Full text of "MISTAH JOLSON"

105

M1STAH JOLSON

AS TOLD TO ALBAN EMLEY
By

HARRY JOLSON

H O U S E - W A R V E N , PUBLISHERS

HOLLYWOOD

All rights in this book are reserved. It may not
be used for dramatic, motion- or talking-
picture, radio, or television purposes without
written authorization from the holder of these
rights. Nor may the book or any part thereof
be reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without permission in writing. For information
address: HOUSE-WARVEN, Publishers, 5228
Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, California.

SECOND PRINTING, 1952

TO SYLVIA

Her gentle encouragement and patient

help contributed much toward

the preparation and writing

of this book.

FOREWORD

During the first half of the 20th Century, a
change took place in the American theatrical
world that has no parallel. Historians of the
future, who study and recreate this era, will
owe much to Harry Jolson. In addition to
having been Mistah Jolson, a star on the
vaudeville stage, he had the soul of a collector.
His files are filled with newspaper clippings,
photographs, letters, copies of contracts, ad-
vertisements and billings that are a fascinating
record of his theatrical career.

Harry Jolson has preserved for posterity
records that were of little value at the time, but
are priceless today. While he was a keeper of
records of an incomparable age, he himself
played an active and important part in the life
that he describes.

In this book, not only does he give us the
history of a romantic, thrilling era of change,
but he leaves to posterity the true story of his
brother, Al. This is packed with human inter-
est, with humor, pathos and drama. It is the
story of active, changing America, where two
immigrant, Lithuanian-Jewish boys rose by
their own efforts to stardom and fame.

As Boswell gave to coming generations the
story of Samuel Johnson, so Harry Jolson
gives us an authentic, unvarnished story of his
brother, Al, who was one of the most remark-
able figures ever to appear in the theatrical
world.

Ralph Hancock

RMl and Cantor Moses Rtultn Joehon,
the father of Al and Harry

Harry Jolson, 1951

When newspaper headlines screamed of the sudden
death of Al Jolson, there were few people in the
civilized world who did not feel a tug at the heart-
strings, as well as a sense of personal loss.

A few days later the headlines screamed again. A
funeral had been held of a nature that is accorded
only to the great. Thousands of sorrowing people
remained silently in the streets before a huge temple
that was full and overcrowded. It was a fitting tribute
to one whose love for people of every race, color and
creed overshadowed any regard for himself. In failing
health, with one lung cut away, he had paid a final
measure of devotion to the boys fighting in Korea. It
was an effort that was too great for his failing strength
and advancing years.

The funeral oration was given by one who was
neither rabbi, minister nor priest. He was an actor who
had been a friend for many years.

What would the father of Al and myself the
scholarly, orthodox Rabbi and Cantor Moses Reuben
Yoelson have thought about that funeral? Perhaps he
would have shaken his head and murmured: "Could
it be that I was wrong when I carefully trained the
voices of my sons, hoping that they might become
cantors? Was the theater an evil thing, as I believed?
Was I mistaken when I accused my son, Harry, of
ruining his smaller brother, Al, by inducing him to

run away from home for a career of tinsel? I warned
them that those who go to theaters are not sincere.
They are loafers; seekers after pleasure. They applaud
and worship the actors one day, only to forget and turn
to new idols on the morrow."

Millions adored Al Jolson as a fabulous figure in
the theatrical world. Many knew and loved him as
a generous, loyal, enthusiastic friend. I alone knew him
as a baby, a small boy and as a loved brother through
the years. He clung to my hand when we came as
immigrant boys to a new land. He trusted me and
followed me when I ran away from home to seek
adventures in a great world.

More headlines! Al Jolson left a fortune of millions.
He had provided generously for loved ones, and divided
the remainder among three widely-different religious
organizations: Jewish, Catholic and Protestant. I be-
lieve my father would have liked that While devoutly
true to his own faith, he held the deepest respect for
other religions.

"It is not religion that has failed the people," he
would say. "The troubles of the world come because
people have failed to live up to the faith of their
fathers."

I remember asking him the meaning of the word
sacred. He thought for a moment and then answered,
"Whatever one believes about religion and God is
sacred to those who learned of such things at a mother's
knee."

That was my first lesson in respect for the beliefs
of others, and it is one I never forgot. There are
people today who ask for tolerance, but no one cares
to be tolerated. To tolerate is to assume a position of
superiority. We must learn to have respect for the
beliefs that have been acquired at a mother's knee.

If nothing more remained in memory than the
estate my brother left to others, or even the much
greater sums that he squandered, lent to friends and
frittered away in this or that, there would be no reason
for this book. I never think of Al in terms of the
treasures of this earth. His memory is dear to me
because of the treasures that he took with him; the
immortal wealth of the spirit that is eternal and never
can be lost.

It was a beautiful day, the 26th of May, 1885, when
my story begins. I have a faint recollection of my
father taking me by the hand and leading me to my
mother's room. She was lying in the bed, which was
strange because it was midday. By her side was a
small bundle. She smiled at me, and turned back the
corner of a soft blanket. Beneath it was a tiny face.

"Hirsch," my father said, "here is a little brother
for you to play with and care for and protect."

"What is his name?" I asked wonderingly, for it
was all strange to me. I didn't know how this small
person had come to our home, and why my mother
should be sick when he arrived.

"His name is Asa," my father answered. "Little
Asa Yoelson! Because of his lusty voice, I am sure he
will be a great cantor."

He laughed joyously, for the valued treasures of
people in those days consisted of their children. They
prayed for large families, and never doubted their
ability to rear many sons and daughters so that they
would become strong, healthy, upright men and women,

Our name in the little village of Srednike was
Yoelson, but the name of my father's father was Hessel-
son. The change came about from a cause that is even
stranger than the one responsible for Hirsch and Asa

Yoelson becoming Harry and Al Jolson in the new
world.

It was because of the hatred for the army of the
Czar that was held by the common people under
Russian domination. They could not understand why
all the sons except one in every family should be
drafted into the largest army in the world. Whether
it was during a time of peace or war, many of the
young men did not return, and it was never known what
became of them. Service in the army was especially
repugant to the Jewish people, who beheld the paradox
of training men in the art of war for the purpose of
violating the sixth commandment, Thou Shalt Not Kill.

Methods of protecting sons from the hated service
reached a high degree of efficiency. A few hundred
rubles, slipped into the pockets of officials, were
capable of performing miracles. The family of Hessel-
son had five sons. Only one was exempt. With officials
bribed, two changed their name to Yoelson. Fictitious
parents were provided, and certificates were issued to
the effect that both these young men were the only
sons in two different families.

Thus my father became Moses Reuben Yoelson,
the only son of parents who would have been hard to
find if an official search had been made. It was fortunate
for him that such methods were provided. If ever there
was a man unfitted for army life, it was my father.
Studious, religious and devout, he would have died
willingly rather than take a human life, unless his
deed had been in defense of his home or his faith.

Srednike was a small village. Boundaries have
changed since then, and the region is how part of the
state of Lithuania. When it was my home, it lay on
the border between Russia and Poland. It was a vil-
lage of not more than a hundred houses. There were

the usual shops, a tavern where wine and vodka were
served, and a tiny chapel for those of Greek Orthdox
faith. The population was largely Jewish, and there
were two synagogues. One was in daily use. The other
was opened on feast days and special occasions.

The entire village was owned by a nobleman. I
don't remember his name or title, but his manor was
not far away. It was a thrilling event for us children
when his carriage passed through the one village street
Not many years prior to that time an ancestor of his
owned most of the people. They were serfs, and title
to them went with the ownership of the land.

My father was rabbi and cantor of the synogogue.
He and my mother, Naomi, had five children. One of
them died in infancy, leaving two girls and two boys.
The girls were named Rose and Etta. Next in line
came Hirsch myself and Asa who was the baby
of our little family.

A brother of my father also took the name Yoelson,
although different parents were created for them in
order to carry out the fiction that they were only sons.
Two younger brothers of my father escaped from
Russia when they were still in their teens, probably
because my grandfather had not the means for further
bribing the officials.

Then, as now, America was the haven that all poor
or oppressed people of the earth desired to reach. They
heard many wonderful tales of this fabulous country
where there was neither czar, king nor nobleman;
where the government was in the hands of the people,
and they were permitted the right of free speech,
peaceable assembly, and the right to worship God, each
in his own way.

Eventually my two uncles reached America. One
adopted the name of Hessel. The other still further

shortened the name of Hesselson into Hess. This ex-
plains how I had an uncle named Hess, who was a well-
known Rabbi. For a time he was located in Chicago;
later in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He was one of
the best known and most learned Jewish scholars in
the Northwest.

The adoption of these names was not the result of
mere fancy. There was always a fear that if they should
return to Russia, even for a visit, they might be arrested
and compelled to serve in the Army.

My father was gifted with a voice of exceptional
beauty and power. He studied music and singing when
he was a youth. His ambition was to sing in grand
opera, which seems strange in view of his prejudice
against the stage in later years. In his home were books
of old, Jewish music, which he learned because he had
no operatic scores. Finally he became qualified as a
cantor, as we call it in this country. The ancient Jewish
name is chazan.

One summer he visited an uncle in Keidani, a town
not many versts from Kovno. There he applied for the
privilege of singing and praying some of the services
in the synagogue. He hoped to earn enough rubles to
continue fitting himself for an operatic career.

Application was made to the President of the
Synagogue, Asa Cantor, a man who stood high in his
community, and whose influence extended far beyond
his own village. He thought my father was too young
to take part in such important services, but finally sur-
rendered when faced with persistent, sincere pleading,
and unusual talent.

My father performed the duties capably and
reverently. Asa Cantor was so impressed that he in-
vited the young man to his home for dinner that eve-
ning, and also for breakfast the next morning.

It was a wonderful event for my father, for he
met lovely Naomi, the daughter of the host. It was
love at first sight My father must have been an ex-
ceptionally fast worker, for two weeks later a marriage
was celebrated with great ceremony and feasting.

According to custom a marriage contract was signed
that provided many things beyond the actual legal
marriage relations. Among them was the stipulation
that they were to live in Asa Cantor's home for one
year. Free board was guaranteed during that time for
both bride and groom. There, a year later, my eldest
sister, Rose, was born.

With the responsibility of supporting a wife and
family, my father abandoned his ambition of singing
in the Russian opera. He decided to become a rabbi,
and soon obtained his rabbinical degree, the semichah.

Positions were not easily obtained by such a young
man, and considerable influence was exerted by his
father-in-law before he obtained a position in the syna-
gogue of Srednike, where there was a vacancy. Even
more powerful than the recommendation, was a don-
ation of a hundred rubles, which Asa Cantor made to
the community bathhouse. This was a building that
had a religious significance, as well as being a place
for cleanliness. Jewish women bathed at specified times
under the eagle eyes of strict, older ladies who were
versed in all the ceremonies of purification. Cleanliness
was combined with godliness.

Life was not easy for the young couple in Srednike.
The only house available was one of three rooms built
of logs. It had a thatched roof and a floor of hard-
packed dirt. It was swept daily with a coarse broom.
For the Sabbath, it was sprinkled with white sand
mixed with needles of fragrant hemlock.

In that humble dwelling my sister, Etta, was born,

then I, the first boy, then a little sister who died, and
finally another son who was named Asa for his grand-
father, Asa Cantor.

In America we love the rags to riches tradition,
and one of the blessings of this free land is the fact
that many of our greatest people have been born to
poor families in humble homes. Little Asa, who was
born in a log hut in a foreign land, later became Al
Jolson. He actually was born in a cabin similar to
those of which he sang in his "Mammy" song.

The earnings of a village cantor provided no more
than the bare necessities of life for a family as large
as ours, but my father found other ways of adding
to his income. He became shochet, the killer of kosher
meat Among orthodox Jews, meat is prepared under
the strictest rules and religious observances.

The killing of animals and fowls is exceptionally
fascinating for a small boy, and sometimes I would
watch my father as he carried out his duties as shochet.
I remember a woman who brought a goose to be killed.
Wanting to be helpful, she picked up a knife and cut
off one of the feet before the ceremony was finished.
My father stopped, and explained to her gently that
she had rendered her goose unfit for use as kosher food.
The loss was a serious one for her, but the law is
inexorable, and never can it be treated lightly.

Passover time brought wonderful days to us, for
it meant an abundance of food. It was the custom of
the people to give many eggs to the cantor. As the
Passover approached, two minor officials in the syna-
gogue went from door to door with baskets, accepting
the gifts of eggs. The Srednike butcher also sent gifts
in appreciation of my father's services in preparing
kosher meat

When I was three years of age, and Al was still

a baby, a wonderful change came into our family life.
The finest house in town was owned by Haym Yossi,
a lumberman. It was a frame, double house, the only
one in the village, and it had a wooden floor. Haym
Yossi lived in one side of this magnificent house. The
other side became vacant, and he offered it to my father
for thirty-five rubles a year, and he agreed to furnish
the kindling for our fires.

Most of the landlords today do not want to rent
to people with children, but I believe that Haym
Yossi let my father live in this house because of us
children. He was childless. Never will I forget him.
He was a huge, powerful man with a heavy, black
beard, and long hair that usually came down over his
forehead. The fierceness of his bewhiskered face was
modified by the smiles when his teeth would flash white
from out of the blackness, and his kindly, great eyes
would twinkle with merriment and good-nature. He
always had a pleasant word for us children, and we
were devoted to him and his good wife.

During the spring of one year the single unpaved,
ungraded street of Srednike was a foot deep in soft
mud. My sister, Etta, was making her way across it,
when one shoe came off in the sticky muck. She tried
to find it, but it was lost beyond recovery. Weeping
bitterly, she made her way toward home with one
foot in a shoe and the other clad only in a wet, muddy
stocking. Haym Yossi met her on the way. He carried
her to his house where she received both washing and
comforting. When she returned home her tears had
turned to smiles, and she was wearing a new pair of
shoes, a gift from Haym Yossi and his gentle wife.

Most vivid of all my memories of my twelve years
in Srednike are those of the winter time when the
ground was covered with snow and the droshkies and

sleighs sped through the village street accompanied
by die merry music of bells. One of the greatest mo-
ments in my career was when a coachman from the
manor gave me a ride in a beautiful sleigh pulled by
three prancing horses. It was my first ride in any
vehicle other than our small, homemade sled which
had wooden runners and was gay with red paint

After we moved into the house of Haym Yossi, we
were considered to be both aristocratic and wealthy by
other children. This was principally because of the
wooden floor. Most people had flagstones or merely the
hard-packed earth. The floor was a special source of
pride to our mother, and she kept it white with con-
stant scrubbing.

There was only one well in the village, and all the
water came either from it or from the Niemen River
which flowed close by. The well was between the syno-
gogue and the home of the village doctor. Never
can I forget that doctor. He cured me of a severe
stomach-ache from eating too many cherries, that I
am sure would have been fatal without his ministration.
He was not a graduate of a medical school, but started
practicing because he liked the idea. He had a medical
book, but I doubt if he ever used more than three or
four different medicines, either singly or mixed to-
gether, as the spirit moved. It was his presence in the
sickroom that effected a cure. When he came into the
room smiling and confident, rubbing his hands and
examining a patient's tongue, one was far on the road
to recovery even before taking the foul-tasting medicine
that he prescribed. We had unlimited faith in our doc-
tor, and we believed him to be an exceptionally learned
man.

Water from the well was delivered to our home
by a man and wife. Each carried two buckets suspended

from a yoke which fitted over their shoulders. We
paid two kopecks for one bucket of water. A large
barrel in our home was filled every day except the
Sabbath. While we did not bathe each day, there was
a high degree of cleanliness maintained by the people
of that time. There was the public bathhouse, which
was in constant use. In orthodox Jewish homes there
was much washing of hands in connection with eating
and religious observance.

Our life, even to the smallest details, was governed
by The Law. There were many duties required by our
religion, and no part of the daily routine could be
omitted.

We made three trips each day to the synagogue.
For Al and myself, young as we were, there was an hour
a day in the Ghayder, the Hebrew school. Here we
were taught the Talmud, as well as tribal history and
lore. In addition to our religious education, an in-
structor in secular studies came to the house. He taught
us Russian grammar, German and English. We would
have become great linguists under his exacting teach-
ings, but when we came to America all this was dis-
continued, and we soon forgot what we had learned.
In this country, the learning of foreign languages never
has been considered important.

It is possible that elaborate, religious customs and
ceremonies are developed by people who have nothing
to interest them outside of a simple, routine home life.
With no public schools or amusement places, the serv-
ices in the synagogue provided a welcomed change
from the monotony of village life, as well as giving
us the satisfaction of knowing that we were faithful
to our religion.

In our home the customs and dictations of our
religion were carried out to the smallest degree. Many

spanks did little Al and I receive for failing to put on
tzitzis, the small, fringed ceremonial garment which
it was our sacred duty to wear under our blouses. Never
could I enter the house through the front door with-
out reaching upward to touch with my hands the
mazuzeh, and then touching my hands to my lips. The
mazuzeh is a sacred inscription in a thin, metal box
which is fastened to the door post. Often I have seen
little Al lifted up by my father or mother so that he
might kiss this sacred emblem.

At night we intoned the "Hear, O Israel!" with
the bed sheets over our heads. It was the evening
prayer before going to sleep.

Preparing for the Sabbath was another occasion
which relieved the monotony of daily life. Each Fri-
day afternoon there was a joyous cleaning of the
house, as well as preparing food for the next day. No
cooking of any kind could be done on the Sabbath.
When the food was ready, we carried it to the baker's
ovens where it was warmed for Sabbath use.

The seventh day began at sunset. My mother would
light the candles and say a prayer, then all of us would
go to the synagogue. In spite of the numerous prohibi-
tions of the day there were many special dishes for the
Sabbath, and a holiday atmosphere prevailed. It seemed
that the list of things we could not do would stretch
for miles. Writing was prohibited, as well as sewing
and cooking. There was no housework. We could not
touch money, or ride a horse or ride in a vehicle. Even
in the coldest weather we could not light a fire. For
such labor we had to employ a goy (gentile) or go
without heat.

People often came many miles to our synagogue
in order to hear my father chant the service. In addition
to his clear, musical voice, he had received fine train-

ing in singing. Passover supper in our house was an
important event

Almost as soon as we boys could talk, my father
began training our voices. No boys in the village
were as strictly drilled in Seder service as we. On that
evening of Passover we sat at the table with our hats
on, and a group of neighbors peered through the
windows to look and listen. Other families would have
their Seder early, then come over to enjoy our service.
Sometimes gentiles came and joined the outdoor audi-
ence. The spring evening was usually mild and our
curtains would be drawn aside, with the windows
open. At such times, I believe my father experienced
unusual pride in our ability to sing, even though he
knew that pride goeth before destruction.

The ceremonial dish was placed on the table before
the head of the family. It contained the three pieces
of unleavened bread, the shankbone with a little meat,
the e gg> the bitter herbs, the salted water, and the
charoseth, which is a compound of almonds, apples,
spices and wine. After washing our hands and praying,
we tasted these dainties, while our father explained
their significance.

Later, with further ceremonies, came the real meal.
Father would gently give us the cue for our part in
the service by saying "Nu, Hirsch! Nu Asal" It was
a sin, that became almost a crime, if we were not letter-
perfect in this ceremony as well as all others. At one
point in the service it was Al's duty, as the youngest
in the family, to pipe up in his shrill, little voice,
"Father, I will ask thee the four questions."

He then spoke the long passage which he had
learned in Ghayder, beginning: "Wherefore is this
night distinguished from all other nights? On other

nights, we may eat either leavened or unleavened
bread."

My father then recited the story of the deliverance
of the Israelites from bondage in Egypt. This story is
one of great significance to orthodox Jews. I have
heard one of them tell it at great length to a polite
Christian minister, not knowing that it also is a sacred
tale in the Christian faith, and that the minister knew
it as well as he.

When supper was over, there would always be some
light-hearted playing which relieved the strictness of
the old, orthodox, religious life. This was a sort of
game, which is probably still done by orthodox Jewish
families, especially in the old world.

The father of the family slips a piece of unleavened
bread into his palm and then hides it. The boys try
to take it from him, or to find it if he succeeds in
hiding it. If one of them gets the piece of unleavened
bread, the father must pay forfeit.

Al and I enjoyed this little play. Even though we
were stuffed to overflowing with the abundant Pass-
over supper, we would always eat the additional bite
of matzoth when we found it

There were other little games and ceremonies con-
nected with our stern religion. There were tops which
we would spin at the Feast of the Maccabees. We had
rattles with which we made a terrific clatter in the
synagogue when the name of Haman was mentioned
during the reading of the story of Esther. This, also,
is a sacred story among the orthodox Jews. It gives
them the feeling of divine protection.

I suppose that the lives of people in any village
at that time, was much like ours in Srednike. Simplicity
was the rule. There were games and fights among the
boys; games, dancing, and courting among the young

people ; while the older men and women sat back and
smiled and told how much stronger and more beauti-
ful people were when they were young, and how much
more fun they had in the good old days.

The river was always a source of adventure and fun.
Sometimes we small children were given rides in a
boat, as the older people paddled and rowed for a
mile or two up or down the stream. Al and I were
small while we were in Srednike. We did not learn to
swim, but both of us coasted on our red sled and tried
to skate with homemade, wooden skates on the frozen
Nieman.

Men from the manor would saw the thick ice into
blocks, pull it to the shore with long, hooked poles,
and would pack it in straw in a small building for
summer use. As I remember, the ice of the Niemen
was as clear as glass.

With the first warm winds of spring, the ice lost
the hard, blue clearness that it had in the wintertime.
Presently we could see the water breaking through
far out in the current of the stream. Then the ice
began to break into great chunks that would grind
and jostle against each other as they made their way
toward the sea. It was a thrilling experience to watch
the ice go out of the river. The Niemen was not a
peaceful stream now. It was high, wild and muddy.
Sometimes it overflowed its banks and crept up into
the village. Fortunately for us, we lived on the high
side of the street, and the rising stream never reached
our house. Across the way lived a cousin of my mother,
Mrs. Peri Yoels. Often her home was flooded. She
and her family took refuge with us.

Spring was not only a time of adventure, but it
also brought birds, flowers and a new life to forest
and field. No matter how much we love snow and
winter sports, the ending of winter brings the feeling
of joy to young hearts. And what hearts are not young
when glorious spring pushes aside the icy fingers of
winter, and all nature bursts into a paean of joy?

Not far from Srednike was an old mill with an
overshot wheel, such as was used so often in American
melodramas of the day. It was the customary rendez-
vous for villains, and the scenes brought a delightful
thrill of terror to small people who watched the drama
unfold before them. The small stages of the "opera
houses" and tent shows in small towns have become an
early American tradition. All this came to us after we
had immigrated to our new home in this marvelous
country of America.

The old mill was a favorite place of ours in Russia,
not because of villains and dastardly deeds, but because
nearby grew many acres of wild strawberries. Re-
stricted as we were to the simple fare of village life,
you can imagine how we children stuffed ourselves with
the delicious, red berries that were ours for the picking.

Peri Yoels was a bustling, forceful woman who
ruled her household, including a meek, obedient hus-
band, with iron hand and powerful voice. An enter-
prising person, she bought each year the cherries on

the trees in a farmer's orchard before they were picked.
Then she would employ a number of people including
Al and myself to harvest the crop. We received as wages
two or three kopecks a day, plus the privilege of eat-
ing as we picked. Doubtless, more cherries went into
our mouths than into the basket. The only disadvan-
tage was that we had to knock off work in order to
go home for our regular meals.

There were no railroads in Srednike, but magnifi-
cent (to us) were the steamboats which churned up
the river to Kovno. One of our childhood dreams was
to ride to this great city on a steamboat. None of
us children had ever been more than walking distance
from our village. The idea of going to Kovno was an
idle dream because the fare was fifty kopecks. This
was about thirty-five cents in American money at that
time. Obviously, so poor a family as ours could not
afford such a trip.

Then, one memorable summer, competition came
to the river. A new steamship line cut the regular
rate. The old line retaliated, and presently a price war
was on. The fare to Kovno fell to five kopecks.

A solemn conclave was held in our home. There
was considerable counting and figuring, and finally
my father announced the great tidings; all of us,
Father, Mother, Rose, Etta, Hirsch and Asa, were to
ride on a steamer to Kovno, a great city of 50,000
people.

I was six years of age, and many incidents of that
marvelous journey are still distinct in my memory.
Being always a venturesome soul, I succeeded in get-
ting away from the others, and became lost in the
streets of Kovno. I remember wandering from street
to street. Then, perhaps by the same divine inter-

vention that brought about the hanging of Haman,
I ran smack into the arms of Haym Yossi.

"Now Hirsch," he cried in his great voice that was
almost like a bellow, "you look like Ishmael wandering
in the desert. How did you get here from Srednike?
Did you drop from the sky?"

He took my hand, and presently we were at
the steamboat landing. It was not long before the
others came. My sisters and little brother regarded
me with great awe. My father thundered with passages
from the Talmud, and my mother gathered me to her
heart with tears and prayers of thankgiving.

In spite of the continued fascination of the steam-
boat, I was so weary with my wanderings, that I slept
most of the way back to our home.

Each summer an army encampment was held in
Srednike. It was a delight for the children, but a
source of annoyance for the older people. Most of the
soldiers were billeted upon the citizens.

A few days before the encampment, a terrorizing
official stalked into each home, counted the number
of rooms, asked about the number of adults and chil-
dren in each family, and wrote in an imposing note-
book. Then he would say, "You will entertain this
many soldiers." He would hold up two, three or even
four fingers.

Some of the people made mild objections.

"We are very poor," they would say. "We have
seven children. There are not enough beds for all of
us, and we never have enough food."

The official did not even reply. He chalked the
number of soldiers on the door, and none dared erase
or change his mark.

A few days later, the soldiers would come. Some
of them were brutal and drunken, but many were

gentle and kind. Most of them were simple Russian
peasants; people like ourselves. Some were Jewish,
and they heartily disliked the army service.

We children admired them greatly all of them
even though we were taught to fear them. It was
like stepping into another world to hear the military
band, to see the men, in brilliant uniforms, march
and wheel in straight lines and with perfect order.

Ea*ch day they practiced firing. To us this was
like a Fourth of July celebration to American children
of that day. Nothing could be so wonderful to us as the
flash, the smoke and the thrilling roar of musketry.

One of the soldiers quartered at our house became
a favorite of all the children. He was a good-natured
soul who played a flute. He seemed much concerned
about our behavior, and told us each morning that if
we were good he would play the flute for us in the
evening. Our deportment became so perfect that our
parents actually feared for our health. We did not
realize that nothing less than a decree from the Czar
would have prevented our friend from playing his
flute, whether we were good or bad.

The fiery temperaments of both Al and myself
began to show themselves at an early age. When he
was only three, Al would fly into a fit of temper and
tear into me or any other boy like a small tiger. In
this, I was not far different from him, and our com-
bative tendencies were the cause of much stern dis-
cipline on the part of my father. Either of us would
take up a battle for the other against an outsider. In
another moment we might be in a ferocious battle
against each other. But let anyone else attack either
of us, and he had both of the little Yoelson demons
tearing into him with fist, tooth and claw. Al and I
might be pummeling each other one moment, and in

another moment we would be two loving brothers
again.

It has been that way with us through life. We
had many quarrels over serious questions, over mild
affairs and over nothing. Yet we would be reconciled
quickly and soon be defending each other from the
attacks of outsiders, and it mattered not at all how just
those attacks might be.

Rose, our eldest sister, was of an opposite tempera-
ment from both Al and me. She was a born housewife;
quiet, serious and dutiful, and finally became the little
mother of our family.

Etta, the younger sister, was a venturesome soul
with a disposition much like mine. She disliked toil
and responsibility, and frequently would steal away
over the hill back of the village, to spend a delicious
hour or so in play, and in spying out the land.

Al, even at an early age, showed the restless, dual
nature that distinguished him throughout life. He
would drop a thing half finished, in order to take up
another. Usually he was doing several things at a
time, and never could he be satisfied with a career
that called for order, persistence and faithfulness to a
given task. He was as changeable as a chameleon.

To most of the poor peasants and laborers of Russia,
especially the Jews, America appeared like a fairy-
land: the land of milk, honey and freedom, where
no one ever suffered from poverty, and no one was
ever oppressed. It was a land that seemed as far-off
as another planet, and it seemed as impossible of
attainment.

While there was little actual suffering from want
in our home in Russia, there were many annoyances
and humiliations from officials and army officers. They
were always thinking up schemes for squeezing money

from us, and for establishing hated restrictions on
our family and religious life. Their schemes could
be met only by the payment of bribes. The people in
the vicinity of Srednike, both Jews and Gentiles, were
gentle and tolerant folk, and I have always found
this to be true of the rank and file of the Russian
people. We never suffered from pogroms or any other
form of violent persecution.

Often my mother and father would discuss their
vague dreams of going to America. We children would
listen with open mouths. Sometimes we would join
in the conversation, but actually had no real hope that
the marvelous fairyland across the sea could ever be our
home.

Father had two brothers already in America, and
for years he cherished the idea of following them.
To him it was a wonderful country where everybody
was prosperous, free and happy; and where his chil-
dren would have a chance to make something of them-
selves, which they would never be able to do in the
land of the Czar.

It was not easy to get out of Russia unless one had
a great deal of money to bribe the right officials. Even
if one had bought his way out of army service, every
difficulty would be encountered in obtaining passage.
Yet escape could be made, and many were the ways
that the people devised for getting away.

My mother's brother, Charlie, was the first to go,
and my father watched the experiment with more than
usual interest Each spring our neighbor, Haym Yossi,
would float a liuge log raft down the Neimen into
East Prussia. He engaged my uncle as a raftsman, and
so took him across the border. Once in Germany,
Charlie disappeared and eventually reached America.

When the first letter came from him, my father

tossed all hesitation and doubts aside, and decided
to escape in the same way.

One morning my father awoke Al and me from
a -sound sleep. He knelt by our bed, told us to help our
mother, to take care of our sisters, and to be good
boys. He kissed both of us and then stood up. In
the faint light we saw that he was dressed in the
shabby clothing of a working man.

As he left the room, I whispered to Al, "Asal Asa,
he is going to America. Perhaps we shall never see
him again!"

We jumped from the bed and hurried into out
clothing. We heard a deep voice from the kitchen
and then a laugh.

Stealthily we opened the door.

Haym Yossi was there. He touseled my father's
hair, smeared black grease on his face and clapped an
ancient, battered hat on my father's head.

"There, Rabbi!" he boomed. "Your own wife
wouldn't know you if she hadn't seen you come in.
Come on! Off you go to America."

My father picked up a pathetic, little bundle and
followed. It contained his best clothes, and he took
nothing else. Together the two men went to the river
and aboard the huge log raft.

" Al and I trailed along behind them. There was
probably no danger of my father being stopped by
officials, but we kept at a distance and did not even wave
goodbye as the raft floated out into the turbulent
stream, and disappeared around a bend. My father was
handling one of the big sweep-oars.

In later years, we often heard him tell about his
trip. At the East Prussian border, they were stopped
by the German officials. The names of the men were

listed, and a small fee was paid for each, upon entrance
into Germany.

"Who is this man?" the official asked as he pointed
his pen to one particularly tough-looking, dirty-faced
man.

"He is one of my raftsmen, Reuben Yoelson," Haym
Yossi answered.

The name was entered into the official record. The
fee, amounting to about 40 kopecks for each man, was
paid. Without further ceremony the raft went on its
ponderous way down the river. They passed the his-
toric city of Tilsit where in 1807 Emperor Napoleon
and Czar Alexander signed a treaty on a raft in the
middle of the stream.

Finally Haym Yossi propelled his log craft to the
river bank, and tied up at the sawmills near the sea.
As soon as the logs were sold, my father donned his
best clothes. There was a fervent grasp of the hand, a
word of thanks and farewell to Haym Yossi and the
other men, and my father turned his face westward
towards America.

The Germans cared nothing about the escape of
the Russians who came through their country. There
was much joking about it. When they found passports
that were obviously forged, the officers would pass it
over as nothing and say, "More good soldiers lost to
the Czar army. This way to Hamburg and America."

I remember Haym Yossi later telling my mother
about their trip back to Srednike. The officials checked
his list of men and found one of them missing.

"Where is Reuben Yoelson?" an official asked with
a frown.

Haym Yossi shrugged his shoulders and gestured
eloquently with his hands.

"How do I know? He probably got drunk and fell

into the river. He may have been knifed in a brawl,
or he may have sneaked away to some foreign country.
All I know is that he didn't show up at our meeting
place, and we came on without him. He was a good
workman, and I would like to see him come back."

Later, we learned about our father's adventures.
Dressed in his best clothes, he made his way by rail
to Hamburg, and took passage on a steamer that was
going to New York.

Four discouraging years followed. Life in the new
world was not as rosy as he had been led to believe.
Several months passed before he was employed, and
then it was a small charge as a Rabbi in New York
City. Later, he went to Newburg, New York, and
finally to Washington, D.C., where he remained until
his death.

The salary during the first three years was pitifully
small. In the fourth year his letters became more
encouraging.

"Only a little longer," he wrote, "and if God wills
it, you can join me in this wonderful land."

It was on a winter day in 1894, when the final
letter came. In it was the money which he had carefully
hoarded. To save it he had denied himself all but the
bare necessities of life. The letter was brief, but it
contained the magic word, "Come!"

The inimitable Al

Mistah (Harry) Jolson; the operatic blackface comedian

Ill

Al was nine years of age. I was twelve. Even with
the optimism and elasticity of youth, we wjere fairly
stunned with the momentous change that was taking
place in our lives.

We had never seen a train, an ocean liner, or a
body of water larger than the river that flowed past
our village. We had never seen a city larger than
Kovno. We had made only one trip away from our
home, from which we returned the same day.

Now, not only were we to ride on trains and travel
through great cities, but we were to cross the ocean
on a huge ship. We were going to America where the
streets were paved with gold; to America, the land
of milk and honey, where poverty was unknown, and
where there were no officials and army officers to
demand constant fees which were nothing more than
bribes. Best of all there was no cruel Czar living in
a palace, whom we were told had been appointed
by God to rule over the people.

To us our approaching journey was as romantic
as to tell a modern American boy that he was to go in
a space ship to the moon, or even to Mars.

My mother viewed the approaching ordeal with
actual terror. She had spent her life in the district and
had never been more than fifty miles away from the
place where she was born. Now she was confronted
with tremendous problems. We could take only a little

baggage: no furniture, no cooking utensils, only a
trifle of bedding and clothing. There were four chil-
dren to be guarded and protected, and three of them
were of the venturesome type who might wander away
at the slightest opportunity.

Quickly our neighbors learned that Rabbi Yoelson
was dwelling in the great capital city of the United
States, and he had sent a huge sum of money for his
family to join him in the fabulous country across the
sea. Everyone offered assistance. Everyone gave us the
most kindly wishes and advice. Everyone prayed for
our safety. Nearly everyone gave us messages to be
transferred to relatives in America. The idea of those
dwelling in the little village of Srednike was that
America was a land where everyone would know
everyone else.

We accepted the messages willingly, with faith in
our ability to give them to the proper people.

"When you see my cousin, Simeon," a woman told
me, "tell him we are all well, and that we want to
hear from him. Tell him not to forget that he still
owes us six rubles. He lives in a town called Chicago."

Finally the great day came. With prayers for health
and a prosperous journey ringing in our ears, we were
loaded into a wagon with our bundles. We were to
ride all night to Kovno, where there was a railroad.

It was bitterly cold, and we four children were
packed like so many sardines under bundles of clothing
and layers of straw. In spite of the excitement, we
slumbered peacefully the night long, but my worried
mother did not close her eyes. We reached Kovno in
broad daylight, and stood at the small station while
a terrifying engine, snorting and puffing, pulled up
and stopped with its train of small cars. After thrilling
rides and several changing of trains, we found ourselves

boarding an old steamer that creaked and groaned
its way out of the harbor into the Baltic Sea. We were
looking our last upon Russia, our native land, and
there was a tug at our heartstrings when we realized
that perhaps we would never see our friends and
neighbors again.

For several days we blundered along through the
Baltic and the North Sea. Neither Al nor I were
seasick, but my poor mother and sisters suffered so
much that we were sure that they were going to die.
Being seasick, while riding steerage in a small steamer,
is far worse than in the privacy of a cabin where one
can suffer and die alone, free from the advice of a
score of fellow travelers.

We puffed around the southern part of England,
and finally reached Liverpool. This was our first in-
timate contact with a foreign city. In spite of the fears
and instructions of my mother, there was no holding
us in the small room where we lived for several days.
We had studied English with our teacher, and could
say many simple things such as, "I am hungry," and
"My name is Hirsch Yoelson. Can you show me the
way to America?" Now, we found that the people of
England neither spoke nor understood their language,
at least not the brand of English that we had been
taught.

I managed to find my way home after each adven-
ture in the streets of Liverpool, but my little brother
wandered away from me and became hopelessly lost.
When I returned without him, my mother, frantic with
worry, placed the blame on me which has been the
fate of the older brother since time began.

Fortunately, Al knew our address, and could speak
it distinctly. An hour later a big policeman brought
him home. He spoke to us in a strange tongue, and I

have never forgotten what he said: "These 'ere him-
migrants is always gittin' lorst"

We were both lost and bewildered, but Al and I
returned to Liverpool in later years under different
circumstances.

Finally, we were embarked, with hundreds of other
immigrants, in the steerage of a huge English liner.
This time none of us escaped seasickness. We were
indeed alone and abroad on a great deep.

Never were there more verdant immigrants from
a far land than we, when we made our way into New
York harbor, and saw the Statue of Liberty holding
aloft the torch that lights the world. A dream had
become a reality.

A strange man met us at the dock, and great was
our surprise when my mother ran to him, and he
folded her within his arms. Four years had made a
vast difference in all of us, and our father said he
would not have recognized his children if our mother
had not been with us. Our memory of the father we
had known in Russia was rather indistinct, and it was
not easy to accept this handsome, bearded, confident
Rabbi, who embraced us fervently and took us straight
to his heart.

Within a few hours, we were on the train traveling
to our new home in the capitol city. We were dazed
and somewhat frightened by the great cities with their
tall buildings. Never had we seen such hurrying and
dashing among the people, and never had we heard
such clanging, rattling and shrieking, as we came into
the life and activity of the cities in the new world.

Our home in Washington was in the southeastern
part of the city, near the synagogue. It was between the
capitol and the navy yard.

Onde more, after four long years, we took up the

strict, religious training of our childhood. When my
father had gone away, we had drifted from orthodox
customs, in spite of my mother's efforts to continue
the teachings my father had begun.

Now we were four years older, and we had already
tasted the freedom of the new world. In Srednike,
my father had little difficulty keeping us under rigid
control. Now the task of holding his two sons to the
orthodox way was too great for his strength and will.

The speech of my father when he used English was
slow and halting, for he met with few people who
did not speak his native tongue. With us, it was a
different matter. Every day we spent most of the time
with children who spoke only the language of our new
land. It was not long before we spoke to and under-
stood our companions, and acted as interpreters for
both my father and mother.

Within a short time we considered ourselves Ameri-
cans. We developed new interests outside our home.
We learned that most of our new friends were not
orthodox, and only a few were Jewish. They were
liberal and democratic, with a devil-may-care attitude
towards life which appealed strongly to our youth-
ful, rebellious souls. Our sisters were more conservative
and were better disciplined, but Al and I were a con-
stant source of worriment and grief to our parents, who
still held the ideas and ideals of Srednike and the
old world.

Under the stern hands of my father, we continued
to attend the Chayder and the Synagogue, and never
was our education in the Torah neglected. We sang
and prayed through the various services at home, but
we were indifferent students at best. There were too
many adventures calling us into the streets of Washing-
ton, which was the actual capitol of our wonderful,

adopted land. It was but a vague idea that we had of
the size, grandeur and beauty of America, but, even
so, the spirit of freedom and unrest had entered our
blood, and we soon wandered far from the orthodox
beliefs of our fathers. One thing we enjoyed was the
training in voice culture that we received again after
a lapse of four years. I suppose our father soon gave
up his hope that we would become cantors. If he had
known that both Al and I would find a career singing
on the stage of the despised theater, our training would
have ceased with great suddenness.

He was a teacher of the old school who had little
patience with defective techniques and indifferent sing-
ing. To teach us to open our mouths, he propped a
match-stick just back of our teeth, so that our vocal
tones could issue unrestricted through wide-open spaces.
Our voices thus obtained a volume and clarity that
probably have not been equaled by anyone since that
day.

The training that my father gave us actually was
responsible for our professional careers. Never did we
forget our vocal lessons, and never did we forget the
old Hebrew music. To this day, when I try out my
voice, probably in the tub or in the shower, I am
apt to break into the old chant that one may still
hear in the synagogue on Friday evenings:

"L'cho daide likras kalo
P'nai shabbas nekebalo "

The important time came for my bar-mitzvah:
confirmation. It is a time of joy and feasting in a
Jewish home.

My gentle mother never had been strong. For
several weeks before my confirmation she had declined

rapidly. I did not realize how seriously ill she was. Full
of excitement and the joy of the occasion, I dashed
into the room where she was lying, white and still.

"Look, Mother!" I cried. "Listen how well I can
say it."

Putting on my newly-acquired tfilim, the little
amulets that are fastened by straps on the forehead
and left arm, I recited some of my prayers.

My mother smiled, and her eyes glowed with loving
pride. I knew then, in the careless, vague way of a
boy, that this was not an ordinary illness, but I did
not realize that she was sick unto death.

The next day my father, with tears glistening on
his cheeks, took us into the still room where my mother
lay. The curtains were drawn, but we could see that
her eyes were closed, and there was no movement of
the coverlet. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed.
My father told us, with choking voice, that God had
taken our mother to a better land.

We buried her on a bitterly cold day, with snow
in the air. We were a bewildered, lonely group of
children as we gathered at the side of the grave in
the cemetery. At any time of life it is a cruel blow when
Mother goes away. Little Al had no mittens, and woolen
stockings were pulled over his hands. He dabbed them
into his eyes, and tried manfully to keep back the tears.

Wild as we boys were, our grief for our mother was
deep and lasting. No matter how unruly and undis-
ciplined we became in the months that followed,
no matter how much mischief we got into, never
did we forget to say kaddish three times a day for
one year, according to ancient custom. The kaddish is
the prayer for the dead.

My sister, Rose, now took charge of the maternal
duties of our family. An older sister possesses but little
authority over boys of ten and thirteen, and I know
that we caused her and my father a great deal of
grief and concern for our future.

As Father's earnings were small, and our expenses
proportionately large, it was decided at a family con-
ference that I should earn some money by selling papers
on the streets. My efforts were so successful that my
dynamic little brother followed me in my new profes-
sion. We learned all the tricks, the sins and rough words
of the street urchins, and our father began to fear for
our morals. He saw how rapidly we were straying
away from his teachings.

We had entered the public schools when we first
reached Washington, and were capable students. Both
of us made rapid progress. We became favorites of
our teachers because of our singing. We made a fine
impression when we sang, The Star Spangled Banner,
for we were the only ones in the class who could reach
clearly both the high and low notes. It was I who took
the lead in the school singing rather than Al, for
I was three years older and had the advantage of a
great deal more of Father's excellent teaching. Both
of us possessed fine boy-soprano voices.

It was not long before we began capitalizing on
our talent. We would sing on street-corners with our

boisterious schoolmates, and we found that grown
people would stop to listen. Some of them threw coins
on the sidewalk, and this gave us an idea. We were soon
making more money singing than by selling papers.

Our favorite stage was the sidewak in front of the
Hotel Raleigh. In those days, congressmen, high gov-
ernment officials, and even Supreme Court Justices
would sit in chairs on the sidewalks during spring and
summer evenings, just as people did in small towns.
They not only appreciated our singing, but they became
an unusual source of income for us. We sang all the
popular songs, such as : Sweet Marie, The Sidewalks of
New York, Who Threw The Overalls In Mrs. Mur-
phy's Chowder, Daisy Bell, and Say Au Revoir But
Not Goodbye.

We soon learned that statesmen and jurists prefer-
red the songs that carried them into the romantic past,
the songs of Stephen Foster, and Listen To The Mock-
ing Bird, Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming and
When You And I Were Young, Maggie. Songs such
as these brought a shower of nickels, dimes, and even
quarters. We learned not to sing too long at one time.
We would close our concert while the audience was
still asking for more, thus paving the way for a return
engagement Then we would hurry to a lunch stand
for a feast of a hamburger sandwich, which was a
nickel, with either onions or pickles; a piece of pie,
which was five cents, and occasionally we would add a
cup of coffee or a glass of milk. Then we would count
the money that was left, and declare a dividend.

During summer vacations we developed another
source of income. We could buy watermelons at the
wharves at a wholesale price, three for a nickel. Some-
times we could get four for a nickel. We had a patched
and battered wagon, for which we had traded. We

would load it with melons, and haul them to a promis-
ing section of town for resale. Here our voices again
became part of our stock-in-trade. We made up a little
song which Al and I would sing together in tones that
. carried far, and brought housewives to windows and
doors.

"Wa a-termelons

Red to da rind,

Five cents a piece

And you eat'em all da time."

We sold the melons for five cents each and then
would hurry back for another load.

Our father knew nothing of these extra-curricular
activities, and believed we were selling newspapers
on chosen corners where we could get into little or
no mischief. Being busy for long hours of the day
and evening with the duties of his profession, he had
little time to investigate the activities of his wayward
sons.

Each evening we contributed an amount to the
family budget which was reasonable for boys selling
papers. The surplus, of which the others knew nothing,
was spent in riotous living which usually included a
show. The theatre was our great love. Not only did we
attend vaudeville performances, but often we were
high in the gallery of some fine theater, where we
watched with wide eyes, one of the great classics such
as Ben Hur.

In the lower-priced theaters we saw Uncle Tom's
Cabin, Ten Nights In A Barroom, and tear-jerkers
on the order of East Lynne.

Father learned of our great sin in some manner,
and found out that we had tickets for the theater that

very evening which happened to be the Sabbath. First,
he gave me a hearty whipping and demanded that the
tickets be given to him for swift destruction. I was an
obstinate youngster and refused to reveal the where-
abouts of our treasures. So, to see that we would not
commit the double crime of breaking the Sabbath and
attending the theater, Father locked us in our room,
which was on the second floor of the house. It was a
fine idea, except for the drain pipe that ran down the
side of the house close to our window. Often had we
gone up and down that pipe like a couple of monkeys.
As soon as Father had gone to the synagogue, we
were out of the house and on our way to forbidden
pleasures.

Unfortunately, when Father came home he went
into our bedroom to make sure we were asleep. Not
knowing how we had escaped, he locked the window
for some reason, and left the door unlocked against
our return.

When we shinnied up the drain pipe, there was no
way of opening the window, and we didn't know of
the unlocked door. The rest of the night was spent on
a pile of hay in a nearby livery stable.

We were up at daylight, hungry and destitute. A
bakery wagon came by, and the odor of fresh, warm
bread was too much for our powers of resistance and
training in the Law. We stole a loaf of bread when
the driver was making a delivery, and also obtained a
bottle of milk from the doorstep of some late risers.

Wifti all of my Father's fear for our morals, these
were the only things we ever stole. Friends of ours
became adept at petty thievery, but never were we
tempted by the lure of crime.

It may have been that the strict teachings of my
father had penetrated deeper than he suspected, but I

believe that even more potent than his instructions was
the influence of our angelic mother.

The chief difficulty with our home life was that
Al and I had been absorbed by American customs,
American freedom of thought, and the American way
of life. My father still dwelt in the consciousness of the
strict, orthodox teachings and customs of the old world.
The things we did were normal for American boys, but
to my father we were becoming "loafers," and a loafer
is the last step down when the word is used by an
orthodox Jew.

Painfully aware that he was not able to give us the
attention and discipline we needed, our father made
the mistake of turning again to a custom of the old
world. He believed that we needed a mother, and he,
as a Rabbi, needed a wife. Instead of solving his prob-
lem in the American way, he wrote to Perri Yoels, the
relative of our mother whom we had known in Sred-
nike. He asked for the hand of her daughter in mar-
riage. Apparently, the lure of being a Rabbi's wife in
the fabulous land of America proved a great temptation
to the daughter. An agreement was reached, and in a
few weeks she came to Washington to become my
father's second wife.

We boys might have accepted the situation if we
had remained in Srednike. Now we were Americans,
and resented the fact that a woman whom we did not
love, and who was almost a stranger, had been placed
in a position of authority over us. We refused to obey
her, and doubtless made life miserable for the poor
girl, who had stepped innocently enough into this
difficult situation.

Al and I were both high-strung, impetuous, daring
boys. We resented strict discipline, as is the case with

many an immigrant youth when he first comes into
contact with the new freedom of America.

"Loafers, loafers!" was the word my father often
cried out in his anguish.

We resented it then, but later I could sympathize
with my poor, puzzled Jewish Father who saw his sons
straying from the path of orthodox piety, and following
what were to him forbidden ways.

The parental wrath descended like a torrent upon
my head, but Al escaped almost entirely. We were to-
gether a great deal, and formed a sort of defensive
alliance against the rest of the family. My position
became that of a black sheep: the bad, older brother
little Asa would be a perfect child, faithfully following
the traditions of his fathers, if it had not been for my
influence. This attitude continued for many years.
Whatever Asa did that met with the disapproval of
the others, the blame was heaped upon me, the older
brother, whom Al was supposed to have followed as
the lamb followed Mary.

Among other transgressions, we had given up our
names, and were now Al and Harry. This was because
of the spirit of democracy we had encountered among
the boys of Washington. We were of one brotherhood ;
that of human beings, and we were of every race and
nationality. Children are like that. They live the prin-
ciple of true democracy until they are filled with the
false ideas of older people. Then, until they learn better,
they put a wall around themselves that separates them
from the other people of the world. As Asa and Hirsch,
we were Jewish boys. As Al and Harry, we were
Americans: friends and brothers to all other boys,
whether they were black or white, Jews or Gentiles,
Republicans or Democrats.

The idea came to me by degrees of leaving home to

make my own way in the world. I was fifteen at the
time, self-reliant and confident, and I had no doubt
that I could win success wherever I should go. The only
thing I lacked was sufficient money to take me an
appreciable distance from home, but this difficulty
ended suddenly and in a striking way.

In the promotion of our watermelon business, we
had accidentally blundered into a forbidden street
where painted ladies stood at doors to display their
wares to men seeking romance. In a vague way, we
knew these women were supposed to be things of evil,
like Jezebel and Rahab of the olden days. But they did
not appear to be evil persons to us. They were nice
to us, and bought our melons at a good price.

One evening, I was alone with our wagon in this
street. I had disposed of my last melon, and was making
my way homeward when a man staggered out through
one of the doors. I paused and looked at him, for I
knew him well. He was a congressman who had often
contributed liberally at our entertainments in front of
the Hotel Raleigh. For a moment he leaned against
the door, then he called me by name.

"Harry, come over here!"

When I reached his side, he brushed his hand across
his brow and spoke thickly:

"Harry, my boy, I don't feel so well. Can you get
me a cab?"

I answered that I could probably find one several
blocks away.

"All right," he said, "I will wait here for you. I
don't feel well."

I left my battered wagon under his care, found a
cab and rode back to him in style. The cabman and I
helped the gentleman into the vehicle. Then he pressed
what I thought was a half dollar into my hand.

"Harry, my boy!" he pleaded. "Don't say anything
about this to anybody."

The cab drove away, and I examined the coin he
had pressed into my palm. It was a ten dollar gold
piece; the first I had ever seen.

The next day, without telling anyone of the fortune
that had come to me, or of my plan for the future, I
made my way to the railroad yards. A freight train was
puffing slowly away, and I slipped in between two of
the cars. Whenever the train stopped, I ran away
quickly, and when it started again I was back at my
place. Eventually, I reached the yards in Jersey City,
and once more I saw the big buildings of New York
across the Hudson. It was not the skyline of later years,
for none of the great towers of today were in existence
in 1897.

Harry A I

The Hebrew and the Cadet, 1900

Today a boy would not get far on such a journey.
He would be reported by someone, picked up by the
police and returned to his home. But in those days
hundreds, even thousands, of orphaned boys were forced
to make their own way. They earned a pitiful existence,
slept in doorways and barrels, and no one was interested
in them unless they committed a crime. Even today, we
are more willing to spend money in the detection and
prosecution of crime, than we are in preventing crimes
by providing a healthy, constructive program for our
boys and girls before they take the dark way.

I had my ten dollars intact, together with a little
change. I rode the ferry across the river, and invested
in a few papers which I began selling on the street. My
earnings were smaller than my expenses, for I took a
room on the Bowery and ate meals that cost as much
as 35 cents each. Within three weeks my money was
gone. I moved to the Newsboys' Home on Duane
Street, where board and lodging were furnished
cheaply. My paper business became insolvent, and I
began carrying luggage, running errands, and doing
almost anything to earn a nickel or a dime.

Then it seemed as though Opportunity had knocked
on my door. I was given a job at a dollar a day. My
employers were four men who ran a portable stand.
They would take up a likely-looking spot in a doorway
or on a street-corner to sell pocket-knives and cheap

jewelry. One of the men ran the stand as a pitchman.
He began his sales talk in a loud voice, and he would
demonstrate the sharpness of the knives. A crowd
soon collected. At a certain place in his talk, I was to
step forward and buy a knife. Later, I would return
it I was a capper, a come-on man who started the
people buying. The other three men stood at the edge
of the crowd. When I stepped forward to buy the knife,
they began pushing the spectators toward the stand.

For three days I worked at my new job, and I
thought my fortune was made. In my exuberance, I sent
a postcard home telling them that I was fairly on my
way to becoming a big New York businessman. I gave
no address, for I had the fear of my father reporting
my waywardness to a truant officer. I might be picked
up and sent home, or even placed behind bars.

My employers were nice to me, yet we were doing
only a small business. I wondered how four men could
support themselves from it, as well as paying my salary.

Ever since coming to America, I had heard of pick-
pockets, and I always guarded my money carefully,
when I had any to guard. I felt that the dips, as they
were called, were constantly on my trail.

During the fourth day of my job, I saw the partner
whom they called Lefty slip his hand into a man's
pocket, and it came away with a wallet. I could feel
a prickling sensation at the roots of my hair, and I
actually believed my cap was lifted an inch or more
on my head.

Here was I, a member of a gang of pickpockets! I
began backing out of the crowd intending to slip away,
when I heard a cry and the sound of a blow. A rival
pickpocket was plying his trade in our territory, and
two of my partners had waded into him with fist, teeth
and feet. I was out of the crowd by this time and ran

up the street. I heard the sound of shouts and curses,
and then the shrill blast of a police whistle which lent
wings to my feet. I turned a corner and then another,
then slowed to a walk for fear of attracting attention.

Thus ended the business venture of which I had
written home with such pride. I never saw Lefty or the
the others again, and never tried to collect my wages
for the last day.

It seemed that hard luck dogged me from that time
on. I became so deeply indebted to the Newsboys'
Home, that I dared not go there again. I had no money
to buy papers, and no job. I slept in doorways and
wagons, and was half starved from the meager earnings
that came from running errands and carrying luggage.

Business was exceptionally bad one day, and evening
found me with empty pockets. All day long I had gone
without food. Friendless and hopeless, I wandered far
down the street to the Bowery. Here I stopped before
a bakery window to gaze with open mouth at the array
of pies, cakes and cookies that were on display. I stood
with my nose pressed tightly against the window, get-
ting as near as possible to the celestial pastries that were
so close to me and yet so unattainable.

Behind me a voice spoke my name.

"Harry!"

The thought flashed through my mind that the
truant officer had caught up with me, and my worst
fears were to be realized.

"Harry!"

This time it didn't sound like a voice of a man
about to devour a victim. It was thin and trembling,
but through a fertile imagination it still brought terrors
to my guilty soul.

There was a tug at my coat, and I turned to face the

inevitable. The next moment I was looking into the
big eyes of my twelve-year-old brother.

When my postcard had arrived home, Al decided to
follow me and become New York's big-business-man
No. 2.

Impossible as it may seem, he had found me within
two hours of the time he reached New York. Perhaps
it is not so strange after all. The Bowery had the same
attraction for people visiting New York, in those days,
that Hollywood and Vine has for visitors to Los
Angeles today. Al had inquired his way to the Bowery,
and I happened to be there for the first time in more
than two weeks.

Al's happiness knew no bounds. Never can I forget
his smile as he clung to my hand and looked up into my
eyes. He thought that his troubles were over, and that I
would feed him and take care of him. With the faith
of a small brother, he believed that I was a magician
who could make all his wishes come true.

What to do with him was a question. I had no home
and no money, and Al had merely added to my poverty.
I was hungry, but he was hungrier, and I believe his
hunger was more painful to me than my own.

Sometimes a spur is needed to take us out of
lethargy: out of a condition of despondency and inertia
into which we have fallen. It was so in my case. Al was
the spur. I took him to a bench near a hotel, and
told him to sit there without moving until I returned.
With his natural energy and restlessness it was probably
his longest period of sitting still. I am sure he never
remained quietly so long in later years.

Standing near the hotel entrance, I got a few bags
to carry. Tips were small, but finally I received a
quarter for carrying two heavy suitcases more than six
blocks.

Dashing back to Al, I took him to my favorite eating
place where we feasted like kings on a cup of coffee and
a hamburger heaped high with onions.

That night we slept in an empty wagon that stood
near a wharf in the Hell's Kitchen district I slept with
my shoes on, but my ignorant brother, who was still
influenced by the niceties of home training, took off both
shoes and stockings. When we awoke the next morning,
we found that his stockings were safe, but his shoes were
gone. Down the sidewalk we went, with little Al in
his stocking feet. We were probably the most forlorn
pair of youngsters in New York if not the world.

All morning we stopped at doors and begged.
Finally a kindly Jewish lady on the Eastside gave Al a
pair of shoes. They were old and worn and much too
large, but it was the best we could do.

In desperation I took Al to the Newsboys 7 Home.
My credit was exhausted, but they took in my small
brother, probably more from pity than from hope of
being paid.

That day I was lucky and made more than a dollar.
I went to the Newsboys' Home and paid down a dol-
lar on account. They let me sleep with Al that night.
The next day I exerted my authority as an older brother.
I told Al that I could not take care of him, and that he
must go home. I knew they would blame me because he
had run away, and I was already badly in disgrace with
my father and stepmother.

Al was willing to return, but how could he find his
way back to Washington? Desperately we tried to earn
enough money to cross the river and start him on his
way. We went into a saloon and began singing, but were
quickly shown the way out through the swinging doors.
Singing was no longer for me. My voice was changing,
and I would flop from a deep bass to a shrill falsetto

without warning. The effect was frightening to an
innocent bystander, especially if he had imbibed too
freely. There were no serene congressmen sitting on
sidewalks, and Al was too young to go into the only
places where our brand of entertainment was ap-
preciated.

Much as we disliked the idea, we decided to turn
to an uncle for help. He lived in Yonkers, more than
fif teen miles away. My sister Etta, now sixteen, had fled
from the presence of our stepmother and was working
for my uncle.

Starting early in the morning, we began walking.
A man driving an ice wagon let us ride for two or
three miles, and a kind lady gave us a lift in a frail
buggy pulled by a beautiful, bay horse. We lost our
way several times, and it was after dark when we
reached our destination.

First, we received a terrific scolding from our
uncle, aunt and sister. Most of it came my way. Father
had written them, told them of my postcard, and that
he suspected Al had gone to join me. Nothing I could
saw would lead them to believe I had not sent Al
some secret message. When I told of our accidental
meeting in New York, they held up their hands in
horror at what they thought was my untruthf ulness.

Al was always, as the younger brother, the precious
darling of the family, and he was taken straight into
the hearts of all. I was grudgingly given a meal and a
bed, along with improving lectures on my past and
future conduct.

The next morning I was sent on my way, for I
refused to return home. My uncle decided that he would
help me set myself up in business in New York, and
generously gave me $2.00 for initial capital.

When I next saw Etta, she told me the rest of

the story. Al was already showing traits that carried
him to fame and fortune in later years. He had not
been at my uncle's more than two days before Etta
found him out in an alley, standing on a box, entertain-
ing a crowd of children. They were enthralled by his
singing, and the neighborhood resounded with their
applause. From his early years on, Al was always a
great showman.

Poor Etta! She used her hard-earned savings, and
mortgaged her future to obtain money for Al. She
bought him a new suit of clothes, new shoes, new hat,
stockings and underclothing; even a necktie so that he
could go back to Washington in style.

Etta loved him but she didn't trust him. Instead
of giving him the money for his railroad fare and start-
ing him on his journey, she went with him all the way
to Jersey City. There she bought the ticket, accom-
panied him into a coach, and remained until she heard
the cry from a brakeman, that was always so thrilling to
weary travelers, "All aboard 1" Then she hurried to the
platform and stood watching till the train moved away
and she was certain that her precious, little brother was
on his way back to his father's house.

She ended her recital of the story by lifting her
hands and wailing, "But what good did it do? As soon
as he got home he ran away again."

It was true. Following the greatest lure known to
man, he had gone away with a small carnival show.

On his way back home from Yonkers, Al had an
experience he never forgot, and never would he let me
forget it. It remained a standing joke that was always
funny.

My father was desperate over the behavior of his
boys and, of course, considered that everything was my
fault. My description had been given to the police in

different cities. Al and I looked alike and often we
were mistaken for each other, even during the early
years.

At Baltimore Al got off the train to look around,
and was immediately spotted by two officers.

"You are Hirsch Jolson!" they charged. "You have
run away from home, and we must hold you for your
father."

Nothing that Al could say was of any avail. The fact
that his fare was paid to Washington and he was on his
way home made no difference. He was taken to the
police station. A telegram went to Washington, and Al
was held until my father arrived. It took considerable
explaining to convince them that they had caught the
angelic Asa instead of Hirsch, who belonged on the
opposite side of the ledger.

In later years when Al wanted some special favor
from me, he would say, "Don't forget that I once did
time for you."

In spite of our background and training, showman-
ship was in our blood. The call of the theater was one
that could not be denied. Explain it as you will ! We two
boys from the little village of Srednike took to the
stage as a fish would seek the water. ,

Al had not been home a week before he had his
opportunity. He ran away with Rich & Hoppe's Biff
Company Of Fun-Makers. In spite of its name, it was
but a one-gallus concern. Otherwise a twelve-year-old
boy would not have been given a job singing. I have a
photograph that shows Al dressed for his act. So
poverty-stricken was the show that his sash was an
ancient table cloth tied around his waist.

He appeared as Harry Joelson, rather than under
his own name, for he seemed to think that by taking

my name he could prove, if necessary, that he was
three years older.

Our name Yoelson had become Joelson by accident.
Being weak in English spelling, we couldn't write our
name when we entered school. We could pronounce it,
though, and the teachers wrote it with a J, which we
accepted without question,

This theatrical venture of Al's was the beginning
of a long series of mistakes on the part of the public,
where I was taken for Al, and Al was taken for me.

Years later I was approached by a woman who had
been with the Rich & Hoppe Company.

"I knew you way back in 1898," she gushed, "and I
have an autographed picture of you."

She showed me a photograph of little Al dressed
in his huge sash. On the back of the photograph was
inscribed in a boyish hand, "To Margie from Harry
Joelson."

My venture back into the big business of New York,
even with a capital of $2.00, did not prove to be a
happy one. It was evident that fate had not intended me
to be a businessman, either small or large. At intervals
I stayed in four different Newsboys' Homes on Man-
hattan Island. As time passed and my tribulations grew,
I was so far in debt for board and room that I dared
not go near any of them, no matter how urgent the
need.

A friend who knew his way around New York bet-
ter than I, made a suggestion.

"There is a good place in Brooklyn that will take
you if you're down on your luck. It's a Cath'lick Boys'
Home. Why don't you go over there?"

"But I ain't Catholic," I objected. "I'm a Jew, and
they wouldn't let me in."

"That ain't nothing!" my friend said impatiently.

"You can bless yourself by making the sign of the cross
on your chest just like the Cath'lick boys do. They won't
know the difference and if they do, you tell'm about
Mary, the Mother of Jesus, when they wouldn't let
her into the hotel, and just look at what happened!"

Hungry, weary and desperate, I went to the Catholic
Boys' Home, and was given shelter. Whether the
Fathers actually thought I was a Catholic Boy, is a
question. Knowing what I do now about those wonder-
ful men, I believe they would have taken in any hungry,
lonely boy, no matter what their instructions might be.
They would not have turned a dog away from their
door, much less a human being.

Years later a New York paper carried a feature
article about Al Jolson, Babe Ruth and Joe Dundee. It
claimed that all three had been inmates of a Catholic
Orphanage when they were boys. Again it was the
eternal mix-up between Al and me. It was Harry who
took refuge in the Catholic Orphanage, but Al got the
credit in after years. I hope my father did not see that
story. It would have given him a severe shock, and if
he had happened to believe it, he would have laid it
all at my door.

I seemed to have reached an impasse in New York.
Jobs were scarce and my credit was exhausted. Presently
I went back to Washington between two freight cars.
There I took up an odd-job career where I had left
off. My voice had attained sufficient stability so that I
again began singing. Sometimes I sang alone, but Al
usually was with me. We sang on excursion boats on the
Potomac River and the Chesapeake Bay, and at Fort
Myer and other army camps in the spring and summer
months during the Spanish American War.

Sometimes we sang at Snyder's Place down near
the navy yard. Does anyone today remember Snyder's

Place? You could get a huge schooner of beer and a
dish of crabs for a nickel. While we are reminiscing,
who remembers the old Walter Main's one-ring circus?
Al traveled with it for a few weeks singing in the
second part; the "Great, Stupendous, Unbelievable
Concert, which takes place immediately after the main
puff awmance is ovah ! All for the price of ten cents
one dime!"

While we did not know it, opportunity was knock-
ing at our door. I had a job selling peanuts, popcorn
and candy in the Bijou theater, which had been one
of the fine play-houses of the city in the past. The
best plays and greatest artists of America and Europe
had appeared on its stage. In 1898 it was going the way
of all flesh. It had given way to larger and finer theaters,
and now its top attractions were burlesque shows. One
troupe had an exceptionally good singer, a black-face
comedian called a "coon shouter." Later he became
famous as Eddie Leonard. When he was at the Bijou,
his hit song was, I'd Leave My Happy Home For
You.

Being a good showman, he would urge the audience
to join in the chorus. This gesture is always successful
if the audience sings. It is pathetic if the audience
remains in a frozen silence. Usually such a singer
has some stooges in the audience who join in and start
the others, but Eddie had no one. Greatly to his sur-
prise, a clear boy soprano voice followed his own into
the chorus, and the audience joined in. Leonard, was
so impressed, that he inquired about the boy's identity.

Never would he have found out if it hadn't been
for me, an employee of the theater. The search finally
reached the lowly peanut vendor, and I proved to be a
great source of enlightenment. The boy singer, who had
so impressed the star, was my little brother, Al. An offer

was made to Al to go with the troupe and sing from
the balcony. Much as he would have enjoyed it, Father
had him temporarily under strict control and he had
to refuse the offer.

It was not long before the parental chains were
loosened a trifle, and that was what Al needed for an
escape. He was again a spectator in the gallery of the
Bijou, while I cried my peanuts and popcorn from the
lower floor.

Aggie Beeler, burlesque queen, was playing with a
show called The European Sensation. She did not ask
the audience to sing, but when she swung into the
chorus of My Jersey Lily, little Al joined her from the
gallery. His impromptu contribution to the act made
such a hit with Miss Beeler, that Al again received an
offer. This time he was to go on the road with the
burlesque troupe and sing from the gallery. He ac-
cepted, and planned his evasion from home.

One morning he did not come down for breakfast.
A search revealed the fact that both he and his clothes
had disappeared during the night. Al was then thirteen
years of age. This venture with Aggie Beeler might
be called the real beginning of his stage career. Never
again did he stray from it

Accepting this job was AFs own idea, and I did
not influence his decision in any way. Yet there was
no use attempting to explain my innocence to my angry
. father, when he learned that little Asa had gone away
with a show. No Puritan, with his ancient "blue laws,"
was more strict than my orthodox, Rabbi father. Even
though he once aspired to grand opera, no one could
have been more bitterly opposed to the stage as a career
for his sons.

Years later, Al starred in the motion-picture version
of The Jazz Singer. While the author of the play did

not have us in mind, the plot might have been taken
from our home life. The father was a cantor instead
of a rabbi, but he was as bitterly opposed as my father,
to his sons going on the stage.

He was just as firm in declaring that ragtime, as
it was then called, was "loafer music," as was my
father.

The years somewhat softened the opinion of our
parent as to the chosen profession of his boys, but he
never reached the point where he gave us either com-
mendation or praise.

The storm, that arose when Al went with the Aggie
Heeler's Burlesque Show, made life so disagreeable
for me at home, that I again went to New York. I had
been working with my singing lessons, and my voice-
changing troubles were over. Now I was able to get
jobs as a singing waiter in the restaurants and beer halls
of the Eastside.

The singing waiter of that day was a sort of fore-
runner for the present night-club entertainment. During
a pause in ur duties as waiters, and even while carry-
ing trays to and from tables, we sang the latest popular
songs. The reward came in tips from patrons. Usually
they were too superior to give us the money or place
it on the tray. They tossed it on the floor, and often the
singing waiter had to do a special brand of gymnastics
to pick up the coin before some other waiter could
get it.

We developed an uncanny skill for getting a coin
ten feet away while continuing the tray-balancing feat.
To have crashed with a tray of expensive food and
dishes in order to pick up a twenty-five-cent tip, would
have meant a violent ejection through the rear door.

The most popular songs in those days were "coon
songs" which were supposed to be negro songs. I don't
know where the word "coon" came from. America was
the great melting pot for all people of the earth. The
different races and nationalities naturally herded to-

gather in groups, just as we have American colonies
in foreign lands. I suppose all the different groups
considered themselves to be superior, and applied
names to the others that were not inspired by respect.

An Irishman was a Mick, an Englishman was a
Limey, an Italian was a Wop or a Dago, a Jew was a
Kike and a Chinese was a Chink. A former resident of
Germany was called a Dutchie, and one from Bohemia
was a Bohunk. Perhaps this was part of the system of
the melting pot. People did not like such names when
applied to themselves, and eventually all became
Americans.

Sometimes the names were not considered to be
disrespectful to those to whom they were applied. The
colored people, especially, sang and loved the "coon
songs." You's Ma Honey and Afy Goal-Black Lady
were two that were especially liked.

A band of colored musicians played another popular
favorite when they escorted a local company of Spanish
War volunteers to the railway station where the latter
was to entrain for Cuba. The bandmen marched with
great pride, and nearly blew their lungs out of gear.
The leader could not understand why the people from
the side lines kept shouting, "Stop, stop!" Later he
realized they had played, / Don't Care If You Never
Come Back.

The songs which were general favorites in the East-
side slums were the tear-jerkers. There were The Moth
and The Flame, After The Ball, Teach Our Baby That
I'm Dead and the war songs, Break The News To
Mother, Just As The Sun Went Down, and the old
classic which is still around, A Hot Time In The Old
Town.

I was not yet seventeen, and was small for my age.
Yet I told all the employers I was twenty-one, and

Harry Jolson in "The Ghetto Sport"

Caters oScr.al r :c Cor- e

EDGAP 8. MOORE,

A letter to Harry Jolsoji from Al

managed to pass as an under-sized man. The best job
I had was at Callahan's on the fringe of Chinatown.
Chuck Connors was called the "Mayor of Chinatown,"
but Mock Duck was the big, Chinese Boss. Steve
Brodie, the alleged Brooklyn bridge jumper, ran a
saloon on the Bowery. Not far away, at 7 Mulberry
Street, was the saloon of Fatty Walsh, the powerful,
ward politician, the father of Blanche Walsh, the
actress. Both Big and Little Tim Sullivan, the politi-
cians, Dry Dollar Sullivan and other locally historical
figures often came into Callahan's when I was there.

Across the way in the Chatham Club, was another
struggling, young, singing waiter. What he lacked in
voice he made up by a love and unusual talent for
music. He was known to the patrons as "Izzy," but
later became known to all the world as Irving Berlin.

Sometimes I worked in places that were not as
respectable as Callahan's. McGurk's was one; generally
known as "The Bucket of Blood." I worked in Sharon's
on Third Avenue, and a disreputable place called "The
Horse Exchange" on Thirteenth Street.

All these places were hang-outs for the gangsters
of that day. Men were shanghaied from alcoves and
upper rooms to be carried off to the ships in the har-
bor. Many robberies and even murders were planned,
and I soon acquired the philosophy of the three little
Japanese monkeys, "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no
evil." If I had repeated some of the conversations that
were muttered in low voices in the booths and upper
rooms, I would have become an unsolved mystery
floating peacefully in the East River.

Tips to singing waiters were small, but I was living
the life abundant when compared with my former
experiences in New York.

Al was still with the burlesque show, but one day he

showed up at the Dewey theater on Fourteenth Street.
I was inordinately proud of my kid brother even
though he had suddenly sky-rocketed far beyond me
in the social scale of our profession. I plugged for the
Dewey theater at every opportunity, and took my gang
of questionable friends to hear Al sing. His voice had
not yet changed, and his beautiful boy-soprano was
making a hit in Chas. K. Harris' latest song, Last
Night When the Moon Was Shining. Composers loved
long titles in those days.

While at the Dewey, Al became friendly with
the electrician, Fred Moore. Fred liked the kid and
would sneak him into his own hotel room where Al
could sleep free. Eventually they formed a partner-
ship to do an illustrated song act. They continued this
intermittently for three years, the lay-offs coming be-
cause of the Gerry Society, New York's Anti-children
Labor Organization.

The Gerry Society was decidedly unpopular with
boys who were struggling to make an honest living. The
chief concern of the society seemed to be to keep them
idle, with no provision made for food, shelter and
education.

During one of APs lay-off periods, I obtained a job
for him at the Bohemian Concert Hall on Twenty-
ninth Street, where I was working. One evening, as he
was ready to go on for his illustrated song, the bouncer
hurried up to him and whispered behind a large,
knuckled hand, "Cheese it, kid! Two bulls is over dere
from de Gerry Society, Dey's after you."

"How can I get out?" Al asked.

The strong-man thought for a moment, and then
pointed upward.

"By de roof," he advised.

Al dashed up the stairway, crawled out through the

scuttle, and escaped across the roof-tops. All of us were
delighted, for the management would have been in
trouble for employing a minor.

In the fall of the year 1900, I joined a burlesque
show, The Brigadiers, to do a singing turn. It was a
wonderful opportunity for me, because I was able to
save money for the first time in my life. I fear that I
pinched every penny unmercifully. I lived in the
cheapest rooming-houses and ate what we called saw-
dust and hay. There was method in my madness. I had
a plan that I wanted to put into effect at the close of
the season. I thought my idea was original, and it was
a blow to me later when I learned that it is the identical
plan of every boy who runs away from home. My
idea was to return to my home in style ; with a fine suit
of clothes, an imitation diamond stickpin in my necktie
and another on my finger, to drive up before our door
in a fine cab, and to make an impressive entrance into
the house with my hair fragrant with bay rum and my
pockets bulging with filthy lucre.

Due to rigid economy on my part, I closed the
season with $300.00 in currency, and several dollars in
hard money. For the first time since I was on my own,
I rode back to Washington on the cushions, and drove
up before our home in a cab. The first member of the
family I encountered was Al. He was broke and un-
happy, and never had I seen him so moody, depressed
and hopeless. His voice was gone, and he thought it
never would return. I tried to convince him that he
was in the natural, voice-changing time of life, and that
he soon would sing better than before. Not only that, but
he would sing as a man rather than as a boy, and mem-
bers of the Gerry Society would no longer chase him
over the roof-tops of New York.

Try as I would, I could give him no confidence in

himself or in the future. He believed that his voice had
gone forever, and that he never would sing again. This
fear of losing his voice became almost an obsession
with him in later years.

The only really happy person over the affair was
my father. He believed that what he called "the stage
madness" would now pass away, and Al could be
induced to enter some trade or business where he might
become a respectable tailor or pawnbroker.

Poor All I knew that neither of us could ever be
happy except in the entertainment world. I still had my
$300.00, and I suggested that we work up a vaudeville
act together. I would furnish the capital, and Al would
merely ride along. He was so discouraged that not
even my offer could cheer him.

"What can I do," he moaned, "now that my pipes
are gone?"

"You can whistle and talk," I answered eagerly. "I'll
do the singing. My pipes are all right and yours will
be, too, when your voice has changed. You are a dandy
whistler, you know."

My enthusiasm and optimism carried the day.
Greatly to the disgust of my father we set out for New
York. What is more, we rode the cushions instead of the
rods. We had no fear for the future, and what was
left of my $300.00 made us feel like millionaires.

On the way to New York we began framing up our
act. Eventually, the publicity line we chose was, "The
Joelson Brothers Harry and Al in The Hebrew
and the Cadetf

We bought costumes and baggage, and rehearsed
carefully. It was to be a comedy act. In those days all
commedians assumed the characteristics and garb of
people who were supposed to be funny. It might be a
Rube with chin-whiskers, and a straw in his mouth. It

might be an Irishman with a brogue, or a German
with a dialect In fact, it could be almost anything
other than an ordinary American. A Jew would have
a big hat and a beard, and would speak with the dialect
peculiar to the New York Eastside. There were many
excellent colored commedians, but the favorite was the
black-face ; a white man with white gloves and a liberal
application of burnt cork. Perhaps this trend in comedy
grew out of the fact that there were so many immigrants
in the country who spoke the peculiar broken English
of their people.

In The Hebrew and The Cadet, I was the Hebrew
with a big hat and a beard. Al, who was only fifteen,
was the straight-man dressed in a cadet uniform. We
wrote the dialogue ourselves, probably taking it from
the jokes of other comedians either switched or stolen
outright.

At one point in the act Al called me a monkey. I
pretended to become very angry.

"A monkey!" I cried, "Did you call me a monkey?"
"Sure I called you a monkey. Don't you know what
a monkey is?"

I thought for a moment and then said, "No, I don't
know vot a monkey is. Vot is a monkey?"

"Well," Al answered with a wink to the audience,
"a monkey is a fine person. Everybody thinks that
monkeys are wonderful people."

"Veil!" I replied with a huge smile. "Sure I am
a monkey. Vot is more I want to tell you that my
brothers and sisters is monkeys, my father and mother
is monkeys, and all of my ancestors was monkeys."
This always got a laugh, and it will today, if you try
it on an audience of tender years.

In another part of our act, Al would brag about
his strength and big muscles.

"Let me tell you!" he said, "One time I hit a jack-
ass with my fist and killed him."

"Veil, veil!" I retorted. "You must be pretty strong.
Let me feel your muscles."

He flexed his arm and I ran my hands over it.

"Oi, oi, you are pretty strong," I admired. "I hope
you never hit me."

"Oh, no," Al assured me. "I'll never hit you for
two reasons."

"And vat are dem two reasons?"

"Well, the first is because I like you."

"You like me! Veil, dat is fine, and I like you, too.
Vat is the second reason?"

"Well, the second reason is that I promised never
to hit another jackass."

We thought our act was funny, especially when Al
tried to borrow a quarter from me. After a long argu-
ment, I relented.

Taking a huge purse from an inner pocket, I opened
it and some paper moths flew out.

The act closed with Al going off the stage in a
stiff, military walk, while I followed in an awkward,
loose-jointed shuffle, with my head going backward
and forward like a duck. We rehearsed to perfection.
Then, with high hopes, we began calling on theater
managers. After a dozen calls, our mercury of elation
had plunged to zero.

The difficulty was our age and inexperience, with
the threat of the Gerry Society in the background. I
was eighteen; Al was fifteen, and both of us were
slight and small for our age. No manager would listen
to our act. Only one offered a word of encouragement
and it was not very much of one at that. He told us to
come back in five years if we were still around.

It was not long before our original capital of $300.00

had dwindled to $.00000, and we learned what it meant
to be actors who were "carrying the banner." This was
old, stage slang for spending the night on a park bench.
I don't know how the expression originated, but it prob-
ably came from carrying a big banner in a parade.
There were no greater braggarts in the world than
down-and-out actors, and there was method* in their
madness. One of them might have been with a road
show that was left stranded in a small town, with the
manager leaving during the night while owing all the
actors two or three weeks' pay. The poor, bankrupt
Hamlet would walk the ties or ride the rods back to
Union Square. You never learned of his troubles from
him. He was carrying the banner, and told you of the
successful trip from which he had just returned.

"I'm in the money now," he would say.

Then when he was sure you were not a theater
manager on the lookout for an act, he would try to
borrow a dollar, and would even end his plea by
sponging a schooner of beer in a saloon that had a free
lunch counter.

The theatrical district was now moving northward,
but around Fourteenth Street was the Rialto. This
area was famous for hotels and boarding houses that
catered to the theater trade. The benches in Union
Square were filled with actors, many of whom were
carrying the banner, bragging of their high salaries and
great successes, and borrowing dimes. Others gave way
to hopelessness, complaining of their wrongs at the
hands of managers and agents and bewailing their hard
luck.

At a time when boys should still be in school, Al
and I had found a life that seemed to be a continual
round of borrowing and lending, of desperately trying
to raise money for board bills and a place to sleep. We

hocked props, baggage and clothing, and then would
toil and sweat, in order to get them out in time for
some temporary job.

Sometimes we reached the last step downward for
a would-be actor. We did what was called busking
around to raise enough money for doughnuts and cof-
fee. Whenever we reached bottom, one of us would
sigh and say, "Well, we'll have to go out busking."
With heavy hearts we toured the Eastside restaurants,
and asked permission to sing a couple of songs in the
hope of inveigling a few tips from reluctant patrons.

It was not easy to get a job busking. In many places
we were simply given the bum's rush without comment.
Usually we applied at places where we knew the boss
or the head waiter. We told our tale of woe and asked
permission to sing. The regular singing waiters de-
spised the buskers, but the bosses believed it was good
business to give the patrons a change of act. Few words
were lost, whether we were given a job or tossed out
into the gutter.

The head waiter would call to the piano player,
"Hey! Let the kids sing."

When we had sung a number or two and collected
a few nickels and dimes, the same man would jerk
his thumb towards the door and say, "Now gitl"

The original Tin Pan Alley was on Twenty-eighth
Street in New York. Here were the offices of the music
publishers. Vaudeville performers and singers, by the
score, made Twenty-eighth Street their headquarters.
They hung around every publishing house, and re-
hearsed the new songs as they were issued. Not only
were they keeping themselves familiar with the latest
hits, but they also had the hope of attracting the atten-
tion of someone who might give them a job.

Al and I made the rounds of these houses, rehearsing

songs, and finally no lesser a person than Harry Von
Tilzer heard our melancholy history. He called in
Edward Keller, a vaudeville agent, who was working
for William Morris.

Keller listened to us sing, and gave us our first job
as The Hebrew and The Cadet. It was in Morrison's
Rockaway theater. The job was for three days only, and
we received $18.00.

When our act opened, we had rosy visions of the
future. We seemed to go over fairly well, and I was
highly encouraged. At this time Al showed a trait that
hounded him throughout his career. He lacked con-
fidence in himself. Even when he became a great star,
his act never came up to his expectations, and he would
be cast, for no reason at all, into utmost despondency.

After our first appearance at the Rockaway, he
hurried me to our dressing room.

"Golly, Harry, we're positively rotten 1 Let's get
out of here quick, before they get a chance to cancel
us. Tonight we'll come in just in time to walk on. If
they don't see us before we go on the stage there won't
be a chance to cancel our act"

Al was showing a streak of shrewdness for which
he became noted in later years, as well as coming
under the curse of underrating himself.

As he suggested, we returned to the theater that
night just in time to do our act. To our surprise, we
learned that instead of being cancelled, we had been
moved to a better position on the bill. This was an
honor and a sign of success.

Whether good or bad, our engagement was not ex-
tended, and our $18.00 were soon spent. Then we
received another booking. It was at Henderson's Coney
Island. We were to receive $40.00 for a full week. The
ride on the cars to Coney Island exhausted our re-

sources, and we asked for some advance money to keep
us alive during this important engagement.

"We can't let you have advance money," was the
answer, "But we will let each of you have a meal
ticket"

This was another racket of that day. The restaurants
were run in connection with the theaters and were
under the same ownership. Meal tickets were $10.00
each. Food at Coney Island was high, and we had the
hearty appetite of youth and starving actors. Our
meal tickets were used up long before the end of the
week. This time we were given one ticket for both of
us. With our room rent and incidentals, we had no
money coming when the week ended. A few cents
credit was still unpunched on the meal ticket, but they
wouldn't give us cash and we couldn't trade for car-
fare. We did the only thing that remained, which
many actors have done under similar circumstances.
We walked the ties back to Union Square.

VII

Our youthful appearance handicapped us, and pre-
vented us from getting steady bookings. Finally -we
gave up our career in vaudeville temporarily, and went
with a burlesque show called The Mayflowers. I was
given a part in the show, where I made my first ap-
pearance in blackface. Later I would wash quickly
and do The Hebrew and The Cadet act in the olio with
Al. This was in the year 1901. In spite of the con-
tribution of the Joelson boys, the show was not a
success. It closed after a few weeks.

We had a break for the better at this time, and
signed a real contract, whereby we were to receive
$35.00 a week. It was in Clift Grant's, Little Egypt
Burlesque Show. Our salary of $17.50 each, failed to
meet our requirements, but we made a little money
selling song books between acts.

We gave a picture with the song book. Perhaps
I might call it giving a song book with a picture, for
die latter was a red-hot article for the boys in the
back row. It was a likeness of a woman dressed in gauzy,
oriental costume, printed on a sort of thin, wavy paper.
By holding a lighted match behind the picture and
giving it a circular movement, the woman appeared
to be dancing a hula which was then called a hoochee-
coochee. It was considered to be a very naughty dance,
and the same opprobrium was applied to the picture.

It was supposed to be a likeness of "Little Egypt"
herself.

Between the acts I would announce it as the latest
novelty from the orient, and demonstrate its possibilities
by moving a match behind it. This demonstration was
made in the back of the theater which was occupied
entirely by men.

"I'm not allowed to sell these pictures," I told them
in a low voice. "It's against the law, but it isn't against
the law to give them away, and that it what I am
doing. One of these beautiful, astounding, life-like,
animated pictures of Little Egypt is given with each
and every one of these wonderful song books that
contain all the latest hits by Chas. K, Harris. After The
Ball! The Organ Grinder's Serenade! All the great
song hits by the immortal Chas. K. Harris ; songs that
will never die. Look, Men!"

Here I would demonstrate once more with the
match.

"These wonderful song books are only ten cents
a thin dime, and with each and every book you get one
of these spicy, imported, oriental creations of Little
Egypt herself, absolutely, positively free. It is the
bargain of a life time, Men! Never again will it be
offered. The latest song hits of Chas. K. Harris, for
only ten cents a thin dime with a marvelous, mov-
ing picture of Little Egypt, absolutely, positively free!"

While I was doing the barking, Al was handing out
books and pictures to enthusiastic buyers. The picture
of "Little Egypt" really wasn't as naughty as we
claimed. You could show it to your grandmother today
and she wouldn't even grunt. But in those days such
things were considered to be the height of evil. In
one Pennsylvania town, we were arrested for selling it.
The manager paid our fine, and we went on through

the country selling song books with pictures thrown
in, and thus were able to eat three meals a day and
sleep in cheap hotels and rooming houses.

Often the dirty jokes in burlesque and the circus
were because actors had to choose between working
that type of material or of going without eating. The
show would start out with great faith, but when coming
into a tough, railroad town or one in the mining district,
the manager was apt to say, "Smear itl" The actor thus
had his choice between putting on a dirty act or losing
his job.

Excellent actors went without working for months
at a time. With poverty and obscurity staring them
in the face, they could not afford to draw a sharp dis-
tinction between right and wrong.

The "Little Egypt" show eventually played in the
Unique Theater in Brooklyn. A man who was with the
Sullivan, Harris and Woods office saw Al and me work.
After a little bargaining he signed us for the following
season for Billy B. Van's new show, Patsy Bolivar. The
two of us were to receive $40.00 a week. We thought
our fortunes were made. Following the publicity
method of big actors, we put an ad in the Clipper
announcing to the world our great success.

An incident arose here that illustrates the relation-
ship between my brother and me throughout our ca-
reers. We had some time to fill in before going with
Billy B. Van's show, and obtained a six weeks' engage-
ment in burlesque stock at the Royal theater in Mon-
treal. Al and I got into a quarrel over some insignifi-
cant matter, and would only speak to each other when
necessary. The rupture probably cut my sensitive
brother to the heart, but our quarrel became of little
consequence to me because of other interests. I fell
desperately in love for the first time. The object of my

affection was a little chorus girl. I have forgotten her
name.

The course of true love did not run smoothly be-
cause of the jealousy of a huge stage-hand. One day we
had some hot words that led to blows. We clinched
and went to the floor hitting, kicking and gouging. The
commotion attracted the entire troupe. I do not believe
the stage-hand was winning the battle in spite of his
size, but that made no difference to Al. He pounced
upon my rival like a hysterical tiger cub. With both
the fighting Joelsons in action, we would have given the
fellow a terrific beating if others hadn't separated us.
When the bout was over, Al and I fell into each others 7
arms. Our differences were forgotten and forgiven, and
we were the same affectionate brothers who had left
Russia hand in hand, to make our way together in the
new world.

When we returned to New York we still were boast-
ing of our contract with Billy B. Van. We began
rehearsing, and considered that we were the real stars
of the show. As soon as rehearsal was over, Mr. Van
called out, "The principles may go now, but the chorus
must remain,"

Al and I put on our coats and started for the stage
door.

"Here, you Joelson boysl" Van shouted. "Stay and
rehearse the choruses."

We whirled on Van like the two tiger cubs we
were. Highly insulted, Al stormed back at him.

"We are not chorus boys. We are principals! Chorus
boys get twelve dollars a week and we are getting
twenty."

Van refused to relent and get down on his knees
with apologies, and we walked out with high heads and
empty pockets. Van had advanced us $20.00, which we

never paid back. In later years, when we were all suc-
cessful, he would ask us for that $20.00. We retaliated
by saying he had slandered us to the tune of a hundred-
dollars, and claimed that he owed us $80.00 to square
the account.

Walking out on the show was a mistake. We again
carried the banner at Union Square. Finally we went
with a Turkey Burlesque Show owned by Henry Dixon
and Freeman Bernstein. A "Turkey" show is one that
books independently wherever it can, and is not on a
regular circuit.

Through cruel necessity, we were forced to draw
advances on salary, and were always in debt to the
management. With Dixon and Bernstein the situation
was reversed. They had no sympathy for poverty-
stricken people, and were deaf to all tales of distress.

"Do you want us to starve?" I asked, when my plea
was refused.

In a loud voice Dixon shouted, "Yes!" He walked
away, leaving Al and me destitute, hungry and in a
mood for murder.

The next day Al begged me to try again. We had
eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours. I
screwed my courage to the top notch. Ignoring Dixon,
I tried my luck with Bernstein. He looked at me a
moment and then said, "I'll see you later in the dressing

room."

Elated and confident, I returned to Al.

"Mr. Bernstein has a heart," I told him. "He wants
to see us later, in our dressing room. I guess he doesn't
want the other fellows to see him give us money."

After the show Bernstein came to our dressing
room. He closed the door carefully and locked it Al
and I glanced at each other with joy in our hearts. This
was to be a supplying of funds in complete secrecy.

Bernstein stood looking at us a moment, and then
said in a deliberate manner with unmoving lips, "If
you two kids ever ask me for money again, I am going
to kick the living hell out of you. Remember thatl"

He glared at us a few moments, and then turned,
unlocked the door and went out. Angry and hurt, Al
and I vowed that we would walk out and leave the show
flat at the first opportunity.

Although we were terrified at the manager's threat,
hunger drove us once more to ask for a few dollars.
Again we were refused with violent language.

In desperation we raised $20,00 by pawning a type-
writer. It was not an honorable thing to do. We had
bought it on installment plan and owed nearly the full
purchase price. Yet those who are desperate and hungry
know no caution. With jail staring us in the face, we
jumped the show and returned to New York.

Dame Fortune seemed to take pity on us now, and
we quickly earned sufficient money to get the type-
writer out of hock and pay the balance due.

I am sure it was fate that guided us to the little
bed-and-living-room-and-office of Pat Casey. Later
Casey became an influential man in the vaudeville
world, and the big boss of the Managers' Protective
Association.

When we first met him, he was having troubles
similar to our own, but had ambitions and relatives.
Through him, we got a job playing for his brother,
Dan Casey, at Bershire Park in Pittsfield, Massachu-
setts.

The first thing Dan Casey said, when we arrived,
was that we would have to put on an after-piece as
well as our regular act.

"We don't have an after-piece," we told him. "We
just have one act."

\- 5 -
UJ f .
. - .. A . . !

<N5

Al Jolson, 1900

"Aren't you supposed to be comedians ?" he
sneered. "I have only three acts; a magician, a sketch
and yourselves. If you don't put on an extra number,
I'll close the show and you'll be fired. So get busyl"

We cobbled together some kind of a sketch for
an after-piece. I don't know how good it was, and I
have completely forgotten it, but it saved our job
and our needed salaries.

Dan Casey's question, "Aren't you supposed to be
comedians?" shows what was expected of a vaudeville
actor in those days. There were few specialists who
played only one type of character. A comedian was
expected to do anything. He would be a Dutchman
in one act, a Jew in another and an Irishman in a
third, with a perfect rendition of the dialect of each.
You were either versatile or out of a job.

This versatility was almost my downfall when I
played with The Brigadiers. I spoke a Jewish dialect
most of the time, but finally became a sort of utility
man, switching from one thing to another.

One scene represented a palace. Representatives
of different countries and nationalities appeared and
spoke in the native dialect. It was a burlesque, of
course. In the act appeared the King of England, the
Duke of Alabama, the Ambassador from Jerusalem
and the Emperor of Ireland.

One night I was unexpectedly assigned the part of
Emperor of Ireland. When the Wearing Of The Green
sounded, I strutted on the stage in a supposed Hi-
bernian costume. Habit was too strong for me. In-
stead of speaking my lines with an Irish brogue, I
made a speech in approved Eastside Yiddish-Ameri-
can gumbo.

When called on the carpet, I defended myself with
the skill of a park-bench lawyer.

"There are Jews in Ireland," I said. "Have you
ever been in Ireland?"

"No, I haven't," was the reply.

"Well, I have, and I gave a perfect impersonation
of an Irish-Jew. What do you expect for what you are
paying me? The real Emperor of Ireland?"

For a time Al and I did our act in Bradenburg's
Museum in Philadelphia. We were on for twelve
shows a day; every hour on the hour. It wasn't so
bad at that, for we received $50.00 a week.

One day we decided to vary the act, for it was
becoming frightfully monotonous. On the spur of
the moment, we switched parts. Al, who had always
been the youthful Cadet became the Hebrew, and I
swapped from Hebrew to Cadet. We knew the lines,
but Al got mixed up on the names. He was so ac-
customed to calling me Cohen that he couldn't switch
to Myer.

I doubt if the audience was sure as to the identity
of either of us. When we returned to our dressing
room, we started to quarrel over who was to blame.
Suddenly a thunderous knock sounded on the door,
and Ike Bloch, the stage manager, crashed in.

"You damn Joelson brothers!" he shouted. "You
do the same act you came into this theater with. If
you try out any new stuff again, you will both be
thrown out on your ears."

Al, always hot-tempered, retorted : "We know what
we are doing. We've put on our act in all the Keith
houses."

This wasn't true, but it was characteristic of Al
to put up a good bluff. The stage manager didn't
dispute him.

"I don't care what you done at Keith's. You do
your same act here, and you do it right."

The next day a large sign was put up back stage:

Don't tell us what you done at Keith's. Do it here!

Perhaps our lot seems to have been a hard one,
but our experiences were no worse than those of many
an actor who started at the bottom and eventually
reached the top.

We were given an engagement at a theater called
the Odeon in Baltimore. The manager was James
Madison. He was not the James Madison who was
formerly the President of the United States, but both
of them were victims of the same element, fire.

We borrowed money to get to Baltimore, and hur-
ried to the theater. We were hoping, as always, to draw
sufficient advance money for a room and board. We
reached the vicinity where we knew the Odeon would
be, but we couldn't find it.

A policeman came by, and we inquired, "Officer,
can you tell us where the Odeon Theater is?"

He pointed to a smoking ruin a block away.

"It burned down last night," he informed us.

We searched through our pockets and managed to
dig up enough small change to buy one ticket for
Washington, forty miles away. We checked the bag-
gage on this ticket, and then flipped a coin to see who
would ride in a coach and who would ride between
two freight cars. Al won, of course. He always did.
He rode to Washington in style ; while the black sheep
of the family came in later, smoke-covered and hungry,
to receive the usual lecture to the effect that the way of
the transgressor is hard.

We borrowed enough money from friends to return
to New York, and there we began again the game of
waiting, hoping and begging.

A remarkable spirit of fraternity existed among
the boys around the old Rialto in those days. Nearly

all of us were perpetually broke, but we were like
the Three Musketeers. We were all for one and one
for all. If one of us made a little money, his first
thought was to feed the gang.

Joe K. Watson managed to keep a room on Twelfth
Street, which he was always ready to share. Some-
times as many as six of us would take advantage of
his hospitality. As many as possible piled into the
bed, and the others slept on the floor.

Many of the landladies and restaurant proprietors
were unusually kind-hearted, and would extend credit
to us as long as possible. A man named Tysner, who
ran a restaurant on Fourteenth Street, failed in business
from accepting too many I O IPs from impoverished
actors.

An enterprising cigar dealer, Louie Weiss, bought
those I O IPs and tried to collect them. Everyone
kidded him about his deal. Kidding was about all
he ever got out of it. He probably didn't collect ten
per cent of his investment.

Twenty-six years later, a woman came to me when
I was playing a New York theater. She said that Al
and I owed her $15.00 for board. I remembered the
lady and the excellent meals she served, and I thought
the bill had been paid long ago. I gave her the $15.00
with a generous bonus, and later tried unsuccessfully
to collect half of it from Al.

As we look back upon those times, it seems as
though we had many hardships, but it is all in the
point of view. We did not look on our experiences as
hardships then, nor was there weeping and wailing
over missing a few meals or sleeping on a park bench.
We were young, and youth sees life through rose-
colored glasses.

The neighborhood east of Union Square seems like

a storybook land as we look back upon it today. On
Fourteenth Street, near Third Avenue, diagonally
across from Tammany Hall, was the Concert Hall
of Tom Sharkey, the pugilist, whose fame can never
die. Next to the old Steinway Hall was the Hotel
Trafalgar. On the corner of Irving Place was another
famous hotel, the Academy. Both were favorite hang-
puts for Thespians. They had old-fashioned front
porches where guests sat in chairs and watched the
passing parade.

These porches were perfect spots for actors to
show off. Sometimes one would make a fake political
speech and attract a huge crowd. He would even carry
out a pitcher of water and glass to make the thing
realistic. He was careful not to take sides, but would
make the American Eagle scream and the Star
Spangled Banner wave with the exaggerated oratory
of that day. He would stand for such things as higher
government expenditures, a balanced budget and
lower taxes. He called for reform, but was careful
not to be too specific. Usually he was in favor of
laws that would do the greatest amount of good to
the greatest number of people.

Riotous cheers would greet his thunderous
championship of the working men's rights and his
condemnation of predatory greed. Usually the crowd
failed to discover that it was a joke, but the actor
seldom reached the end of his speech, because a
policeman would come along and break up the show.

It is surprising how cheaply one can live when he
has learned the difference between what he wants and
what he needs. There is a further distinction between
what he needs and what he must have. A place to
sleep, other than a park bench, was necessary during
the winter, as was a certain amount of clothing and

food. Fortunately, we knew nothing about vitamins,
proteins and starches or we probably would have
starved. All food was good food for us, no matter
what the ingredients happened to be. Some foods were
better than others, but they were all good. We could
live for days on pancakes, doughnuts and coffee, and
remained healthy and full of ambition.

One of our necessaries was going to the theater.
In fact it was a must. Otherwise we would be like a
doctor without medicines or a banker without money.
We took our shows seriously, for they were part of our
education. There was a stock company theater on
Third Avenue where good old blood-and-thunder
melodramas were played. An incident arose in one
of them that shows how seriously we took poverty and
our profession.

The villain in the piece tried to bribe another man
to commit a murder.

"I will pay you two thousand dollars if you cut
his throat," he hissed between clenched teeth.

The other character was a good boy from the farm
and he spurned the offer with disdain. The villian
raised the price to $3,000, but the honest farmer stood
firm.

"Four thousand dollars!" hissed the scoundrel.

"Never!"

"Five thousand dollars!"

Before the good farmer had a chance to answer,
one of our gang, James Thornton, jumped to his feet.

"Take it, my boy!" he shouted. "This is a tough
season for actors."

We were constantly rehearsing the thrilling scenes
from the melodramas. One of the boys would come
into a room, strike an attitude and exclaim, "It's a
fine night for a mur r r r der! Heh heh hehl"

Two of us would get into a scuffle. One would
exclaim, "By heaven, R r r uth, I'll kill thee!"

To which the other would answer "Accursed vil-
lain, unhand me!"

Most people who catch the actor's fever never
leave off acting.

VIII

As I look back over our long and varied career, it
seems to me that the greatest change came at this time.
It was a change that started us upward on the ladder
of success, and never again did we carry the banner
in Union Square or ride between or under freight cars
to our destination.

Joe Palmer was a well-known actor whom we
knew. He had been successful on the stage, but now
had become afflicted with a nervous complaint that left
him nearly helpless. He still had his fine baritone voice
and a happy, smiling face, and he believed he could
again be successful on the stage.

One of Joe's good friends was Ren Shields who
became famous as co-author of the old waltz, In The
Good Old Summer Time, and another hit of the day,
Up In My Airplane.

In the winter of 1903-04, things were not easy for
Al and me. His voice had changed, but he was of
slight, boyish build and looked younger than his years.
The managers still refused to take him seriously, and
I wouldn't leave him to frame-up a single act or go
with someone else. Some of the gang suggested that
we team up with Joe Palmer. Ren Shields liked the
suggestion and came to us.

"Boys," he told us, "if you will go with Joe and
help him, I will write a knock-out of an act for you
and won't charge a cent."

We agreed, not only because of the opportunity
for steady employment, but because we liked Joe
Palmer. When Ren completed the script and read it
to us, we raised objections that were long and loud.
Joe would have to sit in a wheel chair throughout the
act, and Ren had placed the action in the grounds of
a sanitorium. Joe was a convalescent, I was a doctor,
and Al had the comedy part, a bell-boy. Al objected
strenuously to his role. He had always played straight
to my comedy and was afraid to change. He assured
Ren that he was not a commedian and never would
get a laugh. I had the same fear of playing opposite
him as the straight. Finally Ren lost patience.

"Now listen, you two Hams!" he shouted. "Al
can't be the doctor because he looks too young. You
will either play this act the way I have written it or
I am through with you."

We swallowed our fears, and told Al he must either
do the comedy part or starve. We adopted the name
of Joelson, Palmer & Joelson. It was too long for large
lettering. Finally we dropped the "E" from our names,
thus making each name six letters in length. This was
the final step whereby the name of Hesselson metamor-
phosed into Jolson. We called the act A Little Of
Everything. It had but small significance, but it really
was a good act. Joe was popular, and it was not long
before we were established as a sure-fire, next-to-
closing novelty. In time we were getting consecutive
bookings.

Before we became well-known, Al and I were con-
stantly pestering the theater managers for recommen-
dations. A good recommendation was priceless when
an actor tried to get a booking in a theater where he
was not known to the manager. Among some old
papers, I found one of these letters:

New York, November 23, 1904
To Whom It May Concern;

That I have played the Act of Jolson,
Palmer and Jolson at both the Dewey and
Gotham Theaters, and have booked the Act
for return date.

I can cheerfully recommend the Act to
anyone as an Act that will please any
audience*

Yours respectfully,

David Kraus

Mgr. Dewey Theatre.

In spite of an over-fondness for the word "Act,"
Mr. Kraus' letter was priceless to us.

In the fall of 1904, we played at the old Keeney
theater on Fulton Street in Brooklyn. Here we met
a blackface monologist and singer, James Francis
Dooley. Later he was one of the team of Dooley and
Sales. He saw our act and made a suggestion that had
a great deal to do with APs future success* Somehow
the boy's interpretation of the bell-hop didn't catch
on. Al had a decided Southern accent, like many
people living in Washington, and Dooley suggested
that his bell-boy interpretation would go over if played
in blackface. Al tried it and was an immediate hit.
Many people have claimed the credit for inducing Al
to go into blackface, but the truth is, it was due to the
suggestion of James Francis Dooley away back when
we were doing our act with Joe Palmer.

The year 1905 was a prosperous one for us. Our act
became known as a hit, and we had no trouble to
obtain bookings. The climax was reached in a contract
from Tony Pastor for two shows a day. We carried that

contract around with us and showed it to friends, and
even strangers, until it was so dog-eared that it is doubt-
ful if it would have been admitted in court as evidence.
One of us would carry the contract, and the other the
letter that came with it.

New York, April 14, 1905

Jolson, Palmer & Jolson
City,

Gentlemen:

I have booked you for one week com-
mencing Monday, February 19, 1906 at One
Hundred and Twenty-five Dollars jointly to
do two shows each day and on terms named in
enclosed acceptance, which please sign and
return.

Be particular to fill in all the blank spaces.

Very truly yours,
Tony Pastor

A condition of this agreement is that you
agree not to play Sunday night concerts in
New York City without my written consent

Forty dollars a week for each of us was not much
in later years, but it was a fortune to us then. We
lived like so many kings. Living and traveling ex-
penses were low, with special rates to actors and
theatrical troupes.

There were hotels such as the Hurley House in
Philadelphia, Strauss in Cincinnati and the Golden
Gate in San Francisco that offered special rates to
members of the theatrical profession. They were
American Plan, where a rate was given for both room
and board.

For a dollar a day you could get a private room
and excellent meals. With two in a room there was an
additional saving. Such a rate not only included the
regular three-a-day, but also an after-theater supper,
which was really the third meal for actors who usually
slept till noon. The Golden Gate Hotel in San Fran-
cisco made a rate of $8.00 double, American Plan, to
theatrical people. Their food was the best that could
be bought, and it was displayed, uncooked, on long
banquet tables. You made your selections and gave
your order. To the theatrical profession those times
were indeed "the good old days."

With our Jolson, Palmer & Jolson act, we covered
the country. We won praise everywhere, and believed
we were truly on the way to stardom. More than one
newspaper critic suggested we would improve the act
if the fellow in the wheel chair would occasionally
get out and do something different. That was a com-
pliment, for we concealed Joe Palmer's crippled con-
dition so cleverly that only a few knew how helpless
he was. He had to be fed, clothed and bathed, and that
was one of the jobs for Al and me. Eventually this
was the cause of a quarrel between us that split up
the act. We never did play Tony Pastor's, which wa*
indeed big-time vaudeville in that day.

It was late in the year 1905. We were going from
St. Louis to New Orleans. I had taken care of Joe
the previous night, and now insisted that Al should
take over while I went out to see the fascinating old
Creole city. Al had other ideas. He, too, wanted the
night off. Words led to words. In the course of the
row, Al kicked a hole through a brand-new derby hat
for which I had just paid $3.00 in St. Louis. After
the show that night, we took up the quarrel again.
This time I was willing to take care of Joe, but in-

sisted that Al pay me for the hat. Perhaps we were
both low in health and spirit, and needed a change
from the endless routine of playing the same act two
or three times a day, and also playing nursemaid to Joe.

We ended the quarrel by agreeing to part company.
I stormed out of the theater without a hat, and Al took
care of Joe. Within a few days I was ready to forgive
and forget, but found out that both Joe and Al had
left town. Al played out the tour with Joe, and then
they separated. Many years later Al and I were talking
over old times and mentioned Joe. For a moment we
were silent, then Al said :

"Harry, we acted like a couple of heels. Why
couldn't we have stuck with good old Joe to the end?
Yes, we were a pair of heels."

I agreed, for Joe Palmer held a tender spot in our
hearts.

We learned of him from others. He was without
work for a time, then he and Wolfe Gilbert came out
with a sketch in which they took the part of Civil War
Veterans. Joe, of course, was disabled. Gilbert haunted
the agencies for several weeks, then landed a single
week in Hoboken. Someone bungled, and they found
what was the most unique bill ever to play in a regular
vaudeville house.

There were five acts. The first was put on by two
men, each of whom had only one leg. Then came
Gilbert and Palmer, with Joe in the wheel chair. The
next number was a singer. Then came Mabel Mc-
Kinley, niece of President McKinley, who was then
appearing on crutches. The last number on the bill
was a horrible-looking mechanical man called "Enig-
marolle." After the first show the manager came
storming back stage.

"Heyl" he howled. "Vat is dis? Vun-legged men,

rolling chairs, vimmins on crutches, a man mit no life
at alll Who done dis to me, anyway? You two soldiers
derel Get out! You are cancelled."

It was a crushing blow to Gilbert and Palmer.
Fired and broke! Joe could see nothing but hunger
and death staring him in the face. For a few moments
they remained without speaking, then Gilbert stood
up and tried to cheer his partner.

He said, "Joe I'll run down and get you a bottle
of beer and a sandwich. Then we'll start looking
around."

Halfway down the stairs he hesitated, then turned
back. He remembered the strange expression in Joe's
eyes as he left the room. He dashed up the stairs and
burst into the dressing room. Joe had wheeled himself
to the window, which he had succeeded in opening.
He was dragging himself over the sill. In another
moment his body would have dashed to the pavement,
two stories below.

Gilbert saved his friend from the despondency of
the moment Joe Palmer lived for a number of years.
Not only did he live to see Al become a great star, but
he also saw other old associates, including Gilbert,
rise to success.

Everyone in vaudeville dreams of putting on
a single act. For months I had been looking ahead to
the time when I could go it alone in an act with songs
and stories. I had an idea.

In those days, the usual Jewish commedian was
the Joe and Bennie Welch type, with whiskers and an
East side dialect. My idea was that of a clean-cut,
wise-cracking Jewish juvenile. I framed up an act
that I called The Ghetto Sport.

With this idea in mind I went from New Orleans
to Chicago. There I tried my act for a few months

without much success. My idea was ahead of the times.
Later the Jewish juvenile took hold, and finally re-
placed entirely the man with hat and whiskers. I
abandoned The Ghetto Sport, and went into black-
face. There was no alternative for me, as I could not
do a very good Irish, German or Yankee act. My
Southern speech, which I had learned in Washington,
was ideal for blackface. It was either that or return to
the old type of Jew. I had already appeared as black-
face in The Mayflowers.

Twenty years later when Al became a great star,
many critics accused me of adopting burnt cork to
impersonate him. This was unjust for I had played
blackface long before Al adopted it, and never had
deviated from it since I worked up my act in 1906.

Chris Brown, general broker of the SuHivan-Con-
sidine Circuit, saw my act and offered me some Pacific
Coast bookings. Finally, he talked me into it by sug-
gesting that it would be good for my health.

Al had come to Chicago several weeks after I
arrived, and we literally fell into each other arms with
all past differences forgotten. He took up a blackface
single act and worked in and near Chicago. Then he,
too, got a contract with the Sullivan-Considine Circuit
Organization. They sent him westward about four
weeks after I had left

My act was going so well that I was getting rather
proud of myself. When I reached Seattle, I found that
I was booked into the Orpheum for six shows a day.
This was a serious blow to my ego. I wanted to appear
in the Star theater, which played only three shows a
day. I finally agreed to work in the Orpheum b\jt
demanded more money. My demand vas turned down,
and I wired Chris Brown from Portland :

SULLY FAMILY

HAVILAND * THORNTON

Top Billing

1270

THE CHAS. S. BREED SPECIAL

BRIGHTON BEACH MUSIC HALL TRACK

fl. HARRY JOISON
WINNERS AT A GLANCE

"Selections made Monday night. Weather, clear. Track, fast. Going, great. House, packed.
Off at 8 30 P. M. Starter*, -ais Reinbard. Timer Edw. Girard. (Special note The stage man-
acer at 'this track is termed 'The Stage Director." I guess we're not swell. Are we?) Betting
Commissioner Frank A. Girard. Sheet Writer James Dolan. At the Gate Frank Burns. Assr .
Gate Keeper Louis Sidney. (Direct from the Hippodrome.) Please turn the bnm of your hat up,
I ouis. You will look more -ssical for thejstage directorship title. I suppose you are termed
"Ticket Receiver." Never 1.1 id, Louis, you're good looking. la Charge of .the SeatsMiss Ethel
Gray (\ demure blonde, direct from the Manhattan Opera House, omitting the red I chest sash.)
Handing out the Salve Jo Pai>e Smith. The Hand Behind the Penctl Honorable David E. Sasseen.
'udge Chas. S. Breed. __

" Entrie

( Pos. !

THE SUMMARIES.
Kind of Act.

Harry Jolson

Dale & Boyle

McKay & Cantwcll . .

Simon Shields Co

Howard

Sam Curtis & Co

West & Van Siclen. . . .

Rem-Brandt

Hickey'sCo

uay..

B. F. Comedian

"Belle & Beau"

"Below the Dead Line'
/'High life in Jail"....

! Ventriloquist

I "Session in School" . . .

I "The Apology"

Artoonist

I Circus

9 j You Know.

Co. jiijngsi Starr.

Good
Good
Good
Good
Good
Good
Good
Good
Good

Big

Good

Bows.) Ran.

Big_

3
3

1
1

"AH"

AtThe crash of the cymbals striking the end of the "William TH" overture (played by Louis
Reinhard's Renowned. Rhythmtas) the barrier arose presenting the first cvening> s performance at

the Brighton Beacb Music Hall for the season of 1911. . What pace it
a rood start; and away she goes, and one must hand it to the generi
mechanic of stagedom, Chas. S. Breed, otherwise known as "Doc." T<

lIK.lliattl'. *".*"*^' _, _ . _L|.___ .!.__ _,]t, Airjk V>a //%!< 1/4 e<* a

What a pace it has set for itself. Give it a
teral-showmanship of that great
To look at him is a. cure for all
ie a fly atop of the torch of "The

without the managerical's

iband she has in Chas.
;e & Boyle (on* early)

The Vaudeville "Track"

t4 HOLLYWOOD BLVD.

HOLLYWOOD, CALJF

GRanto 2480

S104 106 DL=ZH NEWYORK
HARR*

B35FEB (8 PM 4 0*

6l?P
WHITLEY AVE HOLLYWOOD CALIF=

DEAR HARRY DOMT FEEL BAD THAT I DIDNT WR1TE-OR WIRE YOU AS ITS
MY' FAILING THAT. I NEVER WRITE 0* WIRE TO ANlYOME STOP I KNOW JUST
H0# BAD YOU FEEL BUT CONDITIONS IN NEWYORK ARE MUCH '40RSE THAN!
THEY ARE WHERE YOU ARE STOP 1 HOPE TO SEE YOU VERY SHORTLY AS
SINCE IVE HAD THE FLU I DONT FEEL AS STRONG" AS I SHOULD STOP I
THINK I SHALL LAY OFF FOR THREE OR FOUR WONfTHS AMD THEN I WILL
3E MYSELF AGAIN {STOP SAW DAD A FEW WEEKS AGO STOP HE LOOKS FINE
AND SENDS HIS LOVE AMD I DO LIKEWISE STOP YOUR BROTHER*
AL,

S41 41 DL=ZH NEWYORK NY

HARRY JOLSON=

18*1 WHITLEY AVE HOLLYWOOD CALIF=

HOPE YOU ARE A BIG SUCCESS AS AN AGENT STOP YOU CANT MISS
BECAUSE IM YOUR FIRST CLIENT AND YOURE MY FIRST MANAGER STOP
HURRAH FOR US STOP WITH THE SALARY I GET 'IF ! WORK ONE WEEK"
YOULL LIVE A YEAR=
AL*.

Telegrams from Al Jolson to Harry

Dear Dr. Brown:

After taking your wonderful western cure,
I am so improved that I am on my way back
to Chicago.

Harry

I believed I could get a job anywhere, at any time.

Al proved to be a big hit in the West He was
drawing $75.00 a week for his act. When he reached
San Francisco, the city was beginning to recover from
the earthquake and fire of April 18th of that year.
The downtown section, especially Market Street, was
demolished, and business was moving uptown to Sut-
ter Street All the people in the city were joining hands
in the work of reconstruction. Entertainment was in
demand. Theaters sprang up almost overnight They
were temporary, make-shift structures, but were filled
to capacity by people who were seeking diversion
and relief from the horror they had experienced.

Al, with his beautiful voice and blackface make-up,
came at a psychological moment, and completely won
the hearts of the theater-going public. Of all places in
the country, I believe San Francisco loved Al the most,
and remained loyal through all the years. Many still
claim that he was born in San Francisco, and more
claim that he was born in Oakland. He became a
native son by adoption, if not by birth.

This affection was not entirely one-sided. Al always
had a tender spot in his heart for San Francisco, for
it was there that he began his climb to fortune and
fame. His salary was $75.00 a week when he arrived,
but it soon climbed to $125.00 and then to $150.00. It
was there that he began to develop business judgment
and a sense of his own worth. He was not a money
saver. No matter how much he made, he would spend

all of it, and more. His was the ability to sell himself
to a manager. Some actors called it "colossal nerve."
A Mr. Harris was manager of a theater in San
Francisco, called the Wigwam. Al had been working
in and out of California for more than a year, and
was particularly well-liked in San Francisco. Harris
offered him $175.00 a week. Never in his life had Al
received that much money, but the fact that it was
offered gave him courage. He spurned the offer and
said he would accept nothing less than $250.00 a week.
Harris nearly threw him out of the office, for this was
the salary of a big star. After arguing the matter for
several days, he finally agreed to AFs terms. Later
Al told me that he did not believe Harris would come
across, but he just took a gamble. Al was always a
gambler, and he usually won. If I had been in his
place, I would have taken the $175.00 so quickly it
would have made Harris dizzy, but Al was the gambler
and bluffer of the family. My philosophy was that a
bird in the hand is worth two in a bush, but Al could
see a whole flock in the bush and would let the one in
his hand go in order to pursue them. This gambling
instinct had much to do with his success.

While Al was building a reputation in the West,
I had gone East and was doing well on the Keith
Circuit. I was drawing $100.00 weekly, which was
considered good money for a single act. Salaries in the
East were lower than in the West, especially on the
Coast.

Sometimes, when I had no booking for a week or
two, I would return to the old home in Washington.
I made every effort to gain the respect of my father,
and the affection of my stepmother and the young
half-brothers and half-sisters who had taken over the
life that Al and I had left. My father predicted a

100

hand-to-mouth existence for both Al and me, and still
believed that there was nothing lower than the theater.
My stepmother shared his opinion. From the tales the
children had heard, they looked at me with the same
awe that Faust must have felt when he first saw
Mephistopheles. I won them over with gifts of toys,
ice cream and candy. My father shook his head dubi-
ously, in spite of the fact that I was making as much
as $400.00 in a month, which was a fortune compared
to his meager salary.

Al and I kept up a regular correspondence, swap-
ping yarns, experiences and ideas. He was bubbling
over with enthusiasm, and believed that he was making
phenomenal progress. In one letter from El Paso,
Texas, in March 1907, he told me that he had worked
so hard for eight months that he was laying off for a
rest. In many of the houses on the coast, he was
playing three to four weeks at a time for $100.00 to
$150.00 a week. Such figures seemed almost too good
to be true.

At this time, one of our many arguments took
place about the similarity in our acts and billings.
This similarity caused much confusion in later years.
My billing was, "The Operatic Blackface Comme-
dian." This was because I concluded my act with a
series of burlesques on scenes from grand operas. From
others I heard that Al was using my billing. There
was nothing in his act pertaining to opera, and I ob-
jected to any similarity.

Our letters, all through the spring and summer
of 1907,. were full of argument. They would begin
and end as though written by the most loving brothers
in the world. There would also be a red-hot paragraph
or two about the billing.

Al claimed that his billing did not conflict with

101

mine. He was called, "The Blackface with The Grand
Opera Voice." He said that this billing was the idea
of the hooker, Chris Brown, and he had nothing to
do with it. He assured me that he was not using any
of my material.

Finally I threatened him with a report to The
White Rats and The Comedy Club. I belonged to both
of them, and they were supposed to protect the rights
of actors.

Al replied that he didn't give a single damn if I
belonged to fifty clubs, and expressed his opinion of
them in four-letter words. He said he would do what
he pleased, and all of us could go hang. He closed the
letter, "Well, so long and good luck and be a good boy.
Your loving brother, Al."

Eventually I concluded that it really didn't matter,
and the argument ended. After I received Al's opinion
of The White Rats and The Comedy Club, I was
amused to get a letter from him requesting "an ap-
plication blank for the Rats. I want to join, so that no-
body will steal my stuff." In one of his letters he
spoke of fear for his voice. It was a fear that haunted
him the rest of his life. Time and again, he believed
that his vocal cords were becoming paralyzed. When
he wrote this letter he was spending several weeks in
the mountains in the State of Washington, recovering
from a bronchial trouble.

There were hints in his letters at this time, to the
effect that he was married or was about to be married.
There was also some gossip from mutual friends. When
I questioned him about it, Al denied that he had a
wife, but admitted that he expected to be married soon,
'"to the nicest little girl in the world."

One of his letters boasted that he had bought a
dandy little cottage in Oakland for $750.00, and that

102

it was easily worth a thousand. He assured me that he
was saving money, which I doubted. In one of his
letters he wrote of doing something for "the old folks,"
if his prosperity continued.

Al never really learned the art of saving. He al-
ways expected to save $10,000 or more when he made
it, but never could he tuck away a few dollars each
week. It was not until a number of years later that he
bought a home for Father. The money Al finally
accumulated, came from the fact that it rolled in so
fast that he couldn't spend it, and from investments
that he was talked into making, most of them against
his own judgment.

For more than two years he played the West and I
the East. Our letters were full of boasting and friendly
rivalry, for we were like two kids bragging about
their respective colleges. Al would send me some highly
laudatory clippings from Western cities, and would
tell me, "I would rather be a big fish in a little pond
than a tadpole in a big pond." I was then playing the
Keith Houses which were considered tops in vaude-
ville.

It is doubtful if Al felt any pang of jealousy over
the fact that I was in the big time. He wrote, "When
I play for Keith, if I ever play for them, I'll get the
big money or nothing at all."

This was not idle boasting, for he had absolute
faith in himself. He always believed the world was his
oyster. His later success, it seems to me, was due not
only to his ability to make the most of opportunities,
but to his sublime faith which he never lost.

Al continued to deny the rumors of his marriage,
but finally acknowledged that he had done the for-
bidden thing. I didn't wonder that he had not wanted
it known, for he had married a Gentile, a girl of

103

Norwegian parentage. The reaction among his relatives
and Jewish friends was what he had feared. Even I
was indignant at my brother's "apostasy," even though
I had thought myself liberalized by thirteen years in
America, and by my many friends of every race, color
and creed.

When I first met Henrietta, all my antagonism
melted away. She was a wonderful little wife and did
a great deal towards helping Al to success. She re-
mained by his side as he climbed to the top. Their
marriage endured for twelve years.

She was a prudent girl and was always worried
over Al's trait of spending money recklessly. The
three of us had dinner together one time, and Henri-
etta and I reasoned with Al. We urged him to look
ahead and lay aside a nest-egg.

He retorted with a smile of confidence, "Why
should I save money? I am the greatest entertainer in
"the world. Some day I'll be a millionaire. You watch
and see if I'm not right!"

Henrietta looked at him with a mixture of em-
barrassment and anxiety. Years later when the world
agreed with his valuation of himself, she spoke of that
night to me.

"I always thought he was a little crazy when he
said such things," she remarked. "We couldn't under-
stand that he was telling the truth. He was the only
one who knew of his greatness."

104

For a year I played in the East. My salary was
raised, and I established myself as a standard Keith
actor. I had a fine offer to play in England, but turned
it down and booked a long trip to the West Coast. Al
wrote me frequently from the West and Middle West.

We did not know it, but this was a momentous
period for both of us. Opportunity was knocking at
our doors, but Al was the one who heeded. Al followed
his feeling his intuition and jumped into the new.
I followed the safe, conservative voice of reason and
refrained from jumping.

One eventful day, Lew Dockstader, who was on
tour with his minstrel show, saw APs act in a vaude-
ville house. Al was twenty-three years of age at the
time. Dockstader talked him into going with his min-
strel show as an end man, and also to do his speciality in
the olio part of the show. Al was the hit of the famous
Dockstader Minstrels, and his contract was renewed.
He was on his way. Opportunity had knocked, and he
had answered.

What I thought was opportunity also knocked on
my door. A new, big-time vaudeville circuit was
organized, promoted by William Morris. The idea was
to introduce a different style of vaudeville. It was to
be on the order of the English music halls, and most
of the theaters were called American Music Halls.
Many of the vaudeville headliners of the day joined

105

the Morris Organization, because of the tempting
offers. I was one of them, and my decision was prob-
ably a main factor in my career. Al was on the way
up, and I was on the way down.

We didn't know it then, for my salary ranged from
$175.00 to $250.00 a week. Al received $125.00 and
railroad fare for himself and wife. The Morris Cir-
cuit did well at first, and I felt that I was sitting on
top of the world.

My act was a different type from the usual black-
face, and my method of presenting songs with my
burlesque on grand opera arias was making a name
for me.

Before me is a clipping from the New York
Journal written by zit: "Harry Jolson was indeed a
surprise to me. His burlesque on the operas is the
funniest thing a single actor has ever attempted on
a vaudeville track."

This was typical of the many notices I was re-
ceiving.

In the summer of 1908, 1 began to sympathize with
Al for falling in love with little Henrietta and marry-
ing her. I could understand how unjust we had been
in considering that he should marry a Jewish girl.

Her name was Lillian, and why say more? The
first time I met her, I felt that she was indispensable
to my future life and happiness. Yet, it was six months
before she finally gave in and said, "Yes."

We decided to elope. There was no reason for
eloping, but it seemed romantic and the proper thing
for a Jew and Gentile to do. We went to Paterson,
New Jersey. Then we found that Lillian would have
to establish residence before we could get a license.
Thus our elopment ended. We went back to Manhat-

106

tan and were married in the City Hall by Alderman
Smith, who was known as the marrying alderman.

It was a clear, wonderful day in winter. The sun
shone brightly in the sky and in our hearts. Perhaps
the day was symbolic of our life together. Never was
there a happier and more harmonious marriage than
that of Lillian and me. When she passed away, thirty-
nine years later, it was as though my heart had been
torn away.

The year 1908 was indeed an important year for
both Al and myself. Perhaps some fate was looking
down upon us and handing out favors. To Al she said,
"To you, Al, I give fame and fortune." To me she said,
"Harry, I give you peace, and a life filled with love."

I could appreciate Al's feeling when he married
Henrietta. He knew what the family would think, and
he didn't give a single damn. I smiled to my bride and
said, "Let's go up to Boston for our wedding trip.
My brother, Al, is playing there this week, and I
want to knock him dead."

While I spoke lightly enough, I really dreaded
introducing Lillian to any member of my family.
When Al was married, I had been most emphatic in
voicing my disapproval. At one time he had threatened
to punch me in the nose if I said another word. Now
the situation was reversed, and I dreaded what he
would say.

When we arrived in Boston, we went for dinner
to the hotel where the Dockstader troupe was staying.
We found a table, and I watched until I saw my
brother come in at the other side of the room. When
he reached me, I took his arm and said, "Come over
here, Al, I want you to meet my wife."

"Quit your kidding 1" he snapped. "You are not
married."

107

"But I am married," I insisted. "Lillian, this is
my brother, Al, that I have told you about so many
times."

Al was staring pop-eyed at Lillian's Anglo-Saxon
features, then he burst out:

"Why, Harry, she's not Jewish. And this comes
after you gave me hell for marrying Henrietta."

During our week in Boston we made up a brotherly
and sisterly quartet. An enduring friendship was
formed by the girls, and I believe my affectionate
relationship with Al became more firmly cemented
than ever before. Conditions were so harmonious that
Al suggested we take an apartment together; that it
would be fun for Henrietta and Lillian to chum
around together.

We didn't find the ideal apartment, fortunately,
for Al and I probably would have been in a hot
argument about something unimportant before two
days had passed. Both of us were already bothered by
the comparisons that were being made. I suppose it
makes the work of a critic easier if he can get away
with "odorous comparisons" instead of discussing the
merits of an actor's work.

Later a prominent Metropolitan reviewer discus-
sed my act. "Harry does not sing a Mammy song like
Al." And then he continued, "He lacks the pathos of
Harry Lauder." If there was anything good about my
act, he failed to see it. I thought he should have gone
ahead with his comparisons by saying that I was not
as good a tenor as Enrico Caruso nor as good a tap-
dancer as Bill Robinson. The ways of critics are often
beyond the understanding of mere human beings.

This tendency of critics, and also of theater mana-
gers, to make "odorous comparisons" caused a number
of little flare-ups between Al and me. One time we

108

were playing in Milwaukee, he with Lew Dockstader
and I at a vaudeville theater. Without my knowledge,
the manager of my theater advertised the fact that both
of the Jolson brothers were in the city. He invited the
public to "come and hear Harry and see which is the
better." His advertisement hinted strongly that I was
the star of the family.

This was particularly unfair, because Al was then
suffering from one of his bronchial troubles. He was
a long way from appearing at his best The critics,
following their usual method of comparison, gave me
the better of the argument. This hurt Al, of course, and
he thought I was behind the whole thing.

Henrietta and Lillian had been shopping together,
and strolled into the hotel where Al and Henrietta
were staying. They found Al in a towering rage.

"What does Harry mean by running me down this
way?" he ejaculated. "He knows I can hardly sing a
note." He stormed on, and Henrietta took up the
argument. She turned to Lillian and cried, "I hate
your husband!"

Lillian came back to our hotel dissolved in tears.
Henrietta had grown to be almost a sister to her, and
now it seemed that our happy quartet had broken up
forever. She didn't know of the many quarrels Al and
I were always having, of how quickly they were
patched up, and that we were soon ready to fight for
each other.

I went over to AFs hotel and convinced him that I
didn't have anything to do with the advertisement I
knew nothing about it until I read the papers, and I
hated the tendency to compare us worse than he did.
Al immediately repented, as he always did; Henrietta
telephoned a sweet apology to Lillian, and the family
was again united.

109

The tendency to compare my act with Al's was the
curse of our career in the theater. We were not the
only victims. Brothers always have that trouble, sis-
ters have it, mothers and daughters have it, and fathers
and sons. The only way they can avoid such com-
parisons is by taking different names and by not letting
it be known that they are related. Al and I should
have done this, but we didn't know until the opportu-
nity had gone by.

Henrietta never succeeded in getting Al to adopt a
systematic plan for saving. During those early days, he
was in the money one day and flat broke the next. With
all his optimism at the time of his marriage, it was
not long before he wrote me from Charlotte, North
Carolina. He reminded me that I had forgotten to
return a $10.00 bill which I had borrowed from him
on my honeymoon.

The salary that seemed so large before we were
married seemed to be pitifully inadequate now. We
learned that two cannot live as cheaply as one, especi-
ally when the husband is on the stage, and the wife
travels around the country with him. In theatrical
circles she is known as "excess baggage."

Al and I were now regarded as hopeless by our
family. Not only had we followed the forbidden ways
of the theater, but we had committed the second great
sin by marrying Gentiles. There is no greater blow to
an orthodox Jew than to have one of his family mar-
ried to a Goy. My Father and stepmother had little to
say about it, but their eyes spoke the grief and disgust
that were in their hearts.

When I called on my uncle in Yonkers, I en-
countered a tirade of abuse. Hq upbraided me because
Al and I had maried shiksas. This is a contemptuous

110

term for non-Jewish women that would be comparable
with calling a Jew a kike.

"They are people with no religion 1" he moaned,

"But Uncle," I remonstrated, "my wife is a deeply
religious woman. She belongs to the Methodist
Church."

With a few emphatic words, he consigned Metho-
distism to the lower regions. To him it was no religion
at all.

"You two boys never will amount to anything," he
predicted. "Neither of you will ever have anything,
and both of you will come to a bad end."

Without thinking, I took out my dollar watch and
wound it. He stopped speaking with a sentence half
finished.

"Look at that tin watch!" he cried. "You can't
afford even a silver one. See here!"

He took out his own huge, gold timepiece with its
massive chain.

"A man with one of these looks respectable," he
said. "It shows success, but a tin watch like yours!
Harry, you are worse than a Goy."

There was no use explaining why I carried a dol-
lar watch. I couldn't leave anything else in the dressing
room of a theater and expect to find it when my act was
over. My uncle was confident that I could afford
nothing else. He inquired about my wife.

"How much money did she have?" he asked.

I answered quickly and truthfully, "Seventeen
cents."

That was the amount in Lillian's purse when we
"eloped" to New Jersey.

My uncle took his head in both hands and rolled
his eyes upward to the ceiling.

"Seventeen cents, he tells me," he groaned. "Seven-

111

teen cents! And she is a shiksas, and he carries a tin
watch. He stands up and sings on a stage with his face
all covered with stove polish. He tells me that he
likes it and will not go into a respectable business. Oi,
gewalt! What is coming over these young people now-
a-days?"

My fine, old Rabbi uncle, Julius Hess, was the most
liberal of all the family. To him there was nothing
wrong in Al or me marrying the woman of our choice.
When he met my wife, he patted her hand and smiled
and told me emphatically, "My boy, here is a fine
woman. You be good to her."

My wife made many visits to my uncle and aunt,
and they became as fond of her as though she had been
their daughter. They never tried to change her reli-
gious beliefs, but one day my aunt spoke to her in a most
confidential manner.

"Lillian, dear, we would feel so wonderful about
it if you and Harry would have Uncle Julius marry
you again by Jewish ceremony."

Lillian reported the matter to me, and I was in-
clined to be somewhat indignant. Always good-natured
and conciliatory, she said :

"Oh, Harry, it isn't important, but if it will make
those two old dears happy, let's have Uncle Julius
marry us all over again."

That is what we did. My aunt suggested the same
thing to Al when he visited them, but there was nothing
conciliatory about him. He said that he and Henrietta
had been married once and that was enough. Anybody
who didn't like it could jump in the lake.

In February, 1909, the Dockstader troupe played in
New York. Al made a tremendous hit, and the critics
spoke of him as the brother of Harry Jolson who
was well and favorably known in the big town. I like

112

to think that my popularity helped pave the way for
Al, and this was also the opinion of critics and old-
timers on the stage.

Al's experience with Dockstader had given him a
finish that he never would have acquired in vaudeville.
This was because he had sung night after night to the
accompaniment of the same fine orchestra. It was far
different from playing in a vaudeville theater each
week where a strange orchestra read from scripts and
was only trying to get by. For a singer, the accompani-
ment of an orchestra of high-class musicians is necessary
to the development of a perfect performance. No singer
can reach perfection if he is constantly changing
accompanists.

Al had returned to New York, which was the
big-time, after three years. He had made a tremendous
improvement in his art While with Lew Dockstader,
he had developed an artistry that never could have
been acquired in vaudeville.

The Dockstader troupe took a vacation for a few
weeks, and Al filled in some dates on the Keith Circuit.
He made good this old boast to me that if he ever
played Keith, he would get big money. His salary was
$250.00 a week, and that was a high figure in those days
for a newcomer. He also made them give him a special
billing and the guarantee of a desirable position on
every program. He was a big hit, and could have con-
tinued with them at even higher rates if he had not
been under contract to Lew Dockstader.

With the constant "odorous comparisons" people
were making, Al and I were running a sort of popu-
larity race. I was doing well on the Morris Circuit I
quote from a review by a prominent critic:

113

HARRY JOLSON'S RIOT

It's going to be a tossup as to who has the
better act of the two, Harry Jolson or his
brother, AL Harry accomplished something at
the American last week at nearly every per-
formance which I have often read about and
have heard talked about, and that was to "stop
the performance." If it had been a prear-
ranged affair it might have been understood,
but the applause was so insistent and so en-
thusiastic were the demands that he return and
begin all over again that it was absolutely
useless for the act following him to even at-
tempt to start Jolson was some hit, and al-
ready the Broadway managers are squabbling
for him.

I was riding high. But, alas, I was also heading
for a fall I The William Morris Circuit collapsed
suddenly. Hundreds of top performers crashed with
it, including myself. I thought I could return to Keith,
but such was not the case. It was like the Mexican
baseball league of later days. The players who deserted
the American leagues for it, suddenly found themr
selves barred from playing in organized baseball in
their own country. A lawsuit was decided in their
favor before they were again employed by American
managers.

There was no such relief for us. Keith's was the only
big-time vaudeville circuit in existence. Those, like
myself, who were on the Keith black-list found them-
selves without employment.

Unlike Al, I had systematically saved money each
week, and now had a thousand dollars. Keith's gave
me an occasional act to fill in when some of their

114

Welcome A! Jolson's

HARRY

England; the Manchester Hippodrome

regulars were prevented from playing by sickness.
During the year after Morris Circuit folded, I worked
only thirteen weeks. My thousand dollars soon dwin-
dled to a hundred, and there was no relief in sight.

Then Dame Fortune seemed to smile at me once
more. I was offered a fine part with Eddie Leonard's
Minstrels, which had just been organized. After Eddie,
George Thatcher and I were the stars of the show.
We made a big hit from the beginning. Critics pre-
dicted that we would grow into as great an institution
as Dockstader. Then I found that Dame Fortune was
not smiling on me at all. She was laughing.

Leonard got into a row with the backers of the
show and walked out. Without his name and magic
touch, the show was soon on the rocks. Eventually I
left it and attached for unpaid salaries. These were
not collected for three years. In desperation I accepted
some English contracts. Blacklisted by Keith's in
America, I hoped to get a new start and added prestige
by going abroad.

115

Early in May, 1910, Lillian and I began our voyage
to Britain with high hopes for the future. The Keith
Circuit and all its works could jump into the bottom-
less pit so far as we were concerned. Britain was calling
to us: England, Scotland and perhaps Ireland. No
people on earth appreciate comedy more than the
Irish.

When we reached Liverpool we heard the news
that dashed our hopes into the mire. Dame Fortune
was again laughing.

While we were in mid-ocean the King of England,
Edward VII, had died. When we landed, the nation
was in mourning. I wondered how I could overcome
the adverse conditions that had been hounding me.

In all my life, I have had nothing that required so
much churning of courage, as facing an English audi-
ence for the first time. I had known but few actors
who had played in England, and the impressions I
had of the English people were as far from the truth
as were our impressions of fabulous America when we
lived in Srednike. I had heard that English audiences
could be compared only with those in the ancient
Roman amphitheatres where Gladiators were forced
to fight to the death, and unpopular actors were thrown
to the lions. According to my information, an English
audience thought nothing of taking a vaudeville per-

117

former bodily from the stage, and throwing him into
a sewer.

It was at Brighton, the great seaside resort, on
May 16th when I made my first appearance. My mental
and spiritual mercury would have recorded at least
ten-below-zero when I sneaked into the stage entrance
of the theater. Due to the mourning of the nation over
the death of the King, I had the desperate hope that
but a few people would be in the audience, and that
perhaps none of them could run fast enough to catch
me. I was pretty speedy on my feet in those days. I was
especially nervous because my act followed that of
Arthur Prince, the noted ventriloquist. To my con-
sternation, I found that the house was full to the doors.

Later I learned that my act was a novelty. I was
one of the first blackface comedians to play indoors
in England. The public associated burnt cork with
street singing, and a blackface comedian was an
unusual sight in an English Music Hall. All my fears
vanished as my act proceeded. I was exceedingly well
received, and went back to my dressing room vowing
that England was the answer to my dream. The Keith
Circuit and its blacklist were as far removed from me
as Mars.

Within a week hard luck again caught up with
me. Mr. Barrasford, head of the circuit that had
employed me, died suddenly. His interests were taken
over by other parties, and they had their own ideas
about entertainment. The actors whom Mr. Barrasford
had employed, found themselves out of jobs unless
their contracts were air-tight. My contract, apparently,
was full of holes. I played one week at Southsea, and
then found that I was through.

What could I do now? That was a question as great

118

as the one posed by Hamlet I was a stranger in a
strange land.

Then the sun came out of the sea of despondency
once more. I was booked for the Moss & Stoll Circuit,
and was to open in Glasgow, Scotland, the following
week.

There were many annoyances on this first trip to
England and I concluded that I disliked not only the
country, but all that it contained. Most of my pre-
judices developed because of my ignorance of English
laws and customs. One of them was a liquor regulation.
If you were a resident of a city, you were not allowed
to go into a pub for a drink before a certain hour in
the morning. If you were leaving town that morning,
and had already bought your ticket booked your
passage you could get plastered till you were stiff
if you wanted to, and a constable would put you on
your train and the railroad company would take care
of you.

It was when we left Brighton that we ran into
this regulation. We made our jumps on Sundays, of
course, and often traveled on slow trains. We went to
the station Sunday morning and headed for a combined
lunchroom and bar for breakfast

A constable one of those impressive characters
with mutton-chop whiskers was watching us with
eagle eyes, and stepped up before the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

The answer was an obvious one, but I made it
anyway, "In there, if you will get out of the way."

"What for?"

"We want to see the Lord Mayor," I answered
sarcastically. "If he isn't here we will compromise and
get something to eat."

He examined us with an expression that reminded

119

us of a dead catfish, and took out a notebook and pencil.
Opening the notebook, he held his pencil at attention
and tried again.

"Do you live here?"

"We do not," I answered hotly. "What is more, I
do not care to live here. I do not think this would be
a nice place to live at all, but I will consider it as a
place to come when I am ready to die."

He was writing rapidly in his notebook, and I
think he took down everything I said.

"What is your name?" was his next question.

"Who wants to know? Do you think my name is
Dick Turpin or Robin Hood? What is this all about,
anyway? All we want is to get something to eat."

He wrote down everything I had said, and then
came again, "Are you leaving town this morning?"

"I am. We are. Thank God!" I answered with
feeling.

"Have you booked your passage?"

At that, I picked up the bags and we started away.
I was exceedingly hot-tempered in those days, and I
knew nothing about laws and regulations.

"I hope your bloomin', bloody, little island sinks in
the ocean," I told him with utmost politeness. "You
couldn't give me your bar, or your town, or your
whole country for a gift."

We got on the train and left without breakfast.
When I learned the reason for the constable's questions,
I felt rather flattered. My pronunciation of the King's
English must have been so good that he did not realize
I was from the American Colonies. Otherwise he
might have explained.

Our ignorance of English customs, together with
the inability of the English to learn American ways
quickly, caused no end of annoyances. In the old days

120

shirts did not open down the front. They opened part
way down the back. You pulled them on over your
head and fastened them with a collar button. The so-
called coat-shirt, which opens all the way in the front,
was common in America, but was unknown in England.
I sent some of mine to an English laundry. When
they came back they had been sewn together all the
way up the front Adding insult to injury was a bill
that included six pence for mending.

My first appearance for the new circuit was at the
Empire theater in Glasgow. I was greatly appreciated
and had so many curtain calls that I decided to make
a speech. I thanked the people for their kindness, and
told them how happy I was to be so well received in
England.

There was a cold silence for a moment, then a
hoarse voice balled, "This is not England. This is
Scotland." Considerably flustered, I apologized, and
then blundered again by saying, "I have not been here
long enough in the Isles to notice the difference." When
I had gone back to my dressing room, the manager
knocked on the door and entered.

"You have a fine act, Mr. Jolson," he said, "and
we enjoyed it very much. Sing and joke all you will,
but kindly refrain from making any more speeches.
Thank you!"

After several months in the British Isles, I had
been so favorably received all around the circuit, that
I was offered a five-year contract.

As we look back upon life as we have lived it, we
are inclined to make the unfortunate mistake of
figuring out where we made mistakes. Perhaps I
should have remained with Moss & Stoll, but the
salary they paid did not satisfy me. I should have

121

known better, but I had been listening to the boasting
of other vaudeville actors.

"My word, manl" they would exclaim. "Are you
paid only thirty pounds a week? Why I am getting
sixty."

Later I learned that some of these braggarts were
getting less money than I, but being an ignorant Yan-
kee, I believed them at the time. My pride was hurt so
much that I did not consider the lower cost of living
in England. Proportionately, I was receiving a higher
salary than I had ever received in America.

Another reason for not tying myself to a contract
for five years in English vaudeville was because of the
institution of "giving an actor the bird." In America
if an audience does not like an act, it will be coldly
silent, with scant applause at the conclusion. Our
people are always polite. In England there are boister-
ous roughs in the pit, who often obtain more fun booing
a performer from a stage than from hearing his act.
Often they begin "giving him the bird" before he starts.
This is a peculiarly offensive sound made with the lips.
It may be roughly compared with our "Bronx cheer."
Some of their best-loved vaudeville actors get it now
and then, especially on Saturday nights when every-
body has drawn his pay and has spent part of it in the
pub.

Popular stars often stopped their acts abruptly and
left the stage after several minutes of these rude in-
terruptions. One Saturday night we were facing an
unusually tough audience. One of the cleverest per-
formers in England appealed for silence without suc-
cess. Giving up in despair, he walked off without
finishing his act.

I was standing in the wings and remarked to the
stage manager, "Well, I would never stand such a

122

thing as long as he did. I am not used to that kind of
treatment If they start it on me III quit them without
argument."

Perhaps the roughs in the audience sensed my
remark, for they started "giving me the bird" as soon
as I came on the stage. Like the man in the old song,
who walked right in and turned around and walked
right out again, I strolled off the stage without singing
a note. Theater managers never held such conduct
against an actor. If those in the audience had more
fun chasing performers from the stage than they gained
from hearing and seeing a good performance, it was
all right with the managers. They even had acts which
were called "wine and spirit acts." They were meant
to be positively putrid. When the actors went to work,
all the drunks in the audience would rise en masse
and go out to the bar. These actors were signed up
for that purpose. The bars were attached to the theaters
and were operated by the same owners.

One night I ran across one of the regular "wine
and spirit" performers backstage.

"How did it go tonight?' I asked.

"Everything was wonderful!" he declared. "I just
got four curtain calls."

I was so surprised that I thought I would wait and
see how good the fellow was. When his turn came in
the second show, I was standing in the wings. As soon
as he made his entrance, half the audience arose and
headed for the exits. The others gave him the bird with
utmost enthusiasm. He started his song several times
and each time was completely drowned out. Finally
he held up his hand. When quiet was restored, he made
a little speech.

"Lydies and Gentlemen: This city 'as given me
some lawge happlause in the pawst, but this is the

123

lawgest that I ever received. It is really so lawge that
I am hovercome and feel that I cahn't go on."

After that he strolled from the stage as though he
had come, had seen everything and had conquered
all.

The established national drink when I was in Eng-
land was neither beer, ale, whiskey nor gin. It was tea.
If we made an afternoon call of only a few minutes,
out would come the teapot. A London wolf trying to
start something with a girl on the street would not
approach her as he would in America. He would lift
his hat and simper, "Will you have a cup of tea?"

Tea was served between races at the tracks. It was
served during the cricket games, which sometimes
lasted for days. One evening Eddie Emerson and I
went to a boxing match at an arena in Whitechapel,
which was one of the worst of the London slum dis-
tricts. Eddie leaned towards me and whispered,
"Harry, I'm blasted if they aren't going to serve tea
during the fight!"

Years later I attended a baseball game in New York
with an English friend. Knowing nothing of the game,
he became somewhat fidgety about the fifth inning.
With puzzled brows, he turned to me, "I say, old chap,
when are they going to stop the bally game and have
tea?"

Never shall I forget the boxing match at White-
chapel. The nationalities of the fighters were obvious :
Pat Curran and Jewie Smith. A delegate of Irish sup-
ported Curran, and a larger Hebrew contingent with
their sympathizers were on the other side of the house
howling for the chap who claimed the name of Smith.
Eddie and I had seats in the middle of the Irish
delegation. There were several rounds of toe-to-toe
fighting, and then Smith was knocked down. The count

124

began, Curran threw out his chest and held up his
right glove.

"I win ! I 'm the champ 1" he shouted.

He stepped over the ropes, jumped down from the
ring and started up the aisle towards his dressing
room. If he had stopped to look, he would have seen
that Smith staggered to his feet before the end of the
count The timekeeper started counting all over again,
but this time it was for Curran for being out of the
ring. When the Irish hero finally turned around, he
found that he had won the bout but lost the fight.

The backers of Curran stood up as one man and
started toward the Smith contingent. It looked as
though there would be a thousand fights instead of
one.

I had great respect for the Irish as rough-and-
tumble fighters, and feared that my face might be an
unpopular one when the trouble started.

"Eddie, Eddie!" I yelled. "Let's get out of here!"

Eddie, with his good Anglo-Saxon countenance,
led the way. I walked close behind him with head
down and one hand covering my nose. My gesture
was for both protection and concealment.

We reached the open air at last. As we hurried
down the street we could hear the sounds of the riot.
We thought the building was being wrecked, and I
have never found out what happened. An incident like
that in Whitechapel wasn't important enough to be
mentioned in the newspapers.

There were so many things that I did not like about
appearing in the British Music Halls, that I decided
to return to America. I thought the fine press notices
in England would give me still further prestige in
my own country. I thought I would have no trouble
getting bookings. Later I learned that this was another

125

of my mistakes, if any of us do make mistakes. We learn
through those so-called mistakes. It is the trial and
error way, and there really is no other.

In making decisions in all such matters, I used
reason and thought. I argued with myself, and finally
yielded to reason and logic. Perhaps Al's great success
was partly due to the fact that he acted according to
feeling rather than reason. His was a changeable
nature. He yielded readily to the advice of friends and
successful people, and often promised far more than
he could accomplish. He made promises in good faith,
and later forgot them completely and did something
that was exactly the opposite. This trait caused friction
between us later, and actually led to the beginning of
a lawsuit. In looking backwards over the years, I
realize that Al was largely a person of impulse. He
did things and promised things on the spur of the
moment, and these "first impressions" led him to take
advantage of opportunities that helped him rise to the
heights of success in his chosen profession.

Added to this intuition of Al's, were instances that
were purely the strokes of good fortune. One of these
came when the Shuberts took over the Dockstader
Minstrels. Neither he nor the Shuberts were parti-
cularly excited over the fact that Al's contract had
become their property. To them he was just a good
blackface comedian. Neither of them knew that he
was destined to become their biggest star. He was
disturbed and anxious as to his immediate future.
Those on the stage always are when new bosses take
over their contracts. Al continued with the minstrel
show for a time.

Then came another truly big event in his life. He
was ordered to rehearse for a big review which the

126

Shuberts were preparing for the Winter Garden. It
was to open early in 1911.

The Shuberts were taking a big gamble in this
review. The Winter Garden had not been a paying
proposition. In the hope of drawing huge crowds, they
were preparing an almost unprecedented all-star show.
It was called La Belle Paree, or A Jumble of Jollity.
Having a blackface comedian, as one of the stars in
a Broadway Musical Show, was enough of a novelty
to cause a great deal of comment in theatrical circles.

The big show opened the evening of March 20,
1911. It was one of the most lavish productions of that
time, not only in the gorgeous setting and costuming,
but also in the high quality of its cast. Al was not
the big star of the show. He was merely one entertainer
among fifteen or twenty stars, many of whom were
far better known than he. Some of the critics com-
mented that the cast reminded them of the big benefit
performances where dozens of noted stars contributed
a "bit" for charity. Among the big names, Stella May-
hew, a well-known woman blackface performer, was
another complication for my brother.

It was to be Al's first Broadway Show the first
time he had really reached the big time. It was an
opportunity that might make him, or might dump
him back into vaudeville. It was a bewildering, new
situation for him. In vaudeville he had the attention
of the audience during his act, and a storm of applause
when it was over. He had been a decided hit in the
Dockstader Minstrels.

Now he was up against an audience of a different
caliber. In New York he was not well-known. Many in
the theater never had heard of him. Later he told me
that the fear of inferiority which occasionally haunted
him, was especially strong at this time.

127

I, also, had my doubts. I wondered if he could make
the grade as one of that powerful cast. I was on the
road at the time, and sent him a long telegram express-
ing my confidence and best wishes. Later he told me
how much he appreciated that telegram, and what
wonderful medicine it was for him as he faced that
great night.

The next time I saw Al, he told me that he flopped
completely. The critics did not agree with him, and I
must have agreed with them. I do not believe that ever
in his life did Al prove to be a "flop."

According to what he told me, for him the evening
was one of long-drawn agony. As the show progressed,
his "bits" did not get the applause he expected. He was
seized with a devastating panic, but held the hope that
he would score a hit when he presented his speciality.

The show was too long, as such things always are
on opening night. It was nearly midnight when Al
came on for the last time. The audience was tired and
had already seen too many specialities. Later every-
body agreed that Al's act was a good one. The audience
gave him a generous round of applause. The reason
he felt that he had "flopped" was probably because
they didn't raise the roof. He told me that when he
went to his dressing room, he was the most discouraged
and unhappy mortal in all the world.

True to the traditions of the stage, his wife, Hen-
rietta, was waiting at home. She could not endure the
strain of sitting in the audience on the night when a
new play opened. She was in the hotel room, waiting
and praying, like the loyal little wife she always was.
With the belief that his act had been a total flop, Al
could not go home and face Henrietta. He wandered
aimlessly about the streets in a sort of daze. He be-
lieved his one big chance had come to him, and that

128

he had failed. He wandered to Central Park. Here he
walked the paths until dawn, when sheer weariness
drove him homeward.

Poor Henrietta! She was frantic with anxiety.
When Al finally returned, she was so overjoyed that she
didn't care about the show. When Al told her that he
expected a notice from the management that day, say-
ing that he was through, she said that she didn't care
a hoot about the management; that Al could get a
job on a delivery wagon, and she could always teach
school.

Al was so despondent over what he considered to
be his failure, that even the complimentary notices
in the morning papers failed to reassure him. Some
of the critics gave him only a line or two, but what
could a newcomer expect among so many stars, in such
a lavish production? All of them complimented him.
Some gave him more space than several of the better-
known stars. The Herald said, "He was capital."

People on the stage soon learn that dramatic
critics don't know everything. The article in the Sun
undertook a prophecy, which explains why people on
the stage do not believe ifi critics. Consider the opinion
expressed in this article in the light of Al's later
achievements :

"Equally amusing was Al Jolson whether
he is Alfred or Albert, this modest seceder
from vaudeville will not divulge who pos-
sesses genuine Negro unction in his speech and
manner. Yet by race, he might be thought cap-
able of succeeding better with other types."

After the opening night of a big review, it was the
custom to reduce the roster. Sometimes it was cut by
almost half. I speak from experience, of which I

129

shall tell later. A rehearsal was usually called for the
morning after the big night. This was for the purpose
of revising and shortening the program.

To Al, this rehearsal was the morning after the
night before. He was still in the dumps, and expected a
blue ticket.

His mood lifted a little when he was greeted af-
fably by the big bosses. They assured him they had faith
in his ability, and said they felt he hadn't done justice
to himself on the opening night. They asked if he
could suggest changes in the show which would bene-
fit him.

For a moment Al was staggered. Then, acting with
his usual impulse, he told them exactly what he
thought.

"You have too many singers ahead of me. My
speciality comes on so late that the audience is worn
out by the time I appear. Fire me if you want to, but
no actor can do much with an audience that's half
asleep and half dead."

Instead of firing him the Shuberts listened to him.
After talking over the matter, they followed his sug-
gestion. On the second night, he covered himself with
glory. It was a premonition of the Al Jolson of later
years. The king had definitely come into his kingdom.

130

When Al and I were having a wrangle over our
billing in the days when we were trying to get started
in vaudeville, he wrote:

"It seems to me that America is big enough for
two actors with the same name."

He was mistaken, but neither of us realized it until
we were both well established. Then a change of name
would have forced one of us to start all over again
with a different type of act When the Shuberts took
Al as a star, they had the colossal nerve to ask me to
change my name. I was better known in the East than
Al, and it seemed to me that if any change was to be
made, he should do the changing. We adopted the
name at the same time, and I had done well with it.
I couldn't see why I should give it up.

Yet it was not long before ATs fame began to
overshadow me. I was using the same act that I had
used for several years, with slight variations, yet people
accused me of imitating my brother. Some even claimed
that I was not his brother, and that I not only imitated
Al's act, but also his name.

When I returned from abroad, I found the Keith
management still remembered vindictively that I had
left them for Morris. I received only an occasional
week's work, usually to fill in for someone else.
One of my bookings was at Morris' Rockaway. An-
other was at the Brighton Beach Music Hall where

131

"Zit" rated me as the hit of the program. This was
highly complimentary, for Eva Tanguay, of I Don't
Care fame, was on the bill. My hit song was That
Railroad Rag. Successful as I was, after Al became a
star in La Belle Paree, with the tremendous publicity
he received, he became better known than I.

With the Keith people still getting their revenge,
prospects for steady work were not bright. Af tr a few
months of part-time work, I accepted a contract to tour
the Moss & Stoll Circuit in Great Britain. This time
Lillian and I actually looked forward with pleasure
to seeing England and Scotland again. Without reali-
zing it, we had become fond of those countries. We
were used to the ways of the music hall audiences, and
admired somewhat wistfully, their beautiful home life.
Even vaudeville had its advantages. There were no
matinees, which was a pleasant relief from the cus-
tomary grind of afternoons and evenings in America.

It was in England that we learned to relax and
take life as it came. We got away from the feeling, so
common to Americans, that we must hurry, dash and
rush to do something or get somewhere, without know-
ing what or how.

With no shows in the afternoon, we went to the
beaches to bathe. We took excursions up and down the
Thames. Often we donned hiking togs, after the man-
ner of the English, and wandered out into the country
through fields of red poppies, across acres of purple
heather, and along miles of incomparable country
lanes.

On our first trip to England we listened to the
advice of the stewards on the ship, and went to the
Metropole Hotel. It was the most expensive hotel in
the city, and I suppose the stewards received a com-
mission for sending us. I asked for a room with bath.

132

When we reached the room I asked where the bath
was. The bellboy, who was a man of about 65, proudly
pulled a tin tub from under the bed.

Since then we had learned from English actors how
to live comfortably and cheaply in any part of England.
Many of them had delightful summers in houseboats
on the Thames, and we spent many happy hours with
them. We had learned to find modest, yet excellent
hotels and private lodging houses, where we obtained
fine service at a moderate rate. The actors called such
places diggings.

London in those days was an ideal place for a
Bohemian with only a few pence in his pocket. For an
idle afternoon he could go out to Hyde Park to listen
to a concert by a magnificent band. If he was interested
in politics or world movements, he could listen to
some of the speeches as different brands of reformers
advocated everything from the destruction of capital-
ism, to the overthrow of parliament and the king. We
Americans like the general idea of free speech, but the
English can show us what free speech actually means.

From Hyde Park you could take a taxi at sixpence
a mile, and dine at some place such as Appenrodt's in
Piccadilly, where you got an excellent meal for a
shilling, with champagne at ninepence a glass. Ap-
penrodt's was a German delicatessen-restaurant which
was swept away during the First World War. When
I heard of this holocaust, it was hard for me to believe
that such a wonderful place was no more. Tragedies
such as this should make pacifists of all people. A
course dinner all you could eat for a shilling, and
champagne at ninepence a glass 1 Ah me! Those good
old days.

English audiences are noted for their fine loyalty
to actors whom they like. Once a favorite, always a

133

favorite, seems to be the policy. Perhaps they are more
influenced by tradition than we. I have seen a tottering
ruin of a woman, whose makeup seemed actually piti-
ful on her wrinkled face, come on the stage and sing an
old ballad in a thin, cracked voice, and get applause
that nearly shook down the house. I couldn't under-
stand, and turned to the manager.

"How can they think she is good?" I demanded.
"Why she is terrible 1"

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and I noticed tears in his
eyes. "You should have seen and heard her thirty-
five years ago. Man, she was wonderful."

It was gratifying to learn that the audiences remem-
bered me, and were eager to see me again. On my third
trip to England in 1913, I went on at Leeds where I
had not appeared for three years. I sang one of the
songs I had used before; the famous Put Your Arms
Around Me, Honey. After the refrain I put what we
called a bust on the word "put" The audience broke
out in prolonged applause that rather disconcerted me.
I wondered if they were giving me a new form of "the
bird." After I had gone back to my dressing room,
the manager knocked on the door. That was a nice
custom they had over there, of coming to your dressing
room between shows and expressing appreciation for
your act. He was beaming now.

"Ah, Mr. Jolson I" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands.
"Your act is very good; ve-r-r-r-y good, indeed! Our
people like you very much."

"I thought perhaps they didn't," I answered some-
what doubtfully. "They interrupted me once, and I was
afraid they were giving me the 'bird.' "

"Oh, that was just applause," he assured me. "When
you made that funny explosive sound as you pro-
nounced 'put,' they applauded to show you that they

134

remembered it. You did it that way when you were
here before, you know."

I had many experiences like that during my last
two trips to the Isles. If you once made a hit with a
song, you couldn't get away from it when you appeared
again. They reminded me of children who want to
hear the same story over and over without variations.

An actor, George Whittle, had a nonsensical old
song. Let's All Go Down The Strand and Have A
Banana, that he had to sing whenever he put on his act.
He had been using it for fifteen or twenty years, and
hated it worse than poison. Yet he never was permitted
to leave the stage until he sang about going down the
Strand and having a banana. In America, De Wolf
Hopper ran into the same thing with the famous
Casey At The Bat.

A few great American actors have found some of
that loyalty. But our country is so big, there are so
many theaters and so many people attending, that for
most actors the memory of the public is short and its
judgment is cruel.

A generation in the theater is only seven years. If
you have not appeared for seven years you are un-
known to probably half the audience, and have been
forgotten by most of the others. I like this American
tendency, for the door of opportunity is always open
to new talent. If we lived in the memory of past per-
formances and past grandeur, what chance would
young people have in the theatrical world? We would
keep the old timers singing Let's Go Down The Strand
and Have A Banana, and there would be nothing left
for young actresses and actors but to pound a type-
writer or drive a truck.

When I returned from my second trip to Europe,
I found that my name had been removed from the

135

Keith blacklist I was booked for a long term by them.
One of the first dates was Morris' Rockaway. I looked
forward to an enjoyable return engagement, for I had
scored a big hit there less than a year before. I did not
realize how my younger brother had come into the
world of the theater as a flaming comet comes into a
sky of ordinary stars.

Just before a matinee I walked through the lobby
of the Rockaway. Two men were looking at my photo-
graphs and billing.

"Look here!" one said to the other. "This fellow
has stolen Al Jolson's name, and is doing blackface.
He's sure got his nerve. Al ought to sue him."

This was hard for me to take. After I had done my
act, I made a little speech in appreciation of the fine
applause I received. Then I told what had happened
in the lobby. I assured them I wanted them to love my
brother, Al, but did not want them to forget that I was
still in existence.

The audience laughed and applauded, but I had
seen the handwriting on the wall.

A few days later my wife met a man whom she had
known in childhood.

"Didn't you marry Harry Jolson?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, "you have probably seen him
on the stage?"

"No," replied the man, "but I have. seen Al and
think he is great. I saw him at the Brighton Beach
Music Hall about a year ago."

"But that was Harry," Lillian objected.

"No, no," he insisted, "I saw Al. He is that black-
face fellow who is in the Winter Garden now. I re-
member especially the way he sang That Railroad Rag.
Eva Tanguay was on the bill with him. It was a great
show."

136

Both Lillian and I were getting a foretaste of what
it meant to be related to a celebrity* There were two
Jolson brothers appearing on the stage, and Al was
both of them.

Later I went to a morning rehearsal in Chicago,
and handed my music to the orchestra leader. His face
was familiar.

"I remember you," I told him. "You have played
for me before."

"No," he answered, "I never have played for you,
but I played for your brother, Al."

I said no more. I did not want to disillusion him.

A short time later he remarked, "I see you are
using your brother's burlesque opera. I played it for
him when I was leader at William Morris' American
Music Hall."

It would have been hard to convince him that he
had played for me, and that Al never appeared under
William Moris. If the orchestra leader could not
remember, what could I expect of the public? I real-
ized suddenly that I was becoming a "forgotten man."

It is not easy for people, who saw me and heard me
years ago, to understand why I should suddenly fade
out of the theatrical picture. Al was one who remained
loyal to me, and could not believe that I was the victim
of circumstances over which I had no control.

"Harry," he would say, "you used to be a top man in
vaudeville. What has happened, anyway? Are you
losing that good old Jolson touch? There are just as
many opportunities today as there ever were."

One of these seeming opportunities came when I
was playing Hammerstein's Victoria at 42nd and
Broadway in New York. I received a letter from the
Shubert office asking me to call. The next day I went
to their offices, and they told me they wanted me to

137

appear in a musical show which was to present the
French star, Mile. Gabys Deslys, to the American
public. They offered me the kind of contract of which
I had dreamed, yet I- hesitated. I inquired about Al.
He was on the road at the time, and I was told that he
also would remain under their management. They
wanted both of the Jolson brothers, or so they told me.
Finally I agreed to sign the contract providing the
Keith people would release me, which they eventually
did.

The show was called The Review of Reviews.
During the rehearsal I was given prominent "bits,"
and my speciality was promised a favorable position.
It seemed to me that my future was assured, and that
Dame Fortune was smiling on me as she had smiled on
my brother.

What I did not know was that I was being used as
a threat to compel Al to sign a long-term contract
which he had rejected. Their scheme worked, and they
finally succeeded in scaring Al into signing. With all
their fine words, they didn't want two Jolsons under
their management.

A few days before The Review of Reviews opened,
I noticed a decided change in their attitude. APs con-
tract had been signed. My "bits" were taken away.
Instead of letting me present a real speciality, I was
given only one short number before the close, I be-
came so discouraged that I was on the point of quiting,
which was exactly what they wanted.

The show opened September 27, 1911, just six
months after Al made his bow at the Winter Garden.
Besides Gabys Deslys, who was the star, Frank Tinney,
Kate Eliner, Sam Williams, Maud Raymond, Clarence
Harvey and I were billed in big type. It was the usual
long-drawnout show. In the final ensemble, a few mo-

138

ments before the final curtain, I was allowed to sing
my one number. The people in the audience were
tired out Some were leaving, and some had already
left

My speciality failed to arouse enthusiasm. This
was used as an excuse for cancelling my contract The
management said that I had insulted the audience.

Furious at the treatment accorded me, I began a
lawsuit and won. The case was appealed, and finally
we settled for a small sum. I charged the whole thing
to experience. I learned that opportunity comes in
strange disguises, and also that many frauds and pit-
falls come disguised as opportunity.

139

XII

The Keith people were more forgiving now, and
received me back into the fold. For many years I
remained in vaudeville. Al was going from one triumph
to another, and I was always fighting with managers,
who insisted on advertising me as his brother. I was
not objecting to the fact that I was his brother, but
I insisted on retaining my individuality* I did not
want to capitalize on Al's fame.

In spite of all I could do, comparisons between us
were inevitable. Not only did it come from theater
managers and bookers, but from critics and theater
patrons. People began to notice our physical resem-
blance. This was a natural, family likeness, and was
never cultivated. Both of us appeared in blackface.
Our voices and mannerisms were somewhat alike.

Comparisons could not be favorable to me, for Al
and I were in different forms of entertainment. He
had a glorious background and ensemble, with a whole
evening of coming on and off the stage. In my act I
was alone. There was no prologue by a chorus, and
I came to the stage with no preparation or introduction.
I had only twenty minutes in which to win my audience.
We were laboring in different fields of entertainment,
and it was not fair to either Al or me to draw
comparisons.

Al had become a big figure in the theatrical world,

141

and many and devious were the methods that theater
managers took to capitalize on his name.

Lillian and I were in Chicago for a week's en-
gagement. As we went to the theater for a Monday
morning rehearsal, the workmen were beginning a new
sign. We saw the word "Al" in huge letters.

"Do you suppose they are putting up brother APs
name?" Lillian asked, for she was sensing the bugbear
that was haunting us.

"Of course not," I answered. "It is probably Al
Leavitt's band."

We went into the theater, but I was uneasy. Pres-
ently, I went out to see the sign. It had just been
finished. With sinking heart I read :

AL JOLSON'S

Brother,

Harry

The sign was an attempt to delude the public into
believing that Al Jolson was playing in that theater.

With rage in my heart, I finally located the mana-
ger. I told him that if he wanted me to go on that week,
he would have to change the sign and leave out all
reference to Al. The funny part of it was, he was
astounded to learn that I did not want to lean on my
brother's reputation. Another manager remonstrated
with me.

"I don't see why you don't use APs name all the
time in your advertising," he said.

I replied with a question, "Did you engage me be-
cause of my act, or because I am Al Jolson's brother?"

"Oh, your act is fine," he assured me, "but Al is so
well known and so well liked, I would think you would
cash in on his reputation."

142

"Well," I answered weakly, "if I am to do that, I
will throw my act into the ash can, and just go out on
the stage and let people look at me."

Being merely Al Jolson's brother was a difficult
thing for me to overcome. One evening I sang at a
benefit performance. The master of ceremonies stood
up and told the audience, with tears in his voice, that
he had a great disappointment for them.

"We expected to have Al Jolson here tonight," he
sobbed, "but he was unable to come. I am very sorry,
and I know what a disappointment this is to you. Any-
way, we have APs brother, Harry, and he will now
sing for us."

This was the kind of send-off that I often got.

I thought I had a real break one night, when I was
asked to act as master of ceremonies at a lawn party.
It gave me a chance I was waiting for. I could be on
my own without any reference to my brother. My name
was not announced to the audience.

When I stood up to speak, I said, "Some of you may
recognize me. Others will not If I were introduced by
someone else, he might attach a handle to my name
and call me the brother of a famous person. For the
present I am going to remain anonymous."

The program continued, and finally it reached the
point where I was to do my speciality. I had an ef-
fective introduction ready.

"Now," I said, "I am going to introduce myself to
you in my own way. It is the way I like to be intro-
duced, always. I am Harry Jolson."

My accompanist, Owen Jones, who was at the
piano, seemed to think my introduction inadequate.
He jumped to his feet, turned to the audience and
shouted, "He is Al Jolson's brother!"

I put both hands to my head and surrendered in

143

despair. I couldn't get away from the fact that I was
Al's brother; not even when I was boss of the whole
show.

Lillian, also, was forced to merge her personality
into being Al Jolson's sister-in-law. Vainly she would
explain, "I am Mrs. Harry Jolson." Finally she gave
it up as hopeless and said no more.

Once she heard a woman, who had taken offense
at something she said, remark to others, "She needn't
stick her nose up in the air that way. She isn't the real
Mrs. Jolson."

Al was not to blame for the things that were
happening to me. If I had changed my name when
we broke up the Jolson, Palmer and Jolson act, his
fame probably would not have haunted me. Now it
was too late. No matter what I did, I still would have
carried the tag of being Al Jolson's brother.

When I was playing Keith's in Cleveland, the well-
known critic, Archie Bell, wrote a fine article for the
Cleveland News about my handicap. He pointed out
that brothers and sisters who succeed in spite of
having the same family name, are in the minority when
compared to those who take different names. He gave
some advise to young men who had kinsman in the
same profession who threatened to become celebrities.
He wrote, "Either change your name or try to switch
your relative into some other line where he will be a
flop."

The whole thing actually became comical. If I
walked down Broadway wearing a new necktie, the
wise boys suspected that Al had worn one like it before
I had, or perhaps he had given it to me secondhand.

In one of the acts I worked out, I was a sort of
Pagliacci in blackface. I had a recitative prologue
and some other lines written for the part. I used a

144

clown costume, and rehearsed the act during the sum-
mer. In August, I went on the road with it and did
my act eight weeks in New England. I sent my pictures
in the new costume to some hookers. When I called on
them personally, they greeted me with a laugh.

"Why don't you try something original?" they
asked. "Get an idea of your own. Why do you want
to copy Al all the time?"

I was ready to commit murder, but managed to
ask calmly, "What do you mean?"

Someone shoved a trade journal under my eyes.
For the first time I saw the announcement that Pagliac-
ci was to be made into a motion picture with Al as
the star. Never could I convince the hookers that I
had worked out my act long before the idea of the
motion picture was born.

One of the funniest things with which we had to
contend, was the type of people who pretend to be
acquainted with celebrities of whom they actualy knew
very little. The members of the "I Knew Him When"
Club of Al's admirers, grew at an astonishing rate.
Finally these nuisances reached such proportions that
I fear I became impatient and sarcastic when I met
them. Many of them were in the theater. One man,
who had a famous animal act, told me that he had
played on a bill with my brother.

"When was that?" I asked, for I did not question
his veracity.

He thought for a few moments before answering,
and then mentioned a theater in Canada.

"You probably have him mixed up with someone
else, Major," I replied. "Al did not play that theater,
and I happen to know that he wasn't in Canada all
during that year."

He became rather indignant and said he had the

145

program to prove it. I offered to bet him that he didn't
have such a program. He said that it was in an old
trunk which was in storage. Finally be backed down
completely, and said he wasn't sure just when and
where it was, but he had been on the same program
with AL It is interesting to see how many people cling
to the fringe of a great man's garments.

It was on a hot night in Texas when Lillian and I
were sitting outside the stage door, which was the
coolest spot we could find. Two men came up to us,
and one of them began the type of conversation I had
learned to dread.

"Hello, Harry! How is Al?"

"I am sure I don't know," I answered.

"You're Al's brother, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not," I answered sarcastically, "but I
have a letter authorizing me to use the Jolson name."

With his friend standing wide-eyed beside him,
he went into a long story about Al, whom it seemed
was his closest boyhood chum.

"We graduated together from Polytechnic High
School in California," he informed us.

"That is very interesting," I told him.

"Yes," he went on, "I know his father and mother
well. They have a store on Market Street in San Fran-
cisco. I had a long talk with them just before I left."

Perhaps I would have let him continue indefinitely,
but Lillian was always a realist who hated pretense.

"Do you know," she said finally, "if you tell those
stories to someone who really knows Al Jolson and
his family, he will know you are not telling the
truth?"

The man's companion spoke up, "Are you going to
take that, Fred?"

The garrulous one turned to Lillian indignantly.

146

"Are you telling me that I'm a liar?" he blustered.

"Of course I am," she retorted sweetly. "You know
that you are not acquainted with Al jolson or his
father and mother. He grew up in Washington, D. C.,
and his mother died when he was ten. He didn't go
to high school in California."

There was an uncomfortable pause, then the man
asked meekly, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am," Lillian assured him. " I married Al's
brother. Harry was joking about that letter, and when
we last heard from Al, he was well and happy. Thank
you."

My father was the most bewildered man in the
world when he suddenly found that his boy, Asa, had
come into prominence.

When visiting in New York, he entered a store on
Broadway with my brother-in-law. He was suddenly
aware of an excited conversation.

"There's Al Jolson's father! He's Al Jolson's
father!"

A salesman came up to him ready to ridicule the
whole idea.

"Don't try to tell me that you're Al Jolson's father,"
he said. "I know Al well. He's an Italian."

Father turned and gestured with his hands.

"Well," he said hopelessly, "maybe he is by this
time. I never would know."

The stories. I heard about Al and myself in those
days were almost as weird as those I am still hearing.
I learned that we were not brothers at all, nor even dis-
tant relatives. I heard that we were Jewish, German,
Irish and nearly everything else except Eskimo.

Here is a letter that I received while in England :

147

"Evancoyd,"

City Road

Edgbaston,

3171912

Dear Mr. Jolson;

I visited the Empire on Monday last, 2nd
House, and standing up in the Stalls Balcony,
I overheard the following conversation;

1st Man (after your second number) "What a
change it is to listen to a real black 1 When
you come to think of the turns who try to
present coon studies and then compare
them with the real thing - "

2nd Man "I quite agree with you. The major-
ity of coon impersonators on the Stalls at
present are nothing short of burlesques.
Anyone can distinguish between the genu-
ine negro and the imitation."

I wish you could have seen the expression
on their faces when you took off your gloves
and then your wig.

Thought this would interest you ; hope you
don't mind my seeming forwardness.

Best wishes
Yours very truly
R -

Lillian had an experience which was very funny
to me, but not to her. She used to wear a locket, which
was fashionable in those days.

In Lillian's locket were two photographs of me.
One was an everyday photograph where I had a bliss-

148

ful expression and an exceedingly high collar. The
other showed me in my blackface make-up.

One day, Lillian was talking with an English lady.
Growing rather confidential, she opened the locket.

"This is a picture of my husband," she confided.

The English lady examined the photographs with
great interest.

"Ah, yes, yes," she said finally, "I have heard
there are many colored people in America. Who is
the other gentleman; the light-complexioned one?"

One of the greatest advancements in modern think-
ing is that we are losing our group consciousness. To-
day the entertainment world is big enough to include
every race and color. This was not always true.

In the old days most people were interested in an
actor's color, nationality, religion and ancestors. Many
times it was said of me that I am not a made-up black-
face, but that I am a real Negro. I accepted this as
a. compliment to my histrionic ability.

During one season I managed a group of colored
singers, and appeared in blackface with them. In some
of the theaters the boys actually had to black their
faces and wear gloves so that the audience would
believe they were white men. One of the directors of
a theater complimented me on the beauty of the act
He also had some nice words regarding the singing
of my men. He remarked, "Your boys definitely dem-
onstrate that white singers are far ahead of the Negroes.
No colored entertainers could do those Southern Jubli-
lee songs as well as your white singers." I wondered
what he would say if I told him the truth; that I was
the only white man in our troupe.

It is gratifying to me to realize that I have lived to
see the time when such prejudices are passing away
I hope forever.

149

Life was good to Lillian and me through the
years. Our marriage had been an exceedingly happy
one, and we seemed to enjoy everything that came to
us, whether pleasant or unpleasant It was all a part
of the game; a part of the life of the theater which I
had chosen against the advise and sage-like counsel
of family and friends.

During the years of AFs great success, he often
expressed envy of me. This was not only because my
life was simpler than his, with fewer complications,
but because of his own restless, high-strung, over-
energized nature. Those who saw him on the stage
marveled at his tremendous energy; his activity and
joy that swept an audience with him into his own
dynamic realm.

He lived in the same manner when off the stage,
except for periods of utmost despondency which would
alternate with spells of enthusiasm and joy.

During a long engagement, Lillian and I took an
apartment in Brooklyn. It was in one of those old
buildings where anyone wanting to see us called
through a speaking tube from the entrance. One day
our buzzer sounded. I put the receiver to my ear and
heard a weary voice from below.

"Harry," the voice said, "this is Al."

It didn't sound like Al, but I told him to corne up.
He had a cold or sore throat or something, and, as
usual, was frantic with worry about his voice.

Henrietta was with him. They were living 'the life
of Riley at the elegant Carlton, but when they looked
around our little home, they actually envied us.

"Oh, doesn't this look comfortable and homey?"
Al exclaimed, again and again. "Honey, I wish we
had a place like this instead of living in that noisy
hotel. Harry and Lillian have all the best of it. Where-

150

ever they go they find peace, and we seem to find
nothing but more worry."

For a number of years both Al and I had been in
a rough environment, and were inclined to use words
in ordinary conversation that would have led our
Rabbi father to believe we were lost beyond redemp-
tion. Lillian reformed me. As soon as we were mar-
ried, she put her foot down hard as to swearing or
making any off-color remarks in her presence. For
compensation she had every confidence in me, and
never questioned what I did when she was not with me.
If I spent the night with the boys at the Friars, she
made no objections, and never did she subject me to a
wifely cross-examination when I returned home.

Henrietta used a different method with AL She in-
sisted that he account for every hour when he was
away from her, but did not put a ban on profanity.
When he was excited and irritated, Al could make the
air blue, and he knew all the four-letter words that
were ever invented.

His wife objected, but didn't know what to do
about it. Finally she confided in Lillian, and even shed
a few tears.

"How do you keep Harry from swearing?" she
asked.

"I just tell him he mustn't do it, and that is the
end of it," Lillian answered.

"That wouldn't work with Al," sighed Henrietta.
"He wouldn't pay any attention to me."

They talked the matter over, and Lillian finally
suggested the method by which Mark Twain's wife
had cured him from using his famous profanity, at
least in her presence. A few days later my wife was
visiting Henrietta when Al came in. He was excited

and angry over something, and began expressing him-
self in the language of the Bowery of former days.

Suddenly Henrietta came back at him with a bar-
rage of profanity that brought him up short He stared
at her in complete silence, looking like a man who had
received a sudden blow on the jaw.

Finally he gasped, "Why, you little swearing doll 1"
For a long time Al was careful about his language
when Henrietta was with him, and he never again
really cut loose in her presence.

152

XIII

From the time he was born, to the end of his days,
Al was cursed with restlessness, unreleased-energy and
dissatisfaction. It was only on the stage, before the
public, that he could release that bubbling fountain
that seethed within. He was always bursting with
suppressed desire for expression. He never knew ex-
actly what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go.
He only knew that he wanted to do something different
from what he was doing, and to go somewhere else.

Once he planned what he thought would be a
wonderful trip. He decided to go from New York to
California by steamer via Panama. He put his car
aboard, and was accompanied by his chauffeur. His
idea was to have a fine rest on board the ship. Then,
when they reached California, he would sit in the back
seat of the car in peace, while the chauffeur drove him
leisurely back to New York,

It was another case of a restless, two-sided nature
for which he was noted. Before he had been on board
the ship three days, he was pacing the narrow decks
like a caged lion. He would have given all he had,
together with his hopes for the future, if he could
jump into the ocean and swim back to his starting
place. When he reached San Francisco at last, he
dashed to the railroad office, took a fast train to New
York and left the chauffeur to drive the car alone across

153

the continent Activity and excitement were as neces-
sary to my brother as food and water.

The fact that Al had been taken over completely
by the Shuberts, and that he had signed a contract for
a long term, was fortunate for all concerned. He needed
a strong hand over him, and he became their greatest
star.

The appearance of Gaby Deslys had not been
highly successful, and the management prepared a
new show for her. It was called Vera Fiolotta. She
was to be surrounded by a galaxy of stars, including
Al. I have said that seven years is a generation in the
theater. How many today, remember the well-known
stars who appeared in Vera Fiolotta? Besides Al there
were Van Renssalaer Wheeler, Barney Bernard, Billie
Taylor, Harry Pilcher, Melville Ellis, Jose Collins,
Kathleen Clifford and Stella Mayhew, the latter being
a famous blackface comedienne who played opposite
Al. It required a brilliant star to keep the limelight from
such a cast, and it is doubtful if Mile. Deslys was equal
to it. Al scored heavily with two songs, That Haunting
Melody and Rum-Tum-Tiddle. While singing the lat-
ter, he developed the idea of running up and down
the aisles, which made a great hit with the audience.

Five months later, in March, 1912, Al opened in
another big show. It was a sort of hodge-podge called
The Whirl of Society. Part of it was a burlesque of
Sumurun, an oriental fantasy, which was going strong
at that time in New York. Al and Stella Mayhew sang
My Sumurun Girl, which became a popular hit.

In this show, the character which Al played was
named Gus. This sort of standardized the blackface,
and every character that Al played for the next ten
years was called Gus.

One reason for his popularity was that he was a

154

human dynamo of energy. He was not working hard to
put over his act, for nothing is more fatal to comedy
than that. It was his natural joy in working with all his
might One critic wrote, "He gave of himself prodi-
gally, spending energy like a volcano."

Often Al came off the stage completely soaked with
perspiration. He would take a sponge bath in his
dressing room, and make a complete change of clothing,
before going out on the street.

In 1913, Al was once more teamed up with Gaby
Deslys at the Winter Garden. This time a sort of musi-
cal melange had been rigged up that was called The
Honeymoon Express. There were hordes of Jolson
fans now, who regarded Al as the star of the show, and
Gaby as a supporting character. For the first time in
the Winter Garden, Stella Mayhew was not around to
divide the blackface honors.

It was less than two years from the time of his first
appearance at the Winter Garden, and Al was be-
coming a popular idol. His salary followed his popu-
larity, and the Shuberts realized that his contract was
a gold mine that they had acquired with the Dock-
stader group. Al did not fail to keep them reminded of
it.

October, 1914, saw an opening of another big review
at the Winter Garden, Dancing Around. There were
three top-liners in the cast besides Al : Bernard Garn-
ville, Cecil Cunningham and Kitty Doner. Al was now
the big attraction of any show in which he appeared.
He had been on the road a few months with The
Honeymoon Express, and now the Sun commented,

"Al Jolson had been too long absent from
his public as its particular star. He was wel-
comed back with enthusiasm born of the hun-

155

ger to see and hear him again. He was never
more amusing, never acted with more evident
enjoyment of the task for its own sake, never
sang with more artless delight in the occu-
pation. Nothing ever checks the wave of con-
tagious magnetism that spreads through the
theatre whenever he appears, and makes him
and his audience the best of friends. He is
the spirit of rough gayety, and his admirers
sit in happy captivity under his irresistible

ministrations Al Jolson is in himself about

the most refreshing characterization in the
world of stage humor. Almost any actor would
give anything to be able to reproduce such
a characterization. But only one man can, and
he happens to be Al Jolson so he need not
trouble about any other role."

While playing in Washington, Al had gone aroun'd
to see Father before the show opened.

"Are you still ashamed of me, Father," he asked,
"and do you still think I am going to the dogs?"

"No, Asa," Father answered, "I am proud of you.
I hear you are a big manager."

"No, no, no!" Al protested. "I am not a mere
manager. I am the star."

Father looked at him with horror in his eyes.

"Asa!" he exclaimed. "You are not the manager?"

"Of course I am not the manager. Don't you un-
derstand? I am the star of the show. Why would I want
to be a manager? A manager gets a hundred dollars a
week. I am getting thousands.

Father shook his head wearily and was in the depths
of despondency.

156

"Oh, Asa," he moaned, "I am so sorry. I thought
you were the manager."

Never could Father understand how a mere
comedian, who put shoe polish on his face and came
out on the stage to play the fool, could be more im-
portant than the boss of the whole show. He still
regretted deeply that his loved boy, Asa, had not be-
come a cantor, or had not at least gone into the clothing
business. He became more interested when Al told him
of his vast earnings. A few days later I wrote him that I
had signed a long-run contract with Keith for a nice
figure. Then he realized that both his wayward sons
had succeeded in the hated theater, far beyond his most
dismal forebodings. He did not approve, but finally
accepted his fate as a father with resignation.

Al continued his brilliant career. Hit was followed
by hit. Robinson Crusoe Jr., opened at the Winter
Garden in 1916. Sinbad followed in 1918. Al had been
given a subtitle, The Winter Garden Commedian. His
openings now were never less than two years apart.
Never did he have a failure. After a full season in
New York, an eager public was waiting for him
throughout the rest of the country.

Seven years later, when Big Boy opened, the New
York Times remarked,

"Mr. Jolson comes to town but rarely in
a new show for the extremely simple reason
that any show in which he appears seems to
have the capacity to run on forever, and is
changed for a new one only when the star
gives signs of toppling over from exhaustion."

Woodrow Wilson was then President of the United
States. During the strenuous years of the First World

157

War, he found relaxation in vaudeville and musical
comedy. Al was one of his favorite entertainers, and
he honored him with an invitation to lunch at the
White House. Reporters and publicity men made the
most of it, and finally the story reached Father.

A few days later Al called at the old home. Father
saw him coming. He opened the front door and cried,
"Asa, Asa. I heard you had lunch with the President
at the White House!"

"Yes, I did," answered Al. "What do you think of
the theater now, Father? Your own son had lunch
at the White House. Isn't that wonderful?"

Father looked at him demurely for a moment and
said, "But Asa, did you tell him that I live here, and
that whatever I eat has to be kosher?"

My brother's friendship with Mr. Wilson^dfa not
influence him in the 1920 election. With otljjfr ^promi-
nent stars as members, he was President of the Harding
and Coolidge Theatrical League.

On August 24, he headed a delegation that called
on Mr. Harding at his home in Marion.

Ted Lewis and his jazz band, and the Johnny
Hand Band from Chicago, furnished the music. They
marched in style to the Harding home. Leo Carillo
and Texas Guinan led the parade carrying a big
American flag.

Al made a semi-humorous political speech, then
blew a whistle, and all of them struck up a campaign
song, Harding You're The Man For Us. The words
and music were by Al Jolson. It started off something
like this:

158

"We think the country's ready

For a man like Teddy;
One who is a fighter through and through.

We need another Lincoln

To do the Nation's thinkin*
And Mr. Harding, we've selected you.

CHORUS

Harding, lead the G O P
Harding, on to victory,
We are here to make a fuss;
Harding, you're the man for us!

Blanche Ring sang Rings On My Fingers; Leo
Carillo gave a speech in Italian dialect, Lew Cody,
Eugene O'Brian, Zena Keef e and others made speeches
with Al injecting his own type of fun in between. He
pretended to be holding a whispered conversation with',
Mr. Harding, and then announced that he had been
promised a job as Ambassador to China.

A few days later, Al called on Lillian and me.

"How about this campaign, Al?" I asked. "I
thought you and President Wilson were good friends?"

"Of course we are," he answered, "but I like to side
in with a winner."

In 1921, a theater was built for Al's use, and was
given his name. It was at 7th Avenue and 59th Street
in New York. Here Al opened in October of that year
with a new show: Bombo. Three years had elapsed
since he had last played in New York, and his thou-
sands of fans were anxious to see him again. A reviewer
complained, "Three years is a long time between
Jolsons."

The opening of the show and theater was a great
event in Al's life. He had come a long way since we

159

appeared together in The Hebrew and The Cadet.
The nervous strain under which he always worked
nearly overcame him on that opening night. Most
people on the stage are subject to stage fright. Being
one of the most highly-strung individuals the theater
has ever seen, Al's fright at times was actually pathetic.
Even though he was a veteran of more than twenty
years' experience, I believe he never had a worse case
of pure fright than on the evening of October 21.

He became convinced that his voice was gone, and
that he would not be able to sing. He could see nothing
but disaster ahead, both during the entertainment and
afterward.

When I went back stage, he came up and clung
to me as he did when he was a little boy.

"Harryl" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Don't let them
ring up the curtain. I can't go on."

A doctor was in attendance; one of the good old
doctors with a confident manner and a soothing voice.

"Pull yourself together, Mr. Jolson," he would
say. "You are all right. There is nothing wrong with
you or your voice. This is a wonderful night for you and
you mustn't spoil it with your unfounded fears."

I tried to joke him out of his spell by recalling some
experiences from the past.

"There is nothing wrong with you Al," I assured
him. "Are you crazy? Is having a theater named after
you driving you nuts? There's nothing to be afraid of.
What if you get fired? You can always come back to
Keith, and we will revive the old Hebrew and Cadet
act and knock 'em dead."

The curtain was raised. Instead of protesting, Al
stood in the wings sweating and trembling. When his
cue came, I gave him a hard push from the rear and
out he went. The ovation he received is one that he

160

never could forget. For several minutes the applause
continued while Al stood and bowed. Probably the
time that elapsed helped him regain his nerve. Never
did he sing better than he did that night

Of course he was expending his usual amount of
energy. Every time he came off the stage, he vowed
he couldn't go back. When the curtain fell on the first
act, he said there wouldn't be a second. He was through.
Outside, the audience was standing up, applauding,
cheering and shouting in a determination to get a
curtain speech.

"Go on, Al!" everyone was telling him. "Go out and
give'em a talk."

Finally we pushed him out on the stage. He made
a pleasing speech, greatly to his surprise, but not to
ours.

In the course of his remarks he stated sadly that
this would be his last show. The strain of first nights
like this was killing him, and he couldn't carry on.
While he firmly believed what he was saying, I knew
he would change his mind within the next day or
two. Al would never die from being in the theater,
but if he were taken away he would perish like a green
plant shut up in the dark.

The reviews that Al received in the newspapers the
next day somewhat reassured him, and he abandoned
his idea of retiring from the stage. It was a lesson
in the futility of worry. In his distress, he had omitted
two stanzas from one of the leading hits in the show.
This was a travesty on The Barber of Seville. One
critic said it was the best thing of the evening, but
was too short.

In several of APs shows, historical characters ap-
peared. In this one he was Bombo, servant of Christo-
pher Columbus. His threat to retire was taken only

161

semi-seriously. The Herald commented that if Al
retired, it would be hard on Hendrick Hudson, Gul-
liver, Captain Kidd and many other characters in
history, for they would lose the chance to be immortali-
zed in musical comedy.

The nervous anxiety that people of the stage have,
just before they go on, is something that few actors
have been able to overcome. No matter how many
times they have performed successfully, there is al-
ways a question of whether they will again be a hit, or
fall as flat as a dead fish. Sometimes this nervousness is
carried to the point of eccentricity.

One famous actor was allergic to tobacco smoke.
Yet he held a cigar in his mouth most of the time while
on the stage. He couldn't work without it A well-
known comedian never appeared on the stage with-
out a piece of string, which he wound around an index
finger and then unwound it during his whole act. The
string became associated with him in the minds of all
who knew him. They thought it was part of his act,
and didn't know he couldn't get along without it. Most
singers are pestered by a haunting fear that the voice
will fail. Al was the worst that I have ever known for
this. Fear for his voice was almost an obsession. Some-
times he would close his show in the middle of a pros-
perous season, because he thought his voice was break-
ing. His voice was all right, but fear of losing it was
too much for him.

To the layman, it may seem that the ancient tradi-
tion, that the show must go on, is carried to extremes.
The actor will not agree. If it were only his own
welfare that is at stake, the matter would be simplified.
But he has an entire show to think of; the manager
who has sold hundreds of tickets, and the other actors,
most of whom are probably but one jump ahead of

162

poverty and a park bench. There are the musicians
and the stage hands, as well as office employees and
many others whom the public does not see. The show
must go on! One assumes a tremendous responsibility
when he chooses the field of entertainment as a profes-
sion. Many are depending upon him, and he would die
rather than fail them.

I have seen people get up from a hospital bed, rush
to the theater, put on an act of singing or violent
dancing, and return immediately to the hospital, burn-
ing with fever and with doctors and nurses screaming
maledictions.

I shall never forget one bitterly cold winter when
everyone on the bill was sick at one time or another.
When we left St Paul, Cleveland Bonner, the classic
dancer, was so ill that he could hardly stand, but he
went on with his act and did a good job of it. At
Winnepeg, the temperature was far below zero. Some
performing elephants mutinied while being taken
from the cars to the theater. They knocked down
fences and everything else in their path, and finally
wound up in a warm power-house with frosted ears.

The strange part of this tradition, that the show
must go on, is that no actor wants it known that he is
not in the best of health and spirit. Theater-goers are
always kind when they understand, and are most un-
kind when they do not understand. I was playing in
the South one season when the singer's greatest enemy,
laryngitis, made it impossible for me to sing. It seemed
to me that the audience would know that something was
wrong when I went out on the stage and told a few
stories, in tones that were like a bullfrog singing a
love song. The critic of the local paper remarked,
"Harry Jolson, billed as the operatic blackface, proved
to have no voice."

163

Whenever I was unable to sing I went on the stage
and told a few stories rather than to leave the manager
flat. During one of these trying times, I received a
letter which I have kept for many years :

"Harry Jolson;

With such a wonderful brother to study
and follow, I believe your success is assured,
but may I mention one fault that must be
overcome before any performer can catch hold
of the crowd. You do not articulate clearly.
We cannot understand what you are saying,
and articulation is nine-tenths of the battle.

The best to you always.

One might ask why it didn't occur to the gentleman
that I never would have gotten far in the theatrical
world if I couldn't speak clearly? Yet it was probably
my fault for not confiding in the audience and ex-
plaining my woes.

Al was severely criticized for closing his shows
before the end of the season. Managers have argued
the point with me, and there are two strong sides to
the question. When a show was booked months ahead,
should Al have disappointed his audiences by walking
out and speaking a few words in a hoarse voice, or
should he have cancelled the engagement? Al always
tried to be at his best, and he hated a mediocre perform-
ance.

People have made remarks to me such as, "I saw
your brother in the Winter Garden, and was terribly
disappointed. His voice wasn't what people claim at
all. He just sort of talked a few songs and didn't give

any encores."

164

I have heard others say, "Al is slipping. His voice
isn't nearly as good as it was a few years ago." The
slightest lapse from top form brings forth such opin-
ions. This is the question: should an actor or a singer
submit to such criticism, or should he refuse to appear
when he is not at his best? The only perfect solution
to the problem is to obtain people for the theater who
are never sick, if they can be found.

Whenever Al closed his show before the season was
over, he had my sympathy. I always sided with him.
He had a big reputation to guard, and the only way
he could protect it was to refuse to appear when he
was sick and his voice was not at its best.

165

XIV

There was always something fascinating about
vaudeville. You prepared for your act, went on for
twenty minutes, and you were through. Yet, strong as
the lure of vaudeville stage was, it called for a hard
life on the part of those who heeded the call.

There were all-night rides in a day coach that was
but a glamorous caboose for a freight train. Often we
would get out of bed before daylight, half dead with
sleep, to tramp a mile or more through snowdrifts,
carrying heavy luggage, because no cabs were avail-
able. There was the usual room in a hotel, which was
next door to railroad yards and a busy switch engine,
or a wild, poker party was going on in the next room.
There was always an unsympathetic hotel clerk to say
that no rooms were available, or that he had only a
court room, $10.00 a day, double.

Lillian had a list of specifications regarding a room
that she always handed a hotel clerk usually without
success. A desperate clerk once asked her why she
didn't have a string of hotels built to order all around
the circuit.

One of the most disastrous things that could happen
was to fail to appear for the first performance of the
week. It was a serious matter even if one failed to make
the first morning rehearsal. Going from one city to
another was a constant source of worry, from the time
of the closing performance in one place, until we

167

reached the town of our next engagement. I always
spent a sleepless night if I had to catch an early
morning train, for I had no faith in alarm clocks or
hotel clerks.

Only once did I fail to arrive in time for my first
show. My route list showed that I was to go from
Oklahoma City to Little Rock, and then to Dallas.
When the contracts came I merely tossed them into my
trunk, and did not even suspect that the route might
have been changed.

In the small hours of Sunday morning, we pulled
out of Oklahoma City on one of the local trains that
seemed to stop at every farm house. Late in the day we
obtained a Little Rock newspaper, and I looked over
the theater advertisements. Mine advertised Fritzi
Scheff as the headliner for that week. Harry Jolson
wasn't mentioned.

"This fellow is all mixed up," I told Lillian. "He
doesn't even know that I am to appear in his theater."

It was a curious situation, and we were uneasy when
we reached Little Rock. Late Sunday night we went
to the theater to look at the lobby advertising. Neither
my name nor my photographs were there. I couldn't
understand it, and got ready for some acid comments
for the manager.

The next morning I went to rehearsal. Instead of
speaking my piece to the manager, I heard, "Why
Harry, what are you doing here? Dallas has been
wiring and telephoning to find out what has become
of you."

I dashed back to the hotel, dug my contracts out of
my trunk, and found that the route had been changed.

We grabed the next train to Dallas, but I missed the
Monday shows, and they had to patch the program
as best they could. We spent the night on a slow train

168

in order to reach Dallas in time for the Tuesday
morning rehearsal.

I had gone seven-hundred sleepless miles on slow
trains. I had one rehearsal and two shows that day. At
midnight we crawled into bed completely exhausted.
I believe I was fast asleep by the time my head hit
the pillow.

An hour later I was dragged back to painful con-
sciousness by a series of horrible noises that made me
think of Dante's Inferno. We had been forced to accept
one of Lillian's forbidden rooms that had a thin door
leading to the one adjoining. A maudlin, barber-shop
quartet had swung into an untunef ul rendition of Sweet
Adeline. This was followed by I've Been Working On
The Railroad, and all the other whiskey classics of the
day.

We made a frantic appeal to the night clerk, and
finally stumbled up three flights of stairs and along
a half mile of corridors. Lillian was in kimono, I in
dressing gown and slippers. Hats were on our touseled
hair, clothing was drapped over our arms, and both
hands were full of luggage. Finally we reached a tiny
court room that had the one advantage of no nearby
quartet.

Our baggage was another source of worriment. The
loss of one piece, especially if it contained the stage
wardrobe, was a calamity beside which all others were
but mere incidents.

Vaudeville performers were people who knew
nothing of holidays. Such times as Thanksgiving and
Christmas meant merely an extra show. An editor once
wrote of our profession:

"His Christmas tree is the scenery in the
theatre; his 'stocking' is his agent which hangs

169

from the mantel piece of the booking depart- -
ment; and his Santa Claus is the manager who
gives him a consecutive route. His Christmas
is made merry by the plaudits and smiles of
the audience, for the theatre is his home and
the audience his family; he is the happy vic-
tim of Wanderlust."

Among vaudeville actors there is a saying as famous
as, "You know what the Governor of North Carolina
said to the Governor of South Carolina." This is, "The
boat sails Wednesday." It has been heard in every
theater, and probably not one person in ten thousand
knows what it means.

The story goes back to Willis Sweatnam. He was
an old-time minstrel who went to England to do a
blackface act in the Music Halls. During the first
show he didn't get a laugh, and there was no applause
when he finished. The manager came to his dressing
room where he was sitting in glum silence.

"I am sorry, Mr. Sweatnam," he announced, "but,
of course, you will have to be cancelled. Our people
don't like your kind of entertainment We just made
a mistake. The Teutonic sails Wednesday. If you will
go right over now and book passage "

"But see herel" Sweatnam interrupted. "You have

not seen anything yet. I just used the wrong stuff for

that show. I will make up a new act, and you will see."

The manager shook his head and rubbed his hands

together to express sympathy.

"There is no use," he went on. "They don't enjoy
your type of act. It would be wasting time to continue.
The boat that sails Wednesday "

"Please don't be hasty," Sweatnam argued. "You
are throwing away good money if you lose my act.

170

Let me go on once more, and I'll prove to you that I
can put it over."

After a long argument the manager gave in.

"All right," he said, "you may go on in the next
show, but remember that the boat sails Wednesday."

Sweatnam talked with the orchestra leader who was
to work with him, and framed up some new jokes.

"The first one will be like this," he explained. "I'll
ask you why an old maid is like a green tomato. You
give it up and then I'll come back with, 'Because it's
hard to mate her. 7 See the joke? To mate her
tomato tomater."

"Ah 1 yes," the leader answered. "Quite so ! I get you.
That is a jolly good jest."

There were more hasty instructions, and presently
the act was on. Sweatnam led up to the first joke.

"Mr. Chumley," he began, "why is an old maid
like a green tomato?"

"I am sure I do not see the slightest resemblance,
Mr. Sweatnam," replied the bright assistant. "I do not
know. Why is an old maid like a green tomah to?"

The joke was a wreck, and there was nothing
Sweatnam could do to revive it. He stood there a
moment, and then said sadly, "There is only one
answer, Mr. Chumley. The boat sails Wednesday."

Vaudeville reached an all-time peak before moving
picture producers invented feature pictures. Those
were the days of long routes and short jumps. The great
Keith Circuit, and its affiliates, had at least one fine
theater playing a full week, sometimes with only two
shows a day, in nearly every large city.

A vaudeville actor was a gentleman then. He could
take his time about coming to the theater for the mati-
nee. He could dress leisurely afterward, and have a

171

few hours for pleasure and dinner before the evening
show.

We did not know it, but the picture theaters were
even then sounding the death knell of vaudeville. The
bigger picture houses brought in singing or dancing
acts with the films. Business began to slip away from
the vaudeville theaters. In desperation the managers
added pictures to the program, and gave more shows
in a day.

No one, who has not been through it, can under-
stand the curse to an actor of three and four shows a
day. The new schedule called for packing, unpacking
and catching trains twice a week. There were extra
railroad fares, which the actor had to pay, and salaries
declined as people turned away from vaudeville to
attend the moving picture theaters.

The next step came when the variety theaters turned
entirely to moving pictures, and the grand, old days
of vaudeville, which many of us believed was the
finest of all forms of entertainment, were with the
dim and pathetic past.

Some of the saddest tragedies in business life occur
in the theatrical world. I have known actors who
reached the heights of success, with the crowd at
their feet. They drew fabulous salaries for many years.
Then, suddenly, they were out of a job, without money
and without friends. Their means of livelihood was
gone, and they were unable to obtain a foothold in any
other type of employment.

Perhaps no form of art is so cruel to its adherents
as that of the stage, and this was particularly true
of vaudeville.

Knowing the hazards of the profession, no one
dreads old age as much as actors. Many vaudeville
stars made a practice of putting away a little money

172

each week. Some day they expected to have a little
farm with chickens and a cow where, far from the
stage, they could live unhappily until the end of their
days.

Lillian and I began saving shortly after we were
married. For years we stayed away from high-priced
hotels, arid sought out boarding houses and furnished
rooms. Only once did we invest in stocks, and that
cured us forever.

"This should teach us," Lillian announced severly,
"that actors should keep their money in socks rather
than in stocks."

Later I tried her joke on the stage, but it proved
to be a flop.

During these hectic years my brother and I saw
comparatively little of each other. Sometimes we were
in the same city at the same time, and spent many
happy hours together. At his request I would give Al
a lot of elderly-brother advise, which he seldom
followed.

In the fall of 1924, we were together a few days
in New York. More than three years had elapsed since
he had launched Bombo. Now he was spending sleep-
less hours in his concern over a new show. He wanted
one for the winter, but had no idea what it would be.
We were at the races when an idea came to me.
On the way home I made a suggestion.

"Al, why don't you get up a musical version of one
of the old racing pieces such as Wild Fire or In Old
Kentucky?"

"That's it!" he cried.

We discussed the matter all the way back to New
York, but finally he shook his head.

"I am afraid it isn't practical, Harry," he decided.

173

"There would be too much trouble and expense carry-
ing horses on long road trips."

We argued about it, for I had grown enthusiastic
over the idea. I could see great possibilities in such a
show.

Two or three weeks elapsed before I saw Al again.
Then I met him on the Rialto, and he was full of
news about his new show.

"What kind of show is it?" I asked.

"Believe it or not, Harry, I am going to do one
of those horsey shows. There is a great racing scene
in it. Didn't we talk about it the last time I saw you?
I'm going to call it Big Boy"

The Jolson theater was occupied when Al was
ready, and he opened in January, 1925, in the Winter
Garden. The play was a musical comedy instead of
a musical revue. It had something of a plot, and was
a departure from his vehicles of former years. Al
played the part of a colored jockey. The setting was
in the South, and there were fitting touches of melo-
drama that he could do so well. He started another song
on the road to fame on his opening night: "Keep
smiling at troubles, for troubles are bubbles, and bub-
bles will soon blow away."

Al's first appearance on the stage, as usual, stopped
the show. The next morning the following comment
appeared in the New York Times :

"As an example of an audience held in the
hollow of the hand, last night's premier at the
Winter Garden provided a night that should
live in theatrical history. Never before did all
present seem so distinctly the property of the

actor as they did last night In Big Boy he

seems to be an even more vibrant and mag-

174

netic figure than ever before. He is all of the
old Jolson and something of a new Jolson as
well. He sings both seriously and comically,
and included in the song group is a Mammy
number, a cheer-up number and every other
kind of number; he tells stories, both in char-
acter and out of it (one anecdote having to do
with Pola Negri, probably his high point for
all time), and with all his old skill he uses his
eyes eloquently at the precise moment when
the point of a line can be greatly enhanced
thereby. A great man in the theatre, Mr. Jol-
son, and deservedly one of its most popular."

It was typical of the praise and commendation that
poured in from every source.

One of the great tragedies in ATs life, it seemed
to me, was when Henrietta decided to obtain a divorce.
They were married in 1907. Henrietta was a lovely
little woman; a petite blonde, fond of books, and a
perfect lady. She was quiet and reserved, and dressed
always in perfect taste. When Al started climbing
rapidly the ladder of success, she worked hard to climb
with him. She read the best of literature, studied the
piano, learned to read and speak French, and was
at home in any society.

Those who knew them best blamed Al for the
separation. Naturally, I always defended my younger
brother. It seemed to me that any woman who married
Al should have known she was merely courting trouble.
He belonged to the public. His one great pleasure in
life was appearing before people. He gave all that he
had, and nothing was reserved around which he could
build a harmonious home life.

A year after the divorce, while I was playing on

175

the West Coast, Henrietta spent two weeks with Lil-
lian and me. She and Al had been writing to each
other, and we hoped that they would re-marry.

Henrietta regretted that she had sued Al for a
divorce. She felt that she might have saved their mar-
riage if she had followed her own wishes, and had not
listened to others. She seemed to have no hope of
reconciliation.

"When Al and I were poor," she said, "we were
always happy. Al was ambitious, and I was ambitious
for him. I did everything possible to help him succeed.
What did I gain? Nothing 1 I only lost him."

One Say when she and Lillian were together, she
said bitterly, "Lillian, don't be a fool. Don't be too
ambitious for Harry. If his success becomes too great,
he will belong to his public rather than to you."

The reconciliation we hoped for did not take place,
and both she and Al married others.

When Lillian and I met APs second wife for the
first time, we were so astonished that she had a right to
feel insulted. Her name was Ethel Delmar, and she
had been a dancer in George Whites' Scandals.

Mentally we compared her with Henrietta. Miss
Delmar was much taller. She had raven-black hair,
and cared nothing about pretty and dainty clothes.
Her hobby was keeping dogs, and she always had a
few with her wherever she happened to be. Con-
siderably younger than Al, she loved the beautiful
home they had at Scarsdale. She was a gregarious soul,
and enjoyed nothing better than to have the house
filled with guests. She could not understand why Al
did not love a home and a host of merry companions
as much as she.

To him, a home was merely a place to sleep. Other-
wise it was an encumbrance. He didn't care to spend

176

much time at home, and hated to be bothered with
management or details.

Al lived for the footlights, the blare of the trumpets,
and the elaborate stage setting with himself in the
middle of it. He liked the applause of the multitude.
He loved to mix with the crowd surging up and down
the streets. Never could he be happy away from the
rush and excitement of the life he had lived for many
years.

A home and a wife were actually fetters to AL
He had to be free, and resented any form of restraint.
Many were the punishments he had received from
Father when he was a boy because of his desire to go
his own way, free from the ties of parents and home.
The years had not changed him. His marriage with
Ethel Delmar ended in a Paris divorce court.

Yet, there was one thing that the public did not
know about Al. He and I talked it over many times,
for it was a mutual problem. Both of us loved children
and longed to become fathers. My knowledge of APs
yearning for fatherhood caused me to fall for one of
his publicity agent's tricks. A story came out in the
newspapers to the effect that Al had adopted a baby
in Youngstown, Ohio.

I had no personal knowledge of whether or not the
story was true, yet I was besieged with hundreds of
questions.

"Is it true about Al?" people asked. "Is it a boy or
a girl? How old is it? Is Al going to marry again?
Otherwise how can he take care of a baby?"

Several weeks elapsed before Al and I were in
in the same city. One evening I called on him in his
dressing room.

"How about the baby you adopted?" I asked.

177

"Oh, that!" he said carelessly. "That was just a
press-agent's stunt"

"I should have known it," I replied. "I ought to
know you well enough by this time, not to be taken
in by your crazy stories. Where did you get the idea?"

"Well," he answered, "while I was playing in
Youngstown, I had a dream one night about adopting
a baby. The next day I happened to mention it to the
publicity man, and he grabbed the idea. He got up a
big story about it, and suggested that we call the
imaginary baby, Youngstown Jolson."

After all these years I still encounter that story
about Al adopting a baby in Youngstown, Ohio. Many
other stories are told about him today that were merely
fabrications woven in a press agent's mind.

178

Both Al and I had offers and tentative offers to go
into moving pictures during the silent era. In 1923,
D. W. Griffiths made a one-picture deal with AL When
Al saw a few of the test shots that were made of him,
he promptly cancelled the whole thing and went to
Europe to recover from the shock.

In 1926, the moving picture industry was in the
doldrums. The Warner Brothers Company was des-
perately working on a revolutionary project where
sound would be added to the usual pantomine. They
went after Al for the first full-length talking picture.

One of the chief inducements was the medium in
which he would star : The Jazz Singer. The story was
somewhat similar to that of Al's own history. The son
of a Jewish cantor runs away from home and becomes
a Broadway star. In the evening of Tom Kippur, he
comes back and attends the synagogue. Taking the
place of his dying father, he leads the sacred prayers
in a tear-jerker ending.

Al agreed to accept the role, and made his first
picture. Warner Brothers were having financial diffi-
culties, and finally talked Al into accepting his salary
in stock in the company. It is probable that Al had
little faith in the future of moving pictures, talking or
otherwise; but he was in the big money at the time
and probably regarded the whole thing as an interesting
experiment.

179

The Jazz Singer opened at the Warner theater
in New York in October, 1927. Only a part of the
huge crowd could be admitted. Thousands awaited
their turn near the entrance, and other thousands gave
up in despair.

The question in everyone's mind was whether talk-
ing pictures would be successful, and whether or not
they were here to stay.

Al was in an orchestra seat, nervous and worried.
Never before had he sat in an audience to see and hear
himself on the stage.

There was a tremendous applause when his voice
came from the screen. Tears were in every eye when
the picture ended, with the jazz singer chanting the
prayers in the synagogue. Al broke down completely,
for tears always came easily to his eyes.

The critics joined in a paean of praise. Talking
pictures were here to stay.

The critic, Richard Watts, wrote :

"Jolson and Vitaphone have triumphed
over the silent drama. The important thing
was that this device for synchronizing sound
with cinema proved capable of catching all
of that distinctive quality of voice and method,
all of that unparalleled control over the emo-
tions of an audience that is Al Jolson."

Another revolution had taken place in the world
of entertainment, and Al had a tremendous part in a
successful introduction of the new medium.

Warner Brothers rushed Al into another full-
length talking picture, The Singing Fool. There was
a feature song in it, which Al did not like when he
heard it at a preview.

180

He dashed out of the theater, went to a telephone
and called Buddy De Sylva, who was in Atlantic City.
Briefly he stated his woes and demanded a song.

"What is it supposed to be about?" asked De
Sylva.

"Well, first I am talking with a boy. Then I sing."

"How old is the boy supposed to be?" De Sylva
countered.

"He is about three, and is standing at my knee."

"That's fine," De Sylva said. "I have two lines
ready, 'Climb upon my knee, sonny boy; although
you're only three, sonny boy.' Why don't you take
it from there?"

Al took it from there, and Sonny Boy was the hit
of The Singing Fool. It brought Al a fortune from
the sales of sheet music and records.

Later he sold his Warner Brothers' stock for
$4,000,000, about the amount of his estate when he
passed away. It is estimated that Al made and spent,
during his spectacular career, more than $20,000,000.

With talking pictures, the industry reached a great
era. Contrary to popular beliefs, moving pictures had
not attracted successful theatrical people, except in the
few cases where high salaries were paid. There were
several reasons for this. The silent motion picture was
considered a cheap, low form of entertainment by
successful actors in vaudeville or the spoken drama,
Those in vaudeville, especially, shunned the making
of pictures. Many had an act that went on for years
with very little change. They covered our continent
and even Europe, and reached many thousands of
people.

If the act had been made into a motion picture,
every nickel theater would have shown it. Theater-
goers would have seen it a number of times, and would

181

not care to see it again. One motion picture could kill
a great vaudeville act that would go on for years on
the stage.

During the 1920's, I was tempted a number of
times by offers from friends in the motion picture
industry. As we look back upon those years today, we
might ask, "How could you be so foolish as not to
accept?"

My answer, when offers came, was merely that I
was well established in vaudeville. My earnings were
high. I was saving money for a rainy day, and I hugely
enjoyed my career. Why should I change, and take a
chance on anything as hazardous as moving pictures
would be for me?

Al, likewise, had many offers, but the silent movie
did not attract him. What future could it offer, for
a man whose greatest talent lay in singing and
speaking?

During the years of his greatest success, Al always
remained the common man. His closest friends were
from every walk of life. One Christmas I arrived in
Chicago, while Al was playing there in Bombo. I
telephoned him immediately.

"Golly, Harry," he said, "I am sorry I didn't know
you and Lillian were coming. I am throwing a Christ-
mas dinner, but every possible spot is full. I would
like to have you, and so would the others."

I asked him who his other guests were.

"Oh," he said, "the same old crowd. There's Jim-
mie, Holmes, Friday and others of the same bunch."

Jimmie was his chauffeur. Holmes was his valet
and secretary, and his man Friday had been living on
APs bounty for many years. He had many parasitic
followers, of course. What great and wealthy man does

182

not? Many of them he appraised at their actual value,
but still accepted them.

It was about this time that he was speaking to a
woman whom we both knew. They discussed me, and
later she repeated the conversation to me.

Al said, "Of the two of us, Harry is the lucky one.
He has everything. He knows that he is loved for
himself alone, not for his money nor his prestige."

My own more profitable and more pleasant years
began in 1921. It was on Labor Day, in Albany, that
Mr. E. F. Albee, head of the Keith Circuit, saw my
act for the first time. A short time later I was signed
on a long-term contract to play the Keith theaters. I
received fine treatment, and I had the satisfaction of
knowing that I was at the top of the vaudeville ladder.

Even so, many people considered me to be a sort of
poor relation of Al. In the December, 1926, issue of
the Broadway Breeze, this article appeared :

"B roadway is often reminded that the star's
brother, Harry Jolson, is allowed to remain
in vaudeville year after year. Generous with
money to the point of irrationality (he has
helped many an impoverished young pro-
ducer) Al might be expected to place Harry,
a really good performer, in a show of his own.
Al Jolson's intimates defend him with the
protest that Harry's technique so closely fol-
lows APs that to upraise him would be to
strike a blow at his own value. Sound enough
a reason to be sure, and the matter is entirely
ATs own affair."

Among his many extravagances, my brother actually
was playing angel to some of the Broadway shows.

183

While in one of his optimistic moods, he might have
actually asked me to star in such a production, and in
a moment of weakness, I might have accepted. If so,
the production probably would, have flopped, and I
would have been the most unhappy person in the world.
You don't go to the top of any profession by having
someone finance you. Success must come through your
own endeavor, and it must be built step by step through
the years. The subject of Al playing angel to a show for
me never came up between us.

The year 1929, was an exciting time for me. Lillian
and I moved to Hollywood, where we took a nice
apartment. With vaudeville declining, I determined
either to get into talking pictures, or go into business,
or retire.

Once more I learned the futility of planning ahead,
and that "the best laid plans of mice and men gang
aft agley." The Universal Picture Corporation signed
me for four pictures at a fancy salary. With the cus-
tomary actor's desire to keep constantly in the public
eye, I inserted a full page announcement in Variety.

Again it seemed that Dame Fortune smiled and
said, "No, Harry, don't you remember? It is to Al
that I have given wealth and fame. To you I have
given peace, love and happiness."

Before my contract expired, an actor friend told
me he had been informed that I was to be signed for
seven years, and was to be built into a great star. One
day I was asked to come to the studio. Lillian went with
me. It was a thrilling time for us. At last I was to be
in a new world of entertainment; the same world that
had ended my career as a vaudeville star.

With high hopes and smiling faces we were ushered
into the office of an executive who was known as the
trouble shooter. He told me sadly that the company

184

would not take up my opinion, and that I could call the
next day for a full settlement under my contract.

As we left his office Lillian burst into tears. I put
an arm around her, and thus we left the studio. Gone
were all our hopes for a motion picture career,

When I called the next day to receive the final
payment under my contract, the executive who had
broken the news to me came up and wrung my hand.

"Harry," he told me, "our little affair yesterday
could be the nucleous for a great picture. It was hard
for me to see the happy faces of you and your wife
when you came into my office, and to see them change
as I said what I had been told to say. I truly believe
the idea could be made into a great picture. Perhaps
some day it will be."

My fancy salary was paid in full during the life
of the contract, but the pictures were never made.
Why? Perhaps Dame Fortune had the answer. I do
not know. With all their glamour and power, talking
pictures were not for me.

For several months Al and I had not been on speak-
ing terms. One of our famous, periodic quarrels was
on with vengeance. I believe a certain publicity man,
whose name shall not be handed down to infamy, was
responsible. He was one who insisted that Al be the
only Jolson; that Al should occupy the spotlight of
publicity alone, and that Harry should never be
mentioned.

While I was in New York in 1928, Lillian had been
looking over my scrapbooks, photographs and records.
She suggested that I write the story of Al and me for
a leading weekly magazine. At first I was not interested,
but she persisted. Finally we began writing the article.
Perhaps I said something to Al about it, but don't
remember. We were frequently together at this time.

185

By the time my story reached the publishers of the
magazine, one from Al also arrived. Here was a
question for the editors. Unfortunately for Al, his
article was glamorous rather than accurate. It played
up many of his publicity stories as history. One's
memory is always tricky, and Al never kept a record
of anything. On the contrary, I have a natural aptitude
for details. My story was factual rather than .glamorous,
and it was backed with authentic evidence.

The editors accepted my article. This made Al or
his publicity man furious. Threats of libel suits were
made, and before it was published, the magazine
editors checked my story for accuracy in every detail.

For several months there was a coolness between
Al and me. One evening I attended a theater in Holly-
wood. Al Herman was doing his act on the stage, and
began introducing prominent people in the audience.
One of them was Al who took a bow and got a good
round of applause. It was a surprise for me, for I did
not know he was in the city. Herman concluded his
introductions with a nice build-up, and then called
out my name: "Harry Jolsonl" Evidently my maga-
zine story was fresh in the minds of the audience. The
applause they gave me was greater than Al had re-
ceived. I knew this would hurt him.

During intermission I went out on the sidewalk in
front of the theater. Presently I heard a voice behind
me say, " Harry 1"

I ignored it, and my name was repeated.

Suddenly I turned and was facing my penitent
brother.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Harry, I am sorry for the way I treated you."

"Oh, that's all right, Al," I answered. "Forget it."

186

"Harry," he went on, "would you like to have me
get you into pictures?"

I stared at him a moment, and he continued, "Come
down to Warner Brothers tomorrow at ten, and I will
see that you get into pictures."

I met him the next day at Warner's. Valiantly he
tried to interest the Powers in my acting ability, but
I learned that no one can get another into pictures.
Finally Al offered to get me a good booking in
vaudeville. This he accomplished quickly through
Fanchon & Marco.

This booking illustrates a basic difference that
existed between the natures of Al and me. He asked
me what I had been getting.

"Four hundred to five hundred dollars a week," I
told him.

"Chicken feed !" he exclaimed, "I'll get you a thou-
sand dollars a week. That's what you're worth."

Within a few days I obtained a contract for my
vaudeville act on the West Coast for a salary of $1,000 a
week. After finishing this engagement, I was to be
given a contract for several weeks in Australia at
$1,500 a week, and all expenses paid for both Lillian
and myself.

The last week of my Pacific Coast engagement was
in Seattle. I dashed back to San Francisco to sign the
contract and to take the next boat for Australia. Here,
I again encountered the Nemesis of Vaudeville, the
talking picture. The agent informed me sadly they
could not send me to Australia, for the country had
gone wild over the pictures that spoke and sang.

Crestfallen, we returned to Hollywood determined
to retire. I wonder if an actor ever actually retires,
or if he must be retired. The reputation that I had
made, the publicity I had gained and my own con-

187

stant advertisements of contracts and successes in the
theatrical papers, had built up a power that was
stronger than my resolution. The publicity I received
was not all favorable.

Following the break between Al and me over the
magazine affair, stories appeared constantly about
fights, hatreds and jealousies between us. Where they
began was a mystery. Never were there more than
the occasional clashes that I have described. I believe
the stories annoyed Al more than me, for he finally
sent me one of the strangest letters that anyone ever
sent to his brother. The Hollywood Filmograph told
the story in the issue of December 21, 1929. A banner-
head ran across the first page: No Rift Between Al
And Harry Jolson. Under that was a subheading:
Dame Rumor Is All Wrong About Their Friendship.

The professional knockers and gossipers
have been trying hard to cause a split-up in the
friendship existing between Al and Harry
Jolson ever since the arrival of Harry in
Hollywood and he started to make his bow in
a Universal Picture. If you want to know the
feeling that exists between the brothers, just
start saying something that isn't according to
to Hoyle about either one of them to the other.

About a month ago the hammer wielders
became so strong in putting Al and Harry on
the pan that Al Jolson gave his brother Harry
a letter a copy of which we herewith
reprint:

November 22, 1929

To whom it may concern:

There has come to my notice some
daffy guys who wonder who Harry Jolson

188

is, and just to enlighten these fellows,
I'll say that my mother was Harry Jol-
son's mother and Harry Jolson's mother
was my mother.

And Pm proud that Harry Jolson
didn't use another name after my success.
And I wish him all the success in the
world.

Sincerely,

AL JOLSON

The feeling that existed then, exists even
more so now, between the brothers. Al Jolson
wishes his brother well and has in many ways
helped to further his interests and would
greatly welcome any news about his obtain-
ing a real opportunity in pictures.

The Saturday Evening Post of December
7 carried a very interesting article of the
struggles of Al and Harry Jolson, which is
worth reading and analyzing, It will show the
blood-bond that must exist in the family and
why Al Jolson way down in his heart has a
soft spot set aside for his brother Harry and
wishes him well.

In 1930, with the incurable stage fever still in my
bones, Lillian and I decided to try the British Isles once
more. It proved to be our last visit among the people of
whom we had grown exceptionally fond. In spite
of the fact that a great depression had set in, it was
a wonderful trip for me. I was well-known and well-
liked in both England and Scotland. The curse of
being Al Jolson's brother, still clung to me, and, try
as I would, there was little I could do about it.

189

The Glasgow Mail expressed ' my attitude per-
fectly in an article headlined as Harry's Grouse.

"Harry Jolson, the elder brother of the
famous blackface singer of that name, is at
the Windmillhill Street Theatre, Motherwell,
this week, and if you want to annoy him just
introduce him to your friends as 'Al Jolson's
brother.' He doesn't like it at all, partly be-
cause he hates trading on his brother's popu-
larity, and partly because he is of the opinion
that he is good enough to have an identity of
his own.

"Both of the Jolsons have a similar style
of delivering a song, the only difference being
that Al usually puts it over by speaking it,
while Harry sings it."

My opening was at the London Coliseum where
I was the top attraction. Then to the Hackney Empire
Theater on June 9. On June 16 I appeared at the
Hippodrome in* Bristol, where I was headlined as
"Harry Jolson, America's famous blackfaced come-
dian."

A leading critic gave me a fine review which con-
cluded :

"He is a fine artiste, with a distinctive
style of his own."

It was rather startling to read more of the review
that continued without even a new paragraph! "The
famous Hollywood monkeys presented by Ruben
Castang and Charles Judge, was another big at-

traction."

I have always been grateful that the reviewer
placed me ahead of the monkeys.

While we were in Bristol, my agent, Burt Murray,

190

induced Will Collins to come and see my act Collins
controlled the bookings for a line of theaters in Scot-
land. He liked my act, but refused positively to book
me for the salary I was getting. Murray finally sug-
gested that I play on percentage, which was to accept
a share of the receipts in lieu of a definite salary.

This was a new idea to me, and I concluded that
it was a pure gamble in which I would come out
holding the bag. I couldn't see how they could expect
me to make money on percentage when they wouldn't
pay me a salary.

Burt Murray argued, "Mon, you do not appr-r-r-r-
eciate your pulling power. They r-r-r-r-remember you
from the auld days. You will have them standing in
line."

Unlike my brother I was never much of a gambler,
but Murray argued so strenuously that I finally agreed.

That night I was at a dinner with a number of
British comedians, including Ella Shields. When I
mentioned going to Scotland on percentage, they nearly
wept over my plight. All of them agreed that the
depression had almost wiped Scotland from the map.
Everyone was out of employment, according to them.
There was no money in the country. All the theaters
were empty, and the owners were facing a shutdown
or bankruptcy. Their opinion caused me to believe my
trip to Scotland would be a waste of time and money.

From Bristol we went to Manchester, appearing
there on June 23. My notebook has this comment:
"Lived at Midland Hotel. A very good, pleasant
week."

When we reached Glasgow, Scotland, I began the
new experience of playing on percentage at the Metro-
pole. Whenever I thought about it, the more discour-
aged I became. I wandered through the streets, and saw

191

everywhere the expression of hopelessness that is al-
ways associated with unemployment and poverty.

Greatly to my surprise, there was a fair crowd at
the first show. Lillian came to my dressing room after I
finished my act She had been out in the streets, and
now had news.

"Harry, you never saw such a crowd as there is
outside. The line extends clear around the corner, and
all the way down the next block. I think you will have
a packed house."

I was still unconvinced. I knew the second crowd
always waits to hear what the first one says about the
show. The waiting line melts away like snow in sum-
mer if the outgoing customers say the show is no
good, which I believed they were apt to do in my case.
People standing in line for the second show were a
long way from people actually in the theater.

When the curtain went up for my act, I was almost
overcome with surprise and joy. The theater was
jammed to standing room. Burt Murray was right.

My first week in Glasgow, playing on percentage,
gave me almost a hundred pounds; $500 in American
money. The entire trip through Scotland paid much
better on percentage than it would if I had been
playing on straight salary.

In Aberdeen I solved the problem of "getting the
bird" without leaving the stage with my act unfinished.
It was on Wednesday. A rough element was in the
theater that had spent considerably money in the ad-
joining pub. For a time it seemed that they would not
permit one act to finish.

My act began with the orchestra playing the pro-
logue from Pagliacci. At the point where Tonio comes
on the stage, I would stick my black face out from the
wings with a huge grin.

192

From the sublime to the ridiculous was the idea, and
it always got a laugh in the States and an approving,
"Hear, hear!" in England. Now it brought nothing
but cat-calls, boos and "the bird." Instead of giving
up and making an inglorious retreat, I went to the
center of the stage with a smile. Holding up a hand
for silence, I remained until the uproar subsided.

"I came all the way from the United States just
to sing to you people," I confided. "Some of you came
here tonight just to hear me sing, and you paid as
much as three-six. Don't- you realize that if I leave
the stage without doing my show, you will lose your
money?"

This was an effective appeal in Scotland. I finished
my act, and then sang an encore. My song was Old
Man River, and it was probably the first time this
Jerome Kern classic had been given in Glasgow.

A distinguished-looking gentleman in one of the
boxes joined in the applause with great vigor. He was
obviously of the upper class, for he stared at me
through a monocle and plucked at a long mustache.

When I came out on the stage the next evening,
before a well-behaved audience, I noticed this same
gentleman sitting in the same box. As the orchestra
began the introduction to my first song, he cupped his
hands before his mouth and bawled, "Old Mon R-r-r-r-
r-river! Old Mon R-r-r-r-river!"

He had a tremendous voice, and it seemed to me
that the sound would carry all the way to the Missis-
sippi. He annoyed me, for I was saving the Jerome
Kern song for my final encore. It made a fitting close
to my act. I thought the crowd would give the old
gentleman "the bird," but nothing happened. His fog-
horn voice boomed on, "Old Mon R-r-r-r-river 1 Old
Mon R-r-r-r-river!"

193

Finally I surrendered and gave him his song,
and then went on with my act As soon as I finished Old
Man River, the gentleman who had demanded it got up
and left the theater.

The manager came to my dressing room after the
act and expressed his appreciation. I told him that my
turn had been spoiled by an old nuisance in the box who
kept calling for Old Man River.

The manager lifted his hands in horror.

"Old Nuisance!" he ejaculated. "You call him an
old nuisance? Why, Mon, that was the Laird of

. It is said that he owns the half of

Glasgy."

I have forgotten his lordship's name, but it had a
terrifying sound. My idea of the Isles was still more
or less influenced by Alice In Wonderland. Sometimes
I have awakened from a bad dream at night with that
fog-horn shouting: "He won't sing Old Mon R-r-r-r-
river. Off with his head 1"

Our pleasant time seemed to end when we reached
Dundee. In my notebook I find this comment : "It was
miserable all week. Weather dull all week but Satur-
day. Factories closed for three weeks. Extreme poverty,
terrible theater, poor bill." My share of the receipts
dropped to forty-three pounds.

My last billing was in Liverpool, which brought
back fond memories of when my mother and her little
brood huddled fearfully in a small room waiting for a
ship to America. Throughout my last trip to England
and Scotland the critics were exceptionally kind. Here
is part of a review about me from the Evening Express
of Liverpool. It described the change that had taken
place within a decade. Change is an inevitable law of
nature. Any form of art depends upon change and
improvement if it is to survive.

194

"Those good people who lament the dis-
appearance of the Christy minstrel are a little
behind the times. What has really happened
is that the old-time negro with the banjo
has ceased to weep for 'de old Kentucky
shore,' and has adapted himself to changed
circumstances.

"Today he has become a whirlwind tap
dancer, and an expert jazz and theme song
singer. He has even discovered how to excel
the 'hot-gospeller' as a purveyor of 'sob-stuff/

"This kind of up-to-the minute versatility
is strikingly displayed at the Shakespeare
Theatre by Harry Jolson. He appears as a
typical minstrel with cork-blackened face and
white gloves, but there is none of the tradi-
tional plantation sentiment.

"The modern note is struck by him in
'Happy Days Are Here Again,' and a humor-
ous song, 'Sadie Green.' It is in the singing
of 'Sonny Boy' that the American star is per-
haps most successful for few can remain un-
responsive to the artless appeal of the words.
'At The End Of The Road,' from 'Hallelu-
jah,' is another selection which Harry Jolson
has made a favorite, owing to his effective
blending of pathos and comedy. Certainly his
request to be taken seriously cannot be
ignored."

195

XVI

When we returned to the United States, I signed
up with Keith's for a few bookings. But, alas, the good
old days were gone forever! My bookings were far
between, and finally we returned to Hollywood with
the idea of retiring from the stage forever.

For many years Lillian had been with me con-
stantly, and now we talked about going into business
where she could be active with me.

A friend talked us into the idea of a night club,
where Lillian could take charge of cooks and waiters,
and I could appear in a floor show.

Most city businessmen would like to be farmers,
and most farmers would like to have a business in the
city. I suppose it was but natural that one who knew
nothing but the stage would want to run a restaurant.
On June 21, 1933, there was a formal opening of Harry
Jolson's Rendezvous in San Bernardino, California.
We sent out many invitations, and the place was jam-
med with customers on the opening night.

Al was out of the city and could not come, but
Ruby Keeler, his wife, was there as a guest.

When Aljiad married Ruby in 1928, he said, "This
one is the perfect marriage 1"

Perhaps it came as near to perfection as it was
possible for Al to attain. Ruby was one of the sweetest
girls I have ever known. She was only nineteen, and
had started a career in the theater as a dancer in a

197

chorus. Al was forty-three, yet in many ways he had
never grown up. He was deeply in love, and was not
jealous of the theater. The fact that Ruby soon became
a star in her own right, was due to AFs help, as well
as to her own outstanding talent.

She was given a part in Show Girl, a Ziegfeld
Production, where she was to sing Liza. Ruby could
sing and dance, but she had not yet learned to use her
talents to the best advantage. The audience was in-
terested but not enthusiastic.

Al was seated in the theater. Suddenly he sprang
to his feet and began singing the chorus of Liza with
Ruby. It was an unpremeditated, unrehearsed act, and
Ruby was probably the most astonished of all. When
the song ended the audience nearly tore the roof from
the building with applause, and Ruby actually shed
tears on the stage.

It is said that Ziegfeld told Al later, "Come in and
sing with Ruby every night, and I will give you half
the show."

"I don't want anything for butting in," Al answered.
"I just want to help Ruby show the people what she
can do."

Show Girl had not been kindly treated by critics,
but it ran for many months, and AFs appearance each
night was one of the causes.

Lillian was enthusiastic about our night club.
Later she wrote her version of our adventure in busi-
ness, and I shall quote part of it here :

"To me fell the task of decorating our new
venture, hiring, firing, hostessing, pacifying
temperamental waiters, typing endless menus.
I shall always see myself just before we
opened sitting at a table, a group of waitres-

198

ses awaiting their turn to interview me, and
one asking, c ls this arm service.' And my
reply, (thinking she was referring to the one-
armed lunch rooms, I had known in my
travels) *Oh no, we have regular tables.*

"I didn't know why she looked at me so
queerly but later of course, I learned the dif-
ference between tray and arm service.

"During those five impossible months, my
then one-hundred-and five pounds dwindled
down to ninety-five ; much chiffon covered the
uncovered bones and I walked and danced
feeling as though it were all a hideous night-
mare. To me, some of the wild dreams I have
always dreamed while sleeping, were no worse
than the life I was living; clattering dishes!
eighty steak dinners 1 new refrigerators! can-
celled reservations! the howling mobs on .Sat-
urday nights! the empty tables on the off-
nights! drunks with their wives and other
men's wives ! cheats ! light-fingered help ! pros-
titutes! . . . and I in the midst of it all, wanting
just the peace and quiet of a home*

"It was the town's country club and was
situated in lovely grounds. We had counted on
patrons from all the surrounding small towns
as well as from the immediate vicinity. We
had for our opening mailed out two hun-
dred and fifty invitations but requests for
reservations began to pour in until the total
reached almost seven hundred. In other words,
that Wednesday night opening found us al-
most mobbed.

"When we began to realize what was about
to happen a frantic last-minute dash for extra

199

tables, extra dishes, extra food, extra waiters,
extra everything was made ; to this day, it all
remains a sort of jumble in my mind. In the
mad rush, kitchen help and waiters all lost
their heads. In white organdie and pink taf-
feta I floated between the tables and watched
in despair as guests were served the tastefully-
planned dinner in anything but the correct
procedure. I'd apologize first to one patron
then the next as I watched salad f ollow desert
and soup follow roast. I must say, no one
seemed to mind so terribly ; it all seemed more
like a free-for-all fight; grab what you can
and make the best of it. I realize too, the per-
sonal contact with my husband and myself
made many overlook this to me tragic
happening.

"I shall never forget that night; nor shall
I forget that sick sensation at the pit of my
stomach when in the early hours of the
coming morn, and before my horrified gaze
I saw my peaceful husband for the first
time in his life take a stubborn drunk and
throw him bodily out of the building.

"And so began our first business venture
in an entirely new field. Because of the huge
opening, we felt its financial success was
assured. Imagine our consternation when the
following night found us without one single
patron; and the succeeding night, not a person
presented themselves. We were dazed. The
shock of the overflow and then the emptiness
was too much for us. Here was our orchestra
blasting out and our food steaming in the
kitchen yet no one came to partake of our hos-

200

pitality. But along came Saturday and
with it the deluge. We were engulfed in a
sea of humanity crowding in like tightly-
packed sardines. It was so every week of the
whole five months.

"Incidents crowd through my mind; in one
I see a picture of myself down on my knees
in our reception room, a bucket in one hand
while with the other I tried alternately, to
hold the head of a woman patron and also
protect my pretty frock from the onrushing
disgorgement She had partaken too freely of
the cup that cheers (evidently from her es-
cort's hip flask) and on top of that had sur-
feited herself with our rich food. While I
was in the act of directing the performance
my husband passed by. It was the first time he
had seen me officiate at such a ceremony. He
glared at both me and the bucket ferociously.
I could only answer defensively, Well, I can't
let her ruin the rugs can I? 7 He was furious
at me and so fed up with everything else that
words failed him and he simply turned away."
During these trying months, I learned much about
people that I never had learned during my career
on the stage. Strange, isn't it, that people are so differ-
ent, when you are actually among them, than they
seem when you look out at an audience from behind
the glamorous footlights? I suppose actors are the
same way.

I learned there are people who will eat, dance
and be entertained for an entire evening, and then
think it highly proper to -slip away without paying
the check. I learned there are people who will steal
anything that is not nailed down, and it doesn't seem

201

to matter much whether what they take is of any value.
I learned that many of them like to destroy property
belonging to others, such as pictures and table-lamps,
with no thought of paying for the damage.

After the usual wild Saturday nights, our beauti-
ful club was usually a shambles. The woman caretaker
once called me to the ladies lounge.

"You will like this," she said ironically. "It's very
pretty."

For a moment I stood in the doorway looking at
the worst wreck I had yet seen. The expensive marble
lavatories three bowls in a row with mirrors above
had been wrenched from the walL On the floor
was broken marble, shattered glass and twisted plumb-
ing. Water dripped from the broken pipes.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Well, you can see for yourself. Someone sat on
a lavatory. She must have weighed three hundred
pounds."

Sadly I said, "I suppose we should have put in more
chairs."

She looked at me a moment before answering, "Mr.
Jolsonl You are as innocent as the babes in the woods.
Chairs wouldn't have done that woman any good. She
didn't get up there to sit."

I realized that a retired actor needs more than
the ability to entertain if he is to succeed in a cold,
hard, business world. We sold the night club for what
we could get, paid our bills and went back into retire-
ment. It was my first experience in paying out good
money in order to work like a slave and entertain
while doing it. Our business venture had cost us seven
hundred dollars a month ; a total loss of three thousand
five hundred dollars. I then knew why there are so
many destitute, retired actors, who had made big

202

money on the stage and saved consistently through the
years, only to become bankrupt in a business venture
that seemed to promise security and abundance for a
happy old age.

Fanchon & Marco booked me for an engagement
that was far different from anything that I had ever
done. I appeared as the star in a production called
Modern Minstrels. Not only did we have a group of
male, blackface singers and comedians, but the act in-
cluded a fine chorus of girls. It was a good act, and I
felt that I should have tried to get away from vaude-
ville and into musical comedies years ago. The only
disadvantage was that we did not have the entire
evening. We merely had an elaborate act given in
motion picture theaters. With so large a troupe, my
salary reminded me of the old days of Jolson, Palmer
& Jolson.

When my contract ended, I appeared in several
theaters in my own act, and then returned to Holly-
wood. Al was at the height of his career, and we were
again the affectionate brothers of the old days. He
asked me to go to New York with him, as he wanted
my advice. While there we lived in a suite at the
Sherry Netherlands and were together constantly.

Al had been having troubles in looking after his
bookings. He hadn't the slightest sense of detail, and
seldom could remember his verbal agreements from
one day to another. He had returned from an important
conference, and we were walking down the street
together.

"I'm all fed up with this kind of work," he told me.
"I may get on at the Capitol theater at twenty thousand
a week. If so, I want you to be my agent n

That was kind of Al, for apparently my career on
the stage was over. Yet I knew little about running an

203

agency, and felt unequal to handling a star of AFs
magnitude.

The next day we talked about it again, and I made
him a counter-offer.

"I don't feel equal to opening an agency in New
York, Al," I told him, "but I'll tell you what I'll do.
Suppose I go back to Hollywood, open offices there
as your agent, and book you for West Coast engage-
ments."

"That's the stuff," Al decided emphatically. "You
will make a million 1"

In many respects Al and I were opposites in nature.
He would rush into this or that on the impulse of the
moment. I never made important decisions hastily.

"Give me a little time to think this over," I
decided.

After my usual deliberation, wherein I argued pro
and con with myself, I could see nothing but a rosy
future for a business relationship with my brother. I
had his interest closer to heart than anyone else. With
my natural talent for details, I thought I could keep
him out of many of the difficulties that haunted him
throughout his career.

The next day I left for Hollywood. I opened of-
fices and obtained a license for a theatrical agency.
When I was ready, I sent Al a telegram. He answered
immediately :

"HOPE YOU ARE A BIG SUCCESS AS
AN AGENT STOP YOU CANT MISS
BECAUSE IM YOUR FIRST CLIENT
AND YOURE MY FIRST MANAGER
STOP HURRAH FOR US STOP WITH
THE SALARY I GET IF I WORK ONE
WEEK YOULL LIVE A YEAR."

204

Not only did I have Al as a client, but also Ruby
Keeler and several others. My first booking was for
both Al and Ruby on the Lux radio program. They
did a show called Burlesque.

For three years I continued as an agent. I was
successful and happy, and the world seemed a wonder-
ful place in spite of the depression that still continued.
Then, suddenly, I found that my new career had ended.
The agency, of which I was so proud, now consisted
only of nice offices, beautifully furnished. The blow
came without warning, I picked up a copy of Variety,
and found an announcement that was spread all over a
page :

"We are proud to announce that Al Jol-
son has exclusively authorized us to represent
him for the negotiation of radio and theatre
engagement. Any other person or persons pur-
porting to represent Al Jolson in this connec-
tion do so without his authority."

It was signed by a large New York agency.

Never, I believe, have I been so furious. Up in
the sky one day, and down in the dirt the next! Arid
it was my own brother who had done this to me.

Without warning without notice of any kind
he had broken his contract with me, and had signed
up exclusively with another agent. And I had made
several bookings ahead for both him and Rubyl

While brooding on my wrongs, I met a lawyer
friend, and this meeting was responsible for a lawsuit.
I sued Al for $75,000 in damages. What is more, I
meant to collect it. With the mood I was in, I could
have thrown him in jail, and stood outside the bars
and gloated.

The case never came to trial. My attorney had

205

begun it in New York where it was dismissed for some
reason or other. I was informed that I would have won
if the suit had been commenced in California, but I
lost interest and repented my hasty action.

Strange to say, the lawsuit had not caused hard
feelings between Al and me. The first time I met him,
he said, "Harry, why are you suing me?"

"It always takes two to make a lawsuit, Al," I
answered. "Don't you think you had it coming?"

We talked over the matter peaceably enough, and
he seemed to think he was morally justified in ending
our contract, no matter what the legal obligations
happened to be. He explained that a big star, like
himself, needed a big agency to represent him. This
was like Al. In many respects he was the most irre-
sponsible person I have ever known.

One word led to another, and we were on the outs.
Several months passed before we were again on speak-
ing terms. Then our differences ended as quickly as
they had begun.

I was walking across Sunset Boulevard when an
automobile siren sounded a few feet away. I jumped
and turned, and there was Al looking at me with a
huge grin.

"Get in here, Harry!" he called. "I want to talk
with you."

"I can't, Al," I answered. "I am on my way to see
an agent about a booking."

"I want to talk to you about that," Al insisted. "Get

in."

I complied, and he drove slowly down the street.
"Harry," he said finally, "do you know I did you
a dirty trick?"

"That's all right, Al," I answered with a forgiving
smile. "We are a funny pair of brothers. We are often

206

in a squabble, but between us there is a deep affection.
I never can stay mad at you long, no matter what you
do."

"What kind of car do you have, Harry?" he asked,
suddenly. "Is it new?"

"If s not new, but it's in good running condition. I
leave it for Lillian most of the time."

He was silent a few moments, and then went on,
"Harry, I want to make it up to you for that deal
about the agency. You go down to Phil Hall and pick
out any car you want I'll telephone him and tell him
to send me the bill. IVe never given you anything
since we were small kids, and this whole matter has
been on my conscience."

When I went home, I told Lillian of my meeting
withAL

"Are you going to accept the car?" she asked.
"Yes, I am, if it will make him happy."
She laughed. "Well, do as you please, but you know
AL I'll believe in that car when I see it in our garage.
He is apt to change his mind by tomorrow, and will
want to give you a horse and buggy or a ten-ton truck."
Al's good intentions held. He ordered the car the
next day, and it was delivered to our door.

How can I tell of my brother so that posterity may
have a clear picture of him? There were more facets
to his nature than there are to a cut diamond. Some
of them were dark and gloomy. Others were shining
with a brilliance that has never been equaled. Generous
and extravagant to an extreme, Al would suddenly
turn and become the exact opposite. One moment he
would give his last dollar to a friend or an acquaint-
ance, or even an unfortunate stranger. The next mo-
ment, he would not have given one dollar, out of mil-
lions, to save his best friend from starvation. I suppose

207

psychologists have a long name for people of this
general type. Yet there are not enough letters in our
alphabet to concoct a word long enough to explain my
brother as an individual.

Before me is a page, on which appears the different
plays and pictures in which Al had appeared at that
time. It is in my handwriting on a letterhead of Al
Jolson Enterprises. It was evidently written when I was
acting as Al's agent on the West Coast. This is the list
as I have it:

1911 (March) La Belle Paree at Winter Garden,
New York.

1911 (November) Vera Violetta at the Winter
Garden, New York.

1912 (March) The Whirl of Society

1913 (February) The Honeymoon Express

1914 (October) Dancing Around
1916 (February) Robinson Crusoe, Jr.
1918 (February) Sinbad, also 1919-1920
1921 (October) Bombo, also 1922,23,24
1925 (January) Big Boy

1931 (March) Wonder Bar

Began film career in 1927. Pictures:
Jazz Singer
The Singing Fool
Mammy

Say It With Songs
Big Boy

Halleluja, I'm A Bum.
Wonder Bar

Go Into Your Dance (Cafe De Paree)
The Singing Kid
The Rose of Washington Square
What an achievement for one who, not long before,
was a frightened, immigrant boy, coming into the

208

Golden Land of Opportunity! And Al was by no means
through.

It was in Wonder Bar that he appeared on the stage
in white-face for the first time since we blacked him
up in the Jolson, Palmer & Jolson act.

It was not a strong medium for his talents, but he
made it a tremendous hit He had escaped from un-
glamorous pictures and was again before a large,
breathing, laughing, cheering audience. He was the
same dynamic, electrifying, irresistible Al Jolson, who
for years held an audience in the palm of his hand.

He closed Wonder Bar, and returned to Hollywood
to make a picture for Joseph Schenck of United Art-
ists. The picture was Halleluja, I'm a Burn. He and
Ruby were on the best of terms, and his pleading
probably had much to do with Warners signing her for
a lavish musical play 42nd Street. She was a big hit in
her first play, and was conceded by critics and public
alike to be a major star when she appeared in Gold
Diggers of 1933.

Ruby's rise to fame came simultaneously with the
strangest and saddest occurence that had come into APs
life.

His star began to decline. He had reached the pin-
nacle of his career in 1931. At a big dinner held for
him, a speaker said, "It is impossible and unbelievable
for Jolson to be any place but on top." Now, two years
later, the impossible and unbelievable was taking place.
Many reasons have been given for the decline in
Al's popularity. The chief one, I believe, was the
change that had come about in the realm of popular
music. The so-called crooner had captured the younger
generation. Instead of demanding Al's dynamic, joyous,
individual style of singing, the public suddenly began
listening to new favorites such as Rudy Vallee and Bing

209

Crosby. Those who had claimed that the popularity of
Al Jolson would never end, were saying three or four
years later that he was getting old, that people no
longer cared for Mammy songs, and that the star of
Big Boy and The Jazz Singer was through.

Perhaps the picture Halleluja, I'm a Bum had
something to do with it It had kept Al out of the
public eye for a year or more, and in show business
people are quickly forgotten. The picture proved to be
a disappointment, both artistically and financially. It
was the worst that Al ever made.

On the radio he found that he was no longer master
of his own fate. Instead of putting over his shows in
his own way, he now came under the dictation and
direction of others who compelled him to sing and
speak in their way instead of his own. Being in-
dependent financially, Al could not be handcuffed by
directors or producers, and he quit radio in disgust
and rage.

With his terrific energy and thirst for activity, he
began making long trips. They were supposed to be
business trips. Yet, whenever he returned to Holly-
wood, I realized that they were merely excuses for him
to seem busy and important; to be the dynamic Al
Jolson whose star could never set.

During these years I believe that Al and I were
closer than we had been at any time since each of us
had gone his own way in the entertainment world. I
sensed Al's suffering and frustration.

"Cheer up, Brother," I would tell him. "You have
been at the top a long time, and you will be up there
again. You are too great an entertainer to be washed
out of the picture."

He would agree with me, but I knew that his heart
was a thing of stone.

210

XVII

Lillian and I now entered a phase of life of which
we had dreamed for many years. During my career on
the stage she had been constantly at my side. With never
a complaint, she had taken the bumps, the disappoint-
ments and all the disagreeable features of being "excess
baggage."

Whenever conditions seemed especially gloomy and
hopeless, we consoled ourselves with an ambition which
was uppermost in our minds since we were married.
This was to have a home of our own.

In imagination, through the years, we built this
home from a humble cottage to a mansion that would
make Buckingham Palace look like a woodcutter's hut.
We peopled our castle with servants and a host of
friends. For a time there were children in a beautiful
nursery, but this vision faded with the passing years.
Now our dream was to become a reality. We had
sufficient funds laid away to build our house, and we
had no doubts as to our ability to make a comfortable
livelihood in the future. We bought a piece of ground
on a hill above Hollywood. On one side we could look
down upon the lake. On another side was the great
spread of city lights, gleaming in a multitude of colors.
Above all was the glory of the stars.

Have you ever built a home? By this I do not mean
buying a house that has been planned and built by
others, but a home that you planned from the begin-

211

ning, where you see it constructed from the first shovel-
ful of dirt, up to the finishing touch that makes your
dream a reality.

If you have built such a house you know the joy of
creation; the joy that must have permeated Cosmic
Life when the Spirit of God moved upon the face of
the waters, and the morning stars sang together in the
dawn of time.

Sometimes I wonder if I actually had much to do
with the planning and building of our dream home.
I was now seeing a new side to the wonderful wife who
had been at my side so many years. There was a new
sparkle in her eyes, a new spring to her step and a new
tenderness within her heart. Perhaps she was doing all
the planning and building in her gentle, practical way.
I merely agreed because there was nothing else to do.

Can a man ever love a home as does a woman? Men
have adventuring, fighting, active natures. They heed
the call of woods and stream. They are content with a
cave, a hut, a lean-to or a tent. Man's ideal of a home is
something that he can build quickly and abandon
quickly as he moves onward in search of new adventure.
It is the woman who catches and tames him. She uses
the great incentive that dominates all evolution and
civilization; love. Through the love of her and her
children, the man settles down to build the house of
which a woman dreams. What kind of homes would
men build if there were no women to guide them?

After we bought the land, the house we had en-
visioned seemed entirely too small. We kept adding to
it, and finally started building. We had a budget for it,
and actually succeeded in completing the house for
not much more than twice the amount we had set
aside. I am told by others that this is a record.

The first time Al came to our new property, he

212

looked about him with interest Then he asked, "Are
you kids building a home or a hotel?"

We assured him that so far as he was concerned it
would be a hotel, and that he could come and stay with
us whenever he yearned for relaxation and home
cooking.

The day came when our home was completed and
furnished. Gradually we grew a fine lawn and a garden
of flowers.

Lillian gloried in our new possession. It was Heaven
for her, and whatever was Heaven for her was Heaven
for me.

She had taken a course in writing at Columbia
University, and now she had a subject to write about
with which she never would tire. Here is one of her
pages:

"Lately, my husband has become quite
proficient in the art of draping taffeta spreads.
He surprised me one morning by doing the
whole job of bed-making so beautifully, with
the folds of taffeta lying on the floor, just as
he had seen me arrange them, that now he has
added this chore to his many others. He'll
always remind me, however:

" 'By rights, a butler doesn't make beds.'

"I'll answer : 'But a maid doesn't sweep out
the garage either.'

"Then we both feel even. Sometimes he
rebels, but not often. Usually, I don't have to
ask.

"I always know when he is making the
beds, for I can hear him exercising his bari-
tone with the songs of his yesteryear. I've often
wondered what makes a man sing in a bath-

213

room? Mine does all the time; not croon-
ing, but at the top of his lungs.

"I'm glad his voice is pleasing, for the sake
of the neighbors ; and I can't blame him much
for wanting to sing in our bathroom; it is at-
tractive enough to inspire anyone so inclined ;
the results my planning for it achieved have
been a constant source of gratification to us
both. Now when visitors exclaim: 'What an
attractive bathroom!' my husband's chest ex-
pands another few inches. Yet the night I sat
in our apartment with crayons and pencil
during the constructive period of our home
and designed the floor and wall tiles, he felt he
had reached the end of his endurance.

"Now, when one looks through the bed-
room, dressing room and bath the soft
peach walls, taffeta spreads, pale green drapes,
peach and green tiles all blend together in
perfect harmony. No wonder whenever my
husband is in this end of the house, I hear his
voice soar to the high Heavens!

"Because of his constant warbling, I was
once the recipient of a surprising compliment.
It was in our first apartment days. He
would spend hours at the player-piano singing
operas, while pushing away untiringly at the
foot pedals. The lady living across the hall
from us met me on the street one day and
started complimenting me on my 'beautiful
voice' and 'Isn't it fortunate that you can both
sing together like that!'

"Quite bewildered for a moment, and fully
conscious of my shortcomings along that line,
I wondered what she was talking about, when

214

it dawned upon me that she had been listen-
ing to my husband's falsetto and baritone, and
had attributed one of them to me. When the
baritone is still and instead whistling per-
meates the air I know for sure I'm in the
dog house. (By these signs do I know him.)

"In a few weeks now, our bedroom win-
dows will be garlanded with Belle of Por-
tugal; later with Dame Helen and Rose
Marie. They were almost our very first plant-
ings, for it was quite decided years ago that
roses would one day frame the windows of
our future bedroom."

The time of home-building and home-living was
such a happy and peaceful one for me, that I did not
realize fully the tragedy that was taking place in
my brother's life. In a larger way, he was experiencing
what I had gone through during the decline of vaude-
ville when my career and means of livelihood had
vanished as a morning mist in the rays of a rising
sun. Always a showman, Al put on such a brave act
before his friends, that few suspected the heartbreak
that lay below.

Secure and satisfied with the peace and happiness
that had come to me after long years of being a home-
less wanderer, I saw little of my brother during these
years. I knew he was financially independent, and
seldom remembered that Al's only interest lay in his
career. I heard rumors that his marriage with Ruby
was not turning out as well as I had hoped. I knew,
of course, that she achieved fame and stardom during
the time when Al's glory was fading away. I also heard
stories to the effect that Al was jealous of his wife's

215

success, which I did not believe then and do not believe
now.

Al telephoned one day when he was in Hollywood,
and asked if we would be home in the evening.

"I want to come out and talk with you," he said.

When he hung up I turned to Lillian. "Al is in the
dumps. I can tell by his voice. He is coming out tonight,
and we will cheer him up."

He was still in the dumps when he came. He had
not seen our home since it was furnished, and we
showed him through the rooms with the pride of chil-
dren exhibiting their toys. We were somewhat disap-
pointed because he did not seem to share our en-
thusiasm.

"That is nice," he would say listlessly. "You are
really fortunate to have such a fine place. I know how
much you wanted a home of your own."

Later, when we sat together in the cozy library, he
unburdened his soul to me for the first time in many
years.

"Harry," he began, "I'm afraid Ruby and I are
through."

"I'm sorry, Al," I answered, and I meant it. "Ruby
is a wonderful woman. We are very fond of her. Per-
haps it isn't too late to fix up the whole matter?"

"I'm afraid not"

Never had I seen Al so despondent.

"I realize that I'm a lot older than Ruby, and I am
slipping. The big parade seemed to have passed me
by and left me like a stranded ship."

Lillian interposed with her soothing voice.

"Al that is not true. The great Jolson will always
be in the big parade. Everyone has these cycles of ups
and downs. That is life. The sun cannot shine all the

216

time. You are merely in a resting period where you
gather strength for tomorrow."

Suddenly Al seemed to rise out of his despondency.

"You are right!" he exclaimed. "They can't keep a
good man down. To heck with radio and the movies.
I'm going back on to the stage."

A few weeks later we received a short letter from
him, written in New York, saying that he was a joint-
producer of a show called Hold On To Your Hats.
What a change this was from the old days! No longer
were producers clamoring for a chance to put up the
money for a Jolson show or a Jolson picture. It had
become necessary for Al to do part of his own
financing.

Ruby agreed to be one of the cast, but something
happened to prevent it. Later we learned that she had
sued Al for a divorce.

I know what a crushing blow this must have been
to my brother. It was fortunate for him that he had
a show to whip into shape. He could use up his tremen-
dous energy, and keep his mind off his troubles.
Evidently this was not an easy task. One critic, who
had seen a rehearsal, predicted "The show is sure to be
a turkey."

If I had my life to live over again, there are many
things I would do that I failed to do through thought-
lessness. One of them would be to attend Al's opening
night in Hold On To Your Hats. I know how he must
have felt. In imagination I can see him pacing to and
fro backstage; nervous, irritable, fearing that his voice
would not respond, that the show would be a failure,
and a thousand other things that did not happen. Open-
ing night was always a tragic time for him.

Contrary to the prediction of our friend, the critic,
the show did not turn out to be "a turkey." Prophets

217

always tread on dangerous ground. One who would
make a prophecy of doom for any show in which Al
was the star, would stand a good chance of getting hit
with a boomerang in the form of his own prediction.

For ten years Al had been away from Broadway.
He was fifty-four years of age, which was not young
for one who depended upon enthusiasm, joy and action
to capture an audience. I do not know how badly
discouraged Al was on his opening night, but, as soon
as the curtain went up and he saw a living, breathing
audience before him, the years fell from his shoulders
like withered leaves from a green tree. He was again
the magnetic, dynamic, marvelous Al Jolson of former
days. The years had been kind to him. His voice was
unimpaired in every way. Actually, he was at the
height of his power.

The next day a telegram from him came, addressed
to Lillian. It was short and sweet :

"YOU WERE RIGHT STOP I AM
ON TOP AGAIN STOP. AL"

The last "stop" was probably added to complete
ten words.

Hold On To Your Hats had only a short run. Al
came down with a severe attack of influenza, and again
what he was always fearing had come upon him. His
voice was gone. It was a discouraging time, for he
realized that a Broadway show no longer had the pull-
ing power that it did in former days. The talking
pictures, which Al had done so much to create, was a
Frankenstein that stood ready to destroy him. He
realized, suddenly, that if he could not again get into
pictures, his career in the theatrical world was at an
end. When he returned to Hollywood, he sent out a
number of "feelers." There was no response. The man

218

who had once filled the theaters so that not even
standing room remained, was now on the sideline un-
heeded by the younger players who had come into the
great game.

We learned that Al had returned to Hollywood
through mutual friends, and left word for him to call.
Several weeks elapsed before he drove up to our home,
and then he remained only a short time. I thought I
knew how he felt, for I had experienced the same
disappointment and sense of frustration. Yet I know
now that I really could not appreciate the tragedy that
had co.me into his life, for I had always looked forward
to retirement and a home.

Al was different To him the stage meant life itself.
He had no other objective and no other interest. With
his songs, his stage, and his adoring audience taken
away, nothing was left; not even Ruby, whom he had
dearly loved. His life had become an empty thing. He
was like a rocket that rises and sails across the sky
leaving a brilliant trail of flame. The flame dies, and
who heeds the stick that falls exhausted and hopeless
to the earth?

The theater can be a cruel thing to those who do
not understand, and fail to prepare an objective that
extends beyond the active years of showmanship. A
glorious day merges into the night, and we hear a voice :
"The king is dead. Long live the king!"

The years from 1939 to 1942 found Al a forgotten
man. I saw him occasionally, and he still faced the
world with apparent confidence and optimism. Per-
haps I alone knew the bitterness and loneliness that lay
behind his Pagliacci mask. I believe that my brother
would soon have died of a broken heart if the Great
Change had not come.

219

Our country was suddenly at warl

Our boys, fighting with their backs to the wall, were
spreading out into many places of the world. Tiny
spots on the map, of which few people had ever heard,
suddenly made the headlines. Our troops had begun
a march that no power on earth was strong enough to
check.

The USO began forming a program for overseas,
for which outstanding actors and singers were volun-
teering their services.

Al had not waited for the USO. He had been
sending telegrams and making telephone calls to the big
Army and Navy Department brass. He not only volun-
teered his services, but he demanded the right as an
American citizen to go anywhere in the world where
American servicemen would listen to his songs. He was
always violently patriotic. Even in the days when he
stood as a new American of thirteen years of age, and
watched the troops march down Pennsylvania Avenue
in the Spanish- American War; through the First
World War, when he was rejected as physically unfit,
only to do the work of ten men in Liberty Bond Drives ;
up to the present time, when Pearl Harbor aroused
the fighting spirit of every red-blooded American, he
was characterized by a no-surrender attitude where
our country could do no wrong.

With his natural enthusiasm and impetuosity, Al
became the first star in World War II who performed
at an Army base. In 1942 he flew to the Carribbean
Sea, where he appeared before groups in Trinidad and
Curacao. It did not matter to him how small was his
audience. I believe he would have done a complete
show before one lonely GI, whose heart could be made
lighter by hearing the great Jolson.

He put on four shows a day in the steaming jungle

220

outposts in Central America, and visited all the Navy
bases.

Then he made a long flight to Alaska, and per-
formed on the mainland and in the Aleutian Islands.

From the Arctic a plane took him over the Atlantic
to England. When he arrived, London was being
bombed almost daily by German planes. Army bases
were filling rapidly with American troops, and Al
made a sixty-day trip that reached all of them. Then
he dashed back to the United States, to make a tour of
Army camps.

In 1943 he was again following a long trail. He
performed at bases in the Pacific, then in India. When
the North African invasion was made, he and his
accompanist, Harry Akst, entertained throughout
Algiers and Morocco.

I knew, of course, that Al was abroad entertaining
our boys, but I had no idea where he could be until I
read a letter he had sent to Variety.

"Akst and I sure have seen some hell-holes.
Our first stop out of New York was George-
town, British Guiana. We arrived at 4 p.m.,
did two shows and left by plane for Belem,
BraziL We had some powdered eggs and pow-
dered milk for breakfast, then clowned around
and did a few songs for the boys till show
time. At our regular show, we performed be-
fore 3,000 GIs. Right after that, we did an-
other show for the Navy and a third for the
local population. The mosquitoes gave us a
rough time all night but we had to get up at
5 a.m. in order to make the plane to Recife.
After our show there, we flew back to Natal,
did a number of hospital shows and got up at

221

four the next morning to fly the South Atlan-
tic. It was raining cats and dogs at four so we
waited around till the weather cleared up and
in the meantime, did another hospital show.

"We finally made the nine-hour flight
across the ocean and arrived at Dakar at 9
p.m. What a hole that is ! We had a dinner of
Spam and atabrine tablets, then raced by jeep
over dusty, rocky roads for 20 miles to a GI
camp. We had to do a big outdoor show in
darkness because the lights went blooey, but
luckily there was an Army truck that put the
spotlight on me so the boys could see me.
Would you believe it, it began to rain just as
I sang 'April Showers P On the way back to
Dakar, the jeep overturned in the mud, but
some engineers pulled us out. In between slap-
ping insects, we did a number of shows the
next few days for the Air Corps, Signal Corps
and Engineers. Then we took a bumpy plane
ride over the Atlas Mountains, arrived in
French Morocco, and got our first good night's
sleep in weeks. We did a few shows there and
flew here to Marakesh. We're eating Spam to-
day and we've got three shows to do tonight
and then we'll be off again, but after all, who
are we to complain?"

Wherever my brother might be, in steaming
jungles or frozen north, I knew he was completely
supremely, consummately happy. He was back on his
beloved stage, with living, appreciative audiences be-
fore him, entertaining in person with sound. It mattered
not at all that he received no payment. His was always
a labor of love. He would drive a hard bargain for his

222

services, but money was never an incentive. Al would
have preferred dwelling in poverty in the theatrical
world to making an enormous fortune in business.

Whatever hardship he might be experiencing, I
knew that all was well with him. No longer was he a
forgotten man. Joyous, satisfied and active, he stood
once more in the center of the spotlight. So far as he
was concerned, all was well with the world.

223

XVIII

The great war, that had brought Al out of his
enforced retirement, had plunged me into the same
despondency from which he had emerged. Sixty years
of age, not in the best of health, I could see no place
for whatever talents I had. Yet it is not easy to remain
inactive when the civilization of the world is
threatened.

Furthermore, the question of finances reared its
ugly head. Lillian and I realized that our savings
would not last long. Our only substantial resource was
our home. With Southern California attracting huge
factories, and people flocking in from all parts of the
country, property values rose to dizzy heights. Realtors
began making offers for our property. We had only to
accept, and we would have sufficient funds to last for
many years. We had learned the secret of simple,
abundant living.

Manlike, I determined to sell. It was another case,
to paraphrase a wise saying, where man proposes and
God (and Woman) disposes. Lillian agreed with me
that we should sell, yet never could we agree on the
price. Later I realized there was probably not enough
money in the world to buy the house that she loved
her home. Tactfully, she agreed with me that we
should sell, and yet she had not the slightest intention
of selling.

More than a year had passed since the war began.

225

I was drifting. There is nothing else I can call it All
my life I had been in the theatrical world except for
my one venture into business as owner of a night club,
and one as an agent for Al and Ruby which was more
pleasure than business. I believe I had a sort of help-
lessness complex, like a bewildered child lost in a forest
Mental apathy takes hold of one and rides him like
an Old Man of the Sea. It requires a drastic need to
bring one of of this static condition. In my case it
came in the form of a mental and emotional shock. I
returned home one day, and Lillian met me at the door.
"Teresa just telephoned/' she said quietly, and I
felt a strange tenseness behind her words.

Teresa was my niece; the daughter of my sister
Rose. She had married Alexander D. Goode, a fine,
young Rabbi. He had enlisted in the Army as a
chaplain.

"Well, what did she say?" I asked.
Suddenly Lillian came to me, and put her head on
my shoulder. She was not crying, but I could sense her
repressed emotions.

"Haven't you heard about Alexander?" she asked
in a low voice.

"Alexander? No I haven't heard a thing. What
happened?"

"He was killed on the ocean. Teresa doesn't
know much about it Just a telegram."

Within a day or two the story was in every news-
paper : the story of the four chaplains a Catholic, two
Protestants and a Jew. It was a story that would touch
every heart in the civilized world.

A torpedoed troop-transport, the Dorchester, was
sinking in mid-Atlantic. The four chaplains prepared
hastily for every emergency until help coufd arrive.

226

All of them had life belts, and were ready to jump
into the water.

Then they noticed that many of the soldiers had no
life belts. Quietly they stripped off their own and gave
them to four of the men.

They remained quietly and serenely on the doomed
vessel. As it slipped beneath the waves, the survivors
saw the four chaplains, all of different faiths, standing
together on the sloping deck, joined in prayer.

The following account is taken from a documented
statement in the office of the Chief of Chaplains :

"March 2, 1943. The following incident
was told by soldier survivors to crew survivors
of the S. S. (deleted). Authenticity can be
verified by soldier survivors now in Greenland
concerning the heroic conduct of the four
chaplains aboard the sinking ship: Jewish,
Catholic, Protestant. With utter disregard of
self, having given away their life jackets to
four men without them, the chaplains stood
hand in hand praying to the God they served
for the safety of those men who were leaving
the stricken ship on all sides of them."

"Greater love hath no man than this," said a Great
Teacher, "that a man lay down his life for his friend."

I had been exceptionally fond of my nephew. He
was a fine boy. Yet now there was not so much grief
in my heart as desire to have a part in the struggle
for which he had paid the full measure of devotion.

Far into the night I lay thinking about the four
heroic chaplains. They had done their part Was I
doing mine? It was not easy for me to sleep, and it
seemed that never again could I gain repose without
finding work that I could do to aid my country.

227

The next day Lillian left the house early without
saying where she was going. In the evening she
returned, and told me she had applied for a job at the
Vega (later Lockheed) airplane factory. A few days
later she went to work on the assembly line.

Never in my life had I felt so low. It is a common
expression to say that one feels like a dog, yet no dog
could feel as useless, as worthless and even contempt-
ible as I.

When Lillian left for her job the next day, I went
with her and handed in my application for work.
Everything went smoothly until I encountered the
doctor, whom I happened to know very well.

The first thing I had to do was to undress even to
socks and shoes. Then I stood in this embarrassing
situation, from 8 o'clock in the morning until 3 o'clock
in the afternoon, before I could be examined.

First the doctor had me stick out my tongue, and
then he examined my teeth.

"Hml" he grunted rather sarcastically. He put his
stethoscope on my chest and listened in on the various
stations.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed in a hopeless, tragic
voice.

I was about to ask him if we should call the under-
taker, when he said, "Do you know what is the matter
with you?"

"Mentally, physically or morally?" I asked weakly.

"I mean physically."

"Don't tell me. Perhaps it would be better to let me
die ignorant. Anyway, cheer up doctor! I'm not dead
yet."

Counting on his fingers he enumerated a series of
complaints, all of which had long, jaw-breaker names.

228

I judged that all of them were fatal The only one I
remember distinctly was called complications.

"What is more," he went on, "your blood pressure
is up to two hundred and twenty."

"Doc," I told him, "if you had been here since
eight o'clock this morning, with no clothes and every-
body looking you over ; if you had nothing to eat since
early breakfast, nothing to drink and not even a few
kind words, your blood pressure would be higher than
mine. Anyway two hundred and twenty is nothing for
an actor. Mine has hit at least five hundred every time
I didn't get as much applause as I expected."

"See here!" he said. "Do you really want to work
in this place?"

And that, after all I had been through!

"Of course I do!"

"Do you think that you can stand it without dying
on the job?"

"A man can but try," I answered with resignation,
"I will do my best."

"To do what?"

"To stay on the job."

He turned away and began writing.

"Just for old time's sake," he said finally, "I'm
going to take a chance on you. For heaven sake don't
let me down."

I thanked him with gratitude in my heart and
tears in my eyes.

"Doc," I assured him, "not only will I stay on the
job, but the day will come when I shall attend your
funeral. What is more I am going to come early and
bring my lunch and have a wonderfully good time.
Thanks a million."

The next ordeal was sitting across from a nervous
young man of slender build and glasses with powerful

229

lenses. His eyes were magnified when he looked at me,
which he did with an expression that was rather ter-
rifying. He asked me three or four million questions,
and took down my answers in writing. The only thing
he could figure that I might do, was holding down the
job of timekeeper.

"Have you ever had any experience as timekeeper?' 5
he asked suddenly.

He was looking at me with huge eyes, and I was
somewhat flustered by his question.

"Of course I have!" I answered with enthusiasm.

"Where?" he shot back.

"On the stage. For many years I was a singer, and
I had to keep perfect time or the orchestra would "

"I mean timekeeper in a factory."

"See here, young fellow," I said slowly, "if every-
body must have experience in the job we are doing now,
this country of ours may as well run up the white flag.
Show me your time, and I will keep it. If I don't know
how to do it, I will sit up nights and learn. Let's get
busy and win the war."

He contemplated me for a long moment with his
huge, cow eyes. I judged that he was not in the Army
because of a rating of at least 8-F. Finally he made a
decision with the same air of importance that he would
have used if deciding the fate of the Universe. There
is nothing that so over-rates itself as insect authority.

"All right," he said, "we will put you on as time-
keeper. Of course, you know what the duties of time-
keeper are?"

"Of course," I agreed amiably. Then 1 took a shot
in the dark. "A timekeeper carries a clock around so
that the workers can see what time it is."

"Well, ah ah not exactly! But there is one nice

230

thing about it You can do the work while sitting on
your fanny."

"My what?"

"While sitting down, you know? You sit down all
the time."

"Oh! What else do I do?"

"Your employment will involve certain specific
duties which will become comprehensible as you pro-
ceed."

"Oh!"

As my duties became comprehensible, I learned that
the sitting down part existed only in the young man's
mind. I was on my feet walking constantly for eight
hours every day, with often as much as four houfs
overtime. Instead of carrying a clock to inform the
employees as to the time of day, I carried record books
and cards. I would stand before each machine, and
record how much time each job required. My volumin-
ous cards, with the time record of each employee in
my department, had to be turned in each night with
my report. I kept accounts of overtime, time off for
sickness, either real or feigned. It was fascinating
work except for the leg trouble that began to develop
because of the long hours on my feet. Yet I did not
complain. I had asked for it, and I was thankful I had
found war work that I could do.

People employed in the plant soon learned that I
was Al Jolson's brother. Escape from it was impossible,
for Al was now at the height of his long career.

Many asked me how it was that the millionaire, Al
Jolson, would let his brother do menial work for ordi-
nary wages. It was difficult for me to explain that I was
not on my brother's charity list, that I never had been
and never would be. Once more I took up the hopeless

231

task of trying to be Harry Jolson instead of merely Al
Jolson's brother, one of his poor relations.

A sweet young lady complimented me by asking if
I was working in order to evade the draft. I explained
that I was not subject to the draft because I was in the
Civil War.

"When was that?" she asked, in all seriousness.

I told her it was when Abraham Lincoln was Presi-
dent, and she said, "Oh, you mean the war between the
states."

My career as timekeeper, which I had hoped would
end shortly because of the ending of the war, lasted two
years and two months.

While I was contributing my tiny bit at Lockheed
airplane factories, many things were happening to my
brother. He returned to New York after a tour of
42,000 miles. Then Nature took toll for the tremendous
energy he had expended. His temperature went up to
105, and he was rushed to the hospital. For several
weeks his condition was critical, but as soon as they
released him from the hospital, he started another tour,
this time covering nearly every state in a visit to Army
camps.

Al was the perfect male entertainer for young men.
His vivacious enthusiasm, his joyousness and energy
aroused them to an almost frenzied response. Most
of those boys never had seen great stars except on the
screen. To attend a performance by Al Jolson, in per-
son, prepared and given especially for them, was an
experience they would never forget Some day they will
tell their grandchildren about him.

An appearance that Al made in an Army hospital
in Hot Springs, Arkansas, heralded a great change in
his life. A lovely girl, who was one of the x-ray techni-
cians, asked for his autograph. I might finish the story

232

now with the beautiful, old ending, "and so they were
married and lived happily ever after."

It was not quite as simple as that

"Perhaps you think I'm crazy," Al told me later.
"A man of sixty doesn't ordinarily fall for a girl of
twenty or is it the other way around? I couldn't get
that girl's face out of my mind. The next day I tele-
phoned the commanding officer from Texas, and he said
her name was Erie Galbraith. I knew what to do, of
course. The old Hollywood approach ! I wrote her and
asked if she was interested in getting into the movies.
Every girl is, and it never fails."

Al was in Hollywood a short time later when he was
again stricken with a critical illness. This time he
couldn't get up in a week or two for another tour. An
operation was necessary. Two ribs and part of his left
lung were cut away. With a tube in his back, he was
lying in a condition so critical that he cared little
whether he lived or died, when the best possible medi-
cine came to him. It was in the form of a visit from
Erie Galbraith. More than anything he had desired,
Al now wanted to live. He was determined to live, and
to regain his health for the best reason in the world. He
was in love. What did it matter if nearly forty years
stood between them? Love laughs at locksmiths, and
it screams with mirth at the human concept of time and
age.

Al and Erie were married while he was regaining
his health at Palm Springs. Under her care and gentle
companionship, he was soon his old self again.

Regardless of differences in age, this unusual girl
was a perfect wife for my brother. Serious beyond her
years, her chief desire was to maintain a home with
which her husband would be content.

233

The fact that my brother had married a girl of
twenty-one was something of a shock to me, but she
walked straight into my heart the first time I met her.
She is a wonderful young woman for whom I will al-
ways have the highest regard and deepest affection.
A friend, who met her, gave me this opinion, "Al sure
can pick'em, but he can't keep'em." He was wrong in
the case of Erie, and I am sure she never regretted
marrying my brother.

The war ended as suddenly as it had begun. It was
a time of great change for the people of the earth.
Atomic energy had become an actuality. As is the case
with most great discoveries, it was first used to destroy,
but people everywhere began looking forward to a New
Age where atomic power would be used for con-
structive purposes.

The work of both Lillian and myself, at Lockheed,
ended shortly after V-J Day. We had saved some money
from our earnings, and no longer considered selling our
home. We had been jarred out of the static condition in
which we were before the four chaplains gave their
lives for others. Now we looked about us with a new
interest in life, and with confidence in our own abilities.
Both of us went into the insurance business, and did
very well.

Dame Fortune once more smiled upon Al. One of
the greatest strokes of good judgment, foresight, genius
or whatever one may call it, had taken place.

Sidney Skolsky, a Hollywood columnist, must be
given the major share of the credit. He never had lost
faith in Al, and believed that a motion picture based on
the life of my brother would be more than ordinarily
successful. He conceived the idea of having a young
actor impersonate Al, and having the real Jolson sing
the songs. It seems simple and feasible today, but it was

234

not easy to convince picture producers that this was a
practical idea. Finally Columbia Pictures Corporation
decided to make the venture, and Sidney Skolsky was
given the pleasure and honor of being the producer.

The story began in Washington, D. C., when Asa
Yoelson was twelve years of age. The son of a cantor,
he was subjected to rigid discipline.

One day he slipped away from his father, who
waited for him in a synagogue. He took his small girl
friend, Ann Murray, to a burlesque show. Here he
attracted attention by singing from the audience. The
comedian, Steve Martin, learned who the boy was and
went to the Yoelson home. Here he shocked Cantor
Yoelson by offering his son a place in his act The
Cantor's consent was refused in no uncertain terms.

One night Asa slipped out of the house and caught
a ride on a freight train to Baltimore in order to join
the troupe. The police found him, and sent him to
Saint Mary's Home for Boys. Again he attracted at-
tracted favorable attention by singing in the choir.
When Cantor Yoelson and Steve came to get him, Asa
pleaded to go with Steve. The cantor finally consented
after an understanding priest interceded for the boy.

Asa went with the troupe, singing from the audi-
ence. Later he persuaded Steve to let him appear on
the stage. Asa changed his name to Al Jolson.

When eighteen years of age, he appeared in black-
face in the place of Tom Baron, one of the singers, who
had been celebrating with too much enthusiasm. In
the audience were Lew Dockstader and Oscar Ham-
merstein. They were enthusiastic over the boy's per-
formance.

Al was urged to join the Dockstader Minstrels, but
refused to leave his friend, Steve. Then, by a ruse

235

perpetrated by the unselfish Steve, Al was forced to
become a member of the Dockstader Minstrels.

As a minstrel he was moderately successful. Not
being satisfied with the old songs he was singing, he
became interested in jazz as it was played by colored
musicians in New Orleans. He was so enthralled by
this new and unusual music that he committed the
unforgivable sin by missing a performance. Dockstader
promptly fired him.

Repentant and chastened the boy returned to his
home in Washington. He promised his father, mother
and Ann that he would give up the idea of going on
the stage, and that he would go into business in his
home city. While they were deciding on a future career,
a telephone call came from Tom Baron, now a director
for the famous Shuberts. He told Al to come to New
York for a show. Al promptly accepted, forgetting all
about a career in the business world and his former
good intentions. Next he appeared in blackface and
sang Mammy. He was a sensation. Backed by the Shu-
berts, Al went from one successful musical to another.

A fine touch is interposed when Al finds his old
friend, Steve, broke and out of employment. He suc-
ceeds in inducing Steve to take over the job of being
his manager. Al was in the money now. His records
were selling by the carload. His shows were sensations.
He received an offer from Warner Brothers to go into
talking pictures. At a private performance he met
the lovely Julie Benson and fell desperately in love.
She refused to marry him as she was in a Ziegfeld
show, and was more interested in a career than in wed-
ding bells. Al parted from her sadly, and went forth to
a great career in pictures. When he finished his first
picture, The Jazz Singer, he dashed to New York for
Julie's opening night. He inspired her to a wonderful

236

performance, and she consented to marry him. They
went to Hollywod and she found a career in motion
pictures.

Trouble came when Julie wanted a home far from
the madding crowd where she and Al could be to-
gether. Al promised everything she wanted, but the lure
of the theater was too strong. An opportunity came for
Al and Julie to have their own picture company, but
Julie insisted that Al give up the theater and live ac-
cording to her ideal. They, together with Steve Martin,
retired to a home in the country. Al suddenly remem-
bered the wedding anniversary of his parents, and
grieved because he had not invited them to visit him-
self and Julie. Julie had not forgotten, and she and
Steve brought the Cantor and his wife to California
as a surprise.

They had a perfect day by spending the evening in
a Hollywood night club. People recognized Al, and
insisted that he sing. Again he was the perfect show-
man; dynamic, forceful, magnetic; with the golden
voice that carried the audience into a frenzy of ap-
plause.

Julie realized that the theater was Al's only home,
and that he never could be content in any other.
Quietly she walked out of the club, leaving Al forever.

237

XIX

When I first saw the picture I thought the trite
line should be added; "Any similarity between this
picture and the true Jolson story is because of coin-
cidence and not by design."

Probably no one who had anything to do with the
picture felt it would be more than ordinarily success-
ful. It proved to be one of the greatest surprises in all
the history of motion pictures. Older people, who had
heard Al in former days, rushed to the box offices.
Again they were spellbound by that golden voice. They
could not believe that it still held its former magic
and power. The generation that had sprung up since
Al's enforced retirement, found a new hero to worship.
More than $10,000,000 were poured into the box offices
for The Jolson Story. Only one picture exceeded it in
pulling power, and that was Gone With The Wind.

The forgotten Al Jolson had come back with venge-
ance. He made personal appearances in a number of
cities, and was greeted with greater enthusiasm than
even he had ever known.

An album of Jolson songs reached a new high of
1,200,000. More than a million records were sold of the
Anniversary Song, which was written by Al.

My brother was again sitting in the high places of
the entertainment world. This time he did not neglect
his home. He gloried in his lovely wife and the two

239

children they adopted. Never, I believe, had he found
such complete happiness.

The Jolson Story not only brought Al back into the
limelight, but, in a sort of a negative, unforeseen way,
it brought another member of the family into the public
eye: myself.

Any part that I had in the real Jolson story of life
was omitted from the screen version. Many explana-
tions for this came to me from various sources, and I
will list a few of them.

1. The budget for the picture was limited, and
bringing in an older brother would have involved the
expense of another important character.

2. Time did not permit the filming of a picture
that would include Harry Jolson.

3. Harry Jolson was only a half brother, many
years younger than Al, and was of no importance.

4. Al was jealous of Harry, and refused to let him
have a part in the picture.

5. Al insisted on a part for a character imper-
sonating Harry, but the producer refused to consider it.

6. APs older brother, Harry, died before Al was
born.

7. Harry Jolson is a fictitious character who never
existed in the flesh.

8. Harry Jolson was the black sheep of the family.
His name was never mentioned in the home, and his
face was turned to the wall.

9. The Harry Jolson, who claimed to be the
brother of Al, was a fraud.

10. Harry Jolson threatened to bring action for
damages if his name was used.

There were a dozen or more additional reasons,
but I have forgotten what they were.

Dorothy Kilgallen, a New York newspaper woman,

240

saw the picture. She was familiar with the real Jolson
story, and wrote an article entitled, / Wonder What
Happened To Harry. Others began wondering the
same thing, and an intensive search was begun for the
forgotten man. Finally I was located in my humble
role of insurance agent, where I was trying to con-
vince people they should provide for old age, and
should leave something for loved ones if they departed
from this vale of tears before their alloted time.

Finding that I was alive, able to walk, and ap-
parently of sound mind, I was given an attractive offer
to go to New York and appear in night clubs and a
number of theaters. My engagement was successful,
and I obtained a great deal of publicity that was not en-
tirely complimentary to the makers of The Jolson
Story.

I met Al one day when he was in one of his
negative moods. He accused me of hurting his picture,
and making him out as a liar. This I denied hotly, and
accused him of doing everything he could to ruin my
career so that he could be the only Jolson. We were
off on another of our famous quarrels. Several months
later we met in Hollywood.

Without preliminary greetings, Al asked, "Harry,
what kind of a car do you have?"

Cars were hard to get, and mine was not new.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Al went on, "I
just got a new car, and I'm going to give you the one
I am driving. It's in good shape."

This was the second car that my brother had given
me as a sort of peace offering. My anger had long
since evaporated, and I really needed a car. Again we
were friends and brothers, ready to fight for each other.
Thus ended our final quarrel, and never again did we
disagree. Never again did harsh words pass between us.

241

The famous battles of the fighting Jolsons had ended
forever except for a few minor skirmishes.

A short time later Al came to me with a business
proposition. It was one where we again would work
together. His affairs had become too great for him to
manage, and he was opening offices where some of the
burdens could be taken from his shoulders. He was on
the air for Kraft, and was preparing for another pic-
ture, Jolson Sings Again.

I thought the matter over, and then told him
frankly, "Al, I am doing all right in the insurance
business, and will not make a change unless it will be
permanent. I don't want to go in with you only to have
you change your mind and leave me hanging out on a
limb."

"Don't worry about that," was his reply. "This job
is yours as long as we live. That's my promise. I not
only want you, but I want Lillian to get away from
insurance so that she can stay home and rest. Harry,
do you realize that she is not a well woman? She has
been failing ever since the war."

True to his agreement my employment with Al
continued till the time of his death. We were on the
best of terms with each other. He was satisfied with
my services, and I was satisfied with my work and
salary.

It would have been a happy time indeed if it had
not been for Lillian. Al was right about her failing
health. It had begun during the long hours on the
swing shift at Lockheed. I had begged her to give up
such a severe task months before the war ended, but
she would not It was her duty, she said. When I be-
came insistant she would remind me of Alexander
Goode and the three other chaplains.

242

"Winning the war comes first," she would say. "Our
personal affairs and feelings are of no importance,"

It was about this time that I received a telegram
informing me of the death of my father. He had passed
away at the age of ninety years. Long ago I had deter-
mined that I would not grieve when death touched
those who were near to me. What we call death is not
a serious thing. If it were, everyone would not need to
experience it It is as normal and beautiful as the setting
of the sun.

We understand the full cycle of a day, and the
complete cycle of a year. Are not all things based upon
the principle of alternate periods of activity and rest?
We see the daytime of human life. Should we doubt
the night and the coming of another dawn?

I did not grieve over the passing of my father. He
had lived long and abundantly. He had obeyed strictly
the stern, ancient law, and had shown the better way
to many who needed his ministrations.

Like Job, he was a just and upright man; one who
feared God and eschewed evil.

Lillian's health failed rapi/dly, and the doctors
ordered her to the hospital. One day they called me,
and I found that she had become unconscious from a
cerebral hemorrhage. I remained by her side every
possible moment, but she never regained consciousness.

As I stood beside her still form, my mind went back
to the time when my father had taken Al and me into
the bedroom where all that was mortal of our mother
lay beneath the white coverlet. Desolate had I felt when
I realized that my loved Mother was no more. I felt
doubly alone now. For thirty-nine years Lillian had
been almost constantly at my side. She was my com-
panion, my inspiration and my guiding light Never
very strong, the strenuous years of the war had taken

243

a toll that nothing could replace. In the still hours of
the dawn, her gentle soul had gone winging away into
the rose-tinted sky.

With her gone my life became an empty and
desolate thing. With her, wherever we might be, I had
found a place of supreme joy. Now the beautiful home
we had built together had become an empty place. I
was alone in a great house with only my memories
for companions.

Everything was kept up, clean and new, as she
would have it. Somehow the yard appealed to me more
than it ever had in the past. The flowers, especially,
came in for every attention. I pulled the weeds, broke
up the hard surface with a trowel, watered the ground
and cared for the beautiful blossoms with almost
religious devotion.

Someone has said that you cannot successfully grow
flowers unless you love them. They had thrived under
Lillian's gentle hand, and they thrived now as I took
over the work she had begun.

In the evening I often stood a long time and found
peace in their fragrance and beauty. I breathed in the
pure air, and wondered at the brazen sunset that shone
as a great glory over the Pacific.

Sometimes a hummingbird would come out of no-
where, darting in and out among the flowers, drinking
their nectar through its long beak, hanging motionless
in the air on wildly-beating wings. Then, without
warning, as though heeding a call from afar, it would
dart away and disappear toward the setting sun.

Somehow it reminded me of my brother. Like the
hummingbird he was continually darting from flower
to flower in the garden of life, taking the bitter with
the sweet, finding a great joy which overcame dis-
appointment and sorrow.

244

People would ask why I did not sell my home and
move to the activity of hotel life. They did not under-
stand what this plot of ground, the building itself and
the furnishings, meant to me. They were not material
possessions which could be bought and sold. They were
living, breathing things. I could not sell them any more
than I could have sold a child.

Perhaps I was dwelling in memories of the past, but
I was also living the fascinating life of the present As
never before I was part of the career of my brother.
True, we had been together in the old days, but we were
then like struggling, starving children urged onward
by the merciless hands of ambition and necessity.

The wheel of life had turned and turned again. The
interests that were nearest to my heart were again about
me. Now, instead of being a partner in The Hebrew
and The Cadet, or a member of the vaudeville act of
Jolson, Palmer and Jolson, I was a cog in a great
machine that was functioning smoothly. No longer did
I resent the fact that I was Al Jolson's brother. I ac-
cepted it humbly and with pride. My brother, who
always seemed like a smaller brother to me, had risen
from the most humble beginning to become one of the
great figures in the theatrical world.

For a time my own career had run parellel to his,
I had reached the top of my profession as a vaudeville
star. Here my growth as an entertainer had stopped.
I failed to foresee the new. Years later a friend, who
was also a top figure in vaudeville, summed it up when
he said, "Harry, our trouble was that we failed to see
what was coming over the hill. Both of us died with
vaudeville."

My brother had not failed to see the light He had
become a minstrel with a troupe that gave him op-
portunities far beyond those of the vaudeville stage.

245

From there he had gone into musical shows, where
he used his tremendous power to the greatest advantage.
Then into the new medium of talking pictures where
he reached his greatest heights. He had made records
of his songs that sold in the millions. I have no idea how
many of his records were purchased by the public. His
type of singing had gone out of style for a time, only to
come surging back to become more popular than ever
before. And this pinnacle had been reached during the
time of life that most people believe is the age of retire-
ment.

For many years I had struggled to be Harry Jolson,
without qualification or explanation. Now I struggled
no longer. I recognized that my brother's light was so
great that I could willingly and happily bask in its
glory.

So tremendous was the success of The Jolson Story,
that it was followed by another picture, Jolson Sings
Again.

It was based on Al's career during the war. His
health fails. During a performance abroad he sinks
unconscious on the stage. He is flown to an Army
hospital in the United States, and a beautiful nurse,
Ellen Clark, takes care of him. Al recovers and goes
on a tour that ends in army hospitals. Finally he comes
to the hospital in Arkansas where Ellen is. Later, in
Los Angeles, he collapses. An operation is performed,
and his condition is critical. Steve telephones Ellen, and
Al suddenly finds her at his side. He recovers and
marries this young girl that he loves.

Al's love for the stage causes him to refuse an
opportunity for going into pictures. He makes a
smash hit in a benefit performance, and meets Colonel
Bryant, who is a motion picture producer. Byrant
persuades Al to consent to a picture where another

246

actor was to play the part of Al Jolson with Al's actual
voice dubbed in.

There follows the filming of The Jolson Story
which is such a hit that Al obtains a radio program.
His father, Rabbi Yoelson, suggests a sequel to the
picture. That became Jolson Sings Again.

This film also, was successful, and Al was planning
a third picture when the nation was shocked by the
outbreak of the Korean war. To my brother it was like
touching powder with a match. He volunteered as an
entertainer, and was accepted.

The Eighth Army Headquarters in Korea released
the following dispatch on September 17, 1950 :

"Al Jolson, the first top-flight entertainer
to reach the war front, landed here today by
plane from Los Angeles."

It is interesting to know that Al was paying his own
expenses.

Sixty-five years of age, with one lung almost en-
tirely cut away, Al was attempting a task that proved
too great for his strength. In sixteen days he gave forty-
four shows. He and his accompanist traveled in a
helicopter to different sections of the war front

When he returned to Hollywood, the newspapers
reported that he was in splendid health. A few of
those close to him knew that he was not.

The first time I met Al after his return, I looked
at him with astonishment.

"Al," I said, "you will have to take better care of
yourself. Remember what you said to me about Lillian?
Now I say the same thing to you. Stop worrying. Stop
working. Stop thinking. Relax! You have a home, you
know, and I believe you will enjoy staying in it if you
give it a trial."

247

I was half joking and half serious, for I could see
that Al was not as well as when he departed for Korea.
He was not joking when he answered.

"There's a little business I must attend to. Then I'm
taking your advice. I had a hard time, and I don't feel
so hot. Thanks, Harry, for the way you have handled
things for me."

That was the last time that I saw my brother. He
dashed to San Francisco to appear on the radio with
Bing Crosby. He was in the hotel playing cards with
friends when he complained of a pain in his chest.

Knowing Al's heart condition they called a special-
ist. Al tried to pass the whole thing off as a joke, but
the grim reaper was in no mood for joking.

Al talked of his trip to Korea.

"Do you know Doc," he said with a faint smile,
"that President Truman had only one hour with
General Mac Arthur? Well, let me tell you something.
I had two!"

A few minutes later the word flamed out on the
wires to nearly every part of the globe.

A I Jolson was dead!

The news reached me quickly, and I was asked for
a statement. What could I say? What can anyone say
at such a time?

248

A wonderful provision of Nature is that when a man
is alone and despondent, a woman comes into his life to
fill the gap as only a woman can. Although I never
would have believed this possible, it happened to me
nearly a year before the death of my brother. Her name
was Sylvia.

We became good friends, and there seemed no
danger of us becoming anything more.

One day I induced her to take a ride to Palm
Springs. Without saying what I had in mind, I drove
up to the big home of Al and Erie. Al was standing at
the gate. I introduced him to Sylvia. He actually stared
at her, and then at me. Whenever she looked away from
him, he turned to me with a sly wink. All of us went
into the house where Sylvia met Erie. They liked each
other from the start, and became fast friends.

It was decided that we should stay overnight. A
number of guests were at APs house, so we took Sylvia
to a hotel where we were to come for her in time for
dinner. As soon as Al and I returned to his home, he
and Erie began giving me the third degree.

Al said, "Harry, all my life I have been seeking
happiness. It is something you never tried to find, for
it always found you. Sylvia would be a wonderful wife
for you. Why don't you marry her?"

''Well," I answered slowly, "there are a number of

reasons."

249

"What are they?"

"Well, first there is her family, you know."

"Do you mean there is something wrong with her
family?"

"Oh, no! She comes from an exceptionally fine
family, but I am afraid of what they might say about

me."

"Bosh! What are the other reasons?"

I went on with mock seriousness, "You see she has
been married before, and has two children."

Both Erie and Al became loudly vocal. "Well, what
is the matter with children? We have adopted two of
them, and think they're wonderful."

"But Sylvia has a boy nine and a girl thirteen."

"Well, so what!" Al cried. "I think that's great.
Think of what we will have to go through before our
kids are nine and thirteen. You have wanted children
ever since you got out of knee pants. Now they are
offered to you on a platter. They will make you see
life from a new angle."

"I know it," I replied with a shudder. "But I am
quite a number of years older than Sylvia."

A long silence greeted my remark, and I looked up
to see Al and Erie grinning at each other.

"And besides," I continued, "I haven't asked her,
and I doubt if she will have me. Why should I get
married anyway?"

Al began counting on his fingers as he enumerated
reasons.

"She is a wonderful woman."

"Right!"

"She comes from a fine family."
"Yes!"

"She has two children that will make you sit up
and take an interest in life."

250

"I'm afraid that is true."

"You need someone to take you out of the dol-
drums."

"You are right."

"And besides she is beautiful."

That seemed to settle the matter so far as Al was
concerned.

Finally he said, "Harry, you are working for me,
and I order you to marry Sylvia. If you don't, you're
fired."

"We haven't known each other so very long," I
pleaded, "and I'm afraid to ask her."

"Okay," Al declared. "When she comes over for
dinner I will ask her for you."

Matchmaking is a woman's prerogative. At dinner
that evening it was Erie who brought up the subject
in an abrupt way.

She asked suddenly, "Why don't you two get
married?"

Sylvia was more startled than I. We didn't know
what to say, and didn't say anything. Al continued the
conversation with an enthusiastic plan.

"Now make this a real wedding. Get married in
the most romantic and wonderful spot in America:
Quartzite, Arizona. That's where Erie and I were
married, and you can continue a family tradition."

The next day Sylvia and I continued our ride. As
luck would have it, we drove into Quartzite, Arizona.
It was a city of three houses, a gas station and a
Justice of the Peace. A big sign was displayed before
His Honor's combined home and office.

251

YOUNG PEOPLE
Here is the place to get married.

I wasn't so sure about the "young people" part of
it, but thought Sylvia might qualify.

The Justice of the Peace was kneeling in the garden
pulling weeds. He glared at us over his spectacles
without speaking. We felt like a couple of trespassers.

"We we want to see you about getting a license
and having you marry us," I told him.

He went on pulling weeds for a time, then rose
slowly to his feet, dusting his hands and the knees of
his overalls.

Without a word he made his way into the house.
Sylvia was close behind him, and I came after her as
the lamb followed Mary. The Justice of the Peace
seemed rather angry that we had interrupted his gar-
dening with so unimportant an affair as getting mar-
ried. His clothing and hands were badly soiled, and he
wiped his glasses with a handkerchief that was so be-
grimed that it is doubtful if his ministrations were
of any avail. He put the glasses on his nose, and then
glared over them at me.

"A license is two dollars," he announced.

"Well I I have that much," I answered.

"Witnesses will be one dollar each, and the wedding
ceremony will cost you five dollars."

I made a mental calculation and looked at Sylvia.

"She's worth it," I decided.

I laid down a ten dollar bill so that His Honor
would not doubt my ability to pay. After inspecting it
carefully, he opened a book, took up a pen and asked
our names, ages, occupations, citizenship; whether or
not we were now married, and a dozen or more ques-
tions that I have forgotten.

252

He looked at what he had written, and then glared
at me.

"Jolson, Jolsonl Are you any relation to Al Jolson?"

"I am his brother."

For the first time he seemed to take an interest
in the proceedings.

"I married All" he exclaimed.

"Yes, so he told us. That is why we came to you."

He took off his glasses, and wiped them with his
questionable handkerchief.

"Well, well!" he said slowly. "So you are Al Jol-
son's brother. I wish somebody had told me ahead of
time. If I had known that Al Jolson's brother was
coming to get married, I would have was'hed my shirt."

Within the hour we sent Al and Erie a telegram:

"ORDERS OBEYED STOP GOING
TO YUMA FOR OUR HONEYMOON
STOP. HARRY AND SYLVIA."

Sylvia not only proved to be a wonderful wife, but
she is a great champion for me in my perpetual battle
against being identified as the brother of Al Jolson.
On her part, she refuses to be merely the wife of Al
Jolson's brother.

We were in Palm Springs one day, when a man
came up and started the kind of conversation I have
learned to dread.

"They tell me you are Al Jolson's brother," he
began. "I was one of AFs best friends, and I never
heard of any brother. If you are actually a brother, why
weren't you in the moving picture that gave the true
story of his life?"

Sylvia took up the sword for me. Very sweetly she
answered, "But Harry Jolson did have a part in the
picture. Didn't you see him?"

253

"No, I didn't. I saw the picture four times, and
there was no brother in it. It didn't mention any Harry
Jolson."

"Did you see the family at the table in the dining
room?"

"Of course I did!"

"Well, then, you must have learned about Al's
brother, Harry. He was out in the kitchen washing
dishes."

Sylvia sometimes asks me if I had accepted the
children in order to marry her, or if I married her in
order to get the children. I have always been good at
impersonation. Now, approaching the age of three
score and ten, with the accumulated wisdom of years,
I give her a perfect impersonation of the Great Sphinx.

I had always longed to have children under my
care, and now my longing has been answered with
vengeance. My home is no longer a quiet, peaceful
place. Most of the time it resembles a boiler factory.
In addition, I have the problem of the telephone,
which is a major problem that all parents must face.
Except for a few hours when school is in session never
can we call either in or out. The children have the
telephone in constant use for the world's most im-
portant affairs.

I sometimes tell them stories of my stage career
that are like tales from fairyland to them. Again I
become Harry Jolson, the vaudeville star, whose ex-
ploits are the children's joy and pride.

One day Richard climbed to the arm of my chair,
and we had a confidential talk.

"I hope you and Mother never have any trouble
and break up," he said.

There was real emotion in his voice. I was flattered

254

and grateful that he had accepted me as I had accepted
him.

"You see," he explained with the frankness of child-
hood, "it makes me so proud to tell the kids that Al
Jolson was my uncle."

As my story draws to a close I appreciate, more than
ever before, the figure that my brother became in the
theatrical world. A marvelous change took place after
he and I came into it as boys.

We saw the stock company come and go. We saw
great dramas of the stage reach the heights and decline.
We saw vaudeville rise from a humble beginning to
elaborate productions in gorgeous theaters. We saw
the silent picture come and go. We saw vaudeville
end with the talking picture. We saw the beginning
of radio, and the coming of television. Again we saw
the vaudeville act become popular, this time viewed
in our living room. Where can you find a parallel to
that marvelous era?

My brother played a tremendous role in this change.
His name became known and loved in every part of
of the world. His theatrical career was a fabulous
thing. Al was the perfect showman both on and off the
stage. Never in his life was he anything but a showman.
His genius continues even after death.

American Legion Posts are named for him, as well
as B'Nai B'Rith Lodges. There is an Al Jolson Bowl.

All this is a fitting climax to a career that began
when a small, slight, immigrant boy ran away from
home to venture into the world of entertainment, the
one place where he could be happy and content.

Stories about Al Jolson may in time rival those
attributed to Mark Twain. I hear a new one nearly
every day. I also hear tales, both true and false, that
are not complimentary to him.

255

To these, as a defending, older brother, who still
takes his part in all things, I give the answer that if
any of us were perfect, we would not be here upon
this earth.

They tell me that Al was quick-tempered and pro-
fane. Truel But his talent for profanity was like his
talent in singing. It was an unusual and thrilling ex-
perience to see him get mad and to hear him swear.
He knew all the words, and also the music that went
with each combination.

I hear people say that Al did nothing except for
publicity. Well, people on the stage get into that
habit, and it is part of the profession. To be successful,
one must be constantly in the public eye. Not only
people in general forget quickly, but also the booking
agencies and theater managers. Most of the publicity
stories must be manufactured. Many are the things
an actor must do for that purpose. There is no other
way. Publicity stories do for an actor what advertising
does for any brand of merchandise.

Stories are told for the purpose of showing that Al
was a miser. He had his moments, as I have explained,
but those who tell these stories forget his generosity.

I often hear the story that Al tried in every way to
ruin my career, and conspired to keep me out of the
public eye. At times I believed this. At other times I
did not. Who knows? It would require some great
seer to tell what was in APs mind for more than a
few hours at a time. His was a mercurial nature. He
lived in a state of almost constant change. He would
promise a thing one day, only to forget it or do the
opposite on the morrow.

All these weaknesses are of no consequence. I men-
tion them only that I may defend my brother.

He belongs to the history of the American stage,

256

and his sins fade into insignificance in the light of his
tremendous achievements. We may dismiss them in
the words of the poet, Gray:

"No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God."
My brother died at the height of his fame, and I
believe he would have had it that way.

For our hasty words and many disagreements I
had his full forgiveness, as he has mine. I like to
remember him as he was during the long years, begin-
ning when I first looked into his tiny face. I think of
the fabulous figure that he became, and as one who
made the final sacrifice to bring a moment of joy and
encouragement to our struggling, fighting men.

I like to think of him as he was when he again
found his brilliant career, and knew the happiness of
a lovely wife, children and a home. I like to think of
him changing from boyhood to manhood, and in the
later years.

In imagination I see him when he made a final exit
from the stage of life, waving a hand and singing a
song, dancing joyfully up the long stairway into the
Great Unknown.

257