Part 18
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.
_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.
Shortly after Palmer secured an injunction against "Nunky," and I 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.