Chapter XIV The Masher, and Why He Exists
Thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and even appreciate it. The American brand is generally pithy, compact, and expressive, and not always vulgar. Slang is at its worst in contemptuous epithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seems likely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. No more vulgar term exists than “masher,” and it is a distinct comfort to find Webster ascribing the origin of the word to England’s reckless fun-maker,—Punch.
Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies,—all these terms have been applied at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that abomination,—masher. Nor am I “puttin’ on scallops and frills,” as the boys say. I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very much overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the window, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, “Well, she is up against it,” slangily expressed the unfortunate woman’s exact predicament. Oh, no, I’m not “puttin’ on frills,” I am only objecting with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible creature indicated by it,—masher.
In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock. Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and “mean thing” and “tattle-tale” brought sobbing little maids to the teacher’s arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, “There, there, don’t let us say anything more about it, and then we’ll all be quite happy.” I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh commandment, “Not to say anything more about it.”
Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the multiplication table. Of course fives and tens were at a premium—even very stupid little girls could get through them, and twos were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. Sevens were, however, my own especial nightmare—even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by seven. Standing in class on the platform, the sevens one day fell to me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely whispered, “Forty-nine,” and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so I recklessly cried out, “Oh, sixty-two, I guess,” and burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, “Don’t let us say anything more about the sevens, Miss Sands, and then we’ll all be quite happy.”
Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would like to cry, “Don’t let us say anything more about the masher, and then we’ll all be quite happy;” but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. The stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination. These “Johnnies” who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love—they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple. These young “taddies,” with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,—each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.
One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an “actress” until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense! Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters are his chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be sufficient; the “masher” will at once “take notice” of some other door and probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist? And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny’s pocket-book. Wait, now; please don’t jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door “masher,” who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the jeunesse dorée.
But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the “masher.” The clever and promising artist, Miss G——, is not his style. He is not looking for brains, “don’t yer know.” He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a demi-tasse. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his “mashes.” Oh, hideous word!
Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no “masher” proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate the actress’s family or friends, and through them to be properly presented.
Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a “masher” to the extent of her ability, I once went, it’s hard to admit it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I was made to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting “Alixe” at Mr. Daly’s Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There was seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning fiercely over a “drop letter,” as we called them. One evening my box held a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon club paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap. The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i’s were dotted, the t’s crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural type, and I am certain he longed to quote, “The rose is red, the violet’s blue.” I might have been a little touched but for the signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was the signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitch into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of the name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another letter came—oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was very diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his disposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter from me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to secure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to cross our biggest street—while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravely admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over before writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very night, and his seat was in the balcony,—No. 3, left side, front row,—and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.
It didn’t seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance “to look him over.” Without a second thought, I read that portion of the letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall of A. Fix.
So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large pocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of course a line spread of canvas in the balcony. The audience, ever quick to catch on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the situation, burst into hilarious laughter. Uselessly I pleaded; at every possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such unseemly places that night.
The next day that young person, whom I had treated as a common “masher,” heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: “I am afraid you are cruel. I think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for I do not remember that they did such things before last night with their handkerchiefs.”
Then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully upon my brow, “So, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don’t think I shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one word, I’ll help you to my plumb last cent,” and truly Mr. Fix left me ashamed and sorry.
He had suffered for his name, which I believed to be an assumed one. Poor young man, I offer an apology to his memory.
One scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to be sent to a certain prominent club, that I one day laid the letters before Mr. Daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that “if Mr. B.M.B., of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receive not the answer he expected, but the one he deserved,” and Mr. Daly was highly delighted when he heard that B.M.B., who was a “masher” par excellence, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms.
Those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at street corners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police, since they encumber the streets and are a menace and a mortification to female citizens. Let some brazen woman take the place of one of these street “mashers,” and proceed to ogle passers-by, and see how quickly the police would gather her in.
But so far as the stage “masher” is concerned, dear and anxious mamma, auntie, or sister, don’t worry about the safety of your actress to be. The “masher” is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam, never a danger.