Chapter XXXVIII
GEORGE M. COHAN
What an extraordinary person is sunny George Cohan!
Fancy a young man, in the early thirties, owning his own playhouse, performing there in the leading rôles, the author of his play and lyrics, the composer of the music, associate manager of two New York theatres, of another in Chicago, and with a chain of suburban houses!
This is making history with a vengeance. The position he occupies in the theatrical world has never been duplicated and I doubt if it ever will be. With all his well-deserved success he bears himself with the modesty of a well-bred boy. To be privileged to meet him in private life is a joy and delight. You will find him never obtrusive and always gentle and respectful to his elders. One would never imagine him a being of so much power. He fascinates me every time I meet him and I always feel an inclination to put my hands upon his shoulders and just listen to him talk. His keen sense of humor, combined with his calm demeanor, always appeals to me.
How proud his parents must feel to be the authors of such a fascinating book as Georgie Cohan! (I always call him Georgie. I can't help it. I love the lad for his wonderful versatility.)
How I enjoy the attempts of some of the critics, in their futile efforts to slur this man of success and to destroy the affection the public has for him! Some even accuse him of being "common." Good! Bring on some more commoners! We need them!
But nature is most discerning in bestowing her mantle of genius. She weaves carefully and adroitly and is conservative with her gifts. She wove her finest for clever Georgie and then destroyed the pattern. She has no more to give.
Mr. and Mrs. Cohan, I congratulate you! You have given the world a genius!
Hats off to Georgie Cohan!
It was while I was appearing at Ford's Theatre in Baltimore in 1911 that Georgie sent me a message which read as follows: —
"I am giving a supper in your honor next Wednesday night at Friars Club House. Wire me that you will be there."
Immediately I replied. This is what I wrote: —
"I am there now, my dear Hector, and will eat nothing until I meet you Wednesday at the Friars Club House. Have invited my audience to join me. He seems an awfully nice chap. Wishing you a Merry Christmas, but don't you dare wish me one, believe me always thine,
Ralph Goodwin."
Georgie insisted on addressing me as Mr. Goodwin for years after he had reached a star's zenith. When I asked him to drop the formality he said he simply could not do it. Thereupon I suggested we get around it. If he couldn't call me Nat maybe he wouldn't stick on Ralph. And I in turn have ever since dubbed him Hector – when we meet!
Chapter XXXIX
THOUGHTS VAUDEVILLE-BORN
How miserable are they who live in the past, who imagine when the sun sinks behind their horizon it will never rise again! To be sure, it is not pleasant to realize one is retrograding, yet it is better to forget the errors of the past, realize the advantages of mistakes and benefit by them "than, by opposing, end them."
During a short tour in vaudeville I had many opportunities for serious thought, particularly when I visited the various cities where I previously had been a conspicuous factor in my profession. As I contemplated my name upon the illuminated signs in front of the vaudeville theatres I also strolled through the streets and gazed at the names emblazoned in front of the various legitimate theatres. Many had played in support of me. Now they had usurped my place in the standard playhouses. I was "in vaudeville!"
I reflected upon my companion players – the trained seals, the amusing monkey, the docile elephant! As I wended my way through the sawdust path that led to my dressing-room I wondered what my mission on earth really was. Then philosophy took possession of me and convinced me that we were all performing our respective duties in different environments. It was just a case of "all hands 'round and change your partners!"
In vaudeville I was never happy. I was rather self-conscious, for when salary day came around I felt as if I were cheating to take the magnificent sum I was receiving for my twenty-seven minutes' work twice a day. Then again I wondered if dear old Richard Hooley, in whose theatre in Chicago I had played successfully for twenty years, knew of the evolution that had placed his boy, as he always called me, among the pot pourri of vaudeville. What would my good friend, Bob Miles of Cincinnati, and John Norton of St. Louis, have said had they seen my name as a head-liner in those cities where I had packed their respective houses?
As I strolled by the theatres managed by those dear, departed friends my truant thoughts, much as I antagonized them, would fly back to the past. Once again I would go to the Theatre of Variety in quest of "Five Shillings" and visions of a new and successful play for the next year or the one after would come with the rising sun! When the clouds came to obscure the sky of hope I would darken my chamber, bury the past and wait for the morrow and accompanying sunshine to light my future down the path of middle age.
In this precarious profession of ours we must accept defeat with courage. It should stir us to higher aims, braver deeds, stronger motives, inclinations and honesty of purpose. Never give up the fight so long as you have the capacity to hit out.
Even a dying mule always has a kick up his leg.
If he has his health and mentality any actor under seventy has one punch left.
I simply underwent a course of training in vaudeville, conditioning myself for a fight to a finish. I am ready at any time during the next ten years to produce a play that will appeal to the public. If I fail to secure one – back to the ranch and simple life!
Which will it be?
I wonder!
Chapter XL
JOHN DREW
I have always had a profound respect and liking for John Drew's art and I have witnessed his performances of many variegated rôles. True, the man's personality always transcends the characterization, but isn't that true of all great actors? Those who talk about Drew being always the same in every part are unconsciously paying him great homage.
For the benefit of the younger members of my profession I want to state that the most difficult rôles to play are those that fall to the light comedian. He must be naturally human and true, for he is portraying the character one meets in every-day life and, to quote from one of Boucicault's plays, "The apparatus can't lie!"
Drew has been amusing the American public for about thirty-five years, playing himself, I will admit. But the man's personality has made him a conspicuous and an agreeable player. He has also been the means of introducing not a few actresses to the world who have become famous.
Drew is a gentleman, on or off the stage, and while many of the play-folk do not consider him a great actor, they must admit that John is clean and that his father and mother were geniuses, which is something of which to be proud.
Chapter XLI
"THE RIVALS" REVIVAL
Ambition, like an early friend, throws back the curtain with an eager hand, o'erjoyed to tell me what I dreamt is true."
It was with happy anticipation that I signed a contract with Joseph Brooks to appear as one of the supporting cast with Joseph Jefferson in an all-star revival of "The Rivals." The tour was suggested by a performance in which I had appeared for a benefit given to that sterling old player, William Couldock, by Mr. Jefferson and a number of other well known players, including Henry Miller, William H. Crane, Viola Allen and De Wolf Hopper. This performance met with so much approval and gave such unqualified satisfaction that the charity bestowed upon Couldock suggested a commercial enterprise and the business instincts of Charley Jefferson and Joseph Brooks suggested a tour that took place the following spring.
We visited all the principal cities, never playing over two nights in one place. Business was enormous, the management clearing many thousands of dollars during the four weeks' tour. We were the recipients of many attentions, our time being spent driving, dining, and visiting various public institutions and colleges. We held impromptu receptions nightly behind the scenes. A large table was always spread on the stage laden with viands and many distinguished people partook of our hospitalities. Our happiest times were spent in the private car where we would congregate after the play and spend a few hours in anecdote and song. My contribution was an imitation of dear old Sol Smith Russell – a great favorite of Mr. Jefferson's.
My friend, Fred Stanley, now passed away, always proved a delightful companion. He accompanied us on the entire trip. I really don't know when Freddie slept on that trip. When I inquired how many hours of sleep he averaged out of the twenty-four he replied, "I don't want to go to bed. When you all retire that nigger porter and I swap stories and he is funnier than the whole troupe! He has decided to remain awake the entire tour and I promised to keep him company." And I really believe he did.
Every man on the trip became very fond of Fred. He was a source of great amusement. Poor Fred "went the pace" and finally the end came in 1903. We were pals for many years. I am the only one of the original quartette left – Tony Hart, Dick Golden, Fred Stanley. They are all gone and there is none to take their place. Only a memory remains, a sweet one and yet how sad! Be patient, dear friends, and wait for me! God bless you all!
What a bright and effervescent man was Fred Stanley! Among the congratulatory messages that I received while playing in Australia, upon the announcement of my engagement to Miss Maxine Elliott, was one from Fred. It read: —
"Congratulations, old man. Pick one out for me."
A variety man, with whom I had performed years ago, casually remarked to Fred, "Goodwin! Where does he come in? I started with him!"
"Indeed," replied Fred, "somebody must have tied you!"
We closed "The Rivals" tour in one of the New England towns, coming direct to New York to attend an informal banquet given to me at the Lambs Club by some of my friends previous to my departure for Australia where I had determined to go for reasons which will be explained later.
My star of destiny was leading me to the other end of the world. I sat down to the banquet filled with forebodings. It was not the terror of the journey. It was a premonition that it was the wrong thing to do, but Fate peeped in and said, "Go on!"
After a night spent in song, readings, speeches, etc., the familiar drab dawn suggested that the time for parting had arrived. The boys followed me to the door and as I started down the steps they sang "Auld Lang Syne" and I drove off into the day.
Chapter XLII
WILTON LACKAYE
Of all the players now members of the Lambs Will Lackaye is the most pronounced.
I am very fond of him and I think he likes me although he has never expressed himself particularly in my favor. We were never pals, as the word is now applied, but in all our friendly contests of badinage we have always endeavored to play fair with one another.
Lackaye has a splendid brain, but he does not always use it kindly. In this he has no hidden motive, but it acts quickly and his tongue responds not always pleasantly. His wit savors more of the cynic than the humorist. He always assails a citadel, however, never a snow fort, and while his quick sallies many times provoke pain, as a rule they are given with a knowledge that they were well deserved, at least from his point of view. What I most admire about Lackaye is his honesty of purpose and his unflinching courage. In debate he shows no mercy and expects no quarter. He has all the instincts of the old school. He believes in upholding the dignity of the player and will not pander to the ephemeral parasites who have lately attached themselves to the fringe of the drama, the managers "who present."
If there were more Lackayes and fewer Cranes the actor would soon be in a position to assert his rights and maintain them.
I love some of Lackaye's remarks, particularly when he is annoyed. The last one I heard appealed to me. It seems he approached a very conspicuous actor who is now at his zenith with a request to join the Lambs in their forthcoming gambol on tour. Lackaye suggested that it would be quite a novelty for this player to revert to one of his old-time specialties and present a short monologue as a Baxter Street Jew, which once had made this particular actor famous. The actor who was packing a New York theatre in a serious rôle replied: —
"My dear Will, your request is preposterous! I could not possibly consider such an act! It would be suicide for me after struggling all these years to make my public weep to return to a vulgar monologue and make people laugh! Absurd, my boy, absurd! It would be fatal!"
Lackaye contemplated him for a minute, and remarked: —
"My dear – , an onion will make anybody cry, but I have yet failed to discover a vegetable that will make people laugh."
Oh! how true this is! And yet people will come out of a theatre with swollen lids, expressing their delight at being privileged to cry! If they only knew how easy is the one and how difficult the other, they would pay more attention to the God-gifted one, appreciating the comic player who kisses away the tear that flows.
My opinion of Lackaye's acting is only equaled by his of mine. Lackaye has published his through the press. I have kept mine to myself. Neither of us is particularly complimentary. We agree on art with reference to ourselves.
Neither of us can act!
Chapter XLIII
"YOUNG" MANSFIELD
I once had a very dear friend, a young man of splendid dramatic ability with a likable but erratic nature. He is constantly falling in love. As a rule his heart petals fall to those of the opposite sex far beneath him intellectually. This young man has a most impressive and artistic temperament and has absorbed not a little knowledge of his art from the masters.
He has blazoned this superficial knowledge to such an extent that he has grown to believe that he is a most important and necessary adjunct to his profession. If he were possessed of the knowledge he imagines he has he would be a genius!
As it is he is a nuisance!
He has succeeded in making many enemies by his aggressive and argumentative manner in which only a genius can indulge. He has never annoyed me for I love his spontaneity and his youth. He has emulated the acts of several stars and, like the aspiring pugilist who is ever ready to assume the name of a champion older in experience, such as "Young" Corbett or "Young" Fitzsimmons, he delights in being known as "Young" Mansfield. He has some charm and is most convincing to those who are not conversant with his methods.
He has succeeded in interesting several conspicuous people – millionaires and prominent theatrical and operatic stars, including a prima donna known to fame. The latter became interested in him to such an extent that an amour sprang up and they disappeared for a time (that is they imagined they had, but delightful Paris, which always treats such vagaries as they deserve, was fully cognizant of the situation, looked on and smiled).
I was ignorant of their rendezvous. I never imagined that the lady whom he had mentioned to me as being mildly interested in him was in the same country until one day during a visit to a nerve specialist, to whom this young man had recommended me, the man of medicine remarked: —
"I was at the Opera last night and bowed to your young friend – but he failed to acknowledge the salutation. He concealed himself behind the curtains of the box he was occupying, evidently not seeking recognition. That was unnecessary as I am on the board of directors at the Grand Opera House and sent the box to Madam – whose guest your young friend was. Why should he disguise the fact that he was her friend?"
"Is that known in Paris?" I gasped.
"Certainly," he answered.
"And does it not affect the lady's social and professional standing?" I queried.
"My friend," replied the doctor, "we love artists; we question not the motives that make them artists, be it illicit love or sanctioned. It's all the same; they are creatures of caprice and have many nests."
"Does that apply to private life in Paris?" I asked.
"Certainly," quoth the Philosopher of Nerves. "Why, it is most difficult to give a dinner party these days. One cannot invite the husband without first ascertaining the name of his affinity, nor the wife without knowing the name of her sweetheart. My wife always arranges the table to avoid awkward complications."
I thought how delightfully naïve and completely perfect was their understanding. That splendid point of view was unlike the ostrich methods in vogue in London and insular New York.
No wonder my young friend and his prima donna met with disaster when they crossed the Channel!
But I admire him and his audacity.
Chapter XLIV
DAVID WARFIELD
Many years ago while I was playing at the Bush Street Theatre, San Francisco, a lad of about twenty, of Hebraic appearance, was constantly seated on the left-hand aisle watching each performance with evident delight. As I would come from the theatre he would follow me, on the other side of the street, now and then stopping to point me out to some boy friend.
One day I smiled at him and his face beamed with apparent pleasure. After that I often watched for my silent admirer.
Many years after I backed an enterprise in which he was featured – and lost ten thousand dollars! Later he became a leading fixture at Weber and Fields' Music Hall and made a pronounced success.
During my second engagement at the Knickerbocker Theatre he was always a visitor. He no longer sat on the aisle, however. I always sent him a private box. My youthful admirer who had blossomed forth as a star in the Weber and Fields' aggregation is now one of the most famous of American actors. His name is David Warfield.
After witnessing Warfield's great portrayal in "The Music Master" I began to believe in the star of destiny. I saw a man give a performance worthy of a master.
And he was without even the fundamental knowledge of his art!
Springing from obscure parents, with not an ounce of hereditary theatrical blood in his veins, naturally reticent, with a face not particularly attractive, save for a searching and penetrating eye, a mind alert, a shuffling gait – this is the man who on the stage is able to transform himself into one of the most sympathetic beings that I ever saw.
With a move of the hand he is grace itself. His delivery of lines bespeaks him a scholar. His face shines like one sent from the Deity!
The various emotions through which he passed in the sweetly harrowing (but inferior!) play, from gay to grave, from pathos to comedy and from that to tragedy, were expressed with a deftness and surety of touch – why, he sailed along with the assurance of a bird in its flight! Every effect he handled like a master! And when he made his exit up the miserable staircase, you realized that you had been entertained by an artist!
It is a pleasure to write about such a man, particularly one who wears the wreath of laurel so modestly, who apparently realizes so fully the kindness of the gods! And the gods help only those who help themselves.
Dear David, you deserve all that has been bestowed! Friend, I congratulate you, am proud to know you and feel privileged to call you by that much abused name.
Chapter XLV
A DAY AT RENO
Imagine over sixteen thousand human beings filing slowly from a cemetery where departed heroes have been put away from earthly cares! Imagine their conversation in hushed whispers, their bowed heads, smothered ejaculations! Hear the mumbled accusations emanating from a few of the unpleasant! So you will have a faint idea of the feelings of that motley, silent crowd which wended its way home after the Johnson-Jeffries contest at Reno, July 4, 1910.
When that human statue sank into obscurity through the center ropes, half of the huge bulk hanging listlessly on the outside, with the little Spartan, Abe Attell, vainly endeavoring to push the great wreck back into the arena (while the magnificent grinning piece of ebony was standing with clenched fists and wicked expression ready to administer the quietus that was within his power), a hush fell upon the assemblage.
All turned their heads as the inanimate fighter showed signs of returning consciousness. The ponderous Jeff with the aid of Attell and others slowly unwound himself from the meshes of rope and regained his equilibrium, only to be crushed again to the boards by the powerful fists of his adversary. Then a smothered cry from the spectators and all was over. The mangled gladiator was carried bleeding and bruised to his corner and another champion was heralded throughout the world.
I have never witnessed such a spectacle. What a hollow victory! What a disgraceful defeat! It was a defeat without pity, success without compliment! And yet it was a battle fought by two of the most magnificent specimens of humanity ever chiseled by nature's journeymen!
At the beginning they were magnificent – from the throat down! Their faces were not in harmony with their bodies. As each of these warriors stood in his corner ready for the fray I looked from one to the other and as my eye travelled from their feet to their heads I was dumbfounded at what their faces depicted.
Both had the expression of the craven! On each was the apprehension of impending danger accurately defined; alarm, dread, terror were imprinted indelibly upon each countenance, the negro trying to force saliva into a mouth as dry as an oven, endeavoring to smile while his jaws worked like the jaws of a hyena. Poor Jeff stood up, but only for a second. His ponderous legs refused to bear his weight of worry! They trembled so perceptibly that he was forced to seek his chair when his knees began to knock against each other in angry protests at what they were expected to perform.
It was past belief – strong men, equally capable of performing any feat of physical prowess, whose brains refused to obey their wills! Each knew his terrible responsibility, but the gray matter refused to supply the necessary oil to put the engines to work. Millions were waiting to hear the result.
I don't accuse either of abject cowardice. I believe that at that moment Jeffries would have faced a cannon and awaited the result as befits a soldier in battle. His trouble was that he was not the man of brain who could assume a responsibility.
Grant sacrificed thousands of men to attain a result. He would willingly have given his life if necessary a thousand times, but he was man enough to live for a cause, not die for it! Jeff, having a little more brain than his aboriginal antagonist, suffered more, hence his greater terror.
As the bell rang for the commencement of hostilities Jeffries, instead of rushing at his dusky opponent, assumed a defensive attitude, disobeying all instructions, all thought-out intentions. He had planned his battle as every general does, the night before, but in the ring he threw away all his plans and obeyed the dictation of a puny, tired, unresponsive brain. With every step he retreated the negro's courage gained and as the round progressed his assurance became more manifest. Confidence took the place of fear and as the bell rang to signify the end of the round victory shone in the negro's face and the knell of defeat had sounded for Jeff.
The king was dying, but not the death of a courageous man. He was dying, retreating, not advancing. The body was willing, but the brain was dead. Responsibility was the referee that counted out Jeff! That is the truth of this, the greatest and yet the weakest battle ever fought.
Let us draw a curtain over the Reno desert and be charitable to Jeff. God gave him brawn, but denied him the necessary brain to equalize it all.
Perhaps it's all for the best. There's a cloud on the horizon of Fistiana. Perhaps a bright young American may burst through, the sun may shine once more and a white American, impervious to mental collapse, may wear the laurel of champion.
Let us hope so.
I had taken a party of friends from New York to see the fight. We had travelled in a private car – and the return trip had been paid for in advance! As we left the arena and headed back to town not one of us, hardened sports as we all were, not one of us remembered that we had a fleet of automobiles waiting to take us to our car. We walked right by them! It was the longest, hottest, dustiest tramp I ever took.
Arrived in the car someone broke the silence with the suggestion that the first man who referred to the fight be thrown off the car. Our silence gave assent. As there was nothing else in the world to talk about – we kept still, how long I don't know, but it seemed hours.
Finally big George Considine realized his throat was parched and he pushed a button. Up to that moment the summons had never failed to produce our grinning porter from the little buffet instantly. This time there was no response. George pressed the button a second time. We all heard the bell distinctly. All of us had his gaze fixed on the buffet door. Again George rang the bell and this time he kept his thumb jammed against the button. Then he got to his feet and declared himself.
"If that nigger is in that buffet he'll never come out now – alive!" And with that he started.
We all sat tight and waited. In less than a minute George reappeared – laughing hysterically. For an instant I thought the terrible shock of the afternoon had affected his mind.
"Is he dead?" someone gasped.
"Nearly so," replied George, choking with glee. "You know I went in there firmly determined to kill him. But the minute he saw me he covered his face with both hands and said, 'Fo' Gawd's sake, Mr. Gawge, don' hit me. I'm good for nothin'. I caint lift a glass, let alone serve a drink. I'm so weak.' I asked him why. 'Well, you see, Mr. Gawge, I've been savin' and savin' fo' a year evah dollah I could scrap together; borrowed from my wife and soaked my watch at Chicawgo. I had six hunderd dollahs on my pusson when I got heah and it was all goin' on Mr. Johnson. But on this trip, listenin' to all you gemmen talk I got so I couldn't see Mr. Johnson nohow and switched and my money all went on Mr. Jeff'ies. When Mr. Jeff'ies received that awful wallop in the second round I said goodbye, wife and chillen, and when he was knocked out – I went with him! And I haven't come to yet!'"
We finally managed to induce him to come out of the buffet and told him we'd try to make him a little less miserable by chipping in on a purse for him. Somebody passed the hat. I threw in all I had in cash and I imagine every one else did. The total count was $51.25!
I thought we ought to cheer him up further and told him I would give him a good thing on the next fight. He just looked at me a minute, his black eyes nearly popping out of his head, then indicating the bills and silver in his hand said solemnly, "Me? ME, bet on a prize fight? Why guv'nor, I wouldn't bet this money that Mr. Johnson has licked Mr. Jeff'ies."