John Mason. Surely the American public must be proud of this splendid
player. John and I were very dear pals in our younger days and we
have kept up the friendship to date. In those days John was prone to
indulgence in all the existing vagaries of the moment and never took
himself seriously until recently. But now he has settled down and
showed his real merits as an actor.
The fact that he is a great favorite in London speaks volumes for his
capability.
I sincerely hope that John Mason may be spared for many years to show
this great American public that there are a few American artists still
capable of delivering the goods.
John! I wish you continued success, for you deserve it!
* * * * *
In casting a play nowadays, never seek ability, seek only "personality."
* * * * *
The true philosophy of life is to try to achieve something and when you
have--forget it.
* * * * *
Put a uniform on the average middle class "American" and you make of
him a vulgar despot.
_Chapter LXXIX_
I "COME BACK"
Tyler's telegram contained an offer to play Fagin in an all-star
production of "Oliver Twist" to be produced in February, 1912, on the
occasion of the Dickens' centenary celebration. It had been a long
time, the longest time in my entire stage career, that I had been
without a successful characterization in New York--and the thought of
giving my interpretation of the famous Jew appealed to me. I accepted.
The production was very good. The company was quite capable. Associated
with me were Constance Collier, Lyn Harding, Marie Doro and other
equally well-known and finished artists. Fuller Mellish's performance
of Mr. Grimwig was one of the most delightful bits of character acting
I ever saw.
We opened at the New Amsterdam Theatre to a capacity audience and
tremendous business was the rule during the entire engagement. It was
a fine playhouse in which to stage such a pretentious production as
Tyler had given the play. There is little doubt that "Oliver Twist"
might have remained at the New Amsterdam almost indefinitely had it not
been that other, earlier bookings compelled us to move out. The demand
for seats was so great, however, that Charles Frohman welcomed us at
the Empire Theatre where, much to my surprise (for it is altogether
too small and "intimate" a place for such a production as this), it
continued to "turn 'em away."
The critics were all very enthusiastic. It amused me not a little to
detect in several of the reviews expressions of surprise that I was
able to portray Fagin to the reviewer's satisfaction. Of course I knew
all along that the Rialto and Park Row were a unit in declaring that I
could never "come back." I think perhaps the simple fact that I made
Fagin a humorous old codger instead of the sinister object our very
best tragedians have always painted him may account for the laudatory
notices my work received.
But there can't be any question about Fagin. He was a
comedian--positively! Think of his telling Charlie Bates he would give
"dear little Oliver a treat"--by letting him sleep in that awful, awful
bed of his! Oh yes, Fagin never stopped having silent laughs. And I
liked him for it.
While we were playing to packed houses at every performance at the
Empire Tyler sailed for Europe assuring us he would send us out on tour
after the Empire Theatre engagement. He said we were to go to the Coast
and continue the tour throughout the following season. As a result I
turned down a very flattering offer to appear in New York that fall.
Had he not failed to keep his promise I should have been spared a year
of physical suffering!
But he did break his promise. A week after the Titanic disaster we
received notice that the season was at an end so far as "Oliver Twist"
was concerned.
And now, having "come back" I foolishly determined to go back--and I
started for California once more. I've always thought Greeley's advice
should have read, "Go West, old man!"
_Chapter LXXX_
I "GO BACK"
The summer of 1912 proved very eventful!
Closing the "Oliver Twist" season early in May I headed for California
to superintend the development of my ranch at San Jacinto. Immediately
on my arrival I began the laying out and planting of a hundred acres of
oranges, lemons and grape fruit. It proved most fascinating work.
During the three months I put in at the ranch I lived in a big tent
with a party of friends including Miss Moreland and her married sister.
I was up with the birds and in bed by 9 o'clock every night. Employing
as I was twenty men and ten six-horse teams, ten four-horse and three
ten-horse, my job of supervision was necessarily a big one. I would
go from one gang to another climbing hills which in a few days would
be levelled! Oh it was big work--adjusting the miles of pipe lines
and cement flumes which we manufactured ourselves during the process
of grading, preparing the holes to receive the trees which were being
prepared and nourished at the nursery of a Mr. Wilson of Hemet, two
miles away, seeing that the hot ground was properly cooled by the water
I had developed from a concealed spring in the mountains and doing
the thousand and one other things necessary to insure the successful
development of an orange grove.
I had previously given the work a great deal of thought and study.
It requires a great deal. The average orange grower neglects the
study of the planting and rearing of the trees and the result is more
often failure than success. An orange tree will not nourish alone
and neglected any more than a baby and it is in its early life, like
the infant, that it must be watched. The young tree should first be
carefully examined as to its vigor and stamina; next its foundation
or roots must be well looked after and handled tenderly in its
uprooting in the nursery; extreme care expressed in the removal and
transplanting. It should be transported, if the weather be hot, during
the early morning hours, packed in manure, well watered and the roots
covered by canvas or burlap. The holes should be kept moist all the
previous evening to cool the earth and in the planting all the roots
should be carefully separated and spread out. Directly a row is planted
it should be deluged with water for six to eight hours or longer. Once
a week for ten years the ground should be cultivated and disturbed
and every year, unless the soil is very rich, the trees should be
fertilized. An orchard should be gone over at least every other day for
three years when by that time it can take care of itself with a little
attention and be made a most profitable investment. But it won't thrive
on its own and you can't run an orange grove living three thousand
miles away nor intrust it to the management of the average care taker.
Go to it personally and it will prove a winner with a chance of
clearing one thousand dollars an acre annually.
* * * * *
Faith is the harbor of the unwary into which the ship of ignorance
tranquilly sails.
_Chapter LXXXI_
DAVID BELASCO
What an intellectual giant is David Belasco! The most conspicuous man
associated with the American stage to-day. His accomplishments have
been colossal. Even Irving, Pouissard, Charles Keane and many other
artists of their day, who have devoted their lives to Art, bow in
obeisance to the modern David.
Think what this gentleman has accomplished! He has given to the world
David Warfield and made him a master; Blanche Bates, Mrs. Carter and
many others of equal talent. Produced plays that will go down in
history among the classics; modernized stagecraft to the extent that
one never realizes they are in a theatre when privileged to witness
one of the Belasco productions. Yet, with all his wondrous powers and
attainments, he is never in evidence, only his handiwork. He has built
the only playhouse worthy the name in America. It suggests the old
Irving Lyceum in London, and one approaches the portals of the Belasco
Theatre with awe and reverence.
I have known him for over thirty years, and he is as modest as he is
clever: every angle of our Art at his finger tips. A gentleman, scholar
and Artist! A Man, is David Belasco, Dean of the American Drama.
[Illustration: DAVID BELASCO
_An intellectual giant_]
_Chapter LXXXII_
"AUTHOR--AUTHOR"
Not so long ago I was present at the first performance of a play, and
during its presentation I was shocked beyond my power to describe by an
incident at the same time disgusting and inconceivably vulgar. The play
itself--a wearisome thing--was crude and altogether impossible.
At the end of the second act, a half dozen paid ushers applauded
valiantly. Before they could become wearied by their difficult task, a
huge, bulky man appeared before the curtain. He ambled slowly to the
center of the stage where he stood still for perhaps fifteen seconds as
if to enable the audience to contemplate him in repose.
Then this individual shifted his weight from one leg to the other,
still keeping silent. There he stood, a sneer distorting his features,
poised on one leg, the left foot pointing toward the right. He wore
an ill-fitting evening suit with an abundance of shirt front, very
much mussed, protruding from the confines of the waistcoat. His face,
unwashed, suggested a cross between a Bill Sykes and a Caliban.
Oblique, thin slits concealed a pair of green-white eyes. A strong,
wide jaw that opened and shut like the snap of an alligator's was
tilted forward and upward at the puzzled spectators.
Finally the person, the author of the drivel we had patiently listened
to, leaned over the footlights and casting a look toward the woman for
whom he had deserted home, wife and children, literally snarled at the
audience.
"I wrote this play for the elect," he declared ferociously.
A perceptible shudder ran through the house. Many men and women rose
from their seats and left the theatre, refusing to remain to hear the
incoherent and egotistical remarks of this revolting person.
I have known this brute for twenty years, and in all that time I have
never heard one human being speak anything except ill of him. Managers
avoid him. Artists loathe him. Authors despise him. A moral and
physical coward, this man without a friend, wanders from East to West,
vulgarly attempting to foist upon a long-suffering and all-too-easily
deceived public, the woman whose chief claim to public notice is the
fact that she was named as co-respondent in the divorce action obtained
by his wife.
He continues to write plays of the underworld with inspirations
obtained in the sewers of humanity and founded on ideas purloined
from departed authors or stolen from the living too weak to protect
themselves.
His blustering, bullying tactics have enabled him to push his way
upwards to some success--but no one envies him. All who know him "have
his number."
I have often wondered how he has escaped bodily injury. No woman is
safe from his insults. I know one young woman who went to him in search
of an engagement. His first question was so dastardly as to cause her
to burst into tears, and she ran from his presence in hysterics. When
this young woman's uncle learned of it he loaded a revolver and started
on this playwright's track. But the tears and entreaties of his wife
and his niece stopped him.
Will the world ever be rid of this form of human parasite?
I wonder.
The antithesis of this person is another author equally despised. He is
a little, pale person who writes problem plays and has met with much
success. He never drinks or smokes. In fact he poses as a paragon of
all the virtues.
He once wrote me an insulting letter accusing me of uttering profane
remarks concerning a certain business transaction between us. I never
answered it, but have it in my possession. It may prove useful some day.
This beauty, who also has a wife and children, came West some few
years ago accompanied by a woman whom he introduced to many persons
as his wife. I knew she was not, but kept my counsel. One day we were
discussing a play which he had promised to write for me. I asked him
why he did not divorce his wife or insist on her divorcing him. He
blandly replied: "Great Scott, I've tried everything to induce her to
do so, but she doesn't believe in divorce. Besides, she is a Christian."
Fancy this pious little man saying this.
He goes merrily on his way, living a dual life--the woman of his
easy choice provided for far better than his wife and children. And
he writes plays dealing with moral problems! He receives very large
royalties and basks in the sunshine of his own hypocrisy.
And this individual has had the audacity to criticise my actions and
elect himself the censor of my various attitudes.
Well, let him. I would not exchange my conscience for his for all his
affluence. And yet, from his point of view, he is right. The world
applauds his plays. No one seems to interfere with his private affairs.
He is received by all his fellow club members with impersonal respect.
The wide white way is always open to him and the woman. There no one
ever pushes them aside. The legal wife and children are unknown to
cruel, gay Broadway. The narrow paths of the meadows and lanes of the
suburban retreat in which this successful author has his family housed
are their only byways. Through them they slowly tread--to the little
church and beyond it to the graveyard, towards which the wife and
mother ever sets her gaze--as if in prayerful hope.
And the author of successful plays is content.
He knows his wife is a Christian.
What is he?
I wonder.
* * * * *
I would rather sell fresh eggs from the end of my private car in
one-night stands--than barter impure ones on the stage of a leading New
York playhouse.
* * * * *
An agnostic objects to salaries for draped preachers and to temples
whose roofs prohibit thought from permeating the realm of inspiration.
* * * * *
Fact is the whiplash that scourges faith.
_Chapter LXXXIII_
MUSHROOM MANAGERS
The past year has been an appalling one for the mushroom producing
manager. I mean those insolent young men nearing the thirties, who by
accident or some unknown reason secure control of musical comedies
written by some obscure author and after interesting friends to the
extent of investing capital enough to enable them to produce the
aforesaid comedies, they launch their productions and sometimes get
them over.
They look about for the best available talent, establish salaries
that make it prohibitive for legitimate producers to sustain, and
calmly go on their way. If they fail they can assign the production
to the storehouse and leave their artists in any town or city where
they come a cropper. If they succeed with their first venture they at
once organize two or three road companies and go through the country
circusing their first accidental success. They establish themselves in
expensive offices; engage a staff and go at once into the producing
game seriously, seeking the best authors and composers and outbidding
managers of standing, and endeavor to secure prevailing European
successes, or produce original plays of their own. Naturally, their
lack of training and experience is a handicap and their first success
is seldom followed by another. Two or three successive failures soon
put them on the shelf and they seek the Bankruptcy Court to avoid
their creditors. Artists are left stranded with an inflated idea
of their respective values and generally indulge in a well merited
vacation.
They have no sense of honor and their idea of speculation is to invest
a shoe string with an idea of securing a tannery.
One of these producers was standing in the lobby of a New York theatre,
last season, on the eve of one of his $30,000.00 productions, when he
was approached by one of the leading actors of the past winter, to whom
he owed several thousand dollars back salary. The actor offered to
compromise for a thousand. The manager looked at him and replied: "My
boy, where could I get the thousand?" These are the methods that are
destroying the theatrical game.
Irresponsible managers have only to enter the office of these
syndicates, assure the gentleman in charge that they have a production
ready costing many thousands of dollars, and the booking agent at
once arranges a tour, throwing aside standard attractions who have
not invested quite as much money as the new producer, and the older
attraction must take what is given him or leave it alone. If he
objects, he is told that the Mushroom Manager has invested from $20,000
to $50,000 in his enterprise and his capital must be protected and the
terms made accordingly. In other words, the booking agents gamble with
them and allow them a percentage of the gross receipts according to
the amount of his investment. I consider this all wrong and one of the
reasons of the unsuccessful theatres of the present day.
Men who have judgment and talent should be protected. If they draw the
money, what matter to the booking agent what amount of money has been
invested?
Three or four of these Mushroom Managers have gone into bankruptcy this
season and they can be found every evening at present, tangoing on the
various roof gardens, where they belong.
There is no denying the fact that as a nation we prate about patriotism
that does not exist. Every foreign artist who visits our shores finds
us ready to bow down and pay homage, be it the Mistress of a dethroned
king, a bare-legged Countess or an anemic tragedian. I have no desire
to be personal; but the adulation, attention and grovelling at the feet
of Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson is to me, as an American actor, simply
disgusting; not that Sir John is not a good actor, or even a great
actor, but I have memories of a departed actor named Edwin Booth, who
lost a million dollars in an honest endeavor to perpetuate his art by
erecting a playhouse which bore his name. Now, this foreigner who has
done absolutely nothing to advance the art of acting, advertises his
farewell to a public who are as fickle as they are undiscriminating
and packs the theatres, giving his last performance in New York to
receipts that dear Edwin Booth never dreamed of playing to; conspicuous
citizens pay him tribute, and go forth proclaiming his performance of
Hamlet superior to that of Booth. How we Americans forget and fawn.
One of our best known and oldest comedians at present appearing before
the public, had the extreme bad taste after witnessing the performance
of Robertson's Hamlet, to enter the Players Club, which Edwin Booth
presented to the profession, and pronounce Robertson's Hamlet superior
to Booth's. As a boy I had the pleasure of witnessing Booth play
Hamlet; I saw a prince to his finger tips looking the character of a
philosopher of thirty, and playing it to perfection. Now an anemic
old gentleman past sixty, with a supporting company of which Corse
Payton would be ashamed, is packing the playhouses of America, bidding
farewell to a public that has long since forgotten Edwin Booth and
his supporting company, which included such actors as Edwin Adams,
John McCullough, Milnes Levick and divers others of equal talents. One
never heard of E. L. Davenport's farewell nor Edwin Forrest's, another
actor who left a home for actors incapacitated for work; they are in
the grave, forgotten. Actors are walking Broadway seeking employment,
others are travelling seeking to earn a livelihood, while an anemic
old gentleman is calmly gathering in the American dollars to build his
English palace.
* * * * *
How unfortunate to grow up with one's Country! Far better to burst
suddenly upon it--unknown--but heralded!
* * * * *
One failure in America will blot out the memory of a score of
successes. Here art is sold by the yard.
* * * * *
To realize the unimportance of art, read the average critical review of
it.
* * * * *
Acting is now a matter of geography.
* * * * *
America is the English actor's Mecca; England is our cemetery.
[Illustration: DRAWN WHILE WE WERE "BARNSTORMING"]
_Chapter LXXXIV_
"KEEP OFF THE GRASS"
I wonder if the average American citizen, particularly that type of
long-haired reformer whom the middle west sends to Southern California,
ever stops to seek the reason for the annual exodus abroad of so many
of us. In these annual trips to Europe we leave millions of dollars
earned in this country to add to the coffers of those who understand
the broad principles and liberal ideas of government.
It is for freedom! Free thought! Free inclinations! Free expenditures!
Masters of themselves, they go where they please, eat and drink what
they desire at any hour, time and place. There they are not subservient
to the prying eyes of long-haired men and short-haired women. There
they find a patch of green for rest and recreation without a sign
reading "Keep off the Grass."
The majority of the law-makers of our supposedly free country are
not legislators. They are either school-teachers or policemen or
hypocritical saints who eat cold food on Sunday and prate from their
platform of platitudes their plenary inspirations with a desire that
all mankind do likewise. If you fail to live up to their doctrines you
are a heretic. If you desire to live among them with free instincts
you write yourself down an anchorite. Personally, I would rather be a
Hyperborean and subsist on icicles than be compelled to live subject
to the insular municipal laws of this boasted free country. Were I
personally denied the opportunity of visiting the various capitals
of Europe at intervals and watching and enjoying results of modern
civilization and really free government, I might be converted and agree
with some of the ignorant and incompetent law-makers of our so-called
free country.
Come, oh, come with me, some of you moralists who consider it a
crime to take a cocktail on the Sabbath, and visit Berlin, the best
governed city in the world, where life begins at midnight and continues
for twenty-four hours. Then let us on to Paris and Vienna and St.
Petersburg, with a stop at Rome. Gaze upon the many happy faces, a
large per cent truant, free American citizens enjoying themselves like
school children at recess, finding a respite from the puritanical laws
of their own country. No arbitrary ordinances forbid their ordering
wine, visiting the race courses, playing at baccarat, spending an
evening at the opera, and there are no policemen to tell them "Keep off
the grass."
And all this enjoyment on the Lord's Day! Fancy! How horrible! What
blasphemy! Truly shocking! It is enough to make John Calvin ask his
neighbor to turn over.
Does it ever occur to these psalm singers that people do this of their
own volition? There are as many Cathedrals as there are restaurants,
but there is no law that compels you to patronize either.
We are denied the sport of Kings--horse racing. In England racing
is upheld by royalty and the House of Lords. Here it is decried by
disloyalty and a house of cards.
It would be amusing to the native American who has travelled throughout
the world and watched the growth of really free and sensible
governments, were it not so humiliating, to regard this wave of
morality that is sweeping the country like a forest fire.
That bewhiskered gentleman in New York, who wielded his scepter of cant
from the governor's chair, confessed he had never attended a theatre
or seen a horse race. I can well believe it. I presume when he was
at college the pantry attracted him more than the foot ball field.
He chooses to disfigure his face with a square cut beard. Therefore
from his point of view barbers are unnecessary! Why didn't he shut up
all the barber shops and revoke the Gillette Safety Razor patent? He
has just as much authority, morally, to shut up all the restaurants
and bars because he never tasted wine. A good tonsorial spree and a
cocktail would benefit this disciple of John Knox, I am sure.
Fancy an ordinance in this free country forbidding wine at restaurants
on Sundays unless a meal is ordered and that hot! Can you imagine
anything more ludicrous than these psalm singers making arbitrary laws
about the temperature of our food? No prize fights are allowed nor even
pictures of the manly art of self-defense to be shown. What a rebuke to
American manhood! What a future for our sons to contemplate!