American Dreams (22 page)

Striving

would hurt damnably in the morning but, for the present, warmed the soul. These little parties in which actors forgot their wounds and fears and inhibitions were among the greatest joys of Fritzi's life in the theater.

At three a.m. Mr. Allardyce showed no sign of flagging. More trays of drinks arrived. The waiters looked slightly more perky, anticipating tips.

They didn't know actors, Fritzi thought.

Soon she felt her eyelids drooping. Another half hour had gone by.

Eustacia sat with her stocking feet resting on a vacant chair. She held out a full tumbler of gin. 'Care for any? I can't swallow another drop.'

Fritzi shuddered. 'Oh, no, thanks. 1 must go home. I don't want to be
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completely exhausted tomorrow night.' She gathered up her wrap and purse. 'How do you suppose the opening will go?'

Eustacia stifled a huge yawn. 'Given a smidgen of luck, we'll get through all five acts with no one dead or maimed. Beyond that, I am not sanguine.'

Fritzi wanted to be brave, exuberant - confident. But she wasn't.

Murmuring goodbyes, she and Eustacia left the oyster house in search of taxis. Fritzi's wan and weary face perfectly masked the doubt and anxiety churning within her.

25 Tragedy

Fritzi arrived at the Novelty a whole hour before curtain. A drizzly rain dampened the streets. She felt wretched. Not only was she tired from the late night at the oyster house, she had cramps. They were no less painful for being familiar.

Eustacia whispered that she'd seen Hobart. 'His eyes are standing out of his head big as eggs. Simkins told me the little worm encountered a funeral procession on his way to the theater. Should have kept to the alleys, the fool. Dear Lord, what next?'

Making up, Fritzi couldn't remember her first line. This had never happened before. She searched among the pots and tubes and sticks until she found her crumpled side for I-i. She folded it and tucked it under the frayed rope that belted her ugly dirt-colored smock. Another cramp attacked her. She hugged herself with her eyes shut until it passed.

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Some actors traditionally gave small gifts on opening night. Though she could scarcely afford it, she had nickel cigars for the gentlemen, rose petal sachets for the ladies, and cheap penknives for the two surly boys. Mr.

Denham received his cigar while fingering worry beads. Mr. Gertz showed her a Roman Catholic medal with a likeness of St. Genesius, the actor's patron saint reputedly martyred by the emperor Diocletian. She discovered her friend in her dressing room with hands clasped and head bowed in front of an engraving of a person in a periwig.

'Eustacia, who on earth is that?'

'David Garrick. Some say he's lucky. It can't hurt.'

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A cold sweat of terror bathed Fritzi then.

Pop Foy mournfully told them the rain showers had become a downpour.

The audience arrived sodden. People sneezed and complained. Listening behind the curtain - only amateurs peered out to count the house -- Fritzi despaired. Some audiences generated an electricity that excited and inspired actors, but others had, as it were, dead batteries Audiences like that applauded limply, if at all. They always laughed in the wrong places.

At twenty past seven Manchester called the company together on stage. He did indeed look queasy and shaken. CI am delighted to report that the house is more than three quarters subscribed.' A few strained expressions lightened briefly. 'But I regret to announce that earlier today, Mr. Entwistle sprained his back when thrown from his chair by that cur Mutt. The prompt table will be empty this evening. Mr. Simkins will hold the book, but you must remember he will be extremely busy calling cues. I am sure all of you will surmount this small problem with no difficulty.'

,

Fritzi felt bilious, dizzy. Her teeth chattered. She'd experienced symptoms of stage fright many times before, but never so severely. She unfolded the side but couldn't read it under the dim lights.

Simkins called places. Fritzi touched the curtain for luck. Ida Whittemeyer quickly hugged each of her weird sisters. Fritzi held up crossed fingers. Sally Murphy squeezed their hands and said, 'Break a leg,'

which was supposed to insure that you wouldn't, and everything would go swimmingly.

The curtain rose.

The tragedy began.

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Striving

In the first scene the cheap electric fan in the trap shorted. With a squeal the blades stopped revolving. Smoke immediately thickened behind the cauldron. Ida Whittemeyer was convulsed by coughing. For nearly half a minute she was unable to continue.

Making his first entrance on the blasted heath, Hobart ripped his cloak on a nail. The sound, unfortunately loud, resembled a bodily function. It caused titters throughout the audience.

In Hobart's dagger speech, the follow spot sputtered, sizzled, and expired.

One of the murderers fell off a ramp. It wasn't a graceful tumble but a pratfall. In the wings, Fritzi cringed at the laughter.

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By the time the curtain rose on act three, everyone's timing was off.

Lines were delivered at locomotive speed, or dragged out unendurably.

Mrs. Van Sant went up. She stood slack-jawed, staring at the prompt side of the stage. Simkins lost his place in the book. Mrs. Van Sant snarled,

'Line, you blithering ass, line? Those in the front rows heard, and laughed.

Simkins found the line. She recovered and delivered it. The damaged play rolled on like a cart with a wheel missing.

In Launcelot Buford's scene with Miss Whittemeyer, he slipped her a live goldfish. She shrieked and threw it away. Unfortunately, many people saw the fish flopping on the stage, with predictable mirth. One of the murderers broke up in laughter and had to exit.

In any large production there was usually at least one actor drunk, and tonight was no exception. It wasn't Mr. Allardyce, however, but a hired super, a Birnam wood marcher who waved his branch so vigorously that he knocked the helmet off the man next to him. The helmet rolled off the apron and fell in the orchestra pit, onto the snare drum. Hobart had engaged a two-piece orchestra, violin and drum - not an ideal combination for a classical play, but cheap.

The helmet bounced on the drum. After several impromptu taradiddles, it bounced out of the drummer's reach and concluded its performance by striking the floor like a Chinese gong. The entire audience howled, entertained at last.

In the climactic duel Macduff 's tin-plate sword nicked the edge of a rostrum and bent like taffy. Completely thrown, Mr. Denham dropped the sword twice as he attempted to straighten it. Hobart tried to cover by staggering about, indicating pain from a wound. Since Macduff hadn't touched him yet, it looked more like an attack of indigestion. The audience hooted and whistled.

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Hobart's prop claymore was made of stouter stuff: wood. When he finally struck a defensive blow, the claymore snapped in half at the hilt. In the stunned silence Hobart could be heard to say, LOh, my gawd.1

Hilarity reigned everywhere but on stage.

The audience fled the theater after one curtain call, which included a good many boos and catcalls. Fritzi wanted to weep. Their Scottish play was not a tragedy but a farce. The three-wheeled cart was pointed downhill and accelerating madly toward the graveyard of all such misbegotten vehicles, the morning reviews.

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The New York Rocket was first on the street. Mrs. Van Sant rose and read the notice aloud in a private room on the upstairs level of Charles Rector's swanky Broadway restaurant. The cast had gathered for a party that had the appearance and atmosphere of a wake for victims of an earthquake.

'"Mr. Hobart Manchester's production at the Novelty suits the venue, as it is so novel, so unique in its particular badness, as to numb even the most insensitive devotee of the Bard, and wring floods of pity from any compassionate Christian who has the misfortune to attend. Ill-conceived and miserably acted by a company of almost amateurish awfulness, it quickly descends into unintentional comedy and never recovers. Further, I have seldom if ever seen a more tawdry" -- so on and so forth,' she muttered, skipping down the columns. '"Evidence of penny pinching is everywhere evident. Costumes appear to come from a rag bag, except for those worn by the English actress Mrs. Van Sant, which are more appropriate to the runway of a vaudeville house." Bastard!' She threw the paper on the floor.

, 'Can you imagine a human being devoting his life to dispensing such cruelty? He must be sick. If I ever meet this man, he'll be a bloody eunuch before I'm through.'

The actors applauded, but Fritzi noted a lack of enthusiasm. Ida Whittemeyer said, 'I'm sure our valiant director and star echoes that sentiment.

Where are you, Hobart?'

Tlobart! Hobart!' They stomped and clapped and looked around until Simians said from the back of the room, 'He sneaked out five minutes ago.'

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26 Closed

Simkins posted the closing notice before Thursday night's performance.

Late Friday afternoon, Fritzi went uptown to the Novelty. The rain had let up only sporadically since Monday. The streets were dark, rank from garbage rotting in pools of water.

The theater had a sad, empty feeling again. Backstage she met Sally Murphy and Mr. O'Moore and Ida, all as dispirited as she was. They embraced and exchanged addresses and promised to write, fully understanding that they probably never would.

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She'd already spoken to Eustacia by telephone. Her friend had booked a cheap cabin on the first available trans-Atlantic ship, a Greek vessel sailing Monday for Cherbourg and Piraeus. Hobart had cut off her Astor subsidy, and she was forced to move at her own expense, to a lesser hotel on Ninth Avenue. A humiliation not to be endured.'

Simkins said pay vouchers for the week would be ready at noon Saturday. Fritzi asked him, 'Is Mr. Manchester in the theater?'

'Yes, but he's incommunicado.'

'Well then, I'll see you tomorrow.'

'No, I'll be in Albany. I signed on with & Prisoner ofZenda road company.

The house treasurer will hand out the vouchers.'

'So it's goodbye, Mr. Simkins. It's been a pleasure knowing you.'

'Oh, yes, very much so, Miss Crown.' They shook hands like a couple of mourners.

Outside, she stood under the marquee, pelted by blowing rain. Her hands were cold and raw. Her knit gloves had fallen apart. She could hear her mother say, %iebchen, a young lady doesn't appear in public without gloves.' No, but unemployed actresses did.

Water roared off the edges of the marquee and rushed in the gutter behind her. The bitter September air felt more like winter. She stared at the paper strip pasted diagonally on the poster. CLOSED. Her cheeks were wet, but not from rain.

She'd looked on the Macbeth engagement as a benchmark, a full and final test of her ability to succeed in New York. She knew she wasn't personally responsible for the fiasco, but the result was the same. 'What now?' She didn't realize she'd spoken until a peanut vendor going by Closed

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with oilcloth covering his tray gave her a queer stare.

A lobby door swung open. Turning up the collar of his cape, Hobart emerged. 'Fritzi! Did you corne to see if it's true?'

i suppose so,' she said with a rueful smile.

'What have you found? Any suitable auditions on the horizon?'

'Not immediately.'

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'Too bad. How are you fixed?'

'I won't starve for another two or three weeks.'

'Ah, the cruelty of the profession. I am only slightly more solvent. This afternoon I settled with the scenery and costume houses. I didn't do it until I determined that we had enough to pay everyone in the company full wages.'

'I want to tell you again how sorry I am.'

'No sorrier than I, dear girl.'

'Tuesday and Wednesday's performances were very good. Last night's was thrilling.'

'Nevertheless, the curse on the play overtook us. I should have produced A Midsummer Night's Dream. Fairies are harmless. I shall miss you, Fritzi.

But we needn't say goodbye just yet. I have enough in my pocket for supper at Rector's. If you don't order too much.'

He opened his cape, pulled out his pocket watch, disdainful of the rabbit's foot hanging on the chain. 'We can't dine respectably for at least an hour. Let's go see some galloping tintypes.'

'You mean pictures, at a nickelodeon?'

'Yes. I enjoy them. The Variety's just there. Come.' He linked his arm with hers. She didn't have the heart to tell him how much she disliked the cheap entertainment.

As they walked along beneath her umbrella, Fritzi said, 'I understand tlje picture companies hire legitimate actors. I've heard the wages are good, five dollars a day. Would you act in one?'

i? Certainly not.'

'I feel the same way.'

Hobart paid for tickets to the 5(t Variety. Another program was just letting out. They found seats on a hard bench near the back. Soon the nickelodeon was full. The projector clattered, and a light beam pierced the dark. A flickering image appeared - a title card.

'Ah, good, another Biograph,' Hobart whispered. 'They make rather thrilling little stories.'

In the one-reel melodrama, lasting about fifteen minutes, a young 138

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society girl was abducted by kidnappers and rescued by the family chauffeur with whom she finally eloped, love and courage having triumphed over social class. Fritzi was a bit embarrassed to find herself caught up in the story. A sequence of actualities, the kind Paul photographed, came next. A strong man lifted a lioness over his head; a Zeppelin floated past the Eiffel Tower; Kaiser Wilhelm's Death's Head Hussars galloped through a Berlin parkland; five girls in bathing costumes frolicked in the surf at the Jersey shore. The program concluded with another reel split between a pair of short comedies. Characters stepped in buckets and fell off ladders. Autos came within an ace of crashing into one another. All this the audience, Fritzi excepted, found hilarious. She did observe that no actors were named on the title cards of the pictures, only the studio and, in one case, the director.