Chapter LII
HONOLULU AND SAMOA
After my friends had left me I gave one last longing look at the Cliff House, the scene of many happy hours, and wended my way to the stateroom which I was to occupy for the next four weeks. I loathe ocean travel and did not look forward to my trip with much pleasure. The company came to me after a bit and we passed the afternoon planning what we would do to while away the hours of the voyage.
Louis Payne had ingratiated himself with a confiding young lady who was on her way to Honolulu to join her fiancee. Before 6 p. m. it looked bad for the waiting-to-be-bridegroom. Payne was reading her sonnets which evidently appealed to her. Neil O'Brien, dear old Neil, wrote a poem suggestive of the flirtation. Aside from this diversion the first few days were a trifle monotonous after the strenuous events of the preceding five weeks. But then came a splendid contrast.
As we entered Honolulu harbor a new colored water seemed to greet us. A softer sky than I had ever seen hung over the little picturesque city. The sea resembled a huge flat sapphire. To the right was a range of devastated mountains, the remnants of pre-historic days. The little city is a veritable paradise and as one rides into the country it seems to grow more and more beautiful.
We rode seven miles to the summit of Mt. Pali (meaning precipice). We could see about and down for miles. It was a most uncanny sight. The Brocken scene in Faust and Yellowstone Park pale into insignificance by comparison. Relics of volcanoes, thousands and thousands of years old, cliffs, mountains of rocks, precipices and barren tracts of land meet you on every side. This spot is quite interesting in a historical way. For here it was that King Kamehameha came over from Oahu and conquered the Hawaiians. Then he depopulated the island.
He landed at the entrance to the harbor and drove the natives on and on until they reached Mt. Pali. Rather than surrender or through fear they jumped into the horrible abyss.
He must have been some fighter.
We remained at Honolulu about sixteen hours, rode all about the town and dined at the Sans Souci, a delightful little place about four miles out. Before dining we enjoyed a bath in the sea. The temperature of the water ranges all the year round from seventy-five to eighty. We also enjoyed shooting the rapids, a most fascinating sport. You wade and swim out against the tide for five hundred yards. A stalwart native pushes your tiny canoe in front of him. When you arrive at a given point you get into the canoe, head toward the shore and the terrific current hurls you back to the beach. It is exciting. Very often you are pitched into the sea but you don't mind as the water is shallow and you are in your bathing suit.
When I look back on Honolulu after all these years I know it is one of the most glorious spots on earth; but had I penned these lines on the ground I'm afraid I'd have been less complimentary. Not that the harbor and landscape were not wondrous in their beauty in every direction as far as one could see, but – before we ever reached our hotel we encountered myriads of mosquitoes, all of which pests seemed to be bent on the destruction of my left eye! In no time it was swollen tight shut.
A native doctor attended me, pouring something suggesting vitriol – into the wrong eye!
"Great Scott!" I yelled. "There goes my good eye. Why didn't you put it in the bad eye? You know that's gone for good anyway."
The Hawaiian physician only smiled, charged me ten dollars and went his way after assuring me that I'd be "all right in no time." Before I did recover Arthur Hoops came along. "Governor," said he, "why don't you write about this beautiful place in your new book?"
"How can I write about a place when I can't see?" I queried indignantly.
It's great to leave Honolulu. The whole city bids you goodby. We were covered with flowers when we reached the deck of our ship the next day and as we backed out of the dock their band played Aloha, their goodby song.
Seven days later, July 10, to be exact, land appeared on the horizon which the skipper informed us was Apia, Samoa. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I was awakened from my slumbers to catch a view of the coveted land. My attention was divided contemplating the horizon and looking back at the wake of the steamer. As we approached the entrance to the harbor we were reminded very much of Honolulu. Samoa however, is protected on each side by two peninsulas projecting far out into the sea.
As one approaches land one notices the ground is covered with much vegetation. Cocoanut trees are in abundance. Tiny specks appear as one draws nearer. These soon develop into delightful little huts and homes of modern architecture, occupied by consuls and men with diplomatic positions. This harbor has a history.
Once it was the scene of a tremendous hurricane which caught several ships at anchor in the bay and blew them on the rocks. One English ship perished with all on board as she vainly endeavored to turn her bow towards the storm. The crew went down to Davy Jones's locker with the ship's band playing Rule, Britannia! On the rocks we saw a monument to the lost of this catastrophe in the shape of a wrecked German man-of-war.
As we approached the shore swarms of natives came rowing out to meet us. What splendid specimens of manhood they were! Perfectly formed they were apparently quite unconscious of their power and as gentle as they were strong. I noticed one strapping fellow standing in the bow of his boat beckoning me to join him. As the sun shone upon his copper colored skin he seemed a monarch even in his semi-nudity and in barbaric splendor he suggested Othello. With the aid of two assistants Othello soon landed us on the sands of sunny Samoa. Here we were at once surrounded by a swarm of natives who persuaded us to purchase fans, beads, rings, wooden canoes, corals, shells and a score of other things in which the island abounds. These articles are secured with the least possible labor for the true Samoan considers it
infra dig
to labor long and is firmly convinced that it is a very poor world that won't support one race of gentlemen.
I am sorry to say the women do not appeal to one as much as the men. They are small of stature and run to fat. They take but little time in arranging their toilet for the day and seldom keep their men friends waiting when asked to a party or a ball, their raiment consisting mostly of beads!
We spent but little time among the natives as we were anxious to visit the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We finally succeeded in procuring a conveyance, a small cart and pony, and were soon on our way to his home. After two miles the road turned into a smaller one and there a sign board, cleanly white-washed, told us in the Samoan tongue that we were nearing the abode of the great romancer. The sign, translated, told all travellers that the road was built by the Samoans as a monument to their beloved friend. At the end of the road we came upon a locked gate. We vaulted over and in a few minutes we came upon a house, flat, but of rather huge dimensions.
As we approached the veranda a lady, of small stature, dressed in a Mother Hubbard, in bare feet, came graciously forward to meet us. In a moment I recognized her. Her face was keen and intelligent and once must have been beautiful. She was pale, thoughtful, dignified and sad. Hers was the right kind of face! It stamped her as the wife of the man who has made the world marvel at his wondrous imagination. We made ourselves known and were received most hospitably. She seemed glad to welcome Anglo-Saxons.
I told her the news of McKinley's nomination and the sad tidings of the death of Kate Field, her life-long friend.
She prepared a luncheon for us (which did not quite suit my fancy, but I was too polite to refuse it). It was some kind of a mushy mixture, requiring the use of a mortar and pestle, which the natives manipulate quite skillfully. It consisted of several ingredients, one of which I thought was – never mind! That was soon over, thank the Lord, and Mrs. Stevenson showed us the house. We reveled in R. L.'s study which was filled with many original prints, books, emblems and gifts of every description.
In this room he passed away one afternoon while giving a reception to the natives who loved him dearly. While bestowing his hospitality he complained of a pain in his side and, excusing himself to his guests, started for his chamber. His wife, noticing his deathly pallor, rushed to his assistance. (Mrs. Stevenson was explicit in her description.) "Give them my compliments," he said to her as she half carried him toward his bedroom. "Tell them I'm a trifle ill, but we will all be together a week from to-night." And he waved an adieu and tried to hide the pain that racked his body. "It's nothing," he kept repeating to his wife, "it will soon pass away." But just as he entered his bedroom words failed him; he could only smile, grasp her hand and sink back onto the bed.
Thus passed the soul of one of the dearest men and one of the most brilliant. He suffered but he uttered no complaint. He had a kindly word even for savages. Now his body lies at the top of a huge mountain and if you look steadily you can almost outline the form as if it were lying on some great catafalque. It is most difficult of access; it took the natives two days and nights to place him on his bed of flowers. But to this day many of the sturdier ones make the toilsome climb and pay homage to the man they call their "dear master."
There alone he lies, as far as possible away from this plaything called earth. Huge trees stand like silent sentinels sheltering him from wind and rain. His companions are the little birds who sing his praises through all the hours of the day and night. Above the moon and stars dance with joy and I can fairly hear the jolly old moon say, "Bobby, we've got you at last!" And each star is whispering as it twinkles along, "Bobby has come, Bobby has come!"
Rest on, Robert, until eternity has grown gray. If we worshipped you down here, what must they be doing for you now? The world is jealous. We have only your memory. They have your soul.
Tears streamed down my face as I bade goodby to Mrs. Stevenson. It was all very sad, but I wouldn't have missed it for the crown the Bourbons lost.
By midnight we were back on board and off to Auckland. We arrived seven days later after a most perilous journey. I have never seen such storms as we encountered. The Pacific can pick up more trouble than two Atlantic oceans. During the entire seven days we were thrown from one side of the ship to the other with our trunks, hat boxes and valises. We finally had to tie them down. It took two "ordinary" seamen to open a handbag!
Captain Van Otterendorf, who apparently had taken a fancy to me, one day after we were compelled to heave to and lie in the trough of the sea, called me to his chart room.
"My tear Goodvin," he said, "ve are in a most precarious position. Ve haf no more coal in de bunkers and ve are quietly drifting on to de rocks vich are only about two hundred miles to de Vest. I vish ve were farder avay from de land." I said, "I don't." He said, "Vell, I am now burning de live stock for fuel and we vill put out de fires in about an hour and hoist de mainsail." "Why didn't you do this two days ago and save the coal?" I asked. "I didn't know how much ve started away from Samoa vith until the purser yust told me," he replied. I looked at him. "What do you tell me all this for? Don't you think I am frightened enough without this information?" He replied, "Vell, I like you. No one yet knows vat vill take place on de ocean and ve can only hope for de best."
He pulled out a huge bottle of Scotch whiskey from somewhere and I drank a goblet and in about an hour I didn't care whether the ship sank or not. Luckily the next day the storm abated. We arrived at harbor of Sydney.
Chapter LIII
PUBLICITY – ITS RESULTS
Before arranging my Australian tour (while I was engaged to the Kentucky lady) I had planned to obtain a divorce in California by an understanding with the second Mrs. Goodwin from whom I was then legally separated. She gave her consent for a cash payment of twenty thousand dollars. (Wives came high even in those days!)
When I decided to call off the engagement with the Kentucky lady the divorce was nearly consummated and on my arrival at San Francisco my attorneys informed me that everything was "O. K." If I came through with the twenty thousand I would be free in forty-eight hours!
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 t