the Beefsteak Club. I look back with pleasure upon those improvised
little suppers Irving used to bestow upon the visiting Americans and
his fellow players upon the stage of the Lyceum after the evening
performance. I have never seen such unostentatious, yet lavish, display
as he exercised in those delightful hospitalities. They extended far
into the night and many times the sun was up as he, Toole and I made
the rounds of the Covent Garden Market where the butchers and fruit
venders were as friendly disposed towards him as were the guests of the
previous evening.
I never knew when Irving slept.
The last time we met was in his dressing-room at the Broadway Theatre,
New York. I had just produced "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at a great
outlay--a new experience for me at the time--investing a fortune on the
production before receiving the verdict of the capricious public. It
was an old story with Irving. As I shook hands with him he said, "Ah!
Goodwin, my boy, I see you are indulging in a little Monte Carlo around
the corner." I answered, "Yes, Sir Henry, I have a big bet down on the
single 0." "Well," said he, "this business is a fascinating gamble no
matter where the little ivory ball may land."
The little ivory ball proved in the end very disappointing to this
splendid player who did so much to dignify our art. For when the ball
fell into the single "0" Sir Henry's bet was on the black, No. 23. Had
he lived he would have found it impossible to indulge again in the
dissipation of costly productions.
[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING
_An extraordinary man_]
_Chapter VI_
"BARRY" AND JEFFERSON
"The world delights in sunny people."
I recall many.
Maurice Barrymore, actor, playwright, raconteur, gentleman, all-around
athlete and man of the world, was the most effulgent man whom I have
ever met. A brain that scintillated sparks of wit that Charles Lamb or
Byron might envy, a tongue capable of lashing into obscurity any one
who dared enter into verbal conflict with him (yet always merciful to
his adversary), with the wit of Douglas Jerrold without the cynicism,
the courage of a lion, the gentleness of a saint--there you have but
a faint conception of the qualities of this child of Bohemia. I knew
him for twenty-five years and in all the many hours that we spent
together I never saw him out of temper, never heard him utter one
unkind expression nor speak a cruel word. Even under the most trying
conditions he seldom permitted himself to use his rapier. And his
muscle and brawn were always subordinates, servants, never masters.
Fate hardly played fair with Barry. Perhaps the fickle jade was fearful
to bestow her best upon one whom the gods had created so powerfully
brilliant. She allowed his genius to run purposelessly upon the sands
of time until, jealous of the admiration which he won from all, she
robbed him of his chief asset and hurled his fine mind from the cliffs
of reason.
I shall not dwell upon the passing away of this remarkable man--it is
too terrible to recall--but I shall give the world a few of his quips
and jibes, showing his brilliant wit.
He gave the world much--a powerful play, "Nadjesda," sunshine and
happiness and a legacy of three brilliant children, whom I knew as
Barry's babies, whom I love for their own and their father's and
mother's sakes--
Ethel, John and Lionel--I greet you all!
Barry came into the Lambs Club one evening evidently much distressed.
Asked the reason, he answered "I am terribly annoyed and excessively
angry at the brutal treatment of Mrs. Bernard Beere by the press of New
York."
Barry was the leading man of Mrs. Beere's organization, the recipient
of three hundred dollars a week and, in the foreshadowing of that
lady's failure in a rather _risqué_ play, "As in a Looking Glass," felt
his engagement trembling in the balance.
"Brutal!" quoth the loquacious and severe Lackaye. "It was thoroughly
deserved! I was there and I never saw such an immoral play in my life
before a civilized community!"
"Granted," replied Barrymore, "but why censure the lady personally, a
foreigner as well? We can at least be courteous. Only the offensive
theme of the play was dwelt on; no attention was paid to her finesse
and subtle art. That was all lost, due to the huge playhouse in which
we were forced to appear. Hammerstein's was never intended to house
acting that requires such delicate treatment; it should be devoted to
opera, or the circus. Nothing ever gets beyond the third of fourth row."
"Which is most fortunate," replied Lackaye. "You punish the musicians,
and save the remaining rows, the suffering endured by those closer to
the actors. I am no prude, but I felt the blush of shame mounting to
my cheeks as the terrible and unwholesome dialogue came over in chunks."
"My boy," said Barrymore, "you don't comprehend the theme of that play.
Dialogue amounts to nothing when problems are to be solved. Maybe
the language suffered in the adaption but that does not palliate the
offense perpetrated upon the lady who was endeavoring to perform a duty
and teach a lesson by her consummate art."
"You call that art," asked Lackaye, "a wanton, expounding her amorous
successes? What edification can that give? I tell you, Barrymore,
you may be all right in your argument but the performance was simply
nauseating, nasty and suggestive. The whole thing reeked with filth!"
"I know," said Barrymore, quickly but quietly, "but you fail to
realize, my dear Lackaye, that Hammerstein's is a theatre where one may
be obscene and not heard."
Barry was chided by one of his friends for not going to see Sothern's
"Hamlet" which he was playing for the first time at the Garden Theatre
with mediocre success.
"Why don't you go and witness a performance?" asked a friend. "Go and
sit out only one act."
Barrymore replied, "My boy, I never encourage vice."
Dear old Frank Mayo who was passionately fond of argument, after
exchanging the usual greetings with Barrymore one afternoon, soon
became engaged in a very heated controversy. Mayo would project an idea
and before Barrymore could get breath enough to answer would spring
another. Mayo had put several vital questions to Barry to his own
entire satisfaction and answered them with equal satisfaction before
Barry had a chance even to offer a reply.
"My dear Barry," said Mayo; "it is a pleasure indeed to meet a man of
your calibre--to interchange thoughts and ideas with one so brilliantly
gifted as yourself."
"How do you know anything about my mental capacity?" asked Barry. "I
never get any further with you than 'Yes, but'!"
Barry went home late, or rather early, one Sunday morning after a long
session at the club. He met his wife on the stoop of their dwelling.
She evidently was on her way to church. As Barry said afterwards, "She
was made up for the part perfectly and had a prompt book with her."
She simply bowed haughtily and was about to pass on when he apologized
for being away all night, finishing with, "Oh, by the way, Georgie,
dear, I was with Geoff Hawley last evening." "Indeed," said his wife,
"I thought Hawley was a man!" This was a body blow to Barry but he
took his punishment smilingly and as she disappeared down the steps
shouted after her, "Where are you bound for, dearie?" To which, without
turning, she replied, "I'm going to mass; you can go to ----!"
"Summer isn't as bad as it is painted," remarked Barrymore as he
calmly contemplated a landscape picture, painted by Joseph Jefferson,
hanging on the walls of the Lambs Club. This criticism came from one
who knew whereof he spoke concerning the climatic conditions of the
Rialto during the hot months when the thespian is prone to talk about
the summer's adversity. Barrymore was equally conversant with the
value of paintings. His remark fell like a bomb among the sycophants
who were ever ready to praise even a chromo were it oiled over by the
illustrious player they were pleased to call "The Dean of the Drama."
The adulation paid to Jefferson's landscape was but a reflex of the
homage paid to this player by all those not "in the know."
Dear old Joseph Jefferson was loved by all those who came under his
magnetic influence. A delightful, scintillating, keen, old man,
possessed of rare technique, exquisite repose and the touch of a master
(but always guarded as to the manner of touch!). He touched an effect
but never assaulted it, as Mansfield did. Conscious of his limitations
he never ventured upon dangerous ice and always left his auditors
wishing that he might have been endowed with a more venturesome spirit.
He always wisely refrained from pioneering upon original ground, quite
content to pasture in the Sheridan and Boucicault downs.
For four weeks I studied this man when I appeared some years ago in
an "all star" cast of "The Rivals." My associates were Julia Marlowe,
William H. Crane, the Holland boys, Francis Wilson, Fanny Rice and Mrs.
John Drew.
(What a performance Mrs. Drew gave! She put the play in her gown every
night and took it home with her and the management told me that her
salary for the tour was less than that paid to Francis Wilson! My
weekly stipend was far in excess of hers and every night after viewing
her performance I was really ashamed to take the money.)
During that artistic trip (five dollars a seat makes anything artistic)
I watched Mr. Jefferson day and night. He was most kind to me and
attentive (for reasons which he afterwards explained).
Some one had told him that I associated with his sons a great deal;
consequently I was not a desirable person to have in any first class
organization! He had given up all hope regarding his sons so he thought
that he would have a try at my redemption. My conduct was so exemplary,
however, that the third week he apologized to me and earnestly begged
that during the rest of the tour I kindly look after him. As Willie,
Joe and Tom were really wielding a bad influence over the artistic
congregation I took the job and firmly believe that I improved his
morals to a great extent. (I tried to reform Wilson, too, but met with
failure!).
I watched this charming man for days and parts of some nights. I never
missed any of his scenes and during the performance when not concerned
in the play I was always watching him from the entrance. I absorbed
his methods in his interpretation of Bob Acres and while he was not my
ideal I think that his interpretation was really better than the author
intended. I used to shriek with laughter listening to his curtain
speeches or, rather, his curtain speech. Like his performance it never
varied--always the same, never a change, standing in the same position,
no altering of intonation or gesture, everything given by rote, but
always with fine effect.
[Illustration: JOSEPH JEFFERSON
_I firmly believe I improved his morals_]
After those performances, I would walk to the private car, go over "The
Rivals" as I had seen it performed and wonder if any of us, with the
exception of Mrs. Drew, were anything like the characters of Sheridan's
brain. I became firmly convinced that one was not--myself. Were the
others? Was he, "The Dean," anything like what the author intended Bob
Acres to be? Then I would ponder over the night speech of the dear
old gentleman, remembering the homage that he paid to the author, his
reference to the artistic rendering that they were giving his work, the
extreme pleasure it afforded him and his comrades to have the privilege
of acting such a comedy as this. Then with a five-dollar-trembling
voice he would bewail the fact that Sheridan was not permitted to view
this wonderful interpretation of his work. Choking with sobs that
hardly gave his words utterance, he would refer to past performances by
lamented actors and thank the audience for its attention. Concluding
with a semi-congratulatory reference to its being permitted to view
this wonderfully artistic performance, the benign old gentleman would
make his bow, deftly wiping away a tear, amid the plaudits of the
throng.
After listening to all this, I became convinced that we were artistic.
At least my associates were. (I was on to myself from the first night.)
They must have been terribly artistic. The sprint from the theatre to
the private car, participated in by Joseph Brooks, the Jefferson boys,
and the dear old gentleman (with Charles Jefferson in the lead, with
the nightly receipts), convinced me that they were! They would arrive
at the car--panting--and falling into their seats prepare to divide the
artistic spoils, "The Dean" taking fifty per cent. As I viewed this
"Chimes of Normandy" episode my artistic side went to the winds and I
knew that we were as commercial as Cohan and Harris are now.
Then I began, by comparison, to study this man, and wonder what he
had accomplished for the drama. Had he built a playhouse, like the
man of his hour and time, Edwin Booth? Had he produced any original
plays, made any production, or even leased a theatre, like Mansfield,
or Sothern, Irving, or Possart? Had he during the last decade created
any characters? An echo answered "No!" Then what had he done from
the time of his association with Laura Keene (at which time he was
considered only a fair actor as compared with Charles Burke, John E.
Owens, William E. Burton and William Blake) to the time of his becoming
conspicuous in the eyes of the American public?
Briefly, he returned from London after a successful engagement, having
previously occupied his time for three years in Australia producing
successfully American plays; then launched forth in a revised edition
of "Rip Van Winkle," a play previously performed with success by his
half brother, Charles Burke. For thirty years or more he presented Rip
to the dear American public with intermittent changes to "The Rivals,"
"Caleb Plummer," Dr. Pangloss in "The Heir at Law" and "Lend me Five
Shillings." The revival of these latter plays met with little pecuniary
success unless he added names to the cast, featuring conspicuously
such artists as William Florence or Mrs. John Drew. After a brief tour
he would again drift back to dear old Rip and dear old scenery with
some of the dear old gentleman's dear old family dominating the cast.
Thus he went on for years, and posterity will say that he was "a great
actor," "beloved by all."
Yet he lived among the great producers of his era--without producing!
Irving, who died almost penniless and who invested thousands of dollars
in an earnest endeavor to uphold the drama, Lawrence Barrett and dear
Edwin Booth, who lost a million in erecting a temple to Art only to see
his name chiseled out by a dry goods establishment--these were truly
great men.
I concede that Joseph Jefferson was "a great actor" as Rip--a most
benign person, a charming companion. For this man I have the most
profound respect; for what he did for the stage I have not. His
performance of "Rip Van Winkle" was perhaps a very great one (I never
saw Charles Burke). As for Bob Acres, I can only quote a really great
actor, William Warren--"Jefferson played Bob in 'The Rivals' with
Sheridan twenty miles away."
I have seen two men who are alive to-day play Sir Lucius O'Trigger in
"The Joseph Jefferson Version of 'The Rivals'" and I have played it.
Which leaves me to imagine that all those who made a hit in the part
are dead!
_Chapter VII_
A SUNNY SON OF SOMETIME
A sunny son of Sometime was Peter Dailey. When the Creator called him
to join the merry throng that had passed before the world lost one of
the sweetest characters that I have ever known. His memory will go
laughing down the ages.
There were no clouds when Pete pranced among the men and women of
the profession. He met you with the honest grip of a man and a smile
that only the seraphs can appreciate. Never an unkind word left the
brain that invented only sweet and wholesome sallies. The wit of a
Sheridan and a repartee that made it an impertinence to attack made him
impervious to all retort. As gentle as a fawn, as brave as a warrior,
Pete Dailey was a man among men.
During a friendship of over twenty-five years I never heard him utter a
profane word or use an obscene expression. No adjective was necessary
to enhance a story of his, no preface to foretell the trend of his
wit--which was as quick as the flight of a rifle ball.
When he was on tour with his own company some years ago he was chided
for his familiarity with his company by a German comedian, Al Wilson.
Wilson told him that he was losing his dignity by even associating with
the members of his organization, following this by saying, "Why, Pete,
I do not even speak to my company!" Pete replied, "Well, if I had a
company like yours, I would not speak to them either."
It was useless for any author to give Pete lines to speak, his
interpretations were so much better than any lines the author could
invent. I well remember one of the first nights at Weber and Field's
Music Hall, New York. He had a scene with Charles Bigelow who had
apparently given much thought and study to his part. Bigelow was a
bald-headed, blatant, obvious comedian who was principally engaged to
make children laugh or frighten them to death. They started in on the
scene and after a few words of the text Dailey threw his lines to the
winds and in a few moments had Bigelow tied into knots. Bigelow stood
there, hopelessly fuzzled, while the audience yelled with delight at
his discomfiture. Finally, enraged and mortified, the perspiration
pouring off him, he removed his hat to mop his brow. Quick as a flash
Pete said, "Put your hat on; you're naked!" This was too much for
Bigelow and he rushed off the stage.
I could fill pages with a recital of this man's many gifts, his goodly
deeds. Would there were more Pete Daileys! The world would be better,
humanity more gentle, hypocrisy unknown; fewer tears would be shed and
the journey through life made lighter.
_Chapter VIII_
CHARLES HOYT
During the early '80's a young man jumped into the theatrical arena,
having previously graduated from the editorial rooms of the Boston
"Post" where he had achieved some degree of success as a comic writer
and dramatic critic. He was a man of considerable education with an
absorbing insight into character. In this respect he was like the
present George Cohan. But he had more refinement than Cohan and was
more of a caricaturist than he. He had little charm but possessed a
brand of cynical humor which appealed to men, seldom to women. All his
characters were well defined. For about fifteen years his plays were
received with much favor and had he lived I have no doubt that he would
have proved a dangerous rival to the clever Cohan. His name was Charles
Hoyt.
His financial partner, Charles Thomas, was my seat mate at the Little
Blue Maine Academy and it was through him that I became acquainted with
the versatile Hoyt. For whatever charm poor Hoyt lacked Charles Thomas
made amends as he was one of the handsomest and most fascinating of
men. He died very young. That cruel censor Death was the master that
beckoned him to Phoenix, Arizona, where he passed away.
Hoyt was noted for his pungent and satirical humor. When in his cups he
was most poignant and insulting, never sparing even his best friends.
One night in a _café_ adjoining the Bijou Theatre he was very rude to
me. I realized his condition and was silent, but the first time I met
him sober I demanded an apology, which he gave, but not with very good
grace. A few months later Bert Dasher, one of his business friends,
told me that Hoyt met him one cold, frosty night in January in front of
the Hoffman House and after vainly endeavoring to explain our quarrel
imparted the information that I had talked to him pretty roughly and he
was determined to revenge himself. Hoyt had taken lessons in the manly
art of self-defense.
"I realize that Nat is alert and dangerous," he told Bert, "so I am
going to accost him unawares, feint him with my left hand and uppercut
him on the point of the jaw." He accompanied the remark with a downward
swing from the shoulder to the knee. The force of the swinging
gesture hurled him into the middle of Broadway where he fell in a
semi-conscious state until Bert came to his rescue and took him home.
The first night of my production of "Nathan Hale" Hoyt had assured me
of his intention of being present with his wife. But when the time came
she refused to accompany him. Charley, having purchased two tickets and
not desiring to be alone, sought someone to go with him. He soon found
a friend and invited him to come along. Much to Hoyt's astonishment
his friend quietly but firmly refused the invitation. "Why not?" asked
Hoyt. His friend replied, "I don't like Goodwin." "Well," said Charley,
"you like him as an artist, don't you?" His friend replied, "No, I
don't like him, on or off the stage." "Well," said Hoyt, "come along;
you are sure to enjoy this play for they hang Nat in the last act."
"Have you any idea what the price of American beauties is?" asked a
friend of Hoyt's one day, referring to the exorbitant charges of the
florists. "I ought to" answered the witty Hoyt, "I married one."
Years after I indulged in flowery dissipation for I married a bunch and
yet there are some curious creatures who wondered why I was appearing
in vaudeville while Hoyt was playing a harp.
_Chapter IX_
SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM
Sir Charles Wyndham is a remarkable man in many ways, a delightful
actor, a splendid manager and a most sagacious business man. Of
prepossessing appearance, he is further blessed with a slight figure
which he keeps even after passing the age of seventy. He still
manages to win approval in _jeune première_ rôles in spite of a most
disagreeable, rasping voice. He is ably assisted, artistically and
managerially, by Miss Mary Moore. He has won a place on the English
stage second to none.
What a blessing to win fame on the English stage! No impertinent
references to one's age; no vulgar inferences concerning the social
position of any player! How like our own delightfully free country!
(It's so different.)
One afternoon at the Green Room Club while actors of renown and some
just budding were seated at the long table enjoying the "two and
six" dinner, Sir Charles came in. He had just finished his matinee
performance of "David Garrick" with which he was packing the Criterion
Theatre. They have a chair in the club, supposed to have been the
property of Garrick. Wyndham sank into it, seemingly overcome by his
efforts of the afternoon. (Many of the poor devils dining would have
liked to share his exhaustion.)
[Illustration: SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM
_A remarkable man_]
A very clever dramatist named Hamilton, looking up, caught sight of
him and in a quizzical tone remarked, "Wyndham, you make rather a
fetching picture, sitting in the original Garrick Chair--and, what is
most remarkable, you are absolutely playing the character!"
Wyndham nodded back a mumbling and patronizing answer, evidently
pleased with the interest that he was creating.
Hamilton studied his victim a moment and then said, "By Jove, Wyndham,
do you know, you are more and more like Garrick every day and less and
less like him every night!"
_Chapter X_
CHARLES R. THORNE, Jr.
What an extraordinary, complex creature was Charles R. Thorne, Jr.
Beginning a stage career under the management of his father, an actor
of considerable repute in the '40's, young Charlie soon developed
into a leading actor of the old school, a ranting, vigorous player,
declamatory and thoroughly devoid of repose. He gradually drifted from
California to the East and during the '60's became the leading man of
the then well known Boston Theatre Stock Company. There he remained
for several seasons supporting all the leading players then starring
throughout the United States, including such celebrated artists as
Edwin Forrest, Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, Charlotte Cushman, Lotta,
Edwin Adams and many others.
Of an extremely jovial disposition, never dissipated but fond
of company, naturally witty and an extremely courageous man, he
soon worked himself into the hearts of the Boston public. He was
not particularly versatile, but had a splendid personality and a
magnificent physique--marred only by a head too small for the quality
of intelligence such a figure demanded. However, he was a royal picture
to contemplate, particularly in romantic and Shakespearean rôles. In
these he truly suggested the "Greek god." He gave his professional work
little thought and was quite content to bask in the sunshine of the
encomiums of press and friends until Dion Boucicault discovered latent
talents which even Thorne himself did not know he possessed.