Nat Goodwin's Book

I followed "Confusion" with "Turned Up," preceding each play with "Lend Me Five Shillings" and an adaption from the French of a play called "Gringoire." I was enabled to show a good profit on the correct side of the ledger for the following two years.

On my next trip to Europe I succeeded in interesting William Yardley to write for me. With Leander Richardson he adapted a play from the French which was produced successfully in London by Charles Wyndham and called "The Candidate." I returned to America that year with their adaption, calling it "The Nominee." I afterwards produced it for a limited run at the Bijou Theatre, New York.

Previously I had made several plunges into musical comedy and comic opera, producing with Edward E. Rice at the Boston Museum "Cinderella at School," "The Mascot" and "Pinafore." Those productions were given in a spirit of fun and as a relief from the more serious work which occupied my road tours. Irrespective of the profits which were made by these plunges into dissipation we always had a royal time.

It was here that I again resumed my delightful associations with dear old Ned Rice. What a misunderstood person is this happy-go-lucky ne'er-do-well who would spend his last twenty dollar bill to give a dinner to a pal! The sordid, practical manager of to-day would do well to emulate this self-sacrificing gentleman. Salaries meant nothing to him if he considered the actor necessary to enhance the artistic value of any of his magnificent productions. So thoughtful of his women and appreciative of his men was he as to make it a joy to be associated with him in the management of the classic Boston Museum. I was always fond of the comic opera style of entertainment and to be associated with Rice added greatly to my pleasure.

The extreme gratification of being for a time the lessee of a playhouse in which I had previously been conspicuous only as a spear carrier was joy indeed. To tear down the walls of respectability and storm the citadel of the legitimate; to make the sacred place a playground were dissipations which I enjoyed immensely. To surround myself with both principals and chorus after the matinee, have dinner served from the Parker House (and be able to liquidate from the profits of that matinée) in the greenroom, where the people were allowed to talk to one another without being subject to a fine for their audacity; to have the exquisite power of bringing viands behind the scenes without fear of challenge or interruption; with the satisfaction of knowing that only we knew what was going on behind the scenes of this revered old playhouse – these were joys indeed!

It was very wrong, no doubt, but nevertheless a beatific revenge for the cuffs I had received in years gone by. Maybe it was only a mistake. Perhaps I should not have indulged in these sprees, but the engagement was in the summer, we paid large salaries, the theatre was packed at every performance, the dignified and austere management shut their eyes to our moods and tenses and, really, after all, it was but a little holiday and John Mason, Joseph Haworth, William J. LeMoyne, Fred Archer, Barney Nolan, my dear brother Edward, Sadie Martinot, Catherine Lewis, Belle Archer, Rice and I enjoyed the outing, or inning, immensely!

Chapter XVII

THE HALCYON DAYS OF UNION SQUARE

The early eighties were replete with much excitement and lucrative receipts. From '82 to '90 I made productions annually and nearly all, I am pleased to say, were successful. A half dozen worth naming were "Sparks," "A Gay Deceiver," "Col. Tom Bottom's Dream," "A Royal Revenge," "The Skating Rink" and "A Terrible Time." During these eight years I made many friends and always looked forward to the summer with much pleasure. The two months devoted to booking my tour for the coming season always afforded me unbounded joy.

What would I not give to swing back into time and have one brief yesterday; to stroll down Broadway and grasp the hands of long ago; to drop in at the old Hoffman House, stroll to the bar and be greeted by John McCullough, by Ned Buckley (he of the angelic voice and fist of a gladiator), by Johnny Mackie, the lovable cynic, Jim Collier, the uncle of our magnetic Willie, and Sam Piercy, of stentorian tones (who died ere he blossomed)!

What would I not give to continue down Broadway to Fourteenth Street; to stop and talk with the austere, but charming Barney Macauley; to be joined by Charlie Read, the delightful minstrel; the tall and well-groomed Charles R. Thorne, Jr., and his equally attractive brother, Ned, the handsome Fred Bryton, the scholarly Charles Coghlan, the fascinating Harry J. Montague, clever George Knight, Billy Barry, Sol Smith Russell, James Lewis and John Drew! These gentlemen constituted America's "lowest and lightest," as I referred to them one spring morning as we exchanged salutations.

Anon come John Gilbert and the aggressive little John T. Raymond and, as you continue down, the distinguished members of Wallack's and the Union Square nod kindly recognition. Then you return on a journey to the St. James Hotel to be met graciously by its popular proprietor, Billy Conners, fascinating Henry Perry, the wit of Broadway, and divers other men about town, including "Plunger" Walton and the well-groomed John Daly. John Daly, the gambler? Yes, but only in the truest meaning of the word – not a corner lounger with dyed mustache, leering at the women as they passed, but a true gambler in every sense, of a type now extinct.

Those men were all "pals," men of the hour. Where they foregathered a perpetual loving cup was in evidence.

After passing the usual greetings one would take a stroll uptown as far as Thirty-fourth Street. That was as high as the afternoon professional pedestrian cared to ramble. If one were as favored as I was in those happy days one would be sure to be greeted by such beautiful and attractive women as Lillian Grubb, Marie Jansen, Kate Forsythe, Pauline Hall, Josie Hall and dainty Mollie Fuller, her chum, the Hanley sisters, the attractive Lillian Russell (almost as beautiful and radiant as now!), Marie Tempest, clever Minnie Maddern, the daughter of Tom Davey, now the talented Mrs. Fiske, the haughty Rose Eytinge, Ada Dyas and the regal Ada Rehan.

The brain grows giddy as my fancy wanders back to those beautiful autumnal days of twenty odd years ago when all was chaotic and congested, but nevertheless a delightful pot pourri of brilliancy, genius, talent and beauty. Some, in fact a majority, have passed away, but to those who were privileged to enjoy the happy association of those clever men and women a memory remains that will only be obliterated when the bell that summoned King Duncan to his doom tells us that the time has come for us to join those gone before.

Shall we join them?

I wonder!

Life is a bridge of sighs, over which memory glides into a torrent of tears.

It was somewhere in the early eighties that I first heard of the existence of the Lambs Club, situated at that time somewhere near Union Square and suggested to me as a good one to join by Harry Becket, then the leading comedian of Wallack's Theatre. It was during those busy times when all of us were compelled to travel for the season of the then thirty-two weeks that we looked forward with greatest joy to meeting our pals on the glorious Rialto. It was bounded by Broadway and Fourth Avenue, Fourteenth and Seventeenth Streets with the attractive Union Square Park forming the center of rest. It was our busy playground after our toils of the road.

I always put up at the Union Square Hotel where, after a hurried bath and shave, I would rush down to the street below to be welcomed by my many friends. Ah! What times they were! I brush away a tear as the happy memories come upon my vision. I see the tall, commanding figure of Charlie Thorne come briskly across the pavement, switching his well-shaped limbs with a tiny cane as he rushes over with outstretched hands to bid me welcome and congratulate me upon my season's efforts. A slap on the back from clever Louis Harrison and an embrace – yes, even in the open! – from his talented sister Alice; a yell from dear old Matt Snyder, many times a member of my various organizations, a grunt of welcome from the stoic, Sheridan Shook and an acknowledgment from the dignified Lawrence Barrett; a benign smile from Edwin Booth, salutations from the various members of my company, now disbanded, but only for a time! We generally kept our organizations intact for many seasons in those happy, golden yesterdays.

Often the ladies of our profession would wander downtown to meet their brothers and here and there one would come across a group of men and women in converse under the shady trees, comparing notes and making their arrangements for the following year. Dainty Kate Claxton, then the heroine of "The Two Orphans," would be seen in earnest conversation with A. M. Palmer in front of the Union Square Theatre. Maggie Mitchell would briskly acknowledge the respectful doffing of hats as she tripped across from the Morton House with sprightly Lotta as her one bright particular companion of that morning. Midway between the Morton House and the Union Square the fascinating Joe Emmett would chirp merrily on his way and hold those ladies enthralled until some other came along to interrupt their entertaining conversation.

In those days, no arbitrary booking organization held sway; no peeping Izzies or Sols had access to our books; we were all on our own, masters of our own enterprises. Like the brokers on the curb we arranged our bookings on the street. Hither and hither we flew, now procuring a week in Pittsburgh or a night in Dayton, crossing and recrossing from the Morton House to Union Square, corralling a manager for a two weeks' tour in the sunny South or four in the unattractive middle West, ever and anon stopping on our way to engage the services of some particular actor we desired for the new play. We made railroad rates with hustling agents, always on the lookout to do business with professionals. There was no Interstate Commerce law in force at that time!

We made contracts with printers and appointments with authors simultaneously!

Thus the day was occupied from ten until three when all work was suspended. Then, though a bit fatigued, we would make a hasty recapitulation of what had been accomplished, select our own particular coterie of friends and adjourn to Charlie Collins' (known as "Dollar Five" Charlie) café where the balance of the day was devoted to food, drink, anecdote and song.

Managers, agents, printers, railroad agents, actors, singers (of obscurity and fame) – all were as one when the bell struck three. Perfect equality, unanimity, brotherly love and comradeship were the qualities in vogue on the Rialto in dear old New York during the early eighties. At that time I made the remark, "When you leave New York you're camping out."

I have been camping out since 1900.

Chapter XVIII

THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE

Those were halcyon days on Union Square. The booking of tours was as attractive as it was uncertain, attractive because it was uncertain! Who does not find a hazardous game attractive?

One man I've not mentioned was in daily evidence on the Square. He was fair, always faultlessly dressed, in frock coat, soft black felt hat, low cut waistcoat (showing an abundance of pleated shirt front, ornamented in the center with a single, glittering, pure white diamond), peg top trousers tapering down to a pair of dainty feet encased in the latest Parisian patent leather boots. He was straight of figure and easy of carriage and affected a drooping mustache. Also he bowed pleasantly to everyone he met!

In make up he suggested the type of man drawn by Bret Harte in the "Outcasts of Poker Flat" – John Oakhurst, gambler.

Such was Jack Haverly, the originator of the scheme of forming a theatrical trust or, as it is now called, a syndicate.

The idea must have worked its way into the brain of a little, rotund, breezy chap who always accompanied the genial Haverly. He was ever at his side, taking notes, penciled and mental, running to the telegraph offices with instructions from his master, always returning for more, his little furtive eyes constantly wandering from one point to another, calling his master's attention to matters of detail too complicated for the busy Haverly sometimes to consider. The little lieutenant never overlooked anything. Like a trusty sentinel was this little aide upon whom the mantle of the master was soon to fall.

Haverly neglected the business which formed the nucleus of his success and sought bigger and more alluring schemes only to encounter failure. He speculated in mines which soon brought about his ruin and he died, penniless and neglected, leaving only the legacy of an idea. But the little corporal who took advantage of the suggestions absorbed from Haverly soon arose from an obscurity as dense as that of his Corsican predecessor and Charles Frohman jumped over the horizon and in a short period amazed the theatrical world.

It was in the fall of 1878 that I chanced into Haverly's office in the Fifth Avenue Theatre building on a matter of business regarding my first trip to the Coast. In his employ at that time were Gustave, Daniel and Charles Frohman and Al Hayman. They were the representative staff, and Haverly, from out the quartette, selected Gustave as his chief, considering him the most brilliant of them all! Daniel, the present lessee of the Lyceum Theatre, confined himself to conservative lines and was quite satisfied to manage a first class stock company and one or two minor attractions. Charles was the Atlas destined to uphold the family name and make dramatic history.

While planning the scheme that has since made many men millionaires Haverly little dreamed that his rotund employee was also eagerly planning as he unfolded his plans to the others.

(If anyone doubts that Haverly was the first man who first thought of a theatrical trust, he need only refer to an old lithograph showing this astute gentleman on an elevation and in his hands various wires, to the ends of which are attached ten theatres. Haverly controlled these houses and about six attractions. There he stands, smiling and manipulating the wires. This was the birth of the syndicate.)

In a few years Charles blossomed forth as a manager. I think his first winner was "Shenandoah," written by Bronson Howard. The world knows of his rapid ascent, so I won't dwell upon his wonderful and well deserved success. I write of the man as I know him and Charles Frohman is a man among men. Yet he is seldom seen among men! Only a few are privileged to enjoy his magnetic society. I have been one of these. I have met him in my own home, in England, in my dressing-room, at his office, on the stage, when he and I were producing plays, at dinners, supper parties – in fact under every circumstance and in all walks of life. And he is always the same urbane, kindly, patient creature. He laughs at failures and runs from success – runs, but only in quest of another! He is one of the most scintillating persons in the world. Geographical space means nothing to him. His word is a contract. I have never known such perseverance, industry and thought combined in one man.

I am one of the few who knew what he was up against when he began his American invasion of England. A conversation held in my presence in my home at Jackwood, England, between three men who have since been associated with him advised me of a conspiracy to ruin him. But Frohman overcame them all, beat them at their own game and his methods have been imitated broadcast throughout the British Empire. The little corporal has made himself a factor in London and his name as a rule spells success.

He has brought before the American public the most celebrated players of the day, made so only by his undying energy and patience. I have often regretted that even after I had begun my career I had not started under his management, for notwithstanding his great business capabilities he has a naturally artistic temperament, combined with a wondrous sense of humor – splendid qualities in these days of commercialism.

One time, nearly twenty-three years ago, I sent for him to come to my residence on West End Avenue, New York, with a view of placing myself under his management. He listened very quietly as is his custom and when I had finished asked how remunerative the season I had just closed had been. I showed him my books thinking that disclosure might lead to results. After examining them most carefully he placed them gently upon the table and with that merry twinkle in his eyes his friends know so well said,

"My dear boy, you don't require a manager; you want a lawyer."

Later I played under his management in London and I am happy to say I caused him no loss. The engagement was a most happy one and I look back to the association with joy.

During my several engagements at his Knickerbocker Theatre he was seldom in evidence. The first night he would take his customary seat in the rear of the balcony and at the end of the play a slight knock would come at my dressing-room door. "Come in," I would say. The door would open and his bright, cheery face appear. "It's all right," would be the assurance and he would disappear as quickly as he came.

During the run of "Nathan Hale" I had not seen him for four or five weeks. One night I came into the dressing-room, turned on the electric light and there he sat in a corner, all huddled up. "What in the world are you doing there, Charley?" I asked. He quietly replied, "I am casting a new play and came here to get some inspiration. Good night." and away he went.

My next association with him was in the production of "Beauty and the Barge" at the Lyceum Theatre. I often regretted that I had not listened to his suggestions and gone on the road with the play, but the sting of defeat was too bitter and in a hysterical moment I decided to abandon it.

He offered no advice, but, as usual, when his stars are unhappy in their rôles, he left me to determine the fate of the play.

Charles Frohman is the most unselfish man whom I have ever met in the theatrical profession. A spendthrift, so far as productions are concerned, with no thought of pecuniary results, no sordid desires, a slave to his work, and with a thorough appreciation of an artist's value, he has done more to increase actors' salaries, he has produced more plays and received less reward than any manager in the world. The history of the American stage will be incomplete unless the name of Charles Frohman stands conspicuous among the many.

Will history do the little corporal justice?

I wonder!