release from the little incubus!" Being at the time interested in
a certain prima donna known to fame (I might say rather seriously
interested), I confessed to a non-appreciative state of mind regarding
her idea of humor and mildly suggested that she furnish some solution
as a means of escaping from this most embarrassing situation. I
realized the publicity and scandal that must surely come.
"It is very simple," said she. "Go to Buffalo, buy him off, come back
to Boston and marry me. Your mother is very fond of me and I love her
and Dad immensely; I am passionately fond of art; I think you are one
of the most charming men whom I have ever met, and I know I can make
you superlatively happy!"
After that what could a true-born American do?
I went to Buffalo, saw this half a husband (good title, that!), paid
him five thousand dollars, stopped off in New York and explained the
situation as best I could to my prima donna friend who tearfully told
me that I was "doing the only thing a man could do."
I had "stolen the lady from her husband," "robbed his fireside,"
"broken up his home" and I "must necessarily abide the consequences."
"The world will condemn you, and it should, but she was certain, as was
I, that my crime would be condoned and maybe in time forgiven."
The papers were beginning to hint at some unwholesome episode connected
with our lives; accusations were being forged, ready to be hurled. I
must marry at once and listen to her play the piano for the rest of my
life! I was sure of one thing, however--she would never bore me and
she never did. But, Gee Whiz! what a lot of things she did to equalize
things.
Well, I kept my word. We were married and a beautiful boy came "to
cement our union." From the time that that youngster, Nat C. Goodwin,
III, came into the world until the law separated us, she was a changed
woman. Up to that time we were happy. I purchased a fine residence on
West End Avenue, New York, and our home was the rendezvous of some of
the brightest lights of the artistic world.
And then she became insanely jealous of our darling boy and it is here
that I drop the curtain upon our lives.
It is not my mission in this book to say anything unkind or harsh of
any of the women who have married me. I wish to confine myself to
speaking in terms of fullest appreciation of their virtues and merits,
leaving it to wise censors to judge me. By some power of reasoning all
men and women elect themselves the judges and juries of my actions.
Their harsh criticisms I leave unanswered, being thoroughly satisfied
in my own mind that I have committed no offense whatever against
humanity, knowing that I have treated honest women as they should be
treated, with all due deference and respect to womankind.
Poor Nella Baker! She abandoned the glitter and glare of the world of
fashion to seek refuge in the bosom of Bohemia. She extricated herself
from the vortex of society to get a glimpse of Real Life! The pet
of drawing rooms, she became the wife of a comedian. She sought the
atmosphere of Henri Mürger, but, alas! found it not.
Marriages are made in Heaven--cancelled in Reno!
Perhaps some will object to a number of my attitudes in this book,
particularly as regards my marital ventures. I have "no right to
refer" to the sanctity of marriage--"a union of two souls," cemented
by a (paid) preacher, "ordained by the Deity," etc! But these good
people will mistake my attitudes. I do not recognize as sanctified any
ceremony that can be annulled by a five-thousand-dollar-a-year judge.
Reno is known as the Mecca for vacillating souls. New York makes it
look like thirty cents!
New York, by comparison, makes Reno look like a Mormon Mausoleum!
All you have to do in New York is to call at the Captain's office,
behind closed doors, whisper "Guilty" and, presto, you go as free as
the birds! If you are hoarse, send someone in your place, it's all the
same. And yet people prate about "the holy bonds of matrimony!" Holy?
Yes, with holes big enough to crawl through!
I leaped through my last one and had the aperture sewed behind me!
[Illustration: NAT C. GOODWIN, III]
I presume that I shall be terribly censured by those goody-goody
persons who are constantly preaching their trust in all mankind and
womankind and expatiating upon filial devotion and implicit faith
in those they profess to love. Bah! There is no perfect trust in
perfect love.
Whenever I hear a man (or woman) express himself as being tremendously
in love, combined with an abiding faith even if he and his mate are
living in different zones, I always watch for the finale and generally
read the epilogue in the Reno "Gazette." When married people are
separated (this is from my point of view), unless he has misgivings
when her name is mentioned and his pulse does not quicken, if he does
not quiver when he is told that his wife was seen, beautifully arrayed,
entertaining a party of friends at some particular garden party or
golf club--the little messenger Cupid has taken wings. He may strut
about like Chantecler, proclaiming that his crow awakens the slumbering
embers of a dying passion, but he is only mesmerizing himself.
Married people should never be separated, not even by chamber doors.
Our forefathers and mothers never occupied separate chambers when the
time came for prayer and slumber. They were healthy people, if not
fashionable. Canaries and monkeys provide the warmth and oils for their
mates' bodies, but in this age of advancement and hypocrisy it is
considered common to be human.
If mankind would study the ostrich and abide by its acts, morality
would triumph and married people would always be together.
Distance lends enchantment only when the door of the cage is opened by
mutual consent. When only one returns the door will be found rusty and
difficult to close.
_Chapter XXVII_
A FIGHT WON (?)
Miles and Barton, lessees of the Bijou Theatre, New York, took me under
contract in 1886 and immediately I embarked for Europe in search of
material. As I was scheduled to follow Henry E. Dixey, who had made
himself famous at the time by his performance of Adonis, I realized
that my task would be a heavy one. On my arrival in London I put myself
in touch with several authors and succeeded in purchasing the rights
of "Little Jack Shepard," "Erminie," "Turned Up" and a musical comedy
called "Oliver Cromwell."
Armed with this material I returned to America with William Yardley,
intending to open the season at the Bijou with the musical play "Little
Jack Shepard" under his direction. We produced this play in the autumn,
but did not realize our expectations. In the cast were Loie Fuller, who
played the title rôle, Charles Bishop, Lelia Farrell and a prima donna
whose name I forget. (She couldn't sing for nuts, but fortunately the
first night she suffered from a severe cold which forced her to speak
the lyrics.)
During the run of "Little Jack Shepard" I read the various librettos
I had purchased abroad and while Miles (dear old Bob!) congratulated
me on my perspicacity in procuring such material, Barton objected
strenuously to one and all of them and advised me to dispose of them to
the best advantage. I immediately sought Frank Sanger and disposed of
all my holdings to him at just what they had cost me. I had previously
read the book of "Erminie." Gus Kerker played the score for us. Barton,
with his usual capacity for doing the wrong thing, violently protested
against "Erminie," saying it was a reflex of the old play "Robert
Macaire" and vastly inferior!
When business dropped with "Little Jack Shepard," Miles and Barton were
in a quandary as to what would follow it and came to me with a request
that I put on one of the plays which I had brought over from Europe. I
asked them which they preferred and they decided upon "Erminie." "Very
well," I said, "I will see what I can do, but unfortunately I have
disposed of the rights to Mr. Frank Sanger." We called him up on the
telephone and found that he had left the office at the request of the
management of the Casino, but would be back in half an hour. I jumped
into a cab, went to the office and saw Frank. He informed me that he
had just sold the American rights to Aronson, manager of the Casino,
who had engaged Francis Wilson to play the leading part. Sanger was
much distressed about this as he considered that the part would suit me
"down to the ground." Everyone knows the history of "Erminie." It made
everybody connected with it rich. Through Barton's dogmatic stupidity
we all lost fortunes.
I asked Frank if he had disposed of all the material that I had
sold him and discovered that "Turned Up" was still in the market.
He very kindly offered it to us for a thousand dollars down (he had
previously paid me five hundred cash for it) and only (!) ten per cent
of the gross receipts. We were forced to accept the play upon those
conditions. We opened with it, in conjunction with a burlesque on
"The Bells" written for me by Sydney Rosenfeld. In this I appeared as
Mathias, giving an imitation of Henry Irving. We retained most of the
cast that we had used in the previous bill with the exception of Robert
Hilliard and Charlie Coote whom I engaged to play the two light comedy
rôles.
I have never been associated with an entertainment which was received
with such manifest appreciation as that double bill. We thought we were
in for a run of at least one season and maybe two. So sanguine was
Hilliard over the success of that evening that he spent two hundred
dollars the following day in decorating his dressing-room. He was sure
we had found our theatrical home for six months or a year.
Barton, one of the old-school managers, considered that the performance
of "Turned Up," irrespective of its success, was destroying the policy
of his little playhouse. The idea of Miles and Barton was to make the
Bijou the home of burlesque and comic opera and while "Turned Up"
was turning the people away Barton writhed under its success. It was
produced without his sanction and success meant nothing to him when
compared with his wounded vanity. The receipts went as high as nine
thousand on the week and never dropped below six thousand during the
entire run which was only eight weeks.
Much to our surprise, Barton one day insisted upon taking off "Turned
Up." He figured that whenever the receipts fell below a certain figure
(which should have been a sufficient profit for any playhouse), they
were losing money and Miles discovered that instead of having the usual
two weeks' clause in all of their contracts with the artists they were
engaged for a stipulated number of weeks. This included even the ladies
and gentlemen of the chorus. The result was that a salary list of about
fourteen hundred dollars a week represented a company walking around
doing nothing. There was no chorus in "Turned Up." I suggested that he
sublet his people and not perform such a suicidal act as closing a
gold mine, but I was voted down. We then revived "The Skating Rink" and
"The Mascot" to only mediocre business.
About this time a New York critic, A. C. Wheeler, submitted a
manuscript entitled "Big Pony," music by Woolson Morse, a very clever
composer whose "Cinderella at School" I had previously produced at
the Boston Museum. We accepted this play and gave it a magnificent
production. On the reading I thought that the first and third acts
were exceptionally fine and the title rôle, Big Pony, I fancied too. I
suggested that the second act might be improved. The dialogue referred
to political issues that were long since dead. Wheeler insisted that
the play should be performed as he had written it and would not permit
one change. He proved very obdurate and we were finally compelled
to either accept it as written or give it up. We finally decided to
produce it and much to my dissatisfaction I was compelled to deliver
supposedly funny lines which I knew were funereal.
The first act proved a sensational hit, my entrance receiving such a
tumult of applause that it was fully a minute and a half before I was
permitted to sing my first song. This was a most difficult composition.
The lyrics were in the true Indian language, which made it very
difficult for any of the cribbers of the time to hypothecate it. (I am
sure that the champion purveyor of songs, Seymour Hicks, would have
encountered a "water jump" had he tried to. Hicks has often been called
"Steal More Tricks" on account of his fascinating and "taking" ways.)
We had a very good third act, but the second act was so terrible that
the play proved an unmitigated failure.
Wheeler, known as Nym Crinkle, one of the cleverest critics of his
time, was a most unscrupulous fellow and he took his medicine as such
fellows usually take it. Instead of accepting the inevitable as a
true sportsman should, Wheeler attributed the play's failure to me
and without my knowledge became my bitter foe. The papers were severe
in their reviews of the play, but most gracious to all the players,
particularly to me. This rankled in his diminutive heart. Having
torn down so many houses, he could not stand having his own citadel
stormed. While we often met in the private office and talked over the
possibilities of resuscitation he would smilingly, yet stubbornly,
refuse to alter a line or allow anyone to suggest changes. The play
evidently appealed to his vanity. He never missed a performance,
occupying a box with a lady who owned a half interest in the piece, a
Miss Estelle Clayton.
We all knew that the play was doomed and knowing that it was shortly
to be taken off many of us took liberties with the text and gagged
whenever the opportunity presented itself. I remember a gambling scene
that I had in the last act in which I threw dice with one of the
characters, incidentally losing all my fortune and vast estates. One
evening as my last dollar disappeared over the dice cloth I noticed
Wheeler (as usual in the box) beaming at some of my sallies. I said
to the opposite character, "Now, my friend, I will throw you for this
play--manuscript, parts and all."
The players and the audience, knowing that the play was about to be
withdrawn, screamed with laughter. Just as I was pondering over some
other funny quip my heart came up into my throat as I saw the box party
get up and file out, their backs expressing profound indignation.
I said to myself, "My finish," and maudled through the rest of the
performance. I had made an enemy for life of A. C. Wheeler and well
he exercised his avenging powers. For years he assailed me from every
angle, his vilifying articles never ceasing until his death. I was to
blame, I presume, but I really intended no harm--only fun.
That same evening I unconsciously offended and made an enemy of another
person, one of the box party, a Mr. Durant, a downtown broker who, I
afterwards ascertained, shared half of Miss Clayton's interest in the
play. Up to that time I had never heard of the gentleman and we never
met until several weeks after. One day in Kirk's _café_ on Broadway at
Twenty-seventh Street I was approached by a half drunken individual who
insultingly invited me to drink. I was seated at a table with dear old
Anson Pond and politely refused several of his solicitations. He was
most persistent, accompanying his requests with profane and obscene
references to me and my work on the stage.
The place was packed with men who stopped and listened to the drunken
tirade the stranger was heaping upon me. Pond, an athlete, calmly
looked on and said nothing. One or two of the bartenders quietly
signalled me to hit him on the head with something. I turned to Anson
and said, "If this fellow doesn't stop it looks as if I must put one
over." He smilingly approved. Then the drunken gentleman leered at me,
again inviting me to drink. If that didn't appeal to me he was willing
to accompany me to some adjacent room, lock the door and the one who
survived would return the winner. Before I answered his belligerent
request I swung my puny right which landed, fortunately, upon the point
of his impertinent jaw and down he went in a heap.
This seemed to meet with the approval of the spectators and I calmly
resumed my seat, thinking that he would take the count. Imagine my
horror when I saw this huge man unravel himself, slowly rise and
approach me with much ferocity. He was about six feet tall, and
weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. That was the way
he appeared to me, at all events. I naturally expected Pond or some
of the on-lookers to interfere, but no such luck! As he viciously
approached me he swung his right very hard at my head. I ducked it,
got to my feet, determined to find out if he knew anything about
boxing. I feinted him and discovered that he was ignorant of everything
pertaining to the noble art. I also realized that if he ever caught me
in his embrace it was "Goodnight to home and mother" for "America's
Foremost!" I jumped about and finally with good judgment and better
luck, landed a punch on the identical chin, in the same place, and down
went the part owner of "Big Pony," again.
Still no interference! The bartenders continued nonchalantly wiping the
tumblers. Pond kept on complacently puffing his weed and the spectators
obligingly formed an extemporaneous ring. I was standing, gasping, in
the center of the room. My right hand was split and rapidly becoming
the size of a cantaloupe.
The gentleman on the floor slowly uncoiled himself and came at me
again, only to receive a blow on the same spot and go to the floor.
This time I nearly went with him! Weighing about one hundred and thirty
pounds my work upon the human punching bag was beginning to tell. This
kept up for two more rounds and still no one interfered. The reason was
afterwards explained to me. I was "winning so easily!"
Winning, indeed! I was slowly dying and had I been possessed of the
necessary courage I would have solicited interference, realizing that I
must stop or faint! I was slowly but surely passing away. I had enough
strength left in my legs to back towards the lunch counter, knowing
that there were missiles on the table. As he closed in on me, instead
of endeavoring to avoid him, I clutched him in a fond, yet tenacious,
embrace. As we went down I reached up on the table, endeavoring to
grasp the first article on which my hand came in contact. I clutched
something, which proved to be a caster filled with its usual bottles.
I hadn't enough strength left to lift the article but I dragged it
casually down and let it fall gently upon the gentleman's forehead,
which was beneath me. As the catsup, Worcestershire sauce and vinegar
slowly trickled into his eyes he gently drew me towards him and
whispered, "I've had enough."
He anticipated me by just a second!
I gallantly permitted him to rise, after gracefully tumbling off his
stomach. Then in stentorian tones I said, "Get up, you loafer!" and
walked majestically away. I pantomimed to Pond (I couldn't talk after
that one burst of "Get up") to get me some brandy and water and under
the pretext of fatigue I laid my head upon his shoulder--and passed
away for about five minutes.
I explained this encounter to Ed. Buckley some weeks later and after
receiving his congratulations, I queried, "Kindly tell me, Ned,
how--when my antagonist was out the next day without a mark on him and
I never left my bed for two weeks--how do you figure me the winner?"
Ned's silence was profound.
_Chapter XXVIII_
JOHN CHAMBERLAIN
For many years I always looked forward to my annual visit to Washington
with a great deal of pleasure for two reasons--I was sure of
magnificent results so far as my engagements were concerned and a jolly
good time besides. I always arranged my tour so as to play one week
there, followed by a week's vacation. It was a necessary precaution!
Often I omitted rest altogether, just continuing the round of pleasure
without pause. Dinners were followed by suppers, suppers by breakfasts!
After a night at John Chamberlain's famous hostelry one felt that one
never wanted to go to bed.
At that time Chamberlain's was the best known and the most popular
resort of the cleverest men in the United States. For here one was
sure of the best food in the country. The wines were of the finest
quality. It is little wonder that it was known as the rendezvous of the
enlightened.
Generally after the matinée and always after the evening performance
I would wend my way to Chamberlain's and bathe in the atmosphere of
the clever men who were the habitués. Here were congregated such men
as Roscoe Conklin, James G. Blaine, President Arthur, Senators Brice,
Beck, Blackburne and Jones, Secretary of the Treasury John G. Carlisle,
William Mahone of Virginia, Arthur Pugh Gorman, Grover Cleveland,
Speaker Crisp, Tom Reed of Maine, the first Czar of the Senate, John
Allen, Lawrence Jerome, the witty father of William Travers Jerome
later to become District Attorney of New York, Amos Cummings, Blakely
Hall, Joe Howard, Jr.--but why enumerate all the leading characters of
the United States? Men who were making American history congregated at
this noted tavern and over a bottle of wine or an apple toddy discussed
national affairs or the latest leg show. Chamberlain's was indeed the
Hall of Fame.
For a period extending over twenty-five years John Chamberlain was
as well known on the streets of Washington as any man occupying the
executive chair. A portly man, weighing over two hundred pounds, his
rotund figure was visible every pleasant afternoon as he strolled
along Pennsylvania Avenue, always in company with some distinguished
statesman. John was friendly with the mightiest.
John was one of the most affable of men. Never ruffled, he took the
world for what it was worth and smiled with equal facility whatever
came--whether failure or success (and he had his share of both).
Beginning life as a roustabout on the Mississippi River he later
blossomed forth as a professional gambler and soon was the most
conspicuous member of that fraternity. It was in this way that he
became immensely wealthy. But ill-luck overtook him as it chased him
down the Road of Chance and Speculation and he landed on the rocks.
When men make fortunes by their wits, playing and preying upon the
credulity of mankind, and misfortune overtakes them they are as a rule
as helpless as children. Age has dulled their mentality. The charm that
appeals to the gullible has vanished. Inventions to trap the credulous
are more up to date and aged grafters must give way to the younger and
more enlightened.
Poor John realized that his day had come, but taking advantage of
the many friends he had made during the days of his prosperity and
realizing that a spark of the old brilliancy yet remained he interested
a few friends in a scheme to open a high-class restaurant, where the
quality of wine and food could not be excelled in America and the
prices prohibitive to any but those who could afford such luxuries.
Having himself been a _bon vivant_ for years John was of full form,
"with good capon lined." No one was better fitted to cater to the
tastes and inclinations of American statesmen. The Blaine residence was
secured and Chamberlain was launched. It consisted of two houses thrown
into one. We all met in one large room on the corner, a room about a
hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide. In that room I have
met the men as I have mentioned.
Many a night I have listened to dear William Mahone later known as
"Little Billy," relate his experiences in the war. I have gone upstairs
and watched the heavy play at poker (for stakes that would have amazed
the many had they known the amount played for). I have watched the
stolid Roscoe Conklin, as he came and went, recognizing hardly any
one, majestic in demeanor, suggesting a proud turkey contemplating his
barnyard companions. Then comes the magnetic James G. Blaine, in direct
contrast to his adversary, Conklin, who cost him the Presidency of the
United States. Blaine most often was listening to the caustic, rasping
tones of Tom Reed who ordered his apple toddy in a voice another
man would use to give an enemy the lie! I have hung on the words of
brilliant Bob Ingersoll as they rolled from his colossal brain, gone
from one table to another--to find each one more attractive than the
last!
[Illustration: PALS
_Richard Carle, Fred G. Stanley, Nat Goodwin, Walter Jones, De Wolf
Hopper_]