Like Zuyder Zee, I believe this is the origin of Gramercy.
The Park reminds one of certain places in London more than anything else. In fact, I have often seen moving-picture companies taking films down here which were afterward to be represented on the screen as taking place in the British metropolis. The garden is perfect in its miniature representation of the different seasons. There is one lilac bush at the southwest corner that always tells me of the approach of spring. One year it did not blossom and I felt as if I had lost a friend. The same gardener has been caring for the growing things for a number of years, and many a child has been intrusted to his care while the nurse or parent was busy elsewhere. He teaches them to love the flowers, to play on the paths so that the grass may grow, patches up the quarrels and broken heads, and is tsar in his little domain.
The plot of ground, with enough money to keep it going, was presented to the residents who live about the square, and most of the provisos have been kept, except that the donor required that no buildings more than four stories be allowed, and no house of other than brick or stone (barring wood, evidently). One or two taller ones have managed to creep in, but in general everything is almost the same as it was in the ’nineties, when I first landed in New York.
One Sunday in winter the son of the maker of the park was out walking with his dad, when along came a man with a gun, dragging a big animal. It was a wolf, and the man took them to the spot where he had shot it. There was a big patch of blood upon the snow. This is the place where The Players now stands.
Edwin Booth gave the house to the club, with the condition that he be allowed to make it his home as long as he lived. It is well known how the idea started on the yacht of Commodore Benedict and how that nucleus of clever folk grew into the institution we have to-day. It was not to be essentially an actors’ club, but a place where the actor could meet his equals. One must be an artist or a patron of the arts to belong and, of course, this includes writers, architects, sculptors, and painters.
It is a very beautiful club. Stanford White is responsible for the architecture and gave his services gratis, as he did for The Lambs. Men coming from the Old World say that it is the only place in America that reminds them of home. The tonality of the rooms is like that of the very old houses of Europe; time has mellowed the walls as it does a bit of lace or tapestry. One of the ceilings that was a pale robin’s-egg blue in ’91 is now an exquisite velvet khaki. No man could paint it. Whistler would give up in despair the idea of even copying it. Like the quality of the hair and skin of a dear old face, it gives an air of good breeding, calm, and quiet over all.
The halls and stairways of the house are lined with photographs and playbills, with, here and there, a painting. Over the fireplace hangs that admirable portrait of Edwin Booth by Sargent which gives one an entirely new conception of the actor. On one of the walls is a drawing by Tom Nast, whom I knew well and loved dearly. It is a political cartoon which was the original, I am told, of the “Tammany tiger.” Tom is the illustrator who disposed of the Irish-American question forever by drawing a banner flying over the Capitol at Washington, on which were the words, “Erin go unum pluribus bragh.” There are a number of unusually valuable mezzotints and wood engravings scattered about, and the biggest collection known to exist, twenty-six portraits in all, of the painter Naegle. Altogether there are five Sullys, an average Sir Joshua Reynolds, a remarkably good Gilbert Stuart, a beautiful Gainsborough in the earlier manner, while on one wall are two small panels by Benjamin West.
As to the books, there is a veritable treasure house—all the knowledge of the stage that one could possibly desire, with many valuable autographed copies and rare editions. The most unusual possession of the club in the way of printed stuff is the second, third, and fourth folios of Shakespeare’s plays. The library room, arranged for ease and comfort, runs the whole length of the house. In the center are soft chairs and couches, with lights close to one’s elbow. There is an air of rest and quiet which has often been found more conducive to sleep than weighty reading by certain of us who are in the habit of staying up till the “wee sma’ hours.” One memento that has always cheered me in my moments of financial stress—for misery loves company—is a letter, written by Oliver Goldsmith to Doctor Johnson, trying to borrow three pounds, which he promises will be repaid as soon as The Traveller shall be published. The letter is probably worth twelve hundred dollars to-day!
Gifts flow into such a place, some appropriate and some ridiculous. The costumes of Edwin Booth, for instance, are of great interest to all, but the back tooth of a comedian—a molar—which the wife of one actor presented to us after his death, is not a very great treasure. But there it is in a glass case by day, and locked up in a steel safe at night along with the paste jewels of the stage.
My earlier friends are the most vivid to me—those who are now gone. Descriptions of them are futile and have been done too many times by others far better equipped in a literary way than myself. I remember them only as they came into the club—some peculiarity of looks, some small joke, some story around the long table at luncheon where we were brought together for a fleeting instant, each to depart the next moment and go his own way. The stories, the wit, and the necessity of competing with the best brains of America in The Players was an education to me.