wouldn't care to invest it in your property." How little did he know he
was refusing a fortune!
When the curtain rang down on the finale of that play I would not
have sold a half interest in it for fifty thousand dollars! It was a
whirlwind of laughter from beginning to end. We were all dumbfounded
and could not understand why the play was received with such
manifestations of delight. Everything was encored time and time again
and the rafters shook with applause and laughter. The Saturday morning
papers were most enthusiastic and in a few days I was besieged with
offers from all over the country.
We performed this play successfully for four years, Eliza and I
dividing a small fortune. Hers was put away in the safe deposit vault
while most of mine went back into the coffers of the proprietors of
various places of the same kind as that in which I won the original
thousand dollars.
I really never knew how much we did make out of that play until Eliza
died and willed me her share. It came in very handy at the time and
was gratifying for two reasons--it eliminated all my debts and was a
vindication for me, in a way, as I considered it proof that (since
she left me every dollar she possessed, with the exception of the ten
thousand dollars in bonds which she had earned before our marriage) I
had not treated her as cruelly as my vilifiers would have the world
believe.
We followed "Hobbies" with several other productions including "The
Member for Slocum," "Sparks," "Ourselves," "The Ramblers" and one
or two others. Then we associated ourselves with Edwin F. Thorne
and produced a melodrama by Henry Pettit called "The Black Flag." I
appeared as Sim Lazarus and Eliza as Ned the waif. We produced this
play at the Union Square Theatre in September, 1882, and continued
through that theatrical season with very gratifying success.
Our association with Edwin Thorne was a delightful one. Though only a
mediocre actor, he was a charming companion and his personality was
most attractive. It was a funny experience to be associated with Thorne
as it seemed but a few short months since Frank Burbeck and I would
sneak into Thorne's bedroom at my mother's house, abscond with his
sword and scabbard, adjourn to the back yard and indulge in a "duel"
which we would continue until interrupted by the Thornes or other
occupants of the dwelling.
[Illustration:
GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES
N.C. GOODWIN JR. IN "HOBBIES"
LITHOGRAPH OF GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES]
_Chapter XV_
SUCCESSFUL FAILURES
Paradoxically my most conspicuous failures, barring one or two, have
been my greatest successes notwithstanding the reports which perhaps
will be handed down to posterity. The best instance of this is my
production of "The Merchant of Venice." The critics condemned it
harshly; some before they saw it and more cruelly after. Maybe it was
deserved. I say maybe because against those cowardly assaults I have
the comforting knowledge that there were a few, including myself, who
disagreed with those enlightened gentlemen. Among the minority I might
mention Henry Watterson, Mr. Clapp of the Boston "Advertiser," William
Ball, Stillson Hutchins, George Riddel, George P. Goodale of the
Detroit "Free Press" and a few actors of intelligence.
Many of the sapient censors of my work objected most strenuously to the
disguising of my known methods and a loss of personality. I presume
they would have preferred me to play Shylock as it was played by the
predecessors of Macklin, but why should I copy "tradition" before
tradition was born?
Nobody with human intelligence could ever discover humor in the
dignified Shylock, a Jew, but, nevertheless, the only gentleman in the
play. Possessed of subtlety? Yes. Humor? No. A THOUSAND TIMES,
NO!
Had the learned critics who assailed my efforts known anything
regarding the motives that prompted Shakespeare to adapt the play
from a Spanish source, written only to please the vagaries of the
Elizabethan court, they might not have marvelled at my efforts to
dignify the character of Shylock. I would not venture to assert how
easy was the rendering after I had absorbed the character nor would I
even dare whisper what the performances throughout the country yielded.
As a matter of fact history tells me that they were the largest
returns, at the prices, of any series of performances ever given in
America up to that time.
The same results marked my production of "A Midsummer Night's
Dream"--which is written down as "another Goodwin failure." If more
than five thousand dollars on the day (which were the receipts of the
last Saturday at the New Amsterdam Theatre) spells failure, mine was
unmitigated.
The same story of successful failure may be told of my production of
"Nathan Hale." It was greeted by packed houses and condemned by the
press for my "audacity." It was audacious to play characters in serious
plays.
My performance of Nick Bottom in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" was
supposed to be funny, but Shakespeare's name was on the front door
and "knocking" was forbidden until the door was opened. Then how the
iconoclasts did knock! They even found fault with the anatomy of the
ass's head! However, that is easily accounted for--one sees oneself
reflected in a brook and an ass never looks down.
Two failures I concede--"Beauty and the Barge" and "Wolfville." The
former, a splendid play, was inadequately cast. The other, a bad play,
was perfectly cast. The net results--both hopeless. I knew that "Beauty
and the Barge" was lost with all on board before I made my entrance.
"Wolfville" was wiped off the map at the dress rehearsal. They met
deserving ends but I honestly believe that "Beauty and the Barge"
could be resuscitated and, properly cast, run the allotted span.
So sanguine was I regarding the reception of those plays, barring
"Wolfville," that I was fearful lest the critics would not be present.
I regret to say that they were!
They strangled my Shylock, crucified my Beauty, sank my Barge, burned
my Wolfville, spanked my Bottom and relegated me to the sage brush of
farce comedy, gaining their ends by withholding their praises--for
business gradually decreased. Up to the period of my return to farce
comedy I broke every record at the Knickerbocker Theatre with "Nathan
Hale"--much to the discomfiture of "Willie" Winter and his satellites;
and of course I was condemned by the critics who shine in the reflected
light of that hypocritical, self-seeking Thersites.
Shortly after I appeared in a farce called "The Genius" at the Bijou
Theatre, New York, and never in my life have I been the recipient of
such commendatory notices for my work. I was "absolutely perfect" from
the critics' point of view. Even the Hebraic gentleman who writes for
the New York "American" was courteous--aye, even complimentary, as was
also the dainty critic of the "Evening Sun"--and receipts never reached
$4,000 during any given week!
Truly a wonderful picture is that painted by Reynolds of Garrick
between the Muses, Tragedy and Comedy. To which does he turn?
I wonder!
Which leads me to remark--
Give the average American critic a mirror and a hammer and he will
demonstrate his prowess as an iconoclast.
_Chapter XVI_
BACK IN THE EIGHTIES
My first trip to England resulted in my being able to add to my list
of imitations a study of Sir Henry Irving. How it came about may be of
interest. It followed my decision to produce "Confusion" and "Turned
Up."
"Confusion" had previously been played by Henry E. Dixey and Florence
Gerard with some degree of success. I think they would have made
a great success had they not made the play subservient to a most
wonderful imitation of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in a travesty on
"The Merchant of Venice." They performed this travesty delightfully,
but as it lasted only about thirty minutes and was the feature of the
entertainment the _pièce de resistance_ naturally suffered.
I saw the possibilities of "Confusion" and made a deal with John
Stetson for a road tour. I gave it a most excellent cast, including
such names as John Mason, Robert Coote, Loie Fuller, Charles Bishop,
Leila Farrell and others who were conspicuous at that time.
[Illustration: IN TURNED UP
_In the days when I was an imitator_]
During this engagement I produced for the first time my burlesque of
"The Bells," imitating Henry Irving as Mathias. It was a double bill
and included "Turned Up." The performance made an instantaneous hit
and I received much credit for what the press and public were pleased
to call a most faithful reproduction of the great man. I was extremely
nervous on the first night as I was following a magnificent imitation
of Irving lately given in the same theatre by Henry E. Dixey who had
scored a tremendous success. He had a striking make up for his Irving,
suggesting him in face and carriage, but his reproduction was more of a
caricature than mine and I suffered little by comparison.
Later on, while producing "The Bells" in conjunction with "Confusion"
at the Grand Opera House, one of the company whispered, "Irving's in
the box!" I nearly fainted. However, I had only a few moments more in
which to finish the performance so I gritted my teeth and went to it.
Irving visited me later on in my dressing-room and grasping me by the
hand ejaculated, "My dear Goodwin, I congratulate you! I had no idea
that 'The Bells' was such an interesting play!"
"My dear Irving," I said, "think of the man you saw play it!"
"Having played the part for over twenty years and having seen your
wonderful reproduction of me, I can now see where I have been very much
in error," he replied laughingly.
Some years after at a supper given in my honor he referred to my
performance very graciously, pronouncing it the only true burlesque he
had ever witnessed, with the possible exception of one by Frederick
Robson, called The Great Robson. Robson was a wonderful player of the
early sixties.
I followed "Confusion" with "Turned Up," preceding each play with "Lend
Me Five Shillings" and an adaption from the French of a play called
"Gringoire." I was enabled to show a good profit on the correct side of
the ledger for the following two years.
On my next trip to Europe I succeeded in interesting William Yardley
to write for me. With Leander Richardson he adapted a play from the
French which was produced successfully in London by Charles Wyndham
and called "The Candidate." I returned to America that year with their
adaption, calling it "The Nominee." I afterwards produced it for a
limited run at the Bijou Theatre, New York.
Previously I had made several plunges into musical comedy and comic
opera, producing with Edward E. Rice at the Boston Museum "Cinderella
at School," "The Mascot" and "Pinafore." Those productions were given
in a spirit of fun and as a relief from the more serious work which
occupied my road tours. Irrespective of the profits which were made by
these plunges into dissipation we always had a royal time.
It was here that I again resumed my delightful associations with dear
old Ned Rice. What a misunderstood person is this happy-go-lucky
ne'er-do-well who would spend his last twenty dollar bill to give a
dinner to a pal! The sordid, practical manager of to-day would do well
to emulate this self-sacrificing gentleman. Salaries meant nothing to
him if he considered the actor necessary to enhance the artistic value
of any of his magnificent productions. So thoughtful of his women and
appreciative of his men was he as to make it a joy to be associated
with him in the management of the classic Boston Museum. I was always
fond of the comic opera style of entertainment and to be associated
with Rice added greatly to my pleasure.
The extreme gratification of being for a time the lessee of a playhouse
in which I had previously been conspicuous only as a spear carrier
was joy indeed. To tear down the walls of respectability and storm
the citadel of the legitimate; to make the sacred place a playground
were dissipations which I enjoyed immensely. To surround myself with
both principals and chorus after the matinee, have dinner served from
the Parker House (and be able to liquidate from the profits of that
matinée) in the greenroom, where the people were allowed to talk to
one another without being subject to a fine for their audacity; to have
the exquisite power of bringing viands behind the scenes without fear
of challenge or interruption; with the satisfaction of knowing that
only we knew what was going on behind the scenes of this revered old
playhouse--these were joys indeed!
It was very wrong, no doubt, but nevertheless a beatific revenge for
the cuffs I had received in years gone by. Maybe it was only a mistake.
Perhaps I should not have indulged in these sprees, but the engagement
was in the summer, we paid large salaries, the theatre was packed at
every performance, the dignified and austere management shut their
eyes to our moods and tenses and, really, after all, it was but a
little holiday and John Mason, Joseph Haworth, William J. LeMoyne, Fred
Archer, Barney Nolan, my dear brother Edward, Sadie Martinot, Catherine
Lewis, Belle Archer, Rice and I enjoyed the outing, or inning,
immensely!
_Chapter XVII_
THE HALCYON DAYS OF UNION SQUARE
The early eighties were replete with much excitement and lucrative
receipts. From '82 to '90 I made productions annually and nearly
all, I am pleased to say, were successful. A half dozen worth naming
were "Sparks," "A Gay Deceiver," "Col. Tom Bottom's Dream," "A Royal
Revenge," "The Skating Rink" and "A Terrible Time." During these eight
years I made many friends and always looked forward to the summer with
much pleasure. The two months devoted to booking my tour for the coming
season always afforded me unbounded joy.
What would I not give to swing back into time and have one brief
yesterday; to stroll down Broadway and grasp the hands of long ago; to
drop in at the old Hoffman House, stroll to the bar and be greeted by
John McCullough, by Ned Buckley (he of the angelic voice and fist of a
gladiator), by Johnny Mackie, the lovable cynic, Jim Collier, the uncle
of our magnetic Willie, and Sam Piercy, of stentorian tones (who died
ere he blossomed)!
What would I not give to continue down Broadway to Fourteenth Street;
to stop and talk with the austere, but charming Barney Macauley; to
be joined by Charlie Read, the delightful minstrel; the tall and
well-groomed Charles R. Thorne, Jr., and his equally attractive
brother, Ned, the handsome Fred Bryton, the scholarly Charles Coghlan,
the fascinating Harry J. Montague, clever George Knight, Billy
Barry, Sol Smith Russell, James Lewis and John Drew! These gentlemen
constituted America's "lowest and lightest," as I referred to them one
spring morning as we exchanged salutations.
Anon come John Gilbert and the aggressive little John T. Raymond and,
as you continue down, the distinguished members of Wallack's and the
Union Square nod kindly recognition. Then you return on a journey to
the St. James Hotel to be met graciously by its popular proprietor,
Billy Conners, fascinating Henry Perry, the wit of Broadway, and divers
other men about town, including "Plunger" Walton and the well-groomed
John Daly. John Daly, the gambler? Yes, but only in the truest meaning
of the word--not a corner lounger with dyed mustache, leering at the
women as they passed, but a true gambler in every sense, of a type now
extinct.
Those men were all "pals," men of the hour. Where they foregathered a
perpetual loving cup was in evidence.
After passing the usual greetings one would take a stroll uptown as far
as Thirty-fourth Street. That was as high as the afternoon professional
pedestrian cared to ramble. If one were as favored as I was in those
happy days one would be sure to be greeted by such beautiful and
attractive women as Lillian Grubb, Marie Jansen, Kate Forsythe, Pauline
Hall, Josie Hall and dainty Mollie Fuller, her chum, the Hanley
sisters, the attractive Lillian Russell (almost as beautiful and
radiant as now!), Marie Tempest, clever Minnie Maddern, the daughter of
Tom Davey, now the talented Mrs. Fiske, the haughty Rose Eytinge, Ada
Dyas and the regal Ada Rehan.
The brain grows giddy as my fancy wanders back to those beautiful
autumnal days of twenty odd years ago when all was chaotic and
congested, but nevertheless a delightful pot pourri of brilliancy,
genius, talent and beauty. Some, in fact a majority, have passed
away, but to those who were privileged to enjoy the happy association
of those clever men and women a memory remains that will only be
obliterated when the bell that summoned King Duncan to his doom tells
us that the time has come for us to join those gone before.
Shall we join them?
I wonder!
Life is a bridge of sighs, over which memory glides into a torrent of
tears.
It was somewhere in the early eighties that I first heard of the
existence of the Lambs Club, situated at that time somewhere near Union
Square and suggested to me as a good one to join by Harry Becket,
then the leading comedian of Wallack's Theatre. It was during those
busy times when all of us were compelled to travel for the season of
the then thirty-two weeks that we looked forward with greatest joy to
meeting our pals on the glorious Rialto. It was bounded by Broadway and
Fourth Avenue, Fourteenth and Seventeenth Streets with the attractive
Union Square Park forming the center of rest. It was our busy
playground after our toils of the road.
[Illustration: LOTTA
_In the days when work was play_]
I always put up at the Union Square Hotel where, after a hurried bath
and shave, I would rush down to the street below to be welcomed by my
many friends. Ah! What times they were! I brush away a tear as the
happy memories come upon my vision. I see the tall, commanding figure
of Charlie Thorne come briskly across the pavement, switching his
well-shaped limbs with a tiny cane as he rushes over with outstretched
hands to bid me welcome and congratulate me upon my season's efforts.
A slap on the back from clever Louis Harrison and an embrace--yes,
even in the open!--from his talented sister Alice; a yell from dear
old Matt Snyder, many times a member of my various organizations, a
grunt of welcome from the stoic, Sheridan Shook and an acknowledgment
from the dignified Lawrence Barrett; a benign smile from Edwin Booth,
salutations from the various members of my company, now disbanded, but
only for a time! We generally kept our organizations intact for many
seasons in those happy, golden yesterdays.
Often the ladies of our profession would wander downtown to meet their
brothers and here and there one would come across a group of men and
women in converse under the shady trees, comparing notes and making
their arrangements for the following year. Dainty Kate Claxton, then
the heroine of "The Two Orphans," would be seen in earnest conversation
with A. M. Palmer in front of the Union Square Theatre. Maggie Mitchell
would briskly acknowledge the respectful doffing of hats as she tripped
across from the Morton House with sprightly Lotta as her one bright
particular companion of that morning. Midway between the Morton House
and the Union Square the fascinating Joe Emmett would chirp merrily on
his way and hold those ladies enthralled until some other came along to
interrupt their entertaining conversation.
In those days, no arbitrary booking organization held sway; no peeping
Izzies or Sols had access to our books; we were all on our own, masters
of our own enterprises. Like the brokers on the curb we arranged our
bookings on the street. Hither and hither we flew, now procuring a week
in Pittsburgh or a night in Dayton, crossing and recrossing from the
Morton House to Union Square, corralling a manager for a two weeks'
tour in the sunny South or four in the unattractive middle West, ever
and anon stopping on our way to engage the services of some particular
actor we desired for the new play. We made railroad rates with hustling
agents, always on the lookout to do business with professionals. There
was no Interstate Commerce law in force at that time!
We made contracts with printers and appointments with authors
simultaneously!
Thus the day was occupied from ten until three when all work was
suspended. Then, though a bit fatigued, we would make a hasty
recapitulation of what had been accomplished, select our own particular
coterie of friends and adjourn to Charlie Collins' (known as "Dollar
Five" Charlie) _café_ where the balance of the day was devoted to food,
drink, anecdote and song.
Managers, agents, printers, railroad agents, actors, singers (of
obscurity and fame)--all were as one when the bell struck three.
Perfect equality, unanimity, brotherly love and comradeship were the
qualities in vogue on the Rialto in dear old New York during the early
eighties. At that time I made the remark, "When you leave New York
you're camping out."
I have been camping out since 1900.
_Chapter XVIII_
THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE
Those were halcyon days on Union Square. The booking of tours was as
attractive as it was uncertain, attractive because it was uncertain!
Who does not find a hazardous game attractive?
One man I've not mentioned was in daily evidence on the Square. He
was fair, always faultlessly dressed, in frock coat, soft black
felt hat, low cut waistcoat (showing an abundance of pleated shirt
front, ornamented in the center with a single, glittering, pure white
diamond), peg top trousers tapering down to a pair of dainty feet
encased in the latest Parisian patent leather boots. He was straight of
figure and easy of carriage and affected a drooping mustache. Also he
bowed pleasantly to everyone he met!
In make up he suggested the type of man drawn by Bret Harte in the
"Outcasts of Poker Flat"--John Oakhurst, gambler.
Such was Jack Haverly, the originator of the scheme of forming a
theatrical trust or, as it is now called, a syndicate.
The idea must have worked its way into the brain of a little, rotund,
breezy chap who always accompanied the genial Haverly. He was ever at
his side, taking notes, penciled and mental, running to the telegraph
offices with instructions from his master, always returning for more,
his little furtive eyes constantly wandering from one point to another,
calling his master's attention to matters of detail too complicated
for the busy Haverly sometimes to consider. The little lieutenant never
overlooked anything. Like a trusty sentinel was this little aide upon
whom the mantle of the master was soon to fall.
Haverly neglected the business which formed the nucleus of his success
and sought bigger and more alluring schemes only to encounter failure.
He speculated in mines which soon brought about his ruin and he died,
penniless and neglected, leaving only the legacy of an idea. But the
little corporal who took advantage of the suggestions absorbed from
Haverly soon arose from an obscurity as dense as that of his Corsican
predecessor and Charles Frohman jumped over the horizon and in a short
period amazed the theatrical world.
It was in the fall of 1878 that I chanced into Haverly's office in
the Fifth Avenue Theatre building on a matter of business regarding
my first trip to the Coast. In his employ at that time were Gustave,
Daniel and Charles Frohman and Al Hayman. They were the representative
staff, and Haverly, from out the quartette, selected Gustave as his
chief, considering him the most brilliant of them all! Daniel, the
present lessee of the Lyceum Theatre, confined himself to conservative
lines and was quite satisfied to manage a first class stock company and
one or two minor attractions. Charles was the Atlas destined to uphold
the family name and make dramatic history.
While planning the scheme that has since made many men millionaires
Haverly little dreamed that his rotund employee was also eagerly
planning as he unfolded his plans to the others.
[Illustration: JACK HAVERLY
_The man who conceived the syndicate_]