Part 12

Even Mr. J. L. Shine, the accomplished actor who played the part, did not seem to understand it. Another mistake was with “The little English Lord,” as he was called in the play—a lordling whom a rich American girl had married. Here he was a fussy little fellow, an undersized dude—a caricature, in fact, and made no end of fun, but on the London stage he was the real thing, and taken seriously. The management seemed to be afraid to travesty so sacred a personage as a noble lord. I imagine this was a mistake, for at least a portion of the British people had been so far emancipated as to appreciate fun poked at the “hupper classes.”

I have mentioned London’s respect for dramatic criticism. Let us admit for a moment that London is the centre of the universe—the great wheel that sets all the rest in motion, and that what is successful there ought to succeed everywhere else—even if it doesn’t. Then, in logical sequence, let us understand that the greatest critic of the metropolis can make or break any “attraction,” and that this commanding position was held by the late Clement Scott,—poet, _littérateur_ and playwright, for more than a quarter of a century and have we not practically admitted that Mr. Scott was theatrical dictator of the universe?

Even logic is sometimes at fault. I remember being taught at school that dry bread was better than heaven, because dry bread is better than nothing and nothing is better than heaven—see? This is not cited to imply that what I have said of Clement Scott is wrong, but to convince the skeptical that all men cannot be expected to reason alike.

There was no doubt of the greatness of the London _Daily Telegraph’s_ critic, for nothing was easier of comprehension. He was a master of word-painting; the grace and truthfulness of his word-pictures were evident to the most careless reader. There was nothing vulgar or flippant in anything he wrote, and irrelevant witticisms, such as many would-be critics indulge in, were entirely lacking in his work. Slow to condemn, when he corrected a player the work was done with gracious gentleness, although his satire, when needed, was biting and deep. In the righting of wrongs he proved himself utterly fearless, and regardless of consequences to himself. By this course he made many friends and more enemies. Indeed, one of his peculiarities was his readiness to make an enemy, if by so doing he could win a friend.

Mr. Scott was truly a friend to the friendless, a helper of the helpless and a clever adviser to all. Both he and his wife were very active in charitable work, but his greatest energies seemed to have been exerted in securing employment for needy actors and aiding aspiring ones by word and deed, for he did so much for both classes that his friends wondered how he found time for anything else. His kindness knew no bounds of nation or tongue, and the antagonism supposed to exist between Englishmen and Americans found no echo in his big heart.

In appearance Mr. Scott resembled a rugged oak-tree that has grown so vigorously in all directions that any part seems fully as strong as any other. He was rather tall, with broad shoulders that drooped slightly, and was quite fleshy although not obese. His ears were set far back on his head and his face, though intellectual, was largely modeled—high forehead, heavy eyebrows, kind and thoughtful gray eyes, a large nose and mouth and in his later years a white moustache. His hands, though large, were so shapely as to command attention.

In manner he was emphatic but never dogmatic, as some members of his profession are. His prominence was greater than can be imagined in the United States, where the people seldom know the names of the dramatic critics whose work they most admire, yet he was as modest and unaffected as any of his admirers. There was nothing of the _ergo ego_ about him, nor anything pretentious. Yet there lurked behind his mild, quiet manner an enthusiasm for work and a scholarly application to work, that were absolutely remarkable. At the theatre he was the last man whom a stranger would suspect of being a critic, for the bored look and the feigned weariness that some of the dramatic reviewers affect were entirely lacking in him. He did not even make notes on his programme. Men like Scott do not have to affect wisdom or the resigned look that is supposed to result from it. I know a young whipper-snapper with a nice, fast-black bored look that cost years of effort to cultivate. He is said to wrap it in a silk handkerchief and keep it in a bureau drawer when not in use, but he never forgets to dust it and have it properly adjusted when he calls on a lady or attends the theatre.

Clement Scott was not that kind of man. He had some little peculiarities, like all men of genius but they were neither affected nor obtrusive. The most noticeable of these was a habit of saying “yes, yes,” and “what?” continually. Some of his gestures were a bit odd and he had an amusing way of belittling his own work. He said to me one day,

“I make no money from my books. It is all I can do to give them away.”

He had the coziest possible little home at 15 Woburn Square, London, and a wife who would reflect honor on any mansion in the land. Her portrait hangs before me while I write—the face of an intelligent, refined, charming English lady, and on its margin is written “Yours in all faith, Margaret Clement Scott.” That describes her perfectly—“in all faith” she was the best possible helper to her husband, aiding him in his correspondence, taking proper care of his memoranda, writing at his dictation and assisting him in many other ways.

In Mr. Scott’s study were many hundred valuable books, some of which are very rare, and a great collection of curios. One of the walls was hung with old prints of noted theatrical people of earlier generations; another with fine china. The room was richly furnished and had an air of oriental luxury which, combined with picturesque disorder, was more than charming—it was bewilderingly bewitching. In one corner was an interesting souvenir in a frame; his first letter of credential as dramatic critic, and was given by the _Sunday Times_, with which he was first connected; he went to the _Telegraph_ in 1872.

Mr. Scott was playwright as well as critic and had several plays successfully produced—“Tears, Idle Tears,” an adaptation from Marcel; “Peril,” taken from Sardou’s “Nos Intimes,” “Diplomacy,” written in collaboration with B. C. Stephenson; “Sister Mary,” of which Wilson Barrett was part author; “Jack in the Box” (with George R. Sims); “The Cape Mail,” “Serge Panine,” adapted from Georges Ohnet for Mrs. Langtry, “The Swordsman’s Daughter,” in which Brandon Thomas had a hand and “Denise,” in collaboration with Sir Augustus Harris. Among his published books are “Round About the Islands”; “Poppyland”; “Pictures of the World”; “Among the Apple Orchards”; “Over the Hills and Far away”; “The Land of Flowers”; “Thirty Years at the Play”; “Dramatic Table Talk”; “The Wheel of Life”; “Lays of a Londoner”; “Lays and Lyrics”; “Theatrical Addresses” and his famous “Patriot Songs.”

XIX

TACT

An Important Factor of Success.—Better than Diplomacy.—Some Noted Possessors of Tact.—James G. Blaine.—King Edward VII.—Queen Alexandra.—Henry Ward Beecher.—Mme. Patti.—Mrs. Ronalds.—Mrs. Cleveland—Mrs. Langtry.—Colonel Ingersoll.—Mrs. Kendall.—General Sherman.—Chauncey M. Depew.—Mrs. James Brown Potter.—Mme. Nordica.

I have had the good fortune to meet a great many distinguished people, and the misfortune of hearing many of these talked of afterward as if human greatness was merely a machine, which had some peculiar secret of motion. I don’t like to listen to analyses of my friends and acquaintances; it is too much like vivisection; it is unkind to the subject and hardens whoever conducts the operation.

Besides, I have a theory of my own as to greatness. It is that tact is generally the secret. Almost all famous men and women admit that certain other people are superior to them at their own special work. They will attribute some of their success to luck and some to accident, but the close observer can usually see that tact has had far more influence than either, for success depends largely on getting along well with other people, and nothing but tact can assure this.

Diplomacy alone cannot take the place of tact, for it comes only from the head; tact is from the heart. The prominent people to whom I refer did not lack great qualities of head; they would have failed without them, but these alone would have been insufficient without the softer sense—“The inmost one,” as Hawthorne named it; the quality to which Oliver Wendell Holmes referred when he said—“I am getting in by the side door.” Diplomacy, as distinguished from tact, is something with a string to it: or playing for a place; tact is a subtle, timely touch from the heart.

A few years ago I returned from Europe on the steamer with Mr. James G. Blaine. Every one on board wanted to talk with him and learn of things which taste and prudence forbade his mentioning. Yet Mr. Blaine was so tactful throughout this ordeal, that no one suffered a rebuff and every one became his friend. He went further by discovering the good but shrinking people who in a great ship became isolated, and bringing them into the general company and conversation. Yet all the while he was a model to many other married men on board by his constant and knightly courtesy to his own wife.

I have referred elsewhere to the tact of King Edward VII of Great Britain, the most popular sovereign in Europe. This quality is not restricted to public purposes; his acquaintances know that it is untiringly exercised for the benefit of Queen Alexandra, of whose deafness he is never unmindful. Often, when I had the honor to entertain the royal family and their friends, it was my duty to face the King (then Prince of Wales). Sometimes this placed me—embarrassingly too, with my back to the greater part of the audience. But the Prince was regardless of custom and his own royal prerogative, when his consort’s enjoyment was endangered; on one occasion when he saw that the Princess was not hearing me distinctly, he said softly to me, “Mr. Wilder, kindly turn your face toward the Princess!”

And Her Royal Highness is as tactful as he. The audience at a special entertainment given the Shah of Persia in London included the most distinguished and wealthy people in the city. I was among those engaged to entertain the Shah, beside whom sat the Princess (now Queen Alexandra). As His Persian Majesty was ignorant of the English language it was not strange that he held his programme upside down. This might have occasioned a laugh and caused the Shah some mortification had not the Princess deftly turned her own programme upside down and kept it so during the performance.

One of the “nerviest” illustrations of tact is to the credit of Henry Ward Beecher. After the war, he made a lecture tour of the South and appeared at Mozart Hall, Richmond, with an address entitled, “The North and The South.” He was rather doubtful as to the reception he would have but he knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. No applause welcomed him as he appeared on the platform, but a few hisses were heard in the gallery. In the better rows of seats were some grim ex-Confederates—General Fitzhugh Lee, General Rosser, ex-Governor Smith, Governor Cameron and others. Beecher fixed his eye directly on Lee and said—(I quote a newspaper report of the incident):

“I have seen pictures of General Fitzhugh Lee, sir, and I assume you are the man. Am I right?”

The General, slightly taken back by this direct address, nodded stiffly, while the audience bent forward, breathless with curiosity as to what was going to follow.

“Then,” said Mr. Beecher, his face lighting up, “I want to offer you this right hand, which, in its own way, fought against you and yours, years ago, but which I would now willingly sacrifice to make the sunny South prosperous and happy. Will you take it, General?” There was a moment’s hesitation, a moment of deathlike stillness in the hall, and then Fitzhugh Lee was on his feet, his hand was extended across the footlights and was quickly met by the warm grasp of the preacher’s. At first there was a murmur, half of surprise and half of doubtfulness from the audience, then there was a hesitating clapping of hands, and before Beecher had unloosed the hand of Robert E. Lee’s nephew, there were cheers such as were never before heard in old Mozart, though it had been the scene of many a war and political meeting. But this was only the beginning of the enthusiasm. When the noise subsided, Mr. Beecher continued,

“When I go back home, I shall proudly tell that I have grasped the hand of the nephew of the great Southern Chieftain; I shall tell my people that I went to the Confederate capital with a heart full of love for the people whom my principles once obliged me to oppose and that I was met half-way by the brave Southerners, who can forgive as well as they can fight.”

Five minutes of applause followed, and then, Mr. Beecher, having gained the hearts of his audience, began his lecture and was applauded to the echo. That night, he entered his carriage and drove to his hotel amid shouts such as have never greeted a Northern man in Richmond since the war.

Women who are prominent as hostesses are always remarkable for tact. No matter how they may differ in years, beauty, tastes, nationality, attainments and means, they are classed together by their tact, in the minds of men who know them and know also how arduous are the duties of a successful hostess. I know many such women,—Madame Patti, Mrs. Ronalds, who is one of the most distinguished Americans in London, Mrs. John A. Mackey, the Baroness de Bazus (Mrs. Frank Leslie), Mrs. Kendal—but I could fill a chapter with names. The power of these women in the drawing-room is simply marvelous. Their consummate tact is something for civilization in general to be proud of. It matters not if they are not in their best health and spirits and mood; everything uncongenial in themselves is hidden by their gracious welcome, like Hamlet’s father’s ghost by the rising sun. In a large company there is likely to be a social knot or tangle that would appal a well meaning novice in the rôle of hostess, but the woman who is fit for the position knows what to ignore and what to illumine.

And cleverness at introductions in a large company—what a world of tact it requires! Small wonder that introductions are few at most fashionable affairs. But the tactful hostess keeps untoward spirits apart and welds congenial souls together; some of the world’s closest friendships have come of able hostesses’ introductions of people who otherwise would never have met.

But what keen watchfulness and knowledge this presupposes, of the jealousies, petty or large, whether in politics, literature, art, the drama, of a large assemblage of representative people! It requires nothing less than genius to peep into the nooks and crannies of the hearts about them, throbbing with varied purposes and passions, but these women possess it. Hence they are centres in themselves, about which antipathetic souls may gather with a common good-will and cordial good word. It takes all these qualities to be a leader in society: many women possess them, but compared with all who should, how few they are!

I know one woman who possesses them all supremely. She is a wonder, even among Americans. Her name is Mrs. Grover Cleveland. Think of that schoolgirl passing from books to White House receptions and diplomatic balls, from the quick but embarrassed flush of eighteen years, to the sustained, well-poised position of first lady of the land “all in a twinkling” and, more’s the wonder, all in a triumph! She went through her ordeal at Washington, for it was an ordeal, without having an enemy in that Babel of bickerings, cunning social plots and desperate plunges after prestige. The platform of the politicians was tariff reform, the people’s was Mr. Cleveland, little Ruth, furnishing the “Bye Baby Bunting” plank.

The way this remarkable woman earned love and respect, was illustrated by a little scene, that came under my eye at Lakewood. The parlor of the hotel is so large that men can stand at one end of it with their hats on and escape criticism. But one day, when Mrs. Cleveland, unattended, entered at the other end, with girlish haste and captivating naturalness, all heads were uncovered in an instant. She merely wished to find a friend who was dining at the time, so she walked to the table of her friend. All eyes were upon her, but she manifested no consciousness. She with her friend slipped out of the room and into the elevator, and probably up-stairs for a cozy chat. She was not thinking of the admiring glances of hundreds, but only in a great-hearted, every-day way of her friend. Such is the woman. She has won her crown, woven from the blossoms of the people’s love, and she wears it gracefully.

No woman of my acquaintance has more tact than Mrs. Langtry. I will guarantee, that her use of it will win any man who may meet her. When she was last in New York a certain newspaper man was “cutting” her savagely. Did she horsewhip him after the manner of some indignant actress? Nay, nay! First she learned who he was, then she determined to meet him. Her manager invited the young man to dine with him at Delmonico’s, and the invitation was accepted. While at dinner the manager accidentally (?) saw Mrs. Langtry, at another table, in the same great dining-room and exclaimed,

“By Jove! There’s Mrs. Langtry! Would you like to meet her?” The scribe hesitated; then consented. “First, let me ask her permission,” adroitly continued the manager.

“I shall be delighted to meet him,” was the lady’s reply. Two moments later the scribe and the actress were in close conversation; the young man was invited to Langtry’s hotel; he walked down Broadway with her to the Hoffman House, and he knew a thousand men saw him and envied him. In the following week, his paper contained a beautiful article on Langtry. The question may be asked, “Was this tact or diplomacy?” But every one ought to know that mere diplomacy could never make a dramatic critic change his tone so startlingly.

But tact is not confined to incidents in the world’s eye. Several years ago, when that clever and beautiful young woman Mrs. James G. Blaine, Jr. (now Mrs. Dr. Bull), was greatly afflicted with rheumatism, her friend, Mrs. Kendal, the well known English actress, advised massage. Mrs. Blaine objected, she disliked the idea, but Mrs. Kendal won her over by calling every day and massaging the sufferer with her own hands.

Men can do the tactful thing as well as women, and it is to their credit that they often do it when they can’t imagine that any one will ever know of it but the beneficiary. One rainy day at Broadway and Twenty-third Street, an ill-clad, shivering fellow stood, probably he had nowhere in particular to go, and would rather look at people than think of himself and his condition. I saw a tall, stout man with an intellectual, kind face stop, hold his umbrella over the tramp, and engage him in conversation; it was a mean place to stand, too, for crowds were hurrying past the big policeman standing at the crossing. I dashed in front of the chap the instant the tall man left him.

“See what that man gave me!” he said, showing me a two dollar bill.

“It’s no wonder,” I replied; “that was Colonel Bob Ingersoll!”

“Hully gee!” the man exclaimed. “I’ve heard o’ him. And here’s what else he gave me—listen.” The Colonel had told him the story of “Nobody’s Dog,” as follows:—

“A poor brute of a dog entered a hotel with three travelers. ‘Walk in, gents,’ said the host heartily. ‘Fine dog, that; is he yours, sir?’

“‘No,’ said one of the men, and ‘No,’ ‘No,’ repeated the others.

“‘Then he’s nobody’s dog,’ said the host, as he kicked the cur into the street.

“You’re nobody’s dog, but here you are,” said the Colonel in conclusion, pressing the money into his hand and hurrying away.

I have myself been the gainer by the tact of some men, who would have been excusable for having their minds full of some one of more importance, so I am correspondingly grateful. Dear General Sherman was one of these; his tact was as effective in civil life as his armies had been on the battle-field. In the fall of 1899, just after I had published my book—“The People I Have Smiled With,” I received the following written by the General’s private secretary.

“MY DEAR SIR:

“I beg you to accept my hearty thanks for a copy of your book, the same which, I assure you, will give me much pleasure in perusing.

“With best wishes, as always, I am,

“Your friend,

(Signed) “W. T. SHERMAN, General.”

Evidently the General thought a moment after signing the above, for he wrote at the bottom of the sheet “Over,” where he added in his own handwriting:

“Pardon me for this seemingly formal answer to your bright and cheery volume, which, as yet, I have merely glanced at, but contemplate much pleasure and profit in reading. The ‘Introduction,’ by our mutual friend ‘Cockerill,’ is so touching that it calls for the sympathetic tear, rather than a smile; so are your opening words in the first chapter about your acquaintance with Beecher, etc., etc. But more in the hereafter.

“I am glad you enroll me in your list of friends, and will be only too happy to smile with you in person over your types, as occasion may require.

“Your sincere friend,

“W. T. SHERMAN.”

I might also call attention to the above as an illustration of the occasional opaqueness of the private secretary as a medium between great men and their personal friends, however humble.

I was at Chicago’s famous hotel, “The Auditorium” during the dedicatory exercises of the Columbian Exposition, more popularly known as “Chicago’s World’s Fair.” A great dinner had been given the evening before to men distinguished throughout the world. The affair was under the direction of the Fellowship Club, prominent in which was Editor Scott of the Chicago _Herald_, and such a gathering of famous men I had never seen before. Richard Harding Davis described it graphically in _Harper’s Weekly_.

Next morning quite naturally, the atmosphere of the hotel was hazy and dazy. Such of us as dropped into the café for breakfast were not especially “noticing.”

I sat alone at the end of the room. In came Chauncey M. Depew with a handsome young lady. Before long his quick eye discerned me in my isolation. He arose, walked the entire length of that great room, leaned over me and said,

“Marsh, most through your breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Then come over and be introduced to my niece. She wants to meet the celebrities of the day.” Continuing he was kind enough to say that some of my recently delivered jokes were new, and he must have been right, for I heard afterward that he used them himself. But many men of less importance would have sent a waiter for me instead of coming in person; many more would have succeeded in not seeing me at all.

When Mrs. James Brown Potter first visited London, she was chaperoned by Mrs. Paran Stevens, whose daughter, Lady Paget, was a member of the Prince’s set, and had full entrée to all social circles. On one occasion Mr. Wilson Barrett set aside a box for Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Potter, and their friends, I being among the number invited to see “Clito” performed.