Just before producing "The Nominee" and "The Gold Mine" I made the acquaintance of a very fine fellow, James Piggott, a member of Mrs. Langtry's travelling company, who had adopted the stage as a livelihood, after having lost a fortune through the failure of a bank in Manchester, England.

Jimmie, as his friends were pleased to call him, was the personification of an English gentleman, always faultlessly dressed, gloved and caned at all hours. He would appear at the breakfast table in an immaculate get-up, including gloves, even in the dim recesses of one-night stands. He always gave the impression that he had slept in them. He had always a kind word and a smile even under such trying conditions as travelling in support of "The Jersey Lily" through the one-night stands of the country.

It was at this time we met. He was most unhappy. He had written a play which the managers to whom he had submitted it had failed to pass upon favorably. He read it to me and it appealed to me very much. I agreed to produce it and put it on for one week at Hooley's Theatre, Chicago, where it met with some degree of success. It had vivid local color, the story being English, the scene laid in England. It was called "The Bookmaker."

I produced it the following year at the Gaiety Theatre, London. This was in 1890, following "The Gold Mine." Both plays failed, but, personally, I made what they were pleased to call "an artistic success."

Judging from the receipts I would not enjoy an artistic failure!

Poor Piggott was much distressed at the reception of his play but was more than courteous to me—perhaps because of what he considered my unquestionable hit. The play was afterwards revived by Edward Terry and Arthur Williams, but "Sacred to its Memory" is inscribed over the tomb of the departed "The Bookmaker."

While acting in "The Gold Mine" and "The Nominee" I became thoroughly convinced that farce comedy was doomed, that frivolity was losing ground and that the public wanted comedies combining pathos with laughter. I found it was becoming easier for me to handle pathetic scenes and deliver serious passages. I had solved the problem. It was simply a change of method.

If I were compelled to make a sudden transition from gay to grave or vice versa the secret lay in assuming another tone, the discarding of a familiar gesture and allowing a certain time to elapse before expressing the emotion, if only for the infinitesimal part of a second. Thought travels quickly and the eyes work in unison. This must be studied, rehearsed and exemplified before any comedian can hope for a successful interpretation of rÔles combining humor and pathos.

There are a few comedians of to-day who know the art. Were it not that I have no desire to be personal I could name names and make it clear to the public those who don't know how. Among the few who do (and there are only a few) I might mention David Warfield, William Thompson, John Mason, George Nash and Eddy Ables.

I was privileged to be one of a box party some years ago witnessing the performance of a play which I very much desired. I had seen it perfectly performed in Paris by a man who knew everything pertaining to our art, whose pictures were painted with all the delightful lights and shadows that form a background for those capable of portraying comedy and pathos.

This play gave an actor every opportunity of portraying all the emotions—comedy, tragedy, farce and sentiment. The character ran the dramatic gamut, but it required most deft handling, the dividing lines being as fine as silken threads, the transitions requiring the art of a master. It was a great success in Paris, but failed both in London and New York. The Englishman and American to whom this character was entrusted were direct opposites in their respective qualifications, one being a pronounced low comedian, the other a character actor with little, if any idea of humor. The Frenchman combined all the gifts of these two men together with the versatility which this character required. His success was as pronounced as these gentlemen's failures.

As I sat in the box with the star's wife at my right I waited with some anxiety and fear the result of the performance. My forebodings became realized as the character assumed its first serious aspect. The audience failed to differentiate and a slight titter passed through the house as he arrived at his first dramatic, sentimental climax. As the play progressed I could see the audience manifest its displeasure and move uneasily as the plot developed. When the crucial moment came—the grand, tragic, culminating scene of the play in which the Frenchman held his audience as in a vise the American audience simply smiled, looked bored and relaxed. Instead of applause coming as it should have come at the end of the act, the curtain was raised only through the appreciation of the ushers at the back!

The star's wife turned to me and asked, "What is the matter? Why can't —— do this?"

"It is very simple, my dear friend," I replied. "He hasn't solved the problem. He has failed to change his method."

Chapter XXV