VintageMeld

“Greenroom Stories: Some True Tales of Stage Folk” reprinted from the Saturday Evening Post, June 3, 1905, by Charles Bloomingdale, Jr. This is the 2nd of 5 parts of uneven length. More on this selection at the bottom of the page.

Part 2: A Thespian Crazy Quilt

One night she showed me a curio–a slumber-robe. In olden times the bit of spread six feet square would have been known as a “crazy quilt.” But time’s refining influences have changed these things into slumber-robes.

“There are over six hundred bits of oddly-shaped pieces of silk and satin in this spread,” said she as she displayed the quilt, “and it’s a scrapbook of men and women who are known all over the world. It is made of bits of gowns and clothes worn by actor, actress, circus performer and freak. This small square came from one of Ellen

Terry’s frocks, and right next to it is a bit of wedding gown worn by Anna Swan, the Nova Scotia giantess when she took a big fellow for better or for worse. Mrs. Tom Thumb contributed a piece of yellow silk, and Jane Hading part of the hem of the gown she had on the night she scored her first success at the Comedie Francaise. This ruby-colored satin came from my tights–the ones I wore the night I just managed to strike the edge of the net. I’ll never wear tights again, so this bit of satin has especial significance to me. Here is a piece of Henry Irving’s necktie, and this is a corner of one of Tamagno’s silk handkerchiefs. Forty dwarfs and five giantesses have contributed to this spread; and riders, clowns, contortionists and aerial performers have given me bits of their apparel. That black square is from one of Lily Langtry’s frocks, the green diamond-shaped piece of silk is from Anna Jones, the bearded lady, and that gray satin octagon is from a sunshade carried by the Empress Josephine.

“It took me five years’ traveling with the circus to collect my material–but it’s a wonderful little scrapbook, isn’t it?”

One night Marcus Mayer, manager, at one time or another, of nearly every star of international reputation, told me a little tale of Sarah Bernhardt. The story illustrates two things–the divine Sarah’s keen sense of humor and her nervous temperament.

“It was during Bernhardt’s first American tour in 1881,” began Mr. Mayer. “The scene of the story was Mobile. In those days there was but one threatre there, and John McCullough usually played a three-night engagement every season. But in 1881 the manager of the Mobile theatre wanted the tragedian to play a week in that city, and McCullough consented, stipulating, however, that the local manager should not book any attraction at his theatre for two weeks previous to McCullough’s coming. Then, the tragedian argued, the Mobilites would be actually hungry for an attraction of any sort.

“Well, that was the theatrical condition that confronted me when I went to Mobile to talk business with the local manager. I wanted Bernhardt to play for one night only, but the Mobile manager ruefully showed me his contract with McCullough and said he was bound to observe its conditions. However, I found that in Mobile was a place called Temperance Hall, and that entertainments of all sorts, from church fairs to medicine shows, were given there. So I engaged Temperance Hall and advertised Bernhardt.

“The hall was primitive in the extreme–candles did duty for footlights and benches for seats. But the place was packed at big prices when the curtain went up on Bernhardt’s Camille.

“You remember the feast scene in the first act? Well, the property-man of Temperance Hall had a couple of papier-mache chickens that had done duty for thousands of years. Bernhardt was particular regarding properties for her plays, but the property-man of Temperance Hall thought that if his chickens were good enough for variety shows they were good enough for Sarah Bernhardt.

“Along came the papier-mache pullets in the first act–the sorriest, most dilapidated travesties on the chicken family that ever graced, or disgraced, the table of Camille. One leg apiece was all that was left, and on each side, so they could preserve their equilibrium, big chunks of wadding had been placed in the plate to prop up the fowls. In bringing them on the stage, the wadding had slipped its moorings, and each long chicken leg stood stark and stiff in the air–like brown chunks of wood peering from under a snowdrift.

“Bernhardt gave one look at the miserable chickens and burst into laughter. She gave another look and another peal of laughter. Then she ran over to the sofa and rolled on it, alternately laughing and crying. We rang down the curtain at once, took Bernhardt to her dressing-room, and sent for a couple of doctors from the audience. They labored over Sarah for fifteen minutes, then ordered her sent to her hotel. For two hours she had violent hysterics, and then slept.

“Of course the audience was dismissed–but no one knew that the cause was laid at the door of two one-legged papier-mache chickens surrounded by white wadding.”

Previously: Part 1: Introduction
Next: Part 3: The Player’s the Thing

I deal in a lot of old magazine back issues and from time to time find myself distracted paging through them. When the material provides a peek into the pop culture of yesteryear plus is old enough itself to be in the public domain, I’m going to do my best to transcribe it here, on the VintageMeld.

I’d been hoping to pull some stories of late 19th and early 20th century stars of the stage into the VintageMeld, so “Greenroom Stories,” published in 1905 by the Saturday Evening Post, seemed a natural selection to serialize. Published in one helping by the Post, I’m going to break it into uneven parts on the VintageMeld, basically cutting it off at each major break in the original article. “Greenroom Stories” gives me a chance to share some images of early 20th century stage stars while Mr. Bloomingdale has the opportunity to entertain once again, over 100 years later.