time
afterwards, however, I found myself on my way
home with the manuscript in my hand, and,
arrived at my domicile, I informed my father and
mother that I was going to be an actress, flour-
ishing the manuscript in the air in proof of my
statement."
Miss McHenry laughed. I was just going to
compliment her on her excellent memory, when
I remembered that such a speech might discon-
cert her. It would sound as thoucrh the events
NELLIE Mchenry. ^gx
she had just described were very far off, whereas
an actress' memory is not supposed to go back
farther than ten years, at least while she is still
before the public.
*' The first thing I did," she resumed. " when I
had taken off my things, was to go before the
glass in my bed-room and pose. How I posed !
I was intensely dramatic, and I flourished away
as though my life depended upon it. I found no
difficulty in committing the part to memory.
By dinner-time I was letter-perfect, as we say in
the profession. Well, I sat down to dinner, and
was hungry enough to forget my dramatic aspir-
ations for hal-f an hour. As soon as the meal
was over, I flew to my book, and imagine my
horror and grief when I found that I had for-
gotten a great many of the lines. I burst out
crying. My father and mother, who were not
too pleased with Mr. Wiggins, wanted to take
the book from me, but I had told Mr. Barrett
that I could act the part at night, and I was
394 NELLIE MCHENRY.
determined that nothing should interfere with
my doing so. I dried my tears and began to
study again, and once more I was letter-perfect.
Then I set out for the theatre, and arrived there
long before I was due. I went through the part
again and again, and they told me, at last, that
the performance was about to begin. Then it
was that I grew frightened. I wished most
devoutly that I had not had a half holiday. I
blessed the unfortunate Mr. Wiggins for ever
having made the acquaintance of my father and
mother. I wondered how it would all end. My
heart beat violently, my legs trembled ; I was so
nervous that I couldn't keep still. Mr. Barrett
must have seen my agony ; it was visible to the
most casual observer.
" • Don't be afraid, Nellie,' he said, kindly.
•You have nothing to fear. Just forget that
there are any people in the house, and speak
your lines perfectly naturally, just as though you
were talking to your friends. If you ever become
NELLIE MCHENRY.
395
an actress, remember what I say. It will serve
you in good stea*d.'
"And it has," continued Miss McHcnr>'.
" But to proceed with my narrative. I knew
nothing about ' cues ' and other theatrical
phrases. I didn't even know when I had to go
upon the stage. Somebody who was standing
by my side whispered to me. * Now it is your
turn, Nellie ; go on the stage like a brave girl.
and say your lines, then turn round, and come
off.' I shall never forget that moment It was
simply awful. But I was in for it. and I remem-
ber resolving to do my very best So I made
my first appearance, before what they call in the
penny dreadfuls ' a sea of faces.* I never missed
a word. I was surprised at myself. It really
seemed easy after all. The company treated me
very kindly, and I received many words of
praise. And that is how I first went on the
stage."
It was certainly interesting, and the actress
396 NELLIE MCHENRY.
related the incident as though she thoroughly
enjoyed the reminiscence.
*' And afterwards ?" I asked.
"Oh," she said, "the afterwards was the tug
of war. You see I liked my first appearance
with the stao-e, and determined that I would be
an actress. But there were not so very many
plays then with children in them. I used to
rush up to Mr. De Bar, the manager, every time
I met him in the street. * When can I play
again ?' I would ask. Mr. De Bar was a good-
natured fellow, but he used to chaff me merci-
lessly. His favorite reply to my demand was,
* Oh, go home, Nellie, and grow. You're such a
bit of a thing.' That made me very angry. Of
course I was a bit of a thing, but I couldn't help
that, and I thought it was very cruel of him to
be always throwing my size and age in my
teeth. But he hadn't forgotten me, by any
means. My next appearance was due to an-
other accident. Charlotte Thompson was
NELLIE McHENKV.
397
playing in the city, and ihr. child in lur company
fell ill. Mr. De Bar at once sent for mc Ii
seems dreadful to think that my two first engage-
ments were due to somebody's illness, doesn't it }
But it is a fact. I learned my lines like a little
heroine, and was not in the least ner\'ous. I5iit
I had a terrible experience, one that would dis-
concert me even now, when I have done a great
deal of knocking around in the theatrical world.
I had to make my appearance in the second act.
and utter a little speech all by myself, after which
Miss Thompson was to come upon the stage*
and interrupt me. Well, I made my little speech
very nicely, I am quite sure. Then I looked
around for Miss Thompson. She was not forth-
cominof. I didn't know what to do. I almost
wished that the stage would open and swallow
me up. But it didn't. Think what a horrible
position I was in. I said my speech all over
a<^ain. No Miss Thompson made her appear-
ance. I repeated it once more ; the audience
398 NELLIE MCHENRY.
grew impatient ; there was a hum of disapproval.
At last she came, looking furious. I shall never
forget the anger that shot from her eyes. By
this time I was quite beside myself. I had lost
all idea of the play. Miss Thompson's appear-
ance upset me. I went all through my part as
though it were a connected recitation, and as if
nobody had a right to interrupt me. I will leave
you to imagine the utter chaos that I caused.
The act was ruined, and — well, I will also leave
you to imagine what kind of a reception I had
behind the scenes."
Miss McHenry had many other bright anec-
dotes to tell. Since the days of which she spoke
she has been a member of Barney McAuley's
company, and of the stock company at Hooley's
Theatre, Chicago. It was there that she met
Nate Salsbury, and with him she started in the
organization known as the Salsbury Troubadours.
Miss McHenry's husband, Mr. Webster,
always appears on the stage with her. A sister,
NELLIE MCHENKV. 399
Miss Tillie McHenry, also became a member of
the profession, but has retired But Nellie gocu
through the country year after year, bringing
laughter in her wake, and leaving the influence
of her own bright personality with ever)' audience
that welcomes her. Her art may not be of a
very lofty kind ; her methods may not be always
worthy of serious criticism. But, as ! said at
the beginning of this sketch, Miss McHenr)* is
like a draught of champagne, refreshing, invig-
orating, and more-ish.
^^ifc{
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^^1^^
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Wm^m^m
PN Cohen, Alfred J.
2259 Familiar chats
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