by Joe Cone
Undoubtedly, every stage manager in the country, as well as every leading actor, man or woman, has had many amusing incidents has had many amusing incidents furnished them by stage struck people during their professional careers. Some no doubt are highly amusing, some ridiculous and some extremely pathetic. But not all of these people who lurk about the stage door, making the life of the manager miserable, are brainless beings, nor are they all mistaken in their ability to stand before the public exponents of dramatic art.
Occasionally a case comes to light where a first appearance has been a big hit, if you will allow theatrical terms, and I suppose these few cases are the cause of so many amateurs still holding to the idea that they “might go and do likewise”. But it is a dangerous undertaking; dangerous to both actor and manager. Nevertheless I will remember one “first appearance” that had an unusually happy and successful termination, benefitting both myself and the courageous young lady who undertook it.
I was at that time manager of a small theatre in a not very prosperous town, and was seated in my office one night waiting arrival of a company from their hotel. The leading lady had been taken seriously ill, and we were to patch out the evening with a variety performance by memebrs of the company, who were good specialty performers as well as actors.
A knock came at my door, and a moment later a girl, tall and fresh looking as a country lass, entered and inquired if I were the manager.
“I have come,” she said, “to see if you cannot help me to the stage. I want to be an actress. Wait a moment, for I know what you are about to say, but I shall not be discouraged. My mind is quite made up, and you can help me if you will.”
“But my dear girl –” I addressed her thus for she was very young – “You don’t know the –”
“Yes I do,” interrupted she; “I know all about it. I expect storms and shipwrecks, but I am determined.”
I saw at once that I had a person to deal with who was hard to convince, and that, too, I must use gentle means as she was ladylike and evidently well bred. I hardly knew what to say next, but she ably came to my assistance; it was a way she had.
“You are going to run a variety performance tonight, I hear, and I want to appear as a Shakespearean reader; will you take me?”
“Shakespearean reader?” I smiled in spite of myself. She also smiled, tho’ I could not see any reason for amusement on her part.
“Where are you from, and what experience have you had?” I made the double inquiry.
“I have taken quite a number of lessons in elocution, besides I have studied much at home all by myself. I live here in town and work in the cotton factory,” she answered, dropping her eyes as tho’ half ashamed of the last acknowledgement.
“Have you a good position in the mill?” I asked.
“Very good, sir.”
“Then I would advise you to stay in the mill,” I said, not unkindly.
“But I have a mother to support,” she said in a disappointed tone.
“The more reason why you should stay in the mill,” I observed.
“O, but I can’t do that,” she replied, brightening up again; “I am determined to go on the stage, and go I will; somewhere, somehow.”
It was to be an “off” night anyway, and somehow the thought struck me that the audience might find amusement in either her success or failure, so finally I made up my mind to let her go on. There was no time for a rehearsal as the company had already begun to arrive, and the auditorium was beginning to show signs of life. Handing her over to the soubrette for make up, I added her name to the long list on the poster outside, then nervously awaited the curtain.
* * *
It is unnecessary to dwell on the details of the program, and upon the calls and recalls showered upon the fair young reader. The house was full; whether from sympathy because of the illness of the leading lady, or whether from curiosity because it was to be a variety performance. I knew not, nor cared. Suffice to say it was a success, the largest share being due to the excellent work of the young Shakespearean reader. There had never been anything like it before in the town. I was simply amazed that so powerful and so true a scholar of the immortal William should be delving away in a cotton mill, under our very noses, and up to that hour entirely unknown to us.
As soon as I was able I grasped her hand, and thanked her warmly.
“You are an artist, Miss Jasen,” I said; “Please come and see me tomorrow at three.”
And taking her wraps and a bill of good dimensions clasped tightly in her fingers, she sped home to her mother.
A few moment later the leading man of the crippled dramatic company rushed up to me.
“Who was that girl who read Shakespeare?” he queried.
“O, one of the mill girls, here in the place,” I answered, carelessly. “Why, can you give her a start?”
“No; I wish I could; but I know of a manager who is looking for just such a person as she,” he replied. “And she’d make a big hit, too. Where can I see her?”
“Come around tomorrow at three,” I said, and he promised to do so.
Three years later I was manager of one of the largest theatres of New York City. A first class organization was just in from Chicago for a two month’s run, and when I met the leading woman, whose name by the way was strange to me, she put her dainty hand in mine and said with a truly grateful smile:
“Thank you, Mr. M_____ for your great kindness to me three years ago in H_____; I haven’t forgotten it. This is my husband and leading man, to whom, with you, I owe my successful start. He wishes to thank you, too.”
Before she had spoken a dozen words I had recognized them both, and holding the hand of the young Shakespearean reader, and that of the star of a once crippled dramatic troupe, I wished them a life-long success, which, by the way, they have thus far had.
Joseph Andrews Cone
Cambridge, Mass.
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