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 I iimuiuii I ML oi/\UL uuun i 
 
 I I 
 
 I Stories of Actors and of | 
 
 I Stage Life 'Behind | 
 
 I the Scenes I 
 
 I BY I 
 
 I I 
 
 I HENRY M. HYDE. | 
 
 I I 
 
 ^ Itluatrattd with Photographs from Life % 
 
 I I 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 i 
 
 I i 
 
 I Commerciat Distributing Company ^ 
 
 I Opera House Blocii | 
 
 I Cairo, Illinois | 
 
 I P I
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY 
 H. R. SCHUTTER 
 
 The Publishers desire to aclcnowledge the courtesy 
 
 of the "Chicago Tribune." in the columns of 
 
 which paper these sketches were 
 
 originally printed.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 How Mansfield Played to an Audience 
 
 of One I 
 
 Henrietta Crostnan's Hard Fight for 
 
 Success II 
 
 Superstitions of the Stage 22 
 
 Philosophy of Ezra Kendall 32 
 
 Adventures of the Theatrical Press 
 
 Agent 48 
 
 How E. H. Sothern Rehearses Hamlet. 56 
 William Gillette — Playwright, Actor... 62 
 
 Duse, the Mysterious 72 
 
 William H. Crane Tells Stage Stories. . 82 
 
 A Chicago Tragedy of Hamlet 92 
 
 The Making of an Opera Star 103 
 
 The Handsomest Man on the Stage 113 
 
 How David Belasco Works and Lives. .123
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 Stage life is interesting to most 
 people who are not on the stage. 
 That is the only reason for print- 
 ing these sketches in book form. 
 Written day by day for the columns 
 of a newspaper they lack finish and 
 exact accuracy. 
 
 If the stories told of actors are 
 found to be "good stories", if they 
 throw any light on that fascinating 
 mystery which lies "behind the 
 scenes , ' ' they have served their only 
 purpose. 
 
 Unless they may also serve to 
 show, for the benefit of "stage 
 struck "youngpeople, that the actor, 
 like most other men, must as David 
 Belasco says, "scratch his way 
 through a mountain to success." 
 
 H. M. H.
 
 Kll'IIAKl) MAN.SFIKI.I).
 
 HOW MANSFIELD PLAYED TO AN 
 AUDIENCE OF ONE. 
 
 T happened during one of the 
 J_ long runs of "Richard III," 
 in New York. Richard Mans- 
 field, who has been jDainted by 
 sensational newspapers as an ogre 
 and tyrant to the members of his 
 company, was, of course, in the 
 title role. The part of one of the 
 little princes who go later to the 
 tower — the Prince of Wales — was 
 played by little Margery Stevens, a 
 sweet little maid of thirteen. 
 
 Towards the close of the run 
 little Margery was taken ill. Her 
 mother was with her — children in 
 the Mansfield company are always 
 accompanied by their mothers, 
 when they have mothers available. 
 Margery was taken first from the 
 theatrical boarding house where 
 she had been living to a hospital. 
 In the beginning it did not seem 
 that her illness would be serious,
 
 2 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 and as the last day of the engage- 
 ment drew near the little girl was 
 broken hearted at the thought of 
 being left behind. So the terrible 
 tyrant, who had been almost every 
 day to see her since she had been 
 out of the cast, arranged to have 
 her travel with the company to 
 Philadelphia. Incidentally he paid 
 the hospital bill and the fees of 
 the attending doctor. 
 
 When the Mansfield special 
 reached Philadelphia Margery was 
 taken directly to the Presbyterian 
 hospital in that city. The doctors 
 said that the trip had done her no 
 harm. She was better off, in fact, 
 than if she had been left behind 
 in New York to worry and fret. 
 Her mother went with her and was 
 established in an adjoining room, 
 where she could be near her little 
 daughter. 
 
 In some strange way, which it 
 is feared some people will never 
 be able to understand, little Miss
 
 AN AUDIENCE OF ONE. 3 
 
 Margery had formed a great attach- 
 ment for Mr. Mansfield. Instead 
 of cowering into a corner and 
 trembling at sight of him — as we 
 have been given to understand the 
 women of his company are accus- 
 tomed to do — little Margery greet- 
 ed him always with a pathetic little 
 smile. And he came to see her 
 often, every day, in fact, during 
 the stay in Philadelphia, until — 
 but that is another story. 
 
 It is to be feared that Miss Mar- 
 gery was something of a hero 
 worshiper, which — Emerson and 
 Thomas Carlyle to the contrary 
 notwithstanding — is something to 
 be ashamed of. At any rate, when 
 Mr. Mansfield came out to the 
 hospital to call every morning she 
 always brightened up and smiled 
 and talked gayly with him. Some- 
 times, after consultation with the 
 doctors, he brought some little 
 trifle for her to eat. Always he 
 told her how much better she was
 
 4 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 looking and how hard it was to 
 get along without her in the cast. 
 Part of that was acting, of course, 
 though the plot does not begin to 
 thicken and the role get really 
 difficult until later — the second 
 and last act. 
 
 There seemed to be only one 
 thing on little Margery's mind. 
 Almost every day she spoke of it. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm not going to get 
 well in time to see you in 'Beau 
 Brummel,' " she said over and 
 over again. "I wanted to see that 
 more than anything else, and now 
 I'm going to be disappointed." 
 
 Which was foolish of her, of 
 course. But she was an actress, 
 and only thirteen years old, so one 
 can afford to be charitable. 
 
 "Why, Margery," said the man 
 who is reported to pull handfuls 
 of hair out of coiffures he thinks 
 are too large, "you'll be well and 
 strong in plenty of time to see 
 'Beau Brummel.' You're getting
 
 AN AUDIENCE OF ONE. 5 
 
 along splendidly. You're looking 
 much better than you did yester- 
 day, my dear. Don't you worry 
 about that. I'll promise you, on 
 my word of honor, that you shall 
 see 'Beau Brummel.' " 
 
 But that was before the brute 
 saw and talked with the doctors 
 who were attending the little girl. 
 
 "How soon will she be able to 
 get about?" he asked. 
 
 The doctors shook their heads. 
 It was worse than a critical case, 
 they said. The little girl was 
 down with her last illness. 
 
 "She'll never get up again," 
 they said. "There isn't one 
 chance in a million." 
 
 Whereupon the villian paid a 
 second call the same day on the 
 little girl and basely deceived her 
 by declaring that she looked the 
 picture of health and that, beyond 
 the shadow of a doubt, she would 
 be able to see 'Beau Brummel' on 
 the first night of its production in
 
 6 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Philadelphia. Which was heart- 
 less, of course, for he knew posi- 
 tively at the time, that she would 
 never get out of that little white 
 room in the Presbyterian hospital. 
 
 The days wore along. They 
 went fast for the actor, with all 
 that burden of deceit on his mind. 
 Every hour brought him nearer to 
 the time when his duplicity must 
 be exposed and another added to 
 the long list of stories which cir- 
 culate through the newspapers and 
 reveal him in his true character. 
 
 For the little girl in the white 
 hospital bed the days went slow. 
 In spite of what Mr. Mansfield told 
 her every morning when he called 
 she seemed to have a ort of pre- 
 monition that things were not going 
 well with her. Perhaps she felt 
 herself growing daily weaker. Per- 
 haps she heard her mother sobbing 
 softly to herself in the adjoining 
 room after a consultation with the 
 doctors. Almost every day she
 
 AN AUDIENCE OF ONE. 7 
 
 would refer to Mansfield's promise 
 that she should see him in "Beau 
 Brummel." 
 
 "I know I won't, Mr. Mans- 
 field," she would say. "See how 
 thin and weak and how homely I'm 
 getting. I won't be up in time, 
 I'm sure I won't." 
 
 Then the villain would plunge 
 headlong into a fresh tissue of lies. 
 
 "Margery," he would say, "I 
 never in my life saw you looking so 
 well . Just look at the roses in your 
 cheeks," holding up a hand mir- 
 ror, "and talk to me about looking 
 thin and homely!" The roses 
 were purely imaginary, but Mar- 
 gery, though she was but thirteen, 
 was still a woman, and — how- 
 ever, nobody can attempt to defend 
 a bare faced deception of that kind. 
 A little photograph of Margery got 
 itself printed, and that also was 
 used to aid in the deceit. It really 
 was a dreadful state of affairs. It 
 should have been exposed long ago.
 
 8 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Finally the evening came on 
 which "Beau Brummel" was to be 
 presented. That morning Mr. 
 Mansfield failed to call. Perhaps 
 he realized that the day of reckon- 
 ing had come and it was useless to 
 try to keep up the game any longer. 
 It was not a happy day for Mar- 
 gery. She lay and mourned all 
 day at the loss of all her hopes. 
 
 Towards evening Mr. Mansfield 
 came into the room, after Margery's 
 mother had told her he was there 
 and had propped her up in bed with 
 a couple of pillows. 
 
 ' ' Yes , ' ' the doctor had said , ' ' you 
 might as well. Nothing can make 
 much difference now. Do it if you 
 think it will give her any pleasure. ' ' 
 
 So Mansfield came in. It was 
 a cold night out of doors and he 
 wore a huge ulster which fell to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Well, Margery," he said. 
 
 "And I'm not going to see 
 'Beau Brummel' after all," broke
 
 AN AUDIENCE OF ONE. 9 
 
 out the little girl. "To-night's 
 the night, and I'm too sick to get 
 up at all. I knew I should be." 
 
 "But, Margery, I promised on 
 my word of honor that you should 
 see 'Beau Brummel.' " 
 
 "It's not your fault, Mr. Mans- 
 field, that I should be so sick. You 
 can't help that." 
 
 "Wait a minute, Margery," said 
 the actor. 
 
 Mansfield's dresser came into the 
 little room and took his great ulster 
 and his hat and stick. 
 
 Before the wondering eyes of the 
 sick child, propped up in bed, 
 stood the great "Beau Brummel," 
 lace handkerchief, tasseled cane, 
 tortoise shell snuff box, silk stock- 
 ings, and all. 
 
 From beginning to end the play 
 was rehearsed, Mansfield in turn 
 taking all the parts and telling the 
 whole story. He finished Justin time 
 to drive back to the theatre and play 
 the part before a crowded house.
 
 10 THROUGH THK STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Little Margery somehow forgave 
 him for all the deception he had 
 practiced on her. In fact, it did 
 not seem to occur to her that she 
 had been deceived or ill treated at 
 all. She died before the Mansfield 
 engagement in Philadelphia was 
 over.
 
 HENRIETTA CROSMAN'S HARD 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 
 
 O 
 
 A« 
 
 NCE upon a time — which is 
 always the polite way to 
 speak of an incident in the 
 career of an actress who is 
 more than 20 — once upon a time 
 Miss Henrietta Crosman — and that 
 was her real name before she mar- 
 ried — was called upon to decide 
 between painting plaques and play- 
 ing parts on the stage. The daub- 
 ing of red roses and scarlet sumac 
 bunches on china plates was a bird 
 in the hand that was laying golden 
 eggs of such size and number that 
 it seemed almost foolish to give it 
 up for the bird in the stage bush — 
 though the latter wore more glit- 
 tering plumage. 
 
 It happened this way: 
 
 Miss Crosman's father was Maj. 
 
 Crosman, U. S. A. (retired). His 
 
 daughter was 15, and large for her 
 
 age. She had talent in two direc-
 
 12 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 tions; she could paint pretty pic- 
 tures and she had a fine, high 
 soprano voice. So the first choice 
 was between Art and Music. 
 
 The major and her mother and 
 all the rest of the family favored 
 Art. The girl herself thought she 
 would rather sing in grand opera 
 than decorate any number of china 
 tea sets. So the whole family pulled 
 up stakes and departed for Paris on 
 the major's half pay. There a 
 famous teacher of vocal music put 
 Henrietta's voice to the test, and, 
 declaring that the question of his 
 possible fees cut no figure in his 
 decision, announced that she was 
 the future Patti. So they all 
 settled down in a French pension 
 — which is a word you use when 
 you want to show that you have 
 been to Europe, and means board- 
 ing house — and Henrietta went to 
 school to the singing master. 
 
 After a year 's study arrangements 
 were made for her operatic debut.
 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 13 
 
 A week before the date set Miss 
 Crosman caught a bad cold. The 
 singing master kept right on forcing 
 her to sing, and a day or two be- 
 fore she was to burst upon an aston- 
 ished world her voice broke down. 
 Eminent throat specialists were 
 called in. They did no good. The 
 operatic career had to be abandoned . 
 What might have been, except for 
 that cold, is still a something that 
 Miss Crosman doesn't like to be 
 reminded of. 
 
 Then, still on the major's half 
 pay, which the singing masters and 
 the throat specialists and the pen- 
 sion had badly strained, the Cros- 
 man family moved back to Youngs- 
 town, O. 
 
 In addition to teaching her how 
 to use her voice, the singing mas- 
 ter had taught the 16 year old Hen- 
 rietta something about acting. So, 
 when Youngstown began to pall 
 after Paris, she decided she would 
 try her talent on the dramatic stage.
 
 ]4 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 And, finally, she got an offer of an 
 engagement with a little company 
 over at Pittsburg. 
 
 The only thing that stood in the 
 way of an acceptance was the lack 
 of money to buy railroad tickets 
 and costumes, and to pay board 
 while the play was in rehearsal. 
 And then Miss Crosman got busy 
 with her brush. That was the 
 china painting age, when all over 
 the country the disease was spread- 
 ing, and Miss Crosman took advant- 
 age of it. She decorated defense- 
 less plaques and cream pitchers and 
 sent them to be sold to Philadelphia , 
 Pittsburg, and other art centers. 
 What is more to the point, they 
 did sell, and the demand was so 
 great that within a comparatively 
 few weeks the young artist had 
 taken in enough money to pay her 
 railroad fare, buy her costumes, and 
 provide for her board while the play 
 was under rehearsal. 
 
 Then came the crisis. The plaque
 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 15 
 
 painting game was such a profit- 
 able one that it seemed a shame to 
 give it up for an uncertainty. But 
 the choice was made and Miss 
 Crosman went to Pittsburg and the 
 stage. Her success was ahnost im- 
 mediate, and it was great. From 
 Bartley Campbell's "White Slave" 
 company she went to Daly's, where 
 she played for the greater part of 
 one season. Then Daniel Froh- 
 man employed her to play good 
 parts with his Lyceum company in 
 such plays as "The Wife." The 
 next season Daniel loaned the ser- 
 vices of Miss Crosman to Brother 
 Charles, who wanted her to be lead- 
 ing lady in "Charles Frohman's 
 Comedians." In those days both 
 the Lyceum and the Comedians 
 were at the height of their fame, 
 and Henrietta Crosman made a 
 great hit in such plays as "Glori- 
 ana." Her name then was almost 
 as well known on Broadway as it 
 is now.
 
 16 THROUGH THK STAGE DOOR. 
 
 But Miss Crosman fell ill. For 
 a season or two she was not able to 
 appear in any production, and when 
 she finally recovered her health she 
 found — what many an actor and 
 actress have since found — that the 
 theatre-going public had forgotton 
 even her name. She had hard work 
 to get an engagement of any kind. 
 Again the stock company of Pitts- 
 burg opened its doors to her. Then 
 she went to Denver, where she still 
 was playing in stock. But by this 
 time she had married Maurice 
 Campbell, who is still her husband 
 and manager. She had already 
 read and been greatly taken with 
 "Mistress Nell," George Hazle- 
 ton's play, and the firm of Cros- 
 man & Campbell — wife and husband 
 — was saving up money for its pro- 
 duction. 
 
 Finally they got together enough 
 coin to make a modest little pro- 
 duction. They were booking then 
 through the theatrical trust.
 
 II I:N KI KTTA CU< )f?M AN . 
 
 SEC PACE n
 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 17 
 
 The production was a go. It made 
 money from the start and most of 
 the money was put right back again 
 into the show — better actors were 
 employed and better scenery was 
 painted. 
 
 And then, when the Crosman 
 company was over in Canada, the 
 trust decided that it couldn't do 
 any more business with Campbell 
 and his star wife. Campbell had 
 something like $500 in cash and 
 engagements for a couple of weeks 
 ahead of him. He was notified of 
 the decision of the trust one after- 
 noon in New York and he was 
 walking up Broadway the same 
 afternoon white in the face and 
 decidedly down in the mouth. 
 
 Happily — some people would say 
 providentially — he ran into one of 
 the Stires brothers, who controlled 
 the Bijou theatre. Mr. Stires was 
 also ''up against it." His current 
 production was "a frost. ' ' For all 
 that he could see his house would
 
 18 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 "have to be dark" for a couple 
 of weeks. Campbell told his trou- 
 bles to Stires and Stires was equally 
 eloquent in return. So "Mistress 
 Nell" came to the Bijou and made 
 a lot of money. All the New York 
 dramatic critics came and saw and 
 almost all had forgotton — if they 
 ever knew — that the new star was 
 really an old New York favorite. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell is distinctly a 
 woman's woman. One of her 
 strongest passions is ice cream soda. 
 She is also fond of chocolate creams 
 and she is on record as publicly 
 declaring that she much prefers to 
 play to an audience of women. 
 They understand more quickly and 
 are more sympathetic and appre- 
 ciative, Mrs. Campbell thinks. 
 
 But her attitude towards her own 
 sex has got Mrs. Campbell into 
 more or less serious trouble, or, at 
 least, annoyance. In the Christ- 
 mas number of one of the theatrical 
 weeklies she wrote a siirned article
 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 19 
 
 setting forth her views on the stage 
 as a career for young women. 
 
 "Why," asked Mrs. Campbell, 
 "should people refer to a young 
 v/oman as 'stage struck'? If she 
 wants to be a trained nurse they 
 don't call her 'nurse struck.' If 
 she decides to be a painter they do 
 not call her as 'palette struck.' 
 'Stage struck' is an insult to the 
 profession. In my opinion no 
 career offers as great opportunities 
 and as great rewards to a young 
 woman as that of an actress — 
 always providing that she has tal- 
 ent." 
 
 Mrs. Campbell went on to say 
 that, in her opinion, young women 
 of character and real talent should 
 be encouraged to go on the stage. 
 The stage needs them and it will 
 reward them well, if they have 
 ability and are willing to work hard. 
 
 The result of that article has been 
 that wherever Henrietta Crosman 
 has appeared since every "stage
 
 20 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 struck" young woman who has 
 heard of her attitude and views has 
 first written and then tried to see her. 
 
 If she attempted to see half of the 
 dramatic aspirants who are anxious 
 to meet her she would have no time 
 to do anything else. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell has two sons. One 
 of them is at school in New York. 
 The other is a little chap of 4 or 5, 
 who usually travels with his mother 
 under the charge of a nurse. 
 
 She is a domestic woman, so far 
 as the necessities of her profession 
 will permit her to be. Never once 
 during her stage career has she 
 ever taken part in one of those 
 after-the-show suppers which are so 
 popular in and out of the profes- 
 sion. When the last curtain has 
 gone down she usually is joined by 
 her husband and one or two mem- 
 bers of her executive staff. More 
 often than not she will not take 
 her carriage home, but will walk, 
 if the distance is not too great,
 
 FIGHT FOR SUCCESS. 21 
 
 stopping, perhaps, to drink a glass 
 of her beloved ice cream soda on the 
 way. Her afternoons she devotes 
 largely to her son or to reading one 
 of the many manuscripts which are 
 submitted to her. Mrs. Campbell 
 does not believe that an actress can 
 do justice to her art and at the same 
 time devote much time to society.
 
 u 
 
 SUPERSTITIONS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 O, I have no patience with 
 the people who are super- 
 stitious about ever>'thing 
 they see and meet. There's 
 
 N 
 
 no reason in the word why actors 
 should be any more superstitious 
 than any other class of people. As 
 for me, I have no more fear of — . 
 For heaven's sake, Jim, don't walk 
 under that ladder!" 
 
 That bit of quotation from a con- 
 versation between two actors fairly 
 represents the attitude of the 
 stronger minded members of the 
 theatrical profession towards the 
 multitudinous superstitions which 
 rule the stage. As for the average 
 actor, he is probably the most 
 superstitious person in the world. 
 There are a large number of super- 
 stitions which are generally believed 
 in. In addition almost every actor 
 and actress has a lot of individual 
 superstitions of his own.
 
 STAGE SUPERSTITIONS. 23 
 
 Peacock's feathers are always ter- 
 ribly unlucky about a theater. 
 Even a picture of a peacock's 
 feather is enough to ruin the 
 chances of a play of an actor. It 
 would be hard to convince any 
 member of the theatrical profession 
 that the real cause of the failure of 
 the Lincoln theater, in Chicago, 
 was not the fact that in the frieze 
 which ran about the inside of the 
 house peacock's feathers formed 
 one of the chief factors. 
 
 One of the features of the act of 
 the Powers brothers in vaudeville 
 was the blowing into the air of a 
 peacock's feather, which was finally 
 allowed to descend and balance on 
 the nose of the performer. When 
 the Trocadero theatre was first 
 opened the Powers brothers were 
 on the bill. The manager of the 
 house came to a rehearsal and saw 
 the peacock's feather blown up 
 into the air. Immediately he gave 
 a shriek of horror and grabbed the
 
 24 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 performer by the arm . ' ' Heavens , ' ' 
 he said, "do you want to queer the 
 show? Cut out that hoodoo." 
 And the feather of ill omen was cut 
 out. 
 
 Cats about a theatre are good 
 luck. If you meet a black cat on 
 the street on the way to an open- 
 ing performance you need have no 
 further fear. The piece will make 
 a great hit. Almost every theater 
 in town harbors a pet cat, and it is 
 almost a matter of religion with all 
 theatrical people never to interfere 
 with its pleasure in any way. ' Often 
 when grand opera is on at the Audi- 
 torium the theatre cat will take a 
 notion to walk across the stage in 
 the middle of the scene . But neither 
 Melba nor De Reszke would venture 
 for anything to stop it, nor would 
 they allow a stage hand to inter- 
 fere. To interfere with a cat would 
 be almost fatal. Everybody who 
 knows anything knows that! A 
 little one eyed gray cat makes its
 
 STAGE SUPERSTITIONS. 25 
 
 home back of the stage at the Chi- 
 cago opera house. The vaudeville 
 performers are simply delighted if 
 it takes a notion to come down- 
 stairs under the stage and visit 
 them in their dressing rooms. If 
 it condescends to go to sleep on 
 the clothes in their open trunks 
 they are tickled half to death. 
 That means a long and steady run 
 of good luck. Foolish? Why, it 
 never fails. They will quote you 
 a string of instances as long as your 
 arm. Suppose the cat happens to 
 go to sleep on the costume you 
 wear in your next appearance. 
 Wake it up? Not for the world. 
 Put on some other clothes, but do 
 not disturb the cat. More than 
 once a soubrette has gone on in the 
 wrong costume rather than rouse 
 the cat from its slumbers. 
 
 On the other hand, you must 
 never carry a cat with you on the 
 road. Traveling cats are not only 
 not harbingers of good luck, but
 
 26 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 instances havebeen known where — . 
 
 When a player on his way to the 
 theater to appear in a first perform- 
 ance of a new play meets a cross 
 eyed man he might as well go back 
 home and give it up. He is cer- 
 tainly doomed to failure. It never 
 fails. Of course, he should also, 
 as soon as he sees the cross eyed 
 person, cross the forefinger and the 
 middle finger of his right hand and 
 spit over them. That may help 
 some, but of course it won't take 
 the curse off altogether. Nothing 
 will do that. 
 
 Some extremely good actresses 
 and actors are looked upon as 
 Jonahs by theatrical managers. 
 Sometimes such unfortunate peo- 
 ple have happened to be connected 
 with a number of unsuccessful pro- 
 ductions. Sometimes there is not 
 even that much foundation for the 
 reputation they possess. But once 
 an actor becomes tainted with the 
 hoodoo or Jonah superstition he
 
 STAGE SUPERSTITIONS. 27 
 
 had better quit the business at once, 
 for he will find it practically impos- 
 sible to get an engagement. 
 
 "Well," you will hear one man- 
 ager saying to another who has just 
 put on an unsuccessful production, 
 "well, you might have known it! 
 Didn't you know better than to 
 take out with you?" 
 
 They are talking in dead serious- 
 ness, too. 
 
 Certain plays share with certain 
 actors the reputation of ill omen. 
 There are half a dozen pieces which 
 competent judges pronounce ex- 
 tremely strong which no manager 
 will touch because of it. 
 
 It would be unfair to mention the 
 names of any of these hoodoo 
 players, though some of them would 
 be quite familiar to the public. 
 
 Actors share with the rest of the 
 world all the common Friday, thir- 
 teen, and umbrella superstitions. 
 But they go further than most peo- 
 ple in the umbrella line.
 
 28 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Down at the Coliseum gardens 
 there were several huge Japanese 
 umbrellas used in the decorations. 
 One day one of the performers — a 
 Frenchman, by the way, as if to 
 show that superstitions are inter- 
 national — came to Manager Wood 
 in great distress. 
 
 "It has rained every day since 
 I've been here," he said, "and it'll 
 keep on raining just so long as you 
 keep those open umbrellas in the 
 house. Take 'em out quick before 
 you hoodoo the weather for all sum- 
 mer. ' ' 
 
 When an actor gets home, no 
 matter how hard it has been rain- 
 ing, he must never open his um- 
 brella to let it dry off. That would 
 be deadly. Nor must he lay it on 
 the bed, even unopened. That 
 signifies something terrible. 
 
 Even the unsentimental men who 
 handle the business end of travel- 
 ing companies have their supersti- 
 tions. Always when the doors are
 
 STAGE SUPERSTITIONS. 29 
 
 open in a small town the men with 
 the passes are first in line. But 
 they are never allowed to go in till 
 there is some money in the house. 
 If a single deadhead goes in ahead 
 of the people who have bought 
 their tickets on the opening night 
 of a new production the piece is 
 foredoomed to financial failure. 
 
 When your train is pulling into 
 a town where you are to show and 
 you see a graveyard on the left 
 hand side of the train you will play 
 to bad business. If the graveyard 
 is on the other side of the track it 
 don't signify anything in particular. 
 Of course if it is on the left hand 
 side and you don't see it the sign 
 amounts to nothing, so it is wise 
 as you run into a town to look out 
 of the right hand window or keep 
 your eyes inside the car. 
 
 If, when you are setting up the 
 canvas on a lot for a circus, a yel- 
 low cur dog appears and hangs 
 around you'll have doggoned bad
 
 30 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 luck. Try it and see if that isn't 
 good doctrine. 
 
 You musn't whistle in a stage 
 dressing room . You may be a good 
 whistler, with a cheerful tune, but 
 the first note is likely to drive every 
 other actor out into the night. 
 There are few better ways to Jonah 
 an act. 
 
 Some actors insist that all their 
 stage shoes must be kept on the 
 floor. If they were put on a table 
 or in a cupboard it would ruin 
 them. But in some theaters keep- 
 ing shoes on the floor is almost as 
 bad, for rats like leather and many 
 a good pair of shoes has been ruined 
 by them. 
 
 Almost every player has some 
 little piece of jewelry or wearing 
 apparel which is his or her mascot. 
 Some people are superstitious about 
 an old wig band and will use it 
 again and again, having repeated 
 new wigs attached to the same old 
 band. One actress at tlie Illinois
 
 STAGE SUPERSTITIONS. 31 
 
 theatre, in Chicago, was recently 
 discovered in tears because some- 
 thing had become of her old hare's 
 foot with which she applied rouge 
 to her cheeks. 
 
 Here are some more bad luck 
 signs: A yellow clarionet in the 
 orchestra ; to pass through a 
 funeral; to pass another actor on 
 the stairs; to speak the "tag" — 
 that is the last line of a play — at a 
 rehearsal ; to look through the hole 
 in the curtain to count up the house . 
 
 And after all is there anybody in 
 any line of business who has not a 
 lot of pet little superstitions of his 
 own?
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF EZRA KENDALL. 
 
 NTIL he recently started out 
 to star in "The Vinegar 
 Buyer" Ezra Kendall was 
 the most popular and the 
 
 U 
 
 f^^ 
 
 highest paid monologue artist on 
 the vaudeville stage. Managers 
 were glad to pay him $500 a week 
 for twenty minutes of talk twice a 
 day. Twenty years ago he was 
 working as hostler in a country 
 livery stable at $15 a month. Here 
 is his own story: 
 
 "I was stranded at a little hotel 
 at Portlands ville, N. Y. The land- 
 lord of the hotel was Ira Stevens. 
 Ira and I were great friends. He 
 stuck close to me, because he was 
 afraid if he didn't I might jump my 
 board bill. Finally he and I struck 
 a great idea. 
 
 "Portlandsville is in the center 
 of the hop country. They grow 
 nothing up there but hops and poli- 
 ticians. When the hops get ripe
 
 EZKA KENDALL.
 
 EZRA KENDALL. 33 
 
 they have to be picked in a hurry. 
 Ten days is the limit. So the hop 
 growers go down to New York and 
 to all the cities roundabout and hire 
 every man they can find to pick 
 hops. In the hop picking season 
 whole trainloads of hobos are run 
 into that country, and every house 
 is filled. 
 
 "Well, Ira and I conceived the 
 idea that if we would bring a show 
 up there and play through the hop 
 country in the hop picking season 
 we'd make our everlasting fortunes. 
 Ira trusted me for my board bill 
 and I went down to the city and 
 organized the company. It con- 
 sisted of five people. We billed it 
 as "The Criterion Comedy Com- 
 pany — Four Distinct Entertain- 
 ments in One — Variety, Comedy, 
 Minstrelsy, and Drama' — and there 
 were five of us to carry out the pro- 
 gram. One and a quarter people 
 to each of the four distinct varie- 
 ties. Ira furnished an old bus for
 
 34 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 the transportation of tlie company 
 from one little town to the next, 
 and an even older wagon in which 
 our alleged baggage was carried. 
 But after two weeks our scheme 
 proved a failure. We found that 
 after working hard in the fields all 
 day the hop pickers preferred to go 
 to a dance, if they went anywhere 
 except to bed. 
 
 "I've got enough of the show 
 business,' said Ira at the end of the 
 second week; 'here's where I quit.' 
 
 "That left me to get along as 
 well as I could. We had a date at 
 lyawrence, N. Y., and Ira finally 
 agreed to drive us over there. The 
 hall where we were to show was 
 over the hotel. When we drove up 
 to the hotel there wasn't a human 
 being in sight. Not a soul in the 
 hotel office or on the streets. We 
 thought we had struck the deserted 
 village for a fact. Pretty soon in 
 ran a man in his shirt sleeves, all 
 out of breath and covered with mud.
 
 EZRA KENDALL. 35 
 
 " 'Thcj-'ve got l]im,"said he to 
 me. 
 
 " 'Have they?' I asked. 'Where 
 did they catch him?' 
 
 " 'Well,' said the stranger, 'they 
 chased him down Main street and 
 throngh Hen Waller's wood lot into 
 the barn. Then out of the barn 
 and over to the Widow Harlan's 
 turnip field. He scart the Bellows 
 children half to death and they 
 finally ketched him down by his 
 own house. His wife grabbed hold 
 of his coattail and held on tell the 
 sheriff come up.' 
 
 " 'Did he put up a fight?' I says. 
 
 " 'No,' says my friend. 'Bill's 
 harmless, I guess. He just grinned 
 atthesheriff and says, "Well, boys, 
 I hope you had as much fun as I 
 did." ' 
 
 " 'Did they find the goods on 
 him?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Huh?' says the stranger. 'The 
 goods? Bill's no thief . He's just 
 touched in the head . Yesterday he
 
 36 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 escaped from the asylum and come 
 over here to home and we all have 
 been out to catch him.' 
 
 "In a few minutes the sheriff and 
 Bill came into the hotel, with about 
 200 people after them. Practically 
 every inhabitant of the village was 
 in the crowd and Bill was laughing 
 and joking with them all. 
 
 "Pretty soon it got time for us 
 to open our show upstairs. We 
 strung the cambric curtain, lit the 
 kerosene lamps, and sat the little 
 table for the ticket seller near the 
 door. But nobody came up and 
 bought tickets. The presence of 
 the captured Bill down in the hotel 
 office was a bigger show than ours. 
 Finally I was seized with a brilliant 
 idea. I went down stairs and 
 invited Bill and the sheriff who had 
 him in charge to come up and 
 attend our show free of charge. 
 That struck both Bill and the sheriff 
 as a fine plan, so they came up, and 
 almost everybody in town tagged up
 
 EZRA KENDALI,. Z7 
 
 after them. Of course, we charged 
 everybody but the two chief per- 
 sonages a quarter apiece to get in 
 and we managed to work up a $15 
 house, which was mighty good for 
 those days. 
 
 ' ' But our audience hardly glanced 
 at the stage. They all looked at 
 Bill. Bill may have been crazy, 
 but he laughed at all the right places 
 in the show, and whenever he would 
 laugh all the rest of them would 
 shake their heads and say, 'Poor 
 Bill! Ain't it too bad he's crazy?' 
 
 "Finally, at the end of Septem- 
 ber, our tour came to a necessary 
 end. I had just money enough to 
 pay railroad fares for four people 
 from the little town we were at 
 down to Portlandsville, ten miles 
 away. The train left for Portlands- 
 ville at noon, and I had just time 
 to drive down to Portlandsville and 
 borrow some money from my old 
 friend , Ira Stevens , proprietor of the 
 hotel. With that money I planned
 
 3S THROUGH THE STAGfC DOOR. 
 
 to buy tickets for the five of us and 
 meet the other four at the station 
 when the train pulled into Port- 
 landsville. The road were bad and 
 we had to drive slow. Just as we 
 drove intoPortlandsville I heard the 
 train whistle. I saw I hadn't time 
 to see Ira and get the tickets in 
 time to catch the train. Sol drove 
 straight to the station. I knew the 
 ticket agent and he and I were quite 
 friendly. I drove up there on a 
 gallop just as the train pulled in, 
 and said: 'Here, Andy, give me 
 two tickets for Albany and two to 
 New York. I'm not going and I'll 
 see you after the train pulls out.' 
 
 "He handed over the tickets and 
 I gave them to the other four mem- 
 bers of the Criterion company 
 through the car windows just as 
 the wheels started again. Then I 
 turned to Andy, the ticket agent. 
 'Andy,' I said, 'I'm going up street 
 now to borrow some money from 
 Ira Stevens, and then I'll be down
 
 KZRA KENDALL. 39 
 
 and pay yoii.' 'Ira Stevens!' said 
 the agent, witli a gasp. 'Why, Ira 
 isn't in town. He went away last 
 week and he isn't expected back 
 for two months yet.' 
 
 "Well, there I was. The train 
 was already out of sight, with the 
 four people for whom I had 'stood 
 off' the station agent for tickets 
 safely on board. There was no way 
 to get the tickets back — that was 
 certain. And if, as the station 
 agent said, my friend Ira Stevens, 
 the hotel keeper, from whom I 
 expected to borrow the money for 
 the tickets was out of town for two 
 months, I was certainly up against 
 it. And so, to an even greater 
 extent, was the station agent. He 
 had trusted me for $15 worth of 
 railroad tickets, for which he would 
 have to pay, if I did not find the 
 money, and $15 was a lot of money 
 for either of us to lose. 
 
 "'Never mind,' I said to the 
 white faced station agent, "I'll get
 
 40 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 that money somehow and I'll pay 
 you the $15. You just wait and 
 see.' 
 
 "Poor fellow. There was noth- 
 ing else for him to do, so he waited. 
 I drove up to friend Ira's little two- 
 storied frame hotel, and found that 
 though Ira was not in town the sit- 
 uation was not quite as bad as the 
 station agent had pictured it. Ira 
 would be back in a couple of days. 
 So I did a little waiting — at Ira's 
 expense. When he got off the train 
 and walked over to the hotel a few 
 days later I met him at the door 
 and told him my tale of woe. 
 
 " 'No,' said Ira, in a way I have 
 always thought was unnecessarily 
 rough and brutal, 'I'll not lend you 
 a. cent — not a penny. I should 
 think you'd know I had had my fill 
 of the show business.' 
 
 " 'Gee,' I said, 'I've got to get 
 that money somewhere.' 
 
 " 'Well, go and get it, then,' Ira 
 said, with a brutal chuckle. 'Only
 
 EZRA KENDALL. 41 
 
 you can't work me for it.' That 
 gave me an idea. 
 
 " 'Ira,' I said, 'if I can't work 
 you, perhaps I can work for you. 
 Give me a job. I've got to get that 
 money or the New York Central'!! 
 go into bankruptcy.' 
 
 "Ira said that was more like it. 
 He wanted a bartender and he 
 wanted a hostler to take charge of 
 tlie hotel stable. Both positions 
 were open and he offered me my 
 choice of them . It was bar or barn , 
 and I chose the stable. The sal- 
 ary, I may remark in passing, was 
 the same for both positions — $15 a 
 month. 
 
 "I went down and explained the 
 situation to the station agent and 
 assured him I'd pay him his money 
 out of the first wages I got. That 
 relieved the tension some, but the 
 next few weeks that ticket agent 
 was around every morning to call 
 the roll and see that I was still 
 present.
 
 42 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 "I worked in that barn, taking 
 care of the horses, for two full 
 months, during which time I earned 
 $30 in wages and as much more in 
 tips and in the receipts from a raffle 
 I organized to determine which res- 
 ident of Portlandsville should 
 become the possessor of a large and 
 more or less valuable diamond 
 stud which was left over from my 
 more prosperous days. 
 
 "I have always liked to work 
 around horses, and so I enjoyed that 
 job as hostler, but I got a lot more 
 than enjoyment out of it. There 
 was an old fellow named 'Nelse' 
 Curry, a horse doctor, in the town, 
 who was one of the most original 
 characters I ever met. He called 
 himself Mulo Medicus on his busi- 
 ness cards, and, you remember, I 
 used that title later in 'We, Us & 
 Co.' 
 
 "Nelse would never admit that 
 he didn't know all about anything 
 that was beinsf discussed. For
 
 EZRA KENDALL. 43 
 
 instance, one day I was treating a 
 saddle gall on one of the horses in 
 the hotel barn. 
 
 " ' What yon doin'?' asked Nelse. 
 
 " 'Canterizing the wound with 
 carbolic acid,' I said. 
 
 " 'That's right,' answered Nelse. 
 'Croticise 'er three times a day with 
 that there bibolic acid and you'll 
 come out O. K.' 
 
 "I cultivated Nelse and some 
 more queer old pods who hung 
 around the stable, as they always 
 do in a small town, and when, after 
 a couple of months, I got ready to 
 go back to New York , I had a couple 
 of books full of notes on their pecu- 
 liarities of dress, habits, and lan- 
 guage. 
 
 "When I got to New York I was 
 pretty nearly broke again, and I 
 had hard sledding for a few weeks. 
 Just before the holidays I got an 
 engagement with the 'Wanted — A 
 Partner' company. I was engaged 
 to play the part of a countryman.
 
 44 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 It was an entirely new role to me, 
 but I was fresh from my course of 
 study in the barn at Portlandsville 
 and thought I could put what I had 
 learned to good use. I made an 
 impression as a countryman, so 
 much of an impression that W. A. 
 Mestayer came to me and engaged 
 me for a term of three years to play 
 thatlineof parts with his company. 
 Mestayer had had a play engaged 
 for the next season, but, for some 
 reason, it failed to materialize. He 
 had, in some way, got a good 
 impression of my abilities, so, after 
 his playwright had disappointed 
 him, he came to me and asked me 
 if I thought I could turn out some- 
 thing in the play line for him. 
 
 " 'I want to have some fun with 
 Hot Springs, Ark., in one act,' he 
 said, 'and I've bought the idea of 
 a revolving hotel from Bernard for 
 another act,' he said. 'And that's 
 as far as I've got.' I thought of 
 old Nelse Curry up at Portlandsville
 
 EZRA KENDALL. 45 
 
 and it seemed to me he would make 
 a good character. So I told Mes- 
 tayer to give me his material and 
 I'd see what I could do. I went 
 up in the country and worked out 
 'We, Us & Co.' In that play, which 
 from a financial standpoint was 
 highly successful, my old friend 
 Nelse, under his self-given title of 
 MuloMedicus, was one of the lead- 
 ing characters, and I drew liber- 
 ally on my Portlandsville experience 
 in many other ways. 
 
 "When we played 'We, Us & Co. ' 
 at Albany there was a special train 
 run down from the Portlandsville 
 country and 'Doc' Nelson Curry 
 was on it. He sat in a front seat 
 and laughed as heartily as anybody 
 at his own antics on the stage. 
 
 "'We, Us & Co.' cleared up 
 $60,000 for Mr. Mestayer. And if 
 the story I have told — or any one 
 of them — has any point, it is that 
 often adversity is a blessing in dis- 
 guise. I thought, for instance, that
 
 46 THROUGH the stage door. 
 
 the two months I spent in that hotel 
 barn v/as a season of mighty hard 
 luck, bnt as a matter of fact it was 
 tiie making of me in my profession. 
 There is nothing which can happen 
 to a man out of which he cannot 
 get a lot of good. I was paid only 
 $15 a month for working in the 
 stable, bnt tlie material I got there 
 was worth $60,000 to Mr. Mestayer. 
 
 "I don't believe that often — if 
 ever — a really good character or sit- 
 uation is evolved out of an author's 
 imagination . Almost invariably the 
 best of them at least are studied 
 from life. 
 
 "My present play, 'The Vinegar 
 Buyer,' is based on James Whit- 
 comb Riley's poem of 'Jap Miller.' 
 I had been trying for a long time 
 to get Mr. Riley to write me a play. 
 I made several trips to Indianapolis 
 to see him. Always he declared 
 that he didn't think he could write 
 a play. I offered him $5,000 cash 
 down as an advance if he would
 
 KZKA KENDALL. 47 
 
 sign a contract to prcpnre a play 
 for nie and a furtlier guarantee that 
 his royalties would amount to $15,- 
 000 or more within two years. But 
 not even that tempted Riley in the 
 least. 
 
 " 'I can't write a play, Mr. Ken- 
 dall,' he said, 'and I'm not going 
 to try.' 
 
 ' ' So we fell to talking about some 
 of the curious old Indiana charac- 
 ters he has celebrated. 
 
 " 'Did you ever read my poem 
 of "Jap Miller"?' he asked. 
 
 "I never had, though I was 
 familiar with almost everything he 
 had written. I found the poem 
 extremely suggestive, and told Mr. 
 Riley so. He went onto elaborate 
 on the character, and in a few min- 
 utes I broke in on him: 
 
 "'Mr. Riley,' I said, 'you are 
 writing a play this minute, without 
 knowing it.' 
 
 "So that's the way 'The Vinegar 
 Buyer' came into being."
 
 ADVENTURES OF THE THEATRICAL 
 PRESS AGENT. 
 
 9S4^ 
 
 ONTRARY to public opin- 
 ion the theatrical press 
 agent is personally a mod- 
 est man. He is willing to 
 go to almost any length in exploit- 
 ing the actress or actor he repre- 
 sents, but when it comes to per- 
 sonal publicity he becomes a sen- 
 sitive plant — a shrinking wood 
 violet. He will talk? Yes. But 
 it must be behind the screen of 
 anonymity. 
 
 In the old days the work of the 
 theatrical press agent was to call 
 on the editor of the country paper 
 and invite him out to take a drink 
 or several drinks — the more the 
 better. Incidentally, he was ex- 
 pected to tell how his star had 
 just got a divorce from her hus- 
 band, or, if he represented a mas- 
 culine star, how his principal was 
 involved in as many scandals as
 
 MRS. "I'AT" CAMPBELL. 
 
 SEE PACE S3.
 
 THE PRESS AGENT. 49 
 
 possible. If he was a particularly 
 ingenious press agent he told how 
 the actress had just had a lot of 
 non-existent diamonds stolen. 
 
 Now all this is changed. Even 
 the title has been given up. The 
 man who now looks after the press 
 work for a big theatrical production 
 is called the business manager, not 
 because he has much to do with 
 the business management, but for 
 the reason that with the increased 
 dignity of the profession has come 
 a disinclination to even suggest that 
 they are in any way dependent on 
 the gullibility of press or public. 
 
 And, as a matter of fact, it is an 
 axiom in the show business that no 
 matter how ingenious the press 
 agent may be it is altogether im- 
 possible for him to boom a bad star 
 or a poor play into lasting popular- 
 ity. Clever press work may, and 
 often does, greatly help a good but 
 obscure player, but it never yet 
 made a permanent success of an
 
 50 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 incompetent. In theatrical press 
 work as in all other forms of adver- 
 tising publicity amounts to nothing 
 unless you can really "deliver the 
 goods." 
 
 Nowadays a press agent's value 
 depends not so much on his inge- 
 nuity as on his good judgment. 
 Plenty of things which the news- 
 papers are glad to print do much 
 more harm than good to a theatri- 
 cal enterprise. For instance: 
 
 A few years ago the Victoria the- 
 ater, now the New American, opened 
 on North Clark street, in Chicago. 
 A new hand was hired as press 
 agent and was urged by the man- 
 agement to get up a sensation which 
 the newspapers would print the 
 morning after the opening. It hap- 
 pened that what the press agent 
 considered a good sensation actually 
 occurred the day before the open- 
 ing. The leading woman of the 
 company was traveling on a rail- 
 road train through Iowa on her way
 
 THE PRESS AGENT. 51 
 
 to open the Victoria. In the car 
 with her three people were discov- 
 ered who had well developed cases 
 of smallpox. Everybody in the car 
 was captured at a station just across 
 the Mississippi and taken to a pest- 
 house. The leading woman climbed 
 out of a window, walked for five 
 miles through the woods, and 
 caught a train which brought her 
 to Chicago in time to make her 
 appearance, as announced. She 
 had not even been vaccinated or 
 disinfected. 
 
 The leading woman told her story 
 to the new press agent. It struck 
 him as "a corking good story." 
 He got the picture of the leading 
 woman and a vivid interview with 
 her, describing the horrors of the 
 pesthouse from which she had 
 escaped. Every paper in Chicago 
 printed something about it and the 
 new press agent imagined that his 
 fortune was made. He went to the 
 manager's office early the morning
 
 52 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 the stories were printed. He 
 thought the manager would meet 
 him with open arms and probably 
 at least hint at a raise in his salary. 
 On the contrary, he was met with 
 a cold and formal letter informing 
 him that his services were no longer 
 needed. He knows better now. 
 
 As an example of the microscopic 
 pains which are taken to avoid 
 alarming the patrons of a theater 
 in this way the following incident 
 is told: 
 
 When Miss Julia Marlowe was 
 playing in New York during a small- 
 pox scare there, the danger of con- 
 tracting the disease was minified by 
 the newspapers, but the great the- 
 ater going public was quite badly 
 frightened. When the scare was 
 at its height the manager of the 
 company, whose business it is to 
 keep in close touch with public 
 sentiment, went to Miss Marlowe 
 and asked her to temporarily cut 
 one line from the play. When the
 
 THE PRESS AGENT. 53 
 
 reasons for the request were given 
 to her she complied at once. This 
 was the line which was elided: 
 
 "Does he think he'll get the 
 plague from me?" 
 
 ' 'There isn't any use in even run- 
 ning a chance of suggesting an 
 unpleasant thought to the public," 
 said the wise manager, and Miss 
 Marlowe agreed with him. 
 
 Among the press agents of the 
 present day in the United States 
 the leader is probably a keen and 
 ingenious person who rejoices in 
 the unusual name of A. Toxin 
 Worm. To the profession Herr 
 Worm — for he is by birth a German 
 — is known as Anti-Toxin Worm. 
 It was he who was responsible for 
 the unique press work which put 
 the name of Mrs. "Pat" Campbell 
 in the mouths of everybody during 
 her recent visit to America. He 
 was quick to see the possibilities of 
 Mrs. Campbell's little pet dog. 
 Hundreds of other actresses have
 
 54 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 had pets quite as interesting, but 
 certainly no other dog was so 
 quickly made historic as was Pinky 
 Panky Po. Even in coining a 
 name for the miserable little beast 
 HerrWorm showed positive genius. 
 It was Worm also who, when his 
 star was playing at the Republic 
 theater, in New York, had load after 
 load of tanbark dumped on the 
 streets surrounding the building, 
 and then, when the work was done, 
 quietly disappeared. Forthwith 
 came the dramatic reporters inquir- 
 ing anxiously the reason for this 
 strange proceeding. Each of them 
 was referred to Mr. Worm. Mr. 
 Worm was hard to find. Once 
 found, he was reluctant to "give 
 up." Finally he told the story. 
 Mrs. Campbell was extremely nerv- 
 ous. The noise on the streets 
 annoyed her greatly. He had had 
 the tanbark put down so that she 
 might not be disturbed while act- 
 ing. Newspapers all over the coun-
 
 THE PRESS AGENT. 55 
 
 try printed stories about it. Mr. 
 Worm also ingeniously invented the 
 tales about Mrs. Pat's enormous 
 winning at bridge whist. He was 
 shrewd enough to see that a story 
 of that class would interest a large 
 class of people. 
 
 But the press agent must see to 
 it that he does not "overplay his 
 star." It is easy to give him or 
 her too much publicity of a sensa- 
 tional kind. At once the line of 
 safety is passed the effect is deadly. 
 It is said that no less a personage 
 than Richard Mansfield, entirely 
 without his wish, has had so much 
 notoriety of this kind that the reac- 
 tion is being felt at the box office. 
 The public has read so many tales 
 about the great actor's ungovern- 
 able temper that it has got tired of 
 it all.
 
 HOW E. H. SOTHERN REHEARSES 
 HAMLET. 
 
 IN the first place, Mr. Edward 
 H. Sothern takes himself and 
 his art seriously — even at a 
 rehearsal. And when Ham- 
 let is the subject of a rehearsal it 
 is easy to see how any lightness 
 might kill the whole tragic effect. 
 The curtain was down at Powers' 
 theater, to stop the draft on the 
 stage, and behind it the men and 
 women who are to present the trag- 
 edy were busy, in their street 
 clothes, going through the duel 
 .scene. 
 
 King Claudius held his regal state 
 sitting on a kitchen chair and dis- 
 -tinguished from the other players 
 by the golden, gem set crown that 
 looked sadly out of place in con- 
 nection with a standing linen col- 
 lar and a sack suit of clothes. Out 
 in front, close to the blank curtain, 
 stood young Hamlet and Laertes —
 
 E. H. SOTHERN. 57 
 
 Mr. Sothern and the other player 
 — both in dark, short coats. Out 
 to them tripped the young Osric, 
 swaggering- with his arms full of 
 foils. Strangely looked the young 
 blade, cavorting in trousers and 
 jacket. 
 
 "Set me the stoups of wine upon 
 that table," orders the king, rising 
 in majestic poise on his pine board 
 throne. 
 
 The page — a most modern young 
 woman in a street dress — bows low 
 as she fills and presents the golden 
 bowl. 
 
 Then the duelists fall to. 
 
 "No," says Sothern to Laertes, 
 "on the second stroke you must 
 aim higher. Else I cannot touch 
 you with my foil naturally." 
 
 They go through it again. Sud- 
 denly Sothern stops and looks 
 around him. All about the edge 
 of the stage are sitting the soldiers 
 and the women who were to come 
 on later. Someof them had on their
 
 58 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 overcoats and wraps. They were 
 gathered into little groups and 
 were whispering softly among them- 
 selves. 
 
 "I must ask," said Hamlet, be- 
 coming suddenly E. H. Sothern 
 and much in earnest in that part, 
 "I must ask that the whispering 
 stop. You can't have anything 
 important to say that can't wait. 
 If you have, go out of the theater 
 or down stairs, or anywhere, and 
 say it. Then come back. But we 
 can't rehearse with that 's-s-s-s-s-s' 
 sounding in our ears all the time. 
 It gets on a man's nerves; it takes 
 him out of the part he is trying to 
 play; it is simply damnable. I 
 don't want to be aggravating about 
 it, but I won't have it." 
 
 Thereafter the lofty lines rang 
 out in utter silence; not a sound 
 broke into the solemn scene when 
 the queen drank the poisoned cup ; 
 the dying Laertes told his tale of 
 treachery to a hushed house and the
 
 E. H. SOTHERN. 59 
 
 audience of one, sitting up in the 
 flies, out of sight, was thrilled with 
 the tragedy of it all, forgetting 
 coats, trousers, and tailor made 
 gowns and the total lack of courtly 
 surroundings. 
 
 "I make it a rule," said Mr. 
 Sothern, "not to allow spectators 
 at my rehearsals. The presence of 
 a critic or two sitting down in front 
 in an otherwise empty house has a 
 bad effect on every actor. It takes 
 him outside his part and makes 
 him self-conscious. He feels that 
 he has not yet perfected his work 
 and he is wondering, as he reads 
 his lines, what so-and-so out there 
 in front thinks of it. Youcan'tget 
 a man's best efforts — you can't get 
 him to throw his whole soul into 
 the work of rehearsal — when he 
 knows he is being watched. Un- 
 consciously he resents the idea of 
 being inspected and criticised be- 
 fore he has reached, as nearly as 
 he can, the stage of perfection.
 
 60 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 " It 's the same way with a painter. 
 I studied art in my early days and 
 I know what the effect was when 
 a casual visitor to the gallery where 
 I was copying a picture stopped 
 and looked at my uncompleted 
 sketch. It simply threw me out of 
 the spirit of the thing and often I 
 would' fail to get the effect I was 
 aiming at until another day. 
 
 "For the same reason I am accus- 
 tomed to rehearse my own parts 
 all alone in an empty theater, after 
 audience, company, and stagehands 
 have all gone home for the night. 
 There is something inspiring and 
 compelling to me in the very 
 emptiness of a great theater, just 
 as there is the emptiness of a great 
 cathedral. And I can give myself 
 to the work of expressing the 
 thought of the dramatist at such a 
 time without reserve and without 
 any feeling that I am being watched 
 and criticised . Another reason why 
 I think it best not to allow specta-
 
 E. H. SOTHERN. 61 
 
 tors at rehearsals is that it is some- 
 times necessary for a producing star 
 to make suggestions to the mem- 
 bers of his company; sometimes, 
 in the heat of the moment, he may 
 even grow a bit sarcastic and rebuke 
 one member or another for some 
 unnecessary lapse. And the actor, 
 being a grownup man, does not at 
 all enjoy being rebuked in the pres- 
 ence of other people."
 
 WILLIAM GILLETTE-PLAYWRIGHT, 
 ACTOR. 
 
 «S« 
 
 AST season for more than 
 one hundred consecutive 
 nights there were no less 
 than sixteen different actors 
 playing the part of "Sherlock 
 Holmes" in different parts of the 
 world, with William Gillette, 
 author of the play and creator of 
 the part, serving as model for 
 them all. 
 
 There were five companies play- 
 ing in England, two in the United 
 States, two in Australia, two in 
 South Africa, and one each in 
 Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Buda- 
 Pesth, Moscow, Brussels, and the 
 country districts of Belgium. It 
 is stated that so far as the number 
 of different companies which are 
 producing it at the same time is 
 concerned "Sherlock Holmes" 
 has broken all previous records, 
 the best heretofore being that of
 
 WILLIAM GILLETTE. 63 
 
 "Pinafore," which was presented 
 by twelve companies at the same 
 time. 
 
 Each of the actors who is pre- 
 senting the character of the detec- 
 tive had the advantage of studying 
 Mr. Gillette in the part during his 
 long stay in London. Most of 
 them imitate him in makeup and 
 methods, and, whether it is pro- 
 duced in Rus ian, in French, in 
 Danish, in German, or in Nor- 
 wegian, the spell of the tense sit- 
 uations of the play holds the 
 audience as closely as it does in 
 English with its creator in the 
 title role. 
 
 Sherlock has not yet been pre- 
 sented either in France or Ger- 
 many, but will be during the next 
 year or two. In France before a 
 foreign play can be presented it is 
 necessary to employ a recognized 
 member of the society of dramatic 
 authors to make the translation 
 and "stand for" the production.
 
 64 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 To him a certain amount of cash 
 must be paid in the way of royal- 
 ties, and there are many other 
 technicalities to be complied with 
 which make it necessary, or at 
 least advisable, for the principal 
 to be on the ground. 
 
 Everywhere he goes Mr. Gillette 
 takes with him his little working 
 table on which his plays are writ- 
 ten. He usually has something 
 new under way and spends a part 
 of many days, en route, at his 
 literary work. 
 
 The table itself resembles noth- 
 ing so much as one of the old 
 fashioned sewing tables with fold- 
 ing legs. Every morning his Jap- 
 anese valet covers the top of the 
 table with a fresh sheet of clean 
 white paper, fastened with thumb 
 tacks underneath the top. There 
 is also laid out daily a fresh sup- 
 ply of clean steel pens, blotters, 
 and paper. Unless when he sits 
 down everything about the work-
 
 E. H. SOTHKKN. 
 
 SEE PACE 56
 
 WILLIAM GILLETTE. 65 
 
 ing table is fresh and spotless the 
 actor-author finds it hard to do his 
 work. 
 
 Nowadays Gillette does not often 
 get back to his little place in South 
 Carolina— "The Thousand Pines" 
 — which he built on the top of a 
 mountain fourteen miles from a 
 railroad. That little place was 
 built when the world looked dark 
 to him. He had, shortly before, 
 collaborated over the writing of a 
 play which was a complete failure 
 — the only failure he has made in 
 the play line — and family bereave- 
 ments had completely crushed him. 
 He went down into the wilderness 
 of the South Carolina mountain 
 country and built the bungalow with 
 the idea of spending the remainder 
 of his life there as a hermit. Cer- 
 tainly no spot could be more per- 
 fectly adapted for that method of 
 life. The only neighbors which 
 "The Thousand Pines" can boast 
 of are most of them engaged in the
 
 66 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 manufacture of illicit whisky. Gil- 
 lette made friends with many of 
 them and added to his knowledge 
 of human nature that of this strange 
 and remarkable type. While he 
 lived at "The Thousand Pines" 
 Gillette did his own cooking, and 
 his chief amusement was to walk 
 ten miles over the mountains to the 
 nearest village, where a couple of 
 hundred mountaineers made their 
 homes. He staid in the mountain 
 fastness long enough to fight out 
 the battle with himself and he 
 emerged strengthened and invigor- 
 ated in every way. 
 
 Long before he became an actor 
 his desire to study and to know 
 human nature in all its types led 
 him to undertake even stranger 
 journeys and more startling changes 
 of character. The story of how, 
 during one of his long vacations 
 from college, he went out west and 
 got a job as an apprentice in a 
 machine shop, so that he might
 
 WILLIAM GILLETTE. 67 
 
 study the workingman at first hand, 
 is familiar. Most people know 
 also that the house of his father in 
 Hartford, Conn., is next door to 
 the old home of Mark Twain, and 
 that the humorist put Gillette on 
 the stage as a member of the stock 
 company at the Boston museum. 
 Now Twain declares that the joke 
 he thought he was putting up on 
 Gillette is about the only one he 
 ever tried that didn't come out the 
 way he expected. 
 
 But there is one of Gillette's early 
 experiences which is not so well 
 known and which illustrates how 
 far his desire to know men at first 
 hand carried him. It also hap- 
 pened during one of his long vaca- 
 tions from college. At that time 
 he was especially anxious to study 
 men and women who were affected 
 by different diseases and to learn 
 how they acted in such circum- 
 stances. Accordingly,he left home, 
 and with no warrant but his own
 
 68 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 assurance actually hung out his 
 shingle as a physician in a small 
 town in Ohio. It should be said 
 in his favor, however, that he did 
 not unduly trifle with the health of 
 his patients. The only medicine 
 he ever gave was bread pills, and 
 when people seemed to be really 
 ill he sent them to some regular 
 practitioner for treatment. Things 
 were going along well with the 
 young doctor-student. He was 
 building up something of a prac- 
 tice and was curing almost the 
 average percentage of cases with 
 his bread pills when envious rivals 
 or the board of health got after him 
 for practicing without a physician's 
 license. Then his father was 
 obliged to come to his aid, and 
 finally, after Gillette had proved 
 that he never gave any medicine 
 but bread pills and had produced a 
 number of people he had cured in 
 that way, the case was compro- 
 mised. But he went away with a
 
 WILLIAM GILLETTE. 69 
 
 pretty extensive and comprehensive 
 knowledge of the way sick people 
 act and talk. 
 
 The special car on which Gillette 
 and his company traveled last sea- 
 son was usually attached to the end 
 of a regular passenger train. Down 
 among the Indiana sand hills some- 
 thing happened to the coupling 
 apparatus and the special car broke 
 loose from the train. The rest of 
 the train got a quarter of a mile 
 away before the absence of the 
 special was noticed . Then it backed 
 up and an attempt was made to 
 replace the coupling. But part of 
 the coupling apparatus was broken 
 and the pin itself was lost. The 
 flagman and the brakeman made a 
 fruitless search to find something 
 to take its place. Finally one of 
 them was sent back to the nearest 
 station, several miles to the rear, 
 to get something for that purpose. 
 Meanwhile, Gillette had become 
 aroused . As the brakeman walked
 
 70 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 away on his long errand, Gillette 
 came out on the rear platform, and, 
 with true Sherlock Holmes omni- 
 science, reached up on the roof of 
 the special car and took down a 
 duplicate of the missing part. 
 
 "I happened to see it lying up 
 there this afternoon , " he said . And 
 the trainmen are all wishing they 
 could have a Sherlock aboard all 
 the time in case of emergencies. 
 
 The great ambition of Mr. Gil- 
 lette is to make a memorable suc- 
 cess of his coming production of 
 "Hamlet." 
 
 The scenery, costumes, and prop- 
 erties for "Hamlet" are almost 
 all under way, and many of them 
 have been completed, though if Mr. 
 Gillette has any surprises in store 
 he is keeping them a careful secret. 
 Practically none of the people who 
 will take part in the production have 
 been engaged. Rarely, if ever, 
 can Gillette be persuaded to play 
 a longer season than twenty-five
 
 WIL,LIAM GILLETTE. 71 
 
 weeks. He is not physically an 
 especially strong man, and finds it 
 necessary to take great care of his 
 health and not to overwork.
 
 E 
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 
 
 LENORA DUSE, the famous 
 Italian actress, is one of the 
 mysteries of the stage. She 
 shuns publicity — and gets as 
 much of it as any actress in the 
 world. She refuses herself to inter- 
 viewers — and sends ahead of her 
 one of the most accomplished press 
 agents in the business. She declares 
 that the public has no concern with 
 her life off the stage — and the news- 
 papers are full of stories of her early 
 struggles as a barefooted, wander- 
 ing child actress in the villages of 
 Italy, and of her more recent expe- 
 riences with the tender passion. 
 She owns a splendid collection of 
 jewels — and wears no jewelry on or 
 off the stage. She is said to loathe 
 her art — and managers fight for con- 
 tracts with her for years to come. 
 She declares ambition is a grisly 
 phantom — and her own ambition 
 has led her to take more than one
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 7Z 
 
 sensational revenge on those who 
 have slighted her. 
 
 Is it all a pose? Does the Italian 
 tragedienne wrap herself in a man- 
 tle of mystery and put the redoubt- 
 able Mme. Schmidt on guard at 
 her door because she knows that 
 attitude will only whet the public 
 curiosity? Even her managers do 
 not profess to know. They are 
 amply satisfied with the result. 
 And they point out that she must 
 be given credit for entire consist- 
 ency in her attitude towards the 
 public outside of the theater. She 
 goes so far as to pay absolutely no 
 attention to anything that may be 
 printed about her private life. She 
 will not even take the trouble to 
 deny a story which, on its face, is 
 not plausible. Her pose is one 
 of complete indifference. So the 
 guileless press agent may print what 
 he pleases without fear that his star 
 will find fault or deny it. The play- 
 bills say that Duse is thirty-two
 
 74 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 years old. As a matter of fact 
 she is at least thirty-six. She has 
 been on the stage a quarter of a 
 century, beginning when she was 
 twelve years old. She was bom 
 in a little Italian village, Vigerano, 
 in northern Italy, on the border 
 line between Piedmont and Lom- 
 bardy. Luigi Duse, her grand- 
 father, was an obscure Italian actor, 
 who played a line of small legit- 
 imate parts in the minor Italian 
 cities. Her father was known on 
 the peninsula as "Sor" Duse, and 
 is best remembered as once having 
 established an unsuccessful theater 
 at Padua, In her infancy her 
 parents were members of several 
 different bands of "strolling play- 
 ers." They wandered through 
 Italy, and played as chance would 
 have it — in inn yards, restaurants, 
 sheds, anywhere. 
 
 Here is a story which throws 
 some light on her childhood : Duse 
 was playing in Vienna. Already she
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 75 
 
 was famous . She had refused many 
 invitations to social entertainments 
 in her honor. Finally one came 
 from an Italian nobleman connected 
 with the Italian embassy to Aus- 
 tria. For once Duse broke her rule 
 and accepted it. At the reception 
 all the guests save one came for- 
 ward to do homage to the actress. 
 The exception was a young girl, 
 who stood apart and watched Duse 
 with eager eyes. Finally she ap- 
 proached and timidly touched Sig- 
 nora Duse's hand. The actress 
 questioned the girl and learned that 
 she was the daughter of her host. 
 On the following Tuesday about 
 midnight, when Signora Duse was 
 about to retire, a servant knocked 
 at her door. "A lady to see the 
 signora," the servant announced. 
 "Her name?" 
 "She refuses to give it." 
 "What does she seem to be?" 
 "I cannot say, signora. She is 
 closely veiled."
 
 76 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Signora Duse ordered the caller 
 to be shown in. A black robed 
 figure entered the room. The ser- 
 vant retired. Then the caller threw 
 aside her veil and the daughter of 
 the diplomat knelt at the feet of the 
 actress. 
 
 "My poor child," said Duse, as 
 she raised her to her feet. "What 
 is the matter?" 
 
 "The girl told her why she had 
 come. Her home was happy. But 
 she yearned to be famous. She 
 wanted to be a great actress. 
 
 "Take me with you," pleaded 
 the girl. 
 
 "That is impossible," answered 
 Duse. 
 
 "Then I shall kill myself." 
 
 Duse led the excited child to a 
 seat. 
 
 " Once , " said the actress , ' ' there 
 was a poor girl — so poor that she 
 was always barefooted and often 
 went the whole day without food. 
 But she felt a spirit stirring within
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 11 
 
 her — which kept crying out to her, 
 'Courage! ' 
 
 "In summer and winter, in plenty 
 and in starvation, she heard the 
 voice crying: 'Courage! You will 
 be great.' 
 
 "Years went by — years of priva- 
 tion and suffering, and awful toil. 
 Then the skies grew clearer. The 
 girl's name got into the mouths of 
 men. It spread until all Italy took 
 it up. She was petted and caressed. 
 She was truly great." 
 
 "How beautiful," cried the girl. 
 
 "Beautiful," replied the actress. 
 "My child, that woman sits before 
 you. She would give all her great- 
 ness to be a happy child like you." 
 
 "But fame is happiness," cried 
 the girl. 
 
 "Fame is a phantom," said the 
 actress . ' ' You are far happier than 
 I can ever hope to be." 
 
 The girl wept, and Duse, calling 
 her carriage, drove her back to her 
 home.
 
 78 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Three nights later, in Berlin, a 
 courier handed a letter to Signora 
 Duse. It contained a letter: 
 
 "Signor: My daughter has no 
 secrets from me. I know all and 
 bless you. I send you a token, 
 priceless in itself, doubly priceless 
 now ; a token that a Medici is hence- 
 forth a father to you." 
 
 The letter was unsigned, but Duse 
 knew from whom it came. It con- 
 tained a gold band ring, set with 
 six opals in the form of a double 
 oval. That ring has never left the 
 finger of Duse since that time. 
 
 That is a sample of what the free 
 and untrammeled press agent can 
 do. Duse will never either deny 
 or affirm it. And the doubter has 
 only to look at the ring, as he will 
 see it on the finger of the actress. 
 
 Schurman, Duse's present man- 
 ager, was once manager for Sarah 
 Bernhardt. He has had the man- 
 agement of the Italian tragedienne 
 for the last two years.
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 79 
 
 "Last winter," says Mr. Schur- 
 man, "Duse was playing at Stutt- 
 gart. William II, king of Wiirtem- 
 burg, was one of the enthusiastic 
 spectators in the audience. The 
 play was 'Magda,' and after the 
 third act the monarch sent for Sig- 
 nora Duse's impresario. 
 
 ' ' ' You will tell Mme . Duse , ' said 
 the king, graciously, 'that I am 
 profoundly impressed by her per- 
 formance. I shall give myself the 
 honor of visiting her in her dress- 
 ing room immediately.' " 
 
 Schurman, who has a French 
 manner a Prussian beard, expressed 
 his thanks and hurried back to his 
 star's dressing room to give her 
 warning. He nervously conveyed 
 through the keyhole the royal com- 
 pliments and the further intelli- 
 gence that the actress was to be 
 honored by a visit from the king. 
 
 "You tell his majesty," she said 
 to her manager, opening the door 
 of her dressing room and appear-
 
 80 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 ing fully dressed, "that I am grate- 
 ful for his compliment and flattered 
 by his attention. But tell him I 
 feel just as much honored by hear- 
 ing it from you. Tell him I cannot 
 see him because I am dressing." 
 
 Then the king was heard ap- 
 proaching. Before her manager 
 had finished whispering the fact to 
 Duse the door of her dressing room 
 was closed. The important fact 
 that his majesty was waiting was 
 communicated through the keyhole. 
 The answer came back from Duse 
 that she was dressing and could see 
 nobody. 
 
 "Then I'll wait," answered the 
 Suabian ruler, blandly. 
 
 "If you do, you'll have to wait 
 outside as long as I stay inside, 
 your majesty, ' ' was Duse's answer, 
 as her manager reports it, "for I 
 shall not come out while you are 
 there." 
 
 The king held the curtain for half 
 an hour in vain. Then he went
 
 ELKNOHA DUSE. 
 
 SEE PACE 72,
 
 DUSE, THE MYSTERIOUS. 81 
 
 sadly back to the royal box. And 
 Diise had won a new fame as the 
 only actress who ever gave a ruling 
 monarch the snub direct. 
 
 Duse has signed contracts to ap- 
 pear in this country next year. She 
 is beginning to show considerable 
 interest in the United States. So 
 far on this trip she has not slapped 
 a persistent interviewer, which is 
 an indication that she is getting 
 used to American methods. It is 
 said of her that she has a long 
 memory. More than one manager 
 who slighted her in the days of her 
 struggles has come to her since, 
 hat in hand, and done his best to 
 get a contract. But she does not 
 forget, and to not one of those who 
 once frowned on her early efforts 
 has the signora ever given a hear- 
 ing.
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE TELLS STAGE 
 STORIES. 
 
 i 
 
 «« 
 
 WAS about to suggest, Mr. 
 
 Crane, that—" 
 
 "That reminds me of a 
 
 little interchange of cour- 
 tesies which took place between 
 Barry Sullivan, the great En- 
 glish actor, and Manager Buck- 
 ley, of the Baldwin theater in San 
 Francisco, on the opening of that 
 house by Sullivan's company. I 
 was a member of the company and 
 was standing on the stage the after- 
 noon before the opening, when the 
 dialogue between the two occurred. 
 Buckley was a pompous and con- 
 ceited man, and Sullivan took a 
 great dislike to him from the start. 
 " 'This,' said Buckley, looking 
 around the beautiful house and 
 speaking in a most patronizing 
 manner, 'is the third theater I have 
 opened.' Then he stopped and 
 looked at Sullivan to see what effect
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE. 83 
 
 the announcement would have on 
 him. But Sullivan looked him 
 straight in the eyes. 
 
 " 'Indeed, sir,' said Sullivan, 'and 
 how many have you closed?' " 
 
 "Mr. Crane, will you — " 
 
 "Tell you about 'Jimmy' Powers? 
 Why, I called on 'Jimmy' one after- 
 noon and asked him to go over town 
 with me to a rehearsal or some- 
 thing. 
 
 "'Can't,' said 'Jimmy.' 'I'm 
 sorry, but I've got to take a sing- 
 ing lesson this afternoon.' 
 
 " 'What with, Jimmy?' I asked, 
 and he didn't speak to me for six 
 months." 
 
 "And, Mr. Crane—" 
 
 "Yes. Hogue's barber shop in 
 the old days was patronized by all 
 the big politicians and heavy weight 
 financiers in New York. One morn- 
 ing Lawrence Barrett walked in 
 there for a shave. 
 
 "Finally a chair was vacated by 
 a fine looking old man, and Barrett
 
 84 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 slipped in. The barber was one of 
 those talkative chaps that keep their 
 tongues running faster than their 
 razors. 
 
 " 'Did you notice that gentleman 
 who just got out of my chair?' he 
 asked, as he tucked a towel about 
 the great Barrett's neck. 
 
 " 'Yes, I noticed him,' said the 
 tragedian, in a deep bass voice, 'and 
 I'm in a great hurry this morning.' 
 
 " 'Yes, sir,' went on the barber. 
 'All right, sir. As I was saying, 
 it's a funny thing about that gen- 
 tleman. The minute I put my 
 hands on his head, I said to him, 
 "Excuse me, sir. Aren't you in 
 the law, sir?" "Yes," he said, 
 "I'm in the law." "High up in 
 the law, sir?" "I'm Justice Brown, 
 of the Supreme Court of the United 
 States," he said. 'Well, sir, I 
 don't know how it is,' went on the 
 barber, 'just a gift I have, I sup- 
 pose, but the minute I lay hands 
 on a man's head I can tell his occu-
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE. 85 
 
 pation. Only yesterday I picked 
 out the governor of Connecticut 
 that way and — ' 
 
 ' ' By this time Barrett was getting 
 a little interested. 
 
 " 'Perhaps,' said the great trage- 
 dian, 'perhaps you can tell me my 
 profession?' 
 
 " 'Just a minute, sir,' said the 
 barber, 'just a minute.' 
 
 "Rapidly he ran his hands over 
 Barretts 's Jovian locks and across 
 his splendid forehead. Then he 
 leaned over with a confident grin. 
 
 " 'Shoe store,' he said. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Crane, about — " 
 
 "Well, in the old days of the 
 Hooley stock company, in Chicago, 
 of which I was a member, there 
 was a young actor came along whose 
 stage name was William H. Wild- 
 ing. He had had a good commer- 
 cial training before he started in 
 with us to become an actor, and 
 sometimes he used to ask me for 
 advice. He played the court clerk
 
 86 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 in the trial scene in the 'Merchant 
 of Venice' and that sort of small 
 parts. I told him I often thought 
 him foolish to give up business, in 
 which he had a fair start, for such 
 an uncertain thing as the career of 
 an actor, 
 
 *' 'To be frank with you,' I said 
 to him one night, 'I don't think 
 you are fitted to become a great 
 actor. You seem to lack the dra- 
 matic instinct, and without it you 
 won't go far. My candid advice to 
 you is to go back into business and 
 to stick to it.' 
 
 "The next day Wilding went out 
 and hustled for a job in a store. 
 He got a clerkship which paid him 
 $15 a week. He had been getting 
 $25 in the stock company, but he 
 gave that up at once and went into 
 vulgar trade. When he left the 
 stage he gave up also his stage 
 name of William H. Wilding and 
 took his own name of John K. 
 Mockett.
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE. 87 
 
 "The other day I stopped over 
 in Toledo, O., for a few hours, and 
 went up to call on Mockett. He 
 is now the owner of the largest and 
 most successful clothing and fur- 
 nishing store in Toledo, and one 
 of the largest in the State. The 
 name of Mockett is well known in 
 trade circles. And whenever I see 
 the man whom I put out of the the- 
 atrical business he renews his thanks 
 for my part in the change, which 
 he has never regretted since he 
 made it." 
 
 "Mr. Crane, David—" 
 
 "That was one man I helped to 
 get out of the show business. 
 Frank — Francis — Wilson is one 
 whom I advised to stick to it and 
 to leave black face for something 
 more legitimate. When I first met 
 Wilson he was playing in a black 
 face sketch called 'Wash Day , ' with 
 his partner, the firm being Cronin 
 & Wilson. But even then Frank 
 Wilson was an energetic and am-
 
 88 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 bitious man. In his leisure time, 
 when most actors would have been 
 idling, or worse, he was studying 
 French, German, and the law. He 
 and I had a good many talks, and 
 I advised him to try legitimate 
 comedy parts. So he gave up $75 
 a week in negro minstrelsy and 
 took a position with the Chestnut 
 Street theater, in Philadelphia, to 
 play second comedy parts in the 
 stock company at $25 a week. 
 Then McCall came along and put 
 him into light opera, where he has 
 been ever since." 
 
 "Well, here's a letter from an 
 Iowa man who would like to know 
 if I shouldn't love to be playing 
 Shakespeare 's ' Two Dromios ' again 
 with Stuart Robson . I should think 
 not. Why, all the time I was on the 
 stage I was bound foot, hand, and 
 tongue. If Robson had a cold in 
 his head I had to have a cold in 
 mine. If Robson had a felon on
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE. 89 
 
 the little finger of his right hand 
 it was necessary for me to rig one 
 up. If he got the rheumatism and 
 had to wrap up his knee in a red 
 flannel bandage I had to do the 
 same. It was dreadful. I had to 
 think of Robson's other things all 
 the time. Sometimes I'd get all 
 made up and ready to go. Then 
 I'd drop into Rob's dressing room 
 for a minute and observe that he 
 had put a little more red paint than 
 usual on his cheeks and nose. 
 Then I had to hurry back to do the 
 same thing. It was a dreadful 
 experience." 
 
 "Yes, Harum seems to be going 
 finely again this year. Some of the 
 critics say it is likely to be a sec- 
 ond 'Rip Van Winkle.' I shouldn't 
 object to that. But I have pro- 
 duced more new plays than any 
 actor now on the stage. Getting 
 a good play is harder every year. 
 Some time ago a well known dra-
 
 90 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 matist read me a scenario that told 
 a beautiful story. It was just what 
 I wanted. I accepted it and ordered 
 the play, paying him $2,500 as 
 advance money. A month later 
 he brought me around the first act 
 to read. It was based on an en- 
 tirely different scenario, and I told 
 him so. 
 
 " 'Why, this isn't on the lines of 
 the scenario you showed me,' I 
 said, 
 
 " 'No, I know it,' he said, 'but 
 it's a great deal better.' 
 
 "I didn't like it at all. A week 
 later he called again. This time 
 he wanted to borrow $50. I let 
 him have it, of course, and he left 
 a receipt for it. This is the way 
 the receipt read, as I discovered 
 after he had left: 
 
 " 'Received of W. H. Crane $50, 
 to be repaid out of the first royal- 
 ties received on the play I am 
 writing for him.' That's the last 
 I have ever heard from him. I
 
 WILLIAM H. CRANE. 91 
 
 suppose he simply needed the $2,- 
 500 in his business." 
 
 Mr. Crane's dresser handed him 
 a realistic rubber mole, which he 
 proceeded to paste on to the griz- 
 zled and wrinkled cheek of David 
 Harum. 
 
 "The last boy I had is in state's 
 prison now. Stole $1,800 and ran 
 away. But that didn't hurt so 
 much as what I learned afterwards. 
 It seems the boy had been spend- 
 ing my money and my clothes and 
 raising merry Cain in half the towns 
 we visited. 
 
 "'Aren't you afraid that Mr. 
 Crane '11 find you out?" some one 
 asked him. 
 
 " 'No, 'he said. 'You can't fool 
 Mrs. Crane. But Crane — w h y , 
 Crane's easy.' 
 
 "And that really did hurt,"
 
 A CHICAGO TRAGEDY OF HAMLET. 
 
 N the closing day of his last 
 eng-agement in Chicaga in 
 ''Lazarre,'' Otis Skinner 
 played to a matinee "of $1,- 
 
 O 
 
 618," as the box office pnts it. In 
 the evening the receipts were even 
 larger. But the time is not far dis- 
 tant when Mr. Skinner was glad to 
 take in as much in a week as his 
 average daily receipts are at pres- 
 ent. 
 
 In January, 1896, for instance, 
 the Skinner company, then, as 
 now, under the management of 
 Joseph Buckley, was playing the 
 little towns along the Ohio river in 
 Kentucky in a round of romantic 
 dramas. It kept Buckley fairly 
 busy in those days to meet the pay 
 roll and provide sufficient funds to 
 buy railroad tickets from one little 
 town to another. 
 
 It happened that in January, 
 1896, Chicago was enjoying a per-
 
 TRAGEDY OF HAMLET. 93 
 
 feet epidemic of Shakespeare's 
 "Hamlet." For the week of Jan- 
 uary 26th Walker Whiteside was 
 announced to present the great 
 tragedy at the Schiller. The next 
 week Creston Clarke was to present 
 the melancholy Dane at McVick- 
 er's. Within a few weeks the 
 famous Italian actor, Salvini, the 
 younger, was underlined in the same 
 play at the Schiller. 
 
 For the week of January 26th at 
 the Grand opera house it had been 
 announced that Mme. Modjeska 
 would appear. But a day or two 
 before her opening Modjeska fell 
 ill and was obliged to telegraph 
 Manager Hamlin, of the Grand, 
 canceling her engagement. 
 
 Mr. Hamlin immediately can- 
 vassed the list of available attrac- 
 tions to fill in the vacant two 
 weeks. Finally it occurred to him 
 that Otis Skinner would be a draw- 
 ing card. He got into communi- 
 cation with Mr. Buckley at Padu-
 
 94 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 cah, Ky., and offered the Skinner 
 company a good thing if it would 
 cancel its time in Kentucky and 
 come up to Chicago for the fort- 
 night. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Buckley, some- 
 what embarrassed at the situation 
 which confronted him, "we would 
 like to come to Chicago first class, 
 but it is several hundred miles dis- 
 tant from Paducah." 
 
 Which was Mr. Buckley's deli- 
 cate way of hinting that he did not 
 have the ready money to buy the 
 necessary railroad tickets. That 
 essential matter was arranged by 
 Mr. Hamlin's advancing the funds 
 by telegraph, and Otis Skinner and 
 his fellow players took the first train 
 for Chicago. 
 
 At the time everybody in the 
 theatrical line in the city was talk- 
 ing about the Hamlet craze. Walker 
 Whiteside opened at the Schiller 
 in the Shakespearean play and all 
 the critics said it was "a creditable
 
 TRAGEDY OF HAMLET. 95 
 
 production," which is their way of 
 avoiding the saying of something 
 worse. At any rate, the Whiteside 
 production represented the invest- 
 ment of a large sum of money. The 
 scenery and the costumes were fine, 
 and the lines were given' ' a thought- 
 ful and intelligent reading." 
 
 Skinner opened at the Grand in 
 one of his stock plays to only fair 
 business. That night Mr. Hamlin 
 asked him if he had ever played 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Yes, he had played Hamlet once, 
 before the students of the Univer- 
 sity of Wisconsin. But he had no 
 costumes, no scenery, no proper- 
 ties. 
 
 Well , play it again , here and now. 
 Never mind scenery or costumes or 
 other incidentals. Do the best you 
 can. The people want "Hamlet." 
 We must give it to them. 
 
 Forthwith began the greatest 
 hustle on record for scenery and 
 costumes which could be forced into
 
 96 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 service. For the graveyard scene 
 the only thing- that could be found 
 was a back drop which had been 
 left behind by a company playing 
 "The Texas Steer." It was a gar- 
 den scene with a statue of U. S. 
 Grant in the center. Of course, it 
 was necessary to cover up that 
 statue, so a group of stage trees 
 was arranged in front of it, which 
 hid the monument from everybody 
 e«;cept the people in the left hand 
 boxes and those who occupied seats 
 on that side of the house. 
 
 A costume for Hamlet was found 
 at the shop of a local dealer who 
 makes a specialty of supplying the 
 wants of masqueraders. All sorts 
 of similar shifts were turned and, 
 finally, a day or two later, the first 
 performance of "Hamlet" by "the 
 eminent Shakespearean actor, Otis 
 Skinner," was announced. 
 
 The night of the first improvised 
 performance the house was fairly 
 filled. But the critics went almost
 
 KVIil.K I'.KLI.KW AM) MUS. JAMKS liUoWN I'l )l "IKK. 
 
 SEE PACE 113
 
 TRAGEDY OF HAMI.ET. 97 
 
 into ecstasies over Skinner's read- 
 ing of the lines, and everybody 
 who had been present must have 
 talked to his friends about the 
 superlative merit of the perform- 
 ance. The second night of "Ham- 
 let" every seat was filled. The 
 praise grew stronger. "The great- 
 est Hamlet since Booth has been 
 discovered," said the critics, all 
 in one breath. Meanwhile the 
 astonished success of Skinner had 
 had a bad effect on the attendance 
 at the Schiller. After three nights 
 of "Hamlet," Walker Whiteside 
 gave it up and turned to other plays 
 in his repertoire, in which the com- 
 parison was not so strong. 
 
 Skinner turned into the second 
 week with the Sunday papers full 
 of his remarkable performance. 
 Public interest was heightened by 
 the announcement in the same issues 
 that Creston Clarke would open 
 that week at McVicker's in "Ham- 
 let," the inference being that now
 
 98 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 the theater-going people of Chicago 
 would see the "real thing" in the 
 line of Shakespeare. Clarke's good 
 angel had provided him with suffi- 
 cient funds to make an elaborate 
 production and plenty of scener)' 
 and costumes had been arranged 
 for. It was a case of "wait for the 
 big show." 
 
 But Clarke did not ' ' make good . ' ' 
 His engagement at McVicker's was 
 for two weeks, but at the end of the 
 first seven days the remainder of 
 the time was canceled, and Clarke 
 disappeared, for the time at least, 
 from metropolitan theaters. 
 
 Meanwhile, the crowds and the 
 enthusiasm aroused by the Skinner 
 portrayal increased. When he put 
 on something else the audiences at 
 the Grand were not so large, but 
 every performance of "Hamlet" 
 packed the house. It was a suffi- 
 cient answer for all time to the 
 claim that people do "not care for 
 Shakespeare."
 
 TRAGEDY OF HAMLET. 99 
 
 Finally, after the other three 
 Hamlets had closed their engage- 
 ments, but while the excitement 
 engendered by the rivalry was still 
 fresh in the public mind, along 
 came the great Salvini the younger. 
 He was jealous of the fame won by 
 Skinner in the part of Hamlet, or, 
 at least, he was determined that he 
 would surpass it. 
 
 On Monday night he opened to 
 a big house at the Schiller in the 
 great tragic part. On Tuesday 
 night the audience was much 
 smaller. On Wednesday evening, 
 with "Hamlet" still the bill, there 
 was a beggarly house. Salvini's 
 manager overrode the entreaties of 
 his star and took "Hamlet" ofif for 
 the rest of the engagement, substi- 
 tuting other plays in the Italian's 
 repertoire. 
 
 Salvini was broken hearted. He 
 fought the determination to with- 
 draw "Hamlet" as bitterly as he 
 could, and it was only after an
 
 100 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 almost pathetic scene between him 
 and his manager that the determi- 
 nation was arrived at. After that, 
 and during the remainder of his 
 engagement, Salvini's acting 
 seemed to lack its accustomed fire 
 and spirit. He took the success of 
 Skinner in the one part he wanted 
 to play most keenly to heart. He 
 could talk of nothing else. In 
 talking over the matter with Mr. 
 Buckley he actually broke down and 
 wept bitterly, raving against the 
 theater-going people of Chicago, 
 denouncing the critics, and speak- 
 ing bitterly of the action of his own 
 manager. 
 
 But there was nothing to be done 
 about it. The test had been made, 
 and, under the most difficult and 
 embarrassing circumstances . Skin- 
 ner had won the verdict. Salvini 
 left Chicago a thoroughly crushed 
 and disappointed man. 
 
 Not long after his Chicago expe- 
 rience Salvini gave up his career in
 
 TRAGEDY OF HAMLET. 101 
 
 America and went back to the home 
 of his father in Italy. He never 
 seemed to fully recover his ambi- 
 tion and spirit, and within a few 
 months after reaching his old home 
 he died of an obscure disease. 
 
 As for Skinner, Mr. Buckley, his 
 manager, made an effort to interest 
 rich men in an undertaking to send 
 his star out in a splendid revival of 
 "Hamlet," but he failed to get the 
 money and, though the tragedy was 
 produced during that season on the 
 road and with almost unfailing suc- 
 cess, it was never especially feat- 
 ured. 
 
 So, by what was a mere chance 
 of the theatrical business, one 
 famous actor was sent home broken 
 hearted, to die soon after, while 
 the rising stars of two other young 
 tragedians were apparently perma- 
 manently obscured. And this by 
 a man who played "Hamlet" be- 
 fore scenery stolen from "A Texas 
 Steer," and who wore a costume
 
 102 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 rented by the week from the shop 
 of a dealer in ready-made disguises 
 for masqueraders.
 
 THE MAKING OF AN OPERA STAR. 
 
 GOOD many years ago, when 
 "Tom" Prior was running a 
 comic opera company at the 
 old Schiller theater, in Chi- 
 
 cago, a young girl came up to the 
 city from a hamlet on the banks of 
 the Wabash in Indiana, Her father 
 was a church deacon in the Indiana 
 village and his daughter came up 
 to Chicago to study music. She 
 brought with her, as chief assets, 
 a lot of ambition and an extremely 
 promising voice. 
 
 This was some time before the 
 Indiana artistic and literary move- 
 ment set in, and the Hoosier with 
 soulful longings was naturally 
 looked upon with some degree of 
 suspicion. But when Manager Prior 
 heard the girl sing — her real name 
 was Gracie Quivey — he engaged her 
 to sing in the chorus of "The Black 
 Hussar. ' ' So she wrote home that 
 she was getting along finely; that
 
 104 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 she already had secured a per- 
 manent position which would pay 
 her expenses while she was study- 
 ing music — though, to be sure, she 
 did not go into details as to just 
 what her position was. 
 
 It may be that Papa Quivey took 
 it for granted that his daughter 
 was singing in a church choir, 
 though certainly his little girl never 
 willfully deceived him in this regard . 
 When Gracie went on the stage she 
 followed tradition and made a slight 
 change in her ancestral Scotch 
 name. She left off the terminal 
 "y" and became for artistic pur- 
 poses Miss Gracia Quive, which cer- 
 tainly sounds comic opery. 
 
 Inside of two weeks she had 
 advanced in her profession to the 
 front row. Then two important 
 things happened. The first in point 
 of time was a visit paid to the 
 Schiller theater by a casual way- 
 farer from Miss Quive 's home town 
 in Indiana. As is customary with
 
 AN OPERA STAR. 105 
 
 visitors from the rural districts, he 
 sat as far down in front as was 
 humanly possible. When the 
 jaunty chorus came swinging out 
 on to the stage the gentleman from 
 Indiana gave one look at the front 
 row and almost had a fit. There 
 in extremely abbreviated skirts 
 stood little Gracie Quivey, whom 
 he had often taken to sleighing par- 
 ties and barn dances in the old home 
 town. Right after the first act the 
 Hoosier made his escape and caught 
 a train for home. He had a piece 
 of news that was altogether too 
 good to keep . He knew something 
 that would set the village gossips 
 afire. Before breakfast next morn- 
 ing he went over to tell his next 
 door neighbor, and his wife started 
 out, without stopping to wash the 
 breakfast dishes, to spread the glad 
 tidings. 
 
 " 'Si' was up there to Chicago 
 and went to one of them opry shows 
 and seen Deacon Quivey 's Grace
 
 106 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 standing right out onto the stage 
 with pink tights on." 
 
 Before noon "Pa" Quivey him- 
 self had heard of it, and, horrified 
 and scandalized at the thought, he 
 hurried to Chicago on the first train. 
 
 Then fate stepped in again. The 
 day that "Pa" Quivey arrived in 
 town the prima donna of the opera 
 company suddenly made up her 
 imperious mind that she was going 
 back to New York, and, without 
 stopping to do more than draw a 
 week's salary in advance, she 
 jumped on board a train. 
 
 Manager Prior heard of his star's 
 desertion along in the middle of the 
 afternoon. He was in despair. He 
 called the company together and 
 canvassed its members for a possi- 
 ble substitute, there being no reg- 
 ular understudy for the prima donna. 
 
 It developed that Gracia Quive 
 was the only woman in the cast 
 who was at all familiar with the 
 songs and music of the leading
 
 AN OPERA STAR. 107 
 
 role. But she did not know the 
 words of the spoken dialogue. 
 Prior was desperate, for he had had 
 a good advance sale. 
 
 "Well," he said,' "you'll have 
 to go on. Miss Quive, and do the 
 best you can with the part. I'll 
 put a man with a prompt book on 
 each side of the stage and you'll 
 have to wing the part so far as the 
 words go." 
 
 As aforesaid, Miss Quive was 
 even then an extremely ambitious 
 young person, and she determined 
 to do her best to make a hit in the 
 star role, or at least to play it so 
 well that she would be kept in the 
 part. She sat down in the stage 
 at once and studied straight ahead 
 until time for the evening perform- 
 ance, without even stopping to eat 
 dinner. An hour before the cur- 
 tain her old father found his way 
 back to the stage door and finally 
 got in to see his daughter. He was 
 furious at the humiliation he con-
 
 108 THROUGH THE STAGB DOOR. 
 
 sidered his daughter had cast upon 
 him and absolutely refused to allow 
 her to go on the stage again. 
 
 But Manager Prior finally suc- 
 ceeded in persuading him to let her 
 go on for that night only. As 
 might have been expected, Miss 
 Quive was badly rattled when she 
 made her appearance. She knew 
 nothing of the lines, in the first 
 place; she was jumping straight 
 from the chorus to a star part; and, 
 last of all, he angry^ old father, of 
 whom she was dreadfully afraid, 
 was waiting to take her home. 
 
 Will J. Davis, the well known 
 manager, happened to occupy a 
 stage box that night. He saw 
 plainly that the new star was hav- 
 ing a hard time of it. He heard 
 the prompters bawling at her from 
 both sides of the stage . But he was 
 at the same time struck with the 
 quality of her voice, and he made 
 a note of her name for future refer- 
 ence.
 
 AN OPERA STAR. 109 
 
 Next morning early her father 
 took her back home to Indiana, and 
 Miss Gracia Quive's retirement 
 from the stage appeared to be com- 
 plete. 
 
 Six months later a well known 
 vocal teacher called on Mr. Davis 
 to interest him in the education 
 and future of a young woman 
 singer. Gracia Quivey — with the 
 "y" back again in its place — was 
 hername. Mr. Davis remembered, 
 and presently he was able to get 
 her a place to sing in a church 
 choir out at Oak Park. There she 
 sang on Sundays all the time she 
 was having her voice trained during 
 the week. 
 
 Perhaps a year later the Boston- 
 ians were going to try voices in New 
 York. The idea was to get some 
 fresh, new voices of promise in their 
 chorus. Miss Quive went down 
 with a note of introduction from Mr, 
 Davis. Out of forty voices heard 
 on that occasion hers was the only
 
 110 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 one that passed the critical exam- 
 ination, and a little later Miss Qui ve 
 joined the Bostonians. She made 
 rapid progess in the company and 
 seemed well on the way to the top, 
 when something else happened. 
 
 Dr. Van Studdiford, of St. Louis, 
 a young man of wealth and social 
 position, fell in love with the singer 
 and persuaded her to leave the 
 stage and become his wife. Then 
 followed a few years of retirement 
 from professional life, during which 
 Mrs. Van Studdiford enjoyed all 
 the advantages which money could 
 give her. 
 
 Then came financial disaster and 
 in a few months most of the Van 
 Studdiford money had completely 
 vanished. But Mrs. Van Studdiford 
 still had her voice, and her ambi- 
 tion to make a notable place for 
 herself on the operatic stage had 
 only grown stronger during her 
 retirement. She found a good posi- 
 tion at once and without difficulty.
 
 AN OPERA STAR. Ill 
 
 For a few months she was with an 
 opera company, which she left be- 
 cause other members of the com- 
 pany found fault w^hen her friends 
 in vSt. Louis sent quantities of flow- 
 ers over the footlights to her when 
 a St. Louis date was played. Part 
 of one season she was under 
 engagement with the Castle Square 
 opera company, though illness kept 
 her to her room for months and 
 prevented her from appearing until 
 the season was almost over, 
 
 Mrs. Van Studdiford has taken a 
 whirl around the vaudeville circle 
 in company with some of her old 
 colleagues in the Bostonians, She 
 played the round of the continuous 
 houses in Chicago and went through 
 to the coast on the Orpheum cir- 
 cuit. 
 
 Last season she was back again 
 with the reorganized Bostonians. 
 
 They say that before a singer or 
 a musician of any kind can show 
 true feeling in his work he must
 
 112 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 have known most of the deeper 
 emotions to which humanity is 
 heir, and those who have heard 
 Mrs. Van Studdiford sing since she 
 returned to the stage profess to find 
 in her voice the softening and 
 broadening effects of her more recent 
 experiences. 
 
 She has recently signed a con- 
 tract with a prominent manager by 
 the terms of which she will appear 
 this year as a star at the head of 
 an opera company of her own. She 
 will make her debut in a stellar role 
 in a new opera, for which Victor 
 Herbert, who has made something 
 of a study of Mrs. Van Studdiford 's 
 capabilities, is now writing the 
 music.
 
 MRS. VAN STIIDDIFOKI). 
 
 SEE PACE 103.
 
 THE HANDSOMEST MAN ON THE 
 STAGE. 
 
 K 
 
 fafu 
 
 YRLE BEIvLEW, who is 
 illustrating the way in which 
 a gentleman of France runs 
 a dozen villains through 
 with his trusty rapier before break- 
 fast, has been more different things 
 in the course of his career than the 
 most versatile of his contempora- 
 ries. 
 
 It is a question whether he is 
 better known as an actor or a gold 
 mine owner and mining engineer. 
 Besides he has been a sign painter, 
 a sailor before the mast, an Aus- 
 tralian "sundowner" or tramp, and 
 a dime museum lecturer. Just now 
 he has blossomed out as an author. 
 His book — ' ' Stray Stories of a Stage 
 Nomad" — has already been pub- 
 lished in London, and is shortly to 
 be issued by the Appletons in this 
 country. And in this book Mr. 
 Bellew tells such tales of his own
 
 114 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 experiences that his friends in the 
 theatrical business are urging him 
 to dramatize his own life the next 
 time he is at a loss for a romantic 
 and sensational drama. To this 
 proposition Mr. Bellew objects on 
 the grounds that the public is tired 
 of lurid melodrama, and that every- 
 body would say that it was too im- 
 probable, anyway. 
 
 When Bellew was in London the 
 last time a woman brought him her 
 autograph book to write in. He 
 turned the pages till he came to 
 the leaf on which H. Beerbohm 
 Tree had left his mark. 
 
 " 'Tis I— Hamlet, the Dane— 
 H. Beerbohm Tree," was what the 
 English actor had written. Bellew 
 took his pen and wrote on the same 
 page and immediately beneath Mr. 
 Tree's contribution another quota- 
 tion. " 'Tis true, 'tis pity; and 
 pity 'tis true — Kyrle Bellew," was 
 the sarcastic inscription; which is 
 a fairly typical example of how much
 
 KYRLE BELLEW. 115 
 
 actors love one another. Mr. Bel- 
 lew's first experience in the Aus- 
 tralian gold fields was a good many 
 years ago. He had made consider- 
 able progress and was in a fair way 
 to become a mining millionaire 
 when suddenly the experimental 
 government of the antipodes passed 
 a law declaring that thereafter it 
 should not be lawful to employ the 
 labor of the black natives of the 
 islands in mines of any kind. That 
 put Bellew out of business almost 
 at a sweep. He struggled along 
 untilhismoney was all gone. Then 
 he turned the water into his mines, 
 flooded them, and set out to find 
 something to do. He had hard 
 work finding it — such hard work 
 that he finally became what the 
 Australians call a "sundowner," 
 which is the same thing as a tramp 
 in this country. He "panhandled" 
 his way through the scrub, begging 
 for food at the back doors of ranch 
 houses, until he finally struck Mel-
 
 116 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 bourne. There he made the rounds 
 looking for work. Finally the land- 
 lord of a little tavern expressed a 
 mild desire to have a sign painted 
 on the front of his inn, and Bellew, 
 by declaring that he was an artist 
 by trade, got the job. He painted 
 a huge white lion all across the 
 front of the hotel, and it made such 
 a hit with landlord and guests alike 
 that ever since then "The White 
 lyion" has been a favorite title for 
 Australian inns. For some weeks 
 Bellew did a rushing business in 
 the painting of white lions, and 
 when he had finally plastered the 
 fronts of a majority of the houses 
 of entertainment in the vicinity with 
 the insignia he turned to something 
 else. 
 
 First he visited the local wax 
 works' show and there, by an exhi- 
 bition of great fluency and elo- 
 quence, obtained a situation as 
 official lecturer. A little later he 
 was wandering along the docks one
 
 KYRLE BELLEW. 117 
 
 day when some one asked if he 
 knew anything about boats. 
 
 "Boats, "repliedBellew. "Why, 
 I'm a sailor by trade." 
 
 As a matter of fact, he had sailed 
 before the mast for several years, 
 and he did know a great deal about 
 the subject. So he was employed, 
 in company with another "sun- 
 downer' ' to build a flat bottom boat. 
 It is one of Mr. Bellew's boasts 
 that the boat was so well built that 
 it is still running on the waters of 
 an Australian stream. 
 
 But the question of how to get 
 back to England was still staring 
 Bellew in the face. It was solved 
 when, after long searching, he got 
 a berth as third mate on a sailing 
 ship that was bound for Liverpool. 
 It was on his return to his mother- 
 land that Mr. Bellew first went on 
 the stage. He spent five years on 
 the stage in London — part of the 
 time with Sir Henry Irving — and 
 then he came over to serve as lead-
 
 118 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR, 
 
 ing man in a New York theater. 
 His original contract was for one 
 year, but he made such a hit that 
 it was five years before he was 
 released. 
 
 Then began his connection with 
 Cora Potter — Mrs. James Brown 
 Potter — which lasted for more than 
 ten years, and during the course of 
 which the two traveled, with their 
 company, to almost every corner of 
 the civilized world. 
 
 Mr. Bellew's last appearance in 
 this country, before the present 
 engagement, was seven or eight 
 years ago, when he and Mrs. Pot- 
 ter and their company presented 
 "Charlotte Corday" and other 
 plays in Chicago and through the 
 "States." 
 
 Three or four times Bellew has 
 gone back and had a try at the gold 
 mines, near May town, which he 
 still owns in partnership with Frank 
 Gardner, the famous Anglo-Amer- 
 ican mining millionaire, who has
 
 KYRLE BELLEW. 119 
 
 for many years lived in London and 
 Paris. Enough has been done in 
 the development of the mines to 
 demonstrate to the satisfaction of 
 the owners that they have a huge 
 fortune waiting for them to dig it 
 out of the earth. Only the other 
 day Mr. Bellew received word from 
 Gardner that the stock of a com- 
 pany which has been organized to 
 develop three of their Maytown 
 mines has been floated on the Lon- 
 don market and almost any time 
 Bellew is expecting to wake up and 
 find himself a multi-millionaire. 
 
 All these years, while he has 
 been appearing on the stage, Mr. 
 Bellew has kept up an active inter- 
 est as a mining engineer from the 
 New Zealand School of Mines, 
 which is recognized as one of the 
 best institutions of its kind in the 
 world. During his recent stay in 
 New York Mr. Bellew lectured be- 
 fore the students at the school of 
 mines connected with Columbia
 
 120 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 University, which he regards as the 
 finest school of its kind in the 
 world, and it is anticipated that 
 before long he will take the exam- 
 inations for the degree of M. E. 
 from the New York school. High 
 as are his abilities as an actor it is 
 admitted that he could earn a 
 splendid living as a mining expert 
 at any time. 
 
 His partner, Frank Gardner, is 
 an American by birth, and has made 
 millions out of mines in both Aus- 
 tralia and South Africa. 
 How old is Kyrle Bellew? 
 The World Almanac says he was 
 born in London in 1845, which 
 would make him now 58 years old. 
 Mr. Bellew himself, it is under- 
 stood, confesses to 48. Some of 
 his friends are willing to raise the 
 ante to 51. 
 
 At any rate no one seeing him 
 on the stage would imagine that he 
 was on the shady side of 40. And 
 he still retains to a large degree
 
 KYRLE BELLEW. 121 
 
 that handsome profile and distin- 
 guished bearing which have made 
 for him for at least twenty years 
 one of the most prominent of the 
 great army of matinee idols. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Mr. Bellew 
 is at present a reformed matinee 
 idol, if he was ever anything else. 
 Women, young and beautiful, still 
 send him notes and locks of their 
 hair. Sometimes they actually fol- 
 low him about the country from 
 city to city. But it is all in vain. 
 He has no answering smile for any 
 of the fair ones. Apparently he is 
 devoted to the memory or to the 
 affection of some mysterious and 
 unknown lady. 
 
 Personally, his habits are exem- 
 plary. He is in bed half an hour 
 after the last curtain falls on the 
 "Gentleman of France." He does 
 not drink, nor even smoke. Which 
 is one reason why, whatever his 
 age may be, he still looks like a 
 man of 35.
 
 122 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 Born in London, the son of a 
 priest of the church of England, 
 Kyrle Bellew was educated at Ox- 
 ford. After the death of his father 
 his mother married Lord Elgin, who 
 was later the viceroy of India, 
 which explains why, when Bellew 
 and Mrs. Potter went to India on 
 their trip around the world, they 
 were received in the highest cir- 
 cles and made a tremendous suc- 
 cess, financially and otherwise. 
 And now, at the conclusion of his 
 present contract to appear as a star 
 for three years, he expects to set- 
 tle down as an Australian mining 
 millionaire in the great city of his 
 birth.
 
 HOW DAVID BELASCO WORKS AND 
 LIVES. 
 
 "L 
 
 aest 
 
 OW life may inspire high 
 art." "You must scratch 
 your way through a moun- 
 tain to success." "Liter- 
 ature is easy; life is hard." 
 
 ' ' There is nothing so complicated 
 as simplicity." 
 
 "When as a boy of ten years I 
 recited 'Curfew Shall Not Ring 
 To-night' I saw in my mind's eye 
 Mrs. Carter playing 'The Heart of 
 Maryland.' " 
 
 "The first money I ever made I 
 made by selling badges of General 
 Grant on the streets. With that 
 $18 I bought two stage wigs. The 
 playwright is born, not made." 
 
 "You must feel before you can 
 philosophize." 
 
 "Nobody can write a book on 
 play writing that is worth reading." 
 
 "The death agonies of a person 
 poisoned by strychnine are different
 
 124 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 from those produced by arsenic. I 
 am afraid of death, but have studied 
 them both from life." 
 
 "When I write a play I live a 
 play." 
 
 With two soft boiled eggs, timed 
 to three minutes, a pot of break- 
 fast tea, and some toast before him, 
 David Belasco sat at a little table 
 in his room, attired in pale blue 
 pajamas, and said: "Really, I'm 
 a poor talker." 
 
 Then he proceeded in the course 
 of twenty minutes' talk to give 
 expression to some scores of epi- 
 grams, of which those quoted above 
 are samples, as the traveling man 
 says. 
 
 After getting his star well started, 
 he left for New York. But nobody 
 with one of Belasco 's attractions 
 knows when he'll get back. 
 
 As likely as not he will come 
 back unannounced. Without say- 
 ing a word to any one, he will slip 
 into the theater at the evening per-
 
 DAVID BELASCO. 125 
 
 formance and watch the whole show 
 to see whether everybody is keep- 
 ing up to the mark. If there is 
 any "let down" a rehearsal will be 
 called, and the "governor" will 
 bring the people who have begun 
 to slight their work to a realizing 
 sense of what he wants. If, on the 
 occasion of one of these unexpected 
 visits, he finds everything going 
 just as he likes he may take the 
 morning train back to New York, 
 and nobody will be the wiser for 
 his visit. 
 
 "I believe first of all in simplic- 
 ity. Rounded periods are all very 
 well in books, but you don't often 
 find them in real life. Whataper- 
 son will do under a certain set of 
 circumstances depends altogether 
 on the person. 
 
 "You can tell one man suddenly 
 that his mother or his wife is dead, 
 and he will break out into sobs, 
 tear his hair, and act like a mad- 
 man. You bring the same message
 
 126 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 to another man, and he will stiffen 
 himself, keep perfectly quiet, and 
 only show his emotion by lowering 
 his voice and clenching his fists. 
 
 "Repose may be high art; so 
 may hysteria. It depends on the 
 temperament of the character you 
 are portraying. Either may be 
 false; either may be true. Some 
 people have an idea that the high- 
 est art is always reposeful and 
 quiet. They are wrong. It would 
 be as untrue as unartistic to make 
 some characters self-controlled and 
 silent as it would be to represent 
 a noiseless thunder storm or an im- 
 movable earthquake. 
 
 "Before I had enough money to 
 hire a stenographer I used to write 
 the dialogues of my plays seated 
 before a mirror. On the desk be- 
 fore me I had a pad of paper and 
 pencil. First I was one of the 
 characters and then another, and 
 what I felt I wrote down, using a 
 kind of shorthand, so that my hand
 
 DAVID BELASCO. 127 
 
 might keep up with my changing 
 feelings. 
 
 "All art is the better for being 
 felt before it is expressed. No 
 woman, for instance, can play the 
 part of a mother on the stage with 
 the highest art of which she is capa- 
 ble until she has actually been a 
 mother and experienced the emo- 
 tions she attempts to portray. 
 
 "Now I have a couple of ste- 
 nographers when I am working on 
 a play, but I must always act the 
 play as I go along. I get the first 
 idea for a play in many different 
 ways. I have trained myself to 
 observe men and women. Some- 
 time I see something which con- 
 tains the germ of a play ; sometimes 
 I read something in the newspapers 
 which appeals to me ; sometimes it 
 is a bit of history which strikes me ; 
 often I find myself going back to 
 some experience of my boyhood 
 days. I was an adventuresome and 
 curious boy. I was always peering
 
 128 THROUGH THE STAGE DOOR. 
 
 into forbidden places. I ran away 
 with a circus; I visited a gambling 
 house; I went to the morgue; I 
 hung around police stations. Now 
 I see the unconscious reason for it 
 all. I was gathering material for 
 the plays I was to write. 
 
 "Believe me, there is no such 
 thing as a method of playwriting. 
 One must live and then put what 
 he has lived into the mouths of his 
 actors. 
 
 "Often the theater-going public 
 is made to suffer for the sins or for 
 the shortcomings of theatrical man- 
 agers. There is no such thing as 
 a public craze for a certain kind of 
 theatrical entertainment. A good, 
 a first-class, true production of any 
 kind or type is always sure of its 
 hearing. It is most often manage- 
 rial or dramatic inability which hides 
 the cheap excuse of a public craze. 
 The sincere and able artist, be he 
 tragedian or what not , may always be 
 sure of his hearing and of success.
 
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