Episode 6: The Final Act

In the final episode of Sweet Nell, Ali McGregor traces the closing chapter of Nellie Stewart’s life while reflecting on her own.

Beginning in 1916 with the death of George Musgrove, we follow Nellie through loss and a changing industry as cinema rises and theatre shifts around her. No longer at the centre, she becomes a symbol of a fading era, returning to her defining role while quietly shaping the future through mentorship and charity work.

As the distance between past and present narrows, this episode asks what it means to keep performing, to remain relevant, and to build a legacy when so much cannot be preserved.

A final meditation on loss, endurance, and what remains after the applause fades.

Recorded on the traditional lands of the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung and Bunurong Peoples of the Kulin Nation, written and hosted by Ali McGregor. Script editing by Maeve Marsden and musical excerpts by Matthew Floyd Jones. 

This podcast was created wth the generosity of The Frank Van Straten Fellowship, supported by ‘The Van Straten and Turley Foundation', with the help and guidance of Claudia Funder at the Australian Performing Arts Collection. Massive thanks also go to Elaine Marriner of Marriner Theatres for the initial and continued inspiration and support. 

https://www.alimcgregor.com/nellie

Transcript

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Welcome back to Sweet Nell. I'm Allie McGregor, and this is the final chapter of my six-part journey through the extraordinary life of one of Australia's first true on stage celebrities. Over the past five episodes, we've followed Nellie Stewart from child prodigy to a national icon. A performer who enchanted audiences with her voice, her charisma, and yes, her ankles. We've watched her stride across continents, break box office records, and weather the storms of fame, heartache, and scandal. This episode begins in 1916, following the death of her beloved partner George Musgrove, and continues through the twilight of her career as the world of entertainment undergoes significant changes around her. This is the story of legacy, shifting stages, and how Mellie Stewart's star kept shining even as the lights dimmed. It's 1916. The world is in chaos. Across the oceans, young men are fighting in the mud of France and Galileo. At home, Australians grapple with grief, uncertainty, and ration books. And amid this national trauma, the theatre world loses one of its most significant figures. George Musgrove, theatrical impresario, producer, and Nellie Stewart's partner in both life and work, dies after a long illness. For Nellie, it's a devastating blow. Their relationship had spanned three decades, bound by affection, loyalty, and a shared vision for what Australian theatre could be. They had raised a daughter together, Nancy Stewart, born in 1893. And Nellie had never hidden this truth, even though it defied the social conventions of her time. She was a single mother, a national star, and although she had George, she was a fiercely independent woman. I need to make a slight diversion here to speak about George Musgrove's wife, Emily, and his three daughters, Lily, Rose, and Dora May. Throughout George and Nellie's relationship, they seem to have continued to live in Powell Street, East Melbourne, before eventually living in Hawthorne. Nellie and George also lived in Powell Street for a time, but I'm unsure if this was at the family home or elsewhere in the street. Either way, it seems a bit close for comfort. Especially as after Nellie's death, George's youngest daughter, Dora May, said she had never even met her in person. Nellie and George first worked together when Dora May was just two years old. When they went to London together publicly, she was eight years old. Two of George's other three daughters tried their hand at acting, with Rose achieving considerable success, a career spanning over six years, although quite tellingly never in her father's productions, before marrying the Honourable Douglas Garrick, who owned a tea plantation in Ceylon. His daughter Lily only dabbled in acting but soon married a lawyer by the name of Ziki Voynarski, from a family of lawyers that can still be found in the Melbourne Law Chambers today. When George died, he left six tenths of his estate to Nellie Stewart, with the provision that her estate go in turn to their daughter Nancy. One tenth was to be left to his widow, one tenth each to his aunt's, and one tenth to his daughter Dora May. Lily was considered to be well looked after in her marriage, and Rose received nothing. As, and I quote, in defiance of her father's desires, she adopted the stage as a profession, and having done so, she is providing for herself. Why he had such a problem with his daughter Rose becoming an actress, while his daughter with Nelly seemed so encouraged by him is another fact that utterly confounds me. Although at the time of his death George had lost most of his fortune, and Nelly had had to bail him out of his debts, this will do seem rather mean-spirited. One can only imagine how hurtful it would have been to Rose to see her stepsister tour and perform with her father and his new partner. And although he was almost penniless when he died, leaving just£350 in assets, which is around about$10,000 today. Fourteen years later his will was finally given probate because it turned out he owned the rights to Kitty of Bel-Airs, which, after all this time, someone in Hollywood wanted to make a movie of, which finally sees the whole affair dragged posthumously through the courts and papers. George Musgrow's wife, Emily, never got over the slight of her husband shacking up with another woman so publicly. When in 1926 George's brother Harry's memoirs was serialised in The Herald, there was a quote saying, His brother George, of course, married Nillie Stewart. And the next day a retraction was printed saying of Harry, An error was made in referring to the late Mr. George Musgrove, his brother. The latter's wife, who was married to him at All Saints and Kilder in 1874, is still living in Melbourne. And in the Melbourne papers, in the days after George's death, there were two notices in the obituary column. One defining him as husband of Emily Musgrove of Erin Street, Richmond, and the other simply saying he had passed away at Den O'Guyn, Rose Bay, in his 63rd year. With Den O'Gwyn being the home that George Musgrove lovingly built for Nellie. It's quite clear who wrote each of these obituaries. Emily was in her seventies at this point, and she and George had not been living together as husband and wife for over forty years. But the hurt from his abandonment had obviously never softened. After George's death, Nellie stayed living at Denogyn in Sydney, where she'd been living for some time. Though shaken by the loss, she did not immediately retire from the stage. In fact, the following years would see some of her most poignant performances. She was in her mid-fifties, and though still beloved, she was entering a new chapter, one in which she would no longer be the centre of every production, but rather a symbol of a fading era. For my part, I realize that these twilight years of Nelly's have held less interest for me, and on reflection, maybe that is because I am in my early fifties myself. My children no longer need their hands held at all times, and my career is also entering a new era of sorts. So maybe looking beyond this period in Nelly's life is too confronting for me, as it feels too much like looking into my own fading era. Nonetheless, I am interested in seeing how Nellie proceeds truly on her own for the first time. Before George, her father Richard was always by her side, making career decisions and business deals. And of course, she had already lost her mother, who was such a fierce and loyal companion. Her daughter has her own life and burgeoning career, and the world seems to be moving at a feverish pace. While Nellie mourned, the entertainment landscape was transforming around her. Cinemas, or picture palaces, as they were then known, were exploding in popularity. In cities and towns across Australia, once proud theatres were being retrofitted to screen moving pictures, the flicker of celluloid was beginning to eclipse the glow of the footlights. The film industry offered escapism, novelty, and affordability. You didn't need a full orchestra or a diva who might fall ill, just a screen, a reel, and a pianist. The theatre wasn't gone, but it was no longer unchallenged. And for stars like Nellie Stewart, who had built entire careers on the live connection between actor and audience, the shift must have felt seismic. But Nellie Stewart was not completely left behind by this shift. She'd already made history by starring in one of Australia's first feature films, the 1911 silent adaptation of Sweet Nell of Old Drury, directed by Raymond Longford. While she never pursued a full film career, her performance was praised for its grace and screen presence. But unfortunately for us, even though Nellie was adamant that a copy should be kept forever as her legacy, there is no known copy today. With the fear that any copy that may have existed would have been destroyed by time. In fact, except for an audio recording made shortly before her death of dialogue from Sweet Nell and an address to her public, there is no known audio or visual recording of Nellie Stewart. Something that surely must contribute to this fading legacy. Although Nellie Melbourne never recorded anything visual, there are over 150 audio recordings made of her singing, and the high opera translates to the recorded form far better than comic opera, which relies so much on a live audience. Comic opera is a conversation, and like most live performances, you really have to be there. For Nellie, the stage with its immediate connection, its breath and energy remained her true home, something which I relate to completely. For my part, even though audio and video recording is now as easy as picking up your phone, I've shied away from the recorded medium, much preferring the thrill, immediacy, and intimacy of the live stage. Nellie's performances become less frequent in these later years, but they still drew crowds. Audiences came not just to see a play, but to witness a legend. She revived her greatest role, Sweet Nell of Old Drury, again and again. Each performance became more than just a show, it was a living tribute to a golden age. The audiences still came, still applauded, not just for the play, but for the woman who had defined it. In 1921, Nellie decided to write a memoir. Titled simply My Life's Story, the book is a blend of reminiscence, theatrical anecdote, and romantic recollection. It's not quite a tell-all. There certainly is gossip, although unfortunately for me, Nellie wasn't one to divulge her more sordid secrets. But it offers a valuable glimpse into the workings of a 19th-century theatre career and the relentless demands placed on women in the spotlight. She writes with clarity and grace, offering readers insights into her creative process, her personal joys, and her steadfast devotion to her daughter Nancy, now a young woman and a performer in her own right. The book was warmly received. For fans who had grown up with her, it was a chance to walk down memory lane. For newer generations, it was a portal into a world of grease paint, curtain calls, and corseted heroines. In 1922, Nellie took the stage one last time in Sweetnell, this time at the Theatre Royal in Sydney. She was nearly 70, and though her voice had softened and her movements slowed, the magic remained. During this period, Nellie also became a valued mentor to young artists. One of her fiercest supporters, theatre producer Hugh D. McIntosh, contracted her to teach some of the young singers working with the JC Williamson Company. In what I find to be one of the most heartbreaking chapters in her memoirs, is an appendix where Nellie has reproduced dozens of letters from Mr. McIntosh thanking her for her assistance with specific young actresses and singers, and the confirmation of a£500-pound yearly salary to continue with this membership in a company where she had spent so much of her life. But then she includes the letters from his successor, after the firm changed management, a certain Claude E. Maynell, whose letters are cold and dismissive. He belittles her involvement and refuses to honour the agreement that had been established. She notes, after the last letter's reprint, Here ends the matter. I have never reopened it with Mrs. J. C. Williamson Ltd. It sums up the resentment she often expresses in the latter part of her book, where friends and colleagues who were so supportive and at hand in times of success fell by the wayside in times of hardship and old age. It is a sense that anyone in any industry can relate to. The other recurring theme in Nellie's later years was one of charity. In 1910, she'd famously raised over£3,000 to buy radium for Sydney Hospital. A new treatment for cancer, the needles were costly. Nellie had lost her father to cancer, and she worked tirelessly, putting on charity matinees and selling Yardley's lavender in David Jones to raise extra funds after the show. A hospital ward was even named in her honour. And the cause became one she was devoted to for the rest of her life, organizing a one-off performance of Sweet Nell of Drury Lane in 1926 for the same benefactors. Again, her dedication was not relegated to the stage, and she happily held caught in the foyer, selling the traditional oranges before the curtain went up.

unknown 13:16

Oranger by my orangers.

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Experiencing this fervor for her performance must have given Nellie renewed vigour, because a revival tour of Sweet Nell of Drury Lane was planned and played to packed houses in Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide. For some, this was a trip down nostalgia lane, having first seen her in this role nearly 30 years prior, but for many, it was their first time witnessing this star of a bygone era of the stage. The papers were unanimous in their praise, even for her shapely ankles. The woman is nearly seventy and still with the ankles, with one reviewer breathlessly stating that At every curtain the applause grew in volume until it broke like a veritable storm at the end. It was their old favourite who stepped forward in answer quietly and almost humbly, saying, I may have been overanxious, perhaps I didn't do my best. She said this a little wistfully. And then but it has all been so wonderful. God bless you. And with that echoing still in their ears, the people carried home their dream of a great actress who had come back to them from the past. In March 1931, Nellie travelled to Homebush to record four shellac records for the Columbia Gramophone Company. They were presented to the Mitchell Library in Sydney, where they still reside, and were broadcast on ABC Radio in 1969. The first three records were scenes from sweet Nell of Drury Lane, and the fourth contained a farewell address to her public. Already quite ill, Nellie's words are weighed with the knowledge that this is a proper farewell, stating.

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Yet I would not use them.

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Her final years were spent mostly at home, with visits from her beloved daughter and her two young grandsons. Letters written to her friends, quiet musings in the garden that her dear great man George had loved so much, in the home that he had built for her, Den O'Gwyn. In April, a four-page feature spread of her at home appeared in the Australian Home Beautiful, with images of Nellie sitting at her harpsichord with her famous bangle still worn proudly on her left arm. In May, one last performance, a charity to raise funds for distressed women and children, saw her perform the famous balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet opposite her daughter Nancy. But a cold caught her on that wintery night, which saw her health decline even further. And on the 21st of June, 1931, two days after her dear girlie's 38th birthday, Nellie died peacefully at home in the arms of the daughter she loved. Newspapers printed special editions, former colleagues and devoted fans shared stories. Her passing was felt not just in the theatre world but across the broader cultural landscape. The Sydney Mail reported, For over a century, Nellie Stewart was once the exemplification and the star of Australia's dramatic art. And it is safe to say that in the whole history of our stage, no one ever gained in the hearts of the Australian people so sure, so high, or so human a regard, or gained it so rightly and held it so long. Her funeral was held at St. James's Church in Sydney and was attended by thousands. People lined the streets, clutching old playbills and photographs, quietly saying goodbye to the woman who had lit up their lives. This memorial to a woman who had loved one man faithfully until his death and was buried beside her mother held a remarkable mirror image to the passing of that other great Nell from whom her life was so tied to on stage. The description of Nell Gwynne's funeral in 1687 was thus. Londoners remembered their Nelly and flocked in thousands to take farewell of her. The church was packed with the weeping populace. There were few, even among those who had never seen her face, whose hearts were not moved when Nell was laid beside her old mother under the stones of St. Martin's in the fields. There was another lavish service in Melbourne, where, just as in Sydney, Londonderry Air was played, and Nellie's ashes were then later interred at the Burunda Cemetery in Kew, under a statue of a robed angel seated at a cross, sculpted and unmistakably Nelly, even down to the bangle worn as ever on her left arm. It is inscribed in marble, think of me as withdrawn into the dimness. And a bronze plaque was unveiled at the Princess Theatre in Melbourne to honour her contribution to the arts. And it remains there today, a testament to her enduring influence. For Nellie Stewart, remembrance came not just in the form of memorial plaques or newsprint tributes, it came in the careers of those who followed her, in the belief that an Australian performer could stand on equal footing with any star abroad. Her daughter, Nancy Linton, continued performing after her mother's death, honouring her legacy and carving out her own path on the stage. By the time of Nellie's death, the writing was on the wall, or more accurately, on the silver screen. Theatres were being bought out, repurposed, and transformed. The scale and polish of cinema replaced the intimacy of live performance. Stars were now made in editing rooms, not dressing rooms. But theatre, of course, never truly died, and perhaps Nellie knew that. After all, the best stories, the ones told with passion, presence, and heart, always find their stage. Nellie Stewart lived through a period of staggering change. She began in the era of horse-drawn carriages and gaslight theatre, and exited the world in the age of cinema and radio. And yet, her essence remains timeless. She was one of the first to show Australians what a homegrown star could look like. Not a pale imitation of a British dame or a Hollywood starlet, but a distinctly local, confident, charismatic woman whose career was forged through talent and sheer endurance. She wasn't flawless. No one is, but she was unforgettable. The Australian Performing Arts Collection has preserved many of Nellie's costumes, photographs, and programs, which is where I've been languishing for the past year, falling down rabbit holes of Australia's theatrical history and learning about this fascinating woman whose life seems to mirror so many aspects of my own. Among the artifacts saved is a pale blue gown from Sweet Nell, delicate with age, but still echoing with applause. Thank you for joining me for Sweet Nell, the story of Australia's Rose. There's a concept of the three deaths as referred to in the book Remembering and Dismembering the Dead by David Eagleman. It says that a person experiences death in three stages. The first when their body ceases to function, the second, when their body is laid to rest, and the third when their name is last spoken. My thanks to the late Frank Van Stratton, whose fellowship funded by the Van Stratton and Turley Foundation gave me full access to the Australian Arts Collection at the Arts Centre Melbourne for this past year. I must also thank Claudia Funder, whose assistance in this archive was invaluable. To Elaine Mariner, who has one of the most incredible private collections of theatre memorabilia in the country, housed in the attic of the Princess Theatre that's now run by her family. It was Elaine who first gave me Nellie Stewart's biography and told me I must read it. Thank you for joining me on this journey through Nellie Stewart's life. I hope her story has made you smile, reflect, and perhaps be inspired to fall down a historical rabbit hole of your own. I recorded this podcast in a little studio in the back of my house on the traditional lands of the Rodendary Wojwarung and Bunarong people of the Kulin Nation. The script was edited by Maeve Marsden very patiently and deftly. And all the music provided in this podcast was recorded by Matthew Floyd Jones, who by coincidence is actually related to George Musgrove, and therefore by proxy to Nellie. And please do share this podcast with anyone who likes history and especially Australian theatrical history. And please get in touch if you have any information about Nellie or any questions or you'd just like to say hello. But for now, I'm Allie McGregor. Thanks for listening to the city.