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?
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!
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.
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.
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!
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!
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?
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."
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!"
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.
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 even respect, upon that dilettante hubby. During one of our interviews the husband was sent down town, her family was called in to meet me and at the earnest solicitations of them all I promised to endeavor to aid her in severing her matrimonial bonds. I also promised to fit her for the stage and to enlist the assistance of Steele Mackaye who was then preparing pupils for artistic careers and sunning himself upon the porch of Delsarte. After binding myself with these obligations I took my departure.
In a few days I was besieged with letters from Mrs. Pease and the family, earnestly entreating me not to forget my promises. Finally an epistle came from the husband endeavoring to persuade me to do something for him!
I did, all right!
To gratify his wife's ambition would I secure her an opening on the stage or put her with some good tutor? He would pay all the expenses, etc. Unfortunately for me I assumed this responsibility and succeeded in interesting my mother in Mrs. Pease's behalf, informing her of the harrowing details. So interested did my mother become at the recital of the unhappiness of this young lady that she invited her to spend a few days at our Boston home. Mrs. Pease was also fond of tea! She accepted the invitation—and remained for several months. In fact during her visit at my mother's house I had resumed my tour on the road and even made a trip to Europe!
Upon my return I met her in our Boston domicile where we were thrown a great deal into each other's society. She proved very attractive, being well educated, a fine conversationist, with a most lovable disposition. Her compositions and execution upon the piano were remarkable for an amateur.
In the meantime I had succeeded in interesting Mackaye and was about to place her in his charge, when, one day, I was served with papers from the husband who charged me with alienating his wife's affections! This dropped like a bomb-shell into our little circle, as nothing was further from my thoughts than marriage.
When the summons came she took it as a joke, saying, "What a splendid release from the little incubus!" Being at the time interested in a certain prima donna known to fame (I might say rather seriously interested), I confessed to a non-appreciative state of mind regarding her idea of humor and mildly suggested that she furnish some solution as a means of escaping from this most embarrassing situation. I realized the publicity and scandal that must surely come.
"It is very simple," said she. "Go to Buffalo, buy him off, come back to Boston and marry me. Your mother is very fond of me and I love her and Dad immensely; I am passionately fond of art; I think you are one of the most charming men whom I have ever met, and I know I can make you superlatively happy!"
After that what could a true-born American do?
I went to Buffalo, saw this half a husband (good title, that!), paid him five thousand dollars, stopped off in New York and explained the situation as best I could to my prima donna friend who tearfully told me that I was "doing the only thing a man could do."
I had "stolen the lady from her husband," "robbed his fireside," "broken up his home" and I "must necessarily abide the consequences."
"The world will condemn you, and it should, but she was certain, as was I, that my crime would be condoned and maybe in time forgiven."
The papers were beginning to hint at some unwholesome episode connected with our lives; accusations were being forged, ready to be hurled. I must marry at once and listen to her play the piano for the rest of my life! I was sure of one thing, however—she would never bore me and she never did. But, Gee Whiz! what a lot of things she did to equalize things.
Well, I kept my word. We were married and a beautiful boy came "to cement our union." From the time that that youngster, Nat C. Goodwin, III, came into the world until the law separated us, she was a changed woman. Up to that time we were happy. I purchased a fine residence on West End Avenue, New York, and our home was the rendezvous of some of the brightest lights of the artistic world.
And then she became insanely jealous of our darling boy and it is here that I drop the curtain upon our lives.
It is not my mission in this book to say anything unkind or harsh of any of the women who have married me. I wish to confine myself to speaking in terms of fullest appreciation of their virtues and merits, leaving it to wise censors to judge me. By some power of reasoning all men and women elect themselves the judges and juries of my actions. Their harsh criticisms I leave unanswered, being thoroughly satisfied in my own mind that I have committed no offense whatever against humanity, knowing that I have treated honest women as they should be treated, with all due deference and respect to womankind.
Poor Nella Baker! She abandoned the glitter and glare of the world of fashion to seek refuge in the bosom of Bohemia. She extricated herself from the vortex of society to get a glimpse of Real Life! The pet of drawing rooms, she became the wife of a comedian. She sought the atmosphere of Henri Mürger, but, alas! found it not.
Marriages are made in Heaven—cancelled in Reno!
Perhaps some will object to a number of my attitudes in this book, particularly as regards my marital ventures. I have "no right to refer" to the sanctity of marriage—"a union of two souls," cemented by a (paid) preacher, "ordained by the Deity," etc! But these good people will mistake my attitudes. I do not recognize as sanctified any ceremony that can be annulled by a five-thousand-dollar-a-year judge.
Reno is known as the Mecca for vacillating souls. New York makes it look like thirty cents!
New York, by comparison, makes Reno look like a Mormon Mausoleum!
All you have to do in New York is to call at the Captain's office, behind closed doors, whisper "Guilty" and, presto, you go as free as the birds! If you are hoarse, send someone in your place, it's all the same. And yet people prate about "the holy bonds of matrimony!" Holy? Yes, with holes big enough to crawl through!
I leaped through my last one and had the aperture sewed behind me!
I presume that I shall be terribly censured by those goody-goody persons who are constantly preaching their trust in all mankind and womankind and expatiating upon filial devotion and implicit faith in those they profess to love. Bah! There is no perfect trust in perfect love.
Whenever I hear a man (or woman) express himself as being tremendously in love, combined with an abiding faith even if he and his mate are living in different zones, I always watch for the finale and generally read the epilogue in the Reno "Gazette." When married people are separated (this is from my point of view), unless he has misgivings when her name is mentioned and his pulse does not quicken, if he does not quiver when he is told that his wife was seen, beautifully arrayed, entertaining a party of friends at some particular garden party or golf club—the little messenger Cupid has taken wings. He may strut about like Chantecler, proclaiming that his crow awakens the slumbering embers of a dying passion, but he is only mesmerizing himself.
Married people should never be separated, not even by chamber doors. Our forefathers and mothers never occupied separate chambers when the time came for prayer and slumber. They were healthy people, if not fashionable. Canaries and monkeys provide the warmth and oils for their mates' bodies, but in this age of advancement and hypocrisy it is considered common to be human.
If mankind would study the ostrich and abide by its acts, morality would triumph and married people would always be together.
Distance lends enchantment only when the door of the cage is opened by mutual consent. When only one returns the door will be found rusty and difficult to close.