Nat Goodwin's Book

The production which Morosco sent out with me was the thrown-together junk which had been used in the stock production. It was never intended to last more than a few weeks or to be moved! It was quite the worst collection of moth-eaten scenery and "properties" I ever saw. The company, with a very few exceptions, was recruited from the members of the Morosco stock companies who chanced to be idle at the moment. Some of the men, driven desperate by the nature of the backwoods country through which our route lay, were thoroughly intoxicated (and not infrequently blind drunk!) most of the time – and I for one had no heart to reprove them!

Some of the towns we played are not on any map – the map could never survive it! From pillar to post we were yanked along over single-track railroads – with bits of our scenery falling out through open baggage doors all along the line! How that scenery ever managed to hang together as long as it did has always puzzled me. Finally we had to eliminate the London bridge scene. The platforms were so insecure it was positively dangerous for the actors to stand on them. This was one of the greatest and most effective scenes in the New York production and gave my leading woman, Miss Moreland, as Nancy, one of her biggest moments.

The night before we took it off, in one of the smaller Coast towns, some of the gallery boys, noticing the stone (!) steps and huge pillars of granite (God save the mark!) wabbling to and fro, began to whistle "London Bridge is falling down" – and in a moment the whole house had taken it up!

That was enough for me. After five weeks of miserable business we closed in Victoria and I returned to my beach home outside Los Angeles to the far more congenial task of completing this book. I sincerely hope you, dear reader, will find as much pleasure in reading what I've written as I have found in its composition. I have striven to be kind to everyone in these pages and if any of my criticisms appear harsh or my views on various subjects be considered arrogant, pray accept my apologies. I have written as I think and whatever the verdict I stand by my guns.

What will the verdict be?

I wonder.

I say I returned to my home to complete this book. I did – and I thank the gods that Fate stepped in and for once was kindly enough disposed to permit me to write the most appropriate and happy finis any book of mine could have!

Fact and unconsecrated fields oppose faith and architecture.

Chapter LXXXVII

NUMBER FIVE

The day (a beautiful day in May, 1913, such a day as only Southern California at its happiest moment knows), I made Margaret Moreland my wife I once again set the buzzards and the gossips to wagging their ears and tongues and lashing their tails (I have always been sure both HAVE tails!).

My first (wife) was an angel;

My second a silly woman;

My third a Roman Senator;

My fourth a pretty little thing;

My fifth – all woman!

My whole (desire) was by repetition to prove that hope can conquer experience!

Chapter LXXXVIII

L'ENVOI

I am sorry for the poor American who deserts this sun-kissed California country for worn-out Europe. I am enjoying the breezes and ozone wafted from the great Pacific while poor deluded Eastern folk are festering in heat and humidity, varied only by an occasional murky thunderstorm.

I face the sea and at my back are roses! On either side the blue-brown mountains hold converse with the sun and stars and dip their august heads in silent acquiescence to the others' whispers. At night massive Mars, always on duty, ever luminous, sternly bids them silence and the world to "go to" while he blinks a patronizing approval upon those "beneath" him. He has much of cynicism in his blinking as he contemplates this tiny carbon, Earth, for all his constant attendance.

Mars is my companion, ever peering through my casement. Only our sex and distance prevent a silent flirtation! I am sometimes tempted to address him anyhow, but his majesty always awes me. Still, I find consolation communing with the waves that lull me to sleep as they embrace the sandy shore. The consolation is all too brief, the sleep intermittent, and I awake to fly back to the companionship of Mars.

He is such a splendid officer! Always on guard – at sea and over the desert. He seldom shows himself resplendent in crowded cities. He dislikes company and turmoil. He is always alone, now and then racing with the moon and always leaving that gentleman to the left as he smilingly beckons the wary miner of the desert and the patient mariner of the sea to the right. Mars knows the road – a magnificent, reticent soldier – and I pray ere long my friend Tesla will make him better known.

The drab morning is approaching o'er the mountain tops. A sea gull of corresponding color is on the sand, seeking what it may devour. The color of the bird and atmosphere are not to my fancy.

I am going to beg a favor of sleep and awake when the colors are more radiant, when the sunbeams glisten and dance from sky to wave, when the white clouds meet and kiss the shadow that lets fall diamond drops of crystal that quench the thirst of the flowers and give them life.

My home is by the sea. My lot is one hundred feet wide. Its height is interminable. It is a thousand fathoms deep! My front yard extends to the Antipodes.

Am I not to be envied?

I wonder?