A great many of these lovers, as they are designated, are bold and heartless wretches, who have in some way or other obtained an introduction to or scraped acquaintance with the sometimes fair young creatures who fill in the crevices and chinks of a play, or air their limbs in the labyrinths of a march, or shake them in some strange and fascinating dance. They look upon the ballet girl, whether she be a dancer or merely below the line of utility, as legitimate prey, and without the slightest scruple will waylay or spread a net to catch her in some quiet but successful manner. They forget that many girls enter the theatre with the intention of making honorable and honest livings; that they prize their virtue as highly as the most respected young lady who moves in the topmost circles of the best society, and that the theatrical profession is only misrepresented by the men and women who give themselves up to debauchery, and allow their passions to run riot to such an extent that they win notoriety of the most unsavory and unenviable kind. It is only because the stage is besieged by so many scoundrels and villains who have either bought or begged the privileges of the back door that the profession is dangerous to young and innocent girlhood. The stage itself is pure, and could be kept so, if these hangers-on were only done away with and the youthful student and aspirant for histrionic honors were allowed to pursue her vocation unassailed by the handsome tempters who begin by flattery and after an usually easy conquest, end the dream of love by rudely casting the fallen girl aside to make room for another victim.
Stand here in the shadow awhile. The performance is at an end, and the gentlemen who haunt the stage-door are beginning to assemble. There are probably a half dozen of them. They stand around sucking the heads of their canes and anxiously awaiting the appearance of their inamoratas. A burlesque company has the theatre this week, and there are probably eighteen or twenty handsome young ladies in the combination. Nearly every one of them is a "masher," and can be depended upon to hit the centre of a weak male heart, with an arrow from her beaming eye, at one hundred yards. Some of them have received tender notes from the front of the house during the night, making appointments for a private supper at one of the free and easy restaurants; others have met their gentlemen friends before and can depend upon them to wait at the stage-door every night. Those who send the notes during the performance are of what is classed as the ultra-cheeky kind. A man of this class will do anything to make the acquaintance of a ballet or chorus girl. I knew one, one night, to push a dozen different notes under the door of Eme Rousseau's dressing-room, which opened into the parquette, and he would not desist until Samuel Colville, the manager, caused him to be dragged out of the theatre and given over to the police. Another gentleman of the same proclivities having failed to gain Alice Oates's attention when she was in Chicago, followed her to St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Louisville, and still being unable to effect a proper "mash," endeavored to introduce himself successfully and gain her favor forever by making her a present of a pair of fast horses. Alice very sensibly refused to accept the gift, and told the fond and foolish young man to go home to his mother.
Many cases of this kind might be cited to show how easily the women who enter the profession, partly for the purpose of prostituting their art, find easy conquest among the hair-brained fellows who are only too willing to be captives and rarely try to break the fetters of roses with which they find themselves bound. But keep here in the shadow a while and watch the manœuvres of the "mashers." The stage-door opens and out comes a very modest little girl. She does not belong to the combination playing at the house this week, but is a member of the regular ballet of the theatre—one of the few poor creatures who are obliged to get into ridiculous costumes of enormous dresses or unpadded tights, to increase the throng of court-ladies, the number of pages, or add to the proportions of a crowd. She does not dress any better than a girl who finds employment in a factory. She is young, however, and stage-struck. She has gone into the profession, braving all its dangers and with a firm resolution to go unscathed through it, carrying with her a sincere love for art and a burning desire to attain eminence. But alas! she has little talent, and absolutely no genius. This can be seen and appreciated already, although she has not had two lines to speak since entering the theatre. She has been in the employ of the house only since the beginning of the season. The "mashers" part to make room for her as with eyes cast down she trips along the street. Some of them say smart and pretty things, and some have the impudence to raise their hats and bid her good-evening. She pays no attention to them, however, and it is probably fortunate that the tall muscular gentleman in work-day clothes who has had a pass to the gallery or may not have been in the theatre at all, and who is waiting a block below to escort her home, does not know the petty insults that are put upon her or the snares that beset her path. Every night the big burly fellow waits for the modest little ballet girl to see her home in safety. The girl does not tell them at home to what dangers she is exposed, and they never learn until sometime the fall comes, when a troupe of negro minstrels or a large comic opera chorus invade the house and lay siege to the hearts of all the females they find behind the scenes.
Here come two laughing blondes through the stage door. The light falling upon their faces shows that although they try to appear light and cheery, there is weariness in their limbs and perhaps distress in their hearts. They select their male friends at once; indeed, the latter have been waiting for the gay burlesquers.
"Charley dear, I didn't see you in front to-night," says one.
"Neither did I," says the other; "but George was there. I could tell him by his red eyes and cherry nose."
"Yes," responds Charley, "there was too much champagne in that last bottle, and I didn't care about getting out of bed until half an hour ago."
"You had considerable of the juicy under your vest, last night," the first girl remarks; and then there is a laugh, and Charley says he feels in a good humor for tackling more wine at that particular moment, and the quartette move off to a hack-stand, jump into an open carriage and with lots of laughter the party are driven away to some suburban garden with wine-room attachment, or to some urban restaurant where wine may flow as freely as morality may fade away with the speeding hours, and the pleasure may last just as long as the restauranteur thinks he is being well paid for the privileges of his establishment.
Another girl comes through the stage-door. She is probably twenty-four years of age, is tall, handsome, and most attractive in her manners. There is the least suspicion of the matron in her appearance, that dignity of carriage that characterizes women after marriage being clearly defined in her motions. She knows somebody has been waiting for her—a young fellow as tall, handsome, and attractive as herself. He sees her at once as she comes out, and goes to meet her. Her footsteps are bent in his direction also. As they come together she lays her hand upon his extended arm, and says:—
"No, Fred, I cannot go to-night. Sister is sick at the hotel, and the baby has no one to take care of her. I must go home to my child."
"Pshaw!" says Fred, "I had everything arranged for an elegant drive and a rattling supper."
"I'm so sorry, Fred;" the woman pleads, "but I can't go to-night. You will have to excuse me this once. You know it was daylight when we parted this morning."
"I know," her friend insisted; "but what's the use in worrying about the baby. She's probably asleep now and won't need your care. Come, go along."
"No, I cannot. I will not to-night." But Fred continues to plead, asking the pleasure of her presence at a supper, just for a half hour and no more. Unable to resist the warmth of his appeals, she at last consents, and it is safe to say, that once the evening's entertainment begins, morning breaks upon the sleepy babe and sick sister at the hotel before Fred and his companion are ready to part.
I knew a friend—a dramatic writer—who stood at the back door one night and waited for a pair of pretty chorus singers. My friend had another friend with him—a prominent merchant. The two gay and giddy young girls, who were only foolish flirts, did not know that the gentlemen who had invited them to a midnight ride and a late supper were married. Indeed, they may not have cared. So when the opera of "Olivette" was over and the pair of chorus singers emerged at the back door of the stage and