Читать книгу Nat Goodwin's Book - Goodwin Nathaniel Carll - Страница 2

One bright morning in June, 1872, the Little Blue Academy of old Farmington College, Maine, rang with the plaudits of an admiring throng of visitors. Some of them had come in their capacious coaches, lumbering and crushing their way through the streets of the usually quiet village, while others in good old Puritan fashion had come afoot and across fields and by-ways. Altogether the tumult was great both without and within and the Puritan housewives, their quiet thus sadly disturbed, devoutly offered up thanks that such affairs occurred but once in a twelvemonth. But the clatter of contending Jehus and vociferous villagers on the campus was nothing compared with the resounding clash of palms and other noisy demonstrations of approval within.

It was Commencement Day. Eager papas and mammas, sweet, admiring misses and anxious friends were there that neither valedictorian, salutatorian, orator nor poet might lack that proper sort of encouragement, without which any affair of this nature must necessarily be incomplete. They were to decide as well the winner of the prize in elocution. Truly it was a day of mighty portent.

Many had spoken their parts and the rafters and roof had given back the approving shouts in echoes almost as resounding as the words themselves. At length my name was announced by our preceptor and worthy master, Mr. Alden J. Blethen, the present manager and owner of the Seattle "Times."

With some timidity, but tremendous eagerness, I mounted the improvised rostrum and began my recitation of a poem called "The Uncle." As I began my eyes seemed to be swimming back and forth in my head. I saw nothing but birds floating into space. Then a death-like silence ensued and images usurped the place of birds. They assumed forms and through the mists came men and women and one by one they seemed to come before my vision until the room was filled. I finished, I thought, in a hush and was utterly oblivious to the great burst of applause which greeted my efforts. My seat-mate, poor Charlie Thomas who in after years was associated with Charles Hoyt, the writer and producer of many successful farce comedies, grabbed me by the arm and hurled me back upon the stage whispering, "Give them that 'Macbeth' speech!" Mechanically I acted upon his suggestion and began the soliloquy. I remembered nothing more until we left the hall. In fact I was in a comatose state until summoned that evening by Mr. Blethen to come into his library where, in the presence of the other scholars, I was presented with a set of Shakespeare's Complete Works.

As I went to my room that night I began to dream of the life to come. I saw myself startling the world as King Lear.

Two days after I received the first newspaper criticism of my work from the Portland papers. The notices pleased me beyond words and brought more joy to my young heart than any I ever received in after life. With pardonable pride, I trust, I set one forth here: —

"The little Academy had never known the delirium of applause until a slight, delicate youth, with peculiar flaxen hair, round blue eyes, and a complexion as fair as a girl's mounted the rostrum and spoke his lines. Such elocution must have awakened unusual interest, and so easy was the speaker, so perfect his actions and charming his intelligence, that the old dormitory shook with plaudits."

I was told twenty-five years later by a little Jew critic named Cohen that I lacked all these attributes, after I had devoted a quarter of a century in earnest endeavor to accentuate them! How I must have retrograded in all those years! Until he told me I thought I must have travelled ahead, for I could not possibly have gone back. But perhaps I never started! The notices in the Portland papers fanned the smoke into a flame and from that day I determined to become an actor. Some years before I had become imbued with the idea, the inspiration coming from my living in close proximity to an actors' boarding-house kept by a Mrs. Fisher at No. 3 Bulfinch Place, Boston. Many and many a time have I waited between school hours and play to catch a glimpse of the occupants of this celebrated yet modest hostelry, for here were housed many conspicuous actors of the day. Many a time I endeavored to touch the sleeve or any part of the garment of the players as they emerged from the house on their way to rehearsals and if I succeeded my mission was fulfilled for the day.

On one occasion William Warren's hat blew off. I rushed for it and rescued it from beneath a horse's hoofs. I returned it to the owner and he thanked me very graciously. The incident was too much for my young nerves. I played hookey that afternoon. School had no charms for me that day. An actor had spoken to me!

Years after I was privileged to meet this gentleman at a breakfast given in my honor by the Elks of Boston with Mayor O'Brien in the chair. I had been invited to appear at a charity benefit to be preceded by this breakfast. I was playing at the time at the Bijou Theatre, New York, but I arranged to leave on the midnight train, arriving in time for the breakfast at nine. Afterwards I appeared at eleven o'clock at the benefit, catching the one o'clock train back to New York.

Upon my arrival in Boston the Mayor met me at the train with a Committee which took me in charge. We drove straight to the breakfast room. There the first to greet me was dear old William Warren. A lump came up into my throat as big as a water melon. Think of it – that tall, big player to greet me! With out-stretched hand he bade me welcome home where, he said, all loved me. "Come and sit by me, my son," said he, and as I turned to answer him he looked to me like a god. I was privileged to sit by the genius whose coat hem I had in years gone by waited for hours to touch. He was unconsciously rewarding me for my boyish hero-worship. He was touching my heart strings and creating delightful memories to remain forever in my mind. No food passed my lips. I was above the clouds playing upon a golden harp! My blood flowed through my veins like lava! I was sitting by a great comedian and, believe me, I was glad, for I consider William Warren the greatest comedian that ever lived.

After the breakfast which was hurriedly eaten we started for the playhouse. I was so nervous that I could scarcely make up, but I knew that I had to do something as this great man was in the audience.

At length the moment came for me to make my entrance. Tremendous applause greeted me. I endeavored to play as I had never played before. My inspiration was the gentle face in the right-hand box beaming upon my incompetency. I was dreadfully self conscious. I knew I was in the presence of a master and try as I would nothing seemed to get over the footlights as I wished. Every word seemed to stop dead at that right-hand box and would not go beyond. When the finish came I offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.

As I wended my way slowly to the dressing-room someone congratulated me upon my efforts. As I sank into my chair the stage manager opened the door, reiterating the congratulations. I simply asked, "How did Mr. Warren like me?" Before he could answer the tall figure of Warren appeared at the door and he said, "I couldn't have done it better myself, young man!" Then he patted me on the shoulder, saying, "Hurry, or you'll miss your train." He shook me by the hand, bade me good-bye and returned to the boarding-house where he had lived for many years, to his little back room. A few weeks later twelve men bore his body to Mt. Auburn Cemetery placing him among the roses.

Warren's Sir Peter Teazle, Jefferson Scattering Batkins, Jessie Rural, Tony Lumpkin, Bob Acres, Dr. Pangloss and about all of Shakespeare's clowns have never been equaled by any player of any age. He had all the humor and the pathos that comedy is heir to – a player of the old school, not the night school.