Grit, Self-Assurance, and Impudence
Served Author-Playwright Faithfully
in Long Up-Hill Struggle.
"Although I began as an usher, it was failure to do myself credit in the
first part that I ever acted that determined me to take up the stage as a
career."
This bit of personal history was whispered to me by Edgar Selwyn, the
never-to-be-forgotten _Tony_ of "Arizona," who is now the head of the
prosperous play-broking firm of Selwyn & Co., the author of "It's All Your
Fault," and two new farces to be brought out by George Cohan.
I sought him out in his offices, the other day, to obtain from his own
lips for THE SCRAP BOOK the story of his start, and it certainly proved to
be one full of incident and bristling with disappointments. I will give it
here in his own words, prefacing the narrative with the remark that Mr.
Selwyn is dark and good-looking, with the white teeth and swarthy skin
that instantly suggest him for such roles as _Tony_ and _Jose_, whose
"Pretty Sister," a few years since, was Maude Adams.
"I was born in California, but I always had an idea of getting to the city
where the money was--New York. During the World's Fair I had a job in a
store in Chicago, and afterward managed to get to New York, where I landed
with scarcely a cent in my clothes. Then I started in to tramp the streets
in search of a position. I went into store after store on a block, not
picking out the most likely places, but taking them all in. You see, my
need was desperate, and I wasn't taking any chances.
How a Job Was Captured.
"Well, one Saturday I went into a men's furnishing store on Fulton Street.
There wasn't anything doing there, they told me. But as I was going out a
fellow was bringing in some fresh stock, carrying a high-piled heap of
collar-boxes. He over-balanced them, and over they went on the sidewalk.
It was raining, and I made a quick dash and picked up the lot, carrying
them back into the store.
"Of course, the proprietor couldn't very well ignore this, and as I had
put in a very earnest plea for a job he now came forward and said that he
would give me two dollars if I cared to stay and help them through that
busy Saturday. On Monday morning I reported for duty again. The proprietor
wasn't there when I arrived, and his brother asked me if I had been
regularly engaged.
"'I think so, sir,' I said shamelessly.
"When the boss turned up, he looked at me in amazement.
"'I didn't hire you regularly,' he said.
"'But I need the job,' I told him.
"He looked at me hard for a minute, then he said: 'See here, Selwyn, I'll
tell you what I'll do. I'll give you five per cent on all the goods you
sell to-day.'
An Energetic Salesman.
"Well, I didn't need any more than that. I started in to work, and any man
who came in that store to buy a collar was lucky if he escaped from my
clutches without leaving a dollar or two behind him for several other
articles--shirts, neckties, any old thing. Whether he needed them or not
was all one to me, so long as I got my five per cent. When the day was
over, the proprietor found he owed me three dollars and eighty-five cents.
"Accordingly, he proceeded to make a new deal.
"'I engage you,' he said, 'at eight dollars a week.'
"He raised me later to ten dollars, and then to twelve. At length the firm
failed; but meantime I was getting into the theatrical atmosphere. That
came about in this way:
"Among the chaps I met where I boarded was one who knew somebody who knew
somebody else who was connected with the Herald Square Theater, which was
about to be opened. I needed the money, so I decided to put in a plea for
the job of usher in the new house. I got it, and used to linger after the
show to watch any rehearsals that might be put on.
"Then I took to imitating the actors for the benefit of my comrades on the
usher staff--and sometimes to the enjoyment of those higher up in the
government of the theater. I remember that once while Mansfield was
playing in the house I was doing a travesty on him for the edification of
the Slocum brothers, his managers at the time, when the mighty Richard
himself walked into the room and discovered me. What he said I don't
remember now, but it went home at the time all right, and it's a wonder I
didn't go there too.
"After Mansfield, 'Rob Roy,' the comic opera, held the boards at the
Herald Square for quite a time. Joe Herbert, one of the comedians, left
the cast, and Dave Warfield was picked to succeed him. But he couldn't
seem to remember the lines and business of the part. I was pat on it from
seeing the show every night from the front, so I remember one time after
the performance Warfield got me to coach him in a sort of parlor off to
the left of the auditorium.
A Series of Discouragements.
"Naturally, my imitations of other people suggested to some of the boys
that I might be able to act myself, and one fellow I had met got up a
performance in a town on Long Island. Well, I went on, and when I came off
they shipped me back to New York as the worst actor they had ever
seen--and it was a sort of amateur show at that. This touched my pride and
fired my determination, so when I lost my job as usher by 'grafting' on
seats, I made up my mind that I would be a regular actor and show my
critics that they had been mistaken.
"But how to get a chance? That was the mighty question. In this emergency
I turned to Ben Roeder, manager for David Belasco, whom I had met when
'The Heart of Maryland' was at the Herald Square. I went up to the
offices, which were then in Carnegie Hall, told Mr. Roeder that I was out
of a job and must get something as quickly as possible.
"After thinking a bit, he said that the only company not wholly filled, of
which he knew, was that being gathered for William Gillette in 'Secret
Service.' He gave me a card of introduction to the stage manager, and I
hustled down to the Garrick Theater.
"'Nothing doing,' I was told. Everything was filled, even to the extra
men.
How Selwyn Held Up Gillette.
"Then what do you think I did? I was desperate, you see. The fifty cents a
performance I had been getting at the Herald Square as usher did not
enable me to pile up a very big sum against a rainy day such as had now
overtaken me. I determined to see Mr. Gillette himself. I found out that
he was staying at the Plaza Hotel. I went up there, wrote on a card,
'Edgar Selwyn. Important,' and sent it up to him.
"Pretty soon the message came down that he would see me.
"'Well,' he said, when I appeared, 'what do you want?'
"'I want a job,' I answered.
"He was so taken aback at this that he hardly knew what to say for a
minute. Then he told me that everything in the company was taken.
"'Oh, I don't want a regular part,' I explained. 'Just a chance to go on
and work my way up.'
"'Oh, an extra man,' he said. 'I haven't anything to do with engaging
those. You will have to see my stage manager about that.'
"I kept mum as an oyster about having already had an interview with that
gentleman, and never turned a hair while Mr. Gillette took out his card
and wrote on it an introduction to this individual for me. With this I
went back to the Garrick, and handed it in with a lordly air; the stage
manager thought it meant an order from Gillette to put me on, and he
forthwith proceeded to dismiss some poor duffer he had already engaged,
and put me on in his place at eight dollars a week.
Selwyn's Varied Make-Ups.
"Of course I had nothing to say, for I merely marched on as one of the
soldiers. I used to amuse myself, though, by making up differently each
night, sometimes as an old man, till I got a calling down for exceeding
the age limit in the army. After a while I was made assistant stage
manager, which meant that I had to ring up the curtain and look after the
stage properties; but all the same my salary stuck at that little eight
dollars a week. I thought I deserved more, but I didn't like to ask for
it.
"One night I heard Gillette say to somebody that he wished Miss Busby and
Odette Tyler, the two leading women in the cast, wouldn't delay him by
talking to him as he came off. He was always in a hurry to get to his
dressing-room to work on some plot of a play he had in hand.
"'Send somebody to me with a request that I am wanted,' he added.
"I made a mental note of the thing, and the next time I saw the ladies
halt Gillette in the wings I made a bolt for him and blurted out: 'Oh, Mr.
Gillette, I want to see you about something very particularly.'
"'Well, what is it?' he demanded when I had drawn him off to one side. He
appeared to have forgotten all about his request of the stage manager, and
I was up against it for a second. What should I tell him? Suddenly I had
an inspiration.
"'Mr. Gillette,' I said very soberly, 'don't you think I am getting too
little money?'
"'Well, I don't know,' he replied, when he recovered his breath.
"But the next pay-day I received a raise of four dollars.
The Turning of the Long Lane.
"The season approached its end, and then came the announcement that the
whole company was to go to London. I went about on air for a while, just
before the keenest disappointment of my life. One night I was told that it
had been discovered that there was one too many in the party, and I was
_it_. I was to be left behind.
"Well, of course I couldn't help myself any by kicking. I just had to grin
and bear it, and hustle for another job. But this was mighty hard to find
at that time of the year. I hunted the papers for ads of the summer snaps.
Finally I landed on one from Louisville, which stated that the Cummings
stock company wanted a juvenile man. I sat down and wrote to them at once,
enclosing my picture and putting my salary at twenty-five dollars per
week. And I had an answer telling me to come on.
"You ought to have seen that manager's face when he saw me! But he let me
go on. I couldn't be discharged, because they weren't making enough to pay
salaries. We finally went to Washington, by some hook or crook, where we
didn't do any better. I was only getting my board and lodging, but after
we shifted to Rochester we struck it big, and the manager nearly paralyzed
me one day by paying me eight weeks' salary in advance. He also put on my
first play--a one-act affair, 'A Night in Havana.'
Stranded in Chicago.
"From the Cummings stock company I went with Sothern in 'The King's
Musketeer.' I didn't care for the company, and began writing more plays. I
got a man named Isham interested in my 'Rough Rider Romance,' and left the
company to go to Chicago, where it was to be put on. I had just five
dollars in my pocket when I arrived, to be greeted by the telegram: 'Isham
committed to insane asylum.'
"There I was, stranded in the Windy City, with a fiver. I went to my
friend, Edwin Arden.
"'What shall I do, Ed?' I said.
"'I'll lend you twenty-five to get back to New York on,' he replied.
"I took the money, calling blessings down on his head. 'Arizona' was
playing in Chicago at the time, and passing the theater that evening I
handed in my card at the box-office, and they passed me in. Vincent
Serrano was _Tony_, and as I watched him I told myself that that was the
part for me. I found out that Kirk La Shelle, the manager of the show, was
in New York, and I was for starting East by the first train to see him;
but for some reason I didn't, and I found out later that the train was
wrecked.
"But there was more luck than that in my delayed departure, for when I
finally walked into La Shelle's office in the Knickerbocker Theater
Building, and said abruptly, 'I want to play _Tony_ in "Arizona,"' he
looked up with a funny smile on his face, and waved a telegram toward me.
"'That's queer,' he said. 'This message has only this instant arrived from
my Chicago manager: 'Serrano wants more money. What shall I do?'
Striking the Iron While It Was Hot.
"You see, if I had turned up earlier he would simply have told me that he
had a man for _Tony_, and there was nothing doing. As it was, he looked at
me, and then asked:
"'Are you a Spaniard?'
"'No,' I answered, 'I am a Jew.'
"'Can you sing?' he went on.
"'Oh, yes,' I replied easily.
"Then he told me that Gus Thomas, the author of the play, had a big finger
in picking out the people for it, and that I would have to see him.
"'Where is he?' I inquired.
"'In New Rochelle.'
"I left Mr. La Shelle and went straight down to the telegraph office in
the same building, and wrote out this message to Augustus Thomas:
"'Be at office ten-thirty to-morrow. Important.'
"And I signed it boldly, 'Kirke La Shelle.'
"Well, the next day, a few minutes after ten-thirty, I turned up at the La
Shelle offices, and there, sure enough, was Gus Thomas, with one of his
boys in tow. I was introduced to him, he looked me over, and finally he
and La Shelle agreed between them that if I was willing to go out to
Chicago at my own risk and give a performance of _Tony_, they would
promise to engage me for the part if I made good in it.
"'That's fair, Selwyn, I am sure,' added Mr. La Shelle.
"'Ye-e-s,' I answered hesitatingly. One of my hands was in my pocket; then
I drew it out and deposited about twenty-three cents in silver on the
desk.
"'That,' I announced, 'is my sole cash capital, gentlemen.'
"They saw the point and finally arranged to give me transportation to
Chicago, declaring that it would do no good for me to give a reading of
the part there in the office, which I wanted to do.
A Staggering Blow.
"I hurried back to Chicago by the first train, with a letter of
introduction to Mr. Hammond, resident manager there. Rushing into the
lobby of the Grand Opera House, I plumped the letter in front of him,
breathlessly asking him when I could have my try-out.
"'But, my dear Mr. Selwyn,' was his reply, 'you have come too late. I am
sorry to say that I have just engaged Mr. Perry for the part.'
"This was the last straw. I had gone through so much that this rebuff,
just when my hopes were at their highest, was more than I could stand.
Grown man that I was, then and there I began to cry, and hardly knowing
where to go, and certainly not caring, I turned and went back into the
lobby again, only to run up against Mr. Thomas, who must have come to
Chicago by another road.
"'Why, my boy,' he said, after one look at me, 'what is the matter?'
"I seized him as a drowning man would clutch at a straw, and between my
sobs I told him the dreadful truth. He settled matters, fixed it up with
Perry, I had my trial, made good, and played _Tony_ for three years. And
seven years from the time I was getting eight dollars a week with Gillette
in 'Secret Service' he was paying me one hundred and fifty to play a part
in 'Sherlock Holmes.'
"I mustn't forget to add that Bleiman, who brought out my 'Rough Rider's
Romance,' was the same man who dismissed me as an usher at the Herald
Square."