complete belief in all my wife's denials. She was sure I would
eventually find my watch in the top tray of a trunk which had lain in
storage in New York for months. I let it go at that. I had acquired all
the proof I wanted, in other directions, and was satisfied. Besides,
all this happened during the month of June, 1910, and I was in a great
hurry to get back to America.
The contest for the heavy-weight pugilistic championship of the world
was scheduled to be held July 4, 1910!
My wife remained abroad that summer but the
Jeffries-Johnson-fight-disappointment almost offset that benediction.
Preparatory to my going back into my profession I bought a play from
George Broadhurst who for some inconceivable (!) reason refused to let
me produce it if I allowed my wife to appear in it. This was quite
a shock to me but I set it down to the well-known eccentricity of
authors. Present in a box at the opening performance of the play was my
quondam "young and handsome star" who returned to New York just in time
to grace the occasion. Later she descended on our little organization
while we were playing in Toronto and this time she hurled accusations
of all kinds at my head--any one of which would have enabled her to
divorce me even in England! When the trial of her divorce action
came along all these charges were disproven--but that one session in
Toronto was not conducted along Parliamentary lines, so far as she was
concerned.
That she had instituted the proceedings didn't bother me at all. Having
done all the affirmative work in two other divorce actions I thought
I might as well take it easy this time and let her do it! But I had
forgotten all about a certain deed of trust I had made in Paris some
time before.
During my mining activities I foresaw the calamity that was inevitable
and acting on the advice of an incompetent attorney I foolishly entered
into a trust agreement with my wife under the terms of which I placed
all my property in the hands of a trustee. In avoiding a possible loss
I ran headfirst into a dead sure steal!
As soon as I had been served in the divorce action I began suit on
my own account to cancel this trust agreement. It had always been
a nuisance even in the days when wife and fond mama were at their
loving-est! Now it was imperative that I be allowed to handle my own
property alone. The settlement of that action was a long, drawn-out
affair as compared with the divorce action. During the several months
before my wife finally won (?) her case the newspapers were filled
daily with sensational articles about my affairs with women I had
never even seen! It seemed to me as if the gentlemen of the press just
published any and every photograph of a pretty woman they could find
and named her as one of the unfortunate objects of my attentions. In
spite of this my wife's able counsel had been able to present no facts
to the Referee that could justify him in recommending a decree in her
favor--up to the Tuesday before the Saturday on which he was to render
his decision.
It never dawned on me that this was the case until my dear old friend,
Jim Killduff, who had been following the suit more closely than I had
came to me that Tuesday night and congratulated me! "You're winning
so easily, it's a laugh," he exclaimed. "Winning?" I echoed feebly.
"Do you mean she isn't going to get her divorce?" "She hasn't a chance
on earth," replied Jim gleefully. "Every charge she has made against
you has been stricken from the Referee's record." "Good Lord," I
gasped, "she's got to win! It's the only way I can ever get this trust
agreement busted!"
The result of our conversation I can not set forth in detail. The
fact remains, however, that before that next Saturday the Referee had
presented to him the evidence necessary to make his course of duty
plain--and once again the newspapers had grounds (?) for proclaiming me
a disciple of Solomon!
Between you and me, gentle reader, Justice must have had to tighten
that bandage about her eyes when she learned of that decree! She surely
must have loosened it laughing!
I can say, however, that it is a most expensive luxury--being divorced!
It's much cheaper to use the active voice of that verb!
* * * * *
Marriages are made in heaven--canceled in Reno.
* * * * *
I have had many sweethearts, but only one survives--my mother.
* * * * *
If a man steal your wife don't kill him--caution him!
_Chapter LXXIII_
SIR BEERBOHM TREE
A most extraordinary man is Beerbohm Tree. Refined, almost aesthetic in
manner yet as worldly and practical as the most prosaic merchant. His
humor is human if a bit cynical. He has the manner of a dreamer and an
eye like a City man or an American gambler. Among those he loves he is
nothing but a boy with a boyish simplicity but when he is surrounded by
uninteresting acquaintances he suggests a German philosopher or Danish
poet--in his impenetrable reserve!
A clever man is Beerbohm Tree and I like him.
As is the case with all successful players especially if they have the
good sense and good taste to present refined art he has many enemies.
And most of these are members of his own profession! These malcontents
have the effrontery to discuss a genius who has so far distanced them
by his indefatigable industry, mentality and application as to leave
them nowhere. He has succeeded in producing dignified plays in a
dignified manner and his success has not been only "artistic." He makes
enough to be able to pay $50,000 per annum for one of the prettiest
playhouses in the world!
I smile with you at your scoffers, Mr. Tree (I can't say Sir
Beerbohm!). My hat's off to you.
Here is a little anecdote of the man they say is characteristic.
He had been dining quite late--yes, and well. When the party broke up
Tree hailed a cab and jumped in with the one word, "Home," addressed
toward the cabby. That artful individual saw his chance for a fat
fare and drove off without inquiring for more explicit instructions.
After he had let his horse wander about London all night--with Tree
in peaceful slumber inside--the cabby peeked in through his little
aperture in the roof and awoke the sleeping player.
"Where shall I drive you to now, sir?" queried the cabby.
"Home, I say," replied Tree angrily.
"I beg pardon, guv'nor," replied the cabby, "but where is your 'ome,
sir?"
Tree opened one eye long enough to direct a look full of reproach at
the cabby.
"You don't imagine I'm going to tell every common cabman my private
address, do you?"
_Chapter LXXIV_
THE ORIGIN OF THE STAGE
Far be it from me to be a dusty delver into dates! But a word as to
the origin of the profession in which so many of us have toiled so
many years may not be amiss, especially if it point the moral or adorn
the tale I have in mind. And that is not so much a tale as a protest
against the customary reverence the public has for the actor who dares
essay the classic rôles. It's not only not difficult to play a classic
rôle. It's fifty per cent easier than to play a modern part!
But to be historical!
It was almost 350 (or only, as you please) years ago that the first
properly licensed theatre was built in London. The exact date was 1570.
It was called the Black Friars Theatre.
(And to-day, 1913, there are a dozen or so on one block, on one side of
one block in Forty-second street, New York!)
On the other hand it is marvelous to consider the amount of discussion
one causes when one announces a forth-coming production of a classic
play. By common impulse the critics sharpen their quills and prepare
for the onslaught! How dare men and women who have been known to wear
modern garments attractively and in style even attempt to enter into
competition with past or present "masters"? By what right has the
modern actor forsaken his frock coat for the sock and buskin?
But again, the first religious spectacle was probably "St. Catherine,"
a miracle play mentioned by Mattheu Paris as having been written by
Geoffrey, a Norman, afterwards Abbot of St. Albans, and played at
Dunstable Abbey in 1110. In the "Description of the most noble city of
London" by Fitz Stephen, a monk, in treating of the diversions of the
inhabitants of the metropolis in 1174, says that while the plays all
dealt with holy subjects the methods of the merchants who "presented"
the attractions were anything but that. The gentle art of the ballyhoo
was evidently well known even in those days for they used jugglers
and buffoons and minstrels to draw the crowds up to the box office
window. When the clergy awoke to what was going on they promptly put
their sandaled feet down and stopped the money-making! Monks took
the place of the unfrocked actors and the box offices and theatres
all disappeared. Thereafter the miracle plays were enacted in the
cathedrals and there was no way to check the gross receipts!
According to the critics the classic comedy should never be played by
an actor who has not arrived at an age that physically incapacitates
him from not only looking the part but acting it! It is no different
with classic tragedy. And this is based, perhaps, on the absurd fallacy
that the classic drama is most difficult to portray. In fact it is the
easiest. It is easily proved.
Take any one of the old comedies. In the first place they create their
own atmosphere, an atmosphere unknown to nine hundred and ninety-nine
out of one thousand. The costumes are of brilliant coloring and in
exquisite taste and a novelty in themselves. Nine-tenths of the idioms
are not understood by the audience--and that is always most attractive!
The methods of provoking laughter are uncommon, hence sure-fire! The
play is a classic, therefore beyond criticism! No one is alive to-day
who can judge of its accuracy--so it must be perfect! And, best of all,
it is guaranteed to be in conformance with all the best standards--by
tradition!
A tramp could make a success with a modern play with half this much in
its favor!
On the other hand take the modern play. You know the atmosphere. You
live in it. None is created. It is just there. Consequently the critics
wail the lack of it! The costumes are simply the dull prosaic garments
of the day. There isn't any novelty to be found there. The language
is understandable--perilous fault! The fun is provoked by well-known,
legitimate methods and is accordingly "stupid." The comedian is a human
being--and "tiresome" therefore!
Mind you, dear reader, I would not be of those who wail about the
decline of the drama and the ascendency of the movies. But I can't
escape the facts. And here is another angle of the situation which
perhaps is too often overlooked.
There is no question that the actor of to-day is living in a more
agreeable environment than his brother of a hundred years ago. He is
accepted now socially. He was a gypsy then. His opportunity to annex a
large share of the world's goods is larger to-day than ever it was. Yet
in his artistic life he is less fortunate than his confreres of even
twenty-five years ago.
Why?
Simply because we have lifted the curtain, let loose the secrets of our
little house, discussed our art with the gambler and the janitor!
It is a difficult job to convince a friend with whom you're dining that
you are capable of playing Hamlet. He can't disassociate you from the
evening clothes you wear!
Abroad the man and the actor are separate beings. Here, through our own
fault, we are always ourselves.
And so it must continue to be until the old back door keeper is
reinstated, the green room refurbished and--the curtain dropped!
Let the janitor be silenced and the stage door barred and securely
fastened! Then and not until then may we hope to attain truly artistic
results.
[Illustration: IN HAMLET
_It had always been my desire to appear in Shakespearean roles_]
_Chapter LXXV_
MY STAGE-STRUCK VALET
It was back in the early nineties that an invitation was extended to
me to appear in an all-star performance of "Richard the Third" in a
monster benefit for some charitable institution. (My friends, the
critics, permit me to play tragedy--for charity!) With my acceptance
of the invitation I also sent word I should appreciate it if a "bit"
(a small part) were given to my valet to play. This valet of mine was
the most woefully stage-struck individual I ever saw. It was his only
fault. Otherwise he was without a blemish as a valet. He had begged me
for months to let him go on in one of my productions but I had never
had an opportunity until now.
The messenger sent from Richmond through Lord Stanley to Richard on
the field of battle was the part my valet was to play and his line
was "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of
Richmond." For weeks prior to the benefit matinee that valet repeated
his line aloud! If I asked for my slippers he brought them mumbling, "A
gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond."
No matter what I said to him he prefaced his answer with this line. It
got on my nerves to such an extent I told him I'd dismiss him if he
said it again in my hearing. It was no use. Every time I turned my head
I saw my valet repeating "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance
from the Earl of Richmond."
We put in a long rehearsal session the morning of the matinee. I was
so much occupied with my own performance I paid no attention to the
valet. I forgot even to inform him about the costume he should wear. As
I was finishing my make-up and within a moment or two of the rise of
the curtain my valet appeared in the doorway of my dressing-room with
a request that I look him over. What I saw sent me into a paroxysm of
laughter. There he was, 250 pounds of him, in a green hauberk extending
only to the top of his stomach! (It should have covered him to his
knees.) Blue tights pulled over the generous paunch met the lingering
and deficient hauberk. Scarlet boots were fitted with spurs so huge
as to stagger any tragedian! The helmet whose side chains should have
touched his shoulders sat atop his head like a chestnut on an apple
with the side chains tickling the tops of his ears! As a finish he had
the largest sword I ever saw strapped to his side!
There was no time to change so I suppressed my laughter and told him
for the fiftieth time to go to the left first entrance and when he saw
my back toward him and heard me say, "Off with his head, so much for
Buckingham," to rush on and with all his vigor shout his line. The
valet promptly began, "A gentleman called--" but I stopped him and he
started off as proud as a peacock and as confident as possible.
The moment came. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the valet waiting in
his place. In his eagerness he was like a tiger ready to spring on his
prey. I gave the cue. On came the valet! Then I turned and with all the
force at my command snarled, "How now?"
The valet began to fall backwards! Nearer and nearer the footlights
he tottered until his feet became entangled in the spurs--and down he
went flat on his back! Picking himself up he managed to rescue the
funny little helmet from the footlights trough, put it on his head,
look for the exact center of the stage, reach it carefully, face the
audience (with his back toward me!) and shouted, "A lady named Stanley
is downstairs!"
Of course everybody died! It was really my fault. I had omitted telling
him that in tragedy actors save their voices at rehearsal and of course
my rage was altogether unexpected by him as I had previously said "How
now?" in a conversational tone. Of course every one of my friends
insisted my valet was not to blame inasmuch as he had been making just
announcements every day of his life to either John Mason or me in our
little flat in the West thirties! But I always set it down as the best
proof in the world that valets are born and not made.
* * * * *
Tragedy is the husband of humor; comedy the child.
* * * * *
Many comedians either make you laugh or frighten you to death.
_Chapter LXXVI_
GEORGE C. TYLER
Of all the managers now producing plays in America there is one who
stands like Caesar alone, looking down upon the victorious battle
field of success. If there are any laurel wreaths for sale in your
neighborhood, gentle reader, buy one and bestow it upon the brow of
George C. Tyler. Patient, keen, gentle and aggressive, he merits it.
He has more artistic blood coursing through his veins than any man I
know and, better still, he knows how to exude it. Courageous even to
being stubborn he never allows anyone to rob him of his convictions.
Once he embarks on any project he is as unmovable as the Sphinx whose
counterpart appears in his spectacular triumph, "The Garden of Allah."
Although he owns wonderful business ability he never allows
commercialism to influence him in the production of a play. His
knowledge of the ethics of the theatre equals the masters' and he
can fly with the speed of a bird from tragedy to comedy. Here is no
purveyor of established successes but a discoverer of them! He is truly
a servant of the masses. And with all his success he remains as urbane
as when he began. He has fought his battles alone and unaided; borne
his failures with fortitude; accepted defeat with the same equanimity
as success. And now he stands one of the representative producing
managers of the world!
I have been associated with him only once and it was one of the most
delightful experiences of my career.
Shall I ever again enjoy that pleasure?
I wonder.
August, 1913
It was a long time ago I wrote the preceding encomium. To-day I am
suing Mr. Tyler for a large sum of money for breach of contract! But I
meant it when I wrote it and I mean it still! And it goes as it stands!
_Chapter LXXVII_
I FIND THE VERY BEST PHYLLIS
Fate in the person of George Broadhurst may seem incongruous to those
who know that dramatist--but Fate is not to be held accountable for his
guises! And it was through Broadhurst that Fate brought onto my horizon
a young woman who presently was to save my life--and that is the least
of countless benefits she has bestowed upon me!
Broadhurst spent most of his time in Southern California from 1907 to
1909 and not a little of it at my beach home. After my long run of
failures I hoped I had landed a winner in his new play "The Captain"
which I took to New York for production there. He accompanied me and
undertook to select the cast. It was he who engaged as my leading woman
Miss Margaret Moreland.
The play was a fizzle as complete as any of the others. Until it proved
a disastrous failure I never knew it was not all Broadhurst's. He told
me afterwards he had written it in collaboration with some "unknown!"
[Illustration: MARGARET MORELAND
_The very best Phyllis_]
To round out my season I revived several of my tried and trusted old
plays and did fairly good business on the road. If I accomplished
nothing else that season could be set down by me as a success inasmuch
as I discovered in Miss Moreland's acting of Phyllis in "When We
were Twenty-One," the finest performance that rôle ever received--and
I knew that in her lay the ability to become a really great emotional
actress--a distinct discovery in these days.
When I received an offer at the close of the season to go to Los
Angeles and appear in a repertoire of my plays at the Auditorium
Theatre where a new stock company was being formed, I accepted. On my
arrival there I found the whole city wildly excited over this first
attempt at opposition which the Emperor of Stage Land in Southern
California, Oliver Morosco, had ever been called upon to throttle. It
was a battle royal while it lasted. The Auditorium, which seats 3500,
was packed at every performance--at very cheap prices. During the
several months of my engagement Morosco spent many thousands of dollars
tying up all the plays available for stock performances he could lay
his hands on. Also my engagement served to increase the salaries of a
number of Morosco's actors who he feared were about to desert him. For
me it was a brief holiday and amusing.
I recruited a company in Los Angeles following this engagement,
engaging Miss Moreland as my leading woman, and opened in Phoenix,
Arizona, playing my way across the country and arriving in New York in
the holiday season in 1911. It was during this cross-country tour that
I received a telegram from George C. Tyler which resulted in my proving
to not a few doubting Thomases that I could "come back."
I have constantly referred to Fate taking my cue from Homer. Now I
learn he used this word simply to save time! It seems it is "the fates"
who have directed my course through life. With those three little maids
from school, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos leading me along with their
silken threads through my nose, allowing me to go on and on and then
reeling me back again as one toys with a yellowtail, is it any wonder
I've made so many failures? Had I only known I should have given up
long ago!
Young ladies, you've certainly made it warm for me!
* * * * *
A love scene on the stage, properly played, leads to recriminations--if
an explanation is demanded by the one left at home.
* * * * *
An "American beauty" is a flower which seeks to adorn a coronet. Wear
one as a boutonnière--but never, never marry one!
* * * * *
Marriage in the profession should be made obligatory.
_Chapter LXXVIII_
THE LAMBS CLUB
What a remarkable institution is the Lambs Club!
I say institution because in its development during the past twenty
years it has grown from a cozy little rendezvous for the tired actors
after their night's work to a clearing house for plays, sketches and
engagements of artists.
To visit that beautiful home on Forty-fourth Street between the hours
of one and two o'clock is to imagine you are in a business man's
luncheon club down town.
As I look back upon the many years when, of a cold winter's night, I
would wander into the little Twenty-sixth Street home of the Lambs--I
sigh deeply! Then I was sure to find a greeting from dear old Clay
Greene, from that budding genius Gus Thomas. There were there to
welcome me also the erratic Sydney Rosenfeldt, suave Frank Carlisle,
dominant Wilton Lackaye, brilliant Maurice Barrymore, dear old Lincoln
(now passed away) and countless others, including clever Henry Dixey,
then at the zenith of his success, the Holland boys and--but then why
continue?
It was then we knew how to spend the time, how to regale ourselves and
how to pass many, many happy hours with anecdote and song. All the
members knew each other in those days. I, among many others, never
entered the club without embracing that dearest of men, George Fawcett.
There were no favored few in those days. It was one for all and all
for one. Clever John Mason and that equally talented artist, George
Nash, were the staunchest upholders of this slogan.
How different now!
As I enter the Lambs Club today I scarcely know a member. Almost all of
the old guard have passed away. As I look into the faces of the many
unknown to me it seems almost impossible that I have not wandered into
the wrong building! But presently I find Gus Thomas and a few remaining
members of the old flock--and then all is well once more.
Thomas has developed into the greatest American dramatist--as I knew
he would. To be sure now and then one of his plays fails to meet with
favor while perhaps one of the anaemic Broadhurst's sensual plays
is meeting with success, but Thomas's plays will live and be in the
libraries of America when the products of these ephemeral writers have
been consigned to the waste baskets of obscurity.
I consider Thomas not only a great dramatist but a great American. I
am sure if he had entered politics the world would have recognized him
as a great statesman. With a suavity of manner, full of repose and a
geniality which few possess, Thomas exerts on an audience a combined
feeling of restfulness and awe. I never heard him utter an unkind word
to anybody nor discuss an actor's or author's ability with anything
approaching antagonism. He goes along quietly and unassumingly, writes
a couple of failures and then--bang!--he hits you in the eye with a
play that has a knock-out punch.
Such plays as "The Witching Hour" and "As a Man Thinks" will be acted
when he and his many admirers shall have long since passed into the
great beyond.
Augustus Thomas I count the Pinero of America--and a true American
gentleman. We have been friends for twenty years and I am proud of that
friendship.
[Illustration: AS FAGIN IN OLIVER TWIST
"_Fagin was a comedian_"]