Nat Goodwin's Book

"Such superb treatment, delicacy, subtlety, and – " again a pause and the same closing of the eyes, the awakening and continuation: —

"Your work is a revelation and great object lesson to the students of the drama, the commingling of the older and younger elements only lends a charm to the works of the grand master and,"

Again the pause, and on his awakening after this last standing siesta, he discovered my presence.

"Ah, Nattie, I hear splendid reports of your Sir Lucius O'Trigger."

I inquired from whom as I had been kept in ignorance of any. He said from everyone.

"And now, my good friend," said Sol, addressing Jefferson, "I must leave you as I don't want to miss Nat's first scene, the opening of the second act."

Bowing, he made his exit, his left hand deftly placed upon the wall of the room as he guided himself in a somewhat circuitous way to the door. As he was bent directly opposite, I went to his assistance and led him outside, detecting a slight odor of what seemed to me gin fizzes. I bade him adieu and returned to my dressing table. Jefferson appeared much gratified.

"Sol is awfully pleased apparently and was most gracious," he said. I answered, "Yes, for a tired man, Sol spoke remarkably well." Jefferson, who was very literal, asked, "Is Sol tired?" I replied, "He ought to be with that load he is carrying."

Said Jefferson, "What load is he carrying?"

"A basket of lovely peaches," quoth I.

"I didn't notice he had a parcel with him," replied Jefferson.

"He is tanked up to the collar button," I said. "Oh, what a lovely skate he has!"

"Tanked up to the collar button and skate? What the devil are you talking about. You have a vernacular, my dear Nat, that requires translation. What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you notice his condition?" I asked. "He's loaded to the eyebrows."

"Tight?" asked Jefferson.

"As a new drum," I replied.

"I can't realize it," said Jefferson. "My eyesight prevented my scanning his face as accurately as I could wish. I noticed his conversation was a bit measured, but very well expressed. I can't believe he was under the influence of liquor. Are you sure?"

I replied with much pride in my delivery, "You can't deceive an artist."

Jefferson simply screamed at this remark and during the afternoon repeated the incident several times to each and every member of the company. It met with so much favor and seemed to amuse the people to such an extent that for several years, by imitating both Sol and Jefferson, I made it one of the best stories of my repertoire.

I once told the story to a number of actors at the Green Room Club in London. At the finish, "You can't deceive an artist," it failed to provoke the laughter it always aroused in America and I thought I noticed a look of blank amazement on my auditors' faces. I paid no attention to it at the time, attributing their lack of appreciation to their density or their limited acquaintance with the mannerism of the gentlemen I was imitating. Three weeks later Fred Terry met me on the Strand and with much gravity apologized for the silent manner his confrères at the club had received my story.

"My dear Nat," said Terry, "the lads entirely mistook your meaning. They thought you were putting on a lot of side and when you pointed to yourself with that egotistical gesture and proclaimed yourself an artist, they thought it in exceedingly bad taste. I have been all this time taking each one aside and telling him that was not your meaning at all; that you were a very modest man for an American. You were simply telling your superior officer what a drunkard you were. Now they thoroughly understand the story and won't you please come to-night and tell the story over again?"

Which request I politely but firmly refused.

The last time I saw poor Sol was at a luncheon at the home of the late Stillson Hutchins given in our joint honor at Washington. Now both are gone. God bless their memory. Adieu, good friends.

A few nights after telling this story, I was relating the incident to Beerbohm Tree at a supper party. He agreed with me as to the density of the average Britisher so far as appreciating American humor is concerned. He told me he understood it thoroughly. As the supper progressed we were entertained by song and story, contributed by the guests. In my turn I told of an incident that happened in Denver.

I had come in from one of the clubs very late and directed the clerk at the hotel to call me at 5 a. m. sharp, impressing upon him that I was a very heavy sleeper. Having only a few hours to rest I wanted him to be sure to rap on the door as loudly as possible and not go away until he heard a response from me. It was vital I make the train for Leadville and it left at 6 o'clock.

An Irish porter standing near overheard my instructions and volunteered to assume the responsibility of awakening me on time. I handed him a dollar and retired to my room, a cold, bleak apartment, and was soon asleep between the icy sheets. It seemed but a few minutes until I was awakened by a most violent knocking on my door. I shouted, "What's the matter?"

"Are yez the man that left the call for the five o'clock train?" I answered, "Yes."

"Well," came the reply from outside, "go back to sleep. Your train's gone."

Several of the guests laughed loudly. Tree, however, looked blank and ejaculated, "The silly man should have been discharged for incompetency."

I hurriedly left the party and told no more stories that summer.

Chapter XII

RICHARD MANSFIELD

Had I known as much then as I do now or had my youthful obduracy been less pronounced the sudden rise to heights of fame which marked Richard Mansfield's career might never have happened – in any event it would have been postponed.

It was while I was rehearsing in "The Black Flag," a melodrama which won much success later, that a gifted journalist, A. R. Cazauran, who was then acting in the capacity of play reader, adapter and general factotum for Shook and Palmer, the lessees of the Union Square Theatre, came to see me. After watching the rehearsal Cazauran decided that I was sacrificing my time and talent with "such drivel as 'The Black Flag.'" When the rehearsal was finished he insisted upon my accompanying him to Mr. Palmer's office, as he had something of great importance to communicate to me. After seating ourselves at Mr. Palmer's desk, he said,

"Goodwin, I am now going to give you the opportunity of your life. We are going to produce a play called 'A Parisian Romance.' J. H. Stoddard has been rehearsing the part of the Baron, but he has decided not to play it, feeling that he does not suit the character."

Cazauran then continued in his delightfully broken English that that was the part he had in mind for me and it would suit me "down to the ground." The character of Baron Chevreal was that of a man of middle age; but a young man, with virility, was necessary to act the death scene which required tremendous force. He brought out the manuscript and read me the entire play. When he had finished, I said,

"For the love of heaven, Cazauran, why did you select me to play that gruesome tragedy rôle?"

"Because I think you can play it," he replied.

I was dumbfounded. "Why, I am a comedian, and it looks to me as though that part were made to order for Stoddard."

Cazauran shrugged his shoulders and, placing both hands on mine, observed in a most impressive manner:

"Goodwin, you are a comedian and, I grant, a fine one. So was Garrick, but no one remembers Garrick in comedy."

How true that was, and how often that expression has come back to me in after life! They seldom remember those who make them laugh.

"You accept this part of the Baron," Cazauran continued, "give me three hours of your time each day for three weeks and I will guarantee that you will never play a comedy part again. I and the Baron will make you famous."

I sincerely thanked him, but firmly declined to be made famous in that particular line. We adjourned to his favorite restaurant, Solari's, in University Place, where for three hours he endeavored to persuade me to play the part. I was obdurate and would not listen to any of his suggestions.

"Well," he said at parting, "Stoddard cannot and will not play the part and I have resolved to try a young man we have in our company, selected from the Standard Theatre Company, where he was playing in a comic opera 'The Black Cloak.' He is now rehearsing the part of the ambassador in 'A Parisian Romance.' He shall play the Baron. He is intelligent, knows French and I am convinced that I can coach him into a success."

In four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks to play the Baron awoke to find himself famous. His name was Richard Mansfield.

Philosophy, Thou Liest!

One night several years ago at the Garrick Club in London, Joseph Knight and I were discussing the American invasion of England by American artists. During the course of our conversation, Knight said: —

"My dear Goodwin, we had an extraordinary chap over here from your country some years ago. I can't recall him by name, but he was a most uncomfortable person to meet and an awful actor! He endeavored to play Richard the III and gave an awful performance! He followed this with a play, written by Robert Louis Stevenson in which he scratched the carpet and was somebody else! He was a boss-eyed chap, spoke several languages and was remarkably adept at the piano. I can't for the life of me recall his name."

From Knight's description I knew that he meant Mansfield and ventured to suggest that that might be the man to whom he referred.