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Laugh and Live

<h3>CHAPTER XVI</h3> <h4>FAILURE TO SEIZE OPPORTUNITIES</h4> There is an old saying to the effect that "opportunity knocks but once at our door"—and that is all fol de rol. Opportunity knocks at some people's doors nearly every day of their lives and is given a royal welcome. That's what Opportunity likes—appreciation. It goes often to the home where the latchstring hangs on the outside. It's like a sign reading "Hot coffee at all hours, day or night"—very inviting. Very much different, however, from the abode whose windows shed no light and whose door is barred from within. "Nobody Home!" that's the sign for this door. Mister Numbskull lives here and most of the time he sleeps. When anyone knocks on his door he pulls the covers up over his head to shut out the noise. He's down on his luck anyhow, therefore it would be a waste of good shoe leather for him to be up and puttering around. If Opportunity ever knocked at his door he could say in all truth that he never heard it. He had often heard of Opportunity being in the neighborhood, but one thing is certain—someone else had invariably seen him first. He felt sure he would know Opportunity if ever he met him face to face, and if ever he did he would have it out with him then and there. Meanwhile—dadgast the luck!—always the fates pursued him with some sort of hoodoo. And his neighbors—well, some of them had sense enough to keep their distance and let him alone. Others, however, had not been considerate of the fact that a "Jinx" was on his trail, and were given to making sarcastic remarks concerning him. And thus it was that Mister Numbskull spent his days, dodging his neighbors, sidestepping the highways and obscuring himself from the very individual he wanted so much to behold—Opportunity. At last there came a time when, in despair, and in disrepute, he took to the woods and is yet to be heard from. Opportunity still visits the neighborhood, but the path leading to Mister Numbskull's home is grown up in weeds. The fact is that our real opportunity knocks from within. Through experience, built upon consecutively by continuous effort, our vision expands and pounds its way out through the portals of our brain. We see the thing that we ought to do and we go to it! To the man who didn't see it the opportunity did not exist. "What we don't know doesn't hurt us any"—so runs the old saw. And here's a case where we who didn't see, were hurt, but we didn't know it. For those of us who have vision there are all sorts of opportunities, but many of them are not good for us. The ones we make for ourselves are the healthy ones, and generally they are the best for us. "Our own baby" is the one we will take the greatest pride in and enjoy the most. Then we become masters of our own destiny in a sense and can be more independent through having no senior partners in the enterprise. Often our dreams bring forth a need for many kinds of special knowledge and for these we go into the open market offering opportunity to many others in return for their assistance. Thus we find that everything we do is in relation to other things and dependent in part on other people. This should make us careful and a wee bit wary. Opportunities are widely divergent in nature—through a stroke of hard luck one might have difficulty in finding employment. The first opportunity might lead to a job in a bar-room, but having fortified ourselves by developing our highest attributes such as honesty, integrity, cleanliness of body and mind—we are able to somehow or other pinch along until something better shows itself. First-class principles are not to be thrown away upon the first provocation, therefore, in order to take away the temptation, we might as well figure out that a great many employments in the world do not represent real opportunities and therefore should not be considered. Failure to seize such so-called opportunities becomes a virtue in the same sense that the failure to seize a decent opportunity becomes a shame. Often opportunity comes through meeting men of affairs who have power and wealth at their command. These are usually in connection with enterprises of the greater magnitude. Those of us who have the power to control our destinies to a reasonable degree should not stand back in our support of these. If we have carefully built up our initiative, self-reliance, preparedness in the way of efficiency, good health and the will to do, there is no reason why we should not aspire to take a hand in anything in which we are confident we can succeed. Among the men who control the big affairs of the business world we find a true democracy—they want the man. The fact that he appears before them neatly attired, bright of eye and ready of wit will surely count in his favor. In other words, we should live up to the opportunity in whatever form it presents itself after we have accepted its responsibilities. To make this perfectly plain we must live up to the job! If we are to be superintendent of a coal mine "underneath the ground" we will put on our overalls and jumpers, but if we are to be manager of a grand opera house we will appear in our dress suits. The thought is obvious, but as we journey along we find many of our fellow mortals neglecting to live in line with what they are doing. We mention this fact hopeful that we will not fail to seize our opportunities by setting up obstacles whereby we may become persona non grata through lack of discernment. Opportunity is within ourselves and when we have seized our rightful share, then we may look with pride upon our endeavor and proceed to laugh and live! <h3>CHAPTER XVII</h3> <h4>ASSUMING RESPONSIBILITIES</h4> Those who fear to assume responsibility necessarily take orders from others. The punishment fits the crime perfectly and being self-inflicted there is no injustice. It is true that many men possessed of great brain power play "second fiddle" to shallow-minded men of inferior wisdom from sheer lack of forcefulness on their own part. They lack the full quality of leadership while possessing all save one essential—courage. Fear abides in their hearts and spreads itself as a mantle of gloom over their super-sensitive souls until finally they struggle no more. Henceforth they are doomed and become the subject of apology on the part of friends and relations. "He's all right," they say, "but he suffers from over-refinement." He lacks something—we cannot make out just what. It is altogether too bad for he is such a superior man among his social equals. We must take our hats off to those who have the goodness of heart to make allowance for our shortcomings. A disinterested listener, however, is seldom taken into camp by such well intended argument. He knows that "friend husband" or "friend brother" as the case may be, needs some sort of swift kick that will stir his combativeness into action—that will cause him to turn upon his mental inferior and have it out with him then and there—once and for all. As a courage builder fighting for justice is not to be sneezed at. Courage can be built up just the same as any other soul quality. It is all a matter of early training as to which we start out with—courage or fear. Unthinking parents have a lot to do with the propagation of fear in the hearts of children. A neglectful father plus a fear-stricken mother constitute the most logical forces which tend toward the overdevelopment of fear in a child. Once the seed is thoroughly implanted the growth can be depended upon. How to get rid of it later is not so easy to figure out. Had the child been born with a "clubfoot" these same parents would have spent their last dollar in an effort to straighten it into natural condition. They could see the unshapely foot day by day with their own eyes—and so could their neighbors. But the fear-warped little brain struggling for courage with which to combat its weakness needs must battle alone with chances largely against it. The mere thought of what is in store for this little one as it stumbles along from one period to another, fearful of this, and fearful of that, is disconcerting to say the least. We can almost trace our friend "Second Fiddle" directly back to such a childhood. We can almost hear his fond mother shout, "Keep away from the brook, darling, you might get your feet wet and catch your death of a cold." Another well known and highly respected admonition belonging to childhood's hour is, "Come in, deary, it's getting dark—Bogie man will get you if you don't watch out." <center> <ANTIMG src="images/image-14.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="425" alt="Bungalowing in California" title=""> </center> Some years later when little son runs breathless into the home portal after being chased from school by some "turrible" boys we can hear this same little mother as she storms about the place and tells what "papa must do" about the matter. According to her notion, if teachers could not control the "criminal element" among their pupils then it was high time for the police to step in. Never a word about little son taking his own part! Father listens in silence and half formulates the notion of going direct to the parents and laying down the law, while little son listens in fear and trembling in anticipation of what is coming to him if father carries out his threat. Tall oaks from little acorns grow—if the twig is not bent in the sprouting. Little son is bound to grow into manhood some day and when he arrives he must have one particular attribute—courage. Somehow he will get along if he has that. He may also wear a "clubfoot" or a "hunch back," but with courage as a running mate he will assume his responsibilities and become a force in the world. Once a great orator sat upon a rostrum listening to a speech by a man who cautioned his countrymen against taking steps to defend the national honor. "We'll outlive the taunts of those who would drag us into war!" he bellowed forth. Whereupon the orator jumped to his feet and with clarion voice shouted, "God hates a coward!" and then sat down again. Dazed at first the vast throng sat stupefied—but only for a moment. Then as one man they jumped to their feet and by reason of prolonged cheering gave national impulse to a thought which has since been sermonized from thousands of pulpits. The orator had simply paraphrased and put "pep" into the old Biblical slogan: "The Lord helps those who help themselves." The effect was electrical. The whole country rallied to the idea with the result that we saved ourselves from war by showing the solid front of being ready and willing to defend ourselves. Everything that tends to build up courage is an asset in life. The more we have of it the further we go and the more interesting our lives become. For the man of the lion heart all things unfold and unto him the timid must bring their offerings. No one of ordinary gumption consults the human "flivver." Advice from him would be unavailing. His point of view would be inadequate—his ability to advise, impotent. We go to the man who does things and say to him: "Here is my little idea—do you want to help me put it over?" If it is good, he does. If not, his experience tells him so, for men of courage are naturally possessed of large vision. Their lack of fear has given them right-of-way over vast areas of the world of action. They fail only as "their lights go out forever." With courage we order our own lives and take orders only from those of superior wisdom. This we can never afford not to do. The courageous man of largest vision commands by his power to reason logically and therefore assumes the air of comradeship rather than "overseer" or "boss." Only through lack of moral and physical courage are we to become the slaves of these. Courage—the child of Hope—the despair of Failure. Born of Good Cheer it links its fate with the higher attributes and tramples under foot the fears which spring up before it. When sown early into the hearts of the young its companionship becomes unerring in its efficiency for good throughout their lives. <h3>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> <h4>WEDLOCK IN TIME</h4> It is a happy idea to marry while we are young—a fine thing—a good thing—a pleasant duty indeed to marry the woman of our choice at a time of life when both are at an age when adjustment is natural and lasting loyalties are implanted in our hearts and minds for all time. We make a sad mistake when we postpone so important a step just for the sake of becoming a rich man first so that our bride-to-be may step into luxurious quarters and never have to lift her dainty hands except to sip from the glass of nectar we have set before her. The real facts compiled by the statistical "System Sams" are against this idea. The balance comes up in red ink on the wrong side of the ledger. According to these gentlemen the average mortal is likely to be very fat and much over forty before he can make an offering according to his first generous impulses and the chances are he will never reach the goal in this life. By the time he might be financially ready there is a hard glint in his eye, and he will be looking for the mote in the eye of his lady love. The waiting game is a hard one and it makes us worldly. After the lapse of years what once seemed a rose might appear to be more of a hollyhock. Naturally we never blame ourselves for the changes. Had we obeyed the grand impulse in the hour of our youth we might have kept the garden full of roses and the hollyhocks would never have sprouted there. Then the home nest would have tinged our sensibilities with its loveliness and our affections would have been nailed down hard and fast forever and a day. Among the many baffling problems which the young man faces, and for that matter, any man, is marriage. More thought, more energy and more time is taken up over this one decisive step than over any other. The reasons are obvious. It involves for life the happiness of the contracting parties—not only in a direct and personal way, but also in a general sense. The man's business success largely depends upon the helpmate he has in his home. His career is at her mercy. For example, if the wife should turn out to be unsympathetic, and uninterested in his ambitions, this fact might warp his prospects by causing him to lose heart in facing the large problems awaiting him along the road of opportunity. However, if she is of a cheerful, energetic disposition and willing to do all that she can to help him over the rough spots as they travel along together he will be inspired into action and will do his level best. He will be conscious as he goes about his work that there is one person above all upon whom he can depend—his wife. Marriage is a serious business and usually we concede that point in the beginning. However, this is not aimed as a blow at life's greatest romance ... it is merely the recognition of an elemental fact.... Marriage must have its practical side. To become successful in the highest degree man and wife must establish a comradeship. It is not the part of wisdom that either should rule the other, but rather that each should have the interest of the other at heart and should strive to be helpful one unto the other. Two men can go through life the best of friends, each holding the respect and confidence of the other. So can two women. Then, why not a man and wife? Needless to say they can, and do. Such partnerships are sure of success. It is only through lack of comradeship that love flies out of the window—and lights on a sea-going aeroplane. The marriage state is a long contract—it should not be stumbled into by man or woman. Nor should we become cowardly to the point of backing out of it altogether. Love is blind only to the blind. Either party to the tie that binds has a chance to know in advance whether the venture is safe and sane. All a man has to consider after he knows his own heart is that the woman of his choice is sensible, considerate and healthy. Other things being equal he can take the leap without hesitancy. We shouldn't borrow trouble. <center> <ANTIMG src="images/image-15.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="454" alt="Demonstrating the Monk and the Hand-Organ to a Body of Psychologists" title=""> </center> Of course there are those who should never marry. They do, however, and when they do they loan themselves to the mockery of the marriage state. There is no time to dwell on this thought for it is just something that goes on happening anyway and has no bearing upon the advisability of "wedlock in time" between people of horse sense. Given a good wife, after his own heart, no manly man has a righteous kick coming against the fates. Under such circumstances if things go wrong he will find the fault within himself. Of course we should, to the fullest possible extent, be prepared for marriage before assuming its responsibilities. We should at least have a ticket before embarking—and it is the real man's duty to provide the ticket. Since it is to be a long voyage a "round trip" isn't necessary. In other words, a man needn't be rich when he marries—but he should not be broke, either. Lack of funds a few days after the honeymoon is too hard a test for matrimony to bear nobly. It is too much like inviting a catastrophe through lack of good, hard sense to begin with. It shows poor generalship at the very start—and there is the liability of causing great distress and hardship to a tender-hearted little woman. It would be a sad blow to her to find that the man of her choice was, after all, just an ordinary fellow—a man without foresight. There are four seasons in married life—spring, summer, fall and winter, and we are going to need a comrade as we go through each of them. And the one we want is the one we start with—the gentle partner in all our joys and sorrows. It is she who will stand back of us when all others fail. When the children come along to bless our days and inspire us to greater efforts we are glad to look into their happy, smiling faces and find that they resemble their mother—their soft cheeks are like hers, their hands, their dainty ways, their caresses. And when mama looks into those same bright eyes they make her think of their daddy. The fond affection bestowed upon the children by both parents is but another mode of expressing their regard for each other. Springtime days, these! When little tots climb up and entwine their arms about our necks. If this were married life's only compensation it would not prove in vain—for when the babies enter the home the tie that binds becomes hard and fast—if the man is a manly man. To become the father of a bright-eyed babe is an experience of the highest importance to a young man getting started. It reinforces his courage, doubles up his ambitions and puts him on his metal. He has a new responsibility and it adds to his strength of character to assume it in all its phases. Another thing it brings comfort and joy to the mother during the long days while her man is out in the fray. It drives ennui out of the household throughout our springtime days. And when summer comes along new hopes dawn within us. Springtime had found us up and doing and when it merged into the new season we found our aspirations even stronger than before. Children must be educated and their futures prepared in advance as far as may be. They must not go into the world without tools to work with. Meanwhile the household teems with plans and becomes a veritable dreamland of youthful fervor. We find that having helped our children into attractive personalities they have become magnets with which to draw about us their comrades. Thus we hold on to our youth by virtue of our surroundings—creatures of our thoughtfulness concerning "wedlock in time." That the fall season is coming has no terrors for us. There will be the weddings and plannings for new homes close by—if we have our say. And in due course, the grandchildren will come who will favor grandpa and grandma and once again youth knocks at our door. There will be no dread winter days for us for we have been forehanded—we have a new crew on board to chase away the cares of old age and infirmities. Try how we will there is no way to forestall the operation of the law of compensation. We reap as we sow. The world will be good to those who compel its respect by becoming the right sort of citizens. Wedlock in time—that's the answer! <h3>CHAPTER XIX</h3> <h4>LAUGH AND LIVE</h4> Again I find it expedient to resort to the personal pronoun and therefore this final chapter is to be devoted to "you and me." There are facts you may want to know for sure and one of them is whether or not I live up to my own prescription. I do—and it's easy! I have kept myself happy and well through keeping my physical department in first class order. If that had been left to take care of itself I would surely have fallen by the wayside in other departments. Once we sit down in security the world seems to hand us things we do not need. Fresh air is my intoxicant—and it keeps me in high spirits. My system doesn't crave artificial stimulation because my daily exercise quickens the blood sufficiently. Then, too, I manage to keep busy. That's the real elixir—activity! Not always physical activity, either, for I must read good books in order to exercise my mind in other channels than just my daily routine—and add to my store of knowledge as well. Then there is my inner-self which must have attention now and then. For this a little solitude is helpful. We have only to sense the phenomena surrounding us to know that we must have a working faith—something practical to live by, which automatically keeps us on our course. The mystery of life somehow loses its density if we retain our spark of hope. All of my life since childhood I have held Shakespeare in constant companionship. Aside from the Bible—which is entirely apart from all other books—Shakespeare has no equal. My father, partly from his love for the great poet, and partly for the purpose of aiding me to memorize accurately, taught me to recite Shakespeare before I was old enough to know the meaning of the words. I remembered them, however, and in later years I grew to know their full significance. Then I became an ardent follower of the Master Philosopher, than whom no greater interpreter of human emotions ever lived. In the matter of sage advice there has never been his equal. In "Hamlet" we find the wonderful words of admonition from Polonius in his farewell speech to his son Laertes—as good today as four hundred years ago, and they will continue to be so until the end of time. It matters not how familiar we may be with these lines it is no waste of time to read them over again once in awhile. They seem to fit the practical side of life perfectly. If we have any complaint by reason of their brusqueness we have only to temper our interpretation according to our own sense of justice. In other words if we wanted to loan a "ten-spot" now and then we would just go ahead and do it—meanwhile, to save you the trouble of looking up these lines, here they are in "Laugh and Live"— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> And these few precepts in thy memory See thou charácter—Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous sheaf in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry, This above all—to thine ownself be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. </div> </div> <center> <ANTIMG src="images/image-16.jpg" width-obs="361" height-obs="600" alt=""Wedlock in Time"—The Fairbanks" Family" title=""> </center> The time has come to close this little book. It has been a great pleasure to write it and a greater pleasure to hope that it will be received in the same spirit it has been written. These are busy days for all of us. We go in a gallop most of the time, but there comes the quiet hour when we must sit still and "take stock." I know this from the letters that come to me asking my opinion on all sorts of subjects. People believe I am happy because my laughing pictures seem to denote this fact—and it is a fact! In the foregoing chapters I have told why. If, in the telling I shall have been instrumental in adding to the world's store of happiness I shall ever thank my "lucky stars." Very Sincerely Douglas Fairbanks <h3>A "CLOSE-UP" OF DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS</h3> <center>by George Creel</center> <center>Reprinted from Everybody's Magazine by Permission of The Ridgway Company, New York.</center> <h3>CHAPTER XX</h3> <h4>A "CLOSE-UP" OF DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS</h4> Young Mr. Douglas Fairbanks, star alike in both the "speakies" and the "movies," is well worth a story. He is what every American might be, ought to be, and frequently is not. More than any other that comes to mind, he is possessed of the indomitable optimism that gives purpose, "punch," and color to any life, no matter what the odds. He holds the world's record for the standing broad grin. There isn't a minute of the day that fails to find him glad that he's alive. Nobody ever saw him with a "grouch," or suffering from an attack of the "blues." Nobody ever heard him mention "hard luck" in connection with one of his failures. The worse the breaks of the game, the gloomier the outlook, the wider his grin. He has made cheerfulness a habit, and it has paid him in courage, in bubbling energy, and buoyant resolve. We are a young nation and a great nation. Judging from the promise of the morning, there is nothing that may not be asked of America's noon. A land of abundance, with not an evil that may not be banished, and yet there is more whining in it than in any other country on the face of the globe. If we are to die, "Nibbled to Death by Ducks" may well be put on the tombstone. Little things are permitted to bring about paroxysms of peevishness. Even our pleasures have come to be taken sadly. We are irritable at picnics, snarly at clambakes, and bored to death at dinners. The Government ought to hire Douglas Fairbanks, and send him over the country as an agent of the Bureau of Grins. Have him start work in Boston, and then rush him by special train to Philadelphia. If the wealth of the United States increased $41,000,000,000 during the last three peevish, whining years, think what would happen if we learned the art of joyousness and gained the strength that comes from good humor and optimism! "Doug" Fairbanks—now that he is in the "movies" we don't have to be formal—is the living, breathing proof of the value of a grin. His rise from obscurity to fame, from poverty to wealth, has no larger foundation than his ever-ready willingness to let the whole world see every tooth in his head. Good looks? Artistry? Bosh! The Fairbanks features were evidently picked out by a utilitarian mother who preferred use to ornament; and as for his acting, critics of the drama, imbued with the traditions of Booth and Barrett, have been known to sob like children after witnessing a Fairbanks performance. It is the joyousness of the man that gets him over. It's the 100 per cent interest that he takes in everything he goes at that lies at the back of his success. He does nothing by halves, is never indifferent, never lackadaisical. At various stages in his brief career he has been a Shakespearean actor, Wall Street clerk, hay steward on a cattle-boat, vagabond, and business man, knowing poverty, hunger, and discomfort at times, but never, never losing the grin. Things began to move for him when he left a Denver high school back in 1900 for the purpose of entering college. As he says, "A man can't be too careful about college." He started for Princeton, but met a youth on the train who was going to Harvard. He took a special course at Cambridge—just what it was he can't remember—but at the end of the year it was hinted to him that circus life was more suited to his talents, particularly one with three rings. A friend, however, suggested the theatre, and gave him a card to Frederick Warde, the tragedian. Mr. Warde fell for the Fairbanks grin, and as a first part assigned him the role of François, the lackey, in "Richelieu." What he lacked in experience he made up for in activity and unflagging merriment. It got to be so that Warde was almost afraid to touch the bell, for he never knew whether the amazing François would enter through the door or come down from the ceiling. After the company had done its worst to "Richelieu," it changed to Shakespearean repertoire, and for one year young Fairbanks engaged in what Mr. Warde was pleased to term a "catch-as-catch-can bout with the immortal Bard." When friends of Shakespeare finally protested in the name of humanity, the strenuous Douglas accepted an engagement with Herbert Kelcey and Effie Shannon in "Her Lord and Master." Five months went by before the two stars broke under the strain, and by that time news had come to Mr. Fairbanks that Wall Street was Easy Money's other name. Armed with his grin, he marched into the office of De Coppet & Doremus, and when the manager came out of his trance Shakespeare's worst enemy was holding down the job of order man. "The name Coppet appealed to me," he explains. He is still remembered in that office, fondly but fearfully. He did his work well enough; in fact, there are those who insist that he invented scientific management. "How about that?" I asked him, for it puzzled me. "Well, you see, it was this way: For five days in a week I would say, 'Quite so" to my assistant, no matter what he suggested. On Saturday I would dash into the manager's office, wag my head, knit my brow, and exclaim, 'What we need around here is efficiency." And once I urged the purchase of a time-clock." The way he filled his spare time was what bothered. What with his tumbling tricks, boxing, wrestling, leap-frog over chairs, and other small gaieties, he mussed up routine to a certain extent. But he was not discharged. At a point where the firm was just one jump ahead of nervous prostration, along came "Jack" Beardsley and "Little" Owen, two husky football players with a desire to see life without the safety clutch. The three approached the officials of a cattle-steamship, and by persistent claims to the effect that they "had a way" with dumb animals, got jobs as hay stewards. "We found the cows very nice," comments Mr. Fairbanks. "No one can get me to say a word against them. But those stokers! And those other stable-maids! Pow! We had to fight 'em from one end of the voyage to the other, and it got so that I bit myself in my sleep. The three of us got eight shillings apiece when we landed at Liverpool, and tickets back, but there were several little things about Europe that bothered us, and we thought we'd see what the trouble was." They "hoboed" it through England, France, and Belgium, working at any old job until they gathered money enough to move along, whether it was carrying water to English navvies or unloading paving-blocks from a Seine boat. After three joyous months, they felt the call of the cattle, and came home on another steamer. Back on his native heath, young Fairbanks took a shot from the hip at law, but missed. Then he got a job in a machine-manufacturing plant, but one day he found that his carelessness had permitted fifty dollars to accumulate, and he breezed down to Cuba and Yucatan to see what openings there were for capital. Back from that tramping trip, he figured that since he had not annoyed the stage for some time it certainly owed him something. His return to the drama took place in "The Rose of Plymouth Town," a play in which Miss Minnie Dupree was the star. Meeting Miss Dupree, I asked her what sort of an actor Fairbanks was in those days. "Well," she said judiciously, "I think that he was about the nicest case of St. Vitus" dance that ever came under my notice." William A. Brady got him next. Mr. Brady is quite a dynamo himself, and there was also a time in his life when he managed James J. Corbett. The two fell into each other's arms with a cry of joy, and for seven years they touched off dramatic explosions that strewed fat actors all over the landscape and tore miles of scenery into ribbons. "Some boy!" was Mr. Brady's tribute. "Put him in a death scene, and he'd find a way to break the furniture." There was never a part that "Doug" Fairbanks lay down on. To every role he brought joy and interest and enthusiasm, and the night came inevitably that saw his name in electric letters. It is not claimed that his work as a star "elevated" the drama, but it may safely be claimed that he never appeared in any play that was not wholesome, stimulating, and helpful. Nothing was more natural than that the movies should seek such an actor, and they set the trap with attractive bait. "Come over to us," they said, "and we'll let you do anything you want. Outside of poison gas and actual murder, the sky's the limit." Without even waiting to kick off his shoes, "Doug" Fairbanks made a dive. The movie magnates got what they wanted, and Fairbanks got what he wanted. For the first time in his life he was able to "let go" with all the force of his dynamic individuality, and he took full advantage of the opportunity. In "The Lamb," his first adventure before the camera, he let a rattlesnake crawl over him, tackled a mountain lion, jiu-jitsued a bunch of Yaqui Indians until they bellowed, and operated a machine-gun. In "His Picture in the Papers," he was called upon to run an automobile over a cliff, engage in a grueling six-round go with a professional pugilist, jump off an Atlantic liner and swim to the distant shore, mix it up in a furious battle royal with a half dozen husky gunmen, leap twice from swiftly moving trains, and also to resist arrest by a squad of Jess Willards dressed up in police uniforms. "The Half-Breed" carried him out to California, and, among other things, threw him into the heart of a forest fire that had been carefully kindled in the redwood groves of Calaveras County. Amid a rain of burning pine tufts, and with great branches falling to the ground all around him, "Douggie" was required to dash in and save the gallant sheriff from turning into a cinder. Hair and eyelashes grew out again, however, his blisters healed, and in a few days he was as good as new. "The Habit of Happiness" was rich in stunts that would have made even Battling Nelson turn to tatting with a sigh of relief. Five gangsters, sicked on to their work by the villain, waylaid our hero on the stairs, and in the rough-and-tumble that followed, it was his duty to beat each and every one of them into a state of coma. He performed his task so conscientiously that his hands were swollen for a week, not to mention his eyes and nose. As for the five extra men who posed as the gangsters, all came to the conclusion that dock-walloping was far less strenuous than art, and went back to their former jobs. "The Good Bad Man" was a Western picture that contained a thrill to every foot of film. Our hero galloped over mountains, jumping from crag to crag, held up an express train single-handed in order to capture the conductor's ticket-punch, grappled with gigantic desperadoes every few minutes, shot up a saloon, and was dragged around for quite a while at the end of a lynching party's rope. "Reggie Mixes In" was one joyous round of assault and battery from beginning to end. Happening to fall in love with a dancer in a Bowery cabaret, Reggie puts family and fortune behind him and takes a job as "bouncer" so as to be near his lady-love. Aside from his regular duties, he is required to work overtime on account of the hatred of a gang-leader who also loves the girl. Five scoundrels jump Reggie, and, after manhandling four, he drops from a second-story window to the neck of the fifth, and chokes him with hands and legs. After which he carries the senseless wretch down the street, and gaily flicks him, as it were, through a window at the villain's feet. As a tasty little finish, Reggie and his rival lock themselves in an empty room, and engage in a contest governed by packing-house rules. Three days after the combat, by the way, the company heads were pleased to announce that both men were out of danger unless blood-poisoning set in. <center> <ANTIMG src="images/image-17.jpg" width-obs="373" height-obs="600" alt="Here's Hoping! (White Studio)" title=""> </center> "The Mystery of the Leaping Fish" was what is known as a "water picture," and "Doug," as a comedy detective, was compelled to make a human submarine of himself, not to mention several duels in the dark with Japanese thugs and opium smugglers. "Another day of it," he grinned, "and I'd have grown fins." "Manhattan Madness" was really nothing more than St. Vitus's dance set to ragtime. Our hero climbed up eaves-pipes, plunged through trap-doors down into dungeons, jumped from the roof of a house into a tree, kicked his way in and out of secret closets, and engaged in hair-raising combats with desperate villains every few minutes. It is not only the case that "Doug" Fairbanks made good with the movie fans. What is more to the point, he made good with the "bunch" itself. In nine cases out of ten, the "legitimate" star, going over into pictures, evades and avoids the "rough stuff." To some humble, hardy "double" is assigned the actual work of falling off the cliff, riding at full speed across granite hedges, taking a good hard punch in the nose, or plunging from the top of the burning building. Many an honest cowpuncher, taking his girl to the show with him to let her see what a daredevil he is, has died the death upon discovering that he was merely "doubling" for some cow-eyed hero who lacked the nerve to do the stunt himself. "Doug" Fairbanks is one of the few movie heroes who have never had a "double." He asks no man to do that which he is afraid to do himself. No fall is too hard for him, no fight too furious, no ride too dangerous. There is not a single one of his pictures in which he hasn't taken a chance of breaking his neck or his bones; but, as one bronco-buster observed, "He jes" licks his lips an" asks for more." To be sure, few actors have brought such super-physical equipment to the strenuous work of the movies. Fairbanks, in addition to being blessed with a strong, lithe body, has developed it by expert devotion to every form of athletic sport. He swims well, is a crack boxer, a good polo player, a splendid wrestler, a skilful acrobat, a fast runner, and an absolutely fearless rider. There is never a picture during the progress of which he does not interpolate some sudden bit of business as the result of his quick wit and dynamic enthusiasm. In one play, for instance, he was supposed to enter a house at sight of his sweetheart beckoning to him from an upper window. As he passed up the steps, however, his roving eye caught sight of the porch railing, a window-ledge, and a balcony, and in a flash he was scaling the facade of the house like any cat. In another play he was trapped on the roof of a country home. Suddenly Fairbanks, disregarding the plan of retreat indicated by the author, gave a wild leap into a near-by maple, managed to catch a bough, and proceeded to the ground in a series of convulsive falls that gave the director heart-failure. During "The Half-Breed" picture, some of the action took place about a fallen redwood that had its great roots fully twenty feet into the air. "Climb up on top of those roots, Doug," yelled the director. Instead of that, "Douggie" went up to a young sapling that grew at the base of the fallen tree. Bending it down to the ground, as an archer bends his bow, he gave a sudden spring, and let the tough birch catapult him to the highest root. "What do you want me to do now?" he grinned. "Come back the same way," grinned the director. Most "legitimate" actors—the valuation is their own—find the movies rather dull. Time hangs very heavily upon their hands. As one remarked to me in tones that were thick with a divine despair: "There's absolutely nothing for a chap to do. In lots of the God-forsaken holes they drag you to, there isn't even a hotel. No companionship, no diversion of any kind, and oftentimes no bathtubs." Douglas Fairbanks enters no such complaint. He draws upon the energy and interest that ought to be in every human being, and when entertainment is not in sight, he goes after it. When they were making "The Half-Breed" pictures in the Carquinez woods of Northern California, he was never seen around the camp except when actually needed by the camera man. Upon his return from these absences, it was noticed that his hands were usually bleeding, and his clothing stained and torn. "What in the name of mischief have you been doing now?" the director demanded on a day when Fairbanks's wardrobe was almost a total loss. "Trappin'," chirped the star. Beating about the woods, Bret Harte in hand, he had managed to discover an old woodsman who still held to the ancient industries of his youth. The trapper's specialty was "bob cats," and the bleeding hands and torn clothes came from "Doug's" earnest efforts to handle the "varmints" just as his venerable preceptor handled them. Out of the experience, at least, he brought an intimate knowledge of field, forest, and stream, for over the fire and in their walks he had pumped the old man dry. In the same way he made "The Good Bad Man" hand him over everything of value that frontier life contained. The picture was taken out in the Mohave desert; for the making of it the director had scoured the West for riders and ropers and cowboys of the old school. "He men"—every one of them, and for a time they looked with dislike and suspicion upon the "star," but when they saw that Fairbanks did not ask for any "double," and took the hardest tumble with a grin, they received him into their fellowship with a heartfelt yell. Dull in the Mohave desert? Why, he had to sit up nights to keep even with his engagements. From one man he learned bronco-busting, from another fancy roping, and from others all that there is to know about horses, cattle, mountain, and plain. And around the camp-fires he got stories of the winning of the West such as never found their way into histories. When one picture called for jiu-jitsu work, he didn't rest satisfied with learning just enough to "get by." Every spare moment found him in a clinch with the Japanese expert, mastering every secret, perfecting himself in every hold. Same way with boxing. When no pugilists came handy, he put on the gloves with anyone willing to take chances on a black eye, keeping at it until today they have to hire professionals when he figures in a movie fight. When they made a "water" picture he never stopped until he could duplicate every trick known to the "professor" who drilled the extra men. He took advantage of a biplane flight to make friends with the aeronaut, and by the time the picture was done, he was as good a driver as the expert. No matter where he is, or what the job, he finds something of interest because he goes upon the theory that every minute is meant to be lived. Maroon him at a cross-roads, with five hours until train time, and he'd have the operator's first name in ten minutes and be learning the Morse alphabet, after which he would rush up to his new friend's house to see the babies or to pass judgment on a Holstein calf or a Black Minorca brood. It is the tremendously human quality, more than anything else, that gets him across. People like him because he likes them. He attracts interest because he takes interest. Talk with any of the big men in the motion-picture industry, that is, those with brains and education, and they will tell you that personality counts more in pictures than it does on the stage. H. B. Aitken, president of the Triangle Film Corporation, said to me: "The screen is intimate. The camera brings the actor right into your lap. In the speaking drama, make-up and footlights change and hide, but not the least flicker of expression is lost in the picture. It's a test of real-ness, and it takes a real man or a real woman to stand it. Art isn't the thing at all, nor do looks count for half as much as people suppose. It's what's back of the art and the looks that makes the hit, and if they haven't got something, the artist and the beauty don't last long. We picked Douglas Fairbanks as a likely film star, not on account of his stunts, as the majority think, but because of the splendid humanness that fairly oozed out of him." <center> <ANTIMG src="images/image-18.jpg" width-obs="387" height-obs="600" alt="A Close-Up (Lumiere)" title=""> </center> When he isn't before the camera, or fooling with an airship or a motor, or playing with children, or "gettin" acquainted" with a tramp or a trapper, or practising stunts with a rope or a horse, young Mr. Fairbanks fills in his spare time writing scenarios. As everyone knows, the motion-picture drama has been a tawdry thing for the most part—either a rehash of old stage plays, novels, and short stories, or else mediocre "originalities" that epitomized banality. Young Mr. Fairbanks dissented from the established custom from the very start. "It's all wrong," he declared. "We've got to stand on our own feet. Develop your own dramatists!" Practically every play in which he has appeared sprang from his personal suggestion, and in many of them he has collaborated with the scenario writer. The three things that he demands are Action, Wholesomeness, and Sentiment that rings true. Never make the mistake of thinking that Douglas Fairbanks starts and finishes with mere good humor and physical exuberance. There is more to him than his grin, for his mind is as strong and vigorous as his body. He reads and thinks, and behind his smile is a quick and eager sympathy that takes account of the sadnesses of life as well as its promises. "The Habit of Happiness" was very much his own idea, and in it he took occasion to show a midnight bread-line, the misery of the slums, and various forms of social injustice. It isn't that he thinks himself called to uplift and reform, but, as he expresses it, "Every little bit helps." In the last talk that I had with him, he was enthusiastic over the future of the movies as a world force. He speaks in ideas rather than words, for when he feels that he has indicated the thought he never troubles to finish the particular sentence. "Pictures are like music," he declared. "They speak a universal language. Great industry—just in its infancy—before long films will pass from one country to another—internationalism. Why not? Love, hate, grief, ambition, laughter—they belong to one race as much as another—all peoples understand them. It's hard to hate people after you know them. Pictures will let us know each other. They'll break down the hard national lines that now make for war and suspicion." Other things followed, for we discussed everything from cabbages to kings, and then I plumped the question at him that I had been waiting to ask from the first. "How do you like the movies as compared to the speaking drama? Come now, cross your heart and hope to die. When the night comes down and the lights go up, isn't there a blue minute now and then?" "Surest thing you know," he grinned. "It isn't because there's such a radical difference between the 'talkies" and the movies, however." [He refers to musical comedy as the "screamies."] "The play in the theatre is largely a matter of pantomime, you know. Dialogue is employed to advance the actual plot only when it is impossible or impracticable to do it with dumb show. And when I think of some of the lines I've been called upon to spout, I can't say that I regret the movies" lack of dialogue. "What does hurt, though," he admitted, "is the absence of response. I don't mean applause, but the something that comes up over the footlights to you from the audience, the big something that tells you instantly whether you have hit it or missed, whether you are ringing true or false. You don't get that in the pictures. Your audience is the director, and you know that it will be weeks or months before your work is going to get its test. "But in everything else, the movie has the talkie skinned a mile. Instead of mouthing somebody else's words, you are doing the thing yourself. There's action, and life—one day you are in the forest, the next in the desert, the next on the sea." "Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "I understand that it's all done in a studio." "I had the idea myself," he laughed. "But no more. When I was in the 'talkies," I used to hear a lot about realism. Father must wash in a real basin with real water and real soap. There had to be two hens at least in every barnyard scene, and when Lottie came home from the cruel city, she had to have a real baby in her arms. Lordy, I never knew what realism was until I struck the movies. They've gone crazy over it. "'The Half-Breed," you know, was adapted from one of Bret Harte's stories, and nothing would do the director but a trip up to the Carquinez woods in northern California. A forest fire figured in one of the scenes, but I never thought much about it until I saw them bringing up some chemical engines, hose reels, and five or six fire-brigades. "'What's the idea?" I asked. "'To keep the flames from spreading," they told me. "And let me tell you, it was some fire. After I got out of it I felt like a shave from a Mexican barber." "What effect is the movie going to have on the speaking drama?" was my next question. "Look at the effect it's had already," he said. "Shaw is the only playwright clever enough to write dialogue that will hold any number of people in the theatre. The motion picture has made the public demand action. It has changed the plot and progress of the drama completely." "Do you think that a good thing? Doesn't it mean the substitution of feeling for thinking?" "Well," he answered slowly, "the world goes forward through the heart rather than through the head. Happiness, to my mind, is emotional, not mental. And the movie has brought happiness to millions whose lives were formerly drab and sordid. I love to go into these little halls in out-of-the-way places, and see the men, women, and children packed there of an evening. Theatrical companies never reached the villages, and the men had no place but the saloon, the women no place but the kitchen or the front porch. The camera has brought the world to their doors, and life is richer, happier, and better for it." Take him as he stands, and Douglas Fairbanks comes close to being the "real thing." Men like him as well as women, and, best proof of all, the "kids" adore him. On a recent visit to Denver, his old home town, youngsters followed him in droves, clamoring for a chance to "feel his muscle." The mayor, no less, had him address a public meeting, the feature of which, by the way, was this piped inquiry from the gallery: "Say, Doug, can youse whip William Farnum?" And let no one quarrel with this popularity. It is a good sign, a healthful sign, a token that the blood of America still runs warm and red, and that chalk has not yet softened our bones. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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