witnessed the performance of "The Private Secretary," at the Madison
Square Theatre in New York, to a packed house, and the so-called crank
I had previously met with Aldrich at the Parker House, in Boston, was
playing the leading rôle. His name was William Gillette.
William is a very quaint person, and even to this day, many people call
him a crank. He may be eccentric, all geniuses are, but he is a very
able man, one of the best American dramatists, and a most excellent
actor, particularly when playing the hero of one of his own plays.
He has no natural repose and is possessed of very little magnetism.
He certainly has a personality however and has solved the problem
of standing still like the center pole of a merry-go-around in all
his plays, successfully contriving to arrange his scenes so that his
characters rush around him, while he stands motionless in the center,
giving the impression of great repose. This is a splendid trick but
only permissible to actors who pay themselves their own author's fees.
I once saw Gillette play a character I had previously seen Guitry
perform in Paris, and I must confess that Gillette suffered by
comparison. In this play he had to move and he proved he was no
sprinter. An English critic, a friend of mine who had witnessed the
performance of Gillette in "Too Much Johnson" and "Held by the Enemy"
remarked, "This man Gillette is a most confusing person. If I did not
know the plot of his plays, I could not tell whether he was playing the
villain or hero."
I do not know if Gillette ever realized his limitations, but I fancy
he did, for he succeeded unquestionably in cultivating a pose, an air
of, 'please don't approach me, I am too much absorbed,' etc. I have
seen him enter a drawing room in London, and by his presence stop all
conversation. Apparently oblivious to his surroundings, he would enter,
stop at the door, locate his host or hostess, say a few epigrammatic
things in a hard rasping nasal voice, acknowledge the presence of a few
friends by a casual nod and quickly take his leave. The conversation
for the next hour would be devoted to the man who had entered and left
so unceremoniously. "What an eccentric person," "how unique," "what
personality," "splendid presence," would be heard from all sides.
This pose, eccentricity, or whatever you call it, may be assumed or
natural, I do not know which, but it is effective if you can get away
with it. Mansfield did it successfully, Barrett and Arnold Daly tried
it and failed, Booth had the gift.
Perhaps the cause of Gillette's eccentricity is his liver, a successful
man with a poor digestion can do most anything out of the ordinary,
if he has courage and money. The rush of blood to the head causing a
twitching of the lips when observed, may mean to the on-looker the
concentration of thought; a scowl brought about by a pain in the
abdominal cavity may suggest the villain of the yet to be born play
contemplating the ruin of the heroine, and there you are. Every act,
every suggestion, every attitude of the successful author or actor has
a hidden meaning.
The gyrations of the successful Gillette proved so effective, I am
told, that he has invested part of his fortune in a headache powder.
I have known Mr. Gillette, thirty years, not intimately; there are
few who enjoy that privilege. He is a reticent person, very difficult
to fathom, easy of manner, courteous and refined, a gentleman at all
times, splendid playwright, a fine exponent of character in all his
plays, and a man of whom America should be proud.
_Chapter LXV_
WILLIAM BRADY, ESQ.
From a vendor of peanuts on the Southern Pacific Railroad, to the
owner of two New York playhouses, and the manager of more than a dozen
theatrical enterprises in twenty-five years, is the history of "Bill"
Brady, the man who made James Corbett the champion pugilist of the
world.
Brady is a man with the courage of his own convictions. He will stand
by any production he finances in the face of overwhelming defeat, and
cease to present it only when the managers refuse to give him time. No
matter what the box office returns are, the play remains on if Brady
fancies it.
He is an excellent judge of untried plays and seldom produces a
failure. Being a very good actor, irrespective of his managerial
capacity, he will jump in and play any part at a moment's notice if
necessary. He has done this many times during his career and thus saved
the closing of the theatre.
His married life is most happy, Grace George and two splendid children,
together with a charming residence on Riverside Drive, New York, make a
peaceful fireside and a haven for the tired "Billie," when worn out by
worries of office life and travel.
We have been friends for many years and I always enjoy his society
immensely.
May good luck and well deserved success attend you, William Brady, Esq.
_Chapter LXVI_
ROBERT FORD
I have as little patience with the theory that one's character is
patently defined in one's physiognomy as with that other sophism
concerning the leaking out of truth as wine "leaks in." Look at the
accompanying photograph. Is there anything in that frank, boyish
countenance which even suggests a cold blooded, conscienceless
murderer? Yet the young gentleman was not only a murderer, he was that
most despicable of human hounds--the betrayer of his friend.
It was one night many years ago in Kansas City, in a pool parlor to
be exact, that I first saw this young scoundrel. I was playing pool
with a stranger who had been introduced as "Mr. Hunter." My attention
was directed toward the boy by the singular behavior of my friendly
antagonist. No matter where "Mr. Hunter" had to go around the table
to make a shot he never allowed his back to be turned toward the door
nor toward the young man who sat peacefully in one corner of the
smoke-filled room and gazed benignly, if steadily, at "Mr. Hunter."
Intuitively I knew questions would not be welcomed and I stilled my
curiosity.
The next day I joined the throngs which travelled over to St. Joe to
see the remains of the notorious Jesse James who had been shot dead in
his own home. There, lying on a bed, was all that was left of my "Mr.
Hunter!"
[Illustration: Robert Ford
_"A cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer"_]
Two weeks later in a Turkish bath I recognized my young gentleman
of the pool parlor. He was not averse to talking and presently
informed me that he was Robert Ford, murderer of Jesse James. This
explanation followed my expression of surprise on discovering that he
had a villainous-looking revolver in his hand--in the steam room! He
explained his life was not worth a cent because of his murder of James
and he was taking no chances of being caught unarmed.
We chatted for two hours--agreeably! After a bit he told me all about
his life with Jesse James--how he had been befriended by the bandit.
Casually he described the killing and laughed as if it were a great
joke that he had had to wait eighteen months for James to turn his back
toward him!
"That is," he added, "long enough for me to get out my gun and kill
him."
He admitted readily that had it not been for the fact that James grew
to have a positive affection for and belief in him he never would have
succeeded in his murderous scheme.
"But finally," he concluded laughingly, "he fell for me--whole--and I
got my chance."
I asked him how he could bring himself to do such a foul murder.
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, as if wishing to be literally
truthful, "the Governor offered a reward for him dead or alive--and I
needed the money."
Not excepting even Benedict Arnold this boy was the most universally
despised individual this country ever produced. He drifted further West
after the murder and became one of the most desperate characters those
lawless days ever knew. He met his end in a bar room in Cripple Creek.
That time he tried to shoot a man whose back was not turned!
Yet what physiognomist could read in this boyish face such dastardy as
Robert Ford delighted in?
_Chapter LXVII_
MORE PLAYS
If George Broadhurst had not promised me the first call on his play
"Bought and Paid For" I should have been saved another failure. It was
on the strength of his promise that I should be the first to read the
manuscript of what was destined to become his biggest money-making
success that I agreed to produce "The Captain." I kept my agreement
and scored up against myself a costly fizzle. Broadhurst broke his
word--and I never saw "Bought and Paid For" until I bought and paid for
a seat!
And this in face of the fact that Broadhurst spent most of his time
with me at my house on the beach in California while he was working
out the plot of the play! (And I later discovered he had not refused
to take advantage of at least one of my freely offered suggestions--to
make the biggest climactic moment of the action!)
Failures were becoming not only frequent, they were getting to be a
habit!
"A Native Son" was my next venture. It was written by James Montgomery,
author of "Ready Money," and it was as perfect a failure as "Ready
Money" was a success! It was an awful thing. I wonder that I ever
produced it.
At last I had had my fill of trying to discover the great American
play--and headed for my California home to rest--and think!
That period didn't last long. It never has.
Presently George C. Tyler (who is Liebler & Company) got in touch with
me, the outcome of it being that I signed a three-years' contract with
him on the understanding that I should get as my first vehicle under
his management an original play by Booth Tarkington.
In due course Tarkington completed "Cameo Kirby." In my thirty-nine
years of experience on the stage I never played a character I liked so
well as this delightful, urbane, Southern gentleman-gambler. I gave
him a Southern dialect and the production all the touches of the real
South of that early era I could invent. The audiences seemed to like my
interpretation; but the press was divided. Sensing what would happen to
me in New York I refused to go into that city and surrendered the rôle
to Mr. Dustin Farnum.
With Farnum in the title rôle "Cameo Kirby" failed in New York exactly
as I had it predicted. Farnum made a success with the play on the road,
however. His youth, beauty and simple delivery were the opposites of my
characterization--and he succeeded where I failed!
I was delighted to hear of Dustin's success. I am very fond of him and
of his brother Bill and I consider them both excellent players.
_Chapter LXVIII_
WILLIE COLLIER
What a quaint, clever, original comedian is Willie Collier!
He is as companionable with those he likes as are flowers in a meadow.
His meadow is very limited, however, as he likes but few. He believes,
as I do, that the environment of friends should be narrow.
Willie insists upon being addressed as William by the majority. Only
the few, among whom I am a privileged member, may call him Willie!
His wit scintillates like forked lightning and he possesses sarcasm
equal to that of a Douglas Jerrold. Many authors can attribute "their"
success to Willie's wit. His personality off the stage is rather stern
for a comedian--in the opinion of the majority. But his acting has
conquered three countries--America, Australia and England!
I could fill pages with his wit, but the one first to come to my mind
must suffice.
For some reason Willie dislikes the Players Club. (Perhaps it is
because one sees so few actors there!) It was during the first all-star
gambol of the Lambs Club that Willie sprang a joke at the Players'
expense--a joke that has since come to be a classic.
We travelled palatially on this Lambs tour, in fine, private cars,
magnificently fitted, and with our every comfort catered to. As we were
pulling out of Syracuse in our train de luxe, a dingy engine pulling a
dirty caboose passed us on the other track. We were at dinner. Willie
wiped his lips with his napkin and remarked quietly:
"Boys, there goes the Players Club back to New York."
I have known him for more than twenty years. His late partner,
Charlie Reed, was as dear to me as Willie is. We three had many good
times. Poor Charlie passed away years ago and Willie, left alone, has
struggled bravely to earn his now well-merited success.
I have known him to produce three successive failures in as many
weeks--and come forth smiling!
After the second failure I suggested that he come down to the
footlights the night of his third première and salute his audience
with, "Well, here I am again."
Willie Collier asked the volatile Hopper why he had failed to invite
him to one of his weddings. Hopper promised him that he would--to his
next!
A few of those who pose as my critics might do worse than to
marry--once in a while. It would at least save expense!
The world is better with such men as Charlie Reed and Willie Collier as
occupants. I hope that Willie will come dancing down the sun, casting
his wit and humor to all the pessimistic censors of the drama for years
to come.
_Chapter LXIX_
HENRY MILLER
A wholesome and natural actor is Henry Miller with all the technique of
our art at his finger tips, he is a splendid stage manager. Had he the
facilities at his command I am sure he would rank equally with David
Belasco and the late Henry Irving--as a master producer.
What I like about Miller's acting is his exquisite touch and splendid
repose. I have known him for more than twenty years and have followed
his career steadily--from the days of the old Empire Stock Company
(where he was surrounded by such artists as Billy Thompson, Viola Allen
and William Faversham) down to his most recent vehicle, "The Rainbow."
And always he has proved equal to his task.
I may be prejudiced in his favor because I am so fond of him
personally. He has exquisite charm off the stage as well as on. I
always anticipate joyfully meeting him and indulging in our little
dressing-room chats.
Miller is an artist and a gentleman and an ornament to the American
stage.
_Chapter LXX_
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
My memory was never my strong point. As I approach maturity (!) I find
to my surprise that it is growing better rather than worse. But perhaps
it couldn't grow worse!
Nevertheless the time I won the world's championship as the prize
forgetter I really didn't deserve it. It happened early in the divorce
proceedings I had instituted at Reno against Maxine Elliott.
Pardon an interjection; but I must express my surprise here that so
many men and women I meet are all laboring under the delusion that
I have always been on the receiving end of divorce actions! No less
recently than June, 1913, I had the pleasure of reading in the New
York "Evening World" a very clever article concerning my kinship with
Bluebeard, and Solomon, and Henry the Eighth in the course of which the
young woman who wrote the article declared I was "more divorced against
than divorcing!" The truth is quite the reverse of this and it seems to
me should be so easy of confirmation as to admit of no uncertainty in
anyone's mind, however much my reputation makes it seem as if I should
be the "divorced against" half of any match! Three divorces have marked
my matrimonial experiences. I obtained two and by dint of hard work and
much skirmishing (and for purely business reasons) managed to help my
fourth wife obtain her freedom from me!
Before the thought of divorcing Maxine had entered my head, in fact
while we were still living at Jackwood, I had become interested in
the mining game and after the _dénouement_ at Trouville I headed
straight for Reno. Even then I think it was rather my purpose to get
into the mining gamble head over heels than to make the divorce center
of America my "legal residence" that led me to Nevada. I'll admit
that my establishing my business headquarters at Reno proved a great
convenience!
The proceedings were well under way and I was on the stand as a witness
when the judge asked me the name of my wife before I married her. I
told him it was Hall.
"That's not what she says," replied the judge severely.
And then it developed that when her answer to my complaint had been
returned to the court she signed herself McDermott.
"But that is the name of her first husband," I explained. "Her maiden
name is Hall."
"She swears her maiden name is McDermott," quoth the judge.
"Well, her brother's name is Hall," I insisted. "I always supposed it
was her name too."
"Great Scott!" thundered the judge. "Don't you know your own wife's
name?"
"No, not if it isn't Hall," I responded.
Then it developed that Maxine's maiden name was McDermott, sure enough.
The McDermott she married was no relation. Her brother had assumed the
name of Hall.
But after all--what's in a name?
_Chapter LXXI_
I TRY BEING A BUSINESS MAN
While spending a holiday at Glenwood Springs, Colorado, I met a man
from Goldfield, Nevada. He was fresh from the mining camp then just
blossoming into great public notice and he knew in detail all the
stories of its vast mineral products. His name was Brewer, not that it
matters, and he had all the swagger and bluster of a mining magnate. In
no time at all he had convinced everyone in the hotel, including me,
that he was one of the lucky ones who had struck it rich in that land
of gold!
He literally threw money broadcast. Bell boys sprinted in a continuous
marathon to and from the telegraph office with voluminous messages
Brewer sent and received. The guests spent most of their time admiring
and envying this Croesus. For my part I found my gambling blood
becoming aroused at his wondrous recitals of the possibilities of this
strange country. When he invited me to attend the Gans-Nelson prize
fight at Goldfield I accepted with alacrity.
At Reno we found a private car awaiting us and we were conveyed the
remaining two hundred miles to the scene of the fistic encounter in
royal state. What an exciting two hundred miles they were! Brewer, who
had proved a most hospitable gentleman, planned our having the car for
our exclusive use, but before we had journeyed half the distance from
Reno to Goldfield that car was crowded to suffocation! His impromptu
guests included gamblers, fighters, thieves, soubrettes, merchants,
miners, lawyers! It was a conclave as interesting as it was motley.
Thus, _sans_ sleep, we rolled into Goldfield.
What an exciting place it was! It reminded me of another primitive
community in Nevada, Virginia City, which I had visited twenty years
earlier. Here were the same lack of civilization, utter abandon, tent
houses by the hundreds, a few straggling brick and adobe buildings
and the inevitable long street running from end to end of the town.
On this occasion the street was filled with a howling mob of men and
women--rabid fight fans.
Scores of derricks and piles and piles of ore dumped on the sides of
operating mines, not to mention hundreds of prospects and claims, told
the veriest stranger that here was a mining town. Every other door led
into a gambling house or a saloon.
As you contemplated the arid desert utterly devoid of vegetation,
hemmed in by huge mountains themselves great uplifts of barren rock,
you marvelled at the courage of the first man who made bold to enter
that land of devastation and dust. To see that transplanted Brocken
scene trodden by people from every part of the globe made me stop and
ponder. What will man not do for gold? To be sure a greater part of
this mob was attracted to Goldfield by the fight; but the aftermath was
horrible to contemplate, the time when only those remained who gambled
on what they hoped to find under the crust called earth. I realized
that truly this was the country of the survival of the fittest.
[Illustration: AS CAMEO KIRBY
_I never played a character I liked so well_]
A mining camp is a cesspool in which the unfortunate ones wish for
death and a mecca for a certain type of speculators, the latter almost
as numerous as the former. A poor man has a better chance on Broadway!
The desert is no place for him. A practical miner can earn a fair
living, but invariably he squanders it all on the green cloth. The
wanderer has an ephemeral existence living upon the bounty of the
workman who never refuses him a drink or a stack of white chips--if
he is winning. As he seldom wins the wanderer (under this caption I
include all those outcasts who form a veritable scum in mining camps)
finds little chance to recoup his fortunes at the gambling table. The
desert for such as these is a prison difficult to escape from.
After the fight Brewer persuaded me to remain as his guest for a few
days. He had a pretentious dwelling, as dwellings in Goldfield went,
and continued to fill the rôle of host admirably. I was already seized
with a spirit of speculation and shortly had become launched with
Brewer and an Englishman named Kennedy on a big deal which ended in our
securing an option on a prospect known as the Triangle. It was situated
about a mile from town at Diamond Fields (why the diamond no one seemed
to know!).
Everybody was most courteous to me. (I can't imagine why!)
One night, in Casey's Hotel, I almost made a fortune. One always
"almost" makes a fortune in a mining camp. On this occasion I was
playing roulette when a Chicago capitalist approached me and suggested
that I join a syndicate which was about to lease a property of great
potential value. To get in would cost me $5,000. Just as I was about
to pay down the money Brewer arrived on the scene and dragged me away
unceremoniously. He told me more than $40,000 had already been sunk in
the property and although they had gone down to a depth of nearly one
thousand feet they had not discovered even a tomato can.
"Do you expect to find tomato cans as far down in the bowels of the
earth as that?" I am afraid Brewer doubted the ingenuousness of my
credulity as I asked this question--blandly.
Brewer persuaded me to keep out of the syndicate. The Chicago
capitalist and his few associates in the succeeding nine months each
took $1,250,000 out of this property and the price of the stock rose
from $2 to $20 a share!
I put my all into Triangle. We bought a controlling interest for
fifteen cents a share and then bulled the stock on the Goldfield
exchange until it sold at more than one dollar a share. This was making
money fairly fast. The whole thing was accomplished in about four
months! I journeyed back to New York and quickly told all my friends to
get aboard. Expert engineers had told me that at the one-hundred-foot
level they had struck ore averaging $40 a ton. When the public received
this illuminating bit of information the stock rose to $1.50.
I bought some at that price!
Previously I had bought more than 100,000 shares with my partners and
as many more on my own account at varying prices from fifteen cents up.
The engineers were strictly truthful. They had found forty-dollar
ore all right. But my partners neglected to inform me that they had
carefully placed it where it was found! That was my introduction to the
gentle art of "salting" a mine. Ever since, at the mere mention of the
word mine there comes a brackish taste in my mouth.
They had taken their profits when the stock was selling at one dollar
and had gone short 100,000 shares above this price; in fact they were
the sellers of all the stock I purchased above the dollar price!
Happily they were unable to control the upward trend of the market. As
fast as they sold short I bought. Their stock got away from them. When
they were called on to deliver what they had sold they had not one
share and were forced to call upon me for help. Thinking they were in a
hole merely because of innocent blunders I loaned them 100,000 shares
for $4,000.
That block of stock they sent to my own brokers for my own account in
Goldfield! My brokers confiscated all of it to satisfy a loan they
had extended to this pair of partners of mine! Thus was I robbed of
stock worth in the open market $150,000. When I was fully awake I sold
the remainder of my holdings, realizing about 60 cents a share. In
all I cleared about $20,000 in this first adventure into the mining
game--although many of my friends still believe I made a half million
out of Triangle.
Meantime I had endorsed Brewer's notes for $10,000 taking as security
stock in another property he controlled. When the notes fell due I had
to pay them as by that time everybody had discovered Brewer's specialty
and was demanding liquidation. By threatening to send him to the
penitentiary I succeeded in regaining part of the $10,000 and erased
his name from my visiting list.