Nat Goodwin's Book

I was so dejected I did not care whether I was free or not and so informed my lawyers. They told me that they had worked hard over the case, that there would be no publicity (the suit was brought in a remote town in lower California) and that I would better pay the money and get it over. I complied with their arguments and sailed away feeling as blue as the waters beneath me.

Again Fate was quietly weaving his web. At the very moment that I had secured my freedom, after months of preparation, Maxine Elliott filed a suit for her divorce. Neither of us knew of the other's intention until the American papers came, eight weeks later, with pages, not columns, devoted to the arch-conspiracy formed by us at San Francisco! I had "stolen" Miss Elliott away from Frawley, "deserted" my poor, confiding (twenty-thousand-dollar) wife. Miss Elliott and I had obtained our divorces in order to marry in Australia!

It was very difficult to inform the world ten thousand miles away that we very innocently signed a business contract without any thought of matrimony. But the fact of our obtaining divorces at the same time, hers following mine by only four weeks, was proof positive!

I shall never forget the day Max and Gertrude came to my room in the hotel in Sydney with tears streaming down their faces. They were literally buried in newspapers which they threw on the tables, chairs and bed. In them were pictures of us all and glaring headlines of a most sensational character. The girls upbraided me for not telling them that I was seeking a divorce. I told them I had forgotten all about it until my arrival in San Francisco and in my turn asked Max why she didn't let me know that she was endeavoring to secure her freedom? She answered that it was nobody's business, particularly not mine. I agreed with her and suggested that the best thing to do was to say nothing and let matters take their course.

I succeeded in assuaging her grief and we confined ourselves to writing denials to our friends in America. As for our contemplated plunge into matrimony Gertrude asked, "Why deny that? One never knows what may occur and you two do certainly seem to get along together." That got a laugh and we decided not to deny the possibility.

During our Australian tour we were very much together, the three of us, but only in a professional and social way. Expressions of love never passed between Maxine and me then – and very few in after life!

Well, we finished the Australian tour and came back to America, only to be met with more severe and even more vilifying articles. They were so cruel, untrue and personal that I very foolishly replied to one or two of the scorpion writers, which resulted in the article I shall quote later on written by the Hon. Henry Watterson, and published in the Louisville "Courier Journal."

I think that even then we would not have married if it had not been for the reports circulated by three female members of my Australian company; one, an old lady who had once been a prima donna in an opera company, another, a young lady whom I discharged in Australia for being photographed nude and another lady who considered that Miss Elliott had usurped her position in my company. Two of these ladies perjured themselves in affidavits. One of them swore that Miss Elliott and I had communicating cabins on the ship coming back, also communicating rooms at Honolulu.

The columns of most of the dailies contained articles not quite as flagrant as the above accusations, but enough to establish a liaison between us and to ruin the reputation of any woman. Having dear Gertrude to prove our alibis we were conscious of having committed no crime and still allowed matters to take their course.

I always had great respect for Maxine's brain and her splendid opinions regarding untried plays. Had it not been for her superlative judgment I should never have produced "An American Citizen" or "Nathan Hale."

Perhaps she discovered that my rôles in both plays were subservient to hers. I later found that the lady was as discerning as she was discriminating. However, both plays were produced with much success. We both scored, I making base hits, she, home runs. I first printed her name featured as supporting me, but as I became enamoured of her charms her type gradually became larger until it equaled mine.

I think if we had been associated a few years longer my name would have been up as her leading support!

Chapter LIV

IN THE LAND OF THE KANGAROO

We were to have opened our Australian engagement in Sydney – but we didn't. At the dock, awaiting us, was James C. Williamson, then and until his death the magnate of the Antipodes in theatrical affairs. I had known him back in New York in the eighties when he was just "Jimmy." I had played under his management and had always found him a likable, fair-minded man. We were to play in Australia under the management of Williamson and Musgrove. Mr. George Musgrove had made the contract with me before we started.

Well, as soon as I landed Williamson informed me we were not to open in Sydney but must go through to Melbourne that very night.

The sting of this disappointment was largely lessened by our finding on the pier, ready to greet us, two American girls, one of them little Sadie McDonald whom we all loved. Poor little Sadie McDonald! How she wanted to go back to God's country! She died before we finished our engagement in Australia.

That night we went to Melbourne was the coldest I ever lived through. It was like a December blizzard without the snow. And the date was July 24!

Forgetting that we were going to a land where the seasons are upside down I had no heavy clothing with me and almost froze.

We were billed to open the night of our arrival. In the forenoon I drove about trying to discover some announcements of the fact. What I found would have done injustice to a high school's graduating exercises. Then I remembered that Williamson had been opposed to my coming. I found him and asked why our attraction had not been billed.

"Well," replied Williamson, "Musgrove cabled me to announce you modestly and quietly."

"You've complied with the request," I said. "Why didn't you say Johnny 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."