Lillian Russell was born Helen Louise
Leonard in Clinton, Iowa, in the early 1860s . Her father ran a newspaper, her
mother scared the local men by speaking her mind, and the baby came out howling
like she already had headlines to make.
She grew up in Chicago, where sin had a
better rhythm. Helen sang too loudly, laughed too big, and drove her mother
half mad. She got kicked out of a church choir for “indecorous behavior,” which
is Victorian code for being interesting. Someone told her nice
girls didn’t go onstage. Helen said, “Then I guess I’m not nice.”
She was eighteen when she ran away to New
York — the filthy, electric carnival of the Gilded Age. Tony Pastor looked her
over, saw the cheekbones, the mouth, the trouble. He said, “Helen Leonard
sounds like someone who does laundry. You’ll be Lillian Russell.” It was a name
made for scandal and silk sheets.
By 1881 she was onstage in The
Pirates of Penzance, and America lost its collective mind. The New
York World called her “the prettiest girl in America.” Another paper
called her “a soprano who makes an entrance like a cavalry charge.” A Boston
critic said she was “more bosom than brilliance.” She framed that one, saying,
“At least he noticed.”