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IA Great Humorist interviews Himself By Eddie Cantor * MR. AND. MRS. BDDIE CANTOR AND FAMILY Married nineteen yean and still stuck wtth the same wife and five daughters This article is presented by special arrangement with the New York Herald-Tribune. Mr. Cantor has contributed this sketch of himself as his share of a forthcoming book, to be published by the Au- /hors’ League for the benefit of needy men of letters. O UT in front of the theater crowds pushed merrily through the lobby and doors; electric signs blazed; photos, printed signs and other bits of press agent •rrature drew curiosity seekers and pros- rctive cash customers. Backstage there was a •mingling of sadness and gaggery. It was •here that I went in search of Eddie Cantor. As I entered his dressing-room he was ap- ■iving grease-paint to his face in front of a mrror. 1 had made an appointment to inter im him; so I said, “May I interview you?” To this bold introductory question—accord- to the rules of international interview- 14, the interviewer may ask anything—Mr. Cantor replied "No!" So I asked my first prepared question. T hen the trouble started. Mr. Cantor speaks like an actor; I speak like i critic. Needing an interpreter, we called for Frenchy,” his valet and physical trainer. Mr. Cantor," I asked, “what do you think of •hr show business?" “All the troubles of the world come from think ing. he countered. “T herefore I don’t think." What a great philosopher, I thought, though hr thought gave me a slight headache. Undaunted, 1 asked another: Mr. Cantor, if you had your life to live all ver again, would you be an actor?" You bet I would," he responded. “ I hat’s what I always wanted to be." This was getting a bit too much for me, so I pulled out a deck of cards and we played solitaire. Hr warmed up to me immediately and the two t us were soon howling as happily as if nothing nad happened. A great comedian, this man Cantor, I thought; but I immediately dismissed the thought and shot my next question at him. How did you happen to go on the stage?" The look he gave me turned my hair white; but hr never flinched. Through an accident," he began. "After an apprenticeship as a singing waiter at Coney Island, a course in Cius Edward’s famous juvenile school and a tour of the vaudeville stage, a fellow ap proached me one day and showed me a little magnet. "Cantor,” he said, “this magnet will make mil lions of dollars for us." What do you mean, millions?" I asked. "And >in e when are you my partner ?” Listen, mug,’ he persisted, ‘this magnet is a miniature of a tremendously large one that I am m king. When it is finished I am taking it out in the ocean and dropping it where ships laden wi h gold have gone to the bottom. W hen this m 4net gets in touch with those treasures it will dr \v them to the surface and we will both be rich "might. All I want you to do is to invest $50.’ ‘With my luck,’ I told him, we would bring up nothing but herrings.’ And,” Cantor continued, “despite the fact that « the time I had a wife, five daughters and 700 * * * * * * * * * * Marjorie Natalie Edna Marilyn Janet relatives to support, I took the £S0 and invested it in a bundle of old jokebooks and went on the air to broadcast." Cantor was now warming up to one of the topics 1 was anxious to discuss with him. “What do you think of the future of radio?" I asked him. “There is no one smart enough to predict," he confided. “We’re all guessing. Your guess is as good as mine. Here’s mine: Radio artists with the capacity for clear thinking and good judgment will discover that there is a bigger audience away from Broadway. They will also learn that radio caters to the family trade and that children listen in as well as adults. Many performers on the air will trade their press agents for authors." At last I was getting the serious side of Cantor —Cantor the philosopher, Cantor the great busi ness man, Cantor the artist. That’s what I was after. I must continue along these lines. “What do you think of technocracy?" He never blinked an eye. “When it comes to mechanical things I’m a total loss,” he explained. “I cannot change a tire. When any one tells me my carburetor is leaking, I rush to the kitchen. Several months ago I bought a new fangled hanger for my trousers, and after trying to figure it out half of the night I finally wound up by putting the trousers to bed and hanging myself in the closet." Suddenly a bell rang. “That’s my stage cue," said the comic as he rushed out. Come on downstairs to the stage," he shouted. I stood in the wings during his performance. He rolled those saucer eyes, nervously jumped across the length and breadth of the stage and simply could not make his hands behave. T here was a twinkle in his eye that never left him. Then we were back in the dressing room. “Frenchy” was dousing him with alcohol, and I was ready to pick up our interview. Instead, he donned a peach-colored dressing-gown and signaled for his secretary. “< let me," he demanded, “my pen. This is my autograph hour." He proceeded to autograph photographs for his admirers. T hey were to go to every part of the w r orld, but he was equal to the task; he wrote his name in the language whence the requests had come. Suddenly he stopped and studied his hand writing. “I must take penmanship lessons again," he ex claimed. “Why, my signature is actually becoming legible!” Then he picked up his fan mail. “Flaming youth,” he sighed. “Ah, what nice sentiments they express in words and in perfume. Their parents, poor people, wasting time to edu cate them.” Then he remembered he should not scorn. “I have five daughters myself,” he murmured, “and some day they will he somebody’s mother, too. How sad.” He tied the letters carefully w'ith pale blue rib bon, addressed them to Samuel Goldwyn, the picture producer, and said, “He’ll find out w'ho the real Clarke Gable is on the screen.” This remark served as my cue to delve into his motion picture career. “How do you like pictures, Mr. Cantor?” 1 asked him. “Once a year," he muttered, “when the tempera ture in New York is touching a figure that makes me wish I had sold all my stocks in 1929, I migrate to Hollywood to make a picture for Sam uel Goldw’yn, and no matter what other producers do in musical comedy production for the screen, my boss will never get off the old Goldwyn standard and”— He was digressing. Was this Cantor, the great comedian and philosopher, talking—or was 1 in terviewing a press agent? “Listen,” I interrupted, “tell me something about yourself before 1 leave. 'Fell me about your career.” “Well,” he began, “I was born, and very suc cessfully, too, in New' York City 104 years after George Washington was inaugurated and 401 years after Christopher (Please turn to page 30) the southern Israelite * t7]