WHISPERS FROM THE WINGS

September 1913 Acton Davies
WHISPERS FROM THE WINGS
September 1913 Acton Davies

ALTHOUGH Sarah Bernhardt never tires of declaring that she will be sixty-nine her next birthday and that, in recently becoming a great grandmother, she has accomplished the proudest achievement of her long life she has a distinct distaste for discussing any subject which deals with death in any form or manner. She also has a horror of black clothes and no matter how many relations a member of her company may lose in the course of a season if that mourner has the least desire to remain in the Divine Sarah's good graces, he or she will never dare to indulge in the luxury of conventional mourning. In fact the great actress carries her hatred of black so far that even when the rôle which she is playing demands that she shall wear mourning habiliaments this queen of the mimic world invariably avails herself of the prerogative of a real queen and arrays herself in royal purple. Madame Saylor, who has been a member of Bernhardt's company for more than a quarter of a century remarked that the only time she had ever seen Sarah in black garb upon the stage was when she played Hamlet.

On one of those rare occasions when the actress happened inadvertently to touch of her own accord upon the subject of death she declared that the actual fact of dying held no horror for her; it was the thought of being embalmed that always filled her with terror and disgust. And curiously enough, the night after she landed in America last Autumn she had a dream and saw herself lying dead while over her stood a colored undertaker with a huge carving knife in his hand. This dream had such a terrifying effect upon Sarah that she subsequently spoke frequently to her intimates and the members of her company with the result that all these people, being genuinely devoted to her, banished the subject of death even further from their conversation when Madame Bernhardt was within hearing.

Some time in January a young French actor joined the company in the far West. He knew nothing of the actress's harrowing dream and no one thought to warn him of the star's abhorrence of all mention of death. Madame Bernhardt was traveling in her private car at this time and the chef which the Pullman company had provided was an uncommonly fine colored cook of the name of Richard. Richard and the newly arrived young actor got into conversation in the car's kitchen one day and, Richard inadvertently confessed that, before being a Pullman car chef he had been a highly successful embalmer in Richmond, Va.

That night Madame Bernhardt gave a banquet to some twenty guests in the dining room of her car. The young actor was among them and by way of supplying his hostess with interesting small talk informed her what had been Richard's previous mode of earning a living. The young actor will remember what followed to his dying day. It wasn't a "scene" in the ordinary sense of that much abused term; it was a riot with the "Divine Sarah "playing all the rôles. Having consigned Richard to all the nether-most hells in as many languages as she had command of, Sarah pushed the dishes on the table far away from her, forbade her guests to eat another mouthful, ordered the train stopped instantly and swore by the honor of her beloved son Maurice that she would partake of neither food nor drink again until the hapless Richard had been flung bodily from the car. The fact — of which one of her guests informed her — that at that moment they were crossing the trestlebridge over the Great Salt Lake made not the slightest difference. She did not care how salty the grave was to which she consigned the luckless chef.

The prospect of watching "The Divine Sarah" on a "food strike" à la Mrs. Pankhurst was too much for her English interpreter, Miss Ormsby, who, craving only five minutes' grace on Richard's behalf, rushed promptly to the kitchen and interviewed that celebrity who at that minute was whipping up a species of omelette of which Madame happened to be particularly fond. From his own lips Miss Ormsby heard the worst. It was quite true and Richard was proud of it: he had been an embalmer. Then Miss Ormsby talked to him — talked emphatically but with such immediate effect that within three minutes she was able to quell the tumult, lead Madame Bernhardt back to her chair again, induce her to rescind Richard's horrible fate and even persuade her to nibble fearlessly, at one of Richard's especially prepared turkey wings.

It was all a mistake Miss Ormsby explained without the quiver of an eyelash; a mere misunderstanding which was likely to happen to any foolish young French ass who imagined that he could learn to speak perfect English in thirty days. Richard, in answer to the impertinent and unnecessary questions which had been put to him in his afternoon had merely said that he had formerly been a barber. Beyond the fact that embalmer had a "b" in it Miss Ormsby couldn't possibly see any resemblance in the world to a barber, but then some people were fools enough to make stories or even embalmers out of whole cloths. As for Madame Bernhardt, after finishing her supper she swore by all the gods and the honor of her son Maurice that sleep should not touch her eyelids that night until she had sought the pardon of "mon pouvre Richard."

And thus it happens that Richard, who has reverted to his old calling in Richmond now, enlivens many a funeral function by displaying to his brother "mutes" and mourners the strong black hand which once shook the hand of "Saray Bernhardt."

"THE day that Mr. Belasco sent for Mr. Kelcey and myself a little over a year ago and offered us the chance of appearing under his management once more, I have always regarded as the happiest day of my life." said Miss Effie Shannon on the closing night of her engagement in "Years of Discretion."

"There was a lot of sentiment connected with this engagement for both Mr. Kelcey and myself. The last time we had played under Mr. Belasco's stage direction was in the early days of the dear old Lyceum more than twenty years ago. So after the question of our salaries had been settled, when Mr. Belasco asked what sort of a contract I wanted drawn up I said, 'If you don't mind I'd like to have the same contract—except in the matter of salary of course—! that I used to have with Mr. Frohman in the Lyceum days/ 'Fine,' said Mr. Belasco, 'I'll call up Dan in the morning and have a copy of it made for you — all except the salary of course!' and he burst out laughing at some recollection and said, 'In those days as I remember it Herbert was the only member of the company who drew a hundred dollars a week. You as principal ingénue got sixty while poor me, as stage director got only $35!'

"Well in the course of a few days," Miss Shannon went on, "the contract was sent to me. I signed it and then put it aside to read at my leisure. Just then I was so busy learning my part that I hadn't time for anything else.

"A day or two later Mr. Belasco, at the close of the rehearsal, asked me to accompany him to a certain famous dressmaker's. He wanted to hold a consultation about my clothes. Before we had left that one shop he had ordered frocks which, my woman's instinct told me, would total up to at least eight thousand dollars. My heart began to sink inside of me. From the dressmakers we went to a famous milliner's where he ordered easily a thousand dollar's worth of hats; then after purchasing some fifteen hundred dollars' worth of cloaks and wraps he left me gallantly at a famous lingerie shop with instructions that I wasn't to leave until 1 had ordered at least one thousand dollars of lingerie, silk stockings and everything else that the heroine in her wildest bursts of extravagance would be sure to buy. All these things I realized were quite necessary to this rôle. Mr. Belasco had a perfect right to demand them.

"But by the time I got out of that lingerie shop there was a frog in my throat. I could scarcely keep the tears back. I jumped into a taxi and hurried home and with trembling hands tore open my contract to see if one clause which I distinctly remembered to have been in the old Lyceum contract had been copied in the Belasco one. Yes, there it was, staring me in the eyes! I flopped right down on the floor and cried like a child, and half my tears were tears of rage, I assure you. I hadn't even the usual lachrymose luxury of sympathizing with myself; for it had all been my own doing. I had chosen my own fate. I had actually asked as a favor that this particular catastrophe should be brought on my own head. For hours, as I lay sleepless and sobbing in bed that night my mind was filled with the harrowing experiences of other actresses who had got themselves hopelessly in debt to dressmakers and milliners. When at last I fell asleep a wrathful halo of Paquins, Redferns, Bendels, Mollie O'Haras and Madame Louises surrounded me, all poking writs and bills as long as your arm in my poor distracted face. 'Years of Discretion,' forsooth! In my dreams it seemed as though I had arrived at just the reverse! In the morning, looking a perfect sight, I dressed and went to the theatre. I had made up my mind to resign my role as soon as I could get a chance to speak to Mr. Belasco. It was the only thing for me to do I realized. It simply broke my heart but there was no possible alternative for me unless I wanted to spend the balance of my life in Ludlow Street jail.

"Well I went through the rehearsal so listlessly that the eagle eye of Mr. Belasco saw there was something wrong at once. He sent his stage manager Mr. Dean with a message that if I wasn't feeling well he would call off the rehearsal for the day. That was too much! I just burst out crying and hurried into my dressing room. Before I could explain anything Mr. Belasco came rushing in. When I sobbed out the news that I had to resign my part he looked at me in blank amazement.

'"But what on earth's the reason? Isn't the salary enough?"

','Oh yes. It's not that,' I cried, 'but it's the bills for those frocks and things. They're up to nearly ten thousand dollars already. With all my other expenses I couldn't conscientiously shoulder such an awful debt as that.'

'"But that's my business,' said Mr. Belasco almost sternly. 'What have you got to do with that? All I ask of you is to wear them properly.'

'"Oh but I have a great deal to do with them,' I snapped back at him, "according to my contract five hundred dollars is all that the management will spend for my clothes. Anything over that amount the actress — which in this instance is me — has got to pay for. And much as I should like to play this part I simply could not afford to have such a sum as that taken out of my salary in a single season.'

"Mr. Belasco threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'Do you mean to say there's a clause like that in your contract?'

'"Why certainly there is. Didn't you read it?, I asked indignantly.'

"He shook his head still laughing. 'No I didn't,' he chuckled, 'Didn't you?'

'"No I didn't either,' I had to confess; and then he and Dean laughed harder than ever.

"'This proves at all events,' he remarked, 'that you an I, Effie, have sublime faith in each other. When you asked for that contract I got a copy from Dan Frohman and thinking I remembered it by heart I signed it without reading it. So did you. So there we are! But when you've been with me ten years or so as I hope you will be, you'll realize that, no matter what any of my contracts may say, I always pay for the clothes of my women stars.'"

MISS MAUDE ADAMS, who in common with most of the members of her company has just recovered from a three months' scourge of whooping cough has now fallen an enthusiastic victim to a new disease —" Peter Panitis" no less! On July 20th Miss Adams closed a forty-two weeks' season in " Peter Pan." More than twenty-five weeks of that season had been spent in one night stands, a form of thespian torture which always seems to afford Miss Adams ecstatic delight.

In spite of the fact that her summer home in the Catskills, her great estate at Ronkonkoma, L. I., and her charming town house were all awaiting her Miss Adams spent all her leisure time on her return trip from the Western town where her season closed poring over the pages of a brand new map of the United States which showed every town of more than 2,500 inhabitants.

Just as the "Peter Pan" special was drawing into the Grand Central station and the company after nearly a year's absence were straining their eyes for a first glimpse of dear old New York, Miss Adams drawing the company together remarked, "I have a splendid piece of news for you all, good people. Since studying this map I find that there are still three or four hundred towns in America which have not yet seen "Peter Pan." I don't believe our booking office has ever heard of half of them but that doesn't matter. I've booked a perfectly splendid route for myself and I shall talk to Mr. Frohman about it this afternoon. So now instead of us all growing lazy for the next two months I've arranged it so that we can all go back to work on August 8. We shall open in Lacrosse, Wis."

So, if on some of those hot dog day nights your ears were assailed along the Great White Way with wails which sounded as though they might have emanated from some piratical sore throat or the larnyx of some lost, strayed, or stolen wild Western coyote you can put it down to the fact that Captain Hook's pirate crew and those wolfish pals of "Peter Pan" were merely giving tongue to their anguish at their holiday being cut short and the imminent prospect of having to go back to work again.

APROPOS of Miss Adams and the big fortune which she is coining out of the "Peter Pan" performances here's a fact which isn't generally known but is true none the less. Just as it was Charles Frohman who made Maude Adams the most successful star now before the public it was Miss Adams herself by her own enthusiasm and foresight who made "Peter Pan" the immense financial success which it is.

During the Barrie play's first engagement in New York it was far from being the big success which had been anticipated. At the end of the first eight weeks at the Empire there wasn't a member of Charles Frohman's staff who would not gladly have assisted in sending the play to the storehouse. Not so Miss Adams however. Her faith in it never wavered. It was she who, surrounded by a corps of secretaries, sent thousands of circular letters to the principals of public and private schools all over the country and by so doing drew the attention of a vast juvenile public which is still only too willingly pouring its pocket money into the coffers of those two poetical pirates, J. M. Barrie and " Peter Pan."

FOR the truth of this story Robert Mantell can vouch. He and the writer overheard it together while concealed behind a screen in Manager Brady's private office on the top floor of The Playhouse. It was on that memorable day last season which Mr. Brady had dedicated to the inspection of artistic temperaments.

An advertisement published in the newspapers the day before announced that if any persons, feeling themselves possessed of artistic temperaments would call at The Playhouse at 2 o'clock on the following afternoon Mr. Brady, after examining them, would endeavor to provide them with positions in some of his travelling companies. Mr. Mantell had dropped in partly from curiosity and partly in the hope that he might secure a score or so of temperamental "supers" for his Shakespearian Company.

By one o'clock traffic on West 48th Street in the vicinity of The Playhouse was completely blocked; on the four flights of the staircase leading to the office artistic temperaments of every species, sex, and calibre were packed a good deal tighter than sardines in a box. Only some six hundred applicants managed to wedge their way inside the building. Of these at least ninety per cent, were women.

To each of the applicants as they appeared before him Mr. Brady put the same three questions. " What makes you think you're a temperamental person? What stage experience have you had? What line of parts do you prefer?"

After some fifty "temperaments" had been duly inspected and fallen short of the Brady standard a tall gaunt-looking woman, who might have been a New England school mar'm in her younger days entered the room. In one hand she carried three huge rolls of manuscript and by the other she led a scared looking child of seven.

"No child actresses wanted to-day," shouted Mr. Brady.

"It is I, not my child, who possess the artistic temperament, sir," said the woman sternly. " I am a strictly classical actress. I only play in Shakespeare and in plays which I write for myself. My husband has scruples about allowing me to act in any of those modern Frenchy 'triangle' plays. I have three of my own plays here. I've brought them for you to read. The leading role in each I have designed for myself. No one-"

"Never mind your plays," said Brady, pushing the manuscripts aside. "How am I to know you've got an artistic temperament?"

"All my family have said so ever since I was a child. My first husband said the tame thing before he left me. All rry life everybody who has been close to me said the same-"

"Yes! But how about your stage experience. How many classical roles have you played?"

The woman drew herself up haughtily. She looked pained, almost indignant. " I hat's what I came to you for,— to put me on the stage."

"And you call yourself a Shakespearian actress yet you admit you've never put your foot on the stage."

"It was not necessary, sir," replied the woman haughtily. " For seven years I have lived in a purely classical and Shakespearian propinquity."

Mr. Brady thoroughly curious, asked, "Now what do you mean by that?"

"Well if you must know, I'll tell you, sir," she replied as she prepared to make a dignified exit, "My home is at Atlantic Highlands and for the past seven years I've lived across the street from that great Shakespearian actor of yours, Mr. Robert Mantell."

THE one man in theatrical circles today, outside of Daniel Frohman who can verify the statement of David Belasco that he only drew $35 a week salary as stage director of the old Lyceum, is no less a celebrity than Corse Payton, sometimes known as the "voiceless Chauncey Olcott" of the "Ten-twenty-and-thirts." And the reason why Mr. Payton knows so much about the inside history of the little old theatre which used to stand on Fourth Avenue near Twenty-third Street is that before the Lyceum was pulled down the fittings and fixtures and entire paraphernalia of the interior of the theatre were bought by Corse Payton for a lump sum from Brent Goode. The writer well remembers a certain night some eleven years ago when he journeyed to the Lee Avenue Theatre, Williamsburg, to witness Mr. Payton's production of a dramatic version of "Parisfal" with an orchestra of forty musicians and a cast" which displayed so much intelligence that it was hard to believe they were the component parts of a thirty-cent production. However that fact was neither here nor there! The acute and indelible recollection which was carried away from this particular production of "Parsifal" was the Lyceum's dear old drop curtain which confronted you as you first entered and the dear, old cumfy brown leather orchestra chairs which made the small of your back seem so perfectly at home as soon as you dropped into your seat. Not only the curtain and the orchestra chairs but the hangings in the boxes, the decorations on the proscenium arch, even the ice water racks with which the ushers patrolled the aisle in the entr'actes and the very uniforms on the boy ushers' backs had been ferried across the East River from the Lyceum to end their days in active service at the Lee Avenue. For those were indeed the happy, happy days of the "ten-twenty-thirts".

Also included in the purchase of the Lyceum's interior was the contents of the old theater's mammoth safe — in fact the only article in the play house which did not become the possession of Mr. Payton was the glass and wooden frame which constituted the front of the box-office and through which every dollar that the Lyceum had taken in throughout its long and uncommonly prosperous career had had to pass. This frame with Mr. Payton's consent was retained by Manager Daniel Frohman and subsequently presented by him to the star who had made more money for the theatre than any other actor— E. H. Sothern.

Ye Gods and little fishes! What amazing stories those old ledgers of the Lyceum could tell to the young leading man of to-day who thinks nothing of demanding his four or five hundred dollars a week. There are entries in those books which show that at the height of her success Miss Louise Dillon received only $40 a week; that Henry Miller, Nelson Wheatcroft, John Mason, William Faversham and George Fawcett drew salaries varying all the way from forty to seventy dollars and that when Maude Adams made her first and only appearance at the Lyceum in "The Highest Bidder" she received ten dollars a week less than David Belasco — that is, twenty-five dollars a week!