Nat Goodwin's Book

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."

Although he owns wonderful business ability he never allows commercialism to influence him in the production of a play. His knowledge of the ethics of the theatre equals the masters' and he can fly with the speed of a bird from tragedy to comedy. Here is no purveyor of established successes but a discoverer of them! He is truly a servant of the masses. And with all his success he remains as urbane as when he began. He has fought his battles alone and unaided; borne his failures with fortitude; accepted defeat with the same equanimity as success. And now he stands one of the representative producing managers of the world!

I have been associated with him only once and it was one of the most delightful experiences of my career.