GREAT singers have always been centres of attraction to the multitude. A certain glamour seems to envelop them. They focus attention even when they fail to excite admiration.
There is an air of mystery attached to them. When they pass into the opera house they are invariably muffled up. It is rare that anything but their eyes are seen, because as a rule they are thickly veiled. The prima donna grand manner is conspicuous as they bow to the curious crowd with benevolent condescension.
This is as much a part of their training as is the vocal scale. It composes well. Too much familiarity is dangerous. Then the days when they sing! Draughts and visitors are to be equally avoided. Even if the rôle of the evening is one in which they have been seen hundreds of times, the same atmosphere of nervous apprehension must be enacted, the same husbanding of strength must be proclaimed. We are told that the voice is a delicate organ, yet these ladies never hesitate to use it when making scenes off the stage, and how easily little things excite them. Ye Gods!
Nevertheless in a long acquaintance with the profession I have found them to be much more rational and sensible than they would allow the public to imagine. When once you know them well enough they stop acting and posing, especially when they realize that you have no time for their tantrums.
The first prima donna with whom I was ever really thrown was Clara Louise Kellogg and a good sort she was. She and her mother were inseparable. Their home was in America. They never acquired the foreign habit.
In her youth Clara Louise was lovely to look upon, but in later years the pleasures of the table proved too strong for her to resist; thus as she grew older her slimness became a page from the past.
I remember that Mrs. Kellogg had a rooted mistrust of everything French, especially of French morals.
On one occasion, meeting her in a Paris hotel, she informed me that her daughter had been offered an engagement at the Grand Opera, "but," said the old lady, "you know what that means, dearie, here a girl sings to-night and loses her reputation to-morrow!" It is superfluous to add that the engagement for Clara Louise was refused.
Sybil Sanderson was for a while the most alluring lyric personality. She possessed a charm which was unique. To fall in love with her became a European habit. In this country, however, she never scored any very great success.
In the beginning of her career she had little idea of acting, therefore that sterling artist Marie Laurent was summoned by the Maestro Saint Saëns to give Sanderson lessons in diction and in gesture, but when Madame Laurent arrived in the studio she found pupil and teacher so absorbed in each other that it was some minutes before they were alive to her presence. To give a lesson under such circumstances was well nigh impossible. Every few minutes Saint Saëns would turn suddenly to Sanderson, clasp her in his arms and exclaim: "My child, I adore you. I must embrace you. You are an angel!" A few more bars of music. Another osculatory interruption. Madame Laurent never attempted further instruction.
Mary Garden shot into Paris like a meteor and became the rage at the Opéra Comique. She was the cherished protégé of two great men, Albert Carré and André Messager, who were the joint directors of the Théâtre Lyrique. Garden was a born actress. Somehow I always regretted that her fine voice had robbed the stage of a great star.
Madame Nordica whom I met often in my journeyings was devoid of affectation. She was a very fine artist but very simple withal. Her heart was as generous as her voice was wide of range. Her kindness to students her encouragement of talent were proverbial. When she died her plans to establish a School of Music were still in embryo.
She retained the beauty of her art to the end.
Nordica's career demonstrated the power of work, for she had not been endowed at birth with a vocal organ of any supreme quality. How often have I heard her say that it was to hard work alone that she owed her success. She had just plodded on, conquering one difficulty after another. She was a woman of remarkable intelligence and of indefatigable industry. Her courage was dauntless, her persistency infinite and her energy inexhaustible. I know of no artist who stands as a more commendable example to this generation than Madame Nordica.
But the most original and fascinating singer I have ever known is Emma Calvé. She has written her life, but she could never write her personality. She is meridional, as is her art. Early in her career while turning her back upon traditions she established them. Her Carmen became her very own. It has been imitated but never equaled. The impress of her self was stamped upon every rôle she sang. Her vitality is as great to-day as ever. There is no dwindling of strength, no dwarfing of energy. She belongs to that generation which refuses to die while living. Her feet have never dragged wearily through experience. Tears and laughter were never concealed. Emotions were always genuine while they lasted.
I recall one of her early visits to this country when the dictaphone was a new invention. At that time she cherished a romantic attachment for a certain well-known man of letters whom she had left behind in Paris.
When I called at her hotel I found her absorbed in making records. Several rolls were ready to be posted to her admirer, while each week she received a corresponding roll from him. Not a bad idea for the transmission of loving messages across a cruel sea.
Emma Calvé always has been disinterested in her sympathies.
She has cared nothing about the material things of life. While liking creature comforts to a normal extent, she has never been a slave to them.
She bestows affection lavishly and has always belonged to that type of woman who gives much more than she receives. Calvé would have made a wonderful mother, almost as wonderful as Sarah Bernhardt, which is saying much. I can recall one episode in her life when upon the eve of matrimony she was accused of avarice by the prospective husband. She at once broke off the engagement, rushed from Paris and conveyed a very large sum of money to a near relation.
At least this impulsive act would serve to prove to the deserted suitor that she, Calvé, was not a worshipper of gold nor a hoarder of capital!
This anecdote is very characteristic of this lovable and temperamental woman. Like Nordica, Calvé is generous to a fault. Only last season during her extended concert tour she had found so many young women who excited her sympathy that at the end of the journey she had invited no fewer than fifteen to go to her Château of Cabrières, and there to spend the summer as her guests; proposing to give them free instruction while with her. Not only did she feel that she could develop their voices, but above all that she could give them rosy cheeks and needed strength. "Poor children! They all looked so tired and so pale. I know what the air of my country will do for them."
Fortunately, however, when the date of sailing arrived, many of these young people were kept at home by parents who had not yet agreed to their following the operatic profession as a means of livelihood. Emma Calvé is not a rich woman. She gives and gives again. Above all, she never sings her miseries. This is her motto. She always says the kindly word. She always suppresses the unkind criticism. Her best song is ever in her soul.
I HAVE often motored through the country of Calvé's birth and have readily understood her loyal admiration of it. All that stretch of the real South of France is full of beauty and rich in history. This is not confined to those "sunny places for shady people," such as Cannes, and Nice and Monte Carlo, but it is studded with wayside historical villages like Les Saintes Maries, where one finds a two-storied church, the upper part of it dedicated to Catholic worship while the lower hall is the centre of an annual gypsy pilgrimage where thousands flock to crown the king of their choice.
Then near Arles is that deserted town known, as Les Baux which to-day is beautified by its ruins, and Avignon, that Palace of the Popes, which even now challenges a flattering comparison with the Vatican which at one period it threatened to supplant.
If only Americans would desert Paris for France how different would be their viewpoint, and how much greater their understanding, yet there are thousands who know practically nothing of the. country they profess to love beyond those resorts where they keep on meeting each other. Even the Cook's tourists acquire a more intelligent appreciation of French manners, customs and history than do many of our compatriots to whom the Rue de la Paix is their pilgrimage and the trip to Versailles or to Fontainebleau their only objective.
The one criticism against the latter place is that it is on the wrong side of Paris. To get out of the city necessitates miles of street and of suburban ugliness and until one is well on the road the itinerary is devoid of charm. Of course Fontainebleau itself with its magnificent forests is full of beauty and of interest, and before we had settled at Versailles many were the excursions which we enjoyed in that neighborhood.
I remember a party of us once going down there to spend a week-end when economy was in order. None of us felt that we could afford the fascinating and famous Hotel de France et d'Angleterre.
There was one of minor pretensions, however, which was an extensive advertiser of its advantages. As the prices there were much more moderate we arrived with our bags, deciding that before unpacking them we would test the food, a very sensible precaution as it afterwards turned out.
I was to order the dinner which was a proof of confidence on the part of my friends. The patron of the hostelry welcomed us effusively, assuring us that we should be cared for as never before in our lives. Upon my inquiry as to the possibility of a good dinner, I was assured that everything would be of the best. As he described the menu the dishes became savory and succulent to our imagination. We could hardly wait for the announcement that the ladies were served.
With a great flourish the soup was set before us. It was anaemic and tepid. Yet we refused to be so promptly discouraged.
A long pause, when suddenly as the next dish appeared, the odor which filled the room was penetrating in its vileness. What could it be? A large fish was uncovered and the stench was understood. Never before had I realized how bad a fish could be. The chef who had prepared it must have been impervious to smells.
We arose from the table and fled with one accord into the open air. The patron pursued us, voluble in his apology. I poured upon him the vials of my wrath. He insisted that this carp had been taken from the fountain in front of the hotel only one hour before dinner, and that he would swear upon the cross of his mother that the smell was normal, and that the fish was fresh.
"My good man," said I, "1 have understood from the guide books that the carp in Fontainebleau live to a ripe old age, that they even date from the time of François Ier. I have always doubted this story, but to-night I believe it. I am convinced that the carp which you have just presented to us is historical. It could belong to any epoch!" That night we slept in the good hotel whose virtues we knew and whose prices we ignored.
We determined that the question of money should not disturb our week-end enjoyment and incidentally our digestion.
There is no gainsaying the fact that the women of Arles are among the most beautiful in the world.
They are tall as a rule, strong and well proportioned. Their features are regular. They are junoesque of type. They walk with freedom. Their balance is perfect. Their costume is rich in color and resplendent in ornament.
My first glimpse of them was on a Sunday as they were returning from a bull fight in the arena. They were dressed en gala. But the men struck me as rather inferior, in appearance at any rate. Perhaps, however, they rule the ladies with kindness rather than with force.
In that country of the poet Mistral one would be disappointed not to experience a bit of that wind which were it mingled with snow and sleet would resemble our own jovial blizzard. as we were turning a street one struck us in Avignon corner, and for some seconds our automobile literally tilted from side to side in a way which distinctly threatened to upset its normal equilibrium.
Mistral, that rare poet of Provence, was pointed out to me on a fête day, which was being celebrated at Nimes. He was hatless, but in the eyes of his beloved neighbors, stood before them always crowned by his genius which had been recognized the world over. He had in his later years become the centre of pilgrimages. People of eminence sought him out, men of culture longed to meet him. The very simplicity of his life invited curiosity. But he refused to be either dislodged or disturbed. He pursued his righteous calling in a creator of beautiful verse, the solitude of his hills. As world. he bequeathed this as his testament to a prosaic
In motoring through this southern country one must exact neither comfort nor cleanliness and only remember that air is a great purifier. Rules of health become a myth. Laws of hygiene are forgotten. Every sanitary prejudice is set aside. Plumbing is a superfluous luxury, Fleas and flies refuse to become germ carriers. Possibly this all exemplifies what the survival of the fittest can really mean. Nowhere does one hear that French finality more frequently than in this land of olives, of grapes and of perpetual sunshine, for the reply to one's wonderment at the lack of civilized progress is the unvarying answer:
"It is so. What can one do?"
A wine drinking yet temperate people are these folks of the South. They are the best advocates In the world for temperance as opposed to prohibition.
Nothing is more picturesque in early September than to meet the queer little wagons as they drone along the high road an the way to the wine presses, all filled to overflowing with the purple grapes which have been freshly gathered.
No one is ever in a hurry. No one disturbs his views by reading. Here people are born with their minds made up. Why should they become disordered!
One of the most illustrative caricatures of the War was furnished by that inimitable humorist Forain who pictured two men meeting at Montpelier. The one from the district playfully tapping his friend from St. Quentin on the shoulder exclaimed: "Ah, Old Boy, it seems that you are fighting up there in the North. What is it all about?"
In this same connection it might be interesting to add that when the French colonial troops reached Marseilles, their first station in France, that they insisted upon loading their guns and bring right and left. They had come a long way to kill something. 'Why not begin at once and make short work of the killing?
The grim context of this little anecdote is that thousands went into the War in a spirit no less ignorant. They were fighting for what? They were asked to kill for what? They were there for what? It was all a brutal enigma which even to-day causes no little confusion in the minds of many of the participants who have survived the toll exacted by this slaughterhouse.
It was looking across a quiet field at Tarbes where hundreds of harmless sheep were grazing that I first witnessed the trial of poison gas. In one second the whole flock lay prostrate. Through diabolical human invention they had been robbed of life which only God Almighty had the power to bestow. It was God who had given, but it was man who had taken. The experiment was to prove its value as a weapon of destruction. There was naught of "healing nor of help in its vapor" And the prayer which at that moment rose instinctively to my lips was that one uttered centuries ago upon Calvary:
"Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."
In England the attitude towards the stage grew more and more conservative. A censor in London acted with rigor. I recall once when Madame Réjane was about to produce one of her most successful plays, the license was refused because a certain amount of frisky kicking was called for in her rôle. It was only after Réjane had promised that the raising of her leg would not exceed twelve inches from the floor that the license was granted. The inconsistencies of these rulings were a frequent cause of surprise and of comment.
It became more and more difficult to anticipate the censor's attitude. Plays introducing the clergy which were at all trivial in dialogue or which embodied a pronounced comedy atmosphere were condemned. Characters introduced from the Holy Scriptures were forbidden. Since those days the pendulum has certainly swung far the other way.
I recall a poster of Zaza prepared by Mrs. Lewis Waller's manager, prior to her provincial tour in this play. It depicted Mrs. Waller before her piano and an open hymnal. At her side stood her twelve-year-old daughter who was energetically singing "Nearer My God to Thee." The scene was elaborately reproduced on the three sheets.
I always wondered how the gullible public had reconciled the story with this poster. The only explanation in my mind was that they saw the latter prior to the play which justified their purchase of tickets: and that after the evening's enjoyment, shocked though they may have been, that then they were inspired to pray for poor Zaza's redemption and to hope that finally she might draw near that heaven which the hymn described.
C. Haddon Chambers was one of the most successful playwrights of his time. His sense of comedy was unerring although his treatment of drama was as a rule sure fire. Beginning with "Captain Swift," which part here was Played by Maurice Barrymore, he wrote "Passersby," "The Tyranny of Tears," "Tante," "A Modern Magdalene," "John A' Dreams," "The Idler," "The Fatal Card," etc.
A more delightful companion than Chambers could not be found. He was universally popular.
No matter what his income might be he always lived beyond it. When he was down in his luck only those who enjoyed lending him money ever guessed it. His clothes were perfect. His appearance immaculate. No one could equal him in the art of ordering a lunch or a dinner. He was never a prolific writer. He indulged himself in long intervals of relaxation between plays. Trips to the Riviera and to St. Moritz he took as a matter of course. His first marriage was a mistake, but Chambers never consented to any divorce. I always felt that this fact was due more to the law of self preservation than to principle. His freedom might have proved very embarrassing. The consciousness that there was a legal Mrs. Chambers in the background gave him a great sense of security.
After her death, however, he surprised his friends by marrying a young and very attractive girl who took excellent care of him during the last months of his life. He was always a devoted father to his one child, a daughter, so possibly the paternal instinct was in a measure responsible for his second choice.
Hall Caine (since knighted) became famous as a novelist before he wrote for the stage. He is one of the few authors who has successfully dramatized his own stories, I have always felt that sincerity was the secret of Hall Caine's popularity. He believes what he writes and personally endorses every lofty sentiment which his characters express.
While he has proved himself excellent "copy" for the press, while he has generously contributed his opinion of current events, while he has provoked controversy and invoked criticism, while he has disagreed with Marie Corelli, and challenged even the Bishops, Hall Caine has persistently given to the world his best from his standpoint.
There have been many who have sought to imitate his style. They have tried to duplicate his drama, but miserable unsuccess, has been the result.
An amazing fact about plays is that whatever may be their form that the public scents immediately any trick played at its expense.
The author who writes melodrama must be sincere or his play will fail. He must take himself seriously.
It is only the satirist whose trade is to mock who can indulge himself in making fun of his public. He has often no other way in which to make fun for them.
My one impression of Marie Corelli was gleaned in a visit I paid her in historical Stratford where she lives. I journeyed there from London to have luncheon at her suggestion. She was perennially youthful in appearance, and caustic in conviction. Her personality was very feminine but when she spoke one detected nothing of the clinging vine.
She was very deceptive in appearance. She was too intelligent ever to underestimate her values. I never in my life will forget her garden of annunciation lilies. Great masses of this odorous flower filled the entire space. The spot was full of suggested romance and of convenient plot.
Corelli's passionate heroines must have been born there and at moments when she did not require their presence I am sure that they remained on the benches awaiting her telephone call.
In great contrast was the garden of Mrs. Humphry Ward, full of the lovely herbaceous varieties so integral to the composition. In still greater contrast does my crystal ball reveal the personality of the two ladies in question.
Mrs. Humphry Ward, a daughter of Thomas Arnold, who was a son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby, represented to me not only the stability of English literature, but of English thought and of English life. There was no wavering in the integrity of her appearance, no compromise in the definiteness of her taste, and no departure from the traditions of that England which must be universally respected even when not universally loved.
Mrs. Ward, however, was a fine example of a British matron. Her rare intellect always percolated modestly through her kindly personality.
I shall always recall with gratitude her gracious hospitality which I so enjoyed and appreciated.
THE recent death of Sarah Bernhardt makes my crystal ball reflect memories which cover a period of many, many years. It was at the hospitable table of Victorien Sardou where I first met this great woman of her century. His was the genius which at that time was supplying her with her dramatic material. His plays written for her followed each other in successful sequence and included "Gismonda," "La Tosca" and "Theodora."
It was a remarkable partnership. Two strong wills, two brilliant intellects, two marvelous personalities, a combination which was richly productive, although not always harmonious. Their sincere admiration and affection for each other alternate with exasperation, stubbornness and active dislike. The storm at intervals swept across the desert of their disappointments, yet ended invariably in restored tranquillity and in renewed confidence.
I remember one incident illustrative of this recurrent conflict.
There was a speech in Gismonda which Sardou refused to cut although Bernhardt begged and implored him to do so. At the final rehearsal she appeared in the theatre giving every evidence of lassitude while Speaking hardly above a whisper.
Pointing to her throat, she murmured: "Complete loss of voice. I cannot utter." During that entire day she was inaudible. The following night was the general rehearsal at which all of the critics and élite of Paris would be present.
In the meanwhile Sardou through his emissaries found that Sarah was always in the same condition. She would never be able to appear! His property would be wrecked.
Something drastic had to be done. Convinced as he was, that the only remedy was in his hands and not in her physicians, Sardou waited until four o'clock in the afternoon, when scenting no yielding on her part, cut out the objectionable lines and rushed off a messenger to her house with the speech revised according to her wish, it is needless to say that Sarah forthwith recovered her voice, appeared triumphant in the theatre and gave a performance of such brilliancy that the success of the play was assured.
I must add that Sardou's vocabulary on this occasion was rich in invectives, ending, however, with a sly look of intense appreciation as he said: "Never mind. She is adorable and there is only one Sarah in the world."
How often did I sit by his side watching her rehearse
Her work was her life, yet no actress I have ever known possessed a tenth of her intellectual vigor. Her mind was as pliable as her talent. She had traveled everywhere, she had absorbed everything.
The men for whom she had experienced a sentimental interest in her life were as a rule men of rare endowment. She never suffered fools. She was only intolerant of vacuity and of idiocy.
I was thrown with her frequently not only in Paris, but in London and here. I once supped with Mrs. Patrick Campbell and herself after the theatre. Both ladies had had a strenuous evening, but were in great form as they were planning a performance of Pelléas and Mélisande for some benefit.
Whenever fellow artists proposed this kind of combination to Bernhardt she invariably fell back either upon the play in question or upon a scene from Hamlet, strongly advising that the other star should play Ophelia to her Hamlet. It must be admitted that very few were ever cajoled into accepting her suggestion.
Mrs. Campbell had Ninky-Poo with her, a very intrusive and diminutive canine whom she insisted upon putting in the middle of the supper table to which Bernhardt strenuously objected despite her love for animals.
Each time that she attempted to remove Ninky-Poo he snapped and he snarled with villainous intent until finally Sarah in her most alluring manner asked me, acting as interpreter, to convey to "Mrs. Pat" that she longed to give her a souvenir of the visit, but that the table must be cleared so that the presentation might take place.
The dog was deposited on a chair, Sarah left the room, returning with a small morocco case in which lay an Egyptian ring. Pressing it upon the finger of the English star, Bernhardt begged me to explain that it contained a drop of water from the deluge. Tears of joy coursed over Mrs. Campbell's discreet make-up, hands were clasped in affectionate sympathy, Ninky-Poo began to bark, his mistress was for a moment diverted, while Sarah confided to me that this priceless object had been purchased for a few francs by Robert de Montesquiou who had invented the story which she had just passed on.
Mrs. Patrick Campbell with her delightful and unfailing sense of humor, was, I am convinced, never for a moment deceived. The whole scene merely meant that I had assisted at a comedy in the making.
Bernhardt's physique was extraordinary. I can summarize a certain twenty-four hours in illustration of this.
It was on a Saturday the last day of her London season. She had made a flying trip to Brighton to give a matinée. That night she appeared before a crowded theatre at which the Royalties were present. At twelve she went on to the New Club where after supper she recited a monologue. The following day, Sunday, she crossed to Boulogne where she gave a gala performance that night.
I rarely remember ever hearing her complain of a fatigue so great as to interfere with her work. At times her energy seemed superhuman and never was this more dominant than during the last years of her life when disease was being fought, and where disqualifications of age and of illness were being contested. I recall the shudder when first I learned of the loss of her limb, but later I became accustomed to it chiefly because Sarah herself treated this so lightly. I can hear her voice saying now from an adjoining room, "Patience, my dear Marbury, I will soon hop in to you."
She traveled with a large trunk especially made to hold her collection of artificial limbs of which she had at least a dozen, sent to her by every inventor in the world. She resorted to any device rather than to wear one of them. On the stage as in private life, she preferred to ignore their existence. In l'Aiglon, however, she was forced to accept this mechanical solution of her problem, which fact explains why she played the rôle rarely during her latter years. Her dread of being anything but herself was accentuated beyond description. When she lay at the Mt. Sinai Hospital in a very feeble condition, awaiting a major operation which was found to be necessary, the surgeons urged her to submit to a transfusion of blood. She stoutly refused to accept their suggestion. Arguments were in vain, persuasion useless:
"No!" said Bernhardt, "if my moment has come to die, I am ready. If I am to live, I wish to live as Sarah Bernhardt without the blood of anyone else coursing through my veins."
This attitude was wholly characteristic. Her individualism was too pronounced to admit of its ever being tampered with. The word compromise must have been omitted from her dictionary.
I remember my first visit to the hospital ten days after the operation. I shall never forget the picture when I stepped gently into the room. My manner had been composed for the occasion. I felt that I must creep softly to her bedside, whisper a few words of sympathy and then silently withdraw. On the contrary, I found her gay and buoyant, propped up on lace pillows with a diaphanous confection of pink and old gold around her shoulders, a piece of genoese velvet serving as the counterpane while the foot of the bed was made into a screen of American Beauty roses. In the corners tall white lilacs. Flowers everywhere and the room flooded in afternoon sunshine.
I exclaimed in admiration while voicing my congratulations which were very sincere.
"Ah," she cried, "look at my flowers, how much better to use them around my bed than over my coffin."
I then became conscious of youthful figures flitting about In the adjoining room. She noted my surprise and said:
"You have just come in time. My kind friends Mlles. Boué Soeurs, have brought up their spring models and their pretty young women to wear them. I am to have a fashion show for my own especial benefit."
The beautiful gowns were duly exhibited. Sarah was kind and generous to the two mannequins. At intervals she clapped her hands in admiration. Who in the world could ever have imagined that she had passed through an ordeal from which under ordinary conditions it would have taken weeks to recover!
She was indeed a law unto herself. No common rules of life could be applied to her. She was never governed by circumstances. Even the long arm of coincidence was to her a caress, never a correction.
Her dignity was at moments magnificent. Once during the War when I was spending the day with her at Long Beach during the period of her convalescence following the operation, a card was presented to her announcing the visit of a young man bearing one of the most illustrious titles in France.
"Say to Monsieur ---- that Madame Sarah Bernhardt will not receive him!"
My surprise was very great. When I begged her for an explanation, she said:
"Because he did not defend his flag. Because he was a coward who hid in ambush while his nation bled!"
I may add that I have never seen this distinguished gentleman in the centre of New York drawing rooms, accredited and admired, that I do not recall the above poignant scene.
To Sarah Bernhardt money meant less than nothing. She loathed it while she scattered it. She gave when she had it and borrowed when she hadn't it to give.
Her safe deposit was a handbag in which she stuffed her salary. It was rarely there long enough to soil the lining.
Like so many notables of her day and generation she literally traveled with a suite. Five or six persons usually lodged and boarded at her expense.
In her home in the Boulevard Pereire, the long refectory table was set as a rule for a dozen or more, she herself presiding at its head in an imposing arm chair which had once been the property of a Doge of Venice.
It was literally an open house, for many of the guests were unknown to their hostess, they having been introduced by some mutual acquaintance. It was often the case of "a friend of a friend of mine."
It would have demanded a very great fortune to have withstood the inroad of such a lavish expenditure.
She was proud of her friendships with the men of talent who had crossed her path. Their influence had as a rule been formative to her own character and developing to her own art. She never failed to pay tribute to that Caesar to whom tribute was due.
Her faith in anyone she loved was bestowed generously. It was never vulgarized by jealousy, nor was it ever disputed with a rival. She could pass on upon her royal progress but she would never sue for a continued companionship which had been guilty of defraction.
She, like many another woman, endowed the objects of her belief with qualities which they did not always possess. Probably her closing chapter of sentiment was written around a young actor in whom she detected no inconsiderable talent. She was his guide and patron. He had come to her penniless and without a country.
She provided him with the necessities of life and even went so far as to lend him from the overflow of her household goods so that his apartment might be furnished and made comfortable.
After returning from a fortnight's tour in the Provinces, she telephoned to the youth in question but without result, Her first kindly thought was that he might be ill. As soon as possible she dashed to his door in her motor only to find that he had sailed for America, having previously sold all of her furniture for his own benefit.
Be it said of Bernhardt, however, that in after years she was more proud of the position he attained in his profession than she was resentful of his ingratitude and of his lack of appreciation of what she, his benefactress, had originally done for him.
Pettiness and revenge were wholly foreign to her character.
Her intellectuality while composing her treatment of her rôles was very marked.
I found once in discussing Hamlet with her that her study and knowledge of Shakespeare and his exponents was most profound.
She always approached her task with reverence. She was too great to be conceited and self-satisfied. I never knew the time when she was not ready to learn from those qualified to teach.
I was with Madame Bernhardt frequently during the early Summer of 1918, when the days of tension were many and when she was separated from those she loved on the other side. She bled for her country through every hour of its trial. At last her son Maurice sailed on the Lafayette with his wife and daughter to spend a month or more with her. It was at the dangerous period when enemy submarines were literally strewn across the ocean. Her dread of accident to her beloved made this time one of torture, for beyond every other sentiment in life was her adoration of her son Maurice. Her greatest happiness lay in him. The anxieties he had caused her, the financial difficulties which were ever with them were absorbed by her great overwhelming affection which to those who knew her was always apparent. Nothing really mattered if only he were at her side. Whenever he crossed the threshold of her room her face became illuminated with affection. He was "mon fils" and no phrase of hers uttered upon the stage held such an inflection of tenderness as did these two tiny words.
Probably no incident in the years of our friendship seems to me so worthy of telling as the following:
We had been enjoying our reminiscences of the old days in Paris, we had discussed mutual friends, many of whom had passed away, we were recalling various anecdotes of happenings in which we both had been interested, when throwing her arm affectionately across my shoulder she said, "Marbury" (she never addressed me by my first name) "I will show you my secret garden, my treasure house which I never expose to anyone."
Alert with curiosity, I listened to the order given her maid who soon appeared with a square black lacquer box. Sarah placed it on a little table before her, then taking a small gilt key which hung from a ribbon around her neck, she unlocked it. One by one she lifted from it her "treasures," all simple souvenirs of her youth and of her little boy.
Leaves of laurel from her crown at the Conservatory, faded verses written to her by a poet long since dead, a spray of her First Communion flowers, her childish prayer book, and finally a pair of baby shoes which had been worn by Maurice, and a little faded photograph of him in Scotch kilts. The tears rolled down her face as she said:
"Ah, how handsome he looked, my Maurice, dressed en écossais! "
This moment will always be sacred in my memory, for never had I understood this great woman so well as when she allowed me to rest with her for this brief hour in the garden of her soul.
I saw her many times after that, but as she was borne to her last rest in Père La Chaise, the little shoes and the faded photograph were the memories which I most cherished.
The prayer of her life was answered at the moment of her death for she was allowed to die in the arms of that son for whom she had lived, moved and had her being.
As the bells tolled along the route of her funeral procession, the world knew that Sarah Bernhardt's place in the theatre had become a page of history, it knew that the woman whose dominant personality had illuminated her century had passed beyond recall, but those of us who had had the privilege of her friendship realized that the soul of this mother would be eternal through the ages.
THE INIMITABLE George M. Cohan once asked a man who was writing theatrical reminiscences. "Am I in your book?"
"Well---no, George," answered the writer, "I haven't mentioned you because, old boy, I was afraid you might not like my frankness."
'What the devil do I care what you say?" exclaimed Cohan, "so long as you get my name in somehow."
Now bearing this in mind I wish that I might refer to the many who are literally Einsteining across my crystal ball.
One cannot, however, leave the field of theatrical productions without a tribute to David Belasco, who has done more to enrich and to advance the dramatic art of this country than has any other single producer.
He was a rugged pioneer when first he journeyed Eastward from the Pacific slope. He had served his apprenticeship, he knew every practical angle of the business, he wrote plays because he knew of no other form of expression. Drama was intuitive to him. It was the one language which he spoke and the most forceful language which he understood.
Success came to him early in life. He has done much to encourage the younger playwrights. He gives of himself as they work under his guidance.
As one sees him to-day living in the midst of his great workshop which is a veritable museum, one realizes that so long as this master lives there is a tribunal of undisputed authority and knowledge before which all questions of dramatic value may be referred.
Belasco's imagination is luminous and receptive but his emotions and sympathies are after all his best weapons. They are vibrant and inspiring so that whenever he raises the curtain upon a new production, the playwright, the artists, the staff, the crew, all have insensibly become his creations into whose achievements he has breathed the very breath of life.
In England I recall Olga Nethersole, that artist who might have reached any height in her profession had she submitted to discipline. I remember so well her performance in Clyde Fitch's "Sappho," which under the ban of Anthony Comstock's protest landed both author and star in Court. Yet even in those days a voluminous mink coat and veiled lady had its effect upon the dispensers of justice, thus assuring the verdict of acquittal in her favor.
One of the best anecdotes about Nethersole is one which I myself unwittingly inspired.
She was to begin an engagement at His Majesty's Theatre with Sir John Hare. I wanted a few minutes' talk with Tree's very genial manager Henry Dana, so not realizing that it was a first night I went to the stage door. Dana was expecting me, but our business was forgotten in his eagerness to tell me of the emergency which threatened the success of the opening, for there in the ball stood Olga Nethersole's trunks still unpacked. It was quickly explained that she had absolutely refused to have them touched unless they were removed into Tree's own suite, to which she insisted she was entitled by virtue of her professional position. Lady Tree's rooms which had just been redecorated had been assigned to her but they were not acceptable to this star of such magnitude.
"What are we to do?" cried Dana. "She will not listen to reason and absolutely refuses to dress."
"Let me see what I can suggest," I replied. I began to think very hard. At last a solution struck me, and forthwith I sought out my gifted young friend.
I knew that she always dreaded disease of any kind. Germs and microbes eternally cast their shadows upon her mind. Contagion was always anticipated. Precautions were invariably taken.
Entering the room where she was temporarily installed, I found her still in street dress with tears of indignation coursing down her cheeks. She burst into a tirade about the indignity which the management was striving to inflict upon her. I closed the door, and lowering my voice, I whispered that for a long time I had known that Tree was the victim of incipient tuberculosis, that he coughed incessantly, that his rooms were filled with unsanitary draperies and upholstered furniture, that under such conditions there must be myriads of microbes lurking to do their deadly work, whereas Lady Tree's apartment was hygienic and wholesome. As I talked my listener became more and more subdued until finally she clasped her hands saying:
"Poor Tree! How little one would suspect this awful menace which threatens him!"
It seems superfluous to add that the trunks were speedily ordered out of the hall and that the performance took place.
When I ran across Tree on the following day, looking hale and hearty, I told him the story, begging him now and again when he met Nethersole to get up a good old grave-yard cough in my protection.
Then the Grossmiths, how well I recall George Sr. who could sit for an evening at the piano delighting his audience with his talent and originality. I remember his proud reference to little Weedon whose mere appearance produced a chuckle and to his boy George whom he thought was really most promising and who made the third of this Grossmith trio.
In "New Lamps for Old" by Jerome, I first saw brilliant Gertrude Kingston who would be a very rich woman to-day had she not believed in Little Theatres, in advanced thought, and in the complex drama just twenty-five years too soon.
In the world of literature and the stage one of my earliest and best friends was Elizabeth Robins who introduced Ibsen to England and who helped secure the franchise for women in Great Britain.
She always cherished her ideals and consistently lived up to them.
I recall many an agreeable hour in her society, but the most happy memory circles around her little English cottage with casement windows opening upon the garden where a beautiful robin red breast flew in and out at his pleasure, helping himself with greediness to the sweet country butter upon the table.
After all it was the soul of St. Francis which had tamed the birds, so who knows but that it was the crystalline soul of my wonderful friend which had allured the robin.
In my own country the army of gifted writers was always adding to its ranks and some who have reached great fame I can remember in their beginnings.
Gertrude Atherton at that time was a breezy expression of western vigor, and a contrast to Amélie Rives who was southern and languorous. At sixteen the latter tore passion to pieces. In her maturity she wrote with the heart of a child.
Mrs. Atherton began as an iconoclast and made her début as a progressive.
She came to New York from the Pacific Slope which in the Eastern minds was chiefly associated with gold, a great fire and yellow men.
Much of the present nearness of East and West is due to Gertrude Atherton for no one is more responsible than is she for dragging us out of our provincialism, and for making us realize the inadequacy and ignorance of our local unit.
Even if Gertrude Atherton had never written that splendid and inspiring book, "The Conqueror," we in this effete East would owe her our everlasting gratitude for having planted the State of California upon our mental map. And Richard Harding Davis that prolific and brilliant author of short stories, which made him quickly famous. As a journalist he invariably interviewed himself in such a dramatic fashion that it produced most excellent copy. While provoking a perennial criticism owing to his international vagaries, Davis liked to think himself the Rough Rider of literature so that many picture him writing with a sombrero bat upon his head and a serapi around his shoulders yet he was never able to wholly divorce himself from the influence of Independence Hall and of the Liberty Bell. When a young reporter he was frequently an enigma to his associates.
The world of journalism though somewhat out of my province has always been a close study with me and one of especial interest. I have known personally the luminaries of this profession both here and abroad. My memory goes back to de Blowitz, that arbiter in foreign politics during many years.
He wielded a great power and was a familiar figure in every capital of Europe. Then Mrs. Crawford associated so long with the London Truth. And Labouchere, who towered above his confrères while inspiring them to a more modern spirit of zeal. And delightful T. P. O'Connor, who was a better Irishman than he was a journalist.
Years ago I remember Ballard Smith, who was the "stunt" editor of the World. He once paid me the compliment from an editor's standpoint by saying that I had a "nose for news."
Then wonderful old Henry Watterson! How nobly would he have opposed Prohibition if he had only lived long enough to break a lance in order to pierce its fallacies.
I frankly confess that I used to thrill at the genius of S. S. McClure, who was always as full of ideas as an egg is full of meat. He believed so in himself, and was by nature and habit such a compelling optimist. He struck sparks from any anvil, no matter how unwieldy and cumbersome it might be.
And finally that pioneer from Maine with forty dollars in his pocket and with forty millions in his brains, Frank Munsey, who was "dear old Frank " to his intimates, even when he had youth as his palpable asset. It was he who saw the value in the popular magazine and in the prolific press. Little by little he built up a chain of papers to dispense information, as well as the Mohican Grocery Stores to dispense food. He has enough imagination, however to prevent him from entering into any wild-cat schemes. He thinks carefully and acts discreetly. He is never rash. Munsey possesses mental integrity to an unusual degree. He is courageous and tenacious of purpose, and whether one agrees with his viewpoint or not is after all immaterial for he remains a great journalist and honest withal, qualities which do not always go together.
I have invariably felt a leaning towards those men who can take a dead proposition and proceed to vivify it. They are the constructive forces in the world. Unfortunately when the average reader is told that some periodical has passed a circulation of over two millions he rarely realizes the human dynamo which stands back of this accomplishment.
Trained by that great American, Cyrus H. K. Curtis, the name of Edward W. Bok is indissolubly associated with the Ladies' Home Journal, as will that of George H. Lorimer be handed down to posterity as the power of the Saturday Evening Post for it is he who practically brought this periodical to its present prestige, for while educating his vast clientèle he makes the process so attractive that the ingredients are not only easily digested, but millions each week are crying eagerly for more of the same health food.
Instead of indulging in a destructive criticism of the press of this country, of its monthly magazines, of its weekly periodicals, and of its daily newspapers, we should be intelligent enough to separate the dross from the gold and to realize that back of all the fustion. is a great force which is a power for weal or for woe in our country.
Americans are readers. They have a thirst for knowledge. They are limited in time. They crave information in tabloid form.
ONE Of the most extraordinary conceits of which the human mind is capable is found in the so-called atheist who boasts of the freedom of his viewpoint and of his aloofness from every form of religious belief. He proclaims his liberation and advertises his courage.
He insists that he has thrown over superstition and that he has freed himself from tradition.
He stands in a vain glory upon his own feet, his intellect is his only guide and his disassociation from creed his only mentor.
But what these people decline to recognize is that whereas it takes many generations to make a gentleman, it likewise takes many to unmake a Christian. They forget that the Ten Commandments were part of their mother's milk, that the Apostle's Creed had been recited without question by hundreds of their ancestors, that Christopher Columbus and the Pilgrim Fathers had prayed as they first stood upon American rocks, that the Covered Wagon of 1848 sheltered not only pioneers, but Chaplains and Priests, and that unconsciously they have never been able to divest themselves of a sense of reverence and of a respect for law and order which percolates through their turbid veins despite the fact that they have become theoretically independent of the faith they reject.
I have always maintained that to throw weight overboard is much easier than to land weight upon the deck.
Any fool can strike a fish but not every fool can land one.
There is no intolerance in the world so great as the in. tolerance of tolerance, and no bigotry so excessive as the bigotry of the image breaker. To praise the devil is second nature. To praise God is an education.
I have always viewed professional reformers with a rooted mistrust. Possibly there is no greater social plague than these worthy people who insist upon forcing the world to submit meekly to their experimental upheavals.
Social Reform is rapidly developing into a fine art. It has created a new industry hence a new channel of employment. It provides more salaried positions for mediocre minds than can be found in any other work of life.
Go through offices occupied by so-called investigators, interview the heads of the organizations engaged upon social statistics and who are preaching puerilities, read the magazines supported in the interests of welfare movements and you will be struck with the minimum of intelligence and of originality displayed in the manipulating of such enterprises.
I once knew a worthy gentleman whose business it was to keep recreating for himself four thousand dollars a year positions in investigating.
Before he had exhausted every angle of the research then in hand, he had formulated some fresh scheme for a similar effort in another direction and had found further rich patrons ready to finance him and the prospective work, so that off he would jog trot again with an assured income for some five or more years ahead.
Whole families can thus be floated into easy berths if a little ingenuity is exercised at the offset. Brothers, sisters, indigent relations all swell the overhead charges while enjoying a sufficient competency upon which to live.
I remember when a certain conspicuous public benefactor first discovered prostitution. Promptly a vice commission was selected and from office boy to printer employment was given to hundreds who would otherwise have remained idle.
Had the effort begun and ended at this no real harm might have been done, but when a report was issued and promiscuously sold, setting forth the findings of this group, public morals were seriously threatened owing to the indiscriminate perusal of a pamphlet replete with salaciousness and reeking with details that would have caused any normally decent person to blush.
Brothels furnished the data and prostitutes were given the stage. This was soon followed by the publication of a novel sponsored by the same influence which was so abhorrent in its filth that even the patient public became alive with indignation.
The most objectionable film I ever saw was promoted in the name of reform and the most revolting play was produced under the auspices of a medical and sociological review.
The vicarious enjoyment of vice is a proverbial condition of the degenerate, and thousands of men and women whose lives have been rigorously correct, take a sensual enjoyment in poring over details which excite their pruriency and stimulate their natural depravity. A story is told of an octogenarian penitent who insisted upon confessing a certain indiscretion which had been committed in her extreme youth. When it was pointed out by her spiritual guide that this had already been amply atoned for, the old lady, wagging her head, said:
"But I do so love to talk about it!"
Many of those engaged in the uplifting of the derelict find a strange pleasure in dwelling upon facts which had better be ignored except in hospitals.
I live opposite a prison chiefly occupied by the down and outs.
In the Spring and Summer it looks like an attractive watering place. Baseball and other sports provide agreeable recreation for the occupants.
Excellent bands furnish concerts. Kind citizens donate movies and vaudeville. The air is good, the outlook salubrious, the food plain but excellent.
Altogether the life there is infinitely preferable to the park bench, especially in cold weather. Yet we are told by the sentimental reformer that in the mere curtailment of personal liberty is found the real punishment and that a fair amount of comfort and of relaxation is demanded in the name of humanity for these miscreants and loafers.
As I constitutionally dislike seeing anyone unhappy and miserable, I am personally delighted to look across our sunlit river and to realize that my neighbors are enjoying in a certain degree the same pleasure and creature comforts as myself.
Probably if left to me the whole world would be given freedom and the road menders of life would be the happy-go-lucky tramps who often make really delightful companions.