proceeding and met me in Louisville. She told me that my fiancee
had informed her parents of her intentions and they were furious,
had entered all sorts of protests and threatened even violence. I
listened very quietly, waiting to learn my fiancee's attitude. She was
determined and defiant and meant to go through.
I told her friend that I could readily understand the attitude of the
young lady's family and endorsed it. What did they know of me except
through the newspapers? I should not care to entrust my daughter or
sister to the keeping of a man with my unsavory reputation. I promised
then and there that I would endeavor to break the engagement and her
friend left very much delighted. I took the matter up with the young
lady, but she refused absolutely to annul the agreement. She even
threatened to leave her home and join me. Of course I soon argued her
out of that determination. But the most she agreed to was to wait until
such time as I should be free.
I had determined upon my course. By various means I had fathomed the
whole situation. She was the favorite daughter of a very large family.
Her father, passed beyond the eighties, fairly worshipped her. Her
brother simply idolized her. Was it fair to break up this happy home?
I could only answer my own question negatively. I sent for one of the
members of the family. He came, unknown to her, and I suggested that I
go at once to Europe and remain there for a year.
"That won't do," he said. "She will follow you. We can do nothing with
her at home; she is a determined woman and has made up her mind."
While talking I thought of an offer I had received for an Australian
tour and excusing myself I went to the telegraph office. Presently I
came back with a copy of a wire to George Musgrove which I had just
sent to New York. It read:
"Accept Australian terms. Open June twenty-fifth. If successful
will continue to India, South Africa and London."
"Will that satisfy you and the members of your family?" I asked.
"Come and have a drink!" he replied and over an apple toddy informed me
that I was a good fellow. He took the next train for Lexington leaving
me alone at the Galt House bar with my thoughts and an apple toddy!
Ahead I saw only a trip of ten thousand miles to an unknown country,
which I had no desire to visit, and a divorce procedure under way that
had cost me thousands to bring about. I was about to leave friends,
family and a woman who was sure to loathe my name when she heard of my
act--and all for what?
It was simply to appease the transient sorrow of a family too selfish
to allow their offspring to obey the dictates of her own honest heart.
They had no thought of her anguish, her future and as for me--of what
matter my end? The profligate could go on his way destroying more homes
to build one of his own, take a journey into other lands in quest of
more victims, etc!
If I had only been more selfish, what a different life mine would have
been! Not that I am ashamed of any act of my past, but the impressions
I have unwittingly made would never have been made; my inclinations
would have been established; my true motives known to the world, and
children, perhaps, be born to endorse my attitude toward mankind!
Fate said "No," and I began my journey to the Antipodes, leaving as a
legacy to the Kentucky woman--a lie!
Fifteen years later we met in New York. We drove through Central Park
and I told her the truth. When I had finished she said nothing; for
almost an hour we drove in silence. She then turned to me and simply
replied, "Well I've waited all these years to prove what I thought was
true. It is over now and I presume we both are happy."
Are we? I wonder!
It was Poe who wrote Annabel Lee:--
The moon never beams
Without bringing me dreams
Of my beautiful Annabel Lee.
It is a strange world. The young lady married some few years ago. I
hope she is happy; she deserves to be.
_Chapter XLIX_
THE CONFESSIONAL
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;
He, who, secure within, can say:
"Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day!"
Come fair or foul, or rain or shine.
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine!
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been,
And I have had my hour.--JOHN DRYDEN
I have--
been addicted to the use of alcoholic stimulants--but always with
distinguished and worthy companions;
deserted home and fireside, always by request, bought and dearly
paid for;
lied--to myself--for recreation;
cheated--the undertaker;
deceived--only "yours truly;"
been a reveler--during the day, always too busy at night;
been a gambler--on the green;
a rambler--on the nod;
an actor--on the job;
a hypocrite?--no, by God!
The Shubert theatres and Carnegie libraries are running a dead heat in
an earnest endeavor to perpetuate their respective names.
What sublime egotism and how humorous! A race between a Scotchman and a
Jew!
Now if only a New England Yankee could be persuaded to enter the race I
would back him to win! He would be sure to erect against every library
and theatre a soup house in which to feed the inartistic hungry--and he
would get the money, too.
* * * * *
I have been accused by many of my reviewers of being a casual person,
with no reverence for my art; a trifler, unreliable, never taking
myself seriously. To all of which I plead guilty. I am casual; I never
found it necessary to plod. I have little reverence for the art that
has never played fair with me.
I had to play in London to discover that I was an artist.
A trifler? Yes--when circumstances compelled me to associate with
pin-headed critics.
And why should I take myself seriously when nobody else does?
Mind you, when I say I plead guilty that does not signify that I am.
Many a man has pleaded guilty to save himself from the hangman's noose,
being assured that by so doing he will receive life imprisonment. If
after a perusal of the itinerary that I have written in this book of
thirty-nine years before the public, in which I prove that I have
run the gamut from an end man in a minstrel show to Shylock in "The
Merchant of Venice" anyone pronounces me guilty I am willing to abide
by his verdict.
But none will deny that I have worked--worked hard--and enjoyed it!
* * * * *
The three saddest events in my life:--
The burial of my son.
The death of Eliza Weathersby.
Inspecting Her Majesty's Theatre, London, with Sir Henry Irving under
the guidance of Beerbohm Tree, then the lessee and manager!
The three happiest events:--
The birth of my son.
The presentation of a loving cup to me by the Lambs Club.
My first performance in "The Merchant of Venice."
* * * * *
I earnestly beseech my readers, particularly the professional critics
to whom I pay my respects later, not to misconstrue my motives nor
consider any of my references as personal. They are simply mild
protests at the methods employed of featuring my professional and
private lives, particularly the latter.
For years I have been misrepresented, at times assailed, brutally
assaulted. I am not defending any real act that has ever been
exploited; my principal objection is that the real bad in me has never
been discovered! Only the supposed errors and little idiosyncrasies are
all they have endeavored to circulate.
What has been printed is puerile and worthy only of contempt. I am
really capable of far more devilish accomplishments than those with
which they have credited me, but they are apparent only to my intimate
friends who know my tremendous capacity for wrong-doing!
Conscious of my alleged proclivities I find supreme consolation in
knowing a dear old lady living in Boston who is proof against the
accusations made against me. Really she does not believe them. For
years I have been the recipient twice a week of just such epistles as
this, my latest love letter:--
MY OWN DARLING SON:
We were both very very happy to get your dear letter this
morning, yet sorry to hear you are suffering with Sciatica and
Rheumatism, I do hope the next letter we get, you will be able
to walk with a Cane; very thankful you are not having but very
little pain in the back. I know dear that you dont believe in
Christian Science yet I feel it is helping us all and if mother
is happy in that belief, I know you wont mind me writing this to
you. I've prayed night and day your Back would heal and your legs
would grow Stronger every day, and I really believe my prayers
have helped you; now I am going to work hard night and day for
you to get rid of Sciatica and Rheumatism, and tell me in your
next letter if you are getting all over your illness, and those
weak nerves, even if you dont believe in C. S. I've just read
this to Dad, he says, tell Nat his mother is crazy. Give Miss
Moreland my fond love and all good wishes for her kindness to
our darling, God bless her, tell her I often think of her and
hope I may see her Soon, and tell her how very grateful I am and
thank her over and over again, dont know what you would have
done without her, through all your terrible Sufferings. Dad has
written you all the news which isn't very much. I am able to
get around and waiting to get Stronger to go out. Dad joins in
sending our fond love with kisses God bless you may you improve
every day rapidly, and soon be ready for business and enjoy
perfect health and great Success in your new part--with all the
happiness there is, is ever my constant and Silent prayers always
for our Darling Son. From your ever loving and affectionate mother
C. R. GOODWIN
[Illustration: MRS. N. C. GOODWIN, SR.
_A dear old lady living in Boston_]
_Chapter L_
SAN FRANCISCO
After touring the rural towns in "In Mizzoura," I opened at the Baldwin
Theatre, San Francisco, June, 1896. It was then that I discovered
that San Francisco stands alone among the cities of the world. It is
indeed a strange place. The coolest time of the year and by far the
pleasantest is during the summer months and yet many of the inhabitants
go East, to swelter in New York or at the hotter sea shores.
I know of no more delightful city in America during June, July and
August than San Francisco. But everyone who can afford it packs up and
leaves! This of course has a tendency to affect the business of the
theatres, particularly the high-priced ones.
Dear old "Mizzoura!" How I love the play and my character, Jim
Radburn! My company, organized for Australia, comprised the following
people:--William Ingersoll, Fraser Coulter, Clarence Handysides, Neil
O'Brien, H. C. Woodthorp, Louis Payne (whom I predict will become an
excellent character actor some day), Arthur Hoops, Blanche Walsh,
Estelle Mortimer, Emily Melville and the Misses Usner and Browning.
The play went exceedingly well and it was pronounced a big hit. We
retired from our labors quite contented for it was really a meritorious
performance. Barring a little nervousness on the part of some of
the ladies and gentlemen who were new in their characters we gave a
splendid ensemble.
By the way, what an awful thing is this nervousness on the first night!
The older the artist the more intense is the suffering. You, dear
public, who sit in silent judgment upon the poor player on his initial
performance, know nothing of the anguish going on behind the curtain.
You do not see the blanched faces that no grease-paint yet invented can
conceal nor hear the whispered ejaculations of us all, fearful of our
finish and sick with anxiety for our brothers and sisters in art who
are experiencing the same torture! Everything is forgotten save the
result of those awful three or four hours. If you only knew what your
verdict meant I tell you, gentle reader, you would be less harsh in
your judgment of us. Think of the many, many people who are interested
in your verdict, the many whose very life and sustenance depend upon
your words. Think of the amount of toil involved in the production of a
new play.
First comes the evolution of a plot. And this is but the beginning
of the author's work. For him it is toil, toil, toil. Then comes his
fearful ordeal of reading his work to the actor-manager for whom it was
written. Perhaps his future depends upon it--his destiny!
Next comes the selection of the cast to perform the work. I regret to
state that in this era versatility is lacking because of the absence
of fine stock companies. We actor-managers are forced to select actors
and actresses who are fitted only physically, mentally (and sometimes
socially) for the respective rôles. This is shocking when one considers
the art seriously. However, such is the case, and we "luxuries" must
accept the inevitable.
After the cast has been selected comes another reading of the
play--another ordeal for the author. Then begin the rehearsals which
last for many weeks and the invention of stage business, a technical
term which means pantomime, facial expression, gesticulation,
everything pertaining to the performance save the speaking of lines.
This is a very powerful, if not the factor in the success of a play.
During the long hours of rehearsal one must be on the alert for
everything, constantly changing here and there, putting new lines in,
cutting others out, changing business (stage managers as a rule are
most vacillating and unless particularly gifted prone to forget to-day
what they invented yesterday).
At the finish we go home and study! It is generally midnight before
the actor gets this opportunity! He studies his lines, say, until
four. Then he retires and sleeps until about nine, if he can! He must
be in the theatre for the ten o'clock call to rehearse what he has
studied at home. I do not believe in studying one's part during waits
at a rehearsal. Your lines lose their value unless you understand the
meaning that prompts the speaking. Hang around the wings during your
waits, you young Thespian. Watch the older ones and you will absorb
more knowledge of your profession in one week than in a season of
studying during rehearsal.
After the company is perfect in lines, business, etc., the announcement
is made for the first night's performance. I have not mentioned the
mechanical portion of the enterprise and I wish that I could skip it,
but I must not. I am against all realism and mechanism in art, but as
some of our worthy English cousins have inaugurated these so-called
attributes I accept them.
This, gentle reader, is part of what a first night means. Think of what
we all go through. Think of the many anxious hearts that are waiting at
home for your verdict--the mother, brother, sister, sweetheart, wife,
friend. Think of this, you men-about-town, who, when an act is over,
confuse it with your bad dinner. Think of it, gentle (?) critic, and
if you can't speak well of us at least be courteous. Think of it, you,
who have no comprehension beyond the roof gardens of New York! What
devastators of art! Think of it, you, who consider the theatre a place
for mere diversion! Think of it, you, who never divorce the actor from
his character! Be kind and patient. So much depends upon you. Remember
we are doing our best. Don't shatter our little houses or our hopes! To
do so is so easy!
* * * * *
But we were speaking of San Francisco!
From the opening performance of "Mizzoura" the manager of the theatre,
Mr. Bauvier, was delighted. He told my representative that it was a
great success and said, "Why, by Thursday Goodwin won't be able to get
them in!"
He was quite right--I wasn't! Thursday night a tranquil mob avoided the
Baldwin Theatre. Rows of red plush chairs yawned eloquently. Perhaps
yours truly was the cause of this. Something was the cause. Maybe
the transition from broadcloth to homespun shocked the San Francisco
public! It could not have been the play.
Ruskin classified paintings into three orders and ranks least of all
those which represent the passions and events of ordinary life. Perhaps
the enlightened public of San Francisco agrees with Ruskin. I don't. I
want the mirror held up to Nature even though it is bespattered with a
little wholesome mud.
Jim Radburn is a little man with red hair. He is dramatic, not
theatrical. But San Francisco asked, "How can a man be a hero and have
red hair?"
The public will never divorce the individual from the character
portrayed. It has been my great battle for years to endeavor to
persuade the public to realize that it must disassociate the two.
Banish the man and woman artist you meet in every day life and absorb
the characters of the parts which they are portraying. Then we shall
stand side by side in art with any country. I am very glad to say that
I see development every day in the right direction, particularly in my
own little efforts. If I succeed in piercing the tissue that separates
laughter from tears who is so narrow as to grudge me the modest rank I
hope to attain in the realms of dramatic art?
This talk of mediocre business in San Francisco recalls a story told
of the late William Manning, one of the cleverest of all Ethiopian
comedians. He had arrived at the most critical period in his career,
poor and in ill health. But he procured a backer and took out a company
of minstrels. The trip proved disastrous and they were about to
close. But Manning bore his losses with great fortitude and humorous
philosophy.
One morning, after a wretched house the previous evening, he chanced to
run across a professional rival of his, but socially a great friend,
Billy Emerson. They exchanged salutations. Emerson at this time was at
the zenith of his fame and quite wealthy. It took but a few moments for
the epigrammatic Manning to acquaint the successful African Impresario,
Emerson, of his financial condition. To quote a Rialto expression, "he
touched and fetched!"--meaning, he solicited financial aid and his
request was granted.
As Manning stalked away, his face wreathed in smiles, which actually
seemed to reflect their rays on the tall silk hat which always adorned
the minstrel irrespective of his bank account, Emerson called after
him, "Say, by the way, Bill, where do you play to-night?" Manning,
after feeling in his vest pocket to reassure himself that Emerson had
really given him $500, replied:
"Now we play Albany. If I had not met you we should have spent the
summer here!" "We play there two nights after you," said Emerson. "Will
you announce us to the public from the stage?" "Yes, I will--if he
stays," replied Manning.
_Chapter LI_
ANTONY (?) AND CLEOPATRA
San Francisco visitors must be very careful never by any chance to
abbreviate and call the city 'Frisco. The inhabitants object most
strenuously if you take such a liberty.
We were treated royally in a social way in San Francisco. Our
performance never received such praise, press and public being alike
most gracious. We were fêted, banqueted, ridden, driven, etc. In fact,
those who knew of our presence made ample amends for those who knew
not where we were! That small part of the public which came to see us
seemed aware of our loneliness, and endeavored to lighten our heavy
hearts by hearty manifestations of approval!
I had the pleasure of being the honored guest at a supper given to me
by that group of variously gifted men who have banded together and
call themselves the Bohemian Club. What a royal set! How clever! One
must ever be ready with a quick reply or chaos will surely follow. Mr.
Peter Robinson of "The Chronicle" was the chairman on this occasion
and with the assistance of sixty or seventy gentlemen did much toward
alleviating the sorrow I naturally felt at leaving my country and my
friends for the wilds of Australia.
They presented me with a water-colored caricature of myself with the
body of a lamb (the lamb symbolizing the Lambs Club). I was being
entertained by a huge owl (the symbol of the Bohemian Club). It was a
very quaint and most artistic picture and I prize it highly.
[Illustration: HOW MUCH A LAMB I WAS I DIDN'T
KNOW--THEN!]
Mr. Tim Frawley, once a member of my company and at that time a most
successful manager, also was most kind and generous to me. He gave
me a supper at the same club the Tuesday previous to my sailing. The
table was magnificently arranged. Huge banks of sweet peas adorned the
center of the table. Intermingled were variously colored carnations and
California wild flowers. Toy balloons were suspended. They were hung
with red tape to which were attached little American flags, the whole
held in place on the table by a delicate bronze anchor suggesting hope
(I suppose). These decorations shown in a soft red light made a picture
as perfect as it was harmonious.
At Mr. Frawley's left sat the stately, majestic, Juno-like Maxine
Elliott, one of the most beautiful women whom I had ever seen, her
raven black hair and eyes in delightful contrast to the red hues that
formed an aureole, as it were, above her head. There she sat, totally
unconscious of the appetites she was destroying, absorbing the delicate
little compliments paid her by that prince of good fellows, John Drew.
How I chafed at the etiquette which prohibited my being at her side!
Next to her sat the tranquil Herbert Kelcey and the dainty piece of
bisque, Effie Shannon. Down the line sat the radiant and sunny Gladys
Wallis, near her the gracious and emotional Blanche Bates, farther down
the sweet and winsome Gertrude Elliott. It was a bevy of beauty one
rarely sees.
At my right sat one of the brightest women I have ever met and as
beautiful as she is talented (a rare combination). She had first come
to my attention a few weeks previous while I was on my way to San
Francisco, the other members of my company who had been engaged by my
manager, Mr. George B. McClellan, having preceded me. My strenuous tour
with the "All Rivals" cast had been too much for me. I think I was
suffering from fatty degeneration of the art! In any event I found my
only amusement in the local dailies along the line and when the Denver
"Post" came aboard the train I fairly devoured it.
On the page devoted to the theatres I was amazed to find a roast of
Maxine Elliott (whom I had met casually three years before). It was
written in a most artistic manner in excellent English. It was unkind
and cruel--but clever. Altogether it was one of the most scathing
denunciations I ever saw in print. It was signed Alice Rix.
She was my dinner companion. I noticed that she and Maxine exchanged
more than one sharp glance but neither one showed any outward signs of
having anything more in common than superficial things. Once or twice
Maxine even smiled in her direction! Clever Maxine, tactful even in her
respectable poverty!
Jimmie Swinnerton, the cartoonist, presented me with a quaint drawing
of a kangaroo on its hind legs, beaming with laughter and bidding me
"Welcome to Australia." I value this picture very highly--and the
autographs which were written on it that night.
Another newspaper man, Ashton Stevens, afforded us a treat in the shape
of producing music out of a banjo! The way he played classical music on
that instrument was marvelous. This came at the tail end of the evening
and much to my sorrow the party broke up then and there--at 3 A.
M.
Thursday, June 25, 1896, marked our start for Australia on the good
ship _Alameda_, Captain Van Otterendorf commanding. At the pier to bid
us bon voyage were all those who had been at the supper on Tuesday,
all of the Frawley company, several personal friends and many of my
professional brothers and sisters who were employed at the various
theatres (or were willing to be!). They had prepared a surprise which
quite unnerved me. They all bade me goodby and said all manner of nice
things. As one by one they grasped my hand and said _farewell_ a great
lump jumped up into my throat and it would have taken but a slight
suggestion or urging on anybody's part for me to have followed them all
back down the gang-plank! I bit my lips to keep back the tears.
For the first time I realized what a bold responsibility I had assumed
in taking a company of players ten thousand miles away from home!
Besides, I was leaving all that was near and dear to me behind. "Would
we ever meet again?" I wondered. But this was no time for pessimism. So
I parted from my dear friends and determined to accept whatever fate
had in store for me.