the Union Square Theatre, New York, and selected Thorne to create the
leading rôle. Taking him under his wing for a few months he succeeded
in transforming the man. Under his able tutelage Thorne, discarding his
ranting and mouthing methods, awoke the morning after the première of
"Led Astray" to find himself famous. He became founder of the modern
school of suppressed, natural acting and the most convincing actor of
the American stage.
He was not a man easily handled and had no respect for the rules and
regulations of any theatre. He was in constant difficulties with A. M.
Palmer, manager of the Union Square, but Palmer realized Thorne's value
and put up with many annoyances from him. Thorne held despotic sway,
much to the amusement of his companion players who loved him as they
loathed the management. Palmer exercised every means within his power
to humiliate Thorne, casting him for leading heavies for instance, but
Thorne's convincing methods always made the hero look ridiculous. In
the play "False Shame," in which he was cast for the villain, he took
all the sympathy from the hero and of course killed the property.
Palmer brought over the late Charles Coghlan at a salary of $1,000 a
week--Thorne's salary had never gone beyond $125!--and cast them both
to create simultaneously the leading rôle in "A Celebrated Case,"
giving Coghlan the quodus of the New York and Thorne the Pittsburgh
opening. I saw Coghlan's opening. He gave a marvelously thought-out
performance and made a tremendous hit. I saw Thorne some weeks after
and told him of my impressions.
I remarked, "Charlie, I think that Palmer has got you at last." He
observed, "Yes, I hear that that chap Coghlan is an actor. I am up the
spout as Palmer intends playing me at the Grand Opera House in two
weeks and I guess the boys will get me as that English fellow has had
the first whack at them and they will have the chance to compare us
in the same rôle." I said, "Well, I am going in front to-night and I
will tell you what I think." Before leaving his dressing-room I added,
"Charlie, if you take my advice you won't go to New York. Be ill, and
let your understudy go on." He laughed and, waving his hand, cried,
"All right, sonny boy, I may take your advice!"
I went in front and after the performance I rushed back into his
dressing-room and yelled, "For God's sake, don't get ill! Get to New
York as soon as possible!"
I had never seen such a performance! While you admired Coghlan's
technique and art, Thorne gave you no time to think of anything--he
was so real, so convincing. He drowned all judgment with the tears his
acting started. You simply sobbed your heart out.
In a few weeks Thorne went to New York and amazed the public. In a
short time Coghlan's name headed the road company and Thorne was snugly
housed again at the Union Square Theatre where he remained a Czar for
many years, until John Stetson engaged him to star in "Monte Cristo,"
a play made famous by the French actor, Charles Fechter. He opened at
Booth's Theatre to a $3,500 house. The streets were packed for blocks
by a swaying, eager multitude ready to pay homage to an actor who for
twenty years had been their idol and whose salary was never more than
$150 a week at any time.
He was very ill on the opening night--in fact he was dying on the
stage before his beloved public, but no one knew it. The fact that his
performance was most unsatisfactory gave no one an inkling of the
truth. He was driven home after the play, and never appeared again,
dying in a few weeks. Just as power was within his grasp, they rang the
curtain down and poor Thorne's soul passed into the great beyond.
All of the Thorne family were possessed of a wonderful sense of
humor. I, as I have said, knew them all--Charles, William and Edwin
and their father and mother. Many happy evenings have I passed with
this delightful family. They were truly, to quote from Dumas' "Three
Guardsmen," "One for all, and all for one!" Charles had a much keener
sense of the ridiculous than the others and he would exercise it even
in a serious scene, if for no other reason than to break up the players.
One day at the old Niblo's Garden in New York, Charlie came to play a
two weeks' starring engagement for his father who was at that time the
lessee of the theatre. I was a member of the company playing general
utility. Business was very, very bad and the advent of Charles did not
enhance the exchequer of the theatre. We were playing a Scotch drama,
"Roderick Dhu." Charles and his father had a powerful scene, ending an
act. The old gentleman spoke the tag, saying to Charlie, "If you are
King James of Scotland, I am Roderick Dhu!" Before the curtain fell
upon the line Charlie, who had bribed the prompter to delay its coming
down on the direct cue, took out a large document and said, "Yes, Mr.
Thorne, and your rent is due."
When the curtain fell the old man chased his son out of the theatre
and in a fit of passion swore he would not allow the play to continue.
Charles came back, apologized and the play proceeded.
Boucicault took him and Stuart Robson to London to play in "Led
Astray." Charlie made a great hit and poor Rob a dire failure. Robson's
failure Charlie took to heart as his love for Rob was unbounded. After
about six weeks three gentlemen, the proprietors of the Drury Lane and
Covent Garden theatres, called on Thorne and Robson at their chambers
with a proposition to Thorne for a long engagement. He listened to
their patronizing suggestions as to a consummation of the deal and,
pointing to Rob, asked, "Is my pal included in this?" When told that
their business was with him solely he cried, "Out upon ye for arrant
knaves! I'll not play at Dreary's Lane nor at Covey's Garden either!"
They thought he was mad and quickly withdrew.
[Illustration: CHARLES R. THORNE, JR.
_A royal picture to contemplate_]
_Chapter XI_
SOL SMITH RUSSELL
What a dear, delightful humbug was Sol Smith Russell. By humbug I mean
nothing disparaging for Sol was one of the sweetest natures I have ever
met. But he was a most eccentric person, a combination of good and a
tiny bit of bad, with the aspect of a preacher and the inclination
of a beau and man about town. If Sol had had the moral courage I am
sure he would have turned out a _roué_. He worshipped the beautiful,
particularly in woman, was passionately fond of gambling and loved the
cup that soothes and comforts. Yet he indulged his foibles only in
solitude. Very few knew the real man.
There was nothing vicious in his nature. He was merely alert,
artistically inclined. He was a genius in his quiet and inoffensive
dissipation. Of a frugal turn of mind, he became commercial when he
loosed his mental bridle and gave himself his head.
Tommy Boylan of Guy's Hotel, Baltimore, told me that Sol, evidently
contemplating a slight debauch, asked him in his bland way the price of
gin cocktails. Tommy replied, "Fifteen cents per." "How much a dozen?"
asked Sol. "To you," answered Tommy, "ten cents." "Two dozen to my
room, please," said Sol. At the door he turned and added, "By the way,
Tommy, ten per cent off for cash and thus enable me to reimburse the
bell boy. And, Tommy, be sure and have them made separately and send
six at a time when I ring the bell."
In this way Sol would have his little spree with only his mirror for
a companion and emerge the next day spick and span with two bottles
of an aperient water added to his account. By noon he would be found
officiating at some church function or passing tea at some lady's
seminary.
I never considered Sol a very great actor on the stage--but a marvel
off. He was a splendid entertainer and sketch artist, but he had higher
ambitions. His greatest was to wear the mantle of Jefferson whom he
worshipped.
We three were supping one night at the Richelieu Hotel, Chicago.
Jefferson had previously suggested to me the idea of my playing Doctor
Pangloss in "The Heir at Law," endeavoring to point out the many
benefits I would bestow by appearing in that character. I listened
with much respect but refused, knowing how old fashioned were both
the play and rôle. Sol, however, was not proof against the clever old
gentleman's blandishments and fell for the suggestion. The fact of
appearing in any character made famous by the astute old fox was enough
for the guileless Sol. I knew Jefferson wanted some one to play the
part only to court comparisons. To prove his interest in Sol's future,
Jefferson presented him with his entire wardrobe, even to the shoes and
awful wig. Sol was delighted at the prospect and accepted them readily.
When told of this at the supper that evening, I turned to Sol and said,
"Well, the press has been hurling Mr. Jefferson's mantle at me for
years, but you have undressed him. I guess I'll have to wear my own."
Jefferson seemed to enjoy the sally but I'm afraid Sol failed to
appreciate my remarks or gather my meaning. It would have been better
for him if he had, for later he produced the play and met with instant
failure.
While touring in the all star cast of "The Rivals" I called on an old
and esteemed friend of mine at Chicago--the bar keeper at the Grand
Pacific Hotel--who informed me that my friend Sol Smith Russell and
he had spent a most enjoyable evening the night before. Sol had left
him at about two A. M. saying he was looking forward to our
appearing in "The Rivals" with joyous anticipation. I asked about Sol's
health and capacity. The bar keeper replied, "He's fine. I have his
tabs for sixty dollars." I gasped, "Not cocktails!" He replied, "No,
pints."
The next afternoon at the matinee after the first act Sol's card came
up to Mr. Jefferson's dressing-room (which I shared on tour). Of
course he was admitted at once. Not appearing in the first act, I was
preparing the finishing touches to my make-up in a remote corner of the
room and was not seen by Sol. He rushed over to Jefferson who warmly
greeted him. Sol was most enthusiastic over the performance of the
first act. Standing in the center of the room, safely braced by both
hands on a massive oak table he gushed forth as follows:
"My dear Joseph, I have never seen such acting, such art. Surely
Sheridan in his grave must appreciate such artistic values as are being
dealt with this afternoon, such--"
Then came a long pause and his eyes closed as if he were in deep
meditation--I knew it was a hold over--then his lids started open and
he gathered up the thread of his complimentary effusion:--
"Such superb treatment, delicacy, subtlety, and--" again a pause and
the same closing of the eyes, the awakening and continuation:--
"Your work is a revelation and great object lesson to the students of
the drama, the commingling of the older and younger elements only lends
a charm to the works of the grand master and,"
Again the pause, and on his awakening after this last standing siesta,
he discovered my presence.
"Ah, Nattie, I hear splendid reports of your Sir Lucius O'Trigger."
I inquired from whom as I had been kept in ignorance of any. He said
from everyone.
"And now, my good friend," said Sol, addressing Jefferson, "I must
leave you as I don't want to miss Nat's first scene, the opening of the
second act."
Bowing, he made his exit, his left hand deftly placed upon the wall of
the room as he guided himself in a somewhat circuitous way to the door.
As he was bent directly opposite, I went to his assistance and led him
outside, detecting a slight odor of what seemed to me gin fizzes. I
bade him adieu and returned to my dressing table. Jefferson appeared
much gratified.
"Sol is awfully pleased apparently and was most gracious," he said. I
answered, "Yes, for a tired man, Sol spoke remarkably well." Jefferson,
who was very literal, asked, "Is Sol tired?" I replied, "He ought to be
with that load he is carrying."
Said Jefferson, "What load is he carrying?"
"A basket of lovely peaches," quoth I.
"I didn't notice he had a parcel with him," replied Jefferson.
"He is tanked up to the collar button," I said. "Oh, what a lovely
skate he has!"
"Tanked up to the collar button and skate? What the devil are you
talking about. You have a vernacular, my dear Nat, that requires
translation. What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you notice his condition?" I asked. "He's loaded to the
eyebrows."
"Tight?" asked Jefferson.
"As a new drum," I replied.
"I can't realize it," said Jefferson. "My eyesight prevented my
scanning his face as accurately as I could wish. I noticed his
conversation was a bit measured, but very well expressed. I can't
believe he was under the influence of liquor. Are you sure?"
I replied with much pride in my delivery, "You can't deceive an artist."
Jefferson simply screamed at this remark and during the afternoon
repeated the incident several times to each and every member of the
company. It met with so much favor and seemed to amuse the people
to such an extent that for several years, by imitating both Sol and
Jefferson, I made it one of the best stories of my repertoire.
I once told the story to a number of actors at the Green Room Club
in London. At the finish, "You can't deceive an artist," it failed
to provoke the laughter it always aroused in America and I thought I
noticed a look of blank amazement on my auditors' faces. I paid no
attention to it at the time, attributing their lack of appreciation
to their density or their limited acquaintance with the mannerism of
the gentlemen I was imitating. Three weeks later Fred Terry met me on
the Strand and with much gravity apologized for the silent manner his
_confrères_ at the club had received my story.
"My dear Nat," said Terry, "the lads entirely mistook your meaning.
They thought you were putting on a lot of side and when you pointed
to yourself with that egotistical gesture and proclaimed yourself an
artist, they thought it in exceedingly bad taste. I have been all this
time taking each one aside and telling him that was not your meaning
at all; that you were a very modest man for an American. You were
simply telling your superior officer what a drunkard you were. Now they
thoroughly understand the story and won't you please come to-night and
tell the story over again?"
Which request I politely but firmly refused.
The last time I saw poor Sol was at a luncheon at the home of the late
Stillson Hutchins given in our joint honor at Washington. Now both are
gone. God bless their memory. Adieu, good friends.
A few nights after telling this story, I was relating the incident to
Beerbohm Tree at a supper party. He agreed with me as to the density
of the average Britisher so far as appreciating American humor is
concerned. He told me he understood it thoroughly. As the supper
progressed we were entertained by song and story, contributed by the
guests. In my turn I told of an incident that happened in Denver.
I had come in from one of the clubs very late and directed the clerk
at the hotel to call me at 5 A. M. sharp, impressing upon
him that I was a very heavy sleeper. Having only a few hours to rest
I wanted him to be sure to rap on the door as loudly as possible and
not go away until he heard a response from me. It was vital I make the
train for Leadville and it left at 6 o'clock.
An Irish porter standing near overheard my instructions and volunteered
to assume the responsibility of awakening me on time. I handed him a
dollar and retired to my room, a cold, bleak apartment, and was soon
asleep between the icy sheets. It seemed but a few minutes until I was
awakened by a most violent knocking on my door. I shouted, "What's the
matter?"
"Are yez the man that left the call for the five o'clock train?" I
answered, "Yes."
"Well," came the reply from outside, "go back to sleep. Your train's
gone."
Several of the guests laughed loudly. Tree, however, looked blank
and ejaculated, "The silly man should have been discharged for
incompetency."
I hurriedly left the party and told no more stories that summer.
_Chapter XII_
RICHARD MANSFIELD
Had I known as much then as I do now or had my youthful obduracy been
less pronounced the sudden rise to heights of fame which marked Richard
Mansfield's career might never have happened--in any event it would
have been postponed.
It was while I was rehearsing in "The Black Flag," a melodrama which
won much success later, that a gifted journalist, A. R. Cazauran,
who was then acting in the capacity of play reader, adapter and
general factotum for Shook and Palmer, the lessees of the Union
Square Theatre, came to see me. After watching the rehearsal Cazauran
decided that I was sacrificing my time and talent with "such drivel as
'The Black Flag.'" When the rehearsal was finished he insisted upon
my accompanying him to Mr. Palmer's office, as he had something of
great importance to communicate to me. After seating ourselves at Mr.
Palmer's desk, he said,
"Goodwin, I am now going to give you the opportunity of your life. We
are going to produce a play called 'A Parisian Romance.' J. H. Stoddard
has been rehearsing the part of the Baron, but he has decided not to
play it, feeling that he does not suit the character."
Cazauran then continued in his delightfully broken English that that
was the part he had in mind for me and it would suit me "down to the
ground." The character of Baron Chevreal was that of a man of middle
age; but a young man, with virility, was necessary to act the death
scene which required tremendous force. He brought out the manuscript
and read me the entire play. When he had finished, I said,
"For the love of heaven, Cazauran, why did you select me to play that
gruesome tragedy rôle?"
"Because I think you can play it," he replied.
I was dumbfounded. "Why, I am a comedian, and it looks to me as though
that part were made to order for Stoddard."
Cazauran shrugged his shoulders and, placing both hands on mine,
observed in a most impressive manner:
"Goodwin, you are a comedian and, I grant, a fine one. So was Garrick,
but no one remembers Garrick in comedy."
How true that was, and how often that expression has come back to me in
after life! They seldom remember those who make them laugh.
"You accept this part of the Baron," Cazauran continued, "give me three
hours of your time each day for three weeks and I will guarantee that
you will never play a comedy part again. I and the Baron will make you
famous."
I sincerely thanked him, but firmly declined to be made famous in that
particular line. We adjourned to his favorite restaurant, Solari's, in
University Place, where for three hours he endeavored to persuade me
to play the part. I was obdurate and would not listen to any of his
suggestions.
"Well," he said at parting, "Stoddard cannot and will not play the
part and I have resolved to try a young man we have in our company,
selected from the Standard Theatre Company, where he was playing in a
comic opera 'The Black Cloak.' He is now rehearsing the part of the
ambassador in 'A Parisian Romance.' He shall play the Baron. He is
intelligent, knows French and I am convinced that I can coach him into
a success."
In four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks
to play the Baron awoke to find himself famous. His name was Richard
Mansfield.
_Philosophy, Thou Liest!_
One night several years ago at the Garrick Club in London, Joseph
Knight and I were discussing the American invasion of England by
American artists. During the course of our conversation, Knight said:--
"My dear Goodwin, we had an extraordinary chap over here from your
country some years ago. I can't recall him by name, but he was a most
uncomfortable person to meet and an _awful_ actor! He endeavored to
play Richard the III and gave an _awful_ performance! He followed this
with a play, written by Robert Louis Stevenson in which he scratched
the carpet and was somebody else! He was a boss-eyed chap, spoke
several languages and was remarkably adept at the piano. I can't for
the life of me recall his name."
From Knight's description I knew that he meant Mansfield and ventured
to suggest that that might be the man to whom he referred.
"Mansfield! Yes, that's the chap! Is he still going strong in America?"
"Going strong!" I replied. "Why, he makes more money than all of us
combined. He is called America's greatest player!"
"Really!" exclaimed the illustrious Knight. "What an extraordinary
country!"
Mr. Knight unconsciously echoed my sentiments. We are an extraordinary
people.
Think--and be called a fool. 'Tis better to realize a fact than agree
with the majority.
Only a few weeks ago I was reading a biography of the late Mr.
Mansfield, written by one of his managers; another, by a notorious
critic; and, believe me, Edmund Kean's biographers were amateurs
compared with Mansfield's in their shamelessly abject adulation of
that "genius." The fulsome flattery of the senile, undersized critic
who pens his truckling screeds at so much a column (but never again
in the paper from which he was dropped) and has been doing so to my
certain knowledge for over thirty years, is but the vaporing of his
infinitesimal soul.
For years this critic held the position of reviewer on one of the
leading New York daily papers and was the recipient of a stipulated
salary from the late Augustin Daly. He was also on the payroll of many
of the successful stars of America and the recipient of many bounties
at their hands. Thirty years ago I was standing in the lobby of the
Tremont House in Boston talking with John McCullough, "the noblest
Roman of them all," when this drunken critic, an "authority" on plays
and players, reeled into our presence and in a thick voice asked John
the number of his room. I shall never forget the look of disgust which
McCullough bestowed upon this leech of the drama. As he shuffled to the
elevator, mumbling incoherently, McCullough turned to Billy Conners,
his manager, and in stentorian tones that could be heard a block away
cried, "For God's sake, Billy how long am I to be annoyed by this
drunken incubus?"
Years after this same critic came to my opening performance of "The
Merchant of Venice" at the Knickerbocker Theatre, in New York, long
after the curtain had been up. In fact my first scene was finished
before he staggered down the center aisle to criticise my efforts.
I knew that he contemplated treating me severely, irrespective of
what I might be able to achieve. He did not consider it worthy of his
attention and left before the play was finished. The following morning
his "criticism" appeared, containing over two columns of vituperative
abuse of my work, deservedly, no doubt; but as the paper went to press
at eleven thirty and our performance was finished precisely at that
hour I wondered how so beautifully a worded review could have been
composed or even dictated in so short a time. The article was evidently
inspired by an imaginary production which he was privileged to witness
before it was seen or heard.
Yet this man's adulation of Mansfield, patently written at so much a
line, will be handed down to posterity and be believed and respected by
the multitude! Truly, "What fools these mortals be!"
Mansfield, to me, was an enigma. Ask any worthy member of my profession
to-day his opinion of Mansfield as an actor and he will, I am sure,
agree with Joseph Knight. I am one of the few actors who made a study
of Mr. Mansfield--for many reasons, the paramount one being that I
considered that I was indirectly responsible for his amazing and
sensational success in "A Parisian Romance."
I maintain that Mansfield was never a great actor, but a clever and
gifted man--a dominant personality which asserted itself even when
clothed in mediocrity.