At Mr. Frawley's left sat the stately, majestic, Juno-like Maxine Elliott, one of the most beautiful women whom I had ever seen, her raven black hair and eyes in delightful contrast to the red hues that formed an aureole, as it were, above her head. There she sat, totally unconscious of the appetites she was destroying, absorbing the delicate little compliments paid her by that prince of good fellows, John Drew.
How I chafed at the etiquette which prohibited my being at her side!
Next to her sat the tranquil Herbert Kelcey and the dainty piece of bisque, Effie Shannon. Down the line sat the radiant and sunny Gladys Wallis, near her the gracious and emotional Blanche Bates, farther down the sweet and winsome Gertrude Elliott. It was a bevy of beauty one rarely sees.
At my right sat one of the brightest women I have ever met and as beautiful as she is talented (a rare combination). She had first come to my attention a few weeks previous while I was on my way to San Francisco, the other members of my company who had been engaged by my manager, Mr. George B. McClellan, having preceded me. My strenuous tour with the "All Rivals" cast had been too much for me. I think I was suffering from fatty degeneration of the art! In any event I found my only amusement in the local dailies along the line and when the Denver "Post" came aboard the train I fairly devoured it.
On the page devoted to the theatres I was amazed to find a roast of Maxine Elliott (whom I had met casually three years before). It was written in a most artistic manner in excellent English. It was unkind and cruel—but clever. Altogether it was one of the most scathing denunciations I ever saw in print. It was signed Alice Rix.
She was my dinner companion. I noticed that she and Maxine exchanged more than one sharp glance but neither one showed any outward signs of having anything more in common than superficial things. Once or twice Maxine even smiled in her direction! Clever Maxine, tactful even in her respectable poverty!
Jimmie Swinnerton, the cartoonist, presented me with a quaint drawing of a kangaroo on its hind legs, beaming with laughter and bidding me "Welcome to Australia." I value this picture very highly—and the autographs which were written on it that night.
Another newspaper man, Ashton Stevens, afforded us a treat in the shape of producing music out of a banjo! The way he played classical music on that instrument was marvelous. This came at the tail end of the evening and much to my sorrow the party broke up then and there—at 3 a. m.
Thursday, June 25, 1896, marked our start for Australia on the good ship Alameda, Captain Van Otterendorf commanding. At the pier to bid us bon voyage were all those who had been at the supper on Tuesday, all of the Frawley company, several personal friends and many of my professional brothers and sisters who were employed at the various theatres (or were willing to be!). They had prepared a surprise which quite unnerved me. They all bade me goodby and said all manner of nice things. As one by one they grasped my hand and said farewell a great lump jumped up into my throat and it would have taken but a slight suggestion or urging on anybody's part for me to have followed them all back down the gang-plank! I bit my lips to keep back the tears.
For the first time I realized what a bold responsibility I had assumed in taking a company of players ten thousand miles away from home! Besides, I was leaving all that was near and dear to me behind. "Would we ever meet again?" I wondered. But this was no time for pessimism. So I parted from my dear friends and determined to accept whatever fate had in store for me.