"WHY DO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN MARRY NAT GOODWIN"?
Why, oh why, do beautiful women marry Nat Goodwin?"
I shall endeavor to answer that query so frequently put to me by the newspapers, not from any sense of obligation but simply in the spirit of anecdote.
Time and again impertinent printed remarks have been made about my plunging into matrimony and there have appeared flaming headlines such as, "Bluebeard Goodwin Anticipates a Marriage" (or divorce!), "Red Headed Nat Contemplates Matrimony!" etc.
These polite and complimentary references in the yellow journals appear as a rule annually. Generally they occupy half a page and are illustrated with pictures of the poor misguided creatures who had the misfortune to bear my name with my photograph stuck up in one corner (with a countenance suggesting more the physiognomy of a Bill Sykes than a Romeo!). Then some extremely clever reviewer of prize fights comes forth with this headline:—
"Why do Beautiful Women Shake Nat Goodwin?"
The scoffers, the envious, who know nothing about me except the fact that I have furnished paragraphers much material anent my "matrimonial forays," are inclined to credit my succession of beautiful wives for any success that I have attained. Matrimony may and often does breed notoriety and an actor's record may excite comment upon its endurance, but neither personal antics nor long service ever won a man genuine fame.
Is it a crime to be respectable? Is it a crime to have an honest fireside?
I never stole any of my wives, neither were they ever forced into matrimony—with me.
My friends who have been privileged to visit any home of mine will tell you that it was the abode of a lady and gentleman!
This will jar my vilifiers. I have no right to be respectable and have a home. I am a brawler and a reveler, a drunkard and a gambler. Maybe. Yet with all these alleged vagaries I fail to remember any time when I dined a mistress at the same table with my wife and children—an incident in the career of a most conspicuous member of our profession who has the reputation of being possessed of supreme chastity. He prefers marshmallows to champagne—stick licorice to Havana cigars. He married at the beginning of his career and is quite content to stand pat—with his head in the sand.
I have often wondered if these self-elected critics of my actions would have refused any of the women whom I have had the privilege of marrying!
Does it ever occur to them that a woman must first be interested in a man (in some little degree!) before allowing him the privilege of taking her hand in marriage? If she has a brain she understands his motives and even if moved by other reasons than that of affection it is still she who decides to meet the issue.
The women who married me had the reputation of being possessed of brain as well as beauty and all of them had tasted the sweets of matrimony before I came along. I wonder what these ebony-tipped-fingered gentlemen who have marvelled at my success in the matrimonial field would say if they were privileged to glance at my visitors' book in use at Jackwood or in my West End Avenue home in New York! It would convince them that they never could have passed the butler!
It has never been chronicled that the heads of the theatrical profession were my constant visitors. Statesmen, diplomats, lawyers, conspicuous public men from abroad, multi-millionaires (not forgetting one President) and some of the nobility have graced my board. This may have been the reason why one of the beautiful women married me!
Fancy any of my critics writing that Lord —— had visited me, Senator —— dined with me, Marchioness —— accompanied me on a hunting trip! That would not be news—it's too clean! But they do cable to the remotest corner of the globe my presence at a prize fight. That is interesting matter—and news! How considerate of the feelings of one's aged parents who are forced to bear the brunt of their unwholesome lies! How I loathe these mephitic hounds who burglarize men's firesides, the pestilential pirates of women's homes who invade the sanctity of loving hearts, who write with pens steeped in venom!
An artist to his finger tips
BILLY THOMPSON
What a splendid player is William H. Thompson—Bill as he is known to his friends!
I have known him for over thirty years and have admired him in many rôles. An artist to his finger tips, he is obliged by existing conditions to fritter away his time in vaudeville instead of heading his own company or occupying a theatre as the bright particular star.
While the Favershams, Millers and Skinners are starring through the country at the head of their own companies this grand artist is compelled to stifle his ambitions in playhouses which feature performing elephants, negroes and monkeys!
He tells me he is acting now only to gather enough shekels to make his passing down the other side of the mountain of life be unincumbered by financial difficulties. This is a sad situation—an actor willing and capable forced to humiliate himself while ignorant German comedians, song and dance men and incompetent leading men foster their wares before a vacillating public.
Well, perhaps things may change, but I fear not in dear Bill's day. The moving pictures reign supreme! Pantomime seems to gratify the multitude!
Let the incense burn low and as it disappears let memories of the work of a master like Thompson cast its shadow on the pathway of the time to come!
THE CRITICS
Praise is the best diet after all."
In an address before the National Press Club on November 17, 1909, the Hon. Henry Watterson had this to say:
"Pretending to be the especial defenders of liberty we are becoming the invaders of private rights. No household seems any longer safe against intrusion. Our reporters are being turned into detectives. As surely as this is not checked, we shall grow to be the objects of fear and hatred, instead of trust and respect."
"Shall grow!" As if you have not already grown, decayed and gone to seed, once more to be transplanted and again born, to invade the sanctity of homes and become the invaders of private rights! "Detectives" indeed! As a rule you are not even common cops!
No wonder public men look upon such "journalists" with aversion and contempt and liken them to the police and the scavenger! No wonder honest journalists, like Watterson, antagonize such methods as are employed by the emissaries who represent the yellow journalism of our delightfully free country!
Very often after reading one of the vilifying attacks made upon me (for no apparent reason other than to vent the writer's spleen or for lack of other material) I have wondered what effect it has had upon my associates, my audiences and my friends. It is wonderful how little the power of will asserts itself. Falsehood and scandal seldom concern any except those personally negligent. It is a pity that a critic who has so much power to do good and make happy the artist by a few kind words will use the weapon of the wood chopper. Fortunately you cannot make or unmake the artist of to-day. You may flaunt your accusations regarding his private life, but after all the good remains.
I honestly believe that a true American man or woman derives more pleasure from reading an account of the happy marriage of Ethel Barrymore and the delightful coming of her first born than from the lurid announcement that Mary Mannering has at last secured her permanent release from the bonds of her unhappy alliance with James K. Hackett. It has taken me many years to come to this conclusion, and it was only after two years passed in silent retrospect among the flowers, hand in hand with nature in glorious California, that I determined to don again the sock and buskin. But I went back to my professional work with a clearer conscience, a lighter heart, a determination to pay little heed to the scoffers and a resolve to try to make the world laugh once more.
He who rises above mediocrity is sure to incur the envy and hatred of the mediocre. I am astounded that I among so many should be selected as a perpetual target. Were I as egotistical as some of my critics say, the published reports of my vagaries and dissipations would have been as Balm in Gilead to my immoral soul! But such balm is far from any desire of mine. The unwholesome notoriety that I received during my absence in Australia shocked and grieved me and had it not been for the few good friends who gallantly came to my assistance with cheery words of encouragement my burden would have been too heavy to bear.
With the greatest indignation I read the truly astonishing articles written about me during my exile. Away from home as we had been for months and always looking forward eagerly to the arrival of the American mail, it was a shock indeed to be deluged with highly sensational accounts of my divorce suit, a shock all the more disagreeable for the wholly unwarrantable dragging in of the name of one as completely ignorant of the entire matter as any one of you who may read this.
For years I have been brutally assailed by certain members of our press who have disliked the color of my hair or the shape of my nose. As I alone have been the victim of these assaults, I have not wearied the public with constant denials, realizing the futility of the "apology" our great dailies vouchsafe when they are proven to be in the wrong. This generous "apology" may be found in an obscure corner of the paper, in very small print, weeks after columns and columns have spicily set forth the details of one's supposed wrong doings. And this is all we get by way of reparation from our traducers.
Here is the article, written by the Hon. Henry Watterson in the Louisville "Courier Journal," January 10, 1895, to which I have referred:
"In the course of an interview with one of our local contemporaries Mr. Nat C. Goodwin, the eminent comedian, takes occasion to correct some recent stories circulated to his disadvantage and to protest against that species of journalism which seeks to enrich itself by the heedless sacrifice of private character.
"Since no one has suffered more in this regard than Mr. Goodwin himself he has certainly the right to speak in his own behalf and at the same time he has a claim upon the consideration of a public which owes so great a debt to his genius. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. Goodwin is just beginning to realize the seriousness of life and the importance of his own relation to the art of which he has long been an unconscious master.
"With an exuberance of talent rivaled only by his buoyancy of spirit, uniting to extraordinary conversational resources a personal charm unequaled on or off the stage, he has scattered his benefactions of all kinds with a lavish disregard of consequences and that disdain for appearances which emanates, in his case, from a frank nature, incapable of intentional wrong and unconscious of giving cause for evil report.
"He is still a very young man, but he has been and is a great, over-grown boy; fearless and loyal; as open as the day; enjoying the abundance which nature gave him at his birth, which his professional duties have created so profusely around about him and seeking to have others enjoy it with him. But, before all else, it ought to be known by the public that he amply provides for those having the best claim upon his bounty; that he is not merely one of the most generous of friends, but one of the most devoted of sons, and that it can be truly said that no one ever suffered through any act of his.
"To a man of so many gifts and such real merits the press and the public might be more indulgent even if Mr. Goodwin were as erratic as it is sometimes said he is. But he is not so in the sense sought to be ascribed to him. He never could have reached the results, which each season we see re-enforced by new creations, except at the cost of infinite painstaking, conscientious toil; for, exquisite and apparently spontaneous as his art is, he is pre-eminently an intellectual actor and it is preposterous to suppose that he has not been a thoughtful, laborious student, finding his relief in moments of relaxation, which may too often have lapsed into unguarded gayety, but which never degenerated into vulgarity or wantonness. Indeed the warp and woof of Mr. Goodwin's character are wholly serious.
"He is a most unaffected, affectionate man and with the recognition which the world is giving him as the foremost comedian of his time, the inevitable and natural successor to the great Jefferson, it is safe to predict that he will fall into his place with the ready grace that sits upon all he says and does.
"Meanwhile the boys in the City Editor's Room ought to use more blue and less red in pencilling the coming and going of one so brilliant and so gentle and, in all that they have a right to take note of, so unoffending."
God bless you, Marse Henry!
The avidity with which the average penny-a-liners scent failure is only equaled by the blatant exposition of their reviews. They are like a lot of sheep huddled together, vainly endeavoring to emerge from the perfume of their own manure to flaunt their individual opinions before the garrulous public which itself is only too willing to proclaim "the king is dead!"
Senator Arthur Pugh Gorman once told me that failures were a good remedy for success and brought people to a realization of their own unimportance. Granted, if failure were individual, but as failure does not as a rule affect only one's self it is hard to administer the doses of the plural to mitigate the humiliation of the singular.
Has it ever occurred to the average critic that when a play fails not only the author and the leading artist are submerged in the vortex of despair, but all the tributaries of the enterprise go down with the ship? But what do they care—when many of the successful actors proclaim to the world that they enjoy their "art"—succeeding or failing!—and respect the reviewers of their work? I regret that many of them are only too willing to assist the critics in tearing down the structure of the successful player.
Some time ago I had a long talk with a comedian, short and very funny, on and off the stage. He is a true artist, a wit, gentle in his methods and a truly legitimate comedian. He was complaining of the existing conditions of the stage and assured me that it was only the lack of funds which compelled him to remain upon the boards to make the public laugh; that he was praying for the time when he could forget his gifts and leave the stage forever.
The little chap has worked like a galley slave for years. I know of one period in his career when he produced three consecutive failures in an equal number of weeks in a New York theatre; produced them and incurred all the risks—and finally landed the fourth a winner. He is constantly producing new material and to-day a New York playhouse displays an electric sign which spells his name. Yet he desires to leave the stage forever! Of course, he does! What honest actor does not?
Another artist, a friend of mine who has played to the largest receipts ever known in the history of the stage, told me recently that he was going to give it up, imparting to me the fact that he could no longer stand the humiliation and the heartaches he was forced to endure!
The attitude of these gifted players is as an oasis in the desert of incompetency and convinces me that irrespective of the type that spells inadequacy and commercial success for a few of the ephemeral stars there are some self-respecting actors left who refuse to accompany these unworthy disciples down the narrow path that must lead to an eventual eclipse.
What an unthinking person is the average front-of-the-curtain speech maker! Fancy thanking an audience for the privilege of entertaining it! It has always struck me as being ludicrous. But I can sympathize with an actor thanking an audience for sitting out a failure!
I believe it was Charles Lamb or someone equally clever who remarked, "Apprentices are required for every trade, save that of critic; he is ready-made."
How true!
Critics—what a queer lot!—are generally foes to art—from Dr. Johnson down to those of the present day. Seldom sponsors, always antagonistic, jealous and even venomous, they are eager to tear down citadels of honest thought and houses of worthy purpose! They remain hostile until the continued success of their victim compels a truce. And how cravenly they acknowledge defeat! Like the shot coyote they will only fight when wounded.
The reviewer of a prize fight will comment upon a picture; criticize sculpture, literature, acting!
Why should the average critic know anything about acting when his horizon does not extend beyond the ill-ventilated room containing his trunk filled with the manuscripts which he has not succeeded in having produced? Conscious of the revenues of the successful playwrights of the day he criticizes with venom in his drab heart and vitriol in his ink-bottle! No wonder he enjoys storming the forts of prosperity!
But what gets on my nerves is the attention given some of these penny-a-liners by the average American manager-producer who cull the complimentary expressions of these incompetents and print them conspicuously upon their posters. To add further insult to the honest player most of the yellow journals photograph these critics, heading the columns of their uninstructive matter with their faces!
Shades of Lamb, Hazlitt, and George Henry Lewes!
I wonder how many readers cut out the pictures of those little cherubs, "Alan Dale" and "Vance" Thompson, and paste them in their scrap books? I utilized their pictures beautifying (!) two cuspidors in my home—and they are always in constant use!
My antagonism to the critics is not sweeping. I have the most supreme respect for the memory of such critics as the late Mr. Clapp of Boston, Mr. McPhelim of Chicago, Clement Scott and Joseph Knight of London, Mr. Wiliard of Providence, "Brick" Pomeroy, Joseph Bradford and Frank Hatton. I have the same regard for some of the living critics including, the Hon. Henry Watterson, Arthur Warren, James O'Donnell Bennett, Philip Hale, Blakely Hall, Amy Leslie, George Goodale, Ashton Stevens, Lyman P. Glover, Lawrence Reamer, Elwyn Barron, Stilson Hutchins, Marion Reedy and many others. These gentlemen know whereof they write and never allow personalities to enter their critical views. But for those effeminate, puerile, sycophantic, dogmatic parasites who live from hand to mouth, who bite the hands that feed them, whose exposed palms are always in evidence (to receive the stipends that warp their supposed knowledge of the art)—I have an equal amount of disgust.
"Alan Dale" whose real name is Cohen called on me some years ago in Paris with instructions from his master, Mr. Hearst, to interview me.
I sent my servant to tell him to come up and arranged the furniture for his reception (I did not care to pay for breakage and I was afraid his thick skull might destroy some of the bric-a-brac if he fell where I intended he should fall!). I set the scene for him, but when he entered and I contemplated this little, self-opinionated, arrogant, subservient, and grovelling person I asked myself "What's the use?"—gave him an interview and dismissed him.
I felt only pity for the poor, little, puny hireling!
(Since the above was penned I have read a most complimentary criticism of my Fagin in "Oliver Twist" written by "Alan Dale." Consequently the above remarks "don't go!")
An astute gentleman on one of the Chicago papers, gushing over "the great art of Mr. John Hare" as old Eccles in "Caste," wrote:
"What a remarkable metamorphosis it was to see Mr. Hare, the quiet, dignified man of the world, in his dressing-room discussing his profession when, a few moments before, he had been depicting the drunken sot with shaggy eyebrows, dishevelled hair, unkempt beard and filthy clothes!"
This he considered the art of acting. I call it the art of make-up. He further annoyed me by saying, "This should be a lesson to some of our comedians, who fancy themselves actors, who simply come on the stage, speak fat lines and have only to appear natural."
"Only to appear natural!" I happen to know the critic who wrote the above article. He is a remarkably graceful man and a most proficient golf player. Now taking him at his word I should like to place that gentleman in a conspicuous place on my stage, in evening dress, and have him rise, walk across the stage, ask the servant to assist him on with his coat, bid the other characters good night and make an exit. He would, I am sure, cease chiding any actor for being "natural." It is far easier to be somebody else on the stage, with the aid of wig and grease paint, than to appear as one's self.
No one fails to recognize Bernhardt or Duse. Neither did Booth nor Forrest sink his individuality or hide his face, like the ancient Greeks, behind a mask. I'll wager that if Mr. Hare had been an American the hound would have objected to the Hare's disguise!
One of the most natural actors whom I ever saw on any stage and who never by any possible chance endeavored to destroy his identity was William Warren. He was and is considered by the elect the finest comedian that American has ever produced. I wish my golf player could have enjoyed the privilege of seeing that grand old man play Eccles!
Every great actor that we have sent abroad for the past fifty years has signally failed (with one single exception and he assured me that his largest house was a trifle over $600 and he had a play written or rather re-written by one of the most popular of English authors). With three exceptions no one has ever failed, man or woman, who has come to us from foreign shores.
It is "the thing" to applaud the efforts of all European actors. It is far different in England. I am certain there is no prevailing antagonism because of the fact that we are Americans, but the public as a rule does not understand our methods and is quite content with its own. I only wish that we could absorb its temperament. It does get on my nerves, though, when shiploads of English actors visit America, simply to enable them to replenish their impoverished bank accounts at home.
How long will it last?
I wonder!
However, when any foreigner visits our country with a determination to make it his permanent abode and does so I always wish him well. Take for instance Edward H. Sothern. If ever a man deserved the position he has attained Sothern does, if only for his energy and tenacity of purpose.
Of course, in any other country than America, he could never have succeeded.
Even in this country, surrounded as he is by an over production of filth, to make Shakespeare a paying investment is an achievement of which to be proud.
I am not airing any opinion of his artistic work, as I have been privileged to witness only his performance of "Hamlet." I have also seen Charles Fechter, E. L. Davenport and Edwin Booth as the Dane, which naturally prejudices me in my criticism of Sothern's performance! But any man who has the courage to announce his intention of playing "Macbeth" for one week (and does it!) deserves a place in the Hall of Fame!
Mr. Sothern deserves the congratulations of the American public—for getting away with it!
And for all I've written in this chapter I must confess that—
Observation makes critics of us all!
Also—
While I have confined my attention to the so-called critics I have not forgotten that there are other men engaged in the newspaper business and of these—
The average reporter reminds me of the little boy with a pea shooter. He bears malice towards no one in particular but—he's got a pea shooter!
JAMES A. HEARNE
At the time James A. Hearne gave me the photograph which accompanies this chapter he was one of the best actors, if not the best actor who spoke any language—in my estimation. He was then well into the fifties and for two score years had run the gamut from Bill Sykes (and he was king in that rôle) to the tender Nathan'l in that best of American plays, "Shore Acres."
The reproduction of the inscription which Hearne wrote on the back of his photograph shows that the old gentleman was not without a keen sense of humor.
I knew him all my stage life and in my eyes he was always a most wonderful person. In his early days he was prone to much dissipation, even to ruffianism; but he always drank and fought before the world. He was honest even when violently inclined. He never sneaked up back alleys to fight a foe, but met him in the open—no hiring of rooms in which to get drunk but at the open door where all could see him. And even in those days everybody loved the man.
In his later life he used his great mentality and became a real man, a beatific creature.
He married three times.
His first wife was the distinguished Lucille Western, a most wonderful natural, emotional actress. It is said she has made more money in a single season than any other star of any time. Her first husband, James Meade, a New York gambler, told me he handed her personally more than $600,000 in forty-two weeks! This was during the Civil War.
And she died in poverty!
Herself a spendthrift, she was ably assisted in dissipating her fortune by both Meade and Hearne. Her death followed her marriage to William Whalley, a ne'er-do-well but clever actor and at that time a great Bowery favorite.
After Lucille's death Hearne married her sister Helen, one of the most beautiful women ever born. They were very unhappy and a divorce speedily ended their union.
From this time Hearne's career showed a marked change. He died nearly a Christian!
Behind him he left his third wife, a most brilliant, clever woman who helped to bring about his regeneration, several successful plays and two talented daughters, Julie and Chrystal Hearne.
It is just as natural for two human beings, brought constantly in contact with each other, to mate as it is for birds and animals.
A man of genius, if he marries at all, should marry a peasant.
He knew how poor Sol "fell"
EDDIE FOY
Fancy a man's being father of six or seven or eight children—and then adopting an additional brace! What a heart, what a great, big, fine heart has a man like that!
And this is what Eddie Foy has done.
Eddie Foy is a unique character in the American drama. Aside from his prowess as a disciple of that theory which measures patriotism by infants he is the greatest clown our stage has ever known. And he takes his clowning very seriously.
I always like to hear Eddie Foy talk. I enjoy being with him. He is a true comedian.
It happened I was his fellow voyager on his first passage across the Atlantic. He was on his way to meet his bride, an Italian woman. (Fancy my listening to rhapsodies about a bride—not my own!)
They are a numerous family—and as happy as numerous. He is a most generous and home-loving person for all his fondness for his clubs.
I love to hear him talk about playing Hamlet.
He really thinks he can!
Perhaps he's right.
I wonder.
WILLIAM GILLETTE
I was standing, many years ago, in the lobby of the Parker House, Boston, speaking to the late Louis Aldrich, an old and esteemed friend of mine, who had just made a tremendous success in a play written by the late Bartley Campbell, called "My Partner," when a gaunt, thin and anaemic person suddenly approached us and grasping Louis by the arm said, "I saw your play last night, great house, splendid performance, bad play," and left us as quickly as he came. "Who is that chap?" I asked.—"Oh, he is a young crank," said Aldrich, "who has written a play he wants me to produce called 'The Professor,' not a bad play, but he insists upon playing the leading rôle." "He looks more like a chemist than an actor," I replied.
Several years after I was negotiating with the late A. M. Palmer, to produce a play called "The Private Secretary," but, unfortunately, strolling into the Boston Museum pending the negotiations, I witnessed an adaptation of "The Private Secretary," taken from the German I believe, called "Nunky," excellently played by the Stock Company. Having four weeks booking at the Park Theatre in Boston the ensuing season, where I intended playing "The Private Secretary," if my negotiations with Palmer proved successful, I called everything off, as I did not desire to enter into competition with Ian Robertson, who was scoring immensely in the character of "The Private Secretary," which I contemplated doing.
Shortly after Palmer secured an injunction against "Nunky," and I witnessed the performance of "The Private Secretary," at the Madison Square Theatre in New York, to a packed house, and the so-called crank I had previously met with Aldrich at the Parker House, in Boston, was playing the leading rôle. His name was William Gillette.
William is a very quaint person, and even to this day, many people call him a crank. He may be eccentric, all geniuses are, but he is a very able man, one of the best American dramatists, and a most excellent actor, particularly when playing the hero of one of his own plays. He has no natural repose and is possessed of very little magnetism. He certainly has a personality however and has solved the problem of standing still like the center pole of a merry-go-around in all his plays, successfully contriving to arrange his scenes so that his characters rush around him, while he stands motionless in the center, giving the impression of great repose. This is a splendid trick but only permissible to actors who pay themselves their own author's fees.
I once saw Gillette play a character I had previously seen Guitry perform in Paris, and I must confess that Gillette suffered by comparison. In this play he had to move and he proved he was no sprinter. An English critic, a friend of mine who had witnessed the performance of Gillette in "Too Much Johnson" and "Held by the Enemy" remarked, "This man Gillette is a most confusing person. If I did not know the plot of his plays, I could not tell whether he was playing the villain or hero."
I do not know if Gillette ever realized his limitations, but I fancy he did, for he succeeded unquestionably in cultivating a pose, an air of, 'please don't approach me, I am too much absorbed,' etc. I have seen him enter a drawing room in London, and by his presence stop all conversation. Apparently oblivious to his surroundings, he would enter, stop at the door, locate his host or hostess, say a few epigrammatic things in a hard rasping nasal voice, acknowledge the presence of a few friends by a casual nod and quickly take his leave. The conversation for the next hour would be devoted to the man who had entered and left so unceremoniously. "What an eccentric person," "how unique," "what personality," "splendid presence," would be heard from all sides.
This pose, eccentricity, or whatever you call it, may be assumed or natural, I do not know which, but it is effective if you can get away with it. Mansfield did it successfully, Barrett and Arnold Daly tried it and failed, Booth had the gift.
Perhaps the cause of Gillette's eccentricity is his liver, a successful man with a poor digestion can do most anything out of the ordinary, if he has courage and money. The rush of blood to the head causing a twitching of the lips when observed, may mean to the on-looker the concentration of thought; a scowl brought about by a pain in the abdominal cavity may suggest the villain of the yet to be born play contemplating the ruin of the heroine, and there you are. Every act, every suggestion, every attitude of the successful author or actor has a hidden meaning.
The gyrations of the successful Gillette proved so effective, I am told, that he has invested part of his fortune in a headache powder.
I have known Mr. Gillette, thirty years, not intimately; there are few who enjoy that privilege. He is a reticent person, very difficult to fathom, easy of manner, courteous and refined, a gentleman at all times, splendid playwright, a fine exponent of character in all his plays, and a man of whom America should be proud.
WILLIAM BRADY, ESQ.
From a vendor of peanuts on the Southern Pacific Railroad, to the owner of two New York playhouses, and the manager of more than a dozen theatrical enterprises in twenty-five years, is the history of "Bill" Brady, the man who made James Corbett the champion pugilist of the world.
Brady is a man with the courage of his own convictions. He will stand by any production he finances in the face of overwhelming defeat, and cease to present it only when the managers refuse to give him time. No matter what the box office returns are, the play remains on if Brady fancies it.
He is an excellent judge of untried plays and seldom produces a failure. Being a very good actor, irrespective of his managerial capacity, he will jump in and play any part at a moment's notice if necessary. He has done this many times during his career and thus saved the closing of the theatre.
His married life is most happy, Grace George and two splendid children, together with a charming residence on Riverside Drive, New York, make a peaceful fireside and a haven for the tired "Billie," when worn out by worries of office life and travel.
We have been friends for many years and I always enjoy his society immensely.
May good luck and well deserved success attend you, William Brady, Esq.
ROBERT FORD
I have as little patience with the theory that one's character is patently defined in one's physiognomy as with that other sophism concerning the leaking out of truth as wine "leaks in." Look at the accompanying photograph. Is there anything in that frank, boyish countenance which even suggests a cold blooded, conscienceless murderer? Yet the young gentleman was not only a murderer, he was that most despicable of human hounds—the betrayer of his friend.
It was one night many years ago in Kansas City, in a pool parlor to be exact, that I first saw this young scoundrel. I was playing pool with a stranger who had been introduced as "Mr. Hunter." My attention was directed toward the boy by the singular behavior of my friendly antagonist. No matter where "Mr. Hunter" had to go around the table to make a shot he never allowed his back to be turned toward the door nor toward the young man who sat peacefully in one corner of the smoke-filled room and gazed benignly, if steadily, at "Mr. Hunter." Intuitively I knew questions would not be welcomed and I stilled my curiosity.
The next day I joined the throngs which travelled over to St. Joe to see the remains of the notorious Jesse James who had been shot dead in his own home. There, lying on a bed, was all that was left of my "Mr. Hunter!"
"A cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer"
Two weeks later in a Turkish bath I recognized my young gentleman of the pool parlor. He was not averse to talking and presently informed me that he was Robert Ford, murderer of Jesse James. This explanation followed my expression of surprise on discovering that he had a villainous-looking revolver in his hand—in the steam room! He explained his life was not worth a cent because of his murder of James and he was taking no chances of being caught unarmed.
We chatted for two hours—agreeably! After a bit he told me all about his life with Jesse James—how he had been befriended by the bandit. Casually he described the killing and laughed as if it were a great joke that he had had to wait eighteen months for James to turn his back toward him!
"That is," he added, "long enough for me to get out my gun and kill him."
He admitted readily that had it not been for the fact that James grew to have a positive affection for and belief in him he never would have succeeded in his murderous scheme.
"But finally," he concluded laughingly, "he fell for me—whole—and I got my chance."
I asked him how he could bring himself to do such a foul murder.
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, as if wishing to be literally truthful, "the Governor offered a reward for him dead or alive—and I needed the money."
Not excepting even Benedict Arnold this boy was the most universally despised individual this country ever produced. He drifted further West after the murder and became one of the most desperate characters those lawless days ever knew. He met his end in a bar room in Cripple Creek. That time he tried to shoot a man whose back was not turned!
Yet what physiognomist could read in this boyish face such dastardy as Robert Ford delighted in?
MORE PLAYS
If George Broadhurst had not promised me the first call on his play "Bought and Paid For" I should have been saved another failure. It was on the strength of his promise that I should be the first to read the manuscript of what was destined to become his biggest money-making success that I agreed to produce "The Captain." I kept my agreement and scored up against myself a costly fizzle. Broadhurst broke his word—and I never saw "Bought and Paid For" until I bought and paid for a seat!
And this in face of the fact that Broadhurst spent most of his time with me at my house on the beach in California while he was working out the plot of the play! (And I later discovered he had not refused to take advantage of at least one of my freely offered suggestions—to make the biggest climactic moment of the action!)
Failures were becoming not only frequent, they were getting to be a habit!
"A Native Son" was my next venture. It was written by James Montgomery, author of "Ready Money," and it was as perfect a failure as "Ready Money" was a success! It was an awful thing. I wonder that I ever produced it.
At last I had had my fill of trying to discover the great American play—and headed for my California home to rest—and think!
That period didn't last long. It never has.
Presently George C. Tyler (who is Liebler & Company) got in touch with me, the outcome of it being that I signed a three-years' contract with him on the understanding that I should get as my first vehicle under his management an original play by Booth Tarkington.
In due course Tarkington completed "Cameo Kirby." In my thirty-nine years of experience on the stage I never played a character I liked so well as this delightful, urbane, Southern gentleman-gambler. I gave him a Southern dialect and the production all the touches of the real South of that early era I could invent. The audiences seemed to like my interpretation; but the press was divided. Sensing what would happen to me in New York I refused to go into that city and surrendered the rôle to Mr. Dustin Farnum.
With Farnum in the title rôle "Cameo Kirby" failed in New York exactly as I had it predicted. Farnum made a success with the play on the road, however. His youth, beauty and simple delivery were the opposites of my characterization—and he succeeded where I failed!
I was delighted to hear of Dustin's success. I am very fond of him and of his brother Bill and I consider them both excellent players.
WILLIE COLLIER
What a quaint, clever, original comedian is Willie Collier!
He is as companionable with those he likes as are flowers in a meadow. His meadow is very limited, however, as he likes but few. He believes, as I do, that the environment of friends should be narrow.
Willie insists upon being addressed as William by the majority. Only the few, among whom I am a privileged member, may call him Willie!
His wit scintillates like forked lightning and he possesses sarcasm equal to that of a Douglas Jerrold. Many authors can attribute "their" success to Willie's wit. His personality off the stage is rather stern for a comedian—in the opinion of the majority. But his acting has conquered three countries—America, Australia and England!
I could fill pages with his wit, but the one first to come to my mind must suffice.
For some reason Willie dislikes the Players Club. (Perhaps it is because one sees so few actors there!) It was during the first all-star gambol of the Lambs Club that Willie sprang a joke at the Players' expense—a joke that has since come to be a classic.
We travelled palatially on this Lambs tour, in fine, private cars, magnificently fitted, and with our every comfort catered to. As we were pulling out of Syracuse in our train de luxe, a dingy engine pulling a dirty caboose passed us on the other track. We were at dinner. Willie wiped his lips with his napkin and remarked quietly:
"Boys, there goes the Players Club back to New York."
I have known him for more than twenty years. His late partner, Charlie Reed, was as dear to me as Willie is. We three had many good times. Poor Charlie passed away years ago and Willie, left alone, has struggled bravely to earn his now well-merited success.
I have known him to produce three successive failures in as many weeks—and come forth smiling!
After the second failure I suggested that he come down to the footlights the night of his third première and salute his audience with, "Well, here I am again."
Willie Collier asked the volatile Hopper why he had failed to invite him to one of his weddings. Hopper promised him that he would—to his next!
A few of those who pose as my critics might do worse than to marry—once in a while. It would at least save expense!
The world is better with such men as Charlie Reed and Willie Collier as occupants. I hope that Willie will come dancing down the sun, casting his wit and humor to all the pessimistic censors of the drama for years to come.
HENRY MILLER
A wholesome and natural actor is Henry Miller with all the technique of our art at his finger tips, he is a splendid stage manager. Had he the facilities at his command I am sure he would rank equally with David Belasco and the late Henry Irving—as a master producer.
What I like about Miller's acting is his exquisite touch and splendid repose. I have known him for more than twenty years and have followed his career steadily—from the days of the old Empire Stock Company (where he was surrounded by such artists as Billy Thompson, Viola Allen and William Faversham) down to his most recent vehicle, "The Rainbow." And always he has proved equal to his task.
I may be prejudiced in his favor because I am so fond of him personally. He has exquisite charm off the stage as well as on. I always anticipate joyfully meeting him and indulging in our little dressing-room chats.
Miller is an artist and a gentleman and an ornament to the American stage.