with a likable but erratic nature. He is constantly falling in love. As
a rule his heart petals fall to those of the opposite sex far beneath
him intellectually. This young man has a most impressive and artistic
temperament and has absorbed not a little knowledge of his art from the
masters.
He has blazoned this superficial knowledge to such an extent that he
has grown to believe that he is a most important and necessary adjunct
to his profession. If he were possessed of the knowledge he imagines he
has he would be a genius!
As it is he is a nuisance!
He has succeeded in making many enemies by his aggressive and
argumentative manner in which only a genius can indulge. He has never
annoyed me for I love his spontaneity and his youth. He has emulated
the acts of several stars and, like the aspiring pugilist who is ever
ready to assume the name of a champion older in experience, such as
"Young" Corbett or "Young" Fitzsimmons, he delights in being known as
"Young" Mansfield. He has some charm and is most convincing to those
who are not conversant with his methods.
He has succeeded in interesting several conspicuous
people--millionaires and prominent theatrical and operatic stars,
including a prima donna known to fame. The latter became interested in
him to such an extent that an amour sprang up and they disappeared for
a time (that is they imagined they had, but delightful Paris, which
always treats such vagaries as they deserve, was fully cognizant of the
situation, looked on and smiled).
I was ignorant of their rendezvous. I never imagined that the lady whom
he had mentioned to me as being mildly interested in him was in the
same country until one day during a visit to a nerve specialist, to
whom this young man had recommended me, the man of medicine remarked:--
"I was at the Opera last night and bowed to your young friend----but
he failed to acknowledge the salutation. He concealed himself behind
the curtains of the box he was occupying, evidently not seeking
recognition. That was unnecessary as I am on the board of directors
at the Grand Opera House and sent the box to Madam ---- whose guest
your young friend was. Why should he disguise the fact that he was her
friend?"
"Is that known in Paris?" I gasped.
"Certainly," he answered.
"And does it not affect the lady's social and professional standing?" I
queried.
"My friend," replied the doctor, "we love artists; we question not the
motives that make them artists, be it illicit love or sanctioned. It's
all the same; they are creatures of caprice and have many nests."
"Does that apply to private life in Paris?" I asked.
"Certainly," quoth the Philosopher of Nerves. "Why, it is most
difficult to give a dinner party these days. One cannot invite the
husband without first ascertaining the name of his affinity, nor the
wife without knowing the name of her sweetheart. My wife always
arranges the table to avoid awkward complications."
I thought how delightfully naïve and completely perfect was their
understanding. That splendid point of view was unlike the ostrich
methods in vogue in London and insular New York.
No wonder my young friend and his prima donna met with disaster when
they crossed the Channel!
But I admire him and his audacity.
_Chapter XLIV_
DAVID WARFIELD
Many years ago while I was playing at the Bush Street Theatre, San
Francisco, a lad of about twenty, of Hebraic appearance, was constantly
seated on the left-hand aisle watching each performance with evident
delight. As I would come from the theatre he would follow me, on the
other side of the street, now and then stopping to point me out to some
boy friend.
One day I smiled at him and his face beamed with apparent pleasure.
After that I often watched for my silent admirer.
Many years after I backed an enterprise in which he was featured--and
lost ten thousand dollars! Later he became a leading fixture at Weber
and Fields' Music Hall and made a pronounced success.
During my second engagement at the Knickerbocker Theatre he was always
a visitor. He no longer sat on the aisle, however. I always sent him
a private box. My youthful admirer who had blossomed forth as a star
in the Weber and Fields' aggregation is now one of the most famous of
American actors. His name is David Warfield.
After witnessing Warfield's great portrayal in "The Music Master" I
began to believe in the star of destiny. I saw a man give a performance
worthy of a master.
And he was without even the fundamental knowledge of his art!
[Illustration: DAVID WARFIELD AND NAT GOODWIN
_I'm proud of the company_]
Springing from obscure parents, with not an ounce of hereditary
theatrical blood in his veins, naturally reticent, with a face not
particularly attractive, save for a searching and penetrating eye, a
mind alert, a shuffling gait--this is the man who on the stage is able
to transform himself into one of the most sympathetic beings that I
ever saw.
With a move of the hand he is grace itself. His delivery of lines
bespeaks him a scholar. His face shines like one sent from the Deity!
The various emotions through which he passed in the sweetly harrowing
(but inferior!) play, from gay to grave, from pathos to comedy and
from that to tragedy, were expressed with a deftness and surety of
touch--why, he sailed along with the assurance of a bird in its flight!
Every effect he handled like a master! And when he made his exit up the
miserable staircase, you realized that you had been entertained by an
artist!
It is a pleasure to write about such a man, particularly one who wears
the wreath of laurel so modestly, who apparently realizes so fully the
kindness of the gods! And the gods help only those who help themselves.
Dear David, you deserve all that has been bestowed! Friend, I
congratulate you, am proud to know you and feel privileged to call you
by that much abused name.
_Chapter XLV_
A DAY AT RENO
Imagine over sixteen thousand human beings filing slowly from a
cemetery where departed heroes have been put away from earthly cares!
Imagine their conversation in hushed whispers, their bowed heads,
smothered ejaculations! Hear the mumbled accusations emanating from a
few of the unpleasant! So you will have a faint idea of the feelings
of that motley, silent crowd which wended its way home after the
Johnson-Jeffries contest at Reno, July 4, 1910.
When that human statue sank into obscurity through the center ropes,
half of the huge bulk hanging listlessly on the outside, with the
little Spartan, Abe Attell, vainly endeavoring to push the great wreck
back into the arena (while the magnificent grinning piece of ebony was
standing with clenched fists and wicked expression ready to administer
the quietus that was within his power), a hush fell upon the assemblage.
All turned their heads as the inanimate fighter showed signs of
returning consciousness. The ponderous Jeff with the aid of Attell and
others slowly unwound himself from the meshes of rope and regained his
equilibrium, only to be crushed again to the boards by the powerful
fists of his adversary. Then a smothered cry from the spectators and
all was over. The mangled gladiator was carried bleeding and bruised to
his corner and another champion was heralded throughout the world.
I have never witnessed such a spectacle. What a hollow victory!
What a disgraceful defeat! It was a defeat without pity, success
without compliment! And yet it was a battle fought by two of the most
magnificent specimens of humanity ever chiseled by nature's journeymen!
At the beginning they were magnificent--from the throat down! Their
faces were not in harmony with their bodies. As each of these warriors
stood in his corner ready for the fray I looked from one to the
other and as my eye travelled from their feet to their heads I was
dumbfounded at what their faces depicted.
Both had the expression of the craven! On each was the apprehension
of impending danger accurately defined; alarm, dread, terror were
imprinted indelibly upon each countenance, the negro trying to force
saliva into a mouth as dry as an oven, endeavoring to smile while his
jaws worked like the jaws of a hyena. Poor Jeff stood up, but only for
a second. His ponderous legs refused to bear his weight of worry! They
trembled so perceptibly that he was forced to seek his chair when his
knees began to knock against each other in angry protests at what they
were expected to perform.
It was past belief--strong men, equally capable of performing any feat
of physical prowess, whose brains refused to obey their wills! Each
knew his terrible responsibility, but the gray matter refused to supply
the necessary oil to put the engines to work. Millions were waiting to
hear the result.
I don't accuse either of abject cowardice. I believe that at that
moment Jeffries would have faced a cannon and awaited the result as
befits a soldier in battle. His trouble was that he was not the man of
brain who could assume a responsibility.
Grant sacrificed thousands of men to attain a result. He would
willingly have given his life if necessary a thousand times, but he
was man enough to live for a cause, not die for it! Jeff, having a
little more brain than his aboriginal antagonist, suffered more, hence
his greater terror.
As the bell rang for the commencement of hostilities Jeffries, instead
of rushing at his dusky opponent, assumed a defensive attitude,
disobeying all instructions, all thought-out intentions. He had planned
his battle as every general does, the night before, but in the ring he
threw away all his plans and obeyed the dictation of a puny, tired,
unresponsive brain. With every step he retreated the negro's courage
gained and as the round progressed his assurance became more manifest.
Confidence took the place of fear and as the bell rang to signify the
end of the round victory shone in the negro's face and the knell of
defeat had sounded for Jeff.
The king was dying, but not the death of a courageous man. He was
dying, retreating, not advancing. The body was willing, but the brain
was dead. Responsibility was the referee that counted out Jeff! That is
the truth of this, the greatest and yet the weakest battle ever fought.
Let us draw a curtain over the Reno desert and be charitable to Jeff.
God gave him brawn, but denied him the necessary brain to equalize it
all.
Perhaps it's all for the best. There's a cloud on the horizon of
Fistiana. Perhaps a bright young American may burst through, the
sun may shine once more and a white American, impervious to mental
collapse, may wear the laurel of champion.
Let us hope so.
I had taken a party of friends from New York to see the fight. We had
travelled in a private car--and the return trip had been paid for in
advance! As we left the arena and headed back to town not one of us,
hardened sports as we all were, not one of us remembered that we had a
fleet of automobiles waiting to take us to our car. We walked right by
them! It was the longest, hottest, dustiest tramp I ever took.
Arrived in the car someone broke the silence with the suggestion that
the first man who referred to the fight be thrown off the car. Our
silence gave assent. As there was nothing else in the world to talk
about--we kept still, how long I don't know, but it seemed hours.
Finally big George Considine realized his throat was parched and he
pushed a button. Up to that moment the summons had never failed to
produce our grinning porter from the little buffet instantly. This time
there was no response. George pressed the button a second time. We all
heard the bell distinctly. All of us had his gaze fixed on the buffet
door. Again George rang the bell and this time he kept his thumb jammed
against the button. Then he got to his feet and declared himself.
"If that nigger is in that buffet he'll never come out now--alive!" And
with that he started.
We all sat tight and waited. In less than a minute George
reappeared--laughing hysterically. For an instant I thought the
terrible shock of the afternoon had affected his mind.
"Is he dead?" someone gasped.
"Nearly so," replied George, choking with glee. "You know I went in
there firmly determined to kill him. But the minute he saw me he
covered his face with both hands and said, 'Fo' Gawd's sake, Mr. Gawge,
don' hit me. I'm good for nothin'. I caint lift a glass, let alone
serve a drink. I'm so weak.' I asked him why. 'Well, you see, Mr.
Gawge, I've been savin' and savin' fo' a year evah dollah I could scrap
together; borrowed from my wife and soaked my watch at Chicawgo. I had
six hunderd dollahs on my pusson when I got heah and it was all goin'
on Mr. Johnson. But on this trip, listenin' to all you gemmen talk I
got so I couldn't see Mr. Johnson nohow and switched and my money all
went on Mr. Jeff'ies. When Mr. Jeff'ies received that awful wallop in
the second round I said goodbye, wife and chillen, and when he was
knocked out--I went with him! And I haven't come to yet!'"
We finally managed to induce him to come out of the buffet and told him
we'd try to make him a little less miserable by chipping in on a purse
for him. Somebody passed the hat. I threw in all I had in cash and I
imagine every one else did. The total count was $51.25!
I thought we ought to cheer him up further and told him I would give
him a good thing on the next fight. He just looked at me a minute, his
black eyes nearly popping out of his head, then indicating the bills
and silver in his hand said solemnly, "Me? ME, bet on a prize fight?
Why guv'nor, I wouldn't bet this money that Mr. Johnson has licked Mr.
Jeff'ies."
_Chapter XLVI_
LILLIAN RUSSELL
What a beautiful and misunderstood woman is Lillian Russell!
One reads only of her wondrous beauty, her splendid preservation and
her marriages--seldom of her talents!
Possessing the soul of a saint, the true spirit of comedy, the repose
of a Siddons, she must see all these splendid gifts made subservient to
vulgar allusions regarding her private life, all cruel and absolutely
false!
All through life she has endeavored to obtain only a home to enable her
to bring her child up an honest woman. She has tried only to make her
hand strong enough to keep and guide her. And these efforts have been
as futile as her success as an artiste has been assured. Who shall say
it is not the fault of those who have pointed the finger of scorn at a
woman seeking only to do right?
Lillian Russell is first and always an artiste; honest to those who can
appreciate trust and fidelity; never a knocker; the fairest actress
and singer that ever shared applause with a brother or sister artist;
without a desire to dissipate; a true companion and possessor of all
the attributes that make a true woman.
Miss Russell, I kiss your hand.
_Chapter XLVII_
DRAMATIC SCHOOLS
I always lacked the moral courage to ask any member of my organization
to resign, no matter what provocation I might have. In my entire
experience I have discharged two actors--both actresses!
One of these was hardly more than a girl, most intelligent and rather
pretty, who was sent to me highly recommended and said to possess
marked histrionic abilities. She had appeared successfully in amateur
performances of Shakespearean rôles and taken first prize at one of the
modern schools of acting.
I cast her for a very minor rôle in one of my plays. In one scene where
she had to criticize a picture of a celebrated artist in a speech of
about fifteen lines (which required an intelligent rendering and a
delivery which demanded at least elocutionary ability) she floundered
about in a most incoherent and jumbling manner. And when she came to
the particular speech for which I was sure she was qualified, the
amateur Juliet fell, balcony and all!
I never saw such an exemplification of incapacity! It was a
verification of what I have always felt regarding "schools of acting."
There have been a few, a very few, graduates of the supposed academies
of acting who have made successes on the legitimate stage. But it was
brought about only by discarding the methods of these bunco professors,
who dare to teach an art of which they know not.
The so-called professors of these schools as a rule have had their
fundamental knowledge of the theatre only through books, and if an
actor hangs out his sign you will find that his career has spelt
failure or that he has become so pedantic that all theories of modern
acting have been swept past his horizon.
I maintain that acting, if it can be taught at all, should be taught by
an actor. Elocution and emphasis can be taught by a plumber or a gunman
with the requisite authorities at hand. But even when those qualities
are mastered they belong to the rostrum, not to the playhouse.
Acting is elementary and can be taught only by suggestion. Emotions
can be transmitted only through psychological channels and facial
expression. They cannot be taught. They are absorbed by those born with
the talent for acting. Unless one is blessed with this talent all the
professors of elocution or so-called "teachers of dramatic art" cannot
make an actor or actress.
Granting that once in a while a budding genius has blossomed forth from
one of these academies it is the exception that proves the rule. And
even those who have graduated find it difficult to unlearn all that
they have been taught. A school of acting, properly organized, would do
no harm, but the student should be given his little speech to speak,
then directed as to what not to do and the process of elimination
continued until such times as he becomes at least an intelligent
interpreter of what he is supposed to perform. For all of the arts
acting most requires practical demonstration. And that can be taught
only by professional tutors.
And how few are qualified to teach! One may have the power to portray
without the ability to impart. That is why the stage manager is in such
demand. So much more is demanded of the actor and actress than the
mere delivery of lines. It would take many pages to illustrate what
I mean, but as a rule in all these schools that dot the country very
little attention is given to the technique of stagecraft. It is always
lines, lines, lines, emphasis, intonation, etc. The system of Delsarte
which devotes most time to the manner of making an entrance or an exit
is of little value for fitting a student for the stage.
There are a few dramatic schools in Europe. In France they have the
conservatories, the professors of which have either graduated from
the Théâtre Française or are men of letters, qualified to teach. They
are subsidized by the government and no one is allowed a course of
learning unless he passes a rigid examination. If the ambitious show
no qualifications they are not admitted. In this country they come
from Haberdashers' County, the salesroom or bankers' homes. It is only
a question of money. If they have the necessary wherewithal it's an
open sesame. I maintain that it is all wrong and the "professors" who
are opening the doors of dramatic art to the incompetent at so much a
quarter are obtaining money under false pretenses.
[Illustration: IN MIZZOURA
_One of the greatest of American plays_]
_Chapter XLVIII_
NUMBER THREE (ALMOST)
A long, long time ago, while I was playing in Paris (Kentucky!) a party
of ladies and gentlemen came down from Mount Sterling to witness our
performance thinking they could leave Paris and get to Lexington the
same evening. Unfortunately the railroad had changed its schedule and
there was no train out until the following morning. My private car was
waiting for me and I had taken the precaution to charter an engine to
take me back to Lexington after the performance. When I arrived at the
station I found the party very much disturbed at the prospect of having
to remain in Paris over night.
I sent my secretary to them and he placed my car at their disposal.
He told them that there was a nice supper prepared and that they
were welcome to whatever the chef could furnish. I would remain in
my stateroom and not interfere with their party. They accepted the
invitation, but insisted that I join their party which consisted of
three men and three women.
One young lady in particular attracted my attention with her radiant
beauty. She was a magnificent creature, blonde and erect, possessing
the complexion given only to those living in the Blue Grass country.
During the journey I had little time to talk with her as one of the
other young ladies who came from Boston usurped all my time discussing
the drama and other topics equally uninteresting to me.
The beautiful blonde lady told the manager of the theatre at Lexington
(he was a friend of hers, as well as of mine) that she considered me a
very dull person. The manager defended me as best he could and told her
that I was to dine with his family that night and he would be pleased
to have her do likewise. She consented and that evening we met and had
a jolly time.
I found her most intelligent and so far as my career on and off the
stage was concerned she was a walking encyclopedia. In fact she knew
more about my vagaries than I did myself, but as we progressed along
lines of casual conversation I thought that I discovered a little
scepticism relative to my supposed proclivities for wrong-doing. She
asked me if I desired any beverage and I, trying to display proper
gallantry, suggested the cool and refreshing draught, the wine of the
country, Kentucky Bourbon.
As she poured out a small glass of the liquor she remarked, "I really
thought that you were going to ask for a glass of metheglin."
"I have been drinking the ingredients which form that compound the
entire evening," I replied.
She looked at me very intently as I swallowed the whiskey, then
suddenly wheeled about and with a half hysterical note in her voice,
said, "I don't believe it!"
Not having the remotest idea as to what she had reference I answered,
"No more do I!"
She then said, "You don't understand!" I gasped, "Quite right!" She
gently took my hand in hers and in a sweet, sad voice said:--
"You need a friend. Let me be your little friend. I know all about you.
For years you have been my favorite player and I have read all the
uncomplimentary articles written about you. Your gambling escapades,
your supposed capacity for drink, your amours, scandals, in fact
everything pertaining to your private life have interested me for
years. But as I have read and re-read these accusations, which I know
now to be absolutely false, I fail to discover where you had wronged
anybody but yourself!"
It was the first time that anyone had spoken to me like that, with
the exception of my little mother, and her words sank 'way down deep
into my heart. We talked for several hours, in fact, until the dawn
approached, but we interested each other to such an extent that neither
was conscious of the departing night until we were rudely told by our
hostess that our conduct was most disreputable and that the best place
for me was a berth in my private car. During our conversation I had
tried to convince her that I was pretty bad, but not so bad as Joe
Jefferson painted.
After leaving Lexington I corresponded with her for some little time.
Finally I heard that her parents were objecting and I told her that
we must discontinue our correspondence. She refused to act upon my
advice and insisted upon communicating with me once or twice a week.
I answered her letters with the result that we became engaged. But my
friend Fate again came upon the scene and exercised his authority.
I left "The Rivals" tour with a heavy heart, for several reasons. I had
signed a contract for a sixteen weeks' tour in Australia. Many wondered
why. I sent out the rumor that it was to see the country and to further
my artistic desires.
The real reason? I was running away from a woman.
Cowardly? Well, let's reason it out.
Briefly the young lady from Kentucky and I met many times after our
first interview and a friendship sprang up that soon ripened into love.
I saw a way of releasing myself from my second marriage. The lady who
bore my name accepted a large sum of money and allowed me to procede.
My plans were all laid. I brought suit in a town in lower California.