"For the love of heaven, Cazauran, why did you select me to play that gruesome tragedy rôle?"
"Because I think you can play it," he replied.
I was dumbfounded. "Why, I am a comedian, and it looks to me as though that part were made to order for Stoddard."
Cazauran shrugged his shoulders and, placing both hands on mine, observed in a most impressive manner:
"Goodwin, you are a comedian and, I grant, a fine one. So was Garrick, but no one remembers Garrick in comedy."
How true that was, and how often that expression has come back to me in after life! They seldom remember those who make them laugh.
"You accept this part of the Baron," Cazauran continued, "give me three hours of your time each day for three weeks and I will guarantee that you will never play a comedy part again. I and the Baron will make you famous."
I sincerely thanked him, but firmly declined to be made famous in that particular line. We adjourned to his favorite restaurant, Solari's, in University Place, where for three hours he endeavored to persuade me to play the part. I was obdurate and would not listen to any of his suggestions.
"Well," he said at parting, "Stoddard cannot and will not play the part and I have resolved to try a young man we have in our company, selected from the Standard Theatre Company, where he was playing in a comic opera 'The Black Cloak.' He is now rehearsing the part of the ambassador in 'A Parisian Romance.' He shall play the Baron. He is intelligent, knows French and I am convinced that I can coach him into a success."
In four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks to play the Baron awoke to find himself famous. His name was Richard Mansfield.