the country at the head of their own companies this grand artist
is compelled to stifle his ambitions in playhouses which feature
performing elephants, negroes and monkeys!
He tells me he is acting now only to gather enough shekels to make his
passing down the other side of the mountain of life be unincumbered by
financial difficulties. This is a sad situation--an actor willing and
capable forced to humiliate himself while ignorant German comedians,
song and dance men and incompetent leading men foster their wares
before a vacillating public.
Well, perhaps things may change, but I fear not in dear Bill's day. The
moving pictures reign supreme! Pantomime seems to gratify the multitude!
Let the incense burn low and as it disappears let memories of the work
of a master like Thompson cast its shadow on the pathway of the time to
come!
_Chapter LXI_
THE CRITICS
"Praise is the best diet after all."
In an address before the National Press Club on November 17, 1909, the
Hon. Henry Watterson had this to say:
"Pretending to be the especial defenders of liberty we are becoming the
invaders of private rights. No household seems any longer safe against
intrusion. Our reporters are being turned into detectives. As surely
as this is not checked, we shall grow to be the objects of fear and
hatred, instead of trust and respect."
"Shall grow!" As if you have not already grown, decayed and gone
to seed, once more to be transplanted and again born, to invade
the sanctity of homes and become the invaders of private rights!
"Detectives" indeed! As a rule you are not even common cops!
No wonder public men look upon such "journalists" with aversion and
contempt and liken them to the police and the scavenger! No wonder
honest journalists, like Watterson, antagonize such methods as are
employed by the emissaries who represent the yellow journalism of our
delightfully free country!
Very often after reading one of the vilifying attacks made upon me
(for no apparent reason other than to vent the writer's spleen or for
lack of other material) I have wondered what effect it has had upon my
associates, my audiences and my friends. It is wonderful how little the
power of will asserts itself. Falsehood and scandal seldom concern any
except those personally negligent. It is a pity that a critic who has
so much power to do good and make happy the artist by a few kind words
will use the weapon of the wood chopper. Fortunately you cannot make or
unmake the artist of to-day. You may flaunt your accusations regarding
his private life, but after all the good remains.
I honestly believe that a true American man or woman derives more
pleasure from reading an account of the happy marriage of Ethel
Barrymore and the delightful coming of her first born than from
the lurid announcement that Mary Mannering has at last secured her
permanent release from the bonds of her unhappy alliance with James K.
Hackett. It has taken me many years to come to this conclusion, and it
was only after two years passed in silent retrospect among the flowers,
hand in hand with nature in glorious California, that I determined
to don again the sock and buskin. But I went back to my professional
work with a clearer conscience, a lighter heart, a determination to
pay little heed to the scoffers and a resolve to try to make the world
laugh once more.
He who rises above mediocrity is sure to incur the envy and hatred of
the mediocre. I am astounded that I among so many should be selected as
a perpetual target. Were I as egotistical as some of my critics say,
the published reports of my vagaries and dissipations would have been
as Balm in Gilead to my immoral soul! But such balm is far from any
desire of mine. The unwholesome notoriety that I received during my
absence in Australia shocked and grieved me and had it not been for the
few good friends who gallantly came to my assistance with cheery words
of encouragement my burden would have been too heavy to bear.
With the greatest indignation I read the truly astonishing articles
written about me during my exile. Away from home as we had been
for months and always looking forward eagerly to the arrival of
the American mail, it was a shock indeed to be deluged with highly
sensational accounts of my divorce suit, a shock all the more
disagreeable for the wholly unwarrantable dragging in of the name of
one as completely ignorant of the entire matter as any one of you who
may read this.
For years I have been brutally assailed by certain members of our press
who have disliked the color of my hair or the shape of my nose. As I
alone have been the victim of these assaults, I have not wearied the
public with constant denials, realizing the futility of the "apology"
our great dailies vouchsafe when they are proven to be in the wrong.
This generous "apology" may be found in an obscure corner of the paper,
in very small print, weeks after columns and columns have spicily set
forth the details of one's supposed wrong doings. And this is all we
get by way of reparation from our traducers.
Here is the article, written by the Hon. Henry Watterson in the
Louisville "Courier Journal," January 10, 1895, to which I have
referred:
"In the course of an interview with one of our local contemporaries Mr.
Nat C. Goodwin, the eminent comedian, takes occasion to correct some
recent stories circulated to his disadvantage and to protest against
that species of journalism which seeks to enrich itself by the heedless
sacrifice of private character.
"Since no one has suffered more in this regard than Mr. Goodwin himself
he has certainly the right to speak in his own behalf and at the same
time he has a claim upon the consideration of a public which owes so
great a debt to his genius. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. Goodwin
is just beginning to realize the seriousness of life and the importance
of his own relation to the art of which he has long been an unconscious
master.
"With an exuberance of talent rivaled only by his buoyancy of spirit,
uniting to extraordinary conversational resources a personal charm
unequaled on or off the stage, he has scattered his benefactions of
all kinds with a lavish disregard of consequences and that disdain for
appearances which emanates, in his case, from a frank nature, incapable
of intentional wrong and unconscious of giving cause for evil report.
"He is still a very young man, but he has been and is a great,
over-grown boy; fearless and loyal; as open as the day; enjoying the
abundance which nature gave him at his birth, which his professional
duties have created so profusely around about him and seeking to have
others enjoy it with him. But, before all else, it ought to be known by
the public that he amply provides for those having the best claim upon
his bounty; that he is not merely one of the most generous of friends,
but one of the most devoted of sons, and that it can be truly said that
no one ever suffered through any act of his.
"To a man of so many gifts and such real merits the press and the
public might be more indulgent even if Mr. Goodwin were as erratic as
it is sometimes said he is. But he is not so in the sense sought to
be ascribed to him. He never could have reached the results, which
each season we see re-enforced by new creations, except at the cost of
infinite painstaking, conscientious toil; for, exquisite and apparently
spontaneous as his art is, he is pre-eminently an intellectual actor
and it is preposterous to suppose that he has not been a thoughtful,
laborious student, finding his relief in moments of relaxation, which
may too often have lapsed into unguarded gayety, but which never
degenerated into vulgarity or wantonness. Indeed the warp and woof of
Mr. Goodwin's character are wholly serious.
"He is a most unaffected, affectionate man and with the recognition
which the world is giving him as the foremost comedian of his time, the
inevitable and natural successor to the great Jefferson, it is safe to
predict that he will fall into his place with the ready grace that sits
upon all he says and does.
"Meanwhile the boys in the City Editor's Room ought to use more blue
and less red in pencilling the coming and going of one so brilliant
and so gentle and, in all that they have a right to take note of, so
unoffending."
God bless you, Marse Henry!
The avidity with which the average penny-a-liners scent failure is only
equaled by the blatant exposition of their reviews. They are like a
lot of sheep huddled together, vainly endeavoring to emerge from the
perfume of their own manure to flaunt their individual opinions before
the garrulous public which itself is only too willing to proclaim "the
king is dead!"
Senator Arthur Pugh Gorman once told me that failures were a good
remedy for success and brought people to a realization of their own
unimportance. Granted, if failure were individual, but as failure does
not as a rule affect only one's self it is hard to administer the doses
of the plural to mitigate the humiliation of the singular.
Has it ever occurred to the average critic that when a play fails not
only the author and the leading artist are submerged in the vortex
of despair, but all the tributaries of the enterprise go down with
the ship? But what do they care--when many of the successful actors
proclaim to the world that they enjoy their "art"--succeeding or
failing!--and respect the reviewers of their work? I regret that many
of them are only too willing to assist the critics in tearing down the
structure of the successful player.
Some time ago I had a long talk with a comedian, short and very funny,
on and off the stage. He is a true artist, a wit, gentle in his methods
and a truly legitimate comedian. He was complaining of the existing
conditions of the stage and assured me that it was only the lack of
funds which compelled him to remain upon the boards to make the public
laugh; that he was praying for the time when he could forget his gifts
and leave the stage forever.
The little chap has worked like a galley slave for years. I know of one
period in his career when he produced three consecutive failures in an
equal number of weeks in a New York theatre; produced them and incurred
all the risks--and finally landed the fourth a winner. He is constantly
producing new material and to-day a New York playhouse displays an
electric sign which spells his name. Yet he desires to leave the stage
forever! Of course, he does! What honest actor does not?
Another artist, a friend of mine who has played to the largest receipts
ever known in the history of the stage, told me recently that he was
going to give it up, imparting to me the fact that he could no longer
stand the humiliation and the heartaches he was forced to endure!
The attitude of these gifted players is as an oasis in the desert of
incompetency and convinces me that irrespective of the type that spells
inadequacy and commercial success for a few of the ephemeral stars
there are some self-respecting actors left who refuse to accompany
these unworthy disciples down the narrow path that must lead to an
eventual eclipse.
What an unthinking person is the average front-of-the-curtain speech
maker! Fancy thanking an audience for the privilege of entertaining it!
It has always struck me as being ludicrous. But I can sympathize with
an actor thanking an audience for sitting out a failure!
I believe it was Charles Lamb or someone equally clever who remarked,
"Apprentices are required for every trade, save that of critic; he is
ready-made."
How true!
Critics--what a queer lot!--are generally foes to art--from Dr. Johnson
down to those of the present day. Seldom sponsors, always antagonistic,
jealous and even venomous, they are eager to tear down citadels of
honest thought and houses of worthy purpose! They remain hostile until
the continued success of their victim compels a truce. And how cravenly
they acknowledge defeat! Like the shot coyote they will only fight when
wounded.
The reviewer of a prize fight will comment upon a picture; criticize
sculpture, literature, acting!
Why should the average critic know anything about acting when his
horizon does not extend beyond the ill-ventilated room containing his
trunk filled with the manuscripts which he has not succeeded in having
produced? Conscious of the revenues of the successful playwrights of
the day he criticizes with venom in his drab heart and vitriol in his
ink-bottle! No wonder he enjoys storming the forts of prosperity!
But what gets on my nerves is the attention given some of these
penny-a-liners by the average American manager-producer who cull
the complimentary expressions of these incompetents and print them
conspicuously upon their posters. To add further insult to the honest
player most of the yellow journals photograph these critics, heading
the columns of their uninstructive matter with their faces!
Shades of Lamb, Hazlitt, and George Henry Lewes!
I wonder how many readers cut out the pictures of those little cherubs,
"Alan Dale" and "Vance" Thompson, and paste them in their scrap books?
I utilized their pictures beautifying (!) two cuspidors in my home--and
they are always in constant use!
My antagonism to the critics is not sweeping. I have the most supreme
respect for the memory of such critics as the late Mr. Clapp of Boston,
Mr. McPhelim of Chicago, Clement Scott and Joseph Knight of London,
Mr. Wiliard of Providence, "Brick" Pomeroy, Joseph Bradford and
Frank Hatton. I have the same regard for some of the living critics
including, the Hon. Henry Watterson, Arthur Warren, James O'Donnell
Bennett, Philip Hale, Blakely Hall, Amy Leslie, George Goodale, Ashton
Stevens, Lyman P. Glover, Lawrence Reamer, Elwyn Barron, Stilson
Hutchins, Marion Reedy and many others. These gentlemen know whereof
they write and never allow personalities to enter their critical views.
But for those effeminate, puerile, sycophantic, dogmatic parasites
who live from hand to mouth, who bite the hands that feed them, whose
exposed palms are always in evidence (to receive the stipends that warp
their supposed knowledge of the art)--I have an equal amount of disgust.
"Alan Dale" whose real name is Cohen called on me some years ago in
Paris with instructions from his master, Mr. Hearst, to interview me.
I sent my servant to tell him to come up and arranged the furniture
for his reception (I did not care to pay for breakage and I was
afraid his thick skull might destroy some of the bric-a-brac if he
fell where I intended he should fall!). I set the scene for him, but
when he entered and I contemplated this little, self-opinionated,
arrogant, subservient, and grovelling person I asked myself "What's the
use?"--gave him an interview and dismissed him.
I felt only pity for the poor, little, puny hireling!
(Since the above was penned I have read a most complimentary criticism
of my Fagin in "Oliver Twist" written by "Alan Dale." Consequently the
above remarks "don't go!")
An astute gentleman on one of the Chicago papers, gushing over "the
great art of Mr. John Hare" as old Eccles in "Caste," wrote:
"What a remarkable metamorphosis it was to see Mr. Hare, the quiet,
dignified man of the world, in his dressing-room discussing his
profession when, a few moments before, he had been depicting the
drunken sot with shaggy eyebrows, dishevelled hair, unkempt beard and
filthy clothes!"
This he considered the art of acting. I call it the art of make-up. He
further annoyed me by saying, "This should be a lesson to some of our
comedians, who fancy themselves actors, who simply come on the stage,
speak fat lines and have only to appear natural."
"Only to appear natural!" I happen to know the critic who wrote the
above article. He is a remarkably graceful man and a most proficient
golf player. Now taking him at his word I should like to place that
gentleman in a conspicuous place on my stage, in evening dress, and
have him rise, walk across the stage, ask the servant to assist him on
with his coat, bid the other characters good night and make an exit. He
would, I am sure, cease chiding any actor for being "natural." It is
far easier to be somebody else on the stage, with the aid of wig and
grease paint, than to appear as one's self.
No one fails to recognize Bernhardt or Duse. Neither did Booth nor
Forrest sink his individuality or hide his face, like the ancient
Greeks, behind a mask. I'll wager that if Mr. Hare had been an American
the hound would have objected to the Hare's disguise!
One of the most natural actors whom I ever saw on any stage and who
never by any possible chance endeavored to destroy his identity was
William Warren. He was and is considered by the elect the finest
comedian that American has ever produced. I wish my golf player could
have enjoyed the privilege of seeing that grand old man play Eccles!
Every great actor that we have sent abroad for the past fifty years
has signally failed (with one single exception and he assured me that
his largest house was a trifle over $600 and he had a play written or
rather re-written by one of the most popular of English authors). With
three exceptions no one has ever failed, man or woman, who has come to
us from foreign shores.
It is "the thing" to applaud the efforts of all European actors. It
is far different in England. I am certain there is no prevailing
antagonism because of the fact that we are Americans, but the public
as a rule does not understand our methods and is quite content with
its own. I only wish that we could absorb its temperament. It does get
on my nerves, though, when shiploads of English actors visit America,
simply to enable them to replenish their impoverished bank accounts at
home.
How long will it last?
I wonder!
However, when any foreigner visits our country with a determination to
make it his permanent abode and does so I always wish him well. Take
for instance Edward H. Sothern. If ever a man deserved the position
he has attained Sothern does, if only for his energy and tenacity of
purpose.
Of course, in any other country than America, he could never have
succeeded.
Even in this country, surrounded as he is by an over production of
filth, to make Shakespeare a paying investment is an achievement of
which to be proud.
I am not airing any opinion of his artistic work, as I have been
privileged to witness only his performance of "Hamlet." I have also
seen Charles Fechter, E. L. Davenport and Edwin Booth as the Dane,
which naturally prejudices me in my criticism of Sothern's performance!
But any man who has the courage to announce his intention of playing
"Macbeth" for one week (and does it!) deserves a place in the Hall of
Fame!
Mr. Sothern deserves the congratulations of the American public--for
getting away with it!
And for all I've written in this chapter I must confess that--
Observation makes critics of us all!
Also--
While I have confined my attention to the so-called critics I have not
forgotten that there are other men engaged in the newspaper business
and of these--
The average reporter reminds me of the little boy with a pea shooter.
He bears malice towards no one in particular but--he's got a pea
shooter!
_Chapter LXII_
JAMES A. HEARNE
At the time James A. Hearne gave me the photograph which accompanies
this chapter he was one of the best actors, if not the best actor who
spoke any language--in my estimation. He was then well into the fifties
and for two score years had run the gamut from Bill Sykes (and he was
king in that rôle) to the tender Nathan'l in that best of American
plays, "Shore Acres."
The reproduction of the inscription which Hearne wrote on the back of
his photograph shows that the old gentleman was not without a keen
sense of humor.
I knew him all my stage life and in my eyes he was always a most
wonderful person. In his early days he was prone to much dissipation,
even to ruffianism; but he always drank and fought before the world.
He was honest even when violently inclined. He never sneaked up back
alleys to fight a foe, but met him in the open--no hiring of rooms in
which to get drunk but at the open door where all could see him. And
even in those days everybody loved the man.
In his later life he used his great mentality and became a real man, a
beatific creature.
He married three times.
His first wife was the distinguished Lucille Western, a most wonderful
natural, emotional actress. It is said she has made more money in a
single season than any other star of any time. Her first husband,
James Meade, a New York gambler, told me he handed her personally more
than $600,000 in forty-two weeks! This was during the Civil War.
And she died in poverty!
Herself a spendthrift, she was ably assisted in dissipating her fortune
by both Meade and Hearne. Her death followed her marriage to William
Whalley, a ne'er-do-well but clever actor and at that time a great
Bowery favorite.
After Lucille's death Hearne married her sister Helen, one of the
most beautiful women ever born. They were very unhappy and a divorce
speedily ended their union.
From this time Hearne's career showed a marked change. He died nearly a
Christian!
Behind him he left his third wife, a most brilliant, clever woman who
helped to bring about his regeneration, several successful plays and
two talented daughters, Julie and Chrystal Hearne.
* * * * *
It is just as natural for two human beings, brought constantly in
contact with each other, to mate as it is for birds and animals.
* * * * *
A man of genius, if he marries at all, should marry a peasant.
[Illustration: JAMES A. HEARNE
_He knew how poor Sol "fell"_]
_Chapter LXIII_
EDDIE FOY
Fancy a man's being father of six or seven or eight children--and then
adopting an additional brace! What a heart, what a great, big, fine
heart has a man like that!
And this is what Eddie Foy has done.
Eddie Foy is a unique character in the American drama. Aside from his
prowess as a disciple of that theory which measures patriotism by
infants he is the greatest clown our stage has ever known. And he takes
his clowning very seriously.
I always like to hear Eddie Foy talk. I enjoy being with him. He is a
true comedian.
It happened I was his fellow voyager on his first passage across the
Atlantic. He was on his way to meet his bride, an Italian woman. (Fancy
my listening to rhapsodies about a bride--not my own!)
They are a numerous family--and as happy as numerous. He is a most
generous and home-loving person for all his fondness for his clubs.
I love to hear him talk about playing Hamlet.
He really thinks he can!
Perhaps he's right.
I wonder.
_Chapter LXIV_
WILLIAM GILLETTE
I was standing, many years ago, in the lobby of the Parker House,
Boston, speaking to the late Louis Aldrich, an old and esteemed friend
of mine, who had just made a tremendous success in a play written by
the late Bartley Campbell, called "My Partner," when a gaunt, thin and
anaemic person suddenly approached us and grasping Louis by the arm
said, "I saw your play last night, great house, splendid performance,
bad play," and left us as quickly as he came. "Who is that chap?" I
asked.--"Oh, he is a young crank," said Aldrich, "who has written a
play he wants me to produce called 'The Professor,' not a bad play,
but he insists upon playing the leading rôle." "He looks more like a
chemist than an actor," I replied.
Several years after I was negotiating with the late A. M. Palmer, to
produce a play called "The Private Secretary," but, unfortunately,
strolling into the Boston Museum pending the negotiations, I witnessed
an adaptation of "The Private Secretary," taken from the German I
believe, called "Nunky," excellently played by the Stock Company.
Having four weeks booking at the Park Theatre in Boston the ensuing
season, where I intended playing "The Private Secretary," if my
negotiations with Palmer proved successful, I called everything off, as
I did not desire to enter into competition with Ian Robertson, who was
scoring immensely in the character of "The Private Secretary," which I
contemplated doing.