Nat Goodwin's Book

Rather a funny incident happened during our stay in London. A Miss Bessie Bellewood had made a tremendous hit in the music halls at this time, and I was particularly anxious that Hopper should witness one of her performances, as I considered her one of the cleverest vaudeville artists I had ever seen. Hopper was doomed to disappointment, however, as he had tried several times to witness her acting, but on these various occasions, something happened which prevented the clever Bessie from turning up at the hour she was advertised to appear, and when her turn came, instead of her name being pushed into the receptacle which announces the respective performers, they would shove in a sign which read, "Extra Turn," and somebody would take her place.

One afternoon I met Hopper and told him that I had made arrangements for us to accept invitations to luncheon, dinner and supper, but I, not feeling well, decided I would only accept the latter, and intended to go to my hotel preparatory to joining him at supper. He condoled with me and we parted, I ostensibly to go home and secure my much needed rest, Hopper determining to accept all three of the invitations. As he was returning from his dinner engagement, he noticed Bessie Bellewood was to appear that afternoon at the London Tivoli Music Hall, Hopper determined to take another chance, his seventh, at seeing the elusive Bessie, purchased a ticket after inquiring the time which she was to appear that evening, and went, full of expectations. When the time came for Bessie's appearance, to Hopper's horror, again was the card thrust into the aperture saying, "Extra Turn." He arose and went into the street filled with rage, and meeting a friend, he said that he did not believe any such artist lived as Bessie Bellewood. The friend assured him there was, and if he would take time to cross over and look into Romonas' Restaurant, he would find the festive Bessie, with his friend Nat Goodwin, at a sumptuous repast, where they have been sojourning since two o'clock that afternoon. Hopper came over, his massive form appearing at our table and said, "I thought you were home in bed," to which I replied, "I was on my way my dear 'Willie,' but meeting my friend Miss Bellewood, we came in for a quiet tête-à-tête, and have been tête-à-têting all the afternoon."

I apologized for interfering with Bessie's professional duties, but told Hopper that if he would accompany us upstairs, Miss Bellewood would volunteer to sing three of her latest songs. We adjourned to one of Romonas' private music rooms where Bessie regaled us with song and anecdote, which caused us both to miss our supper appointment. He agreed with me that Bessie Bellewood was the best music hall artist he had ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

Chapter XXXIV

BLAINE AND INGERSOLL

"Eddie" sothern, De Wolf Hopper and I were returning to America after a most delightful trip abroad when we suddenly decided to stop off at Queenstown and take a drive through Ireland in a jaunting car.

The driver of the vehicle proved a most loquacious fellow who bubbled over with Irish humor. It took him but a very short time to set us down as Americans.

Hopper and I actually are!

I took a seat beside him and began to question him about the possibilities of Home Rule. He evaded my questions for a time, but presently in a spirit of confidence told me that he was convinced that the time was ripe for the freeing of Ireland. He even gave me a date when they would be relieved from thraldom. He leaned quietly forward and imparted the information, under promise of profound secrecy, that there were ninety thousand men hiding in the County of Kildare, 110,000 in Tipperary and among the hills, rocks and caves of Killarney, 200,000 on the outskirts of Dublin and an equal number distributed through County Cork, combined with several secret organizations throughout Ireland numbering more than 600,000! The hills were well stocked with dynamite and Winchester rifles, sent from America and closely guarded. He further assured me that when the "head-centre" was satisfied all the forces would be concentrated and Ireland would be free.

"Why don't you do it at once?" I asked.

"Begorra, the police won't let us!" he replied.

On my arrival home I told this story to Robert G. Ingersoll and James G. Blaine at a luncheon given me at the former's residence in Washington. They were very much interested in my narrative. In fact they took it seriously, Blaine being particularly impressed with the amalgamation of the Irish forces and in their serious intentions. As I went on, repeating the number of troops that were supposed to be in hiding I noticed a twinkle in Ingersoll's eyes. Blaine looked somewhat surprised, but credulous.

As coffee was being served, I sprang the climax of my story with the result that the coffee spread its course over the damask table cloth. They must have laughed for five minutes.

I always knew that Ingersoll had a tremendous sense of humor, but I never credited Blaine with any. Whenever we met in after life, he never failed to refer to my jaunting car story.

Chapter XXXV

JIM CORBETT IN ENGLAND

Some years ago James J. Corbett, the ex-champion pugilist of the world, was appearing at Drury Lane Theatre in London much to the dissatisfaction of the resident actors, authors and managers. They considered it in the light of a sacrilege for a prize fighter to desecrate the boards which a Kean and a Macready had trod.

One night at the Green Room Club I was taken to task by that clever dramatist Hamilton for allowing my countryman and fellow player, as he sarcastically put it, to appear upon London's sacred stages. I disclaimed all responsibility.

"I know, my dear boy," he insisted, "but you Americans should not allow one of your countrymen to take such liberties with the drama; you should take the necessary means to prevent such acts of vandalism!" He continued with a tirade of abuse, accusing me of being a party to Corbett's appearance. He finished his remarks with, "Do you and your enlightened countrymen consider Mr. Corbett a good actor?"

By this time I had become very much angered at his many impertinent remarks and I said, "No, but he can whip any man in the world and that's why we worship him – not as an actor, but as a representative of the manly art of self-defense!"

As I warmed to my argument I went on to extol the man's gifts that have made him famous in Fistiana, using terms and expressions utterly unknown to Hamilton who was aghast at the adulation and adjectives I applied to Corbett.

"This man not only combines the prowess of the average heavy-weight," I explained, "but he can counter, side-step and swing! In avoiding punishment he has the agility of a feather-weight! In fact," I concluded, "you can't hit Corbett with a bullet!"

"What a pity!" said Hamilton.

Chapter XXXVI

THE COCKNEY CABBY COMEDIAN

I was returning from the Newmarket races in England after a very poor day, having failed to back a winner. Arriving at Waterloo station I found it was raining in torrents. Not fancying hansom cabs in that kind of weather I permitted the crowd to rush along the platform in a frantic endeavor to secure a cab, having made up my mind to content myself with a four wheeler. It is not a particularly attractive vehicle (four wheelers are generally in use all night and retain a stuffy and most uncomfortable aroma therefore), but it is safe!

At the station there is an opening of about fifty feet from one platform to another, unsheltered and roofless. I looked across and discovered a solitary cab with an old man holding the ribbons listlessly. The downpour fell about his narrow shoulders which were meagerly protected by the thinnest of rubber covering. After I had shouted several times for him to come over and get me he slowly turned around and replied: —

"You come over here; my beast is a bit weary."

I dug my head into my coat and waded across the street, drenching myself to the skin in that short interval. I quickly opened the cab door, fell upon the damp cushions and gasped, "Carleton Hotel."

"Righto, Governor," came the response from the all but drowned cabby and the vehicle began its weary journey, fairly crawling down Waterloo Hill. Having a very important dinner party on hand and realizing it was late I became somewhat anxious. Leaning out of the window I shouted: —

"My good man, send your horse along. I am in great haste."

"He's doing his level, governor," he replied. "I can't shove him. He's human as we are and besides he's been out all night."

I sank back onto the cushions biting my nails in sheer desperation as the cab moved even more slowly. Again indulging myself in a shower bath from the open window, I looked out and pleaded.

"For heaven's sake, driver, send that horse along; he's simply crawling."

"He's striving 'ard, governor," came back the reply, "but he's no sprinter at his best. I'll get you to the Carleton, never fear."

By this time I was frantic. I opened the door and stood on the step disregarding the rain and shouted: —

"You fool, I'm not going to a funeral."

"Nor me to no bloomin' fire, neither," replied the cabby cheerfully!

Chapter XXXVII

A GILDED FOOL AND OTHER PLAYS

In looking about for an author capable of writing me a play wherein I could endeavor to exploit comedy and pathos I met with much opposition until I finally ran across Henry Guy Carlton. Carlton was living in Boston, financially on his uppers. He had just indulged in the dissipation of writing two tragedies, "Memnon" and "The Lion's Mouth" and when I approached him with this idea of mine he quite agreed with me.

I invited him to be my guest for a few weeks and during that time we evolved the plot of "A Gilded Fool." I produced it that spring at the Providence Opera House with a carefully selected cast, including Clarence Holt, Theodore Babcock, Arthur Hoops, Louis Barrett, John Brown, Robert Wilson, Mabel Amber, Minnie Dupree, Estelle Mortimer and Jeane Claire Walters. Five of this cast have joined the vast majority.

We spent but little time in preparation and after only three weeks' rehearsals produced it at the Providence Opera House. I was not particularly hopeful as to the result. In fact a few days before its production I became somewhat depressed and sent for my dear old mother to run down from Boston to join me. I needed her consoling words, to hear her tell me once more what a great actor I was. She "always knew" I was "a genius." Of course the dear old lady came and after witnessing one rehearsal pronounced it "absolutely perfect."

At the last rehearsal I became very pessimistic. We rehearsed from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon and then we hadn't reached the last act, so I dismissed the rehearsal, mother and I went to dinner, which was followed by a short siesta. I went to sleep predicting all sorts of failure.

Before going to the theatre that night my old dad came down. He had witnessed one rehearsal a few days before and gone home disgusted. We both predicted defeat. I really could see nothing in my part. He shared this opinion with me. (I regret to say he never thought me great in anything. There you have a discerning old gentleman!)

Night came and much to my surprise my first line provoked great laughter. As it had some reference to drink perhaps that was the cause! It always seems to appeal to an audience! Each scene seemed to go better than the preceding one and when we got to the poor, despised and neglected last act it proved to be the most agreeable one of the lot. That night we knew that we had a success.

Charles Frohman who came out from New York to witness the production said, "You have made a great hit to-night, Nat, and I only wish that John Drew, whom I contemplate starring next year, had so good a vehicle."

The following year John began his starring tour with a play equally as strong, by the same author, called "The Butterflies." In this play Maude Adams sprang into fame.

"The Fool" made a great metropolitan success and I still play it in repertoire.

Carlton was a most amusing and unique man, although a bit uncomfortable to associate with. He was cursed with an awful impediment, a stammer. With a keen sense of humor and an unusual amount of funny stories at his command, his ability to lampoon you made an afternoon spent in his society somewhat trying. He was fully cognizant of his infirmity, but seemed to revel in it and in the discomfiture it caused his friends. One day he called me up over the 'phone and after vainly endeavoring to say "Hello" took one long breath (he generally spoke inhaling and coughing his sentences, reminding you of a person endeavoring to speak through a thunderstorm, while on horseback, jumping hurdles) and, after a paroxysm, said, "Nat, have you half an hour to spare?" I replied, "Yes." He coughed his reply back through the instrument, "Well, if you have half an hour to spare, I want five minutes conversation with you!"