Nat Goodwin's Book
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Thus began the career of Alexandra Carlisle, to-day the highest salaried leading lady in London!
I had a most trying experience with Miss Carlisle. On the railway trip from London to Southampton we had as fellow travellers her father and mother and husband – and we made a very happy quintette. But directly we were aboard the ship Miss Carlisle fell victim to an attack of homesickness. Perhaps it was her sense of loss of her husband, perhaps mal de mer was at the bottom of it. In any event she spent the entire trip in tears and in borrowing all my spare cash to send love messages, via wireless, to the husband for whom she had shown no affection at all – up to the time of our leaving. Of course all the old lady passengers glared at me the first day out! The rumor literally flew all over that ship that I was either abducting the young woman – or, equally heinous offense, was neglecting her!
But to return to the mundane fish cakes – and the consequences thereof!
The ex-champion's ex-manager had remained in London after the departure of the discomfited young and handsome star and her mama – to watch over me! Instructions had been cabled to him later to be especially watchful now that I was at my old game of "discovering" leading ladies. The trio of conspirators were very, very busy those days! The purpose of the ex-manager's presence at my elbow, constantly shown, was to have me land in New York fancy free. In spite of my susceptible nature there was no cause for alarm this time! I was intensely respectable! As yet I had not even thought of divorcing Maxine Elliott.
My idea was to combine two types of beauty, English and American, and with good press work make both my leading women popular favorites. But the hopeless state of mind of Miss Carlisle put rather a damper on my plan. I turned her over to the care of the ex-manager and remained in my stateroom during the entire trip. On our arrival in New York I loaned Miss Carlisle the cost of her passage home and the following week she started back to London – much to the satisfaction of my American beauty, pardon, my young and handsome star.
It struck me as an odd coincidence that on the same ship with Miss Carlisle, also bound for London, was Miss Maxine – who always found it convenient to go to England within a day or two of my arrival in America!
Fate was a busy bee these days, I can tell you. He was weaving his net well – and tightly.
Of course the young and handsome star and her mama met me at the pier. They drove me to a most luxurious flat in Twenty-sixth Street – in a landau drawn by two spanking bays. Truly my young and handsome star was going some! After a hearty luncheon prepared by Martin I went to my hotel and spent the evening with my friends, who were, are and always have been – men!
The next day I arranged a tour for "The Genius."
The less said about that tour —
With my marriage to Edna Goodrich, the young and handsome star, forsooth, the mere mention of fish cakes caused me to shudder!
At the end of that first tour I knew that the end was at hand. Perhaps I was influenced by the fact that my friends told me at every conceivable opportunity of the record of the young woman and her mama. Of course I indignantly refused to listen to these allegations; but the fact that there existed grounds for such allegations may possibly have disturbed me. However, we went along, producing "When We Were Twenty-One," "An American Citizen," one act of "The Merchant of Venice" (thank God it was only one act!) and an original play written by George Broadhurst, which made a tremendous hit in the South but was a failure in the East.
My star-wife complained of being ill at the end of the season and I sent her to a famous specialist in Minnesota for a series of treatments. Her recovery was almost instantaneous! In five days, from the day she left me, she wired me in California that she was in New York about to start for Europe! She asked that I follow her. I replied I had just reached Los Angeles and had business that would keep me there – at least over night.
This was the beginning of the end indeed.
One night at dinner, a month or so later, I received an anonymous letter containing charges against my absent bride. These general allegations interested me less than the statement that the writer could show me a watch which I had mourned as lost for many months. You see I wanted the watch!
I arranged for an interview with my unknown correspondent, by putting a club in the pocket of my dressing gown. Two men appeared. One, a very common sort of person, I kept in my drawing room and the other, a young, respectable looking chap I took into my den. There I began my cross-examination. After promising to show me the long-lost watch the following morning he called in his companion who proved to be a waiter in a café in which my wife had enjoyed her clandestine meetings. His description of the man immediately served to identify him as one of my wife's former admirers – a gentleman-about-town who had squandered $20,000 on her, proposed and been accepted (before our marriage) and, fortunately, gone broke before the ceremony could be performed! My discovery that he was the gentleman in the case made me wonder. I had not heard that his fortunes had been repaired – before this!
The following morning we visited a pawn broker's shop and there in the window, hanging on a line, was my watch. I recognized it, not only from its engraved initials but also because it was one of three which were never duplicated. I had bought all three in Paris years before and given two of them to my two best friends. When it disappeared I was sure it had been stolen and did my best to trace it with the aid of the police. I did not suspect my wife!
The young man had discovered the facts when the man-about-town in a moment of drunken braggadocio boasted of his friendship with my wife and displayed my watch as proof of it!
In the frenzy of the moment my impulse was to drop all else and find this whelp – to drive him at the point of a revolver into that pawn shop and there make him redeem and return to me the property which I could not accuse him of stealing! On second thought I realized that if I ever laid eyes on him I could never refrain from taking just one pop at him – and if the sound appealed to me I was afraid I might continue popping. So I counted ten and my reason returned. To be locked up for murder even if for only a few minutes is not a thing to be courted. Besides there were always my mother and father to consider. Altogether it would have been the act of a fool and for once I determined to play another rôle. In following out this resolve I hastily left Los Angeles and started for London.
Loving wife and fond mama had no intimation of my discovery. They were awaiting me at the station and never did a husband get a warmer greeting! Why, even mama seemed to have absorbed much of loving daughter's excess of affection for me! And thus they conducted me to a snug apartment in the Savoy Hotel. To interrupt such tender solicitude for my well being by vulgar references to other men who yesterday had been the recipients of all I was getting then would have put me too far out of the picture! So I sat tight and waited for morning.
After breakfast the next day I opened the ball by remarking that I had finally come across the trail of the thief who had stolen my watch. Also I added with seeming irrelevancy that I had heard about the clandestine meetings my wife had been indulging in with a gentleman I named.
Her denials were not only positive; they were indignant. The fact that I had absolute proof of all I had thus far said was the only thing that saved me from becoming thoroughly convinced that I was mistaken.
Why is it so many women are such consummate actresses off the stage and such impossible amateurs on?
I did a little acting on my own account, however, and evidenced complete belief in all my wife's denials. She was sure I would eventually find my watch in the top tray of a trunk which had lain in storage in New York for months. I let it go at that. I had acquired all the proof I wanted, in other directions, and was satisfied. Besides, all this happened during the month of June, 1910, and I was in a great hurry to get back to America.
The contest for the heavy-weight pugilistic championship of the world was scheduled to be held July 4, 1910!
My wife remained abroad that summer but the Jeffries-Johnson-fight-disappointment almost offset that benediction.
Preparatory to my going back into my profession I bought a play from George Broadhurst who for some inconceivable (!) reason refused to let me produce it if I allowed my wife to appear in it. This was quite a shock to me but I set it down to the well-known eccentricity of authors. Present in a box at the opening performance of the play was my quondam "young and handsome star" who returned to New York just in time to grace the occasion. Later she descended on our little organization while we were playing in Toronto and this time she hurled accusations of all kinds at my head – any one of which would have enabled her to divorce me even in England! When the trial of her divorce action came along all these charges were disproven – but that one session in Toronto was not conducted along Parliamentary lines, so far as she was concerned.
That she had instituted the proceedings didn't bother me at all. Having done all the affirmative work in two other divorce actions I thought I might as well take it easy this time and let her do it! But I had forgotten all about a certain deed of trust I had made in Paris some time before.
During my mining activities I foresaw the calamity that was inevitable and acting on the advice of an incompetent attorney I foolishly entered into a trust agreement with my wife under the terms of which I placed all my property in the hands of a trustee. In avoiding a possible loss I ran headfirst into a dead sure steal!
As soon as I had been served in the divorce action I began suit on my own account to cancel this trust agreement. It had always been a nuisance even in the days when wife and fond mama were at their loving-est! Now it was imperative that I be allowed to handle my own property alone. The settlement of that action was a long, drawn-out affair as compared with the divorce action. During the several months before my wife finally won (?) her case the newspapers were filled daily with sensational articles about my affairs with women I had never even seen! It seemed to me as if the gentlemen of the press just published any and every photograph of a pretty woman they could find and named her as one of the unfortunate objects of my attentions. In spite of this my wife's able counsel had been able to present no facts to the Referee that could justify him in recommending a decree in her favor – up to the Tuesday before the Saturday on which he was to render his decision.
It never dawned on me that this was the case until my dear old friend, Jim Killduff, who had been following the suit more closely than I had came to me that Tuesday night and congratulated me! "You're winning so easily, it's a laugh," he exclaimed. "Winning?" I echoed feebly. "Do you mean she isn't going to get her divorce?" "She hasn't a chance on earth," replied Jim gleefully. "Every charge she has made against you has been stricken from the Referee's record." "Good Lord," I gasped, "she's got to win! It's the only way I can ever get this trust agreement busted!"
The result of our conversation I can not set forth in detail. The fact remains, however, that before that next Saturday the Referee had presented to him the evidence necessary to make his course of duty plain – and once again the newspapers had grounds (?) for proclaiming me a disciple of Solomon!
Between you and me, gentle reader, Justice must have had to tighten that bandage about her eyes when she learned of that decree! She surely must have loosened it laughing!
I can say, however, that it is a most expensive luxury – being divorced! It's much cheaper to use the active voice of that verb!
Marriages are made in heaven – canceled in Reno.
I have had many sweethearts, but only one survives – my mother.
If a man steal your wife don't kill him – caution him!
Chapter LXXIII
SIR BEERBOHM TREE
A most extraordinary man is Beerbohm Tree. Refined, almost aesthetic in manner yet as worldly and practical as the most prosaic merchant. His humor is human if a bit cynical. He has the manner of a dreamer and an eye like a City man or an American gambler. Among those he loves he is nothing but a boy with a boyish simplicity but when he is surrounded by uninteresting acquaintances he suggests a German philosopher or Danish poet – in his impenetrable reserve!
A clever man is Beerbohm Tree and I like him.
As is the case with all successful players especially if they have the good sense and good taste to present refined art he has many enemies. And most of these are members of his own profession! These malcontents have the effrontery to discuss a genius who has so far distanced them by his indefatigable industry, mentality and application as to leave them nowhere. He has succeeded in producing dignified plays in a dignified manner and his success has not been only "artistic." He makes enough to be able to pay $50,000 per annum for one of the prettiest playhouses in the world!
I smile with you at your scoffers, Mr. Tree (I can't say Sir Beerbohm!). My hat's off to you.
Here is a little anecdote of the man they say is characteristic.
He had been dining quite late – yes, and well. When the party broke up Tree hailed a cab and jumped in with the one word, "Home," addressed toward the cabby. That artful individual saw his chance for a fat fare and drove off without inquiring for more explicit instructions. After he had let his horse wander about London all night – with Tree in peaceful slumber inside – the cabby peeked in through his little aperture in the roof and awoke the sleeping player.
"Where shall I drive you to now, sir?" queried the cabby.
"Home, I say," replied Tree angrily.
"I beg pardon, guv'nor," replied the cabby, "but where is your 'ome, sir?"
Tree opened one eye long enough to direct a look full of reproach at the cabby.
"You don't imagine I'm going to tell every common cabman my private address, do you?"
Chapter LXXIV
THE ORIGIN OF THE STAGE
Far be it from me to be a dusty delver into dates! But a word as to the origin of the profession in which so many of us have toiled so many years may not be amiss, especially if it point the moral or adorn the tale I have in mind. And that is not so much a tale as a protest against the customary reverence the public has for the actor who dares essay the classic rôles. It's not only not difficult to play a classic rôle. It's fifty per cent easier than to play a modern part!
But to be historical!
It was almost 350 (or only, as you please) years ago that the first properly licensed theatre was built in London. The exact date was 1570. It was called the Black Friars Theatre.
(And to-day, 1913, there are a dozen or so on one block, on one side of one block in Forty-second street, New York!)
On the other hand it is marvelous to consider the amount of discussion one causes when one announces a forth-coming production of a classic play. By common impulse the critics sharpen their quills and prepare for the onslaught! How dare men and women who have been known to wear modern garments attractively and in style even attempt to enter into competition with past or present "masters"? By what right has the modern actor forsaken his frock coat for the sock and buskin?
But again, the first religious spectacle was probably "St. Catherine," a miracle play mentioned by Mattheu Paris as having been written by Geoffrey, a Norman, afterwards Abbot of St. Albans, and played at Dunstable Abbey in 1110. In the "Description of the most noble city of London" by Fitz Stephen, a monk, in treating of the diversions of the inhabitants of the metropolis in 1174, says that while the plays all dealt with holy subjects the methods of the merchants who "presented" the attractions were anything but that. The gentle art of the ballyhoo was evidently well known even in those days for they used jugglers and buffoons and minstrels to draw the crowds up to the box office window. When the clergy awoke to what was going on they promptly put their sandaled feet down and stopped the money-making! Monks took the place of the unfrocked actors and the box offices and theatres all disappeared. Thereafter the miracle plays were enacted in the cathedrals and there was no way to check the gross receipts!
According to the critics the classic comedy should never be played by an actor who has not arrived at an age that physically incapacitates him from not only looking the part but acting it! It is no different with classic tragedy. And this is based, perhaps, on the absurd fallacy that the classic drama is most difficult to portray. In fact it is the easiest. It is easily proved.
Take any one of the old comedies. In the first place they create their own atmosphere, an atmosphere unknown to nine hundred and ninety-nine out of one thousand. The costumes are of brilliant coloring and in exquisite taste and a novelty in themselves. Nine-tenths of the idioms are not understood by the audience – and that is always most attractive! The methods of provoking laughter are uncommon, hence sure-fire! The play is a classic, therefore beyond criticism! No one is alive to-day who can judge of its accuracy – so it must be perfect! And, best of all, it is guaranteed to be in conformance with all the best standards – by tradition!
A tramp could make a success with a modern play with half this much in its favor!
On the other hand take the modern play. You know the atmosphere. You live in it. None is created. It is just there. Consequently the critics wail the lack of it! The costumes are simply the dull prosaic garments of the day. There isn't any novelty to be found there. The language is understandable – perilous fault! The fun is provoked by well-known, legitimate methods and is accordingly "stupid." The comedian is a human being – and "tiresome" therefore!
Mind you, dear reader, I would not be of those who wail about the decline of the drama and the ascendency of the movies. But I can't escape the facts. And here is another angle of the situation which perhaps is too often overlooked.
There is no question that the actor of to-day is living in a more agreeable environment than his brother of a hundred years ago. He is accepted now socially. He was a gypsy then. His opportunity to annex a large share of the world's goods is larger to-day than ever it was. Yet in his artistic life he is less fortunate than his confreres of even twenty-five years ago.
Why?
Simply because we have lifted the curtain, let loose the secrets of our little house, discussed our art with the gambler and the janitor!
It is a difficult job to convince a friend with whom you're dining that you are capable of playing Hamlet. He can't disassociate you from the evening clothes you wear!
Abroad the man and the actor are separate beings. Here, through our own fault, we are always ourselves.
And so it must continue to be until the old back door keeper is reinstated, the green room refurbished and – the curtain dropped! Let the janitor be silenced and the stage door barred and securely fastened! Then and not until then may we hope to attain truly artistic results.
Chapter LXXV
MY STAGE-STRUCK VALET
It was back in the early nineties that an invitation was extended to me to appear in an all-star performance of "Richard the Third" in a monster benefit for some charitable institution. (My friends, the critics, permit me to play tragedy – for charity!) With my acceptance of the invitation I also sent word I should appreciate it if a "bit" (a small part) were given to my valet to play. This valet of mine was the most woefully stage-struck individual I ever saw. It was his only fault. Otherwise he was without a blemish as a valet. He had begged me for months to let him go on in one of my productions but I had never had an opportunity until now.
The messenger sent from Richmond through Lord Stanley to Richard on the field of battle was the part my valet was to play and his line was "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond." For weeks prior to the benefit matinee that valet repeated his line aloud! If I asked for my slippers he brought them mumbling, "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond." No matter what I said to him he prefaced his answer with this line. It got on my nerves to such an extent I told him I'd dismiss him if he said it again in my hearing. It was no use. Every time I turned my head I saw my valet repeating "A gentleman called Stanley desires admittance from the Earl of Richmond."
We put in a long rehearsal session the morning of the matinee. I was so much occupied with my own performance I paid no attention to the valet. I forgot even to inform him about the costume he should wear. As I was finishing my make-up and within a moment or two of the rise of the curtain my valet appeared in the doorway of my dressing-room with a request that I look him over. What I saw sent me into a paroxysm of laughter. There he was, 250 pounds of him, in a green hauberk extending only to the top of his stomach! (It should have covered him to his knees.) Blue tights pulled over the generous paunch met the lingering and deficient hauberk. Scarlet boots were fitted with spurs so huge as to stagger any tragedian! The helmet whose side chains should have touched his shoulders sat atop his head like a chestnut on an apple with the side chains tickling the tops of his ears! As a finish he had the largest sword I ever saw strapped to his side!
There was no time to change so I suppressed my laughter and told him for the fiftieth time to go to the left first entrance and when he saw my back toward him and heard me say, "Off with his head, so much for Buckingham," to rush on and with all his vigor shout his line. The valet promptly began, "A gentleman called – " but I stopped him and he started off as proud as a peacock and as confident as possible.
The moment came. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the valet waiting in his place. In his eagerness he was like a tiger ready to spring on his prey. I gave the cue. On came the valet! Then I turned and with all the force at my command snarled, "How now?"
The valet began to fall backwards! Nearer and nearer the footlights he tottered until his feet became entangled in the spurs – and down he went flat on his back! Picking himself up he managed to rescue the funny little helmet from the footlights trough, put it on his head, look for the exact center of the stage, reach it carefully, face the audience (with his back toward me!) and shouted, "A lady named Stanley is downstairs!"
Of course everybody died! It was really my fault. I had omitted telling him that in tragedy actors save their voices at rehearsal and of course my rage was altogether unexpected by him as I had previously said "How now?" in a conversational tone. Of course every one of my friends insisted my valet was not to blame inasmuch as he had been making just announcements every day of his life to either John Mason or me in our little flat in the West thirties! But I always set it down as the best proof in the world that valets are born and not made.
Tragedy is the husband of humor; comedy the child.
Many comedians either make you laugh or frighten you to death.
Chapter LXXVI
GEORGE C. TYLER
Of all the managers now producing plays in America there is one who stands like Caesar alone, looking down upon the victorious battle field of success. If there are any laurel wreaths for sale in your neighborhood, gentle reader, buy one and bestow it upon the brow of George C. Tyler. Patient, keen, gentle and aggressive, he merits it. He has more artistic blood coursing through his veins than any man I know and, better still, he knows how to exude it. Courageous even to being stubborn he never allows anyone to rob him of his convictions. Once he embarks on any project he is as unmovable as the Sphinx whose counterpart appears in his spectacular triumph, "The Garden of Allah."