Unknown Admirers

The musical comedies that were so popular during the golden age of theatre were famous for the many beautiful actresses who rose to stardom in their midst. These young ladies were never short of admirers, especially amongst the male members of their audiences who would often go to great lengths in an attempt to gain their acquantance. Reproduced below are the results of some interviews with the press where popular actresses of the time reveal some of the letters they have received from unknown admirers.

(The Star [Christchurch, NZ] - Issue 5014, 28th July 1894)
(Reprinted from Titbits [London, UK])

MUSIC-HALL STARS AND THEIR LOVE-LETTERS

Few girls have attained to the age of long frocks and coiled-up hair without having received at least one love letter. Many "boarding-school misses," not yet out of their teens, can count their billets-doux by dozens or even scores. But the popular music-hall star counts hers by the hundred.

And the higher the position - professionally - of the artiste, the more numerous are her love-letters. They are of all kinds. Many of them bear internal evidence of genuineness. Others, on the contrary, are evidently inspired by vanity or by even lower motives. Some read like the productions of a person bereft of reason, while the writers of others affect a cold, mincing, and precise style of diction totally out of keeping with the language of a love-sick swain.

The writers of these amorous epistles range from the top to the bottom of the social scale. Peers of the realm, statesmen, lawyers, and even clergymen, have at times so far forgotten themselves as to pen letters containing the most fervent expressions of admiration to ladies of whom they could by no possibility know anything more than is to be gained by anyone who chooses to pay their 2s or 3s for a seat at the Empire or the Tivoli.

The writer of this article has made exhaustive enquiries of some of the leading lady variety stars, and has perused many thousands of these curious effusions. Here are some extracts, culled from one of the latest. It is dated April 20th, 1894, and was addressed to Miss Ida Heath, the charming little transformation dancer. After apologising for having followed her and thereby caused her annoyance, the writer goes on:-

Unfortunately for myself, I have conceived a great admiration, nay, reverence for you. I have always regarded you as something far superior to all ordinary mortals. To my eyes you have appeared as a divinity - a goddess. It is this, then, that has been the cause of my following you about. Some time ago I followed you on a bicycle, and so found out where you lived, and hung round your house evening after evening in the vain hope of seeing you. I have watched you in the Royal every evening, and directly I have seen you make a move to go, I have been round to the stage door as soon as you have. I have waited to catch a glimpse of your sweet face, and have then run all the way to the Canterbury, and by taking short cuts I have managed to get there a little ahead of you. I first saw you some five years ago on the first occasion I ever entered a music-hall, and I have followed you about more or less ever since. If you but knew my miserable state of mind, I am sure you would pity me. I am now, at the age of twenty, nothing but a misanthropical old man with only one object in life, and that is to witness your marvellous performance.

The letter goes on like this for four closely written sheets.

Evidently the writer of the above billet-doux was in deadly earnest, and as Miss Heath is unmarried and, I believe, "fancy free," there was some method in his madness. But what shall we say of the following effusion, received by Miss Katie Lawrence, who, it is well known to most people, has been married for several years past to Mr George Fuller, the variety, agent?

Dear Miss Lawrence

I take the liberty of writing to you, although I have only seen you twice, and you have never seen me. You may think I am a silly young fool, as I am only eighteen years of age, but you have enraptured me with your performances, and as I know no one who will introduce me, I take the liberty of introducing myself.

After spreading his protestations of affection over three sheets of notepaper, the writer concludes as follows:

Do not mistake me for an ignorant music-hally fellow, as I have had a splendid education, and have hopes of coming into a little money shortly. Please reply, telling me never to cross your path again, or giving me a chance to meet one whom I so passionately adore.

Miss Bessie Bonehill, the famous male impersonator, has a unique collection of love-letters - twenty in all - which have been sent her by girls at various periods during her career. The writers evidently mistook her for a real boy. Miss Bonehill treasures these curious epistles highly, regarding them, and we venture to think rightly so, as the very best evidence which could be brought forward of her success in her peculiar line of business.

Perhaps, however, the most extraordinary collection of love-letters in existence is in the possession of Miss Vesta Tilley. There are several hundreds of them, and they are all from the same individual, having been received at intervals during the past five years. They are mostly written in pencil, but invariably on the very best of notepaper. This the sender has been at the trouble and expense of getting stamped in colours with various more or less fanciful addresses.

These remarkanble epistles are filled with the most fervent, albeit somewhat incoherent, expressions of admiration. The envelopes bear the postmarks of nearly every town of any importance in Great Britain, and although Mr De Freece, Miss Tilley's husband, has spent considerable sums in trying to discover the writer, his identity is up to the present an absolute secret. The most charitable supposition is that he is simply a wandering lunatic.

It is given to but few women to receive a proposal of marriage from a complete stranger by telegraph. Yet this curious experience happened to Miss Rose Sylvester. The sender who was himself, strange to say, in the "profession," wished to marry her in order that "they might work the halls together as a double turn." I am sorry to have to add that the suit of this enterprising wooer did not meet with the success it, perhaps, deserved. The charming serio-comic did not, in fact, even trouble herself to reply, and the "wire" now reposes in a large scrap-book, in company with a number of other effusions of a similar kind.

The shortest love letter on record is believed to be in the possession of Miss Daisy De Roy. It reads as follows:

Dear Daisy

I love you passionately. Will you be mine?

It is to be presumed that the writer of this curtly worded epistle was unaware that this pretty little Tyrolean vocalist took on the bonds of matrimony several years ago. She is the wife of Mr Carl Ostend, the well-known female impersonator.

Miss Amy Lyster possesses a love letter which is a remarkable mixture of the sentimental with the commonplace. The writer is a watchmaker and jeweller, and after comparing the blue eyed little dancer with every known gem, he winds up with the following pathetic declaration: "Since I have known you I have been quite unable to attend to my business. Last week I spoilt three rubies which I drilled awry while thinking about you, and let me tell you those 'watch-jewels,' as we call them in the trade, come expensive - three-and-sixpence each."

The largest, as well as the most varied, assortment of love letters owned by any lady "professional" on the variety stage is undoubtedly that in the possession of Miss Marie Lloyd. They fill two large boxes, and number considerably over a thousand. As Miss Lloyd has only been before the public some eight years, this is a pretty fair record. If the fools who waste their time in penning these ridiculous effusions could be present when their impertinent letters are opened and read, it is probable they would, in most instances, be very much disenchanted. A lady who receives an unsolicited love letter can scarcely be considered to be under any obligation to keep its contents to herself, and if she passes the offensive missive round the supper table for the delectation of her friends and relatives, one can hardly blame her. Variety stars are much the same as other mortals in their enjoyment of a bit of fun, and even the love-sick drivel of an immature lad is capable of being turned to good account in this way.

It is only right to put on record, however, that there is one lady on the variety stage who regards this class of communication as sacred. Said Miss Kate James, when asked by the writer if she received many love letters: "Yes, hundreds; but I look upon it as a breach of confidence to show them to anyone. I invariably burn them as soon as I have read them. You see, the writers may be very foolish and impertinent, and all that; but, well - if they didn't admire me they wouldn't take the trouble to write to me, so - do you understand?"

A Charming Young Actress Tells of Quaint Love Letters Sent by Romantic Members of the Audience.

The fame of a stage beauty in these days of illustrated papers, daily and weekly, travels fast, and perhaps one of the most rapid jumps into record is that of the youthful Miss Zena Dare, who but a short time ago made her first hit with Miss Ellaline Terriss in "Bluebell in Fairyland." To-day she is playing a leading part in "Lady Madcap," and below she chats good-humouredly of one of the trials of stage popularity. Quite unknown admirers send her an embarrassing number of letters, lover-like and critical, and from these missives from romantic members of the audience she makes many amazing extracts.

In their own humble way it has often occurred to me that actors and actresses are, indirectly, the means of swelling the revenue to quite a considerable extent. They seem, in fact, to be the target at which the public hurl their superfluous cash by writing letters at a uniform rate of one penny each. Many of these letters are, of course, quite serious and sensible; on the other hand, some would seem to be the handiwork of people with the strangest ideas on life in general.

In my own small way I have come into contact - through the post - with the letter-writing fiend, on innumerable occasions, and when he is curious, he is a very, very curious being indeed. He, in fact, altogether overlooks the happy medium in the art of being curious. One of the most extraordinary letters I ever received was couched in these terms:

"For many months it has been my one serious wish in life to meet you. All attempts, however, to get an introduction in an orthodox manner have ended in failure. I now, by a peculiarly brilliant inspiration, have hit upon a happy idea. At tonight's performance I shall be sitting in the third row of the stalls, three from the left-hand side. As I do not wish to make myself in any way conspicuous, I humbly propose to endeavour to attract your attention by merely waving an orange-coloured handkerchief three times unostentatiously in the air at the end of the first act."

When I received this strange communication I naturally, at first, thought it was merely a practical joke, or perhaps a strange illustration of some would-be comedian's idea of humour. But it was nothing of the sort. At the end of the first act on the night in question sure enough a tall, grave, middle-aged man half raised himself in his seat and proceeded to twirl a large orange-coloured handkerchief leisurely in the air, just above the head of a lady sitting directly in-front of him. That was, perhaps fortunately, the only time I ever saw the strange, unknown correspondent.

But the letter-writing public are nothing if not critical. "Why," wrote an injured scribe only a few days ago, "do you always smile when you have your photograph taken? I detest nothing so much as a perpetual smile, I would earnestly suggest that in future you endeavour to cultivate a calm, serious-looking expression like this" - he enclosed a photograph of himself, tall, gaunt and very serious, with an expression similar to that of Don Quixote when he came into contact with the windmill. I may say I have tried to cultivate that expression, but have, alas! failed ignominiously.

As a rule the letters an actress receives are most complimentary; this one is, however, an exception. It was written to me, I have since heard, by an industrious scribe of some seventy summers. "Madam" he wrote, "in my life I have experienced many troubles, but the climax was reached just thirty years ago, when my dear beloved wife suddenly disappeared from the precincts of my hithero happy home. But at last, after years of weary waiting, I have tracked her. She is playing a small part in the piece in which you are now playing the lead."

Messages of this sort are, perforce, rather alarming but I afterwards found out that this correspondent was suhhering from a serious attack of illusionaris. In any case, by the most modest of calculations, it would have made out "the lady playing a small part" to have been considerably over fifty; and in these days of "too old at forty" such an engagement would hardly appeal to the modern up-to-date manager. Still, it affords quite an illuminating example of the kind of letters some strange people are prone to write. Hundreds of these sorts of epistles are written every week, and at one time and another I have received communications which would baffle the ingenuity of Sherlock Holmes at his best to fathom. One letter in particular I shall never forget.

"I shall sit in the front row of the stalls to-night," it ran, "and as I particularly dislike vulgar display of any kind, I shall merely wear a small diamond stud in my shirt-front and a red silk pocket handkerchief in the corner of my waistcoat. I sincerely hope you will see me."

I do not think I am particularly observant, but on this occasion I did see my unknown correspondent. The diamond stud and bright red silk handkerchief I shall always remember; the former was almost the size of a prize hen's egg, and the red silk handkerchief was expansive enough to cover a large settee. The only thing it did not succeed in covering was the diamond stud, which scintillated like a chandelier. At the sight of it, it occurred to me that there might be some truth in the stories about illicit diamond buying in South Africa.

Among my most treasured possessions are several letters I have had from children. One little girl, who, I am glad to say, I have since met, wrote some time ago: "I have been waiting outside the theatre three nights to give you a bunch of flowers, but you have never once seen me. But then, I'm only a very poor child and ragged - 'cept on Sundays. Each day I've spent a penny of my own money so as you shan't have stale flowers. Do, please, look for me to-night." That little girl has been to tea with me several times since. She's only ten, but has already made up her mind to one day become an actress.

Many people are, by the by, very good in trying to give one hints and candid criticism on all sorts of matters theatrical, and altogether the letters received from people one doesn't know, or is never likely to know, are invariably written with the kindest intentions, for which much thanks.

Anything from 76,000 to 100,000 picture post-cards have been sent to me for signature during three years, says Miss Phyllis Dare, discussing the picture post-card craze, in the little book she has written, "From School to Stage."

"When, first I used to receive postcards to sign I invariably took the messages written thereon most seriously, and when I found a post-card addressed to me on which was written, "I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you, and shall determine to win you by fair means or foul," I almost fainted with fright. Indeed, for weeks on my way to school I almost avoided walking on the pavement lest this horrible person should pounce out from some alley or area and carry me off.

Fortunately, however, the letters I have received from unknown admirers have not always been of this alarming character. On the second night of my appearance as a "Sandow Girl" I received the following offer of marriage: "Until to-night, although, of course, I have seen your photograph in hundreds of shop windows, I was unaware that you were a strong woman. In ten days time I leave to join an exploration party in West Africa, but as I shall be away for a number of years I should very much like to take my wife with me. Will you be my wife? I have never met another woman in the world I should care to marry, and, as you are a "Sandow Girl," you should well be able to stand the climate of the West Coast of Africa, which, as you may have heard, is not of the best. I would add that I am a comparatively rich man. I have an income of between six and seven thousand a year. In consequence it would be unnecessary for you ever to return to the stage again."

"Dear Miss Dare" (ran another letter I received when playing in "The Catch of the Season") - "Every night for the past three weeks I have taken the same seat in the front row of the stalls at the Vaudeville Theatre in the vain endeavour that you might notice me and give me some sign that you were pleased to see me. "Your coolness towards me, however, drives me to desperation, and, unless I hear from you within the next twenty-four hours, I shall do something desperate. My intentions towards you are perfectly honourable, and I say here that I would marry you to-morrow if you would only have me. Were such a happy consummation to come to pass I would only make one stipulation - that we spend our honeymoon in a balloon."

In her interesting book Miss Phyllis Dare gives some idea of an actress's day when preparing to start a tour: Three visits to theatrical dressmaker; two visits to my own dressmaker; measured for theatrical shoes; measured for private footgear; six hours at photographers; four hours at rehearsals; business connected with appearance in pantomime; two visits to theatrical milliners; visit to songwriter to try over new songs; an hour's practice at two new dances; signed over three hundred picture post-cards, and replied personally to thirty-four letters.

Apropos of the life of a child actress and the sending of bouquets there is the following anecdote: - In a pantomime in which I was playing was a little girl of nine playing the part of the Queen of Fairies. She looked radiantly happy on the stage, but "off" she always looked, oh, so sad! One night I found her standing all alone "in the wings," sobbing. I tried to comfort her, and asked her what was the matter. "Oh," she said, "mother is so ill, and we have no money except what I earn, and the doctor says that unless she goes to a warm seaside place at once she will die." At this moment the call-boy's voice rang out, "Fairies, please," and in two minutes that plucky little child was beaming and smiling before an audience, looking the very personification of happiness. As she left the stage a bouquet of lovely flowers was handed to her which must have cost five pounds, I am sure." "If only," the little fairy said to me afterwards, "people would send useful things instead of flowers and silly toys, what a lot I could do to help mother!"

Miss Nina Sevening who appears tonight in a leading-part in "Susannah - and Some Others," at the Royalty Theatre, is also one of the foremost favourites of the picture-postcard collectors among whom she enjoys an immense and ever growing popularity.

She began her stage career at the suggestion of Mr, Owen Hall, who heard her sing at a friend's house, and then gave her a place among the famous "Tell me, pretty maiden" sextette in the original "Florodora" production. "In those days," she aays, "I wore my hair down, and I have a collection of entertaining letters of all kinds addressed to "The girl with her hair down her back."

Like that of many another popular actress, her postbag contains some remarkable communications at times, and these documents are very often full of unconscious humour. For instance, this one: "Dear Miss Sevening, I expect you have noticed me as I am sitting in the front row of the stalls" (there were some thirty seats, by the way), "and I wear my hair brushed back. Although you have not met me before, I am sure you will not regret it if you care to come. I may be a little late, as I must drive my mother home first, and I shall not be able to come round to the stage-door for an answer, also because of her; but if you blow your nose twice during the next act, I will know that it is all right - Your sincere friend, ****" "P.S. Please don't send the programme-seller back with an answer."

"Needless to say," says Miss Sevening, "I did not blow my nose twice during the next act, but as I happened to be suffering from a very bad cold, it was a rather trying experience for me. I derived some compensation, however, from watching the young man's mother, and, taking into consideration the rigid expression on her face, I quite understood the anxiety he expressed in his urgent postscript."

"Every profession, doubtless, has its 'penalties,' but I wonder how many people not actually connected with the stage are aware of the number and variety of quaint things that an actress is asked to accept and, incidentally, to write about or wear for the purposes of advertisement, in the course of a year. These articles range from ostriches to bicycles, and from scented soaps to flannelette nightgowns - but I am not collecting that sort of thing."

"Still, I have a penchant for bonbonieres, old china, and enamel, but owing to the fact that most of my spare time is taken up in signing picture-postcards I have little leisure for indulging in it, as the picture-postcard craze seems to have penetrated to every part of the world, and cards continually arrive for signature from the most out-of-the-way places in Africa, Australia, and even the Pacific Islands."

"Some time ago, in fact, a friend of mine wrote me from abroad saying that he had found a picture-postcard (showing me with a cat in my arms) stuck on a Burmese idol as an offering!"