Duse was one of the most subtle and difficult persons to understand that ever lived in the public eye. Jeanne Bordeux gives no proof, either by quoting Duse’s words, or by contributing a particularly enlightening biography, that she either knew or understood her heroine. Duse combined successfully a public life with a secretly guarded private life; no one ventured to trespass on what she considered her own garden; no one dared ask questions; few drew conclusions from what they imagined to be the truth. Jeanne Bordeux did none of these things, and for that she should be thanked. But why colour her statements of what may have been facts with the hue of gossip, the nuances of scandal? Hero-worship should not be carried too far, but there seems little necessity for reviving old affairs which may never have existed, especially when they serve only to whet the curiosity of gossip-lovers. It does not serve the memory of Eleonora Duse to discuss at length her relationship with d’Annunzio. The only high spot in the book, however, is connected with that, but might have been deleted of the unsavoury revelations which precede it, and the portrait of the artist left for our observation would not have suffered by the omission. It is said that long after her separation from d’Annunzio, Duse had an interview with him; at the end of the conversation, d’Annunzio said, taking her hand in his, and kissing it: “Not even you can imagine how I loved you!” And the Duse, serious, with that charming graciousness all her own, replied, “And to-day, not even you can imagine how much I have forgotten—you!” Apocryphal perhaps, but worth recording.

Despite her love for Eleonora Duse, Jeanne Bordeux will not see her as anything but a woman of genius in her chosen line—of ordinary talent in others. She brings out petty faults and weaknesses of temper which can not counteract what we know of her character and of her virtues. Whatever may be said about Duse, her admirers will not lose sight of the genius under the human form; of the suffering under the brave brow; of the tragedy in the soul; of the fundamental goodness and humility of a woman who could have had the world at her feet, and chose to carry it in her heart.

Jeanne Bordeux’s book is not a contribution to literature, because her style is too tenuous, too thin, and she has few of the qualities of pen and of heart that make for good writing. In beauty, sentiment, style and grace, it can not compare with Edouard Schneider’s biography. The latter is of so different a nature, so superior an attitude that it should be translated into English as it is already into German. It seems a pity that Madame Bordeux’s book should be the only one to speak of Duse to the American public.

M. Schneider’s biography has no relation with Jeanne Bordeaux’s. Indeed, it takes an altogether different viewpoint. It constitutes a testimony of psychological, moral and spiritual order; it is not the work of a foreigner who is unable to discern between truth and fiction in tales gathered here and there. Rather is it the direct story of an intimate friend of Eleonora Duse’s last years; he was bound to her by bonds of absolute confidence of the mind and of the heart; and it is important that the English reading public should be confronted with M. Schneider’s biography of Duse, important to establish the basis of a dignified admiration and attachment to the memory of the actress.

If Jeanne Bordeux has given the bulk of Duse’s life, Edouard Schneider has supplied the flavour; she has worked on the warp and woof of the plain fabric; he has incontestably woven his dreams and embroidered his phantasy. His inspiration comes from his love for Duse, and his love has served him as proof, as canvas, as basis. His personal recollections of her have sufficed to make a beautiful book, and he has written it from the fulness of his heart, and from the wealth of his memory; his eyes still lingering on her picture; his ear still thrilling with the music of her voice; his mind still astir with the beauties she has revealed to him; his heart still under the influence of her genius for friendship.

His presentation of Eleonora Duse is the best adapted to the picture we seek of her; he has avoided the personal element; the human weakness; the hardships of everyday life; all he has wished to remember was the beauty of Duse’s genius. At least, that is all he has wished to remember in this biography, but it calls for another one, from the same author. The mine from which he has drawn his inspiration, his memory, must be rich yet in wealth. M. Schneider has not insisted on biographical facts, but every modulation of Duse’s voice, every expression of her incomparable hands, and every utterance of her lips impressed him. He is a playwright of great talent, a poet of renown, and thanks to his magic qualities of pen, he has dramatised for us the poetry of Eleonora Duse’s life. He loved her not as a woman, but as a goddess, and his book is redolent of self-contained emotion, of bashful adoration, of unlimited admiration.

He was not present at her end, but Pittsburgh and its realities are there; the contrast he has drawn between the woman and Pittsburgh, of all cities, where she was destined to die is one of the most inspired parts of the book. The last chapter has the touch of the poet—and Duse herself would have been pleased with it.

A clever actor who achieved greatness, an incorrigible gambler who never knew satiety, a big heart, a winning personality and a modest man are revealed in The Truth at Last, the record of Charles Hawtrey’s life and achievements. As far as life is concerned, the actor-manager-gambler is reticent and diffident. His autobiography is carried along the most objective of lines, and the few words with which Mr. Somerset Maugham introduces and closes the book are more illuminating of Charles Hawtrey the man, than the complete and detailed story of his life as told by himself. It is not a model autobiography, though it tells with a certain amount of humour the failures and successes of the subject—and the failures are certainly the most attractive feature of the tale—but it is so impersonal an achievement, treated with such indifference that the reader feels the vanity there would be in trying to put more of himself into the reading than the author has put into the writing. It is well known that Charles Hawtrey accepted fame as an actor with a nonchalance that showed how little acting was his true vocation; but his reminiscences show to what height of success good will, tact, charm, personality and the lack of anything better to do, can take a man. The number of times he found himself and his company in the hands of the bankruptcy solicitors is only paralleled by the number of times he pulled himself and his company out of total failure by bold and intelligent backing of a horse.

Horse-races and stage-management, work and gambling, filled his life. The three graces that appealed so to Martin Luther played no part in Hawtrey’s life so far as can be judged from The Truth at Last. Only those who knew and admired Charles Hawtrey will be able to enjoy the book with unmixed pleasure. They will have but to recall his ease and grace, his smile, his utter lack of affectation (or so it seemed on the stage) to find excuses for the stilted and unbending presentation of his autobiography. Evidently, Charles Hawtrey was no writer, and self-consciousness, which was unknown to the actor, was his constant companion when “he took his pen in hand.” And then too, he lacks a sense of proportion although this may be due to his determination not to allow his personality, his emotions, likes and dislikes to creep into the record of his life. He devotes the same number of words to the death of his father, of whom he was very fond and to whose guidance he owed the best there was in him, as he does to the purchase of a blanket used on board a steamer; he mentions his second marriage, the War, the impressions left on him by Rome and America, much more casually than he does the receipt of a cheque from Australia, and his first marriage is mentioned only by way of reference. Timidity, self-consciousness, delicacy, lack of self-absorption? Probably a combination of all of them, and an extreme desire to live, to live rapidly, an unchecked interest in the display of life, in horses and in the life of the stage are responsible for that lack of laisser aller which is the greatest charm of autobiographies. It is The Truth at Last, and a truth that can probably compare point by point with facts, but it is not the truth about the man who was one of England’s most beloved actors.

To read A Player Under Three Reigns immediately after The Truth at Last is like going from a dark cave where one gropes one’s way around, into the sunlight and the open. Where one author is cramped by a pen and hampered in the choice of the words that make writing the natural expression of thought, the other allows words and ideas to blend in interesting, amusing or touching homogeneity, always harmonious and always natural.

Forbes-Robertson is fundamentally an artist and it is interesting to know that his first calling was to be a painter, a calling in which he displayed gift and talent and which he followed in his spare time. His reminiscences are of great interest not only because of the personality of the author, which is never accentuated in the written words but becomes fascinatingly evident between the lines, but also because Forbes-Robertson has known practically all the people who made art, literature and history in his generation; he has known them personally, some intimately, and his book is almost as much a review of the late years of the nineteenth century in England, in France and in America, as the record of his own life. He is never afraid to add to his memoirs a touch of emotion, an expression of a heartfelt sentiment, and when he does, he is more charming than ever. The layman possibly thinks that all the members of the theatrical world are jealous and envious of each other; occasionally, a movement is set afoot to help some actor who finds himself in poverty after a life of semi-luxury; benefit performances are given to procure a comfortable few years to a man who has given his talent without thinking of the future; but these movements are always in favour of one whose competition is no longer to be feared; and the general opinion is that theatrical people are heartless, selfish and shallow. How quickly this impression is dispelled when we read the tributes Sir Johnston offers to his confrères of the stage. He must have had enemies, but he is careful to avoid wounding them and those whom he has liked have their names and their deeds lauded in A Player Under Three Reigns.

Some points of artistic or ethical interest are discussed comprehensively—one, probably the most important, is the author’s contention regarding the appropriateness of actor-managers. He was one for years, not from choice, but from comparative necessity and his opinion is not only valuable, but based on experience.

Humour, wit, lightness, grace and knowledge of facts form a good foundation upon which to build an autobiography; these qualities fell to Sir Forbes-Robertson’s share, and in so far as actor-biographers are concerned they seem to be the lion’s share.

Footlights and Spotlights is a diverting autobiography which has much interest, reveals frankness and humour, and serves the reputation of Otis Skinner, but it will not enhance it. Its author is one of the intellectuals of the American stage and he could have written a better book. However, he is very much alive in its pages and so are the great number of people he has met and liked or disliked. His career has not been a series of successes, and he makes no attempt to conceal it. Apparently he took his troubles with optimism and cheer and he has woven these qualities into his narrative, which unrolls itself as a panorama of the stage-life of the past fifty years. A refreshing feature of the book is the author’s appreciation and praise of others. He is generous, often magnanimous, always charitable. He has not liked every one, and those he has disliked get their deserts in moderation.

Otis Skinner’s life has been a full and varied one, and it is a delightful journey to take with him through countries and behind footlights, travelling and acting, and praying with him that the new show may be a big success.

Mr. Skinner’s book is another of those which suggests there is a great deal to be said in favour of writers who delay publication of their autobiographies until after their death. Undoubtedly all autobiographies would gain in quality if their authors devoted some of the years of their lives, given to preparation of what James Barrie calls “the greatest adventure of life,” to shaping and perfecting the document. They would gain in objectivity if they waited until the fading of their star; they would gain in charm and in honesty if their pens were not guided by fear of the impression they will make and how it will affect their career; and meanwhile they may weave into the work, at leisure, the interesting information that those who make history, literature or art should transmit to posterity, and that so often needs the shadows of death to veil and envelop it.

Recently there has appeared in France a book entitled Plutarch Lied. I have no doubt he did, like all mankind save George Washington, but he was truthful when he said that the man who writes his life embraces the opportunity to celebrate certain moral qualities. The quality that George M. Cohan celebrates in himself is courage. He also prides himself on his industry. He was long of courage from his birth, or at least he was before he drained the tank so lavishly. Mr. Cohan is less engaging when he tells how he achieved his success, than when he is actually achieving it on the stage. He uses the personal pronoun, which Pascal said was hateful, more frequently than any author I recall, save Doctor Rainsford in his Story of a Varied Life. Twenty Years on Broadway reads like the inventory of a shop; so many pounds of tea, so many ounces of bromide, so many packages of ginger. Nothing is said of their origin, their prices or their uses. The possessor owns them, it is his business how he got them, what they cost him in money and effort and what he is going to do with them.

Any one seeking enlightenment about personality, its perfections or defects should not go to autobiographies of actors: “I guess I am a ham, all right” said Mr. Cohan to himself after he had been mildly echoed by some of his fellow Thespians. I don’t know exactly what a “ham” is but if he is one, he is an amusing one on the stage. In the past twenty years he has written, signed and produced thirty-one plays of his own. It is regrettable that he did not get some one else to tell how he did it.

What Mr. Cohan’s book lacks more than anything else is the revelation of an ideal of life—an ideal other than the ambition to “put Broadway in his pocket.” It may be said in his defence that he was not at a school where such ideals form part of the daily and hourly preoccupations, and that his childhood was spent in an atmosphere not conducive to taking thought of one’s fellow-man’s spiritual needs and welfare. But there is a code of ethics which is particularly that of theatre-people and which is as altruistic in its conception as the Golden Rule; Mr. Cohan may conform his conduct to it, but one would not surmise it from reading his book. I admit he is a dramatist who has set a new style, a popular songwriter with a large following, a clever comedian, a resourceful theatrical technician, and that he knows a lot about the emotional wants of his fellow-citizens; but I am equally sure he knows little about himself, and what he knows he does not know how to tell.

A spiritual biography by one who prefers to withhold his name has recently been published under the title Letters of an Unsuccessful Actor. Although it is replete with shrewd observations, timely comment, and evidence of sound thinking and wide reading, R. M. S., to whom the letters were addressed and who is responsible for their publication, should have interpolated the word “self-satisfied” between the last two words of the title.

There are fifty-six letters, and in one or another of them most of the famous players of the last thirty years are discussed. It would seem to be quite fitting that the first letter is in praise of R. M. S. and the last an attempt to answer the question: Is acting merely interpretative? From them both, and from the others, a comprehensive idea may be gained of the man who wrote them and why he was a failure in his profession. It is likely he would not admit he was a failure. “Unsuccessful” probably means that he did not gain the position his talent deserved, nor recognition similar to that accorded Lawrence Barrett, Henry Irving, Dion Boucicault, Beerbohm Tree, John Hare, Charles Hawtrey and scores of others who reached the top during his lifetime. Self-consciousness undoubtedly was his stumbling block, and over-readiness to sit in judgment with a predilection for the adverse aided it. Possibly he was too original to be imitative; too immobilised by ideas to be plastic and malleable; too assertive to be taught and schooled. That is the impression one gets from reading this unusually interesting gossipy book which should appeal to all actors, divert many theatre-goers, and instruct some historians of the stage.

The writer is a man of opinions, most of them positive and difficult to dislodge, but the reader should keep in mind that they were written for a sympathetic, indulgent eye. This will suggest to him that many of the judgments may be discounted. “The theatre of the early nineties was dull as ditch-water.” That may be, but it was as sparkling and bright as a noisy brook compared with the theatre to-day. “The ideal training for an actor is no longer possible to obtain.” Was it possible ever to obtain? Certainly not since the days of Hellenic supremacy. “Garrick undoubtedly was a man of culture and accomplishment, a master of the social art and full of parlour tricks. His anecdotes, his imitations, his studies of various types of bumpkinhood were cameos of characterisation. As a mimic he was supreme, but he was a charlatan and he mutilated Shakespeare.” Posterity is even more tenacious of her opinions than is the Unsuccessful Actor, and they are better founded.

His pronouncements are not by any means all drastic and destructive. Many are mild, sensible and philosophic. “The greatest artist is he who obtains greatness in his portrayal of the greatest conceptions” is not original but it is felicitously expressed. Those who bemoan the decline of manners and morals will be likely to sympathise with him when he says: “With me manners were ever more important than morals.” I fancy all members of his profession will agree. “It is when immorality flaunts its bad manners that I won’t tolerate it.” Such intolerance would be becoming to nearly every one, and no one will dissent from his statement that “a good play is one in which a credible, an interesting story is unfolded by means of living characters, psychologically developed by incident.” If it were either credible or interesting most of us would vote it good!

The author occasionally indulges in prophecies and some of them have already come true. In 1918 he wrote: “Once let the Germans get the Allies talking around a table, during an armistice and they, not we, will have won this War, and within a few years will start preparing for the next.”

He has something interesting to say about dramatic criticism, about democracy, about Lloyd George and about love. It is one of the most interesting books to pick up and read for a few minutes, that has emanated from the stage in a long time.

Weber and Fields is not to be judged by biographic standards. It is not a biography at all. It is a torrid narrative of the triumph of two Jewish boys who, unaided by education, training or influence, went from a cellar in East Broadway to their own theatre on Broadway and who furnished during ten years wholesome amusement to more people of this city and country than any two men of their time, not even excepting William Jennings Bryan and Rev. John Roach Straton. No one could reduce to writing the genius of Weber and Fields. It defies verbal characterisation but Mr. Isman makes an excellent attempt. That he does not quite succeed in conveying how side-splitting were their conversations and antics, is not his fault. But he has succeeded in giving some good pictures of the time, and some excellent likenesses of many who were associated with the two comedians: of De Wolf Hopper as Hoffman Barr; of Lillian Russell as the Wealthy Widow, and of David Warfield as the Talking Doll. No one who knew Peter Dailey will fail to approve this thumb-sketch of him:

Things have changed since the heyday of their success! When thugs want your money in New York, nowadays, they knock you down and take it; or if it is jewellery they fancy, they enter your house or shop and blackjack you if you seek to stay their quest. There was more finesse in the good old days. The man who guessed your weight—“No charge if I fail”—spoke in a code intelligible only to his accomplices. As he ran his hands over a candidate he talked, seemingly to no purpose, but his “I think your weight is,” translated, meant, “His money is in his right trousers pocket.” “I guess your weight to be” located the victim’s purse in the hip pocket, and “I say your weight is” the inside coat pocket.

If Chicago were articulate she would probably deny that she now harbours hostelries such as Joe Weber and Lew Fields were obliged to patronise.

The sun of Weber and Fields stayed in its zenith about five years. Then John Stromberg, their musical genius, died, and it set rapidly; and in the twilight, Hopper, Collier, Bernard, Mitchell and his wife, Bessie Clayton, strayed. Innocent slaughtering of the English language began to jar the ears of those who slaughtered it themselves; the quality of the Metropolis’ population changed rapidly; theatres began to spring up like mushrooms after a rain and music-halls made way for Follies. Numbered were the days of the Music Hall, which reserved the character of the Daudet heroine, and rechristened her Sapolio in token of her having consecrated her life to the task of making Paris a spotless town morally—the old Music Hall, where Dailey was Jean Gaussin, unwilling victim of Sapolio’s high moral purpose; Warfield, Uncle Cæsaire who ate moth balls to conceal his alcoholic breath; Fields, a comedy servant girl who, ordered to serve the capon en casserole, cooked it in castor oil; Joseph, Fanny Le Grand’s perfect little gentleman of a child, became in Weber’s hands, a kicking, brawling, tobacco-chewing brat; Harry Morey, now a Hollywood hero, a concierge with an Irish brogue.

And such dialogue! Foolish, oh, yes, but of such is the kingdom of real laughter.

A precious book for a melancholy mood, for an hour of convalescence, or for ten minutes of waiting while your wife makes obeisance to her mirror.