Chapter L
SAN FRANCISCO
After touring the rural towns in "In Mizzoura," I opened at the Baldwin Theatre, San Francisco, June, 1896. It was then that I discovered that San Francisco stands alone among the cities of the world. It is indeed a strange place. The coolest time of the year and by far the pleasantest is during the summer months and yet many of the inhabitants go East, to swelter in New York or at the hotter sea shores.
I know of no more delightful city in America during June, July and August than San Francisco. But everyone who can afford it packs up and leaves! This of course has a tendency to affect the business of the theatres, particularly the high-priced ones.
Dear old "Mizzoura!" How I love the play and my character, Jim Radburn! My company, organized for Australia, comprised the following people: – William Ingersoll, Fraser Coulter, Clarence Handysides, Neil O'Brien, H. C. Woodthorp, Louis Payne (whom I predict will become an excellent character actor some day), Arthur Hoops, Blanche Walsh, Estelle Mortimer, Emily Melville and the Misses Usner and Browning. The play went exceedingly well and it was pronounced a big hit. We retired from our labors quite contented for it was really a meritorious performance. Barring a little nervousness on the part of some of the ladies and gentlemen who were new in their characters we gave a splendid ensemble.
By the way, what an awful thing is this nervousness on the first night! The older the artist the more intense is the suffering. You, dear public, who sit in silent judgment upon the poor player on his initial performance, know nothing of the anguish going on behind the curtain. You do not see the blanched faces that no grease-paint yet invented can conceal nor hear the whispered ejaculations of us all, fearful of our finish and sick with anxiety for our brothers and sisters in art who are experiencing the same torture! Everything is forgotten save the result of those awful three or four hours. If you only knew what your verdict meant I tell you, gentle reader, you would be less harsh in your judgment of us. Think of the many, many people who are interested in your verdict, the many whose very life and sustenance depend upon your words. Think of the amount of toil involved in the production of a new play.
First comes the evolution of a plot. And this is but the beginning of the author's work. For him it is toil, toil, toil. Then comes his fearful ordeal of reading his work to the actor-manager for whom it was written. Perhaps his future depends upon it – his destiny!
Next comes the selection of the cast to perform the work. I regret to state that in this era versatility is lacking because of the absence of fine stock companies. We actor-managers are forced to select actors and actresses who are fitted only physically, mentally (and sometimes socially) for the respective rôles. This is shocking when one considers the art seriously. However, such is the case, and we "luxuries" must accept the inevitable.
After the cast has been selected comes another reading of the play – another ordeal for the author. Then begin the rehearsals which last for many weeks and the invention of stage business, a technical term which means pantomime, facial expression, gesticulation, everything pertaining to the performance save the speaking of lines. This is a very powerful, if not the factor in the success of a play. During the long hours of rehearsal one must be on the alert for everything, constantly changing here and there, putting new lines in, cutting others out, changing business (stage managers as a rule are most vacillating and unless particularly gifted prone to forget to-day what they invented yesterday).
At the finish we go home and study! It is generally midnight before the actor gets this opportunity! He studies his lines, say, until four. Then he retires and sleeps until about nine, if he can! He must be in the theatre for the ten o'clock call to rehearse what he has studied at home. I do not believe in studying one's part during waits at a rehearsal. Your lines lose their value unless you understand the meaning that prompts the speaking. Hang around the wings during your waits, you young Thespian. Watch the older ones and you will absorb more knowledge of your profession in one week than in a season of studying during rehearsal.
After the company is perfect in lines, business, etc., the announcement is made for the first night's performance. I have not mentioned the mechanical portion of the enterprise and I wish that I could skip it, but I must not. I am against all realism and mechanism in art, but as some of our worthy English cousins have inaugurated these so-called attributes I accept them.
This, gentle reader, is part of what a first night means. Think of what we all go through. Think of the many anxious hearts that are waiting at home for your verdict – the mother, brother, sister, sweetheart, wife, friend. Think of this, you men-about-town, who, when an act is over, confuse it with your bad dinner. Think of it, gentle (?) critic, and if you can't speak well of us at least be courteous. Think of it, you, who have no comprehension beyond the roof gardens of New York! What devastators of art! Think of it, you, who consider the theatre a place for mere diversion! Think of it, you, who never divorce the actor from his character! Be kind and patient. So much depends upon you. Remember we are doing our best. Don't shatter our little houses or our hopes! To do so is so easy!
But we were speaking of San Francisco!
From the opening performance of "Mizzoura" the manager of the theatre, Mr. Bauvier, was delighted. He told my representative that it was a great success and said, "Why, by Thursday Goodwin won't be able to get them in!"
He was quite right – I wasn't! Thursday night a tranquil mob avoided the Baldwin Theatre. Rows of red plush chairs yawned eloquently. Perhaps yours truly was the cause of this. Something was the cause. Maybe the transition from broadcloth to homespun shocked the San Francisco public! It could not have been the play.
Ruskin classified paintings into three orders and ranks least of all those which represent the passions and events of ordinary life. Perhaps the enlightened public of San Francisco agrees with Ruskin. I don't. I want the mirror held up to Nature even though it is bespattered with a little wholesome mud.
Jim Radburn is a little man with red hair. He is dramatic, not theatrical. But San Francisco asked, "How can a man be a hero and have red hair?"
The public will never divorce the individual from the character portrayed. It has been my great battle for years to endeavor to persuade the public to realize that it must disassociate the two. Banish the man and woman artist you meet in every day life and absorb the characters of the parts which they are portraying. Then we shall stand side by side in art with any country. I am very glad to say that I see development every day in the right direction, particularly in my own little efforts. If I succeed in piercing the tissue that separates laughter from tears who is so narrow as to grudge me the modest rank I hope to attain in the realms of dramatic art?
This talk of mediocre business in San Francisco recalls a story told of the late William Manning, one of the cleverest of all Ethiopian comedians. He had arrived at the most critical period in his career, poor and in ill health. But he procured a backer and took out a company of minstrels. The trip proved disastrous and they were about to close. But Manning bore his losses with great fortitude and humorous philosophy.
One morning, after a wretched house the previous evening, he chanced to run across a professional rival of his, but socially a great friend, Billy Emerson. They exchanged salutations. Emerson at this time was at the zenith of his fame and quite wealthy. It took but a few moments for the epigrammatic Manning to acquaint the successful African Impresario, Emerson, of his financial condition. To quote a Rialto expression, "he touched and fetched!" – meaning, he solicited financial aid and his request was granted.
As Manning stalked away, his face wreathed in smiles, which actually seemed to reflect their rays on the tall silk hat which always adorned the minstrel irrespective of his bank account, Emerson called after him, "Say, by the way, Bill, where do you play to-night?" Manning, after feeling in his vest pocket to reassure himself that Emerson had really given him $500, replied:
"Now we play Albany. If I had not met you we should have spent the summer here!" "We play there two nights after you," said Emerson. "Will you announce us to the public from the stage?" "Yes, I will – if he stays," replied Manning.
Chapter LI
ANTONY (?) AND CLEOPATRA
San Francisco visitors must be very careful never by any chance to abbreviate and call the city 'Frisco. The inhabitants object most strenuously if you take such a liberty.
We were treated royally in a social way in San Francisco. Our performance never received such praise, press and public being alike most gracious. We were fêted, banqueted, ridden, driven, etc. In fact, those who knew of our presence made ample amends for those who knew not where we were! That small part of the public which came to see us seemed aware of our loneliness, and endeavored to lighten our heavy hearts by hearty manifestations of approval!
I had the pleasure of being the honored guest at a supper given to me by that group of variously gifted men who have banded together and call themselves the Bohemian Club. What a royal set! How clever! One must ever be ready with a quick reply or chaos will surely follow. Mr. Peter Robinson of "The Chronicle" was the chairman on this occasion and with the assistance of sixty or seventy gentlemen did much toward alleviating the sorrow I naturally felt at leaving my country and my friends for the wilds of Australia.
They presented me with a water-colored caricature of myself with the body of a lamb (the lamb symbolizing the Lambs Club). I was being entertained by a huge owl (the symbol of the Bohemian Club). It was a very quaint and most artistic picture and I prize it highly.
Mr. Tim Frawley, once a member of my company and at that time a most successful manager, also was most kind and generous to me. He gave me a supper at the same club the Tuesday previous to my sailing. The table was magnificently arranged. Huge banks of sweet peas adorned the center of the table. Intermingled were variously colored carnations and California wild flowers. Toy balloons were suspended. They were hung with red tape to which were attached little American flags, the whole held in place on the table by a delicate bronze anchor suggesting hope (I suppose). These decorations shown in a soft red light made a picture as perfect as it was harmonious.
At Mr. Frawley's left sat the stately, majestic, Juno-like Maxine Elliott, one of the most beautiful women whom I had ever seen, her raven black hair and eyes in delightful contrast to the red hues that formed an aureole, as it were, above her head. There she sat, totally unconscious of the appetites she was destroying, absorbing the delicate little compliments paid her by that prince of good fellows, John Drew.
How I chafed at the etiquette which prohibited my being at her side!
Next to her sat the tranquil Herbert Kelcey and the dainty piece of bisque, Effie Shannon. Down the line sat the radiant and sunny Gladys Wallis, near her the gracious and emotional Blanche Bates, farther down the sweet and winsome Gertrude Elliott. It was a bevy of beauty one rarely sees.
At my right sat one of the brightest women I have ever met and as beautiful as she is talented (a rare combination). She had first come to my attention a few weeks previous while I was on my way to San Francisco, the other members of my company who had been engaged by my manager, Mr. George B. McClellan, having preceded me. My strenuous tour with the "All Rivals" cast had been too much for me. I think I was suffering from fatty degeneration of the art! In any event I found my only amusement in the local dailies along the line and when the Denver "Post" came aboard the train I fairly devoured it.
On the page devoted to the theatres I was amazed to find a roast of Maxine Elliott (whom I had met casually three years before). It was written in a most artistic manner in excellent English. It was unkind and cruel – but clever. Altogether it was one of the most scathing denunciations I ever saw in print. It was signed Alice Rix.
She was my dinner companion. I noticed that she and Maxine exchanged more than one sharp glance but neither one showed any outward signs of having anything more in common than superficial things. Once or twice Maxine even smiled in her direction! Clever Maxine, tactful even in her respectable poverty!
Jimmie Swinnerton, the cartoonist, presented me with a quaint drawing of a kangaroo on its hind legs, beaming with laughter and bidding me "Welcome to Australia." I value this picture very highly – and the autographs which were written on it that night.
Another newspaper man, Ashton Stevens, afforded us a treat in the shape of producing music out of a banjo! The way he played classical music on that instrument was marvelous. This came at the tail end of the evening and much to my sorrow the party broke up then and there – at 3 a. m.
Thursday, June 25, 1896, marked our start for Australia on the good ship Alameda, Captain Van Otterendorf commanding. At the pier to bid us bon voyage were all those who had been at the supper on Tuesday, all of the Frawley company, several personal friends and many of my professional brothers and sisters who were employed at the various theatres (or were willing to be!). They had prepared a surprise which quite unnerved me. They all bade me goodby and said all manner of nice things. As one by one they grasped my hand and said farewell a great lump jumped up into my throat and it would have taken but a slight suggestion or urging on anybody's part for me to have followed them all back down the gang-plank! I bit my lips to keep back the tears.
For the first time I realized what a bold responsibility I had assumed in taking a company of players ten thousand miles away from home! Besides, I was leaving all that was near and dear to me behind. "Would we ever meet again?" I wondered. But this was no time for pessimism. So I parted from my dear friends and determined to accept whatever fate had in store for me.
My depression was soon turned to great joy. The boys had chartered a tug, quietly trailed behind us and after we had gone out into the bay for about half a mile they suddenly appeared on the port side only a few feet from us. We could easily talk to one another from our respective decks. On the side of the tug was suddenly hung a huge canvas on which were painted in large, black letters the words, "GOOD LUCK TO NAT!"
It made me feel proud and happy, I can tell you!
They cheered and chattered and we followed suit. The little craft kept up with us until the sea and wind prohibited their going further. Then, with a pipe from the little whistle of the tug, to which the captain of the Alameda responded, she turned her bow towards the city as we sped silently and swiftly toward the Antipodes.
My leading lady at this time was Miss Blanche Walsh who was engaged only for the Australian tour. While contemplating the fair Maxine the evening of the banquet it suddenly struck me what a fine leading woman she would be for my organization! Everybody told me she was an extremely poor actress, but I made up my mind to find out for myself.
As I looked at her I thought that surely a woman of so much charm and beauty who spoke English so purely could be taught.
That evening I went home and told my business manager, McClellan, of my determination.
"Why, you're crazy!" he shouted. "She's beautiful to look at, but she can't act; she hasn't the emotion of an oyster! Blanche Bates is playing rings around her in Frawley's company! Get Bates if you can, but pass up Elliott! Read what the San Francisco papers say about her! Go to sleep and in the morning I'll try to engage Blanche Bates for you!"
I only wish I had followed his advice, but Fate was peeping over my ramparts! And he caused me to pass a very restless night!
Dressing in my best regalia the next morning I called upon Miss Elliott at the Baldwin Hotel. In a few moments I was ushered into her presence and quickly told her of my purpose. It appeared to appeal to her, but there were several barriers in the way. She was about to sign with Harry Miner and Joseph Brooks for the following season. I soon learned that that part of it could be easily arranged as no documents were signed nor material secured. Her little sister Gertrude must also be looked after. I said I would engage her whole family if she so desired.
As I look back to that little impromptu business talk I can see the demure, simple, intelligent Gertrude Elliott, whose fawn-like, penetrating eyes and shell-like ears drank in every word of our conversation. I recall the awe with which she reviewed every act and speech of her beautiful sister!
Best of all I can realize, irrespective of all the sorrow which that interview cost me in after years, that it was the cause of presenting to the American and English public one of the sweetest actresses that the world has ever known and the bringing into the world three of the most beautiful children with which a mother was ever blessed! Had it not been for that interview Gertrude would never have met Forbes-Robertson, whose marriage to Gertrude Elliott has proven a blessing to both and caused the sun to shine resplendently when focused upon those two loving hearts.
Fate plays pranks with us all and shifts about to suit its pleasure. Why did he concentrate his force upon one sister at that interview and demand obedience?
There were two prizes in that room for me to select. As usual I drew the blank!
It took me but a short time to consummate my arrangements and at three o'clock I returned with the contracts. One was for $150 and one for $75 a week. Thus Maxine and Gertrude Elliott were engaged for three years as members of my organization.
I had seen neither on the stage. I simply took a chance, despite all the uncomplimentary expressions I had heard regarding their want of abilities, especially Maxine's. That night I saw them act and I never was more surprised in my life. I saw and heard two women with so much culture that they were lost in their environment. No attention was paid to their superb diction nor to the refinement of their manner. All of it was lost upon the insular, low-browed audience to which they were playing and of course it was overlooked by the management!
I came home in ecstasy and told McClellan that I had found a gold mine. When I told him of part of what I had accomplished he sat bolt upright in bed and upbraided me unmercifully, ending with, "You – fool! You're going away from one woman only to fall in love with another! You haven't a chance, though, for she and Frank Worthing are head over heels in love with each other!"
"I don't give a d – n," I replied cheerfully. "I will engage him too if he'll come to Australia! He's a fine actor!"
"What?" yelled Mac. "You haven't engaged her for Australia, have you?"
"Sure, Mike," I replied.
"Well," said he, "I always thought you were crazy; now I know it! I'll bet you a thousand dollars that neither of them will come!"
"You're on," I said. "That is, I'll bet you one will come. Gertrude gave me her word."
"Oh go have your head examined," growled Mac as he covered his face and rolled over into slumberland, leaving me alone.
And all night long Fate paced up and down outside my door in the Palace Hotel plotting my future!
Had I not made those two engagements the pages of history would have been greatly changed. Had the little Kentucky family held aloof there would have been no Maxine Elliott Theatre in New York; Forbes-Robertson would never have met the sweet Gertrude; the latter would never have been launched as a star; Maxine would not now be a retired actress, rich and famous; Clyde Fitch's career would have been postponed and the avenues of my poor life would have been broader and less clogged with weeds.