The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 5, 1903, Page 46

’ THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JULY 5, 1903 woman contrast th had the wis h, perforce. the artist was ged iss Bingham met us on the as caref courtesy itse time bet sh was wholly, gra service ¢ & * And the on her iig pbell has high you, for h worid art S a woman of n tmport you are a charming cipher, the world is r : sudder see the shimmer of the 8 of blood upon on—at the * Every Bingham's belief that walks with sober ife on her bughly, whole al, if evemen with her pale, sual curl, her skin w its tiny gold »ol, thoughtful, green-gray 1 and figure, mc & looked greeted us, but weariness of the artist work done, and, per- sk, grateful herself scious pose. 1k s lattic lace straw, with for those who ief jewelry was Be went on take San for its y tell such that you are critical and so on. 1 death to bring hey really say about w Miss Bingham—that au dramatic or that ) that you do know L she erred smil &ly It But a New York n Your dis- independent count on use it suc- lize w expensive?—to bring a of players to a possible e d seriou and I the woman- two score peo- ulders. “But in doubt last us,” she con- play, = crape pening, nce that caught more quickly hungry widow € everything was And, really, I dén’t remember er going any better m rs' frequently re- epted it?” v manager in New oman manager replied. *I n goin hear another 1 asked me to hear a play for woman star and [ I liked it well enough, how- had an¥thing else. ‘Not e said. He could not com- prehend that 1 could care for a play writ. ten for a k company instead of for a'ster he told me of “The Climb- ers & oc on the fact that all the other m d rejected it. Then be read me the first act. I sald “That will do. He read the second and I gave him my check “How do you ccount for its refusal by he other producers, Miss Bingham?" Oh.” she d, thoughtfully, it was the funeral scene that frightened them— those three figures coming on in their crape. Then the dark scene where Ster- ling confesses his guilt ‘was another stumbling-block—just the things that have proved most attractively novel in the whole play. * * * They have so far bhindered its production in London, by the way. The English rights were sold long ago, but it has never yet been produced. I hope to produce it myself there next year.” “And it ram for a long time in New York?” An Actress Who Prefers Plays Written for a Whole Company to One Built for the Exploitation of a Solitary Star. M 2 “Five hundred nights,” Miss Bingham pening Miss Bingham's rare smile, like that a2 man never notices, and it all town just now. He'll probably come back curious situatio said, gently proud. “It was my first pale sunlight, broke out. “When we were counts.” with something wonderful soon."” new plays. managerill venture and, by the way, my original company has turned out six stars “Who are—"" “Oh, Robert Edeson, Annie Irish, Minnie Dupree, Madge Carr Cook and—who are the others?” she puzzied. Later 1 found they were Arthur Byron and Clara Blood- good, a little band of which any man- ager instinct might reasonably be proud Youg company now is excellent,” I testify “Yes, I'm happy in it,” acknowledged their manager. I am rather proud of myself in securing Mr. Abingdon, for in- stance. He is a London favorite, and I thought could hardly be persuaded to come over here. * * * And how he does revel in your scenery! He has enjoyed every minute of the tour, I think. We all think it's wonderful enough.” We talked mountains and things awhile and then I asked: “You are to give us other plays besides ‘The Climbers'?"” “Yes, another Fitch comedy, adapted from the French, ‘The Frisky Mrs. John- son.’ and ‘A Modern Magdalen,’ adapted from an old Swedish play by Haddon Chambers the actress replied. The Chambers play is on something of the Ibsen order, wonderful body, I think.” “Have you played any Ibsen?” No, not yet”” and the actress put a pensive finger 1o her pale cheeks. Then came to me the impression of her extra- ordinary reposefulness. Beyond resting her cheek for a moment on her hand, and leaning slightly forward at times, Miss Bingham had preserved her graceful still- ness since we began to talk. Her voice, low, sweet, almost a caress, added elo- quently to the impression. Then she went on: “The financial end of Ibsen is so un- certain, and one must have money to do things”—there is, by the way, a strong practical strain in Miss Bingham's make-up. “It is only good for a matinee—finan- cially,” 1 add from my small experience, *But I must tell you an odd Ibsen hap- in Denver some one who knew things there asked why we didn't go and play ~Victor for one evening. ‘Victor? We didn't know anything about Victor, which, it seems, is just a mile and a half beyond Cripple Creek. We didn't know if our play would suit, or anything. But we went. Oh! and the glorious ride there. I never expect to see anything more beautiful. Mother Nature has sim- ply surpassed herself. * * * We played “The Climbers,’ and would you believe it, we never had a brighter audience. But that's not it. After our play was over what do you think we found? Mary Shaw's ‘paper.’ She had played ‘Ghosts’ there two weeks before to crowded houses!” “That’s nothing,” 1 boast. “We have had ‘The Lady Inger of Ostrat’ here.” “No reall; Miss Bingham smiled. “We have not had that pleasure yet, in New York."” ance O'Neil produced it,” I supply. “Ah? She is a variously courageous person, T hear—" . “A talented one. “Do you krow t at it was with Mr. Rankin that T was here last?” she then asked. “We did ‘The Danites,’ “The Wife’ and a number of other things. How long ago it seems. “Then came your Frohman experience?” “Yes, then came my five years with Mr. Frohman,” she recailed, “and then, then came my own managerial work. Three years ago I began on my own responsi- bility.” “It must be tremendously hard work?" 1 say, looking at the pale, thoughtful face before me, the eyes a little tired, the mouth a little sad. “It is a great responsibility,” she said geptly. “One feels a little like the old woman in the shog—so many ghildren she didn’t know what“to do, vou know. I think a woman takes it, too, less easily than a man. She sees little| things—just as youdo when you go_about your home— “You remind me of Henry Miller, said, remembering the actor-managct's wonderful consclence in his detail. “Thank you,” said this other manager. “He's a dear, fine fellow, and one of the cleverest stage managers we have.” “What did you do with Frohman mostly ?” “Everything,” Miss Bingham replied, smiling.again. “I was what he called his producing leading woman. I would ap- pear in three, four, five plays during the season, creating all my parts. Peo- ple never knew where to find me, farce onegweek, melodrama the next. It was an itmensely useful experience, for you can understand its broadening effect. T am not bound to any one kind of part you see, and it makes it much easier therefore to get plays.” ~ “You are not of an acting family, I yn- derstand, Miss Bingham?" “Not at all,” “and the acfress rippled outright. “My dear old grandmothers, both of them, have never been in a theater in their lives. My mother has been there only less seldom. She had many wrong ideas about the stage—like all peo- ple who know little about it, and it hurt her at first for me to go on. But now—" “She is proud ?—" “Very proud, replied her daughter very tenderly. “Of course, there are nice people, really nice, on the stage as well as elsewhere. There are all kinds. There is a 400 as well as a ‘submerged tenth'— only you hear more about the submerged teath, and the world doesn't know just where to draw the line. Still we are not the strolling minstrels any more, * * But I did not go on the stage until after 1 was married. I wanted to be a painter, my father was an artist. No, a course in a Methodist university, where I was edu- cated, is hardly suggestive training for an actress!” “Mr. Bingham is here with you?" “Yes,” his wife saM happily. “He was able to arrange his vacation to come with me. He isout hunting antiques in Chipa. Here Mr. Bingham, brown-haired, brown- eyed, brown-faced, brown-suited and even brown-tied, came in beaming: “Oh, mamma, I've got you the prettiest kimono you ever saw!+— oh, how do you do?’ Then, with the information that he would await his lady in ‘the grill, Miss Bingham's husband discreetly vanished. “Didn’t I tell you so?’ she laughed. “He has furnished our house almost com- pletely with antiques. * * * You know that it was under my husband’'s manage- ment I first went on the stage? “Yes. In a theater on the Bowery somewhere,””- 1 replied. *“You went on at a moment’s notice, taking the part of the leading lady, who had fallen ill, as Lu- cille in 'Passion’s Slave'—doesn’'t the story run so? and a critic, who had happened in to make fun, stayed to praise. He headed his story next day ‘A Diamond Set in a Bracelet of Brass,’' ‘A Bowery Actress Who Would Adorn Broadwa n'est-ce-pas?”’ “Where did you get all that?’ she laughed. “Your press agent,” I replied. “But we play ‘Lucille’ no longe: “And it is also very difficult to get things to play,” she retorted. “How do you account for it “You people, partly,” she said, bowing to me. “You critics. You are too hard on ‘the young playwright. If the young writ- ers are not encouraged where are the dramatists of to-morrow to come from? There's something to think about. You cari’t starve any art and get good work. They've got to eat to live. Food is the public encouragement of talent. Look dt this play of Richard Harding Davis, “The Taming of Helen,' that Henry Miller brought out this year. Every one but the critics seems to have liked it, but they pulled it to pieces unmercifully. They may be right. But it was Davis' first effort. Can he go on now? Will he have the heart for it? And the scarcity of writers makes those who are known almost pro- hibitive in their prices. All round it is @ — And one must have The revivals will not pay. Where a play formerly ran for five or six years it will hold now only one or two seasons. That is one of the reasons for the Shakespearean productions that are now so happily plentiful. But there is so much money involved in this matter. With what you spend on a production, such as one cares to have, that you peo- ple can damn into disuse by a few strokes of your pen, you could get a nice piece of real estate in the heart of New York. That is how I put it to myself when I'm reckoning up. Still, I am going to put on the first effort of a new playwright next season, ‘The Canterbury Pilgrims,’ by a son of Steele Mackaye. I hope it will go. No, People should take this amuse- ment question more seriously.” But here Mr. Bingham, hungry, ap- peared to remind his wife that she haa had no luncheon, courteously inviting us to join them. Our refusal brought out a humorous: *Oh, well, you newspaper hi- dalgos always scent a bribe in a cup of tea! We'll be friends after the story ap- pears.” And so we said our good-byes. Plays and the Players. bkl “The Prince of Pilsen,” “The Silver Slipper,” “Florodora,” “The Sultan of Sulu” will all be seen here during the coming season. .+ Robert Edson in “Soldiers of Fortune™ is to pay a visit to the coast next season, He 1s one of the recognized lights of the starry theatrical firmament. R Margaret Anglin has signed a new con- tract with Charles Frohman. Among other arrangements made there is one calling for her starring engagement in Londan. Wiy gt § Amelia Bingham's new play for next season is called “The Canterbury Pil- grims.” It is the work of the late Steele N the dearth of local musical activ- ity—In which there is a silence that can be heard—I cannot do better than reproduce the following emi- nently suggestive article from the New York Sun of a few days ago. It applies with perfect aptness to the lo- cal situation, not only musical but Ii ary and artistic, the exception that New York may be substituted for Europe as the desirable horiz - with “David Bispham's statement in a Lon- don court that it would be professional suicide to live in his own country may sound exaggerated to persons unacquaint- ed with the business phases of a singer’s profession, but it comprehensible enough singers and other musicians who live abroad ome here only when thefr business calls them “ASun réporter asked one of the best known musical agents in this country recently if Mr. Bispham's contention was true and that ical artists would suffer by residing permanently in their own country “There is very of it, agent can singers are th ployment for a ce in Europe, and musical season only. I could give you the names of several American singers who had aequired very good places in England —1 don’t mean the very highest—and then to their grief came to this country to live, thinking that, being Americans had best settle here. They soon realized that the people here are very loyal in their de- votion to American singers, but take a great deal more interest in those who live abroad than those who stay in the United States. “The opera singers all realize that and try to get out of the country as soon as they can after the last performance. They are more eager about it than the forsign- ers. Suzanne Adams went abroad this spring because she was going to sing at Covent Garden. But it is highly improb- able that either Mme. Nordica or Mme, Eames will sing before returning hers next winter. David Bispham appears oc- casionally in London nowada but he sings here twenty times for every one ap- pearance in England “ “‘Mme. Eames has practically appeared during the past ten years only at the opera-house in New York. So one would suppose that residence in this country would be much more convenient for her. But she is shrewd enough to see that her professional value would diminish imme- diately if she became identified with local singers “‘For that reason Mme. Nordica, too, gets away as soon as she can, and so do all the other American singers who are able to go. They know how important it is commercially for them to be identified with the foreigners who come over every winter. If they stopped here during the summer and had their permanent resi- dence in New York they would soon find themselves left to sing in oratorio, sece ond-class concerts and musical festivals. en the foreign artists who have de- cided to settle here soon find that the pu lic estimate of them changes. They come a part of the local crowd and that is enough. I remember how popular Del Puente used to be as long as Be was an occasional visitor to this country. Once he settled down here to live the publio seemed to pay very little attention to him. Look at the experience of Mme. Fursch-Madl and Emil Fischer. They were certainly appreciated enough when they were on the operatic stage. But once they were regular residents of New York the feeling toward them was very differ- ent. “ ‘There was a time when not only the American singere lived in their own cour try, but the foreigners stopped here as well during the summer. Christine Nils- son used to spend her summers between tours here, while Clara Louise Kellogg and Annie Louise Cary were never ashamed to live in their own countries for some years. But now the shrewd singer knows enough to fill her professional er gagements in the { ed States and have her home in Europe so she may retu to it just as she would if she had been born in Poland, France or Croatia ‘In England it makes no differe whether an artist lives there or not. Mme. Albani had her house in London for years and Mme. Melba has recently taken a house there. Clara Butt, Andrew Green, Eduard Lloyd and Ben Davies al! Hve in London, but that does not preve them from getting the best engagement: They do not find it necessary to rush to the Continent so soon as the musical sea. son is over because their homes are ther “ ‘Somebody tried to persuade Ben Da- vies, the English tenor, to settle in the United States. But he @eclined laugh- ingly ubt of the truth » wisest Amer- can find em- the who rtain part of every year then return here for the they be- 1 prefer to remain in England,” he said, “and come over for several months every year as a singer from Europe. I'm afraid there would not be much interest in me if I stayed over here too many months in the year."” “*‘And he was right. Only a few years ago a young soprano came to me for ad- vice. I had already declined to book her again because I found that the last time I tried it there was very little demand for her services. I could not even get half the fees that had formerly been paid to her. She asked me what in the world to do. ““Go to Europe, my dear child,” her, “and stay there two or three years. You have money enough now, and, be- sides that, you can get engagements ove there.”” She is an artist, has made a su cess there and will be as popular as ever in her own country when she returns *“ Yes, Bispham was right. To keep in the first-class the singer or musician, even though he or she be American born, I told must not settle down here. That is al- ways fatal. If they are willing to fall into the second rank of our local church and concert singers it will do them no harm to here.” ™ @i @ Mackeye's son. It will be put on in New York after Climbers.” another revival of “The e e Broadhurst is one of those able to “sta Broadhurst's la and His Money produced by George H. playwrights who are their own plays. Mr. est comedy, “A Fool was rehearsed and author. & ¢ 9 Maclyn Arbuckle, who is to play the leading role in Henry W. Savage's pro- duction of “The County Chairman,” the spectacular comedy-drama by George Ade, next season, is regarded as the strongest golf player at Winthrop Center, Mass. Imported from England is the fad of walking long distances, at intervals, for hygienic reasons. A number of members of the London Stock Exchange startcd it a few weeks ago by padding the hoof from the metropolis to Brighton. Now it has reached New York. Actors have taken it up with avidity. Among the theatrical people who walk from seven to twelve miles every other day are Sidney R. Ellis, Frank McKee, Oscar Hammer- stein, Lawrance d'Orsay, D. A. Bonta and Thomas Q. Seabrooke. They start from the Lambs' Club and go around Central Park and back to the clubhouse. That ‘s a good twelve-mile stroll, if you waat to know it. S S e SR