Jones was coming? It would have meant just as much. Considering the
years we've known each other I consider your treatment of me most
unfair."
Musgrove's idea had been that I open in "The Prisoner of Zenda" and
when he found Maxine and Gertrude Elliott were to be in my company
he had wired instructions to San Francisco to have them measured
for costumes and the figures were sent to him in London. Williamson
consistently objected to my playing "Zenda." He thought the play strong
enough to do without a star. So it happened, one night in Chicago where
I was playing "David Garrick," that Musgrove changed his mind about our
opening bill. I held out for "Zenda" firmly. But Musgrove insisted that
no matter what my vehicle I was sure to be a success in Australia. In
the week he watched my work I put on six different plays and after each
one he was more enthusiastic. I couldn't make him realize that I was
playing before a public I had grown up with, who came to see me in any
play.
"In Australia," I argued with him, "I shall be a cold proposition
hurled at them and I must have the best play possible for my
introduction. As the prince in 'Zenda' I'm only part of the ensemble
surrounded by beautifully gowned women, with splendid male opposing
parts, playing a character almost any good actor would succeed in.
After 'Zenda' I can spring my repertoire with some chance."
"You're the best actor I ever saw," replied Musgrove. "I know
Australian audiences and you'll knock 'em dead."
I disagreed with him! Therefore I changed the terms of our agreement
and instead of taking a gamble took fifteen per cent of the gross
receipts and a guarantee of so much money weekly. McClellan signed the
documents for me.
Our opening bill was "A Gilded Fool." You may imagine my amazement
when I found we had a packed house. And it was a most kindly-disposed
audience too. Every member of the company got a reception on his
entrance and I came in for an ovation. The play went especially well,
I thought. We went home assured we had made a hit. The papers the
next day were fairly enthusiastic, with one exception, and that one
criticized us unmercifully. The opening occurred on Saturday.
Monday night's house was $120 in our money--and that was the best we
did any night in the week until Saturday when a change of bill drew
another capacity audience. Williamson's local manager told me after
this second Saturday night that we were "all right now." But Monday
night came and with it a $150 house. Not until the next Saturday night
and a change of bill did we do any business, then it was capacity
again. I came to the conclusion that Melbourne was a one-night stand,
to be played only on Saturday!
This was the story of the whole sixteen weeks I played in Australia.
The last week in Sydney, however, we did do a trifle over $5,000 with
"An American Citizen," its first production on any stage.
Personally I had a bully time, particularly on the race courses where I
spent most of my time.
We played only Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide. Our business in Adelaide
was wretched but the weather was worse! It was as hot as Melbourne was
cold. I never suffered so with the heat. I am told that Australia has
improved. There was plenty of room for improvement! Had it not been for
the generosity of several bookies I certainly would have had an unhappy
four months.
Williamson was heartless in his treatment of us. I learned from one of
his staff that after our first week Musgrove cabled, "Put Goodwin on
immediately in 'Zenda.'" Williamson stalled with Musgrove for almost
the whole four months. Finally when Musgrove's ire had been aroused he
expressed himself so emphatically in his cables that Williamson came
to me and asked that I remain an additional ten weeks, appearing in
"Zenda." Before this he had hardly spoken to me. And that very day I
had sent dear old George Appleton, my personal manager at the time, on
a steamship for America to book a tour for me opening in San Francisco
in November. I listened to Williamson's proposition and made no reply.
"Shall I send you the script to read?" he asked.
"Jimmie," I replied, "we've been friends a great many years. There was
no cause for your brutality towards my company and me. Now back of
you is the Bank of Australia. For all the gold that bank contains you
couldn't keep me here ten more weeks and I sail for America four weeks
from to-day. Good afternoon. Kindly excuse me. I'm going to the races."
And that was the last conversation I ever had with James C. Williamson,
Esquire.
An incident of our stay in Adelaide may serve to show the mental
attitude of your average Antipodean. The local manager, one Goodi,
was very friendly with me and I liked him immensely. He worried over
our failure more than I did. One night he met me in the lobby of the
theatre almost distracted.
"Think of these people!" he exclaimed. "They liked Mrs. Brown Potter
and Kyrle Bellew! See what 'A Trip to Chinatown' is doing, packing 'em
in! And an artist like you doing nothing! It's a blooming shame. We
haven't a seat sold in advance for to-night's performance. Now, don't
you think it's wise for me to paper the house?" (To "paper" is to give
away tickets.)
"Do what you like, Goodi," I replied. "I'm satisfied."
Directly opposite the theatre lounging in chairs on the sidewalk was
a gang of men, about sixty I should say. They were rather a rough
looking lot but I thought they might be human. I suggested we invite
them in. Goodi approached them. After a moment they silently slouched
out of their chairs and shuffled into the lobby in a body. Here they
gathered into little groups and held a consultation. Finally one of
them approached Goodi and pulling off his cap asked, "It's all right,
guv'nor, but what do we get for our time?"
One other incident of that Australian visit was not so humorous.
It happened early in our stay. I had noticed for several days that
McClellan was nervous and ill at ease. Finally I asked him to explain.
"Well," he began haltingly, "I guess I've got to tell you. It'll come
out soon enough. I'm broke."
"That's all right, George. My guarantee of $1500 a week gives us a
profit of $600. And you have the tickets back to San Francisco."
"That's it," wailed McClellan. "I haven't! I haven't even paid for the
tickets that brought us over."
"How did you get them then?" I asked.
"I went to Adolph Spreckles," he replied, "and on the strength of your
name got him to lend me the money and I signed notes for it. And the
first one is due to-morrow."
I felt like pitching him out of the window. The tickets cost almost
$9,000! And I was stung for it! That was the end of George B. McClellan
so far as I was concerned, at least for many years. (Finally I made
it up with him at a supper in London given by the Savage Club to the
Lambs.) I never have thought George meant to do wrong. He simply took a
gamble and lost out. It was fortunate for the company that it was I who
was the goat. Had it not been so most of them would have been stranded
in that awful land! As it was I got them all back to San Francisco.
In the previous chapter I referred casually to my becoming engaged
to Maxine. It may be well to enlarge a bit. The divorce proceedings
instituted by my attorneys against Nella Baker Pease had been quite
forgotten by me. It was not until we had been in Australia four
weeks that it was called to my attention and then as I have already
described. The day it happened had been an especially profitable one
for me at the track and I came back to the hotel buoyant and full of
good spirits. I remember detached bits of our conversation following
the hysterical entrance of Maxine and Gertrude.
"I'll never go back to that beastly country," wailed Maxine. "Just see
what they say about you and me," and she thrust an armful of newspapers
at me. "Never mind me," I replied. "Think of yourself." And when I
discovered that that attempt at consolation was no go I added, "Why,
it will all be dead by the time we get back." Maxine was not to be
comforted, however. She was sure our arrival in America would result
in a fresh outburst of scandal. "Maybe it will," I agreed, "but we
haven't done any wrong, any harm, so why should we worry?" Maxine
wrung her hands and sobbed. "We know our behavior has been absolutely
right," I urged. "We know," said Maxine, "but the world doesn't know."
And I confess I could find nothing to say to that. I was rattled. A
chicken I had bought on my way home from the track and had put on a
spit to roast over my grate fire was a mass of charcoal when I finally
discovered it. At dinner I upset a bottle of claret all over the table
cloth and spilled a pot of hot tea into Gertrude's lap. It was the most
inharmonious meal I ever ate. I was rattled!
And all the time Gertrude said nothing. That is up to the moment that
scalding tea hit her. Then she let go!
"You two people are acting like a couple of fools," she
began--succinctly. "There's only one way out of it and you've got to
take it."
"What is it?" Maxine and I asked.
"Cable America you're engaged and are to be married some time next
season."
I left the room. At the theatre Maxine and I made no reference to
Gertrude's suggestion. On our return to the hotel I tried to excuse
myself from our usual supper. But Max, with a merry little twinkle in
her eyes, said, "Oh come on."
"What do you think of Gertrude's suggestion?" asked Max.
"What do _you_ think of it?" I parried.
"I'm game," said Max.
"You're on," said I.
And thus began my "romance."
_Chapter LV_
WELCOME (!) HOME
The Australian sense of humor is peculiar. My last night at Sydney, at
the end of the five-thousand-dollar-week, I interpolated in my speech
of farewell a line from Shakespeare, "Parting is such sweet sorrow."
The audience applauded vociferously!
We packed with joyous anticipation. We were going home!
After we got out of the theatre I made straight for a little hotel run
by a New England woman and gorged myself on baked beans! On the way I
ran across Arthur Hoops and Louis Payne.
"Governor," said Payne, "if we turn up aboard the ship to-morrow a bit
squiffy or with a hold-over, you won't mind, will you?" "Go to it,"
responded I. "I may turn up that way myself." They kept their promise
and I nearly kept mine!
There were hundreds of people at the pier to see us off. I wondered
if they were inspired by feelings of gratitude! It sounded like a
courteous farewell but I was never sure.
At Honolulu we had our first taste of the "Welcome home" we were all
so fondly counting on. A new theatre had just been finished and a Mr.
Marks, now one of the lessees of the Columbia Theatre in San Francisco,
was on the ground making arrangements for its formal opening as agent
for the Frawley company.
[Illustration: AS BOB ACRES
_I gave Bob a country dialect_]
Almost as soon as we docked a dozen gentlemen approached me and asked
that I give a performance that night in the new playhouse. I told them
it was impossible; our wardrobes and scenery were packed in the hold of
the ship; it would be out of the question.
"Never mind," said they, "go on in your street clothes!"
I explained we had no make-up even. My company was scattered all over
the island, sight-seeing.
"We'll send out a posse and corral them," they insisted.
"But how will anyone know we're going to play?" I asked.
"We'll call everybody in town on the telephone and tell them," they
replied.
And they did. And that night, in our street clothes and without
make-up, we gave a performance that took in $1100, of which I got
ninety per cent! It was a nice bit of spending money on the way to San
Francisco.
Marks was very indignant. But the gentlemen told him that if he tried
to prevent the performance they would cancel the contract with Frawley.
Altogether that stop at Honolulu was joyous. And as we sailed out of
the harbor the next morning, followed by the strains of Aloha from the
native band, we were a very happy lot.
We were amazed to find a solid jam of humanity waiting on the pier in
San Francisco. Such a greeting had never entered our minds! When we
opened the newspapers we found the reason. They were teeming with the
most sensational matter concerning our goings on in Australia. It was
indeed a "welcome home!"
We paid as little attention to the scurrilous slanders as possible
and prepared for our opening at the Baldwin Theatre in "An American
Citizen." As a measure of safety I announced "The Rivals" as the bill
for the second half of the week. But capacity audiences was the rule
during the whole engagement.
I was very nervous about doing "The Rivals." I knew comparison with
Jefferson was inevitable. I had caught it in Australia for daring to
play a rôle made classic by the "dean of the drama" and I feared for my
presumption in invading his own bailiwick. I was afraid I could never
avoid using Jefferson's methods as I had played with him so many times;
but I finally hit on the plan of giving Bob a country dialect and this
made him a very different characterization from Jefferson's. I received
splendid reviews and one editorial.
_Chapter LVI_
NUMBER THREE
The series of malicious falsehoods concerning Maxine and me which
were being published daily would have made us fit subjects for
the penitentiary had they been true. Articles, hideous in their
construction, were sent broadcast throughout the country purporting to
picture our lives and conduct in the Antipodes. (And with what zest did
the press of America copy them!)
By the time our opening in "An American Citizen" arrived we were so
nervous we gave a performance fifty per cent below our best. But
the next morning we were amazed to discover that we were a great
aggregation of actors--Maxine and I scoring tremendously! The papers
expressed much surprise that she had "improved" so much during her
short association with me.
Poor, deluded critics! Never by any possible chance do you
differentiate. Never do you disassociate the player from his part.
A genius playing Osric would vanish into obscurity if a duffer were
playing Hamlet. Maxine Elliott, be she good or bad, was quite as
clever when I first saw her act as the night she opened with me in San
Francisco. But now she was appearing in a star part, surrounded by a
clever company, beautifully gowned and (pardon a little pride) very
carefully edited! She had left a dollar aggregation, an extremely good
competitor, Miss Blanche Bates (whose acting eclipsed Maxine's beauty),
and a company of players all acting for individual hits irrespective
of the ensemble. She returned a member of an organization noted for
its team work whose motto was "One for all and all for one"--and that
particular one Maxine! She appeared in a character molded to her charm
and beauty and supported (!) by a star of twenty years' standing!
Naturally she scored in such an environment! She would have done as
well months before under the same conditions, but the ever wise critic
saw an "improvement."
Was it her acting or the unwholesome notoriety that preceded us that
had opened his discerning eyes?
I wonder.
I sandwiched in "The Rivals" with "An American Citizen" as a matter of
self-protection. Max was fairly smothering me in most of the cities we
visited! I was shining in a reflected light, her effulgence forcing
me back into the shadows. Also, and equally annoying to me, questions
were beginning to be asked as to our marital intentions. Allusions
to "Beauty and the Beast" were not infrequent. Happily a few of the
critics were respectful and while none could pay homage to my beauty a
few allowed that I had not lost the art of acting! This was encouraging
and I endeavored to win the fair Maxine along those lines.
I finally succeeded!
But it was some endeavor!
I don't remember the date of the marriage. It is extremely difficult
for me to remember dates. I know the place, however! It was the
Hollenden Hotel in Cleveland. And I know I spent the previous evening
with dear Dick Golden and Walter Jones and we three jolly bachelors had
a bully time! It was a lucky thing that the marriage ceremony was only
recovery for me! The boys had put me in no condition to learn a new
part!
Max received two wedding presents--a diamond ring from me and an
anonymous letter from some "Christian lady" warning her against the
"Monster" who had lured her into "Holy Matrimony!"
We were very happy--at least I was--for a few months. I made the
mistake of introducing her to a few conspicuous, powerful financiers
who gave her tips on the stock market (and casual luncheons!). They
also gave me tips. Mine lost invariably. Hers always won. How very
strange!
As we toured through the country to splendid business I discovered her
authority was growing. I was constantly being censured for my grammar.
She began to stage-manage my productions without waiting for my
suggestions. She complained of my companions whom she found "common."
My previous marriages came in for a share of her disapproval.
I found this amusing inasmuch as she herself had made a previous
plunge; as I had taken one of her family out of a lumber yard and tried
to make him an actor; as I had taken a cousin from a picture gallery in
Boston where she was going blind trying to copy miniatures and made her
an actress, and as another member of her family had committed suicide
in a disreputable place in San Francisco. With this genealogical tree
waving in the background she still had the courage to pluck my friends
from my garden and call them "vulgar."
Perhaps they were and are, but they all continue to be my friends!
It was during the run of "An American Citizen" that the first thought
of the disruption of my union with Maxine clouded my mind. It is seldom
I care to refer to the dead except in a kindly way, but her attitude
and that of Clyde Fitch is sufficient provocation.
Fitch at this time (in 1897) was not especially prosperous. Two years
earlier he had come to me with an idea of making a play out of the
story of Nathan Hale's life. I had told him I thought it an excellent
subject and to go ahead. When he finished the play he decided it was
beyond my capabilities and submitted it instead to E. H. Sothern--who
turned it down! Then he went to Mansfield with the script and again met
with no encouragement. From Mansfield he peddled "Nathan Hale" to each
of the three Frohmans--and they unanimously voted it no good.
Thus it transpired that I was in no friendly mood when I received the
following letter:--
154, WEST FIFTY-SEVENTH ST.
Oct. 24, 1897.
MY DEAR MR. GOODWIN,
I am just returned to N.Y. & I am glad to find you here, at least
I shall be glad if you let me read you my new play--"Nathan
Hale"--& dont escape me as you did so successfully in London. If
you liked the scheme & story at all, I feel pretty sure you will
like the play itself twice as well, & if you had been at the new
Columbia College the other day when they unveiled a bas relief
of _Knowlton_--one of my characters--& heard the _tremendous_
enthusiasm at the slightest mention of Hale, I think your
interest in the play & subject would have immensely increased.
I can read it in two hours--or less, you can send me away as soon
after I _start_ as you like, if you dont care about it. I've no
desire to choke the play down yr throat. All I want you to do is
take _one_ chance in it! & right away, as I am back here to _sell
this_ play to somebody & dont want to waste time. Wont you give
me an appointment tomorrow? or the next day? or the next? (Any
hour you like.) Go on! _Do!_
Yours,
CLYDE FITCH
I must tell you the girl's part comes out rather important, but I
hope you won't mind that.
[Illustration: MAXINE ELLIOTT
_Fate's partner_]
And this is the gentleman who, a few years later, insisted on the
transportation of an entire company from Philadelphia to New York
because he was too weary to make the trip himself. (The company was
rehearsing one of his plays and he insisted on personally supervising
it.)
Even after his supplicating letter I dodged Fitch. I didn't like him
in the first place and his shabby behavior with "Nathan Hale" made me
disgusted with him. I broke a dozen appointments with him, but finally
he cornered me and I had to hear the play. While I knew I could neither
look nor suggest the character I did see possibilities for acting and I
was sure the rôle of Alice Adams would fit Maxine down to the ground.
For these reasons I agreed to produce the play.
From that day forward Clyde Fitch and my wife conspired against me.
They exchanged endearing expressions through the mail--aided and
abetted by the wife of a Chicago dentist who had committed suicide
after one of his "best friends" had stolen his wife (who deserted her
child to come to New York and aid other women with affinities!). Fancy,
killing one's self! Why not kill her and her paramour?
They made a worthy trio! And they finally succeeded in hatching a
scheme which developed in Maxine's starring alone in a play written
for her by Fitch called "Her Own Way"--an appropriate title cunningly
selected. They launched her as a star (on my money!) and broke up my
home! They had to come to me to obtain bookings for a road tour. For
putting up the cash I was to get one third of the profits. Abe Erlanger
refused to go in with me for one dollar, insisting that Maxine would be
an awful flivver on her own. But the play made an instant hit and her
success was just as big.
Could I have possessed even a little bit of clairvoyance I should have
then and there bought a ticket to Reno!
_Chapter LVII_
WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE AND OTHER PLAYS
Our success with "Nathan Hale" was tremendous. For Maxine it was
nothing short of a triumph. And during the season I signed a contract
with Fitch for another play to follow it. He turned out "The Cowboy and
the Lady." Neither Max nor I fancied our characters and although we did
big business with the play we were most uncomfortable in our rôles.
It failed miserably in London--where they recognize the real value of
plays!
I think it was the summer of 1898 (but what difference does it make?)
that I met Henry V. Esmond, the author-actor and a very clever young
man. In any event it was in London and at the time of the failure of
"The Cowboy and the Lady." He asked me how I would like a play founded
on Thackery's poem "When We Were Twenty-One." I thought the idea
immense and told him so. We made a contract for the play on the spot
and six weeks later he delivered the manuscript!
Max and I were both delighted with it. We brought it back with us in
the Fall but instead of producing it in New York immediately we revived
"The Cowboy and the Lady." Poor as that play was it absolutely refused
to play to bad business! I kept it on until about the middle of the
season and took it off with a nineteen-hundred-dollar-house begging me
to keep it going!
"When We Were Twenty-One" made the biggest and the most nearly
instantaneous hit of any play I ever produced. It was a gold mine for
me. But there is little I could say about it that any of you, dear
readers, can't anticipate. I might say only that I never played the
rôle I liked best in the play!
It was along about this time that I made a production of "The
Merchant of Venice." And it was a production! And, although it was
not so advertised, it was as nearly an "all-star" cast as many of the
revivals of late years have been--if not more so! For four weeks my
characterization of Shylock seemed to please the public and certainly
attracted large audiences in spite of the fact that the critics in
New York roasted my performance to a fare-ye-well. For one reason or
another the critics have always resented me except as a comedian!
My next production was "The Altar of Friendship" which had been a
failure with John Mason in the leading rôle. He had made a great
personal success and the play had received splendid notices but the
public stayed away. When the late Jacob Litt consigned the production
to the storehouse I opened negotiations with him, bought the property
and put it on. It proved to be one of the biggest money-makers Maxine
and I ever had! But Maxine's bee for starring alone came buzzing by
and deafened her to the tinkle of the box office receipts. It finally
stung me and our professional partnership came to an end. "The Altar of
Friendship" was our last joint vehicle.