Nat Goodwin's Book
by Nat. C. Goodwin · English · Gutenberg #46341 · 575,937 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nat Goodwin's Book
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Nat Goodwin's Book
Author: Nat. C. Goodwin
Release date: July 20, 2014 [eBook #46341]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46341
Credits: Produced by Roberta Staehlin, Charlene Taylor, John Campbell
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK ***
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected
after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and
consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
NAT GOODWIN'S
BOOK
BY
NAT C. GOODWIN
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration: (Publisher's colophon)]
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
TORONTO: COPP CLARK COMPANY LIMITED
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY NAT C. GOODWIN AND RICHARD G. BADGER
_All rights reserved_
THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U.S.A.
PREFACE
In penning memoirs or autobiographing it is extremely difficult to
avoid writing impersonally, yet I shall strive to avoid it as much as
possible, not so much from a sense of duty as from a standpoint of
mercy.
I have never enjoyed reading about myself and I am firmly convinced
that there are few who have. Perhaps, if I am tempted during this
review to give myself an opinion of myself, it may be received with
favor even by those critics who have never agreed with any of my
characterizations.
I started this little work with some degree of terror. I had such a
poor background to frame my somewhat checkered career upon. I fully
realized that a man must be a very great person, or at least imagine
himself to be, to write an autobiography. But finally after listening
to the advice of friends I approached myself, albeit surprised at my
temerity. After having read many autobiographies I discovered that
most nearly-great persons who indulge in the dissipation of giving to
the world their opinions of themselves were either born in dilapidated
garrets or on unproductive farms.
As there were no trees in my garden of youth nor a candle placed in
an empty bottle to shed its effulgence upon my future life I wondered
how I could diversify and be truthful, yet entertaining. A feeling of
apprehension akin to that which always follows the first night of one
of my productions took hold of me. I wondered how this little effort
of mine would be received.
When reading a criticism the morning following a production I am always
fearful of being found out. If I am condemned I know I have been!
But after I have fully digested all the unkind criticisms, which are
usually written by those who do not fancy me in any serious effort, I
am in the end always superlatively happy in knowing that the critic has
done his duty.
If I had my way, he would be doing TIME!
Generally he is so blissfully ignorant of what he prates about that I
have a silent chuckle all to myself at the expositions of his glaring
and blatant incompetency. Yet it has always been a question in my mind
whether the public enjoys reading vituperative attacks upon its stage
favorites particularly after it has been entertained and amused the
previous evening. I think that it is thoroughly satisfied with its own
verdict and resents another's antagonistic to it. It much more enjoys
reading something of the actor's private life particularly when it can
read something which exposes his or her particular vagaries. And the
public is prone to believe everything the visionary gentlemen of the
press chronicle. The more unwholesome it is the more it believes; the
more suggestive, the more palatable.
You have only to put any sort of halo around an actor or a cigar, good
or bad, to beget a following or a smoker!
Unfortunately the halo that the public has been kind enough to place
above me will not bear minute inspection. It is opaque. However, being
unable to escape it I have always been content to smile within and when
the haloed one has been supposedly exposed I can do nothing but sit
tight and accept the inevitable. At times it has been a bit harrowing
to submit, yet it has taught me self-control which I will endeavor to
exercise in this little work. If I am tempted to use the personal
pronoun more frequently than necessary I shall deflect and command my
thoughts, to wander among more agreeable persons. Having lived so long
within the confines of my kindly bestowed halo I have become fully
aware of my limitations. The agreeable personalities are easily found
and I hope my readers will enjoy their companionship as much as I have
enjoyed them.
Every reference made to these delightful people is inspired by the
kindliest of feelings and if I have judged one or two more harshly than
they seemingly deserve the error is of the head, not of the heart; for
I loved, liked or admired them all and I am none too poor to do them
reverence--even now.
While some may regard my opinions as impertinences none can
convincingly deny my right to think, and as all is given impersonally I
believe that none will doubt my motives.
Many will question the various attitudes in this book particularly
regarding marriage and divorce. They will advance the theory that
the bonds of matrimony must be welded more closely even when the
participants find it difficult to live normally. I know that many who
are incarcerated in the dungeons of matrimonial thraldom would not
stop at murder to burst their bonds. It does not require the philosophy
of a Bacon or an Emerson to prove that such incarceration is wrong. Why
make martyrs of those forced to live together when hate supplants love,
when bodies and thoughts play upon different instruments producing only
discords? The laws of our country make it possible for us to file the
bars of our unwholesome cells and suppress this monumental mockery. The
views I have incorporated in this book, right or wrong, I stand by. All
through my life I have never feared criticism for any of my acts. My
moral or physical courage has never failed. I have been and always will
be willing to stand by my guns and take my medicine.
Before completing this work I unfortunately submitted a few excerpts
to a visionary representative of one of the Los Angeles papers.
He immediately published broadcast what he had absorbed and very
obligingly gave it the title of his own imagination, "Memoirs of
Matrimony," thereby creating the impression that my book was to be
devoted simply to my marital experiences. Such was never my intention,
but as more than thirty years of my life have been devoted to matrimony
naturally my autobiography demands mention of the women who have borne
my name.
I have been censured sometimes harshly for my versatility in the
selection of wives and many have marvelled at my fortunate (or
unfortunate) selections. I have always been long on the market of home
and wives.
I truly believe that no home is complete without a wife, providing
she is of the kind that enjoys the company of intelligent, honest and
clever people. Some men only lease their mates and then prate about
their respectability. If I have decided at different times to tear
down any of the Ephesian domes which I have erected, is the fact of my
destroying them enough to warrant my being known, as was Alexander, as
the fool that razed (or is it raised?) them?
While autobiography and a round up of memories will necessarily
be conspicuous I shall endeavor also to make this book a medium
of retrospective thoughts given to the many people, prominent and
otherwise, with whom I have come in contact. As I have no notes I shall
write purely from memory's tablets. If inaccuracies occur they will be
unintentional.
Many of those dear friends have long since passed down the lonely
mountain trail, but their sweet memories still linger by the roadside.
If they but leave the perfume of their souls to mark the road for me
to follow when I arrive at the corral nature has established in the
valley I hope that we all shall meet and that they will elect me their
callboy, that I may be privileged to ring up the curtain upon perpetual
joy.
N. C. G.
OCEAN PARK, CALIFORNIA.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I COMMENCEMENT DAY 17
II MY DEBUT 22
III STUART ROBSON 26
IV JOHN MCCULLOUGH 35
V SIR HENRY IRVING 38
VI "BARRY" AND JEFFERSON 41
VII A SUNNY SON OF SOMETIME 49
VIII CHARLES HOYT 51
IX SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM 54
X CHARLES R. THORNE, JR. 56
XI SOL SMITH RUSSELL 61
XII RICHARD MANSFIELD 67
XIII IN VARIETY 75
XIV ELIZA WEATHERSBY 80
XV SUCCESSFUL FAILURES 89
XVI BACK IN THE 'EIGHTIES 92
XVII THE HALCYON DAYS OF UNION SQUARE 96
XVIII THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE 101
XIX STARS 109
XX ATMOSPHERIC PLAYS 115
XXI ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT 118
XXII MAUDE ADAMS 121
XXIII TYRONE POWER 126
XXIV AN ARTISTIC SUCCESS! 127
XXV THE SKATING RINK 131
XXVI NUMBER TWO 134
XXVII A FIGHT WON (?) 140
XXVIII JOHN CHAMBERLAIN 148
XXIX W. S. GILBERT 152
XXX HENRY E. DIXEY 153
XXXI SWAGGER NEW YORKERS OF ANOTHER DAY 155
XXXII JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 157
XXXIII DIGBY BELL AND DE WOLF HOPPER 159
XXXIV BLAINE AND INGERSOLL 162
XXXV JIM CORBETT IN ENGLAND 164
XXXVI THE COCKNEY CABBY COMEDIAN 166
XXXVII A GILDED FOOL AND OTHER PLAYS 168
XXXVIII GEORGE M. COHAN 177
XXXIX THOUGHTS VAUDEVILLE-BORN 179
XL JOHN DREW 181
XLI THE RIVALS REVIVAL 182
XLII WILTON LACKAYE 185
XLIII "YOUNG" MANSFIELD 187
XLIV DAVID WARFIELD 190
XLV A DAY AT RENO 192
XLVI LILLIAN RUSSELL 197
XLVII DRAMATIC SCHOOLS 198
XLVIII NUMBER THREE (ALMOST) 201
XLIX THE CONFESSIONAL 207
L SAN FRANCISCO 211
LI ANTONY (?) AND CLEOPATRA 216
LII HONOLULU AND SAMOA 223
LIII PUBLICITY--ITS RESULTS 230
LIV IN THE LAND OF THE KANGAROO 233
LV WELCOME(!) HOME 240
LVI NUMBER THREE 243
LVII WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE AND OTHER PLAYS 248
LVIII AT JACKWOOD 254
LIX "WHY DO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN MARRY NAT GOODWIN?" 262
LX BILLY THOMPSON 265
LXI THE CRITICS 266
LXII JAMES A. HEARNE 277
LXIII EDDIE FOY 279
LXIV WILLIAM GILLETTE 280
LXV WILLIAM BRADY, ESQ. 283
LXVI ROBERT FORD 284
LXVII MORE PLAYS 286
LXVIII WILLIE COLLIER 288
LXIX HENRY MILLER 290
LXX WHAT'S IN A NAME? 291
LXXI I TRY BEING A BUSINESS MAN 293
LXXII THE FIVE FATEFUL FISH CAKES AND NUMBER FOUR 302
LXXIII SIR BEERBOHM TREE 315
LXXIV THE ORIGIN OF THE STAGE 317
LXXV MY STAGE-STRUCK VALET 321
LXXVI GEORGE C. TYLER 324
LXXVII I FIND THE VERY BEST PHYLLIS 326
LXXVIII THE LAMBS CLUB 329
LXXIX I "COME BACK" 332
LXXX I GO BACK 334
LXXXI DAVID BELASCO 336
LXXXII "AUTHOR--AUTHOR" 337
LXXXIII MUSHROOM MANAGERS 341
LXXXIV "KEEP OFF THE GRASS" 345
LXXXV CALIFORNIA 350
LXXXVI I BECOME A BARNSTORMER 352
LXXXVII NUMBER FIVE 355
LXXXVIII L'ENVOIE 356
INDEX 359
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
NAT C. GOODWIN _Frontispiece_
WILLIAM WARREN 20
_The greatest comedian that ever lived_
STUART ROBSON 26
_The best Shakespearean clown of modern times_
TONY HART 30
_He had the face of an Irish Apollo, did Tony Hart_
JOHN MCCULLOUGH AND ASSOCIATE PLAYERS IN THE DRAMATIC FESTIVAL 36
_"Mr." McCullough and the rest of us_
SIR HENRY IRVING 40
_An extraordinary man_
JOSEPH JEFFERSON 46
_I firmly believe I improved his morals_
SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM 54
_A remarkable man_
CHARLES R. THORNE, JR. 60
_A royal picture to contemplate_
IN THE LITTLE REBEL 76
_One of my first excursions into the legitimate_
ELIZA WEATHERSBY 80
_The wife who mothered me_
IN HOBBIES WITH ELIZA WEATHERSBY 84
_The play I won at faro_
LITHOGRAPH OF GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES 88
IN TURNED UP 92
_In the days when I was an imitator_
LOTTA 98
_In the days when work was play_
JACK HAVERLY 102
_The man who conceived the syndicate_
IN THE GOLD MINE 112
_My get-up in The Gold Mine_
THOSE WERE THE HAPPY DAYS 118
COQUELIN 124
_Would he have gone in vaudeville? I wonder_
NELLA BAKER PEASE 134
_The best amateur piano player I ever heard_
NAT C. GOODWIN, III 138
PALS 150
_Richard Carle, Fred G. Stanley, Nat Goodwin, Walter Jones,
De Wolf Hopper_
IN CONFUSION 160
_Back in the eighties_
NAT GOODWIN AND COMPANY IN IN MIZZOURA 168
_One of the best casts I ever saw_
TICKET SALE FOR IN MIZZOURA 176
DICK GOLDEN 182
_We were pals for many years_
DAVID WARFIELD AND NAT GOODWIN 190
_I'm proud of the company_
IN MIZZOURA 200
_One of the greatest of American plays_
MRS. N. C. GOODWIN, SR. 210
_A dear old lady living in Boston_
HOW MUCH A LAMB I WAS I DIDN'T KNOW--THEN! 216
AN AUSTRALIAN GREETING CAN'T TOUCH ITS FAREWELL! 220
IN AN AMERICAN CITIZEN 232
_If we had been associated a few years longer my name would
have been up as her leading support!_
AS BOB ACRES 240
_I gave Bob a country dialect_
MAXINE ELLIOTT 246
_Fate's partner_
IN WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 252
_The biggest bit of any play I ever produced_
IN NATHAN HALE 258
"_They hang Nat in the last act_"
WM. H. THOMPSON 264
_An artist to his finger tips_
JAMES A. HEARNE 278
_He knew how poor Sol "fell"_
ROBERT FORD 284
"_A cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer_"
AS CAMEO KIRBY 294
_I never played a character I liked so well_
EDNA GOODRICH 304
_My young and handsome star_
AS SHYLOCK 310
_One of my successful failures_
IN HAMLET 320
_It had always been my desire to appear in Shakespearean roles_
MARGARET MORELAND 326
_The very best Phyllis_
AS FAGIN IN OLIVER TWIST 330
"_Fagin was a comedian_"
DAVID BELASCO 336
_An intellectual giant_
DRAWN WHILE WE WERE "BARNSTORMING" 344
THE RANCH AT SAN JACINTO, CALIFORNIA 350
_A scene not equalled in the Austrian Tyrol_
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
_Chapter I_
COMMENCEMENT DAY
One bright morning in June, 1872, the Little Blue Academy of old
Farmington College, Maine, rang with the plaudits of an admiring
throng of visitors. Some of them had come in their capacious coaches,
lumbering and crushing their way through the streets of the usually
quiet village, while others in good old Puritan fashion had come
afoot and across fields and by-ways. Altogether the tumult was great
both without and within and the Puritan housewives, their quiet thus
sadly disturbed, devoutly offered up thanks that such affairs occurred
but once in a twelvemonth. But the clatter of contending Jehus and
vociferous villagers on the campus was nothing compared with the
resounding clash of palms and other noisy demonstrations of approval
within.
It was Commencement Day. Eager papas and mammas, sweet, admiring
misses and anxious friends were there that neither valedictorian,
salutatorian, orator nor poet might lack that proper sort of
encouragement, without which any affair of this nature must necessarily
be incomplete. They were to decide as well the winner of the prize in
elocution. Truly it was a day of mighty portent.
Many had spoken their parts and the rafters and roof had given back
the approving shouts in echoes almost as resounding as the words
themselves. At length my name was announced by our preceptor and worthy
master, Mr. Alden J. Blethen, the present manager and owner of the
Seattle "Times."
With some timidity, but tremendous eagerness, I mounted the improvised
rostrum and began my recitation of a poem called "The Uncle." As I
began my eyes seemed to be swimming back and forth in my head. I saw
nothing but birds floating into space. Then a death-like silence
ensued and images usurped the place of birds. They assumed forms and
through the mists came men and women and one by one they seemed to come
before my vision until the room was filled. I finished, I thought, in
a hush and was utterly oblivious to the great burst of applause which
greeted my efforts. My seat-mate, poor Charlie Thomas who in after
years was associated with Charles Hoyt, the writer and producer of
many successful farce comedies, grabbed me by the arm and hurled me
back upon the stage whispering, "Give them that 'Macbeth' speech!"
Mechanically I acted upon his suggestion and began the soliloquy. I
remembered nothing more until we left the hall. In fact I was in a
comatose state until summoned that evening by Mr. Blethen to come
into his library where, in the presence of the other scholars, I was
presented with a set of Shakespeare's Complete Works.
As I went to my room that night I began to dream of the life to come. I
saw myself startling the world as King Lear.
Two days after I received the first newspaper criticism of my work from
the Portland papers. The notices pleased me beyond words and brought
more joy to my young heart than any I ever received in after life. With
pardonable pride, I trust, I set one forth here:--
"The little Academy had never known the delirium of applause until a
slight, delicate youth, with peculiar flaxen hair, round blue eyes,
and a complexion as fair as a girl's mounted the rostrum and spoke his
lines. Such elocution must have awakened unusual interest, and so easy
was the speaker, so perfect his actions and charming his intelligence,
that the old dormitory shook with plaudits."
I was told twenty-five years later by a little Jew critic named Cohen
that I lacked all these attributes, after I had devoted a quarter of
a century in earnest endeavor to accentuate them! How I must have
retrograded in all those years! Until he told me I thought I must have
travelled ahead, for I could not possibly have gone back. But perhaps
I never started! The notices in the Portland papers fanned the smoke
into a flame and from that day I determined to become an actor. Some
years before I had become imbued with the idea, the inspiration coming
from my living in close proximity to an actors' boarding-house kept by
a Mrs. Fisher at No. 3 Bulfinch Place, Boston. Many and many a time
have I waited between school hours and play to catch a glimpse of the
occupants of this celebrated yet modest hostelry, for here were housed
many conspicuous actors of the day. Many a time I endeavored to touch
the sleeve or any part of the garment of the players as they emerged
from the house on their way to rehearsals and if I succeeded my mission
was fulfilled for the day.
On one occasion William Warren's hat blew off. I rushed for it and
rescued it from beneath a horse's hoofs. I returned it to the owner and
he thanked me very graciously. The incident was too much for my young
nerves. I played hookey that afternoon. School had no charms for me
that day. An actor had spoken to me!
Years after I was privileged to meet this gentleman at a breakfast
given in my honor by the Elks of Boston with Mayor O'Brien in the
chair. I had been invited to appear at a charity benefit to be preceded
by this breakfast. I was playing at the time at the Bijou Theatre, New
York, but I arranged to leave on the midnight train, arriving in time
for the breakfast at nine. Afterwards I appeared at eleven o'clock at
the benefit, catching the one o'clock train back to New York.
Upon my arrival in Boston the Mayor met me at the train with a
Committee which took me in charge. We drove straight to the breakfast
room. There the first to greet me was dear old William Warren. A lump
came up into my throat as big as a water melon. Think of it--that tall,
big player to greet me! With out-stretched hand he bade me welcome
home where, he said, all loved me. "Come and sit by me, my son," said
he, and as I turned to answer him he looked to me like a god. I was
privileged to sit by the genius whose coat hem I had in years gone by
waited for hours to touch. He was unconsciously rewarding me for my
boyish hero-worship. He was touching my heart strings and creating
delightful memories to remain forever in my mind. No food passed my
lips. I was above the clouds playing upon a golden harp! My blood
flowed through my veins like lava! I was sitting by a great comedian
and, believe me, I was glad, for I consider William Warren the greatest
comedian that ever lived.
After the breakfast which was hurriedly eaten we started for the
playhouse. I was so nervous that I could scarcely make up, but I knew
that I had to do something as this great man was in the audience.
[Illustration: WILLIAM WARREN
_The greatest comedian that ever lived_]
At length the moment came for me to make my entrance. Tremendous
applause greeted me. I endeavored to play as I had never played before.
My inspiration was the gentle face in the right-hand box beaming
upon my incompetency. I was dreadfully self conscious. I knew I was
in the presence of a master and try as I would nothing seemed to get
over the footlights as I wished. Every word seemed to stop dead at that
right-hand box and would not go beyond. When the finish came I offered
up a silent prayer of gratitude.
As I wended my way slowly to the dressing-room someone congratulated
me upon my efforts. As I sank into my chair the stage manager opened
the door, reiterating the congratulations. I simply asked, "How did
Mr. Warren like me?" Before he could answer the tall figure of Warren
appeared at the door and he said, "I couldn't have done it better
myself, young man!" Then he patted me on the shoulder, saying, "Hurry,
or you'll miss your train." He shook me by the hand, bade me good-bye
and returned to the boarding-house where he had lived for many years,
to his little back room. A few weeks later twelve men bore his body to
Mt. Auburn Cemetery placing him among the roses.
Warren's Sir Peter Teazle, Jefferson Scattering Batkins, Jessie Rural,
Tony Lumpkin, Bob Acres, Dr. Pangloss and about all of Shakespeare's
clowns have never been equaled by any player of any age. He had all
the humor and the pathos that comedy is heir to--a player of the old
school, not the night school.
_Chapter II_
MY DEBUT
After leaving the Little Blue Academy of Old Farmington I returned
to New York with my parents. We were there but a short time when
we returned to Boston, where my father, one of those thoroughgoing
Bostonians who intended me for the law, compromised by securing for me
a position as an entry clerk in the counting-room of Wellington Bros.
& Co., dry goods merchants. This did not appeal to me, and at stray
intervals I found great pleasure in fraternizing with a few actors with
whom I had become acquainted. I preferred play books to the ledgers and
account books of Wellington Bros. They were my special delight, and I
devoted all my spare time to committing the lines of the leading parts
to memory. My father always allowed me money to attend the theatres. I
was privileged to see all the great actors of my day, and every other
night found me in either the front row of the balcony, or gallery of
the local theatres. I would go over the lines as I had heard them, and
in doing so found that I could reproduce the tones and gestures of the
players I had seen. Thus I discovered that I had the gift of imitation.
One by one I added to my parts until at length I found that I had a
repertoire of seventeen. I would rehearse them with my only auditor, my
mother, who considered them perfect.
Night usually found me at the back door of the Boston Theatre or Boston
Museum importuning the Captain of the Supers to be allowed to carry a
spear. The major portion of my time was given to affairs theatrical
until finally my employers decided to dispense with my valuable
services, and much to my delight I was cast adrift.
My mother, who always had a great fondness for the stage and was always
seeking the society of those connected with it, made the acquaintance
of Mr. and Mrs. Charles R. Thorne, Sr., the father and mother of
Charles, Edwin and William Thorne, and persuaded them to take a suite
of rooms at our house in Boston, situated at the corner of Bulfinch and
Howard Streets, directly opposite the famous Mrs. Fisher's theatrical
boarding-house. The Thornes were very delightful old people, and for
hours I would sit and listen to them discussing the favorites of olden
times, dating back to the advent of the Keans. Finally, they persuaded
their son Edwin to come and live with us, and for the first time I
found myself in the divine atmosphere of the players' life. Edwin was
the leading man at the Howard Athenaeum, playing stock pieces and
supporting travelling stars.
The Thornes were a great delight to me, as they had the entry to all
the playhouses in Boston, and it was my joy to accompany dear Mrs.
Thorne to every "first night."
Edwin Thorne finally left our house and became leading man at the
Providence Opera House, under the management of William Henderson.
I would often visit Providence, go behind the scenes and hold the
book while Thorne was committing his various parts to memory. It is
unnecessary to state that I was always enthralled at these golden
opportunities. After repeated requests Thorne was persuaded to use his
influence in procuring me an engagement. Finally I was offered the part
of Sir George Hounslow in the old melodrama, "The Bottle." I fortified
myself with a blonde wig, never dreaming of using my own blonde
locks. I thought every actor should wear a wig. From Thorne's wardrobe
I selected clothing altogether too large for my slim proportions. I
required inspiration and atmosphere and decided that in the wardrobe of
the illustrious player I should find it. Bedecked in those ill-fitting
garments I stood at the wings on the opening night waiting for my cue.
I was possessed of so much assurance at rehearsals that little
attention had been paid to me regarding the details of stage business,
the stage manager taking all for granted. I was the bad young man of
the play, seeking to bring about the dishonor of the soubrette. I
was supposed to have endeavored to embrace her down the road, she to
have eluded my advances and broken away, rushing onto the stage, I
following. Naturally she did not rehearse all she intended to do that
evening, and while I was quietly talking with her in the entrance, the
cue was given and she uttered a fearful shriek! I didn't know what had
happened and looked around for the cause. Then I found she was in the
center of the stage wildly beckoning me to come on and finish the scene
that was supposed to have started down the road. Somebody shoved me on.
The orchestra played chilly music suggestive of my base intentions.
This took every line out of my head, and I simply stood there and
gasped! Not a sound could I ejaculate! The young lady contemplated me
for a moment and cried, "You shall not!" Then she rushed off, leaving
me transfixed. From each side of the stage I could hear, "Come off!
Come off!" but I seemed paralyzed and could not stir. At last the
lights went out, the scene was changed and when I came to I found
myself in the property room with two or three gentlemen in red flannel
shirts throwing water into my face. They left me for an instant, and
I ran out of the stage door in all my makeup and Thorne's wardrobe
(which he afterwards told me I failed to return). I waited until the
train came through for Boston and boarded it, utterly oblivious of the
sensation I was creating among the passengers by my painted face and
penciled eyebrows. I jumped into a cab upon my arrival at the Boston
station, drove home to my parents and threw myself into my mother's
arms crying, "I cannot act! Get me a position in a shoe store!"
I was heartbroken for many weeks and firmly resolved never to become
an actor; but gradually my mother, who always believed in my hidden
histrionic powers, instilled some courage into my soul, I yielded to
her sympathy and advice and determined to try once more.
Through my mother's influence my father bowed at last to what seemed
the inevitable and consented to permit me to prepare myself for the
stage, exacting from me a promise, however, that I would devote not
less than five hours a day to my studies. Accordingly I was sent to
Wyzeman Marshall, an old-school actor of some repute during the reign
of Edwin Forrest, who undertook my training. I spent many happy hours
with this charming old gentleman as he devoted most of his (and my)
time to anecdotes and stories of the past. He taught me but little,
apart from the scanning of Shakespeare, which he thoroughly instilled
into my mind, so the few months which I spent under his tutelage did me
much good. I had no thought of being a comedian and devoted all of my
time to the study of serious rôles, from Douglas to the bloody Thane of
Cawdor, and committed all those parts to memory.
Fortunately for me at this time I became acquainted with Stuart Robson.
_Chapter III_
STUART ROBSON
My meeting with Stuart Robson was brought about by the influence of
Joseph Bradford, a clever playwright of the day. He had heard my
imitations of actors and pronounced upon them favorably, "not only for
their accuracy," as he put it, but the methods I employed reminded him
of a dear friend of his who had passed away some years before--Robert
Craig, to whom I was told I bore a striking resemblance.
Robert Craig was a clever player, playwright and wonderful mimic. He
was for years leading comedian at Mrs. John Drew's Arch Street Theatre,
Philadelphia. Had he lived he would certainly have made dramatic
history for himself. I have only a faint recollection of him, but
Bradford often told me of his many wonderful gifts and I have many
times wished that I had been born earlier or he later.
Bradford was an extraordinary person. A most incompetent actor, which
he often with great regret admitted, but one of the greatest geniuses
that I have ever met--a master in all matters pertaining to the drama
and literature of the theatre. Had he lived I feel certain that he
would have become the Pinero of the American stage. Alas, he was given
to conviviality and lived only for his friends.
[Illustration: STUART ROBSON
_The best Shakespearean clown of modern times_]
He possessed a splendid physique and was gifted with fine
conversational power. His fund of humor was excelled by none.
He was liberal to a fault, devoid of egotism, with always a kindly
word for those with whom he came in contact and possessed a brain as
pyrotechnical as Paine's fireworks. You can imagine his influence upon
those who were fortunate enough to be his associates. His knowledge
of painting, drama, music, sculpture, literature, poetry, in fact all
the arts, seemed unlimited. As a critic he had a style peculiarly his
own, equalled only by Hazlitt, Lamb, Lewes and a few others. He was a
graduate of Annapolis and left there with many honors. Very often we
would sit in his rooms and he would read me his prose and poetry, which
he never allowed to be published but which I think was as nearly unique
as that of Edgar Allan Poe, to whom he bore a striking resemblance. He
was a devotee at the shrine of Poe and often regretted the untimely
end of America's greatest lyrical genius. Little did he imagine that
his end would be the same. Burns, Poe and Bradford were the victims of
their mastering passion--the loving cup.
Through his kindly interest and guidance I was enabled to secure
my first real engagement and make the acquaintance of the best
Shakespearean clown of modern times and one of the cleverest of modern
comedians as well, Stuart Robson.
I remember the morning Bradford guided me behind the scenes of the old
Howard Athenaeum to present me to Stuart Robson. As we entered we found
that gentleman in the throes of a busy rehearsal of one of Bradford's
plays. As I stood in the entrance faint from excitement Robson stopped,
looked toward the entrance where I stood, transfixed, walked toward me
and said, "My God, Brad! who is this young man?" Bradford answered,
"A young friend of mine who wants to go on the stage. Of whom does he
remind you, Rob?" Robson looked at me for a minute, and ejaculated,
"Merciful powers, Bob Craig!" After being introduced we shook hands
and he said, "Come into my dressing-room, young man, and let me have a
good look at you." As we entered the room he seated me upon a trunk,
took both my hands in his and with the tears streaming down his face
gasped, "Wonderful! Wonderful! I have never seen such a resemblance
between two human beings!"
Within a few minutes the rehearsal was dismissed. Bradford and Robson
took their seats in the front row of the parquet and I went through my
repertoire of imitations. I rendered sixteen and Rob, bless him, always
pronounced the last one the best. I was about to leave the stage when
Brad insisted that I should give one of Robson. I put a veto upon that
proposition and after about fifteen minutes of violent pleading Robson,
who understood my feelings, sustained the veto.
Robson immediately offered me a part in the play which he was about to
produce, and on the following Monday I appeared in Bradford's play,
"Law in New York," as Ned the newsboy, and in the pier scene I first
gave my imitations of celebrated actors on the stage of a theatre.
They told me that my stunt went remarkably well, but I have no
recollection of what occurred. After I had responded to several encores
someone in the gallery cried out, "Give us an imitation of Robson!" It
took my breath away, but I stood still and calmly shook my head. I was
recalled and still the cry came, "Robson! Robson!" He was standing in
the wings and as I came off I said, "What can I do, Mr. Robson? They
are clamoring for me to give an imitation of you!" "Do?" said he in
that falsetto voice so well known to theatregoers of that period, "Go
back and give the villains hell!" On the impulse of the moment I went
through an entire scene which the audience had just witnessed between
Robson and a favorite player named Henry Bloodgood. As I assumed each
voice, particularly Robson's, the applause was deafening, and at the
finish, after repeated recalls, Robson was obliged to take me on and
make a speech, thanking the audience in my behalf.
After the play Robson said to me, "Young Goodwin, you have done two
things tonight that I shall never forget--halted the performance of a
very good play and given a very bad imitation of me. I could have done
it better myself."
Poor Rob, like all people possessed of conspicuous mannerisms, was
never able to detect his even when emphasized by mimicry. One can never
see himself in another.
I appreciated this in after life when I was seated in the private box
of the Broadway Theatre, New York. A young man named Alf Hampton had
given what I considered some remarkably clever imitations of leading
actors. Having somewhat of a reputation at that time in this same line
and being rather conspicuous that evening I gave vent to my pleasure
by applauding most vociferously all of his efforts. To my horror he
approached the footlights and announced an imitation of me! As he
finished the applause from all over the house shook the rafters, but
I could not discover one familiar tone. As he gave the imitation a
friend of mine, seated in the front row, looked over and very audibly
asked, "Well, what do you think of that, Nat?" I replied, "One of us is
rotten."
Poor Bradford dissipated his genius, and died, twenty odd years ago, in
penury. I was not present at his death, but fortunately I arrived in
time to save him from a pauper's grave, and he now sleeps tranquilly in
beautiful Mt. Auburn with his poems and other children of his brain--a
happy family known only to the elect. Adieu, dear friend. "Though lost
to sight, to memory dear."
Through all my theatrical career up to Robson's exit from life's
theatre the closest association and dearest friendship existed
between us. He was always my sponsor, my adviser; and what knowledge
he bestowed relative to the ethics of our art! Analytically he was
master of more of the fundamental rules of acting than even Lawrence
Barrett who was an authority. While Robson was never able to convey
a sentimental thought by any facial expression or delivery, he could
point out correctly the methods required to convey them. Had he not
been handicapped by a vocal organ that squeaked forth only fun, his
pathos would have equalled John E. Owens' or Joe Jefferson's.
I shall never forget the time when Robson, Crane, and I appeared in an
act of "Julius Caesar" at a benefit given to poor Tony Hart. Robson
was the Cassius; Crane, Brutus, and I was cast for Antony. We gave the
characters all the study and attention due to the great master and
were firm in our resolution to play the respective rôles with proper
reverence, to bestow upon them all the tragic force and power within
our capacities; but the public took the idea in a spirit of jest and
came prepared to see us burlesque the characters, never assuming that
we were in earnest in our purpose.
The afternoon came. The theatre was packed. I was the first of the trio
to make an entrance. Fortunately I came on with the mob and my few
lines passed unnoticed, as none in front recognized me. To be sure I
was denied the thrills of a reception, but I had the end of an act and
was quite content to wait.
[Illustration: TONY HART
_He had the face of an Irish Apollo, did Tony Hart_]
The scene was soon over and the full stage of the old Academy of Music
opened radiantly as Robson and Crane made their entrances as Cassius
and Brutus. They came majestically forth and were greeted by applause
that lasted fully a minute. They looked pictures. Forrest and Macready
never looked more like Roman senators than those two comedians as
they acknowledged the plaudits with true tragic dignity. Then a hush,
as the audience settled back for the expected travesty. It needed only
the familiar notes of Rob's voice to reassure them that they were right
in their conjectures and a shout of laughter went up as he began the
speech, "That I do love you, Brutus," etc. The shrieks of laughter
interrupted his long thought-out delivery. He paused. His face became
livid even through his heavy make up. Then he began the speech again in
a more modulated tone. The second time he got as far as "I do love you,
Brutus," when another yell blared from the front. He again stopped,
bit his lips with suppressed rage and waited a few seconds. It seemed
an eternity to us in the entrance. Then Rob raised his hand and by a
simple gesture commanded silence.
The laughter soon quieted down as it became apparent that Robson was
endeavoring to play the part legitimately and a subdued silence greeted
him as he began his speech for the third time. He started in even a
lower key and continued the speech. As he got into it he began to feel
the meaning of the words and tried to read them with true expression.
As he gave them the necessary emphasis his voice, that most ready of
organs, refused to obey the dictation of the brain and the gradual
crescendo required for the delivery became a succession of Robsonian
squeaks! The audience loyally tried to suppress its hilarity. At first
it smiled, then giggled, then peals of laughter hurled themselves
across the footlights like shots from a Gatling gun. All upon the
stage, except poor Robson, heard the merry storm. He was now thoroughly
engrossed and squeaked away to beat Gilmore's band, utterly oblivious
of the fun he was creating. Thinner and thinner came Rob's squeak;
louder and still louder came the laughter until it became a veritable
avalanche. As he reached the line,
"Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder the old Anchises bear"--
He realized that the audience was laughing at him and he continued,
"Did I, the tired Caesar, you blankety-blank, blankety-blank!", his
added interpolation being really unfit for publication.
Fortunately the laughter drowned the words. Had the audience heard them
the performance would have ended then and there. We all thought that it
must have heard, that the end had come. I prayed fervently that it had,
but no such luck! It gradually quieted down and the play proceeded.
When my turn came to end the act some of my friends said I did very
creditably. At all events I got through without a laugh. And that I
considered a triumph. We often referred to it in after life and always
with great pleasure.
Robson was a unique person, gifted with the most thorough sense of
right and wrong of any man I ever knew. His word was a contract and
with it went the liberality of a king. He absolutely refused to grow
old and sought only the young. He tried to emulate the deeds of
charity of the Good Samaritan and had a kind word for all humanity. He
possessed the soul of a saint and the heart of a fawn. His motto was
JUSTICE. He wrote the words and music of HONOR.
In a spirit of jest he once promised a coachman a gift of five thousand
dollars if the coachman succeeded in winning the hand and heart of a
certain lady. He gave him one dollar on account never dreaming that the
man would woo and win successfully. Imagine his surprise when six years
later the man turned up and informed him of the date of the wedding. I
happened to be present at the time at his summer place at Cohasset,
Mass. The coachman went his way and Rob told me of his promise. I
said, "Surely, you are not going to make good a promise made in jest?"
He answered, "I am," went inside the house and in a few minutes came
back on the veranda with the cheque for four thousand, nine hundred
and ninety-nine dollars in his hand. He called his daughter and sent
her down the road with the cheque in quest of the young coachman, with
instructions to present it to him as a wedding gift "from S. Robson,
Esquire," ordered a brandy and soda from his servant and rudely left
me with instructions to "Go home!" Knowing dear Rob's proclivities for
B and S's, I loitered about for a few hours and then returned to the
house, but Rob had disappeared.
His daughter and I finally located him, with a few convivial friends in
the hotel bar at Hingham. He called us to one side and quietly asked
his daughter if she had performed the duty as requested. She answered,
"Yes, papa, I gave him the cheque." Rob asked, "How did he take it?"
His daughter replied, "Papa, he cried!" "How long did he cry?" asked
Rob. "About a minute," she replied. "That's nothing," said Rob, "when I
signed it I cried an hour!"
I could fill pages with such deeds of his as this one and I knew him,
man and boy, for thirty years. The world never knew a better man than
Stuart Robson; a loving father, a dutiful husband, a great comedian,
an honest actor and an upright American citizen. To quote from one of
Boucicault's plays in which he appeared, "He had the soul of a Romeo
and the face of a comic singer."
God bless you, Rob, wherever you and our dear friend, Bob Ingersoll,
are! Move over, and leave a place for me! If it's hell, I'll invoke
a blizzard; if Heaven, we shall need each other's companionship! We
shall say that we were wrong down here and ask to be forgiven.
Shall we be?
I wonder!
_Chapter IV_
JOHN McCULLOUGH
At the end of the year 1882 I attracted the attention of the manager
of the Dramatic Festival which was to be held at Cincinnati and
was engaged to play the grave digger in "Hamlet" and Modus in "The
Hunchback." Neither of these parts had ever been assumed by me prior to
his engagement. It had always been my desire to appear in Shakespearean
rôles and other legitimate characters.
The Dramatic Festival was a splendid success, artistically and
financially. We began April 30, 1883, the first performance being
"Julius Caesar." My associates were John McCullough, Lawrence Barrett,
James E. Murdoch, Mary Anderson, Mlle. Rhea, Clara Morris and Kate
Forsythe. The other plays given were "The Hunchback," "Much Ado About
Nothing," "Othello," "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet." The enterprise
was managed by R. E. J. Miles and stage-managed by William H. Daly. The
receipts for the week were in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand
dollars. It was a happy time, marred only by our discovering that poor
John McCullough was a doomed man, his mind showing a gradual decay. It
was the beginning of the end, for in a few months the curtain rang down
on dear John and he walked the stage no more.
A great, big-hearted, genial soul was lovable John McCullough!
Everybody loved him and who could help it? Broad-minded and equally
broad-shouldered, his companions ranged from prize-fighters to
senators, wantons to duchesses. He was a splendid player and many
suggestions have I received from him. He was a tragedian on the stage,
a comedian off. I knew him for twenty years and in all that time, as
intimate as we were, I always addressed him as "Mr." McCullough--and it
annoyed him greatly.
One night at the old St. James (New York) bar I greeted him with the
usual salutation. He replied, "Damn it, my name is John!" I answered,
"I don't care whether it is or not, I can't say it"--and I never did.
To me he was a Roman senator and oh, how simple, how kind! I was always
awed when in his presence. When we met and he slapped me on the back
by way of comradeship my spine would open and shut. Maybe it was the
vehemence of the attack, but I always attributed it to my admiration of
the man.
One noon I went into Delmonico's after a long siege of poker with the
late Billy Scanlon, actor (and clever chap by the way), William Sinn,
proprietor of the Park Theatre, Brooklyn, Billy Barry, Henry Watterson
and John R. Fellows, District Attorney of New York City. I wanted
a bracer badly, I can tell you, for we had participated in a very
strenuous evening. As we entered, there was dear old McCullough having
luncheon.
[Illustration: JOHN MCCULLOUGH AND ASSOCIATE PLAYERS IN THE
DRAMATIC FESTIVAL
_"Mr." McCullough and the rest of us_]
I stopped, transfixed. He saw me and beckoned me to a seat at the
table. I was terribly self conscious. He said, "Son, have a drink."
I replied, rather timidly, "No, thank you." (I was slowly passing
away.) He continued, "Well, you do drink, don't you?" "Yes," I replied,
"once in awhile." "I mean you get drunk!" he insisted. I replied in
the affirmative. "Good for you! I wouldn't give a damn for a man who
didn't, occasionally!" he commented. "Is that right?" I queried.
"Certainly," he replied. "Well, then," and I yelled to the waiter,
"Give me an absinthe frappé!" "That's right, my boy; and, waiter, make
it two," he quietly remarked.
We sat there for some time and soon I forgot all about my losses,
listening to his fascinating stories of Edwin Forrest and the palmy
days.
He was a most entertaining man and my memory often returns to the
many happy hours passed in the company of my good friend, "Mr."
McCullough--"John" for short--and sweet--now.
_Chapter V_
SIR HENRY IRVING
After the Dramatic Festival my wife and I embarked for Europe. It was
during this time that I made the acquaintance of Henry Irving who
was then managing successfully the Lyceum Theatre in London. Irving
apparently took quite a fancy to me. He showed me many attentions and I
was the recipient of many hospitalities at his hands.
Irving was an extraordinary man in many ways and considering what
nature had denied him his achievements were little short of marvelous.
Possessed of a voice of but little power, utterly lacking in grace,
even ungainly and awkward in action, he was possessed of that occult
power that made all those infirmities subservient to his fine intellect.
I think that Irving had a wider knowledge than any man whom I have ever
met in the theatrical world. So much has been written by able writers
regarding this remarkable man's abilities that anything that emanates
from me will seem puerile in comparison.
Irving's humor always appealed to me, his sense of it ever being in
evidence no matter how serious the surroundings. His utterances were
subtly humorous and at times a little cynical, but never harsh, his
gentleness of delivery always disguising the little cynicisms that
might lurk beneath them.
I remember lunching with him one afternoon at the Garrick Club. An
actor named Kemble came in, a little under the influence of the
succulent grape, and began bewailing the decline of the drama. He
expatiated upon the downward trend of the player, expressing great
dissatisfaction over the then present conditions and his desire to
"chuck it." He preferred solitude, away from the incompetency that
he was forced to witness. He would like to build a shack and relieve
himself from all these humiliating associations on some desert island.
Irving, calmly wiping his glasses, looked at him for a moment and
asked, "Why not try one of the Scilly Islands?"
Another time an awful bore, one Fletcher, whom Irving detested, rushed
up to him in a most affectionate manner, saying, "My dear Harry! whom
do you suppose I met in Paris, last week?" Irving replied, "I have no
idea. Paris is so filled with people." Fletcher continued, "I know,
dear Harry, but it was our old friend Graham--Charlie! You remember
him." Irving grunted, "Ah!" Fletcher rattled on. "Well, Harry, you
know we had not met for years and he accosted me right in front of the
Louvre and placing both hands upon my shoulders he said, 'Great God! is
this really Fletcher?'" Irving quietly looked up and queried, "And was
it?"
We passed many happy evenings, together with dear old Johnny Toole, at
the Beefsteak Club. I look back with pleasure upon those improvised
little suppers Irving used to bestow upon the visiting Americans and
his fellow players upon the stage of the Lyceum after the evening
performance. I have never seen such unostentatious, yet lavish, display
as he exercised in those delightful hospitalities. They extended far
into the night and many times the sun was up as he, Toole and I made
the rounds of the Covent Garden Market where the butchers and fruit
venders were as friendly disposed towards him as were the guests of the
previous evening.
I never knew when Irving slept.
The last time we met was in his dressing-room at the Broadway Theatre,
New York. I had just produced "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at a great
outlay--a new experience for me at the time--investing a fortune on the
production before receiving the verdict of the capricious public. It
was an old story with Irving. As I shook hands with him he said, "Ah!
Goodwin, my boy, I see you are indulging in a little Monte Carlo around
the corner." I answered, "Yes, Sir Henry, I have a big bet down on the
single 0." "Well," said he, "this business is a fascinating gamble no
matter where the little ivory ball may land."
The little ivory ball proved in the end very disappointing to this
splendid player who did so much to dignify our art. For when the ball
fell into the single "0" Sir Henry's bet was on the black, No. 23. Had
he lived he would have found it impossible to indulge again in the
dissipation of costly productions.
[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING
_An extraordinary man_]
_Chapter VI_
"BARRY" AND JEFFERSON
"The world delights in sunny people."
I recall many.
Maurice Barrymore, actor, playwright, raconteur, gentleman, all-around
athlete and man of the world, was the most effulgent man whom I have
ever met. A brain that scintillated sparks of wit that Charles Lamb or
Byron might envy, a tongue capable of lashing into obscurity any one
who dared enter into verbal conflict with him (yet always merciful to
his adversary), with the wit of Douglas Jerrold without the cynicism,
the courage of a lion, the gentleness of a saint--there you have but
a faint conception of the qualities of this child of Bohemia. I knew
him for twenty-five years and in all the many hours that we spent
together I never saw him out of temper, never heard him utter one
unkind expression nor speak a cruel word. Even under the most trying
conditions he seldom permitted himself to use his rapier. And his
muscle and brawn were always subordinates, servants, never masters.
Fate hardly played fair with Barry. Perhaps the fickle jade was fearful
to bestow her best upon one whom the gods had created so powerfully
brilliant. She allowed his genius to run purposelessly upon the sands
of time until, jealous of the admiration which he won from all, she
robbed him of his chief asset and hurled his fine mind from the cliffs
of reason.
I shall not dwell upon the passing away of this remarkable man--it is
too terrible to recall--but I shall give the world a few of his quips
and jibes, showing his brilliant wit.
He gave the world much--a powerful play, "Nadjesda," sunshine and
happiness and a legacy of three brilliant children, whom I knew as
Barry's babies, whom I love for their own and their father's and
mother's sakes--
Ethel, John and Lionel--I greet you all!
Barry came into the Lambs Club one evening evidently much distressed.
Asked the reason, he answered "I am terribly annoyed and excessively
angry at the brutal treatment of Mrs. Bernard Beere by the press of New
York."
Barry was the leading man of Mrs. Beere's organization, the recipient
of three hundred dollars a week and, in the foreshadowing of that
lady's failure in a rather _risqué_ play, "As in a Looking Glass," felt
his engagement trembling in the balance.
"Brutal!" quoth the loquacious and severe Lackaye. "It was thoroughly
deserved! I was there and I never saw such an immoral play in my life
before a civilized community!"
"Granted," replied Barrymore, "but why censure the lady personally, a
foreigner as well? We can at least be courteous. Only the offensive
theme of the play was dwelt on; no attention was paid to her finesse
and subtle art. That was all lost, due to the huge playhouse in which
we were forced to appear. Hammerstein's was never intended to house
acting that requires such delicate treatment; it should be devoted to
opera, or the circus. Nothing ever gets beyond the third of fourth row."
"Which is most fortunate," replied Lackaye. "You punish the musicians,
and save the remaining rows, the suffering endured by those closer to
the actors. I am no prude, but I felt the blush of shame mounting to
my cheeks as the terrible and unwholesome dialogue came over in chunks."
"My boy," said Barrymore, "you don't comprehend the theme of that play.
Dialogue amounts to nothing when problems are to be solved. Maybe
the language suffered in the adaption but that does not palliate the
offense perpetrated upon the lady who was endeavoring to perform a duty
and teach a lesson by her consummate art."
"You call that art," asked Lackaye, "a wanton, expounding her amorous
successes? What edification can that give? I tell you, Barrymore,
you may be all right in your argument but the performance was simply
nauseating, nasty and suggestive. The whole thing reeked with filth!"
"I know," said Barrymore, quickly but quietly, "but you fail to
realize, my dear Lackaye, that Hammerstein's is a theatre where one may
be obscene and not heard."
Barry was chided by one of his friends for not going to see Sothern's
"Hamlet" which he was playing for the first time at the Garden Theatre
with mediocre success.
"Why don't you go and witness a performance?" asked a friend. "Go and
sit out only one act."
Barrymore replied, "My boy, I never encourage vice."
Dear old Frank Mayo who was passionately fond of argument, after
exchanging the usual greetings with Barrymore one afternoon, soon
became engaged in a very heated controversy. Mayo would project an idea
and before Barrymore could get breath enough to answer would spring
another. Mayo had put several vital questions to Barry to his own
entire satisfaction and answered them with equal satisfaction before
Barry had a chance even to offer a reply.
"My dear Barry," said Mayo; "it is a pleasure indeed to meet a man of
your calibre--to interchange thoughts and ideas with one so brilliantly
gifted as yourself."
"How do you know anything about my mental capacity?" asked Barry. "I
never get any further with you than 'Yes, but'!"
Barry went home late, or rather early, one Sunday morning after a long
session at the club. He met his wife on the stoop of their dwelling.
She evidently was on her way to church. As Barry said afterwards, "She
was made up for the part perfectly and had a prompt book with her."
She simply bowed haughtily and was about to pass on when he apologized
for being away all night, finishing with, "Oh, by the way, Georgie,
dear, I was with Geoff Hawley last evening." "Indeed," said his wife,
"I thought Hawley was a man!" This was a body blow to Barry but he
took his punishment smilingly and as she disappeared down the steps
shouted after her, "Where are you bound for, dearie?" To which, without
turning, she replied, "I'm going to mass; you can go to ----!"
"Summer isn't as bad as it is painted," remarked Barrymore as he
calmly contemplated a landscape picture, painted by Joseph Jefferson,
hanging on the walls of the Lambs Club. This criticism came from one
who knew whereof he spoke concerning the climatic conditions of the
Rialto during the hot months when the thespian is prone to talk about
the summer's adversity. Barrymore was equally conversant with the
value of paintings. His remark fell like a bomb among the sycophants
who were ever ready to praise even a chromo were it oiled over by the
illustrious player they were pleased to call "The Dean of the Drama."
The adulation paid to Jefferson's landscape was but a reflex of the
homage paid to this player by all those not "in the know."
Dear old Joseph Jefferson was loved by all those who came under his
magnetic influence. A delightful, scintillating, keen, old man,
possessed of rare technique, exquisite repose and the touch of a master
(but always guarded as to the manner of touch!). He touched an effect
but never assaulted it, as Mansfield did. Conscious of his limitations
he never ventured upon dangerous ice and always left his auditors
wishing that he might have been endowed with a more venturesome spirit.
He always wisely refrained from pioneering upon original ground, quite
content to pasture in the Sheridan and Boucicault downs.
For four weeks I studied this man when I appeared some years ago in
an "all star" cast of "The Rivals." My associates were Julia Marlowe,
William H. Crane, the Holland boys, Francis Wilson, Fanny Rice and Mrs.
John Drew.
(What a performance Mrs. Drew gave! She put the play in her gown every
night and took it home with her and the management told me that her
salary for the tour was less than that paid to Francis Wilson! My
weekly stipend was far in excess of hers and every night after viewing
her performance I was really ashamed to take the money.)
During that artistic trip (five dollars a seat makes anything artistic)
I watched Mr. Jefferson day and night. He was most kind to me and
attentive (for reasons which he afterwards explained).
Some one had told him that I associated with his sons a great deal;
consequently I was not a desirable person to have in any first class
organization! He had given up all hope regarding his sons so he thought
that he would have a try at my redemption. My conduct was so exemplary,
however, that the third week he apologized to me and earnestly begged
that during the rest of the tour I kindly look after him. As Willie,
Joe and Tom were really wielding a bad influence over the artistic
congregation I took the job and firmly believe that I improved his
morals to a great extent. (I tried to reform Wilson, too, but met with
failure!).
I watched this charming man for days and parts of some nights. I never
missed any of his scenes and during the performance when not concerned
in the play I was always watching him from the entrance. I absorbed
his methods in his interpretation of Bob Acres and while he was not my
ideal I think that his interpretation was really better than the author
intended. I used to shriek with laughter listening to his curtain
speeches or, rather, his curtain speech. Like his performance it never
varied--always the same, never a change, standing in the same position,
no altering of intonation or gesture, everything given by rote, but
always with fine effect.
[Illustration: JOSEPH JEFFERSON
_I firmly believe I improved his morals_]
After those performances, I would walk to the private car, go over "The
Rivals" as I had seen it performed and wonder if any of us, with the
exception of Mrs. Drew, were anything like the characters of Sheridan's
brain. I became firmly convinced that one was not--myself. Were the
others? Was he, "The Dean," anything like what the author intended Bob
Acres to be? Then I would ponder over the night speech of the dear
old gentleman, remembering the homage that he paid to the author, his
reference to the artistic rendering that they were giving his work, the
extreme pleasure it afforded him and his comrades to have the privilege
of acting such a comedy as this. Then with a five-dollar-trembling
voice he would bewail the fact that Sheridan was not permitted to view
this wonderful interpretation of his work. Choking with sobs that
hardly gave his words utterance, he would refer to past performances by
lamented actors and thank the audience for its attention. Concluding
with a semi-congratulatory reference to its being permitted to view
this wonderfully artistic performance, the benign old gentleman would
make his bow, deftly wiping away a tear, amid the plaudits of the
throng.
After listening to all this, I became convinced that we were artistic.
At least my associates were. (I was on to myself from the first night.)
They must have been terribly artistic. The sprint from the theatre to
the private car, participated in by Joseph Brooks, the Jefferson boys,
and the dear old gentleman (with Charles Jefferson in the lead, with
the nightly receipts), convinced me that they were! They would arrive
at the car--panting--and falling into their seats prepare to divide the
artistic spoils, "The Dean" taking fifty per cent. As I viewed this
"Chimes of Normandy" episode my artistic side went to the winds and I
knew that we were as commercial as Cohan and Harris are now.
Then I began, by comparison, to study this man, and wonder what he
had accomplished for the drama. Had he built a playhouse, like the
man of his hour and time, Edwin Booth? Had he produced any original
plays, made any production, or even leased a theatre, like Mansfield,
or Sothern, Irving, or Possart? Had he during the last decade created
any characters? An echo answered "No!" Then what had he done from
the time of his association with Laura Keene (at which time he was
considered only a fair actor as compared with Charles Burke, John E.
Owens, William E. Burton and William Blake) to the time of his becoming
conspicuous in the eyes of the American public?
Briefly, he returned from London after a successful engagement, having
previously occupied his time for three years in Australia producing
successfully American plays; then launched forth in a revised edition
of "Rip Van Winkle," a play previously performed with success by his
half brother, Charles Burke. For thirty years or more he presented Rip
to the dear American public with intermittent changes to "The Rivals,"
"Caleb Plummer," Dr. Pangloss in "The Heir at Law" and "Lend me Five
Shillings." The revival of these latter plays met with little pecuniary
success unless he added names to the cast, featuring conspicuously
such artists as William Florence or Mrs. John Drew. After a brief tour
he would again drift back to dear old Rip and dear old scenery with
some of the dear old gentleman's dear old family dominating the cast.
Thus he went on for years, and posterity will say that he was "a great
actor," "beloved by all."
Yet he lived among the great producers of his era--without producing!
Irving, who died almost penniless and who invested thousands of dollars
in an earnest endeavor to uphold the drama, Lawrence Barrett and dear
Edwin Booth, who lost a million in erecting a temple to Art only to see
his name chiseled out by a dry goods establishment--these were truly
great men.
I concede that Joseph Jefferson was "a great actor" as Rip--a most
benign person, a charming companion. For this man I have the most
profound respect; for what he did for the stage I have not. His
performance of "Rip Van Winkle" was perhaps a very great one (I never
saw Charles Burke). As for Bob Acres, I can only quote a really great
actor, William Warren--"Jefferson played Bob in 'The Rivals' with
Sheridan twenty miles away."
I have seen two men who are alive to-day play Sir Lucius O'Trigger in
"The Joseph Jefferson Version of 'The Rivals'" and I have played it.
Which leaves me to imagine that all those who made a hit in the part
are dead!
_Chapter VII_
A SUNNY SON OF SOMETIME
A sunny son of Sometime was Peter Dailey. When the Creator called him
to join the merry throng that had passed before the world lost one of
the sweetest characters that I have ever known. His memory will go
laughing down the ages.
There were no clouds when Pete pranced among the men and women of
the profession. He met you with the honest grip of a man and a smile
that only the seraphs can appreciate. Never an unkind word left the
brain that invented only sweet and wholesome sallies. The wit of a
Sheridan and a repartee that made it an impertinence to attack made him
impervious to all retort. As gentle as a fawn, as brave as a warrior,
Pete Dailey was a man among men.
During a friendship of over twenty-five years I never heard him utter a
profane word or use an obscene expression. No adjective was necessary
to enhance a story of his, no preface to foretell the trend of his
wit--which was as quick as the flight of a rifle ball.
When he was on tour with his own company some years ago he was chided
for his familiarity with his company by a German comedian, Al Wilson.
Wilson told him that he was losing his dignity by even associating with
the members of his organization, following this by saying, "Why, Pete,
I do not even speak to my company!" Pete replied, "Well, if I had a
company like yours, I would not speak to them either."
It was useless for any author to give Pete lines to speak, his
interpretations were so much better than any lines the author could
invent. I well remember one of the first nights at Weber and Field's
Music Hall, New York. He had a scene with Charles Bigelow who had
apparently given much thought and study to his part. Bigelow was a
bald-headed, blatant, obvious comedian who was principally engaged to
make children laugh or frighten them to death. They started in on the
scene and after a few words of the text Dailey threw his lines to the
winds and in a few moments had Bigelow tied into knots. Bigelow stood
there, hopelessly fuzzled, while the audience yelled with delight at
his discomfiture. Finally, enraged and mortified, the perspiration
pouring off him, he removed his hat to mop his brow. Quick as a flash
Pete said, "Put your hat on; you're naked!" This was too much for
Bigelow and he rushed off the stage.
I could fill pages with a recital of this man's many gifts, his goodly
deeds. Would there were more Pete Daileys! The world would be better,
humanity more gentle, hypocrisy unknown; fewer tears would be shed and
the journey through life made lighter.
_Chapter VIII_
CHARLES HOYT
During the early '80's a young man jumped into the theatrical arena,
having previously graduated from the editorial rooms of the Boston
"Post" where he had achieved some degree of success as a comic writer
and dramatic critic. He was a man of considerable education with an
absorbing insight into character. In this respect he was like the
present George Cohan. But he had more refinement than Cohan and was
more of a caricaturist than he. He had little charm but possessed a
brand of cynical humor which appealed to men, seldom to women. All his
characters were well defined. For about fifteen years his plays were
received with much favor and had he lived I have no doubt that he would
have proved a dangerous rival to the clever Cohan. His name was Charles
Hoyt.
His financial partner, Charles Thomas, was my seat mate at the Little
Blue Maine Academy and it was through him that I became acquainted with
the versatile Hoyt. For whatever charm poor Hoyt lacked Charles Thomas
made amends as he was one of the handsomest and most fascinating of
men. He died very young. That cruel censor Death was the master that
beckoned him to Phoenix, Arizona, where he passed away.
Hoyt was noted for his pungent and satirical humor. When in his cups he
was most poignant and insulting, never sparing even his best friends.
One night in a _café_ adjoining the Bijou Theatre he was very rude to
me. I realized his condition and was silent, but the first time I met
him sober I demanded an apology, which he gave, but not with very good
grace. A few months later Bert Dasher, one of his business friends,
told me that Hoyt met him one cold, frosty night in January in front of
the Hoffman House and after vainly endeavoring to explain our quarrel
imparted the information that I had talked to him pretty roughly and he
was determined to revenge himself. Hoyt had taken lessons in the manly
art of self-defense.
"I realize that Nat is alert and dangerous," he told Bert, "so I am
going to accost him unawares, feint him with my left hand and uppercut
him on the point of the jaw." He accompanied the remark with a downward
swing from the shoulder to the knee. The force of the swinging
gesture hurled him into the middle of Broadway where he fell in a
semi-conscious state until Bert came to his rescue and took him home.
The first night of my production of "Nathan Hale" Hoyt had assured me
of his intention of being present with his wife. But when the time came
she refused to accompany him. Charley, having purchased two tickets and
not desiring to be alone, sought someone to go with him. He soon found
a friend and invited him to come along. Much to Hoyt's astonishment
his friend quietly but firmly refused the invitation. "Why not?" asked
Hoyt. His friend replied, "I don't like Goodwin." "Well," said Charley,
"you like him as an artist, don't you?" His friend replied, "No, I
don't like him, on or off the stage." "Well," said Hoyt, "come along;
you are sure to enjoy this play for they hang Nat in the last act."
"Have you any idea what the price of American beauties is?" asked a
friend of Hoyt's one day, referring to the exorbitant charges of the
florists. "I ought to" answered the witty Hoyt, "I married one."
Years after I indulged in flowery dissipation for I married a bunch and
yet there are some curious creatures who wondered why I was appearing
in vaudeville while Hoyt was playing a harp.
_Chapter IX_
SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM
Sir Charles Wyndham is a remarkable man in many ways, a delightful
actor, a splendid manager and a most sagacious business man. Of
prepossessing appearance, he is further blessed with a slight figure
which he keeps even after passing the age of seventy. He still
manages to win approval in _jeune première_ rôles in spite of a most
disagreeable, rasping voice. He is ably assisted, artistically and
managerially, by Miss Mary Moore. He has won a place on the English
stage second to none.
What a blessing to win fame on the English stage! No impertinent
references to one's age; no vulgar inferences concerning the social
position of any player! How like our own delightfully free country!
(It's so different.)
One afternoon at the Green Room Club while actors of renown and some
just budding were seated at the long table enjoying the "two and
six" dinner, Sir Charles came in. He had just finished his matinee
performance of "David Garrick" with which he was packing the Criterion
Theatre. They have a chair in the club, supposed to have been the
property of Garrick. Wyndham sank into it, seemingly overcome by his
efforts of the afternoon. (Many of the poor devils dining would have
liked to share his exhaustion.)
[Illustration: SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM
_A remarkable man_]
A very clever dramatist named Hamilton, looking up, caught sight of
him and in a quizzical tone remarked, "Wyndham, you make rather a
fetching picture, sitting in the original Garrick Chair--and, what is
most remarkable, you are absolutely playing the character!"
Wyndham nodded back a mumbling and patronizing answer, evidently
pleased with the interest that he was creating.
Hamilton studied his victim a moment and then said, "By Jove, Wyndham,
do you know, you are more and more like Garrick every day and less and
less like him every night!"
_Chapter X_
CHARLES R. THORNE, Jr.
What an extraordinary, complex creature was Charles R. Thorne, Jr.
Beginning a stage career under the management of his father, an actor
of considerable repute in the '40's, young Charlie soon developed
into a leading actor of the old school, a ranting, vigorous player,
declamatory and thoroughly devoid of repose. He gradually drifted from
California to the East and during the '60's became the leading man of
the then well known Boston Theatre Stock Company. There he remained
for several seasons supporting all the leading players then starring
throughout the United States, including such celebrated artists as
Edwin Forrest, Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, Charlotte Cushman, Lotta,
Edwin Adams and many others.
Of an extremely jovial disposition, never dissipated but fond
of company, naturally witty and an extremely courageous man, he
soon worked himself into the hearts of the Boston public. He was
not particularly versatile, but had a splendid personality and a
magnificent physique--marred only by a head too small for the quality
of intelligence such a figure demanded. However, he was a royal picture
to contemplate, particularly in romantic and Shakespearean rôles. In
these he truly suggested the "Greek god." He gave his professional work
little thought and was quite content to bask in the sunshine of the
encomiums of press and friends until Dion Boucicault discovered latent
talents which even Thorne himself did not know he possessed.
Boucicault was about to produce one of his plays, "Led Astray," at
the Union Square Theatre, New York, and selected Thorne to create the
leading rôle. Taking him under his wing for a few months he succeeded
in transforming the man. Under his able tutelage Thorne, discarding his
ranting and mouthing methods, awoke the morning after the première of
"Led Astray" to find himself famous. He became founder of the modern
school of suppressed, natural acting and the most convincing actor of
the American stage.
He was not a man easily handled and had no respect for the rules and
regulations of any theatre. He was in constant difficulties with A. M.
Palmer, manager of the Union Square, but Palmer realized Thorne's value
and put up with many annoyances from him. Thorne held despotic sway,
much to the amusement of his companion players who loved him as they
loathed the management. Palmer exercised every means within his power
to humiliate Thorne, casting him for leading heavies for instance, but
Thorne's convincing methods always made the hero look ridiculous. In
the play "False Shame," in which he was cast for the villain, he took
all the sympathy from the hero and of course killed the property.
Palmer brought over the late Charles Coghlan at a salary of $1,000 a
week--Thorne's salary had never gone beyond $125!--and cast them both
to create simultaneously the leading rôle in "A Celebrated Case,"
giving Coghlan the quodus of the New York and Thorne the Pittsburgh
opening. I saw Coghlan's opening. He gave a marvelously thought-out
performance and made a tremendous hit. I saw Thorne some weeks after
and told him of my impressions.
I remarked, "Charlie, I think that Palmer has got you at last." He
observed, "Yes, I hear that that chap Coghlan is an actor. I am up the
spout as Palmer intends playing me at the Grand Opera House in two
weeks and I guess the boys will get me as that English fellow has had
the first whack at them and they will have the chance to compare us
in the same rôle." I said, "Well, I am going in front to-night and I
will tell you what I think." Before leaving his dressing-room I added,
"Charlie, if you take my advice you won't go to New York. Be ill, and
let your understudy go on." He laughed and, waving his hand, cried,
"All right, sonny boy, I may take your advice!"
I went in front and after the performance I rushed back into his
dressing-room and yelled, "For God's sake, don't get ill! Get to New
York as soon as possible!"
I had never seen such a performance! While you admired Coghlan's
technique and art, Thorne gave you no time to think of anything--he
was so real, so convincing. He drowned all judgment with the tears his
acting started. You simply sobbed your heart out.
In a few weeks Thorne went to New York and amazed the public. In a
short time Coghlan's name headed the road company and Thorne was snugly
housed again at the Union Square Theatre where he remained a Czar for
many years, until John Stetson engaged him to star in "Monte Cristo,"
a play made famous by the French actor, Charles Fechter. He opened at
Booth's Theatre to a $3,500 house. The streets were packed for blocks
by a swaying, eager multitude ready to pay homage to an actor who for
twenty years had been their idol and whose salary was never more than
$150 a week at any time.
He was very ill on the opening night--in fact he was dying on the
stage before his beloved public, but no one knew it. The fact that his
performance was most unsatisfactory gave no one an inkling of the
truth. He was driven home after the play, and never appeared again,
dying in a few weeks. Just as power was within his grasp, they rang the
curtain down and poor Thorne's soul passed into the great beyond.
All of the Thorne family were possessed of a wonderful sense of
humor. I, as I have said, knew them all--Charles, William and Edwin
and their father and mother. Many happy evenings have I passed with
this delightful family. They were truly, to quote from Dumas' "Three
Guardsmen," "One for all, and all for one!" Charles had a much keener
sense of the ridiculous than the others and he would exercise it even
in a serious scene, if for no other reason than to break up the players.
One day at the old Niblo's Garden in New York, Charlie came to play a
two weeks' starring engagement for his father who was at that time the
lessee of the theatre. I was a member of the company playing general
utility. Business was very, very bad and the advent of Charles did not
enhance the exchequer of the theatre. We were playing a Scotch drama,
"Roderick Dhu." Charles and his father had a powerful scene, ending an
act. The old gentleman spoke the tag, saying to Charlie, "If you are
King James of Scotland, I am Roderick Dhu!" Before the curtain fell
upon the line Charlie, who had bribed the prompter to delay its coming
down on the direct cue, took out a large document and said, "Yes, Mr.
Thorne, and your rent is due."
When the curtain fell the old man chased his son out of the theatre
and in a fit of passion swore he would not allow the play to continue.
Charles came back, apologized and the play proceeded.
Boucicault took him and Stuart Robson to London to play in "Led
Astray." Charlie made a great hit and poor Rob a dire failure. Robson's
failure Charlie took to heart as his love for Rob was unbounded. After
about six weeks three gentlemen, the proprietors of the Drury Lane and
Covent Garden theatres, called on Thorne and Robson at their chambers
with a proposition to Thorne for a long engagement. He listened to
their patronizing suggestions as to a consummation of the deal and,
pointing to Rob, asked, "Is my pal included in this?" When told that
their business was with him solely he cried, "Out upon ye for arrant
knaves! I'll not play at Dreary's Lane nor at Covey's Garden either!"
They thought he was mad and quickly withdrew.
[Illustration: CHARLES R. THORNE, JR.
_A royal picture to contemplate_]
_Chapter XI_
SOL SMITH RUSSELL
What a dear, delightful humbug was Sol Smith Russell. By humbug I mean
nothing disparaging for Sol was one of the sweetest natures I have ever
met. But he was a most eccentric person, a combination of good and a
tiny bit of bad, with the aspect of a preacher and the inclination
of a beau and man about town. If Sol had had the moral courage I am
sure he would have turned out a _roué_. He worshipped the beautiful,
particularly in woman, was passionately fond of gambling and loved the
cup that soothes and comforts. Yet he indulged his foibles only in
solitude. Very few knew the real man.
There was nothing vicious in his nature. He was merely alert,
artistically inclined. He was a genius in his quiet and inoffensive
dissipation. Of a frugal turn of mind, he became commercial when he
loosed his mental bridle and gave himself his head.
Tommy Boylan of Guy's Hotel, Baltimore, told me that Sol, evidently
contemplating a slight debauch, asked him in his bland way the price of
gin cocktails. Tommy replied, "Fifteen cents per." "How much a dozen?"
asked Sol. "To you," answered Tommy, "ten cents." "Two dozen to my
room, please," said Sol. At the door he turned and added, "By the way,
Tommy, ten per cent off for cash and thus enable me to reimburse the
bell boy. And, Tommy, be sure and have them made separately and send
six at a time when I ring the bell."
In this way Sol would have his little spree with only his mirror for
a companion and emerge the next day spick and span with two bottles
of an aperient water added to his account. By noon he would be found
officiating at some church function or passing tea at some lady's
seminary.
I never considered Sol a very great actor on the stage--but a marvel
off. He was a splendid entertainer and sketch artist, but he had higher
ambitions. His greatest was to wear the mantle of Jefferson whom he
worshipped.
We three were supping one night at the Richelieu Hotel, Chicago.
Jefferson had previously suggested to me the idea of my playing Doctor
Pangloss in "The Heir at Law," endeavoring to point out the many
benefits I would bestow by appearing in that character. I listened
with much respect but refused, knowing how old fashioned were both
the play and rôle. Sol, however, was not proof against the clever old
gentleman's blandishments and fell for the suggestion. The fact of
appearing in any character made famous by the astute old fox was enough
for the guileless Sol. I knew Jefferson wanted some one to play the
part only to court comparisons. To prove his interest in Sol's future,
Jefferson presented him with his entire wardrobe, even to the shoes and
awful wig. Sol was delighted at the prospect and accepted them readily.
When told of this at the supper that evening, I turned to Sol and said,
"Well, the press has been hurling Mr. Jefferson's mantle at me for
years, but you have undressed him. I guess I'll have to wear my own."
Jefferson seemed to enjoy the sally but I'm afraid Sol failed to
appreciate my remarks or gather my meaning. It would have been better
for him if he had, for later he produced the play and met with instant
failure.
While touring in the all star cast of "The Rivals" I called on an old
and esteemed friend of mine at Chicago--the bar keeper at the Grand
Pacific Hotel--who informed me that my friend Sol Smith Russell and
he had spent a most enjoyable evening the night before. Sol had left
him at about two A. M. saying he was looking forward to our
appearing in "The Rivals" with joyous anticipation. I asked about Sol's
health and capacity. The bar keeper replied, "He's fine. I have his
tabs for sixty dollars." I gasped, "Not cocktails!" He replied, "No,
pints."
The next afternoon at the matinee after the first act Sol's card came
up to Mr. Jefferson's dressing-room (which I shared on tour). Of
course he was admitted at once. Not appearing in the first act, I was
preparing the finishing touches to my make-up in a remote corner of the
room and was not seen by Sol. He rushed over to Jefferson who warmly
greeted him. Sol was most enthusiastic over the performance of the
first act. Standing in the center of the room, safely braced by both
hands on a massive oak table he gushed forth as follows:
"My dear Joseph, I have never seen such acting, such art. Surely
Sheridan in his grave must appreciate such artistic values as are being
dealt with this afternoon, such--"
Then came a long pause and his eyes closed as if he were in deep
meditation--I knew it was a hold over--then his lids started open and
he gathered up the thread of his complimentary effusion:--
"Such superb treatment, delicacy, subtlety, and--" again a pause and
the same closing of the eyes, the awakening and continuation:--
"Your work is a revelation and great object lesson to the students of
the drama, the commingling of the older and younger elements only lends
a charm to the works of the grand master and,"
Again the pause, and on his awakening after this last standing siesta,
he discovered my presence.
"Ah, Nattie, I hear splendid reports of your Sir Lucius O'Trigger."
I inquired from whom as I had been kept in ignorance of any. He said
from everyone.
"And now, my good friend," said Sol, addressing Jefferson, "I must
leave you as I don't want to miss Nat's first scene, the opening of the
second act."
Bowing, he made his exit, his left hand deftly placed upon the wall of
the room as he guided himself in a somewhat circuitous way to the door.
As he was bent directly opposite, I went to his assistance and led him
outside, detecting a slight odor of what seemed to me gin fizzes. I
bade him adieu and returned to my dressing table. Jefferson appeared
much gratified.
"Sol is awfully pleased apparently and was most gracious," he said. I
answered, "Yes, for a tired man, Sol spoke remarkably well." Jefferson,
who was very literal, asked, "Is Sol tired?" I replied, "He ought to be
with that load he is carrying."
Said Jefferson, "What load is he carrying?"
"A basket of lovely peaches," quoth I.
"I didn't notice he had a parcel with him," replied Jefferson.
"He is tanked up to the collar button," I said. "Oh, what a lovely
skate he has!"
"Tanked up to the collar button and skate? What the devil are you
talking about. You have a vernacular, my dear Nat, that requires
translation. What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you notice his condition?" I asked. "He's loaded to the
eyebrows."
"Tight?" asked Jefferson.
"As a new drum," I replied.
"I can't realize it," said Jefferson. "My eyesight prevented my
scanning his face as accurately as I could wish. I noticed his
conversation was a bit measured, but very well expressed. I can't
believe he was under the influence of liquor. Are you sure?"
I replied with much pride in my delivery, "You can't deceive an artist."
Jefferson simply screamed at this remark and during the afternoon
repeated the incident several times to each and every member of the
company. It met with so much favor and seemed to amuse the people
to such an extent that for several years, by imitating both Sol and
Jefferson, I made it one of the best stories of my repertoire.
I once told the story to a number of actors at the Green Room Club
in London. At the finish, "You can't deceive an artist," it failed
to provoke the laughter it always aroused in America and I thought I
noticed a look of blank amazement on my auditors' faces. I paid no
attention to it at the time, attributing their lack of appreciation
to their density or their limited acquaintance with the mannerism of
the gentlemen I was imitating. Three weeks later Fred Terry met me on
the Strand and with much gravity apologized for the silent manner his
_confrères_ at the club had received my story.
"My dear Nat," said Terry, "the lads entirely mistook your meaning.
They thought you were putting on a lot of side and when you pointed
to yourself with that egotistical gesture and proclaimed yourself an
artist, they thought it in exceedingly bad taste. I have been all this
time taking each one aside and telling him that was not your meaning
at all; that you were a very modest man for an American. You were
simply telling your superior officer what a drunkard you were. Now they
thoroughly understand the story and won't you please come to-night and
tell the story over again?"
Which request I politely but firmly refused.
The last time I saw poor Sol was at a luncheon at the home of the late
Stillson Hutchins given in our joint honor at Washington. Now both are
gone. God bless their memory. Adieu, good friends.
A few nights after telling this story, I was relating the incident to
Beerbohm Tree at a supper party. He agreed with me as to the density
of the average Britisher so far as appreciating American humor is
concerned. He told me he understood it thoroughly. As the supper
progressed we were entertained by song and story, contributed by the
guests. In my turn I told of an incident that happened in Denver.
I had come in from one of the clubs very late and directed the clerk
at the hotel to call me at 5 A. M. sharp, impressing upon
him that I was a very heavy sleeper. Having only a few hours to rest
I wanted him to be sure to rap on the door as loudly as possible and
not go away until he heard a response from me. It was vital I make the
train for Leadville and it left at 6 o'clock.
An Irish porter standing near overheard my instructions and volunteered
to assume the responsibility of awakening me on time. I handed him a
dollar and retired to my room, a cold, bleak apartment, and was soon
asleep between the icy sheets. It seemed but a few minutes until I was
awakened by a most violent knocking on my door. I shouted, "What's the
matter?"
"Are yez the man that left the call for the five o'clock train?" I
answered, "Yes."
"Well," came the reply from outside, "go back to sleep. Your train's
gone."
Several of the guests laughed loudly. Tree, however, looked blank
and ejaculated, "The silly man should have been discharged for
incompetency."
I hurriedly left the party and told no more stories that summer.
_Chapter XII_
RICHARD MANSFIELD
Had I known as much then as I do now or had my youthful obduracy been
less pronounced the sudden rise to heights of fame which marked Richard
Mansfield's career might never have happened--in any event it would
have been postponed.
It was while I was rehearsing in "The Black Flag," a melodrama which
won much success later, that a gifted journalist, A. R. Cazauran,
who was then acting in the capacity of play reader, adapter and
general factotum for Shook and Palmer, the lessees of the Union
Square Theatre, came to see me. After watching the rehearsal Cazauran
decided that I was sacrificing my time and talent with "such drivel as
'The Black Flag.'" When the rehearsal was finished he insisted upon
my accompanying him to Mr. Palmer's office, as he had something of
great importance to communicate to me. After seating ourselves at Mr.
Palmer's desk, he said,
"Goodwin, I am now going to give you the opportunity of your life. We
are going to produce a play called 'A Parisian Romance.' J. H. Stoddard
has been rehearsing the part of the Baron, but he has decided not to
play it, feeling that he does not suit the character."
Cazauran then continued in his delightfully broken English that that
was the part he had in mind for me and it would suit me "down to the
ground." The character of Baron Chevreal was that of a man of middle
age; but a young man, with virility, was necessary to act the death
scene which required tremendous force. He brought out the manuscript
and read me the entire play. When he had finished, I said,
"For the love of heaven, Cazauran, why did you select me to play that
gruesome tragedy rôle?"
"Because I think you can play it," he replied.
I was dumbfounded. "Why, I am a comedian, and it looks to me as though
that part were made to order for Stoddard."
Cazauran shrugged his shoulders and, placing both hands on mine,
observed in a most impressive manner:
"Goodwin, you are a comedian and, I grant, a fine one. So was Garrick,
but no one remembers Garrick in comedy."
How true that was, and how often that expression has come back to me in
after life! They seldom remember those who make them laugh.
"You accept this part of the Baron," Cazauran continued, "give me three
hours of your time each day for three weeks and I will guarantee that
you will never play a comedy part again. I and the Baron will make you
famous."
I sincerely thanked him, but firmly declined to be made famous in that
particular line. We adjourned to his favorite restaurant, Solari's, in
University Place, where for three hours he endeavored to persuade me
to play the part. I was obdurate and would not listen to any of his
suggestions.
"Well," he said at parting, "Stoddard cannot and will not play the
part and I have resolved to try a young man we have in our company,
selected from the Standard Theatre Company, where he was playing in a
comic opera 'The Black Cloak.' He is now rehearsing the part of the
ambassador in 'A Parisian Romance.' He shall play the Baron. He is
intelligent, knows French and I am convinced that I can coach him into
a success."
In four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks
to play the Baron awoke to find himself famous. His name was Richard
Mansfield.
_Philosophy, Thou Liest!_
One night several years ago at the Garrick Club in London, Joseph
Knight and I were discussing the American invasion of England by
American artists. During the course of our conversation, Knight said:--
"My dear Goodwin, we had an extraordinary chap over here from your
country some years ago. I can't recall him by name, but he was a most
uncomfortable person to meet and an _awful_ actor! He endeavored to
play Richard the III and gave an _awful_ performance! He followed this
with a play, written by Robert Louis Stevenson in which he scratched
the carpet and was somebody else! He was a boss-eyed chap, spoke
several languages and was remarkably adept at the piano. I can't for
the life of me recall his name."
From Knight's description I knew that he meant Mansfield and ventured
to suggest that that might be the man to whom he referred.
"Mansfield! Yes, that's the chap! Is he still going strong in America?"
"Going strong!" I replied. "Why, he makes more money than all of us
combined. He is called America's greatest player!"
"Really!" exclaimed the illustrious Knight. "What an extraordinary
country!"
Mr. Knight unconsciously echoed my sentiments. We are an extraordinary
people.
Think--and be called a fool. 'Tis better to realize a fact than agree
with the majority.
Only a few weeks ago I was reading a biography of the late Mr.
Mansfield, written by one of his managers; another, by a notorious
critic; and, believe me, Edmund Kean's biographers were amateurs
compared with Mansfield's in their shamelessly abject adulation of
that "genius." The fulsome flattery of the senile, undersized critic
who pens his truckling screeds at so much a column (but never again
in the paper from which he was dropped) and has been doing so to my
certain knowledge for over thirty years, is but the vaporing of his
infinitesimal soul.
For years this critic held the position of reviewer on one of the
leading New York daily papers and was the recipient of a stipulated
salary from the late Augustin Daly. He was also on the payroll of many
of the successful stars of America and the recipient of many bounties
at their hands. Thirty years ago I was standing in the lobby of the
Tremont House in Boston talking with John McCullough, "the noblest
Roman of them all," when this drunken critic, an "authority" on plays
and players, reeled into our presence and in a thick voice asked John
the number of his room. I shall never forget the look of disgust which
McCullough bestowed upon this leech of the drama. As he shuffled to the
elevator, mumbling incoherently, McCullough turned to Billy Conners,
his manager, and in stentorian tones that could be heard a block away
cried, "For God's sake, Billy how long am I to be annoyed by this
drunken incubus?"
Years after this same critic came to my opening performance of "The
Merchant of Venice" at the Knickerbocker Theatre, in New York, long
after the curtain had been up. In fact my first scene was finished
before he staggered down the center aisle to criticise my efforts.
I knew that he contemplated treating me severely, irrespective of
what I might be able to achieve. He did not consider it worthy of his
attention and left before the play was finished. The following morning
his "criticism" appeared, containing over two columns of vituperative
abuse of my work, deservedly, no doubt; but as the paper went to press
at eleven thirty and our performance was finished precisely at that
hour I wondered how so beautifully a worded review could have been
composed or even dictated in so short a time. The article was evidently
inspired by an imaginary production which he was privileged to witness
before it was seen or heard.
Yet this man's adulation of Mansfield, patently written at so much a
line, will be handed down to posterity and be believed and respected by
the multitude! Truly, "What fools these mortals be!"
Mansfield, to me, was an enigma. Ask any worthy member of my profession
to-day his opinion of Mansfield as an actor and he will, I am sure,
agree with Joseph Knight. I am one of the few actors who made a study
of Mr. Mansfield--for many reasons, the paramount one being that I
considered that I was indirectly responsible for his amazing and
sensational success in "A Parisian Romance."
I maintain that Mansfield was never a great actor, but a clever and
gifted man--a dominant personality which asserted itself even when
clothed in mediocrity.
I ask any fair-minded person if Mansfield ever moved him to tears,
broke his throat and caused his heart to burst and sob his soul away,
as did our beloved Booth. Did he ever cause a ripple of laughter to
equal those ripples set running by delightful Willie Collier? Did
he ever make you feel like bounding upon the stage and climbing up
to Juliet's balcony, as one is prompted to do when witnessing E. H.
Sothern pay tribute to Julia Marlowe? Did he ever make you start
from your seat and thank God that the performance was over, as when
listening to Edwin Booth's appeal to be allowed to enter the banquet
hall where his daughter is being held prisoner in "A Fool's Revenge"?
Did he ever rivet you to the spot by pure, sweet, untheatric delivery
of a speech without effort, as did Charles R. Thorne, in "The Banker's
Daughter"? Did he ever hold you enthralled in a spell of reverence,
as did Salvini or John McCullough in his address to the Senate in
"Othello"? In a word did Mansfield ever make you really laugh or truly
sob? Never? Then greatness was denied him.
I argue that if an actor cannot appeal to you through the emotions
he should take down his sign. If an actor cannot make you laugh or
cry; fails to impress by any method except that of physical force
or personality; cannot make love, he fails to qualify. Mansfield's
attempts to storm or win any of these emotions were as futile as they
were absurd and when he ventured within the realms of Shakespeare
he was atrocious or preposterous. With all his unquestionable
intelligence, he was never able to master Shakespeare's rhythm or to
scan correctly, as those who have witnessed his Richard, Henry the
Fifth, and Shylock, will remember.
That is my opinion of his acting.
What he did for the American stage is a far different proposition.
There is no denying the fact that he was quite as successful in
elevating the drama in America as Irving was in England, but he
suffered by comparison, as Irving was superior in knowledge of stage
craft. He was not the equal of Irving, either as actor or stage
manager. True, he was denied Irving's authorities and the assistance
of technicians who lightened Irving's efforts and materially added
to his fame. Neither were Mansfield's methods, employed to further
his ends, as legitimate as Irving's. Irving never found it necessary
to insult his audience for its lack of patronage, or failure of
appreciation. Dear benign Henry Irving devoted as much time to beget
a friend as Mansfield did to destroy one. Had Mansfield studied his
characters with the same amount of reverence which he bestowed upon
his productions and attention to "detail" I might have agreed with his
biographers; but I conscientiously say that I cannot. The mistakes he
perpetrated were often misconstrued into perfections of art.
Mansfield, in my opinion, was an actor who selected the one art in
which he was totally unfitted to shine and in which nature never
intended him to soar. He did everything wrong, well.
Personally, I liked Mansfield. He was most companionable, full of
anecdotes, a fine musician, sculptor, linguist, conversationist and
could be most agreeable, particularly to those whom he cared to
interest. I had several delightful chats and very often dined with him
in his private car and always came away wishing he could be persuaded
to send over his charm into some of the plays of his extensive
repertoire. But no, his channels were in the deep, dark waters of the
uncanny.
I have never left the playhouse, after witnessing one of his
performances, with a sweet taste in my mouth or a wholesome thought.
The trend of his characterizations was towards the cruelty in mankind.
He catered to the morbid. There was little sunshine in his plays.
They were as a rule overcast with the clouds of misery, crime, and
the "Winter of our discontent!" In the words of Joseph Knight, "_How
Awful!_" Yet what a true disciple of Cazauran he proved to be! No one
remembers a laugh provoker, while even third rate "serious" actors win
posthumous praise!
Mansfield was considered a great actor by the masses. But do the masses
know? No! You will hear them prate about his "detail." I do not agree
with the masses and never have agreed with them.
I do not enjoy a visit to the morgue.
I consider Mansfield's detail, as a rule, misapplied. If sitting upon
a great piece of scenery resembling an artichoke and stabbing himself
with a huge Roman dagger without toppling over, as he did as Brutus,
is detail, then I am wrong. When I saw him perform this piece of
"business" I marvelled at the vitality of Brutus and the weight of his
head for surgeons tell me that when one dies of a self-inflicted wound,
particularly when administered by a cleaver, the head falls forward
and naturally the body follows. Not so with Mr. Brutus as played by
Mansfield! He appeared too busily engaged in counting the people in the
gallery to allow any authority on self-inflicted wounds to interfere
with his "detail."
Again take the death scene in "A Parisian Romance." He is supposed to
die from a stroke of apoplexy, not a stroke of lightning. Mansfield
flopped over as if hit on the head with a club. The original, Germaine,
who played the part in Paris, received his stroke like a gentleman,
sank into his chair, was carried into an ante-room and calmly passed
away, a white hand appearing between the curtains as he endeavored to
rejoin his disreputable friends. If one were privileged to read the
original manuscript one would find that the Baron is supposed to faint
as he has fainted many times before. The people carry him off and the
party continues its revels until notified that its host has passed away
in the adjacent room. Not so with Mansfield, catering to the masses,
which enjoy "detail!" He got his stroke, dropped his glass upon the
table, fell--tableau! All stand riveted. Someone cries, "The Baron is
dead! Stop that music!" Curtain!
The American people not only fancy "detail"; they also want "ginger"
and "the punch"! No _pousse café_ for them! They want "the straight
goods"--and Mansfield certainly handed them over!
_Chapter XIII_
IN VARIETY
After my engagement with Robson at the Howard Athenaeum, which lasted
for only a week, my mind was fully made up to adopt the stage as my
vocation. I went to New York and secured a position as utility man at
Niblo's Garden, under the management of Charles R. Thorne, Sr., and
Edwin Eddy. But this lasted for only a few weeks, the season proving a
failure.
During the seasons of 1875 and 1876 I found it difficult to secure
any employment whatever. The variety business, now called vaudeville,
about this time had well-nigh supplanted the legitimate drama in the
estimation of the masses and I, being rather an astute observer for
a youngster, determined to turn my attention in that direction. The
salaries offered were tempting and the opportunities of advertising
one's ability much greater than in the legitimate. I persuaded my
father to advance me enough money to have some costumes prepared and
succeeded in inducing Bradford to prepare a sketch for me. It was
called "His First Rehearsal," the receipt for which I take pleasure
in submitting. You will see that sketches in those days cost small
fortunes!
[Illustration: (Handwritten receipt from Joseph Bradford.)]
[Illustration: IN THE LITTLE REBEL
_One of my first excursions into the legitimate_]
I succeeded in procuring an opening at the Howard Athenaeum under
the management of John Stetson. My associates appearing in the same
programme were Gus Williams, Sol Smith Russell, Pat Rooney, Denman
Thompson and several others who afterwards became famous players. I was
handicapped to a great extent by this competition and my success
was not very flattering until about the end of the week when I gained
more confidence and my methods were a bit surer. On the Saturday night
of my engagement Bradford brought a friend of his, Clay Greene, to
see his _protegé_. That evening, fortunately for me, my sketch went
particularly well. Years after Mr. Greene wrote the following tribute:
THE LEGEND OF NATHANIEL
BY CLAY M. GREENE
"Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,
To see the mummers; not at the Museum:
'Tis laughter's Tomb. The Park's a dull Te Deum;
The Globe's a Morgue. Mayhap there be a smile
That lurketh somewhere in the dingy Athenaeum."
Thus spake my friend, Joe Bradford: Rest his soul!
I'd known him then a day, and we were chumming,
As though we'd been for years Love's lute-strings thumbing.
We'd told each other's lives; each ope'd his soul,
And drank the other's health 'till riotous becoming.
To his beloved Athenaeum, then,
We almost reeled, and in a trice were seated,
So close that we could scent the footlights heated.
We laughed indeed, again, again, again,
As clownish Mummers ancient songs and quips repeated.
Then came into the light a slender boy,
And Bradford yelled with lusty acclamation:
"That's NAT, God bless him!" Then, without cessation,
The stripling held each hearer like a toy,
And thrilled him now with song, then wondrous imitation.
First Farce, then Opera, now broad Burlesque,
Then e'en in tragic realms majestic soaring,
And each attempt success prodigious soaring;
(Be it pathetic, tuneful, or grotesque,)
Till every palm was bruised with ravenous encoring.
The youth had scarce outgrown his spelling book,
And yet tho' oft some honored name defaming,
By matchless ridicule, his pure declaiming
Came easily as ripples to a brook,
Or thrills to lover's souls when latest sweethearts naming.
"Who is this boy?" I cried. "He's clever, quite;
Whence came he? Where began his gentle schooling?
'Tis pity there's no art in such tomfooling,
And much I fear this youth I've seen, tonight,
Is but a clever clown! Alas! Such kindless ruling!"
"Then thou'rt a weakling Judge to so decide!"
Cried JOSEPH, redd'ning in his indignation.
"A clown? No art? Why 'tis no imitation
That we have heard; nor can it be denied
This callow boy is that one genius of a nation!"
"You smile; you purse your lips; and even doubt.
E'er I have drunk myself into perdition,
NAT GOODWIN will have filled with inanition
The fame of every actor hereabout:--
For Nature gave him the Creator's tireless mission!"
He reproduced no song, no speech, no jest,
But it was lustered by some hidden power
That comes to Genius born with Fortune's dower.
Youth in his veins, ambition in his breast,
This boy will be one day the hero of his hour.
More than a decade passed. Unlike to me,
Joe lived not to fulfill that night's foretelling;
Yet oft adown the years there comes a welling
From that Somewhere, to green prophecy
Which in my doubting soul that night usurped a dwelling.
Today, I saw an eager, jostling throng,
Like some greed-laden human panorama,
Surround a playhouse door with vulgar clamour,
To honor Bradford's star. "Seats! Seats!" their song:--
To witness his, NATHANIEL'S, show of laurelled glamour.
Oh, gentle friend of mine, thou art no more;
But lend thy spirit ear while I am spinning
My admiration's tale of endless winning
NAT ever made. He never failed to score
Since we together saw his modest first beginning.
I hid thy prophecy within my breast,
And ever and anon its force recalling,
Watched GOODWIN stride with speed that was appalling;
Till now his very foes proclaim him best
Amongst his votaries, thy very words forestalling.
And I am glad to know, my spirit chum,
That I long since let honest admiration
Be leavened by a Friendship's adulation
For him who in these decades hath become
No artless clown, but that one genius of a nation.
Drink deep with us, thou gentle Friendship's wraith;--
If thou hast aught to drink where thou'rt abiding,
And Nat and I'll recall thy stalwart faith
Which met my doubting with indignant chiding,
That night when you a new star's orbit were deciding.
"Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,
To see the Mummers (not at the Museum.
'Tis laughter's tomb; the Park's a dull Te Deum;
The Globe's no more): for I would see thee smile,
While thousands laud the star of thy loved Athenaeum!"
After my run at the Howard Athenaeum Tony Pastor offered me an
engagement at $50 a week to appear at his Variety theatre in New
York. When I arrived I was terror stricken at the way in which he had
announced me. I was advertised as "Actor, Author and Mimic." I remained
with Tony several weeks and when I left Gotham my salary had grown to
the sum of $500 a week, a tremendous salary in those days.
Variety was hardly to my liking as it gave me too much time to myself
and I regret to say that I saved but little from my season's work.
Colonel Sinn of the Olympic Theatre, New York, made me alluring offers
to continue on the variety stage, but I decided to enter the legitimate
and accepted an engagement to appear as Captain Crosstree under the
management of Matt Morgan, then the manager of the 14th Street Theatre
in the burlesque of "Black-eyed Susan." It was there I met for the
first time dainty little Minnie Palmer and we appeared together in two
farces, "Sketches in India" and "The Little Rebel."
After a few weeks at the Fourteenth Street house we accepted an
engagement to return to the Howard Athenaeum and we opened there at
a joint salary of $750 a week. I was very proud of this, as I had
previously left that theatre, not particularly successful, at a salary
of only $15 a week.
_Chapter XIV_
ELIZA WEATHERSBY
Minnie and I determined to remain together and continue in vaudeville
through the following year and made our arrangements accordingly. But
these were vetoed by her mother who decided that we had better earn our
respective livings apart.
The following summer (1876) I opened in the production of Rice and
Goodwin's "Evangeline," words and lyrics by J. Cheever Goodwin, music
by Edward E. Rice. I appeared in the character of Captain Dietrich.
My associates in this production were William H. Crane, James Moffit,
Harry Josephs, Veney Clancy, Lizzie Webster and Eliza Weathersby, one
of the most famous beauties of the burlesque stage, who came to this
country originally with Lydia Thompson.
A friendship sprang up between Miss Weathersby and me. It quickly
ripened into love and at the close of our season we were married by the
Rev. M. Kennedy of New Rochelle, New York, on the 24th day of June,
1877.
Eliza Weathersby proved a loving and lovable wife and was of great
assistance to me in my profession, playing the principal female rôles
in all my plays with great success until she was forced to retire from
the stage because of the illness which gradually brought about her
death.
[Illustration: ELIZA WEATHERSBY
_The wife who mothered me_]
Eliza Weathersby was one of the most beautiful women whom I have ever
known and one of the most self-sacrificing wives that ever blessed man
with devotion and love.
Forced by circumstances, she left a position at the Haymarket Theatre,
London, where she was considered the best soubrette since Mrs. Keely,
and came to America with the celebrated Lydia Thompson's famous troupe
of British blondes. Her environment was most distasteful to her as the
women with whom she was forced to associate were not to her liking.
Lydia Thompson, herself, was a most exemplary woman and as virtuous as
Eliza. She, too, was a very clever actress even before entering the
field of burlesque and a friendship sprang up between them which lasted
for many years.
The reason for Eliza Weathersby's entry into the burlesque field was
that the salary offered enabled her to support her widowed mother and
five sisters who were left in want by the death of their father. She
knew that no matter what her surroundings were she was proof against
all temptations and her after life revealed how thoroughly she had
diagnosed her character and future. Every week after our marriage a
certain sum was sent across the ocean, out of our joint salary, to the
widow and orphans left in London and, one by one, each succeeding year
a sister would come over and join our happy family. Emmy, the most
beautiful, our favorite sister, was taken away from us two years after
she arrived. Contracting a severe cold she died of pneumonia and we
sorrowfully put her away in Woodlawn. She was a charming girl. And she
gave promise of becoming a splendid actress.
I was only a stripling when I married this beautiful creature. Moreover
I was unreliable and, I confess, unappreciative of what the fates had
been so kind as to bestow upon me. Many have accused me of "wanton
neglect." I may have neglected her, but only for the companionship of
men. She never complained and during the ten years of our happy married
life there was never one discordant note. She was ten years my senior
and treated me more like a son than a husband, but, like the truant boy
who runs away from school now and then, I was always glad to return and
seek the forgiveness that an indulgent mother always gives a wayward
child. Our own home near Boston was a little paradise. I was seldom
away from it and together we spent many, many happy hours, surrounded
by our little sisters and my friends--who were always her friends. She
was domesticated to a degree and never cared for the theatre. A loving
sister, a dutiful daughter, a loving wife, she is resting in Woodlawn
and the daisies grow over her grave.
We remained with the "Evangeline" aggregation during the summer of
1876. This engagement was interrupted by my accepting another to
appear at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia in conjunction
with the famous John Brougham. This only lasted for two weeks when I
rejoined Rice and continued with him until I was discharged for having
a fistic encounter with the stage manager who was always making things
particularly disagreeable for me. Eliza was offered an increase of
salary to remain, but she preferred casting her lot with me.
We packed up our parcels and went to New York in search of an
engagement. I succeeded in procuring an opening with Harrigan and Hart
at the Theatre Comique where I remained for several weeks. Tony Hart
and I were always like Damon and Pythias.
What a delightful character was Tony Hart!
"His face was a thanksgiving for his past life and a love letter to all
mankind."
About 1872 a bright-eyed Irish-American lad named Anthony Cannon came
over the theatrical horizon like a burst of sunshine and it took but
a few short years for him to establish himself in the hearts of the
American public. I met him about 1874, before I went on the stage, and
a friendship sprang up between us that terminated only when he was laid
to rest in the Worcester graveyard.
Tony Hart was the name of the lad of melody, after he had fired the
Cannon. From the time he became associated with Edward Harrigan until
the name of Harrigan and Hart became famous from coast to coast, that
boy caused more joy and sunshine by his delightful gifts than any
artist of his time. To refer to him as talented was an insult. Genius
was the only word that could be applied. He sang like a nightingale,
danced like a fairy, and acted like a master comedian. No dialect was
too difficult for him--Irish, Negro, Dutch, German, Italian became
his own, and one lost sight of the individual in the truthfulness of
portrayal. His magnetism was compelling, his personality charming. He
had the face of an Irish Apollo. His eyes were liquid blue, almost
feminine in their dove-like expression. His head was large and round
and covered with a luxurious growth of brown curly hair which clustered
in ringlets over a strong brow. His feet and hands were small, his
smile almost pathetic. His disposition turned December into May. This
was the lad who sang, danced and acted himself into the hearts of
America during the seventies and early eighties.
Tony Hart was the friend of all mankind and my especial pal.
I have loved three men in my life, and he was two of them.
I miss him greatly, especially on the 25th of each July. We both were
born on that day and during a period of twenty years we exchanged
telegrams, letters or cables of loving friendship.
He went away many years ago, but his memory will always linger with
me. We laughed and sang together for twenty years and when they took
him away to join the seraphs, nature discarded the mold that fashioned
him. She could find no one worthy to fill it. When poor Tony left us
the stage was seen through tears; an artist had gone to join the past
masters; the world had lost a man and I, man's greatest treasure--a
friend.
After leaving Harrigan and Hart, Eliza and I made up our minds to go on
our own. I knew my limitations and her reputation. She had previously
made one or two journeys into stardom alone and I thought it would be
a good idea to organize a company featuring her. I would be in her
support.
Our finances prohibited a production sufficiently elaborate for a
burlesque organization so we determined to have a play written on
the lines of The Vokes Family skits and Salsbury's Troubadors which
were then playing successfully throughout the country, I interested
a ne'er-do-well playwright named George Murray. We collaborated and
brought out a little play called "Cruets" into which we injected all
the little stunts in which we excelled (and all others that we could
crib!). Thus we started out on our first starring tour, her name
heading the company.
We played through the New England circuit where we had previously
appeared in "Evangeline." Our proceeds the first week went away beyond
our most iridescent expectations. We cleared in the neighborhood of two
thousand dollars profit.
[Illustration: IN HOBBIES WITH ELIZA WEATHERSBY
_The play I won at faro_]
Out of the proceeds of our first week I paid a retainer to Benjamin
Wolfe, a Boston journalist who had written "The Mighty Dollar" for
W. J. Florence, to write us a play on the lines of the one we were
then doing. Had I known what was in store for us I would not have
indulged in such extravagance. For the next five months we never saw
a house of more than two hundred dollars at any performance and in a
little while the remainder of our $2,000 had almost vanished. I had
paid Wolfe a thousand dollars down as a retainer on his agreeing to
deliver the manuscript in five months. We had been travelling through
New York, Ohio and Illinois to gradually decreasing business. We always
left a favorable impression, so much so that John Albaugh who was then
managing the leading theatre at Albany wired me for a return date. I
accepted with avidity, as it meant a week's rest and a possible relief
from bad business.
Upon our arrival at Albany I received a telegram saying that Wolfe had
sent his play, called "Hobbies" C. O. D. A thousand dollars was needed
to get the manuscript from the confines of the post-office. A thousand
dollars to me then looked like a million!
Poor Eliza had saved enough from her earnings to enable her to put
aside ten one thousand dollar government bonds. These I insisted
she lock up in a safe deposit box the day after our marriage with
instructions to tell no one of her hidden fortune nor ever to molest it
unless we were starving. When the telegram arrived she insisted upon
going down to New York and taking out one of the bonds with which to
release our play. I would not give my consent and started out to try to
borrow the money. I knew few people in Albany, but had two friends in
Troy whom I thought I could rely upon to come to my rescue. One was a
judge, the other a gambler. I found them both financially embarrassed,
but between them they dug up a hundred dollars which they presented to
me.
My gambler friend suggested that I take the hundred dollars, go
upstairs into a faro game in which he held a slight interest and
try to win out. I reasoned that the hundred was of no use to me and
determined to take a chance. I went into the gambling room, and bet
the hundred dollars on the high card. It won. I let it stay and it won
again, giving me four hundred dollars. I asked for a chair then and sat
down.
In ten minutes I had eleven hundred and fifty dollars! I immediately
returned the hundred dollar loan, bought Eliza a bunch of lilacs, her
favorite flower, went to the post-office and returned home with the
much coveted manuscript.
I was ashamed to tell her how I "earned" the money, but I wouldn't tell
her a falsehood and finally told her of my afternoon's experience.
This worried her greatly as she never believed that any good results
came from money obtained that way. I assuaged her grief and as usual
was forgiven. We spent that night pondering over the manuscript and
at the finish we both decided it was vastly inferior to our little
play "Cruets." However, we announced a production for Friday night.
This gave us only five days of preparation. We thought so little of it
that we never gave any attention as to what we should wear, arriving
at no definite conclusion until the night of the performance. So
little did we think of the play that I offered Charles Bowser, my
leading comedian, a half interest in it for five hundred dollars and a
cancellation of the three hundred and fifty dollars I owed him for back
salary.
"Natty," he said, "I haven't five hundred dollars and even if I had I
wouldn't care to invest it in your property." How little did he know he
was refusing a fortune!
When the curtain rang down on the finale of that play I would not
have sold a half interest in it for fifty thousand dollars! It was a
whirlwind of laughter from beginning to end. We were all dumbfounded
and could not understand why the play was received with such
manifestations of delight. Everything was encored time and time again
and the rafters shook with applause and laughter. The Saturday morning
papers were most enthusiastic and in a few days I was besieged with
offers from all over the country.
We performed this play successfully for four years, Eliza and I
dividing a small fortune. Hers was put away in the safe deposit vault
while most of mine went back into the coffers of the proprietors of
various places of the same kind as that in which I won the original
thousand dollars.
I really never knew how much we did make out of that play until Eliza
died and willed me her share. It came in very handy at the time and
was gratifying for two reasons--it eliminated all my debts and was a
vindication for me, in a way, as I considered it proof that (since
she left me every dollar she possessed, with the exception of the ten
thousand dollars in bonds which she had earned before our marriage) I
had not treated her as cruelly as my vilifiers would have the world
believe.
We followed "Hobbies" with several other productions including "The
Member for Slocum," "Sparks," "Ourselves," "The Ramblers" and one
or two others. Then we associated ourselves with Edwin F. Thorne
and produced a melodrama by Henry Pettit called "The Black Flag." I
appeared as Sim Lazarus and Eliza as Ned the waif. We produced this
play at the Union Square Theatre in September, 1882, and continued
through that theatrical season with very gratifying success.
Our association with Edwin Thorne was a delightful one. Though only a
mediocre actor, he was a charming companion and his personality was
most attractive. It was a funny experience to be associated with Thorne
as it seemed but a few short months since Frank Burbeck and I would
sneak into Thorne's bedroom at my mother's house, abscond with his
sword and scabbard, adjourn to the back yard and indulge in a "duel"
which we would continue until interrupted by the Thornes or other
occupants of the dwelling.
[Illustration:
GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES
N.C. GOODWIN JR. IN "HOBBIES"
LITHOGRAPH OF GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES]
_Chapter XV_
SUCCESSFUL FAILURES
Paradoxically my most conspicuous failures, barring one or two, have
been my greatest successes notwithstanding the reports which perhaps
will be handed down to posterity. The best instance of this is my
production of "The Merchant of Venice." The critics condemned it
harshly; some before they saw it and more cruelly after. Maybe it was
deserved. I say maybe because against those cowardly assaults I have
the comforting knowledge that there were a few, including myself, who
disagreed with those enlightened gentlemen. Among the minority I might
mention Henry Watterson, Mr. Clapp of the Boston "Advertiser," William
Ball, Stillson Hutchins, George Riddel, George P. Goodale of the
Detroit "Free Press" and a few actors of intelligence.
Many of the sapient censors of my work objected most strenuously to the
disguising of my known methods and a loss of personality. I presume
they would have preferred me to play Shylock as it was played by the
predecessors of Macklin, but why should I copy "tradition" before
tradition was born?
Nobody with human intelligence could ever discover humor in the
dignified Shylock, a Jew, but, nevertheless, the only gentleman in the
play. Possessed of subtlety? Yes. Humor? No. A THOUSAND TIMES,
NO!
Had the learned critics who assailed my efforts known anything
regarding the motives that prompted Shakespeare to adapt the play
from a Spanish source, written only to please the vagaries of the
Elizabethan court, they might not have marvelled at my efforts to
dignify the character of Shylock. I would not venture to assert how
easy was the rendering after I had absorbed the character nor would I
even dare whisper what the performances throughout the country yielded.
As a matter of fact history tells me that they were the largest
returns, at the prices, of any series of performances ever given in
America up to that time.
The same results marked my production of "A Midsummer Night's
Dream"--which is written down as "another Goodwin failure." If more
than five thousand dollars on the day (which were the receipts of the
last Saturday at the New Amsterdam Theatre) spells failure, mine was
unmitigated.
The same story of successful failure may be told of my production of
"Nathan Hale." It was greeted by packed houses and condemned by the
press for my "audacity." It was audacious to play characters in serious
plays.
My performance of Nick Bottom in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" was
supposed to be funny, but Shakespeare's name was on the front door
and "knocking" was forbidden until the door was opened. Then how the
iconoclasts did knock! They even found fault with the anatomy of the
ass's head! However, that is easily accounted for--one sees oneself
reflected in a brook and an ass never looks down.
Two failures I concede--"Beauty and the Barge" and "Wolfville." The
former, a splendid play, was inadequately cast. The other, a bad play,
was perfectly cast. The net results--both hopeless. I knew that "Beauty
and the Barge" was lost with all on board before I made my entrance.
"Wolfville" was wiped off the map at the dress rehearsal. They met
deserving ends but I honestly believe that "Beauty and the Barge"
could be resuscitated and, properly cast, run the allotted span.
So sanguine was I regarding the reception of those plays, barring
"Wolfville," that I was fearful lest the critics would not be present.
I regret to say that they were!
They strangled my Shylock, crucified my Beauty, sank my Barge, burned
my Wolfville, spanked my Bottom and relegated me to the sage brush of
farce comedy, gaining their ends by withholding their praises--for
business gradually decreased. Up to the period of my return to farce
comedy I broke every record at the Knickerbocker Theatre with "Nathan
Hale"--much to the discomfiture of "Willie" Winter and his satellites;
and of course I was condemned by the critics who shine in the reflected
light of that hypocritical, self-seeking Thersites.
Shortly after I appeared in a farce called "The Genius" at the Bijou
Theatre, New York, and never in my life have I been the recipient of
such commendatory notices for my work. I was "absolutely perfect" from
the critics' point of view. Even the Hebraic gentleman who writes for
the New York "American" was courteous--aye, even complimentary, as was
also the dainty critic of the "Evening Sun"--and receipts never reached
$4,000 during any given week!
Truly a wonderful picture is that painted by Reynolds of Garrick
between the Muses, Tragedy and Comedy. To which does he turn?
I wonder!
Which leads me to remark--
Give the average American critic a mirror and a hammer and he will
demonstrate his prowess as an iconoclast.
_Chapter XVI_
BACK IN THE EIGHTIES
My first trip to England resulted in my being able to add to my list
of imitations a study of Sir Henry Irving. How it came about may be of
interest. It followed my decision to produce "Confusion" and "Turned
Up."
"Confusion" had previously been played by Henry E. Dixey and Florence
Gerard with some degree of success. I think they would have made
a great success had they not made the play subservient to a most
wonderful imitation of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in a travesty on
"The Merchant of Venice." They performed this travesty delightfully,
but as it lasted only about thirty minutes and was the feature of the
entertainment the _pièce de resistance_ naturally suffered.
I saw the possibilities of "Confusion" and made a deal with John
Stetson for a road tour. I gave it a most excellent cast, including
such names as John Mason, Robert Coote, Loie Fuller, Charles Bishop,
Leila Farrell and others who were conspicuous at that time.
[Illustration: IN TURNED UP
_In the days when I was an imitator_]
During this engagement I produced for the first time my burlesque of
"The Bells," imitating Henry Irving as Mathias. It was a double bill
and included "Turned Up." The performance made an instantaneous hit
and I received much credit for what the press and public were pleased
to call a most faithful reproduction of the great man. I was extremely
nervous on the first night as I was following a magnificent imitation
of Irving lately given in the same theatre by Henry E. Dixey who had
scored a tremendous success. He had a striking make up for his Irving,
suggesting him in face and carriage, but his reproduction was more of a
caricature than mine and I suffered little by comparison.
Later on, while producing "The Bells" in conjunction with "Confusion"
at the Grand Opera House, one of the company whispered, "Irving's in
the box!" I nearly fainted. However, I had only a few moments more in
which to finish the performance so I gritted my teeth and went to it.
Irving visited me later on in my dressing-room and grasping me by the
hand ejaculated, "My dear Goodwin, I congratulate you! I had no idea
that 'The Bells' was such an interesting play!"
"My dear Irving," I said, "think of the man you saw play it!"
"Having played the part for over twenty years and having seen your
wonderful reproduction of me, I can now see where I have been very much
in error," he replied laughingly.
Some years after at a supper given in my honor he referred to my
performance very graciously, pronouncing it the only true burlesque he
had ever witnessed, with the possible exception of one by Frederick
Robson, called The Great Robson. Robson was a wonderful player of the
early sixties.
I followed "Confusion" with "Turned Up," preceding each play with "Lend
Me Five Shillings" and an adaption from the French of a play called
"Gringoire." I was enabled to show a good profit on the correct side of
the ledger for the following two years.
On my next trip to Europe I succeeded in interesting William Yardley
to write for me. With Leander Richardson he adapted a play from the
French which was produced successfully in London by Charles Wyndham
and called "The Candidate." I returned to America that year with their
adaption, calling it "The Nominee." I afterwards produced it for a
limited run at the Bijou Theatre, New York.
Previously I had made several plunges into musical comedy and comic
opera, producing with Edward E. Rice at the Boston Museum "Cinderella
at School," "The Mascot" and "Pinafore." Those productions were given
in a spirit of fun and as a relief from the more serious work which
occupied my road tours. Irrespective of the profits which were made by
these plunges into dissipation we always had a royal time.
It was here that I again resumed my delightful associations with dear
old Ned Rice. What a misunderstood person is this happy-go-lucky
ne'er-do-well who would spend his last twenty dollar bill to give a
dinner to a pal! The sordid, practical manager of to-day would do well
to emulate this self-sacrificing gentleman. Salaries meant nothing to
him if he considered the actor necessary to enhance the artistic value
of any of his magnificent productions. So thoughtful of his women and
appreciative of his men was he as to make it a joy to be associated
with him in the management of the classic Boston Museum. I was always
fond of the comic opera style of entertainment and to be associated
with Rice added greatly to my pleasure.
The extreme gratification of being for a time the lessee of a playhouse
in which I had previously been conspicuous only as a spear carrier
was joy indeed. To tear down the walls of respectability and storm
the citadel of the legitimate; to make the sacred place a playground
were dissipations which I enjoyed immensely. To surround myself with
both principals and chorus after the matinee, have dinner served from
the Parker House (and be able to liquidate from the profits of that
matinée) in the greenroom, where the people were allowed to talk to
one another without being subject to a fine for their audacity; to have
the exquisite power of bringing viands behind the scenes without fear
of challenge or interruption; with the satisfaction of knowing that
only we knew what was going on behind the scenes of this revered old
playhouse--these were joys indeed!
It was very wrong, no doubt, but nevertheless a beatific revenge for
the cuffs I had received in years gone by. Maybe it was only a mistake.
Perhaps I should not have indulged in these sprees, but the engagement
was in the summer, we paid large salaries, the theatre was packed at
every performance, the dignified and austere management shut their
eyes to our moods and tenses and, really, after all, it was but a
little holiday and John Mason, Joseph Haworth, William J. LeMoyne, Fred
Archer, Barney Nolan, my dear brother Edward, Sadie Martinot, Catherine
Lewis, Belle Archer, Rice and I enjoyed the outing, or inning,
immensely!
_Chapter XVII_
THE HALCYON DAYS OF UNION SQUARE
The early eighties were replete with much excitement and lucrative
receipts. From '82 to '90 I made productions annually and nearly
all, I am pleased to say, were successful. A half dozen worth naming
were "Sparks," "A Gay Deceiver," "Col. Tom Bottom's Dream," "A Royal
Revenge," "The Skating Rink" and "A Terrible Time." During these eight
years I made many friends and always looked forward to the summer with
much pleasure. The two months devoted to booking my tour for the coming
season always afforded me unbounded joy.
What would I not give to swing back into time and have one brief
yesterday; to stroll down Broadway and grasp the hands of long ago; to
drop in at the old Hoffman House, stroll to the bar and be greeted by
John McCullough, by Ned Buckley (he of the angelic voice and fist of a
gladiator), by Johnny Mackie, the lovable cynic, Jim Collier, the uncle
of our magnetic Willie, and Sam Piercy, of stentorian tones (who died
ere he blossomed)!
What would I not give to continue down Broadway to Fourteenth Street;
to stop and talk with the austere, but charming Barney Macauley; to
be joined by Charlie Read, the delightful minstrel; the tall and
well-groomed Charles R. Thorne, Jr., and his equally attractive
brother, Ned, the handsome Fred Bryton, the scholarly Charles Coghlan,
the fascinating Harry J. Montague, clever George Knight, Billy
Barry, Sol Smith Russell, James Lewis and John Drew! These gentlemen
constituted America's "lowest and lightest," as I referred to them one
spring morning as we exchanged salutations.
Anon come John Gilbert and the aggressive little John T. Raymond and,
as you continue down, the distinguished members of Wallack's and the
Union Square nod kindly recognition. Then you return on a journey to
the St. James Hotel to be met graciously by its popular proprietor,
Billy Conners, fascinating Henry Perry, the wit of Broadway, and divers
other men about town, including "Plunger" Walton and the well-groomed
John Daly. John Daly, the gambler? Yes, but only in the truest meaning
of the word--not a corner lounger with dyed mustache, leering at the
women as they passed, but a true gambler in every sense, of a type now
extinct.
Those men were all "pals," men of the hour. Where they foregathered a
perpetual loving cup was in evidence.
After passing the usual greetings one would take a stroll uptown as far
as Thirty-fourth Street. That was as high as the afternoon professional
pedestrian cared to ramble. If one were as favored as I was in those
happy days one would be sure to be greeted by such beautiful and
attractive women as Lillian Grubb, Marie Jansen, Kate Forsythe, Pauline
Hall, Josie Hall and dainty Mollie Fuller, her chum, the Hanley
sisters, the attractive Lillian Russell (almost as beautiful and
radiant as now!), Marie Tempest, clever Minnie Maddern, the daughter of
Tom Davey, now the talented Mrs. Fiske, the haughty Rose Eytinge, Ada
Dyas and the regal Ada Rehan.
The brain grows giddy as my fancy wanders back to those beautiful
autumnal days of twenty odd years ago when all was chaotic and
congested, but nevertheless a delightful pot pourri of brilliancy,
genius, talent and beauty. Some, in fact a majority, have passed
away, but to those who were privileged to enjoy the happy association
of those clever men and women a memory remains that will only be
obliterated when the bell that summoned King Duncan to his doom tells
us that the time has come for us to join those gone before.
Shall we join them?
I wonder!
Life is a bridge of sighs, over which memory glides into a torrent of
tears.
It was somewhere in the early eighties that I first heard of the
existence of the Lambs Club, situated at that time somewhere near Union
Square and suggested to me as a good one to join by Harry Becket,
then the leading comedian of Wallack's Theatre. It was during those
busy times when all of us were compelled to travel for the season of
the then thirty-two weeks that we looked forward with greatest joy to
meeting our pals on the glorious Rialto. It was bounded by Broadway and
Fourth Avenue, Fourteenth and Seventeenth Streets with the attractive
Union Square Park forming the center of rest. It was our busy
playground after our toils of the road.
[Illustration: LOTTA
_In the days when work was play_]
I always put up at the Union Square Hotel where, after a hurried bath
and shave, I would rush down to the street below to be welcomed by my
many friends. Ah! What times they were! I brush away a tear as the
happy memories come upon my vision. I see the tall, commanding figure
of Charlie Thorne come briskly across the pavement, switching his
well-shaped limbs with a tiny cane as he rushes over with outstretched
hands to bid me welcome and congratulate me upon my season's efforts.
A slap on the back from clever Louis Harrison and an embrace--yes,
even in the open!--from his talented sister Alice; a yell from dear
old Matt Snyder, many times a member of my various organizations, a
grunt of welcome from the stoic, Sheridan Shook and an acknowledgment
from the dignified Lawrence Barrett; a benign smile from Edwin Booth,
salutations from the various members of my company, now disbanded, but
only for a time! We generally kept our organizations intact for many
seasons in those happy, golden yesterdays.
Often the ladies of our profession would wander downtown to meet their
brothers and here and there one would come across a group of men and
women in converse under the shady trees, comparing notes and making
their arrangements for the following year. Dainty Kate Claxton, then
the heroine of "The Two Orphans," would be seen in earnest conversation
with A. M. Palmer in front of the Union Square Theatre. Maggie Mitchell
would briskly acknowledge the respectful doffing of hats as she tripped
across from the Morton House with sprightly Lotta as her one bright
particular companion of that morning. Midway between the Morton House
and the Union Square the fascinating Joe Emmett would chirp merrily on
his way and hold those ladies enthralled until some other came along to
interrupt their entertaining conversation.
In those days, no arbitrary booking organization held sway; no peeping
Izzies or Sols had access to our books; we were all on our own, masters
of our own enterprises. Like the brokers on the curb we arranged our
bookings on the street. Hither and hither we flew, now procuring a week
in Pittsburgh or a night in Dayton, crossing and recrossing from the
Morton House to Union Square, corralling a manager for a two weeks'
tour in the sunny South or four in the unattractive middle West, ever
and anon stopping on our way to engage the services of some particular
actor we desired for the new play. We made railroad rates with hustling
agents, always on the lookout to do business with professionals. There
was no Interstate Commerce law in force at that time!
We made contracts with printers and appointments with authors
simultaneously!
Thus the day was occupied from ten until three when all work was
suspended. Then, though a bit fatigued, we would make a hasty
recapitulation of what had been accomplished, select our own particular
coterie of friends and adjourn to Charlie Collins' (known as "Dollar
Five" Charlie) _café_ where the balance of the day was devoted to food,
drink, anecdote and song.
Managers, agents, printers, railroad agents, actors, singers (of
obscurity and fame)--all were as one when the bell struck three.
Perfect equality, unanimity, brotherly love and comradeship were the
qualities in vogue on the Rialto in dear old New York during the early
eighties. At that time I made the remark, "When you leave New York
you're camping out."
I have been camping out since 1900.
_Chapter XVIII_
THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE
Those were halcyon days on Union Square. The booking of tours was as
attractive as it was uncertain, attractive because it was uncertain!
Who does not find a hazardous game attractive?
One man I've not mentioned was in daily evidence on the Square. He
was fair, always faultlessly dressed, in frock coat, soft black
felt hat, low cut waistcoat (showing an abundance of pleated shirt
front, ornamented in the center with a single, glittering, pure white
diamond), peg top trousers tapering down to a pair of dainty feet
encased in the latest Parisian patent leather boots. He was straight of
figure and easy of carriage and affected a drooping mustache. Also he
bowed pleasantly to everyone he met!
In make up he suggested the type of man drawn by Bret Harte in the
"Outcasts of Poker Flat"--John Oakhurst, gambler.
Such was Jack Haverly, the originator of the scheme of forming a
theatrical trust or, as it is now called, a syndicate.
The idea must have worked its way into the brain of a little, rotund,
breezy chap who always accompanied the genial Haverly. He was ever at
his side, taking notes, penciled and mental, running to the telegraph
offices with instructions from his master, always returning for more,
his little furtive eyes constantly wandering from one point to another,
calling his master's attention to matters of detail too complicated
for the busy Haverly sometimes to consider. The little lieutenant never
overlooked anything. Like a trusty sentinel was this little aide upon
whom the mantle of the master was soon to fall.
Haverly neglected the business which formed the nucleus of his success
and sought bigger and more alluring schemes only to encounter failure.
He speculated in mines which soon brought about his ruin and he died,
penniless and neglected, leaving only the legacy of an idea. But the
little corporal who took advantage of the suggestions absorbed from
Haverly soon arose from an obscurity as dense as that of his Corsican
predecessor and Charles Frohman jumped over the horizon and in a short
period amazed the theatrical world.
It was in the fall of 1878 that I chanced into Haverly's office in
the Fifth Avenue Theatre building on a matter of business regarding
my first trip to the Coast. In his employ at that time were Gustave,
Daniel and Charles Frohman and Al Hayman. They were the representative
staff, and Haverly, from out the quartette, selected Gustave as his
chief, considering him the most brilliant of them all! Daniel, the
present lessee of the Lyceum Theatre, confined himself to conservative
lines and was quite satisfied to manage a first class stock company and
one or two minor attractions. Charles was the Atlas destined to uphold
the family name and make dramatic history.
While planning the scheme that has since made many men millionaires
Haverly little dreamed that his rotund employee was also eagerly
planning as he unfolded his plans to the others.
[Illustration: JACK HAVERLY
_The man who conceived the syndicate_]
(If anyone doubts that Haverly was the first man who first thought of
a theatrical trust, he need only refer to an old lithograph showing
this astute gentleman on an elevation and in his hands various wires,
to the ends of which are attached ten theatres. Haverly controlled
these houses and about six attractions. There he stands, smiling and
manipulating the wires. This was the birth of the syndicate.)
In a few years Charles blossomed forth as a manager. I think his first
winner was "Shenandoah," written by Bronson Howard. The world knows of
his rapid ascent, so I won't dwell upon his wonderful and well deserved
success. I write of the man as I know him and Charles Frohman is a man
among men. Yet he is seldom seen among men! Only a few are privileged
to enjoy his magnetic society. I have been one of these. I have met
him in my own home, in England, in my dressing-room, at his office,
on the stage, when he and I were producing plays, at dinners, supper
parties--in fact under every circumstance and in all walks of life.
And he is always the same urbane, kindly, patient creature. He laughs
at failures and runs from success--runs, but only in quest of another!
He is one of the most scintillating persons in the world. Geographical
space means nothing to him. His word is a contract. I have never known
such perseverance, industry and thought combined in one man.
I am one of the few who knew what he was up against when he began his
American invasion of England. A conversation held in my presence in
my home at Jackwood, England, between three men who have since been
associated with him advised me of a conspiracy to ruin him. But Frohman
overcame them all, beat them at their own game and his methods have
been imitated broadcast throughout the British Empire. The little
corporal has made himself a factor in London and his name as a rule
spells success.
He has brought before the American public the most celebrated players
of the day, made so only by his undying energy and patience. I have
often regretted that even after I had begun my career I had not
started under his management, for notwithstanding his great business
capabilities he has a naturally artistic temperament, combined with
a wondrous sense of humor--splendid qualities in these days of
commercialism.
One time, nearly twenty-three years ago, I sent for him to come to my
residence on West End Avenue, New York, with a view of placing myself
under his management. He listened very quietly as is his custom and
when I had finished asked how remunerative the season I had just closed
had been. I showed him my books thinking that disclosure might lead to
results. After examining them most carefully he placed them gently upon
the table and with that merry twinkle in his eyes his friends know so
well said,
"My dear boy, you don't require a manager; you want a lawyer."
Later I played under his management in London and I am happy to say I
caused him no loss. The engagement was a most happy one and I look back
to the association with joy.
During my several engagements at his Knickerbocker Theatre he was
seldom in evidence. The first night he would take his customary seat in
the rear of the balcony and at the end of the play a slight knock would
come at my dressing-room door. "Come in," I would say. The door would
open and his bright, cheery face appear. "It's all right," would be the
assurance and he would disappear as quickly as he came.
During the run of "Nathan Hale" I had not seen him for four or five
weeks. One night I came into the dressing-room, turned on the electric
light and there he sat in a corner, all huddled up. "What in the world
are you doing there, Charley?" I asked. He quietly replied, "I am
casting a new play and came here to get some inspiration. Good night."
and away he went.
My next association with him was in the production of "Beauty and the
Barge" at the Lyceum Theatre. I often regretted that I had not listened
to his suggestions and gone on the road with the play, but the sting of
defeat was too bitter and in a hysterical moment I decided to abandon
it.
He offered no advice, but, as usual, when his stars are unhappy in
their rôles, he left me to determine the fate of the play.
Charles Frohman is the most unselfish man whom I have ever met in
the theatrical profession. A spendthrift, so far as productions are
concerned, with no thought of pecuniary results, no sordid desires,
a slave to his work, and with a thorough appreciation of an artist's
value, he has done more to increase actors' salaries, he has produced
more plays and received less reward than any manager in the world. The
history of the American stage will be incomplete unless the name of
Charles Frohman stands conspicuous among the many.
Will history do the little corporal justice?
I wonder!
About the time that the idea of Haverly's began scintillating along
the horizon it became noised about that a theatrical syndicate was to
be formed--to make the booking of tours less irksome; to guarantee
continued time in the cities; to amalgamate forces which would lessen
the burden of the actor-manager--in fact everything would be done to
enhance the success of both player and producer.
The Napoleonic Erlanger was the instigator and promoter of the
finally adopted scheme and he was aided by the subtle Klaw, whom I
had previously known in Louisville as a reporter--a silent, but ever
watchful person. Associated with these clever gentlemen were the
elusive Al Hayman, then a wealthy and powerful man; Rich and Harris,
of Boston and Nixon and Zimmerman, of Philadelphia. This sextette made
a very powerful organization.
Being possessed of a little business instinct I saw the danger, or
rather the supposed danger, that lurked behind these samaritans of the
drama, but not until I was approached by Mr. Rapley of Washington,
Charlie Ford of Baltimore and one or two suburban managers did I
realize what was in the power of this coterie if they succeeded in
carrying out their schemes. Those managers realized their peril and
were quietly soliciting the stars not to play at any other theatres
save theirs, as they feared the Syndicate would book the then strong
attractions at opposition houses, offering as an inducement better
terms and time. Being loyal, as I have always tried to be, I assured
them that I would stick. Then it occurred to me that if I could
organize a syndicate of players we might be able to strangle the
contemplated move at its very birth.
I succeeded in interesting Joseph Jefferson, William H. Crane, Stuart
Robson, Sol Smith Russell, Richard Mansfield, Fanny Davenport,
Francis Wilson, Modjeska, J. K. Emmet and four or five other leading
players--and they all promised to stand by me. We were to elect A. M.
Palmer president. I was to be the vice-president. We were all to form
an incorporated company and play as one body. I even went so far as to
have the papers drawn up. I worked incessantly night and day. I even
had sites picked out and money guaranteed for theatres in Boston, New
York, Chicago, Cleveland and St. Louis, providing I could guarantee the
appearance of these players for five years.
Everything was going better than I anticipated when one day I received
my first shock. The "dear old Dean," Mr. Jefferson, had reneged! He
went back on every promise made to me in New Orleans. Crane, after
being my guest for a week in Baltimore, going over every detail and
agreeing that it was "a great scheme," quietly and unknown to me signed
a three-years' contract with Joseph Brooks, a representative of the
Syndicate. One by one they all left me, with the single exception of
Francis Wilson, who had to stay, as he had been blacklisted by Nixon
and Zimmerman with whom he had quarreled.
I was disgusted and quietly folded my tent and departed for Europe
to ponder over the ass I had made of myself and to wonder what the
Syndicate would do to me by way of a punishment I so richly deserved.
Imagine my surprise when Abe Erlanger called me into his office
one morning after my return from Europe and after greeting me most
cordially said, "Well, my boy, you didn't pull that thing off." I
answered, "No, but I tried hard, Abe, I can tell you." He said, "I
know you did. Some of your companions have lied to me, and they will
get their's, but you have told me the truth and the Syndicate will
always be your friend; at least I'll be. Your terms will always be the
same, no matter what you have to offer, your tours booked and all your
business done through this office without charge."
The Syndicate has kept faith with me, with but one exception. Only one
man out of the eight has broken faith with me. They are all, barring
this particular one, my personal friends.
I would rather have Abe Erlanger's word than a contract from
Rockefeller.
After all, what a silly fight I contemplated making and what a blessing
it turned out that I did not consummate it. The theatrical syndicate
has in fifteen years made more actors and managers rich, improved the
drama to a greater extent, built more theatres and increased patronage
more consistently than has been accomplished by any other factor
during the last century.
The only fault that I have to find with the Syndicate is that through
its dignified and thorough business-like methods it has made the
theatrical profession so alluring that unreliable imitations have
broken through the windows of the drama and allowed the draughts of
unsavory methods to permeate the stage.
Other so-called syndicates have sprung up and nauseated the thinking
public with vulgar and obscene plays which, I am sorry to admit, some
seem to fancy.
But everything will adjust itself in time and the theatrical syndicate,
headed by the brainy Erlanger, will destroy all enemies of the drama.
Honest plays and playwrights will receive their just dues, wholesome
plays will be in vogue, and the names of Klaw and Erlanger will be
synonyms for Honesty and Justice.
_Chapter XIX_
STARS
To be a star to-day an actor needs only to be featured in large type
in all advertising matter. At least this is all that is necessary to
win popular acceptance as a star. That such undeserved, misapplied,
wrongful foistering of mediocre actors on a long suffering public is
unwise is self-evident. The antagonism it provoked among authors and
managers is quite justified.
All true artists object to the featuring of incompetency fostered by
notoriety. The men and women of the stage who entered the profession
through the small door and not the open broad window protest with much
vehemence against the launching of a so-called "star" who, because of
some act of violence, the singing of a rotten song with an attractive
melody, a beautiful face, a German accent, becomes born over night. But
the managers who are now objecting to this kind of starring system are
the very ones who inaugurated the iniquity.
I maintain that when a man or woman has attained a position on the
stage through honest endeavor, mental application, strict attention,
conscientious study and practical experience, he should be rewarded
and recompensed. And these gains should be conspicuous and financially
worth while.
Among many of the so-called producers of to-day there seems a
prevailing tendency to decry and belittle the starring system. This is
all very well from their point of view. If they succeed in making the
star subservient to the author and to those who "present," they will
add more to their respective coffers by confiscating the financial
share of those men and women who have in the past made them rich.
They base their theories (that stars do not make successes) on the fact
of the success of such plays as "The Lion and the Mouse," "Bought and
Paid For," "The Heir to the Hoorah," "Seven Days," "Paid in Full" and a
half dozen more. With the possible exception of "Bought and Paid For"
most all of these so-called starless plays were accidental successes.
"The Lion and the Mouse" was turned down by several stars and as
many managers and I consider rightly so. When the stars refused to
accept it, the managers followed suit. Ethically, and in spite of
its remarkably successful financial success, I consider it a most
improbable play. I refused to play the leading part in London,
predicting its failure. London can distinguish between a good and bad
play. "The Lion and the Mouse" was a failure in London.
There are some plays in which the characters are so equal that it
is unwise to feature any particular one, as the public expects
too much from the one conspicuous in the billing and being
disappointed--dislikes the play. Not only the play suffers but, when
the unlooked for happens and some unknown person suddenly makes a hit
in a play in which a star is featured, the star naturally suffers. The
public never differentiates.
When "The Heir to the Hoorah" was submitted to me I told Paul
Armstrong, the author, that it would be unwise to star any one in his
plays and he took my advice. "Bought and Paid For" was written for a
star, but the author unwittingly wrote another part that proved more
acceptable to the public than the character he originally intended
should be featured. The play was eventually produced without a star
and proved a success. Perhaps had a different star been selected at the
beginning there would have been a different story told. In spite of
the success of "Bought and Paid For" in New York, "Baby Mine" played a
week in Los Angeles (with Marguerite Clarke featured) to more than two
thousand dollars more than "Bought and Paid For."
The manuscript of "Paid in Full" kept the author warm for many nights
as he slumbered on the benches of the parks in New York. And the stars
refused to comfort him. "Paid in Full" was an accidental hit, but it
created a star--Tully Marshall.
Clyde Fitch read "The Climbers" to me many years before Henry Harris
decided to produce it. Almost every manager in New York had turned it
down. The excellent acting of that play saved it. From the cast sprang
such stars as Robert Edeson, Clara Bloodgood, Amelia Bingham and Minnie
Dupree.
The average author and manager of to-day are prone to advertise
themselves as conspicuously as the play (as if the public cared a snap
who wrote the play or who "presents"!). I doubt if five per cent of the
public know who wrote "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray," "In Mizzoura" or
"Richelieu," but they know their stage favorites.
I wonder how many mantels are adorned with pictures of the successful
dramatist and those who "present" and how many there are on which
appear Maude Adams, Dave Warfield, Billie Burke, John Drew, Bernhardt,
Duse and hundreds of other distinguished players.
No matter how hard you may strive to strangle the successful star
player, Messrs. Author and Manager, you won't succeed. You may succeed
in fostering a few more plays without a star but the clouds will
surely come and, when they disburse, the accidents that caused them
will give way before intelligence. The stars will twinkle again more
resplendent than ever and light you once more to the road that leads
to permanent success. You may trade and barter but you will finally be
made to understand that ours is a profession in which sentiment plays
a most important part and when you insist on robbing the public of
its favorite player, the disappointment will be as bitter as when the
little boy is told there is no such thing as Santa Claus.
Now I'll take the commercial side of the question. I'll venture the
opinion that Dave Warfield and Maude Adams play each season to double
the receipts any play without a star ever earned. The Cincinnati
Festival, composed only of stars, in one week played to more than one
hundred thousand dollars. Booth and Barrett cleared over six hundred
thousand dollars net in one season. Henry Irving took away from America
in one season three hundred thousand, Bernhardt averages a quarter of
a million net on every farewell tour. The average successful star up
to five years ago (before the influx of the so-called producers, the
authors who feature themselves and those who "present") counted it a
bad year if his profits failed to reach a hundred thousand dollars.
I wonder how much Charles Frohman has made with his stars!
And now let us face a fact that is indisputable--business is very bad.
Ten years ago a ten thousand dollar week was considered only a good
one. To-day it is an event. Even poor little I played to over fifteen
thousand and no fuss was made about it. Let me hear the name of a
single successful play without a star of to-day that averages eight
thousand per week.
I wonder if people go to see clever George Cohan or George Cohan's play?
[Illustration: IN THE GOLD MINE
_My get-up in The Gold Mine_]
I consider it an insult and audacity for any manager to, assert that
the starring system is a menace to the theatre when almost every
leading theatre of Europe heads the cast with the name of a conspicuous
player. Every first-class theatre in London for the last fifty years,
from Kean to Irving, has owed its success to one bright particular star.
If any manager in America would like to try the experiment I would be
willing to make a wager that I will take the most successful stock
play now running in any city in the world, go to any town or city in
America and with a star double, yes treble the receipts of the stock
organization presenting the same play.
Again let me ask the author and those who "present" as to the longevity
of a stock play as compared with that of the play in which a star
appears. Also how about the returns from a revival of both? In the
all star revival of "The Rivals" we averaged five thousand dollars a
performance.
Did the public go to see the players or the play?
I wonder.
How many knew the author or Joseph Brooks who presented us?
I wonder!
Again let me ask the great author and those who "present," those
commercial gentlemen who seek to crucify the star, what inducement they
offer the young beginner in the way of a future. Are all the budding
geniuses to be strangled at their birth, their dreams to be made
delusions? Are they to have no chance to gratify their ambitions, only
the remote possibility of being one of an ensemble? You are trying to
rob the public of its favorite player, to destroy all individuality, to
make us a melting-pot, a cesspool of ensemble, subject to your will and
dictation. It is a pretty tall order, my friends, and be careful lest
you who would destroy be not destroyed.
If the stars are forbidden to shine it is their own fault. If only
twenty would band themselves together (and it can be done) I'd
guarantee to finance the scheme with half a million dollars. If they
would form a syndicate, I would guarantee to drive these impertinent
gentlemen into the clouds of oblivion from which they sprang and the
little and big stars would form a constellation that would maintain the
dignity of our glorious profession!
_Chapter XX_
ATMOSPHERIC PLAYS
It was some sage of long ago who wrote:
"The muse of painting should be, on the stage, the handmaid, not
the sister nor rival of the drama."
I quite agree with the gentleman who penned those lines. I disagree
with any suggestion or device that dwarfs the beauty and art of a play.
That is why I strenuously object to the term "atmosphere" as applied to
any of our present day productions. It is only a cloak and an excuse to
conceal incompetency.
Let the scenery be well painted, attractive and fitted to the frame,
but don't take off your roof to pile Pelion upon Ossa! Endeavor to
please the eye--with processions and real running water, if you like,
but keep all in due subordination to the acting. Realism was strangled
after some ungodly years of struggling life. For a time acting became
subservient to railroad trains, buzz saws and waterfalls. Ships were
sunk in full view of the audience, ice floats cracked and dialogue was
smothered in the dust of stage cloth and salt. Public opinion soon
demonstrated this was wrong. "Bertha the Sewing Machine Girl" was
relegated to the farm to ascertain "Why Women Sin" until laundered
Hebraic managers rescued those ladies and atmospheric plays became the
vogue.
During the year 1911 I had splendid opportunities for reflection,
retrospect and thought, finding consolation in books pertaining to the
drama of the past, present and future. I have found great consolation
in going over the theatrical situation under existing conditions. True,
I note the devastating results of commercialism, the self-interested
remarks regarding the welfare of the drama (and all concerned in it),
the fact that too many theatres are being built by managers and stars
(with disgusting flaunting of the means employed to construct these
playhouses).
I have noticed this and I have marvelled. But I found relief in
reviewing the conditions of long ago. More than three hundred years
have played havoc with the theatres truly. The men of Shakespeare's
time are no more--and few worthy successors have been born. That
"inspired intellectual spendthrift," as Shakespeare was called by
Robert Ingersoll, failed to measure the wonder of the journey to be
traversed. I discover that we have gone back, artistically, in the last
fifty years.
The only atmosphere in the theatre of Shakespeare was furnished by
the hooting, jostling crowd as it wended its way over London bridge
for a night at the Fox Under the Hill, to be joined later on by the
"merry fellow" and his companions at the Falcon or Mermaid. No doubt
they criticised his play to their own, if not his entire satisfaction.
However, irrespective of any of their opinions and without
"atmosphere," these criticisms apparently had the same value as the
condemnations of the self-styled censors of our modern theatre and its
players.
What does it matter after all? In the words of Ben Jonson, "Let them
know the author defies them and their writing tables!"
One never heard of atmospheric plays in my early life. It is a
delightful coinage. Personally I prefer the aeriform fluid in front of
the curtain. I never discovered the intrinsic value of a painting in a
fog, neither did a frame ever enhance its value. I want the playhouse
to furnish its own nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and other organic
matter before the play is produced. Then let the performance proceed on
its merits, _sans_ atmosphere.
Widen your stage to allow your forests to be seen; paint your oceans
to flow into space, apparently interminable; dress your characters as
befits the times, with corresponding architecture, but, for heaven's
sake, don't add incense to injury! Let the play proceed and the
dialogue be heard; let your ear as well as the eye, decide the verdict
and devote whatever atmosphere you consider necessary to the Theatre
proper, as did Irving, the colossal. When one entered the portals of
the London Lyceum Theatre, as managed by Henry Irving, one felt that
sense of intellectual environment and cultivating influence experienced
on entering Notre Dame.
A theatre will lose its atmosphere when the lessee vacates the premises
just as a small town will when the inhabitants leave it. We remember
the cities that appealed to us in early life and note the changes that
advancement and progress have made architecturally. Maybe we admire the
improvements, but that charm of something has vanished. What is it?
Some will answer, "Atmosphere." I say, "the people"--those who talked
and invented the architecture and painting of the earlier day.
We want a Papin or a Newcombe to give us back the so-called atmosphere
of our youth, but that kind of atmosphere talked and said something.
_Chapter XXI_
ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT
In this era of dramatic chaos the question often arises, "How would the
actors of the past compare with those of the present?"
It is a motley question, and one that requires careful consideration
in the answer. In our youth, we are prone to worship those who occupy
a sphere above us. Youth is always demonstrative and always partial.
Therefore views formed at that time are apt to influence our opinions
in after life. To be honest we must discard early impressions, accept
existing conditions as they materialize and allow our judgment full
sway only after a thorough retrospect and careful analysis of what we
considered great in our youth.
I but mildly assert things, full realizing the status of the modern
player, his wealth, position and social standing. I put him in
comparison with the actors of other days carefully!
And I am convinced we have retrograded, so far as the serious and
tragic are concerned. Also we have materially advanced in comedy and
specialty work. The legitimate comedian of to-day I consider far in
advance of his elder brother. He is cleaner, more human, of lighter
touch and more subtle.
[Illustration: THOSE WERE THE HAPPY DAYS]
We have advanced more rapidly from even my time than we did from the
'30's to the '70's. From the days of William E. Burton and the Owens
and Jefferson era the advance has been most pronounced. Dialogue
and stage business which were in vogue even as late as 1880 would not
be tolerated now. They were not as particular regarding comedy as they
were in the serious drama. The licentious portions of Shakespeare's
plays were eliminated after (but long after!) the Elizabethan era.
No doubt the serious dramatist and actor took their cues from that
procedure and the result was clean and dignified performances. But
comedy suffered.
I am sure a play like "The Easiest Way" would never have gone beyond
the dress rehearsal, as much as they admired the serious drama.
The serious actor always held sway. He was the axle upon which the
wheels of the theatre were put in motion. Consequently the goal of
acting of the aspiring Alexanders was the realm of tragedy and the
market was overrun. The result--a Garrick, a George Frederick Cooke,
two Keans, a Macready, a Forrest, three Booths, a Gustavus Brooke,
an Edwin Adams, a Davenport, a McCullough, an Irving, a Possart, a
Salvini, a Phelps, a Rossi! And the words of William Shakespeare came
down the years until comedy, properly portrayed, came gaily alongside
the statelier craft and with laughter sank the ship of tears, leaving
only one survivor--ROBERT MANTELL!
(And, really, with all the respect that I have for Robert's miraculous
art I must give my youth the benefit of the doubt and award the victory
to those departed gentlemen who for one hundred and fifty years piloted
the works of the immortal bard towards the shores of prosperity!)
If they failed to receive the compensation that is now conferred upon
their comic (and comical) brothers they have at least the satisfaction
of knowing that they brought their art up to the standard of the
greatest.
Now this question arises: Has the comic (and comical) brother kept
faith with his dead sponsor while he has leaped over the form of his
serious predecessor? Has he maintained the dignity of the drama? He
will answer, "Of course! We are living in the era of progression.
Comedy is a success! All the world is laughing! Success! Success! We
are superior to those who have gone before! We make the world laugh!"
And the judicious grieve!
But Time looks sadly down upon the merry makers and the measured swing
of the pendulum of thought and argument questions, "How long will it
last?"
I wonder!
_Chapter XXII_
MAUDE ADAMS
How fitting that it should have been Maude Adams to create the title
rôle in "Peter Pan!" For, truly, here is the living personification
of the human who will never "grow up." Because this is so I have no
hesitancy in setting down here the fact that the first time I saw Miss
Adams play a part was in 1887!
It was previous to my production of "The Nominee" while I was looking
about for an adequate cast that I chanced to meet Charlie Hoyt one day.
He was then successfully producing a new line of farce comedies and
he asked me to witness the first production of one of his plays, "A
Midnight Bell." In the cast were Isabel Coe, who afterwards became Mrs.
Frank McKee, Paul Arthur and Maude Adams. With the exception of Paul
Arthur no one in the cast was particularly notable.
Those three players appealed to me and I endeavored to secure their
services, first ascertaining how long they were contracted for with
Hoyt. I succeeded in procuring contracts with Miss Coe and Arthur, but
failed in my endeavors to secure Miss Adams as she insisted upon her
mother accompanying her. As Estelle Mortimer was engaged for the rôles
of old women in my company I could not see my way clear and much to my
regret I was forced to resign Miss Adams to other managers.
Arthur and Miss Coe appeared with me in "The Gold Mine," a play of
which I had the splendid fortune to get control on the death of Johnny
Raymond, who produced it originally. Arthur is now spending his time
racing in England, playing bridge and now and then appearing in light
comedy rôles in London. I have always considered Paul a most agreeable
player. Miss Coe has long since retired, Maude Adams still continues
making history for herself and is to-day, as we all know, the most
conspicuous actress in America, drawing the largest receipts of any
actress in the world.
What a splendid little artist she is!
"You are missing the sweetest thing on earth--romance," said Maude
Adams in Barrie's play "What Every Woman Knows."
With what significance did those lines strike me while watching that
clever little woman one afternoon. The house was packed, women were
weeping and laughing with her. At the fall of every curtain it was
raised and raised again. The little artist would bow demurely, coyly
acknowledge the compliments bestowed upon her work and then shuffle to
her dressing-room. I found her there during one of the intermissions
and chatted a few moments with her.
Eight years before we had met in Switzerland. While her figure and
manner had changed but little I could not help but notice the sharpness
of feature which the eight years had chiseled upon her face. The
promissory note demanded by eight years of success must be liquidated
and the principal paid. The law of compensation must be obeyed. The
little furrows on her tiny face were accentuated by the lustre of her
large, blue-gray eyes that looked into yours as though they could
penetrate into the recesses of your very soul.
When she talked it was with a little jerky delivery that plainly showed
she had herself under perfect control and knew whereof she spoke. The
secluded life she leads, I am told, has given her much time to devote
to her art and study of the masters. One must do something besides act
when not appearing in repertoire. The intelligence expressed in her
work plainly indicates the thought she has bestowed upon it.
I consider Maude Adams one of the best English speaking actresses
on the stage to-day. She has an appealing, modulated voice, is easy
of carriage, graceful, has the power of expressing deep emotion
and any quantity of comic power, combined with nice repose. These
qualifications make an actress.
Miss Adams has enthralled the public of the United States; her name is
a household word; she stands for all that represents true and virtuous
womanhood; at the zenith of her fame she has woven her own mantle and
placed it about the pedestal upon which she stands, alone. And yet as
I looked into those fawn-like eyes I wondered! With all her powers,
envied by the many, rich in worldly goods--did those searching liquid
orbs denote complete happiness? I felt like taking those tiny little
artistic hands in mine and saying, "Little woman, I fear you are
unconsciously missing the sweetest thing in life--ROMANCE."
Would she exchange one for the other?
I wonder!
_January, 1911_
What a commentary on the existing commercialism of our stage is the
present performance of "Chantecler" at the Knickerbocker Theatre, New
York! What a farce is the selection of the dainty, clever Maude Adams
as the scapegoat for the anticipated failure that is certain to ensue!
There is no gainsaying the fact that after the novelty of the
production wore off "Chantecler" failed in Paris. London, after viewing
it, said "Not for mine!"
Coquelin spoke of the play to me twelve years ago. Think of it! The
play was in embryo then and Rostand selected Coquelin to create the
rôle later played by Maude Adams!
After Coquelin's death Guitry, that sterling French player, created
the character. Notwithstanding even his tremendous abilities, Rostand
and the critics discovered that he was not the man for the part. The
underlying meaning of the part was sacrificed. Bombastic display
usurped the subtle humor intended by the author. Cynical humor was
stifled by the declamatory Guitry.
But waiving all criticism of Guitry, by what power of monstrous
reasoning could any manager select Maude Adams to play a rôle acted by
Guitry and written for Coquelin?
When London put "Chantecler" in the discard our own astute Charles
Frohman--of whom I am very fond (and I assure my readers that I am not
censuring him for he is quite right from his point of view) and who had
an option on the play--realized he must produce it or incur the enmity
of the entire French family of authors. He was bound to produce that
play, submit to the exorbitant terms demanded by the author and make
a production equal to the one in Paris or the Parisian theatre doors
would be closed against him. He agreed to their demands, knowing that
he was up against it and sure to come out a big loser. He doubtless
ruminated, "I must produce it; but how?"
He was thoroughly assured that no man in America could play the part!
[Illustration: COQUELIN
_Would he have gone in vaudeville? I wonder_]
Then it was that this manager, after being drugged with the artistic
incense of the Parisian stage, became suddenly inspired to Grape-Nut
his property before the American public, Pear's Soap his Chantecler
upon the cleanly critics, Mellin's Food the baby managers and put
his one best bet down on Maude Adams, whose name is as familiar as
any of these articles! Was this fair to her? Was this fair to the
public, to the author, to anyone? Of course not? Why be fair with
anything or anybody? If you do, you're sure to be found out and the
world will write you down an ass! No! Go on with the good work; don't
stop, nor even hesitate! Everybody's rich! The dramatic merchants own
all the moving picture shows, musical comedies, burlesques. They are
spending their profits in automobiles! They are bedecked in sables!
Commercialism is running amuck while the artistic foreigner cynically
observes and stands amazed!
But fear not, gentle censors, the worst is yet to come! Maggie Cline
is contemplating an appearance in "Hamlet" and Elsie Janis may yet be
permitted to show us the humor of Dogberry!
Why not?
If the commercial gentlemen who wield the sceptre do but command
submission what does it signify who pays the price of admission?
_Chapter XXIII_
TYRONE POWER
Gee! What a bully actor Tyrone Power is!
_Chapter XXIV_
AN ARTISTIC SUCCESS!
Just before producing "The Nominee" and "The Gold Mine" I made the
acquaintance of a very fine fellow, James Piggott, a member of
Mrs. Langtry's travelling company, who had adopted the stage as a
livelihood, after having lost a fortune through the failure of a bank
in Manchester, England.
Jimmie, as his friends were pleased to call him, was the
personification of an English gentleman, always faultlessly dressed,
gloved and caned at all hours. He would appear at the breakfast table
in an immaculate get-up, including gloves, even in the dim recesses
of one-night stands. He always gave the impression that he had slept
in them. He had always a kind word and a smile even under such trying
conditions as travelling in support of "The Jersey Lily" through the
one-night stands of the country.
It was at this time we met. He was most unhappy. He had written a play
which the managers to whom he had submitted it had failed to pass upon
favorably. He read it to me and it appealed to me very much. I agreed
to produce it and put it on for one week at Hooley's Theatre, Chicago,
where it met with some degree of success. It had vivid local color,
the story being English, the scene laid in England. It was called "The
Bookmaker."
I produced it the following year at the Gaiety Theatre, London. This
was in 1890, following "The Gold Mine." Both plays failed, but,
personally, I made what they were pleased to call "an artistic success."
Judging from the receipts I would not enjoy an artistic failure!
Poor Piggott was much distressed at the reception of his play but was
more than courteous to me--perhaps because of what he considered my
unquestionable hit. The play was afterwards revived by Edward Terry and
Arthur Williams, but "Sacred to its Memory" is inscribed over the tomb
of the departed "The Bookmaker."
While acting in "The Gold Mine" and "The Nominee" I became thoroughly
convinced that farce comedy was doomed, that frivolity was losing
ground and that the public wanted comedies combining pathos with
laughter. I found it was becoming easier for me to handle pathetic
scenes and deliver serious passages. I had solved the problem. It was
simply a change of method.
If I were compelled to make a sudden transition from gay to grave or
vice versa the secret lay in assuming another tone, the discarding
of a familiar gesture and allowing a certain time to elapse before
expressing the emotion, if only for the infinitesimal part of a second.
Thought travels quickly and the eyes work in unison. This must be
studied, rehearsed and exemplified before any comedian can hope for a
successful interpretation of rôles combining humor and pathos.
There are a few comedians of to-day who know the art. Were it not that
I have no desire to be personal I could name names and make it clear to
the public those who don't know how. Among the few who do (and there
are only a few) I might mention David Warfield, William Thompson, John
Mason, George Nash and Eddy Ables.
I was privileged to be one of a box party some years ago witnessing
the performance of a play which I very much desired. I had seen it
perfectly performed in Paris by a man who knew everything pertaining to
our art, whose pictures were painted with all the delightful lights and
shadows that form a background for those capable of portraying comedy
and pathos.
This play gave an actor every opportunity of portraying all the
emotions--comedy, tragedy, farce and sentiment. The character ran the
dramatic gamut, but it required most deft handling, the dividing lines
being as fine as silken threads, the transitions requiring the art of
a master. It was a great success in Paris, but failed both in London
and New York. The Englishman and American to whom this character was
entrusted were direct opposites in their respective qualifications,
one being a pronounced low comedian, the other a character actor with
little, if any idea of humor. The Frenchman combined all the gifts
of these two men together with the versatility which this character
required. His success was as pronounced as these gentlemen's failures.
As I sat in the box with the star's wife at my right I waited with
some anxiety and fear the result of the performance. My forebodings
became realized as the character assumed its first serious aspect. The
audience failed to differentiate and a slight titter passed through the
house as he arrived at his first dramatic, sentimental climax. As the
play progressed I could see the audience manifest its displeasure and
move uneasily as the plot developed. When the crucial moment came--the
grand, tragic, culminating scene of the play in which the Frenchman
held his audience as in a vise the American audience simply smiled,
looked bored and relaxed. Instead of applause coming as it should have
come at the end of the act, the curtain was raised only through the
appreciation of the ushers at the back!
The star's wife turned to me and asked, "What is the matter? Why can't
---- do this?"
"It is very simple, my dear friend," I replied. "He hasn't solved the
problem. He has failed to change his method."
_Chapter XXV_
THE SKATING RINK
It was some time after, I forget the exact date, that I became
associated with the late Frank Sanger in the production of a farcical
comedy, called "The Skating Rink." We surrounded ourselves with a
capable company, including Henry Donnelly, Fanny Rice, James Ratcliff,
the Fletchers, a trio of trick skaters, Major Newall and others.
We opened in Buffalo (where I had the misfortune to meet the second
lady who bore my name).
We opened to a packed house and when the curtain rang down I credited
myself with another failure. I was amazed to ascertain the next morning
that I had made another "artistic success." But this time the house
sold out for that evening--also. I was far from being satisfied, but I
was convinced that if the public fancied the material offered at our
opening I could improve the entertainment very much. I so informed
Sanger, suggesting that he book us for four weeks at Hooley's. I
guaranteed to give him an entirely new and better interpretation of
"The Skating Rink" for Chicago. He acquiesced and started the next day
for New York.
I called the company together the following evening after the play
for a rehearsal. My idea was to ascertain if any of the company had a
specialty that could be interjected into this porous play. It permitted
all sorts of pioneering. The plot stopped at eight thirty!
One gentleman proved capable of swallowing the butt of a lighted cigar
during the rendering of the verse of a song, allowing it to reappear
before finishing, and repeating the operation until his stomach
rebelled. This appealed to me and was introduced the following evening
with marked favor!
I resuscitated my imitations of famous actors which had been lying
dormant for years.
Two or three of the young ladies interpolated some of the latest New
York ditties, Fanny Rice and I cribbing the See-Saw duet. I also
introduced an entire act of a play called "The Marionettes," assisted
by one of the skating trio, an Irish song written by a Jew, "Since
Maggie Learned to Skate," and a burlesque on "Camille." I appeared as
the coughing heroine!
By the time we reached Chicago I had discarded all of the old
manuscript. The plot stopped a few minutes earlier. But I kept my
promise to Sanger!
I worked like a galley slave in this polyglot entertainment, making
no less than fifteen changes. When not on the stage, which was but
seldom, I was busy making my wardrobe shifts between scenes, my most
trying effort being a very quick change from the ball gown (with all
the female accessories, including corsets) of Camille to the apparel of
an Irish hod-carrier. I made the latter change in less than a minute,
disappearing as the dying lady on one side of the stage to return from
the opposite as the Irishman in search of his daughter, Maggie. The
company, I am pleased to say, made distinct successes and received
great praise for their individual efforts.
A most amusing incident occurred during a performance of this play
in Louisville. One of my staunchest admirers, named Eli Marks, who
always regretted my turning aside from serious drama to embark upon
the sands of farce, came one night much against his will to witness
the performance. I met him afterwards. While he was pleased with the
efforts of the company he failed to bestow any particular praise upon
my playing. In fact nothing I had done seemed to meet with his favor.
Of course he liked my imitations, but he had seen them before.
"By the way, Nat," he said, "don't lose that Irishman! I think he is
the best thing in the whole show. Nothing you did can compare with
him!" I agreed and gravely assured him that it had caused me a lot of
trouble to coach that man. "Well," he concluded, "you are rewarded and
don't lose him!" I promised to keep him as long as he lived.
Marks was afterwards told that he was unconsciously paying me that
compliment, but he refused to believe it! He made a wager with the
friends who contradicted him and would not assume the responsibility of
the debt until he had come behind the scenes and witnessed my change.
As I got into the overalls and hurriedly grabbed the dinner pail, he
ejaculated, "Well, by golly, you fooled me, old man, but I am glad of
it! Come and sup with us to-night at the club. If you take my advice
you will have a play written around the plot of that song. You are the
best hod-carrier I ever saw!"
_Chapter XXVI_
NUMBER TWO
About this time I began to weary of the solitude of single life. Living
with dear old John Mason in our flat in Twenty-eighth Street did not
appeal to me. We were very respectable persons at the time and led a
most exemplary life, irrespective of the opinions in vogue concerning
our little Haven of Unrest.
It was while enduring those disconsolate hours that I became interested
in Mrs. Nella Baker Pease, wife of a dilettante, living in Buffalo. She
made her appearance nightly at the playhouse where we were performing
and made herself particularly conspicuous by effusive applause,
generally bestowed when the other portions of the audience had finished
theirs. It was evident that she was discovering hidden beauties in
my artistic efforts. We were finally introduced and became steadfast
friends.
It took me but a little while to discover that she was a gifted woman,
possessed of many talents, her most conspicuous one being music. She
was the best amateur piano player to whom I have ever listened.
During my week's sojourn in Buffalo I was presented to her mother,
sister, brother and husband. Her sister was charming. I wish I could
say the same of the rest of her family. The brother must have emanated
from the same pod in which the husband, Pease, was conceived, or on
some coral reef where sponges predominate. He proved a most absorbing
person.
[Illustration: NELLA BAKER PEASE
_The best amateur piano player I ever heard_]
I invited him once to spend a few days with us in New York. He wired
that he was coming for "a cup of tea"--and stopped for two years!
With my inherent divinatory gift it required but a short time for me
to satisfy myself that the little home of sunshine occupied by the
row of Pease was in reality a whitened sepulchre. I discovered that
Nella loathed her husband, but with the other members of her proud
family was content to live with him and upon the bounty supplied by the
dilettante's father (her hubby's papa).
She bestowed no love, not eve
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/46341