Nat Goodwin's Book

The only atmosphere in the theatre of Shakespeare was furnished by the hooting, jostling crowd as it wended its way over London bridge for a night at the Fox Under the Hill, to be joined later on by the "merry fellow" and his companions at the Falcon or Mermaid. No doubt they criticised his play to their own, if not his entire satisfaction. However, irrespective of any of their opinions and without "atmosphere," these criticisms apparently had the same value as the condemnations of the self-styled censors of our modern theatre and its players.

What does it matter after all? In the words of Ben Jonson, "Let them know the author defies them and their writing tables!"

One never heard of atmospheric plays in my early life. It is a delightful coinage. Personally I prefer the aeriform fluid in front of the curtain. I never discovered the intrinsic value of a painting in a fog, neither did a frame ever enhance its value. I want the playhouse to furnish its own nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and other organic matter before the play is produced. Then let the performance proceed on its merits, sans atmosphere.

Widen your stage to allow your forests to be seen; paint your oceans to flow into space, apparently interminable; dress your characters as befits the times, with corresponding architecture, but, for heaven's sake, don't add incense to injury! Let the play proceed and the dialogue be heard; let your ear as well as the eye, decide the verdict and devote whatever atmosphere you consider necessary to the Theatre proper, as did Irving, the colossal. When one entered the portals of the London Lyceum Theatre, as managed by Henry Irving, one felt that sense of intellectual environment and cultivating influence experienced on entering Notre Dame.

A theatre will lose its atmosphere when the lessee vacates the premises just as a small town will when the inhabitants leave it. We remember the cities that appealed to us in early life and note the changes that advancement and progress have made architecturally. Maybe we admire the improvements, but that charm of something has vanished. What is it? Some will answer, "Atmosphere." I say, "the people" – those who talked and invented the architecture and painting of the earlier day.

We want a Papin or a Newcombe to give us back the so-called atmosphere of our youth, but that kind of atmosphere talked and said something.

Chapter XXI

ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT

In this era of dramatic chaos the question often arises, "How would the actors of the past compare with those of the present?"

It is a motley question, and one that requires careful consideration in the answer. In our youth, we are prone to worship those who occupy a sphere above us. Youth is always demonstrative and always partial. Therefore views formed at that time are apt to influence our opinions in after life. To be honest we must discard early impressions, accept existing conditions as they materialize and allow our judgment full sway only after a thorough retrospect and careful analysis of what we considered great in our youth.

I but mildly assert things, full realizing the status of the modern player, his wealth, position and social standing. I put him in comparison with the actors of other days carefully!

And I am convinced we have retrograded, so far as the serious and tragic are concerned. Also we have materially advanced in comedy and specialty work. The legitimate comedian of to-day I consider far in advance of his elder brother. He is cleaner, more human, of lighter touch and more subtle.

We have advanced more rapidly from even my time than we did from the '30's to the '70's. From the days of William E. Burton and the Owens and Jefferson era the advance has been most pronounced. Dialogue and stage business which were in vogue even as late as 1880 would not be tolerated now. They were not as particular regarding comedy as they were in the serious drama. The licentious portions of Shakespeare's plays were eliminated after (but long after!) the Elizabethan era. No doubt the serious dramatist and actor took their cues from that procedure and the result was clean and dignified performances. But comedy suffered.

I am sure a play like "The Easiest Way" would never have gone beyond the dress rehearsal, as much as they admired the serious drama.

The serious actor always held sway. He was the axle upon which the wheels of the theatre were put in motion. Consequently the goal of acting of the aspiring Alexanders was the realm of tragedy and the market was overrun. The result – a Garrick, a George Frederick Cooke, two Keans, a Macready, a Forrest, three Booths, a Gustavus Brooke, an Edwin Adams, a Davenport, a McCullough, an Irving, a Possart, a Salvini, a Phelps, a Rossi! And the words of William Shakespeare came down the years until comedy, properly portrayed, came gaily alongside the statelier craft and with laughter sank the ship of tears, leaving only one survivor – Robert Mantell!

(And, really, with all the respect that I have for Robert's miraculous art I must give my youth the benefit of the doubt and award the victory to those departed gentlemen who for one hundred and fifty years piloted the works of the immortal bard towards the shores of prosperity!)

If they failed to receive the compensation that is now conferred upon their comic (and comical) brothers they have at least the satisfaction of knowing that they brought their art up to the standard of the greatest.

Now this question arises: Has the comic (and comical) brother kept faith with his dead sponsor while he has leaped over the form of his serious predecessor? Has he maintained the dignity of the drama? He will answer, "Of course! We are living in the era of progression. Comedy is a success! All the world is laughing! Success! Success! We are superior to those who have gone before! We make the world laugh!"

And the judicious grieve!

But Time looks sadly down upon the merry makers and the measured swing of the pendulum of thought and argument questions, "How long will it last?"

I wonder!

Chapter XXII

MAUDE ADAMS

How fitting that it should have been Maude Adams to create the title rôle in "Peter Pan!" For, truly, here is the living personification of the human who will never "grow up." Because this is so I have no hesitancy in setting down here the fact that the first time I saw Miss Adams play a part was in 1887!

It was previous to my production of "The Nominee" while I was looking about for an adequate cast that I chanced to meet Charlie Hoyt one day. He was then successfully producing a new line of farce comedies and he asked me to witness the first production of one of his plays, "A Midnight Bell." In the cast were Isabel Coe, who afterwards became Mrs. Frank McKee, Paul Arthur and Maude Adams. With the exception of Paul Arthur no one in the cast was particularly notable.

Those three players appealed to me and I endeavored to secure their services, first ascertaining how long they were contracted for with Hoyt. I succeeded in procuring contracts with Miss Coe and Arthur, but failed in my endeavors to secure Miss Adams as she insisted upon her mother accompanying her. As Estelle Mortimer was engaged for the rôles of old women in my company I could not see my way clear and much to my regret I was forced to resign Miss Adams to other managers.

Arthur and Miss Coe appeared with me in "The Gold Mine," a play of which I had the splendid fortune to get control on the death of Johnny Raymond, who produced it originally. Arthur is now spending his time racing in England, playing bridge and now and then appearing in light comedy rôles in London. I have always considered Paul a most agreeable player. Miss Coe has long since retired, Maude Adams still continues making history for herself and is to-day, as we all know, the most conspicuous actress in America, drawing the largest receipts of any actress in the world.

What a splendid little artist she is!

"You are missing the sweetest thing on earth – romance," said Maude Adams in Barrie's play "What Every Woman Knows."

With what significance did those lines strike me while watching that clever little woman one afternoon. The house was packed, women were weeping and laughing with her. At the fall of every curtain it was raised and raised again. The little artist would bow demurely, coyly acknowledge the compliments bestowed upon her work and then shuffle to her dressing-room. I found her there during one of the intermissions and chatted a few moments with her.

Eight years before we had met in Switzerland. While her figure and manner had changed but little I could not help but notice the sharpness of feature which the eight years had chiseled upon her face. The promissory note demanded by eight years of success must be liquidated and the principal paid. The law of compensation must be obeyed. The little furrows on her tiny face were accentuated by the lustre of her large, blue-gray eyes that looked into yours as though they could penetrate into the recesses of your very soul.

When she talked it was with a little jerky delivery that plainly showed she had herself under perfect control and knew whereof she spoke. The secluded life she leads, I am told, has given her much time to devote to her art and study of the masters. One must do something besides act when not appearing in repertoire. The intelligence expressed in her work plainly indicates the thought she has bestowed upon it.

I consider Maude Adams one of the best English speaking actresses on the stage to-day. She has an appealing, modulated voice, is easy of carriage, graceful, has the power of expressing deep emotion and any quantity of comic power, combined with nice repose. These qualifications make an actress.

Miss Adams has enthralled the public of the United States; her name is a household word; she stands for all that represents true and virtuous womanhood; at the zenith of her fame she has woven her own mantle and placed it about the pedestal upon which she stands, alone. And yet as I looked into those fawn-like eyes I wondered! With all her powers, envied by the many, rich in worldly goods – did those searching liquid orbs denote complete happiness? I felt like taking those tiny little artistic hands in mine and saying, "Little woman, I fear you are unconsciously missing the sweetest thing in life – ROMANCE."

Would she exchange one for the other?

I wonder!

    January, 1911

What a commentary on the existing commercialism of our stage is the present performance of "Chantecler" at the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York! What a farce is the selection of the dainty, clever Maude Adams as the scapegoat for the anticipated failure that is certain to ensue!

There is no gainsaying the fact that after the novelty of the production wore off "Chantecler" failed in Paris. London, after viewing it, said "Not for mine!"

Coquelin spoke of the play to me twelve years ago. Think of it! The play was in embryo then and Rostand selected Coquelin to create the rôle later played by Maude Adams!

After Coquelin's death Guitry, that sterling French player, created the character. Notwithstanding even his tremendous abilities, Rostand and the critics discovered that he was not the man for the part. The underlying meaning of the part was sacrificed. Bombastic display usurped the subtle humor intended by the author. Cynical humor was stifled by the declamatory Guitry.

But waiving all criticism of Guitry, by what power of monstrous reasoning could any manager select Maude Adams to play a rôle acted by Guitry and written for Coquelin?

When London put "Chantecler" in the discard our own astute Charles Frohman – of whom I am very fond (and I assure my readers that I am not censuring him for he is quite right from his point of view) and who had an option on the play – realized he must produce it or incur the enmity of the entire French family of authors. He was bound to produce that play, submit to the exorbitant terms demanded by the author and make a production equal to the one in Paris or the Parisian theatre doors would be closed against him. He agreed to their demands, knowing that he was up against it and sure to come out a big loser. He doubtless ruminated, "I must produce it; but how?"

He was thoroughly assured that no man in America could play the part!

Then it was that this manager, after being drugged with the artistic incense of the Parisian stage, became suddenly inspired to Grape-Nut his property before the American public, Pear's Soap his Chantecler upon the cleanly critics, Mellin's Food the baby managers and put his one best bet down on Maude Adams, whose name is as familiar as any of these articles! Was this fair to her? Was this fair to the public, to the author, to anyone? Of course not? Why be fair with anything or anybody? If you do, you're sure to be found out and the world will write you down an ass! No! Go on with the good work; don't stop, nor even hesitate! Everybody's rich! The dramatic merchants own all the moving picture shows, musical comedies, burlesques. They are spending their profits in automobiles! They are bedecked in sables! Commercialism is running amuck while the artistic foreigner cynically observes and stands amazed!

But fear not, gentle censors, the worst is yet to come! Maggie Cline is contemplating an appearance in "Hamlet" and Elsie Janis may yet be permitted to show us the humor of Dogberry!

Why not?

If the commercial gentlemen who wield the sceptre do but command submission what does it signify who pays the price of admission?

Chapter XXIII

TYRONE POWER