Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
T HOMAS G ALLIER WAS A MAN OF LISTS, RULES, AND ORDER. Control. Discipline. He prided himself on being precisely correct in his posture, behavior, manner of dress, speech, approach, and even thoughts in all respects and in all situations.
But as he sat in the structurally dubious opera box of the shabby Theatre Unique on 14th Street, waiting for the evening’s vaudeville program to commence, he couldn’t help but see the appeal of a little misrule.
What he wouldn’t give to throw a big, old-fashioned dust-up. To actually feel his feelings—like the bustling crowd below him did with unabashed relish—instead of categorizing them and filing them away in a sealed vault somewhere in his darkest depths.
And yet, as he waited for the houselights to dim, the humming audience to still, and his companion for this evening to settle in beside him, he resigned himself to flexing and clenching his hand. A small, totally inadequate expression of his current frustrations. The only external sign that he was distressed in the slightest.
He was a man with his world set to collapse. And here he was, sitting at a vaudeville show.
Control and discipline indeed.
“Do you wish to discuss it?”
The voice came from his companion, Dr. Andrew Samson—a tall, refined, fair, bespectacled man in his early thirties.
“Do I wish to discuss what?” Thomas asked, feigning confusion.
“The imminent destruction of your entire life, I should think.”
Thomas’s hand clenched in a final fist. He’d been called out on his most private fear and his most pressing current worry— damn it .
“Or the weather, if you’d prefer,” Andrew offered, ever observant.
No sense in dancing around it. Not when this was—when it had to be—little more than a temporary setback. “Destruction isn’t imminent. I have a plan.”
“Is that so?”
“For a man who’s seen me conquer every challenge I’ve faced on the path to opening my Empire, you have so little faith in me, Doctor.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “While I’ve seen you conquer challenges, I’ve never seen you conquer a major backer withdrawing ten thousand dollars from your Empire just over a month before opening.”
There. They came to it. The truth of why they were here. Thomas Gallier, the impresario behind the sprawling pleasure palace known as The Empire on 34th Street, stood at the cliff’s edge of disaster. In six weeks, he was meant to open his grand masterpiece, an attraction that was, in part, meant to house the greatest vaudeville theater in the history of mankind.
But despite months of searching, he still hadn’t a headliner. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He had held auditions, scoured practically every theater in Manhattan, even brought in a director from France, for God’s sake. And yet, nothing was good enough. Not a single act lived up to the promise of The Empire. He had delayed the announcement of the vaudeville bill for so long now that his stratospherically high standards had become something of a citywide punchline—to everyone but Thomas, that is.
Well, everyone but Thomas and Mr. George Westinghouse, who’d told him at a party this very evening that he would be withdrawing his investment from The Empire. He was tired of waiting on Thomas to find a headliner for his act, especially when the Manhattan Daily was turning more and more members of their prospective audience against vaudeville in the first place.
So here Thomas was, in one of the last theaters he hadn’t already scouted, begging the fates for a change in his fortunes.
One star. That was all he needed. One star on which to hang his entire universe.
“I’ll ask once more,” Andrew prodded after a prolonged silence. “Do you wish to discuss it?”
“Why should I wish to discuss it? I have a plan. I will put it into action. By this time tomorrow, all will be set to rights again.”
“How?”
“Mr. George Westinghouse is a spectacularly singular brand of imbecile, and The Empire is better off without him. He doesn’t know a damned thing about the entertainment industry, and he was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong. A man who could be persuaded to withdraw his money from a surefire investment like The Empire by something as silly as one of Alban’s newspaper articles isn’t someone with whom I wish to continue associating anyway. I will simply replace him with someone more worthy of this opportunity. I’ll find my vaudeville star, inform the papers—though certainly not Alban’s; E.W. Scripps’s, maybe—and before tomorrow night, the city will be begging to hand their money over to me.”
“Sounds simple enough.” Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “What can I do to help?”
“Your job . Nothing more.”
“And what exactly is that job again?”
“To reassure my investors and the public that I’m of perfectly sound mind and body. And, I suppose, to act as my personal physician, advise me on all matters related to my well-being, that sort of thing.”
“As I thought. In which case, I need to inform you that this pathological need for control is extremely unhealthy.”
This again. Andrew meant well, but ever since Thomas had retained his services, he had dragged them back time and time again to this battlefield. Thomas’s need for control, Thomas’s unwillingness to share responsibility, Thomas’s desire to be solely in charge of every aspect of everything related to the building, outfitting, or opening of The Empire and all it would contain. In the last six months, Andrew had cited this as a reason for Thomas’s headaches, his insomnia, his lack of romantic entanglements … It was a most annoying lecture to endure for months on end.
Thomas straightened, subverting his nearly overwhelming urge to lower himself all the way down to the floor and let it swallow him whole. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen didn’t sulk. Or slouch. Or scowl.
They did, however, snark.
“Fascinating. And, in your professional opinion as my personal doctor and advisor, at what point in this conversation am I justified in flinging myself off the Brooklyn Bridge?”
“Come now,” Andrew replied dryly. “Rich men don’t kill themselves by jumping off bridges. They drink and whore themselves into an early grave as is fitting of their station. Besides, medically speaking, it should take at least fifteen more minutes, and by then, the show will have started.”
As if on cue, the lights lowered and the orchestra blared to new life, filling the hall with a grand, jaunty tune Thomas recognized from a thousand other shows just like this one.
It was promptly followed by three acts nearly copied note-for-note from a thousand other shows, too.
By the time the intermission neared, Thomas felt a swell of despair coming on. But he clung to his last shreds of hope, gripping his fists until his knuckles went white. Just one star. I only need one star . My entire future depends on one star .
It was this desperation that kept him pinned to his seat. And this desperation that apparently led Andrew to whisper:
“May I ask what you’re even looking for? You’ve been searching tirelessly for months and still, you’ve come up empty. A hint at what you require might help me contribute to your search.”
This was not the kind of question to which Thomas usually gave an answer. But he was so out of sorts, he deigned to make an attempt.
“I want something …”
At that moment, his vision caught on the illuminated stage. The world snapped into focus. Suddenly, everything—Andrew, the box, the dingy theater—it all disappeared, and there was nothing but her . He barely breathed the end of his sentence.
“Something undeniable.”
At center stage, a blonde beauty stood in a gown constructed entirely of flowers. She was a woman of Amazonian height, sturdy-legged, and proportioned like a goddess of bounty. Perhaps the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.
Soon, she began a song in dulcet, sensual tones, her eyes downcast like a shy lover, drawing in the crowd with her demure softness.
It worked. Thomas was enraptured. Just how secure were those flowers covering her generous curves? Were her cheeks as pink up close as they were from a distance? The flowers sewn into her gown seemed to burgeon under the rapt attention of the audience. Thomas wondered how they would smell if he brought his face to that blooming carnation at the center of her bosom.
And when she sang of spring coming …
He wasn’t sure she was entirely speaking of the season.
She wasn’t like any of the doe-eyed chorus girls dragged in front of him these last few weeks. They’d all had talent, yes, but this one? She had spark . That electric ability to trap strangers in the palm of her hand—and making them grateful they’d let her do it.
Soon, her croon faded out, the lights in the hall shifted, and as quickly as the song had begun, the orchestra kicked into a lively dancehall upbeat, the kind that gave her a good excuse to, in one swift motion, rip her gowned skirt from her hips, revealing a short dance costume of soft petals beneath.
That’s when the performance really began, he realized. The rest had all been preamble. An invitation.
Now, exposed in a way that would have been indecent if not for her beaming, unashamed smile, she let the music move her full body. Those wide hips and thick thighs twirled in perfect circles that proved more effective than any hypnotist’s watch.
She was chaos. Disorder. Thoroughly incorrect.
And against his better judgment, maybe before he could even consciously understand it was happening, Thomas was struck.
“Oh, Thomas,” Andrew muttered. “I don’t like that look.”
“She’s—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—she’s undeniable.”
Andrew cursed, but for what reason, Thomas couldn’t immediately fathom.
The way she danced, the way she sang, the way she angled her body to soak all of the spotlight up as if she were made of stardust …
Thomas wasn’t the only one enthralled, either. When he briefly managed to steer his gaze away from her magnetic figure, the rest of the audience appeared similarly enthused.
In his mind, he heard the clinking of coin registers over the sound of her clear, strong singing voice.
“Who is she?” he asked.
“Evelyn Cross. She was quite popular for a time—a real gem of the stage door set.”
“And why haven’t I seen her before?”
“In the time since you’ve begun looking for acts, she’s become extremely unfashionable. You understand how fickle audiences can be. Their tastes change.”
A bitter taste coated the back of Thomas’s teeth. “You mean Alban has told them that their tastes have changed.” Suddenly he saw Evelyn not just as a commodity—but as someone with whom he might have something in common. An ally.
Well aware that they were still very much in the middle of the show, Thomas rose decisively, ready to march back to her dressing room and offer her a job on the spot.
The movement must have drawn her attention, because no sooner had he stood than her golden curls bounced in his direction, and their eyes met across the glimmer of the stage lights.
Blue. Her eyes were blue. The melted blue of a painter’s favorite shade.
The orchestral break swirled around her, she raised one delicate hand to her lips, pressed her fingers to them, and blew a kiss that reached him all the way in his box seat.
He wasn’t sure what possessed him. He wasn’t a man taken to flights of fancy. But he knew in that moment, he was as good as gone.
“I must have her,” he muttered.
Andrew snorted. “I imagine you’re not the first man who’s ever said that about Miss Evelyn Cross.”
“I mean for the show. I’m going to meet with her. Sign her immediately. We haven’t a moment to lose, given the circumstances.”
“Thomas. You can’t be serious. She is not the woman who will change your fortunes.”
“Yes. Yes, she will be.” He spoke with the easy certainty that guided all his business dealings, and yet he felt something stronger still.
Andrew shook his head. “Did you hear what I’ve just told you? She’s losing bookings, she’s already on Alban’s bad side, and her audiences are moving on to other acts. How can you possibly imagine that she is the best choice to convince doubters like George Westinghouse that your Empire is destined for success?”
A fair question. One of the reasons that Thomas relied on Andrew was that he knew Manhattan society, its conventions and whims. If Andrew said hiring Evelyn Cross was a bad idea, he should have believed him.
But …
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt .
The last time he’d felt anything .
No matter the risk, Thomas knew he couldn’t turn his back on that. Not yet, anyway.
“Because if I can make an audience feel for her even a fraction of what I do in this moment, then The Empire won’t be a pleasure palace. It will be a money printing factory.”
A NOTE FROM THE HISTORIAN
A man coming absolutely unglued the second he encounters the woman of his dreams. We love to see it. That was sort of Thomas Gallier’s whole thing. In public, with his business associates and the media, he was cold and imposing and tightly controlled. But around Evelyn, he unraveled—and he couldn’t help himself.
So how did Thomas get there? How did he, a would-be entertainment deity, come to teeter on the brink of disaster?
Let us turn to the newspapers of the day, which spared no ink in chronicling that very journey:
THE SUN, FEbrUARY 16, 1895 (New York, New York)
REAL ESTATE
A strange business was conducted today when, in the office of J. Peabody Russell, a deed of sale was signed for the property spanning one entire block of 34th Street. The amount paid? An astounding sum of nearly 400,000 American dollars. This fantastic sale—a fool’s purchase, some say, is all the more confounding when it was reported that this transaction had been initiated by a stranger to our shores. One Mr. Thomas Gallier, born in France, raised in England, lately of No. 820, 5th Avenue. More will be reported as it is available.
THE WORLD, MARCH 1, 1895 (New York, New York)
AN EMPIRE OR A FOLLY?
More on the affair of the 34th Street land sale—which is to say, no more news to report. It appears that this Thomas Gallier has no connections to this city—and even fewer friends. Not much can be discerned of his past, and though he has inserted himself in upper circles of the city, he has persistently failed in his efforts. Rumors, none yet verified, persist that he seeks funds for what he calls “The Empire on 34th Street,” and what his detractors call “Gallier’s Folly,” a pleasure palace said to rival P.T. Barnum’s own attempts. Only time will tell if this unknown quantity may prove successful where the great master once failed.
THE MANHATTAN DAILY, NOVEMBER 15, 1895 (New York, New York)
Further reporting on The Empire on 34th Street. To be built Italian Revival in style. Included, among others: seven restaurants of international fare and taste, a motorcar racing track, ice-cream parlor, live animal menagerie, sanctioned boxing ring, racket courts, dancehall suitable for dignified ladies and gentlemen, seventy statues in the Michelangelo style, aquacade, shopping district, and central theater to host the most extraordinary talents of the modern vaudeville stage. All seem unlikely, as Gallier has failed in several funding attempts. Symptoms of impending nervous breakdown apparent to all who meet him.
THE MANHATTAN DAILY, APRIL 29, 1896 (New York, New York)
Situation for The Emperor of 34th Street—construction proceeding as planned, construction crews less than enthused by Emperor’s exacting demands. Financial situation increasingly bleak. The Emperor has “bet the farm” on his pleasure palace’s success. Will be ruined, disgraced by its nearly certain failure. Monied families of the city watching the situation with great interest, as may be opportunity to finally see an irritant Emperor defrocked.
THE MANHATTAN DAILY, OCTOBER 15, 1897 (New York, New York)
More reports from The Empire on 34th Street—one might think it more rumor mill than pleasure palace. Performers desperately needed for the vaudeville. Emperor exercising usually impossible exactitude upon selection of the bill. Success or failure is said to ride on this show.
THE MANHATTAN DAILY, OCTOBER 15, 1897 (New York, New York)
Evelyn Cross, fallen star from vaudeville firmament, announces new engagement at the Theatre Unique on 14th Street. Fellow degenerate Jules Moreau also on bill. The moral watchers of the city keep careful watch on these two.
The tl;dr, for anyone who skips over my beautifully curated primary sources (how dare you?): Thomas entered New York society with a splash … and an aura of mystery. The city was skeptical of the outsider, with no connections and seemingly no past. He needed their money, and once he had it, he was on the hook to prove his enormous theatrical gamble would pay off.
Thomas’s position in New York was precarious. His proximity to power, fame, and money were all equally so.
Meanwhile, Evelyn was on the decline—a liability. He shouldn’t have wanted her. She was no longer fashionable. She was big, loud, fearless. Notoriously outspoken at a time when women were expected to demur.
I don’t know why what happened next happened.
However.
As a historian, my job is to color between the lines of fact in order to paint a full picture of the past.
When it comes to Thomas Gallier and Evelyn Cross, I only know one thing for sure.
Maybe they shouldn’t have wanted each other.
But they needed each other. Desperately.