To read A Player Under Three Reigns immediately after The Truth at Last is like going from a dark cave where one gropes one’s way around, into the sunlight and the open. Where one author is cramped by a pen and hampered in the choice of the words that make writing the natural expression of thought, the other allows words and ideas to blend in interesting, amusing or touching homogeneity, always harmonious and always natural.
Forbes-Robertson is fundamentally an artist and it is interesting to know that his first calling was to be a painter, a calling in which he displayed gift and talent and which he followed in his spare time. His reminiscences are of great interest not only because of the personality of the author, which is never accentuated in the written words but becomes fascinatingly evident between the lines, but also because Forbes-Robertson has known practically all the people who made art, literature and history in his generation; he has known them personally, some intimately, and his book is almost as much a review of the late years of the nineteenth century in England, in France and in America, as the record of his own life. He is never afraid to add to his memoirs a touch of emotion, an expression of a heartfelt sentiment, and when he does, he is more charming than ever. The layman possibly thinks that all the members of the theatrical world are jealous and envious of each other; occasionally, a movement is set afoot to help some actor who finds himself in poverty after a life of semi-luxury; benefit performances are given to procure a comfortable few years to a man who has given his talent without thinking of the future; but these movements are always in favour of one whose competition is no longer to be feared; and the general opinion is that theatrical people are heartless, selfish and shallow. How quickly this impression is dispelled when we read the tributes Sir Johnston offers to his confrères of the stage. He must have had enemies, but he is careful to avoid wounding them and those whom he has liked have their names and their deeds lauded in A Player Under Three Reigns.
Some points of artistic or ethical interest are discussed comprehensively—one, probably the most important, is the author’s contention regarding the appropriateness of actor-managers. He was one for years, not from choice, but from comparative necessity and his opinion is not only valuable, but based on experience.
Humour, wit, lightness, grace and knowledge of facts form a good foundation upon which to build an autobiography; these qualities fell to Sir Forbes-Robertson’s share, and in so far as actor-biographers are concerned they seem to be the lion’s share.
Footlights and Spotlights is a diverting autobiography which has much interest, reveals frankness and humour, and serves the reputation of Otis Skinner, but it will not enhance it. Its author is one of the intellectuals of the American stage and he could have written a better book. However, he is very much alive in its pages and so are the great number of people he has met and liked or disliked. His career has not been a series of successes, and he makes no attempt to conceal it. Apparently he took his troubles with optimism and cheer and he has woven these qualities into his narrative, which unrolls itself as a panorama of the stage-life of the past fifty years. A refreshing feature of the book is the author’s appreciation and praise of others. He is generous, often magnanimous, always charitable. He has not liked every one, and those he has disliked get their deserts in moderation.
Otis Skinner’s life has been a full and varied one, and it is a delightful journey to take with him through countries and behind footlights, travelling and acting, and praying with him that the new show may be a big success.
Mr. Skinner’s book is another of those which suggests there is a great deal to be said in favour of writers who delay publication of their autobiographies until after their death. Undoubtedly all autobiographies would gain in quality if their authors devoted some of the years of their lives, given to preparation of what James Barrie calls “the greatest adventure of life,” to shaping and perfecting the document. They would gain in objectivity if they waited until the fading of their star; they would gain in charm and in honesty if their pens were not guided by fear of the impression they will make and how it will affect their career; and meanwhile they may weave into the work, at leisure, the interesting information that those who make history, literature or art should transmit to posterity, and that so often needs the shadows of death to veil and envelop it.
Recently there has appeared in France a book entitled Plutarch Lied. I have no doubt he did, like all mankind save George Washington, but he was truthful when he said that the man who writes his life embraces the opportunity to celebrate certain moral qualities. The quality that George M. Cohan celebrates in himself is courage. He also prides himself on his industry. He was long of courage from his birth, or at least he was before he drained the tank so lavishly. Mr. Cohan is less engaging when he tells how he achieved his success, than when he is actually achieving it on the stage. He uses the personal pronoun, which Pascal said was hateful, more frequently than any author I recall, save Doctor Rainsford in his Story of a Varied Life. Twenty Years on Broadway reads like the inventory of a shop; so many pounds of tea, so many ounces of bromide, so many packages of ginger. Nothing is said of their origin, their prices or their uses. The possessor owns them, it is his business how he got them, what they cost him in money and effort and what he is going to do with them.