OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN.
An old Yankee fisherman up in Maine said to his son who was starting out to seek his fortune, “Sonnie, mind what I tell ye, in this here world you’ve either got to cut bait or fish.” Oscar Hammerstein, humorist, father of six children, plunger, man of business, cigar machine inventor, real estate speculator, vaudeville manager, composer, theater builder and impresario, is one of the men who fishes.
OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN
He fishes where he pleases, when he pleases, and how he pleases. “He wants what he wants when he wants it,” and what’s more he gets it. When he wants to do a thing he asks Oscar Hammerstein’s advice. If Oscar Hammerstein says go ahead he goes ahead.
This man has the faculty of disembodying himself. He looks upon himself objectively. He has implicit confidence in Oscar Hammerstein—in his judgment, in his courage, in his indomitable perseverance, in his star. The psychologists talk about the subliminal self. It is some such self which is Oscar Hammerstein’s guide, philosopher, friend, and mentor.
I asked Mr. Hammerstein if he had a Board of Directors. He replied, “Certainly; see that long table there with all those chairs round it? Those chairs are my directors. I sit at the head of that table and vote myself a salary of $150,000 and my Directors pass it unanimously. I suggest; they approve.”
One day about forty-three years ago a rich father Hammerstein in Berlin cruelly beat a young Hammerstein with a skate strap. That young Hammerstein was Oscar, and he decided he had had enough of that sort of thing. Taking his father’s violin he escaped from the music room where he was imprisoned. Selling the violin for thirty dollars he bought a steerage passage on a sailing ship bound for America. He says of this incident:
“I landed on these shores covered with vermin and without a cent. After a time I came to a sign which read, ‘Cigar Makers Wanted. Paid While You Learn.’ So I went in and applied for a job—not because I had any passion for making cigars, but because I didn’t want to starve.” Within a short time this two-dollar-a-week cigar maker’s apprentice had invented a machine for binding cigar fillers which he sold for $6,000.
His many inventions have revolutionized the entire cigar making industry. He has now a music room and a machine shop. After three in the afternoon he divides his time between composing and inventing. Mr. Hammerstein is a man who makes and loses fortunes. The last time he went under was about ten years ago, when his great three part Olympia Theater failed utterly. He said, “That cleaned me out—lost one million and a half. I realized that after the things were sold at auction I wouldn’t have a dollar. Even to pay the rent for my modest apartment was a problem.”
“What did you do?”
“Do! I lit a cigar and took a long walk.”
“How did you feel—discouraged?”
“Felt fine! Discouraged, not a bit! I’ve never in my life felt discouraged or despondent. I’m something of a victim of melancholy, but that has nothing whatever to do with external events. It comes over me when my affairs are prospering most. But I’ve never been afraid of anybody or anything.
“What I did is too long a story. But mark this! If you have an honest conviction as to the right thing to do you can do it! If you have absolute faith in yourself, other people are bound to have faith in you. No question about it.”
Later one of Mr. Hammerstein’s assistants told me one thing he did in this emergency. He sold his grand piano and with the proceeds as his capital started the great Victoria vaudeville theater on Long Acre Square. Its out of the way site alone irrevocably condemned it to failure in the opinion of all the theatrical experts except its builder. One of his sons is now running it with immense success.
“I have only one partner,” continued Mr. Hammerstein—“my knowledge of human nature. I have the greatest conductor in the world—Campanini. I went to Europe and saw him conduct and decided I must have him. I met him and made him believe in me and he came. He had never heard of Oscar Hammerstein. I didn’t show him my bank book. It wouldn’t have impressed him if I had. It was the same way with Madame Melba and with all the others. They liked me, they believed in me, and they came with me. They won’t sing for a man they don’t believe in, no matter how many thousands he may offer them.
“When I started this opera house over here my friends were on the point of engaging a cell for me at Matteawan. Now my opera is a great success. With the exception of Caruso the Metropolitan singers can’t compare with mine. Of course, there’s not much money in this business. If money was what I wanted I should sell suspenders or shoe strings.
“No, I never asked or took anybody’s advice about anything in my life. Why should I? I know my own affairs better than anybody else can. I have no secretary. I have no bookkeeper. Of course I have a treasurer to handle the funds. I haven’t even a stenographer.”
“Why should I sit here and waste my time dictating letters about matters that don’t concern me to people that don’t interest me. When a letter really requires an answer I write a few lines in pencil on the letter itself and send it back to the writer. Here’s my letter file,” pointing to a capacious waste-basket, “and a very good one it makes. I never could understand why people should feel obliged to answer letters. All sorts of people write me about their affairs—not mine! Why should I spend my time writing people about their own affairs? Of course, helping people who deserve it is quite another matter.
“One quality that has always helped me immensely is my faculty—absolutely—to wipe the past from my mind. I look only to the future. I work only for the future. I drag no dead weights after me. But, no man knows why he does things. He can’t help expressing what is in him. The genius or talent or aptitude or whatever you call it, that is born in him is bound to come out no matter what his outward circumstances. The people who never discover their bent have none to discover. If you are a reporter and you don’t like the way your fountain pen works you make it work better. You invent another pen; and then, before you know it, you find yourself a pen manufacturer.”
With twinkling eyes and one of his contagious, boyish laughs Mr. Hammerstein got up from his desk and said, “Now I must excuse myself to attend one of those Directors’ meetings I was telling you about.”—Lyman Beecher Stowe.