Radio mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

Then Eddie Cantor — that Eddie Cantor — died ; and the new Cantor, the Cantor you know today, was born. The Cantor who was sick in body and soul willed to get well. And he sent two telegrams. One was to the late Flo Ziegfeld, accepting the lead in "Whoopee." The other was to the late Julius Rosenwald, promising to attend and assist at a huge national charitable convention. "Whoopee" was to become Eddie's greatest theatrical success; his participation in the charitable convention was to lay the cornerstone for an entirely new, finer, more satisfactory structure of life for Eddie Cantor. "I want to be of some use to the world," he told Rosenwald haltingly. "I have to — to justify my existence — to give people more than just laughs." The great philanthropist, wise from years of giving, shook his head sadly. "You will receive no thanks," he said, "and you will suffer. The world will stone you, Eddie, and ninetynine out of every hundred will accuse you of self-seeking. Yet only the vain man hides his philanthropies. And — " he shrugged — "remember this: for every ninety-nine who stone you, perhaps one will be encouraged to follow your example. You must be prepared to martyr yourself for that one. Your position as a well known member of the theatrical world gives you a fine opportunity to help others and to encourage others to do so, too. But on the other hand, it also leaves you open to charges of publicizing yourself." IS HE IDEALIST OR PUB LICITY SEEKER? THE AN SWER TELLS YOU THE TRUE REASON FOR HIS CHARITIES Whenever Eddie arrives in town he's met by a cheering throng like this one in New York — proof of what his obsession has accomplished. T HERE was an easy way for Cantor to do that. Nothing more than to write a large check periodically to some charitable organization, then pat himself on the back for having done his periodic good deed. It v/as an easy way to salve his ego; an easy way to hide his charities from the eyes of skeptics who would not believe in them. Too easy. Eddie could not take it. "Rockfeller can give checks five times as large as I can," Eddie explained to me. "Twenty times even, and never miss the money. Lots of men, richer than I am and poorer than I am too, can give money. But there's one thing Rockefeller can't give. He can't give my time. Only 1 can give that." So Eddie took the hard way. True, he gave generously of his personal funds, but more important, he gave unstintingly of his time and of his energy — that precious energy of a man whose doctors have told him he'll be dead in a year if he doesn't let up. If you were to total up the sums that Eddie Cantor has given and caused to be given and otherwise raised for charity since that fateful day . on the California desert, you would have a staggering amount. A low estimate puts it at twenty-five million dollars! It has gone to old people's homes, to camps in the Adirondacks where five hundred underprivileged children go every summer, to theatrical pension funds, for resettlement of European refugee children, to orphan asylums, for tubercular relief, for community chests, in national emergency drives for relief of flood, drought, and earthquake and fire victims, Eddie's private life, too, has been studded with unselfish deeds. He has shared the radio spotlight with proteges who have thereby been given the chance which made them famous. He has befriended obscure or down-on-theirluck members of his own profession, given them money or helped them find new jobs. All this was his program, the life he had mapped out for himself when he left the California sanitarium. He did not know then that it was going to do so much more for him than give him the satisfaction of knowing he was helping others. That was all he expected of it. Now he believes that every good deed he has done, has been of actual, material benefit to bint! "I _know what people think," he told me. "Half of them think I'm a sucker. The other half think I'm a softie. But believe me, the bread I have cast on the waters has come back to me — not just as cake — but as big mountains of ice cream !■" On the surface, that didn't seem to make sense. For I knew, or thought I knew, some of the bitter aspects of Eddie's altruism. There was the prize essay contest I mentioned before, with its payoff which exposed Eddie to ridicule. And often, on similar occasions, the public and press have accused Eddie of being a publicity seeker. A man he once helped along the road to fame, now securely set on the pinnacle, has turned on him. A friend to whom he lent a large sum of money had a wife to whom Eddie offered a guest appearance on his radio program. The wife tilted her usual price by $500. Enmities? They are many and bitter. There is the case of the Hollywood columnist who asked Eddie to appear on a radio program. He replied tartly: "I do not make benefit appearances to promote Cantor. (Continued on page 103) 25 Bert Laivson