By Myself and Then Some (9 page)

The year 1942 brought what turned out to be my last time spent in the theatre for seventeen years. Max Gordon was casting a new comedy called
Franklin Street
by Arthur Sheekman and Ruth and Augustus Goetz. It was to be directed by George S. Kaufman and star Sam Jaffe. The period was 1900; place, a boardinghouse in Philadelphia where an ex-actor runs a dramatic school, trying to keep wolves away from the door. As I’ve said, Max Gordon always gave me access to himself and his office in the Lyceum Theatre, and this time there might actually be a part for me. When I went to see him, he told me I could read and that George Kaufman was probably in the Lyceum lobby at that moment. So, fresh, persistent kid that I was, I ran down to the lobby. (For one as insecure as I was, I sure had no compunction about running up to strangers and brazenly introducing myself. I was damn lucky all my strangers had class!) There were two men standing in a corner. I asked a man in the box office if one of them was George Kaufman and he pointed him out. Once having seen George Kaufman, you could never forget him. He was very tall, very, very thin, with a long face, steel-rimmed glasses, and black hair that seemed to stand straight up. Slouching so as to look smaller, younger, I walked up to him, introduced myself, and told him I had spoken to Mr Gordon and hoped there’d be a part I could read for in his new play. He introduced me to the man standing next to him, who turned out to be one of the authors, Arthur Sheekman. He asked what I had done – I told him (that must have made him chuckle) and said, ‘I really am very good, I can act and I know I would add to your play. I can look younger, smaller, anything you want – just let me read for you, please.’ It was all said in a rush – the hammerhead approach – and caught him somewhat unaware. He was patient and said, ‘Well, there might be something – why don’t you come to the reading next week and we’ll see what happens.’ ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Kaufman – I’ll be there, you won’t
be sorry. Thank you, Mr Sheekman.’ God knows exactly what I said or how I looked – no different from the hundred other girls who were looking for that same break. Those men must have been inundated with girls like me, singing their own praises, searching, praying for the break, for discovery – for
the answer
.

The following week I reported to the Lyceum Theatre. All I knew was that the play was a comedy with four or five ingenue roles. When I arrived at the stage door, a faceless young man directed me to the stage manager. As usual, he had a small table set up in the wings with many bits of paper on it – all identifying actors, I suppose. Many other girls were hovering in the wings – we were all there for the same reason, and once again there’d be losers and winners. When my turn came, I was handed ‘sides’ by the stage manager. Sides are pieces of paper about five by seven inches that have only one individual role typed on them, with cues from other roles. Simpler, less complicated for auditions, they take the place of scripts for every Tom, Dick, and Betty who reads for a part. The stage manager gives sides to auditioning actors so they can familiarize themselves with the words, mood, etc., before they are called upon to step center stage.

After I’d studied the part briefly, I walked out onto the stage. I tried to be calm and behave as though I was in control – a fine professional. I was anything but – yet I felt better this time because I knew Max Gordon would help to get me a part if he possibly could. And I hoped the impression I had made on George Kaufman was positive and appealing rather than negative and un-. But I was terrified again, shaking with nerves – why, dear God, did there have to be auditions? Was all life to be proving yourself over and over? Was all life rejection if you didn’t catch the fancy of one higher up? Did everything in life depend on
that
moment? Were there always tests – were you always challenged – was there always that naked light and you alone with nothing to lean on and darkness facing you while it was decided whether you would live or die? And would my damned kidneys give me trouble – why did I always have to pee just as my name was called – how would I ever make it on a stage? Christ, here I go again, at my worst. I stepped center stage, started to read the part. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, my mouth twitched – what was I doing here? Why did no one else’s nerves show?

After I read – I can’t even remember what I read, I was so petrified
– George Kaufman beckoned me forward, smiled, said he was pleased to see me, told me a bit about the character of the girl I was reading, suggested I try it another way, said, ‘Take it easy.’ He spoke very softly, very kindly. Whereupon I stepped back and started again. I was probably even more nervous – certain I’d read it all wrong to begin with. I’m sure he knew that. How many of these auditions had he held, how many actors in a state of terror, laying their lives on the line, had he witnessed? I got through it and made some kind of joke, trying to be easy, trying to show George S. Kaufman, the most successful, sought-after director of the day, that I was worthy. He called the stage manager over and told him to give me another set of sides; he wanted to hear me read another part. I could look it over while another girl was auditioning.

I walked into the wings, sat down, and tried to concentrate on this next character in the play. Another unknown quantity. If he asked me to read again, he must think I was a possible at least. He must like me, I thought. My head was full of reasons why I would be chosen for one part or another. Hard to think of acting when your head is off on mind-reading expeditions. ‘Pay attention, you fool. Get as much out of this part as you can. Think! This may be your golden opportunity. Don’t blow it.’ The stage manager asked if I was ready to read. Of course, I said – it didn’t occur to me to say as one more experienced might, ‘I’d like a few minutes more, please.’ I didn’t say it and I didn’t get the few minutes more. I stood center stage again, with that lovely naked bulb hanging over my head. And I read the part. That character’s name was Maud Bainbridge. She was a dreamer – always quoting poetry, always in another world (where I wanted to be at that moment). The scene was over – they were talking quietly to each other out front. George Kaufman said, ‘Fine, Betty. Thank you. Can you come back tomorrow to read once more? Take the sides of both parts home with you – read them over and we’ll do it again tomorrow.’

What a relief. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. I took my sides and rushed out. I had to get a part. I had to. ‘Please God, let it happen this time. Don’t let me lose this one.’ I headed for Walgreen’s. Fred Spooner might be there. Since my
Claudia
readings he had been a good friend to me. I could tell him anything – dream my dreams aloud and he wouldn’t laugh – he believed in me, always said he’d be on the lookout for plays for me. He was there. We ordered coffee – a nickel a
cup and great coffee. I told him all, every detail – how George Kaufman had looked, what he’d said, how he’d reacted to my readings, what I thought he’d thought. I showed Fred the sides of the two parts. We talked about them. Fred said: ‘I’ll bet you get it. This could be the break you’ve been looking for. It’s not the leading role, that will come, but it’s a speaking part on Broadway under the best auspices in the business. Go home, really become familiar with those characters, get in there tomorrow and knock ’em dead. You can do it, we know that. Let me know what happens tomorrow. I’ll be around the office all day.’ He walked me to the bus stop on Eighth Avenue, watched me get on, waved and smiled.

Clutching the sides, I headed for home. I couldn’t read in the bus, it’s always made me dizzy and queasy. I’d have to content myself with thinking about the audition, going over it again. Who else had been there? I hadn’t even thought of the other girls – there were only five ingenue parts, after all, and more than three dozen were trying out. But Kaufman had asked me to read more than once, he had seemed to like me. Oh, it just had to work out! I got home, hugged my beloved cocker spaniel Droopy, told him all about it. He was very sympathetic. I could and did always say everything to him, everything outrageous, sublime. I could fantasize totally with him, go to any extreme and he was all love, all compassion. What must dogs think! As an only child of a working mother, I was happy to have him to unload to, he was a comfort and a friend and he didn’t talk back!

I studied my two characters, garnering what understanding of the play was possible from sides. Mother came home and I happily went through it all again. She always was excited for me, lived through all my emotions with me, cared desperately, but remained the voice of reason, always telling me to do my best, to try my hardest, while still urging me not to build my hopes up too high. Of course she didn’t know anything about the theatre, but I didn’t know a hell of a lot more.

I got through dinner, walked Droopy, went to bed – that three-quarter box spring and mattress shared with Mother – and of course could not sleep. ‘Please God, let me get one of the parts. Let Kaufman really like me, let it be the beginning, please, please.’ Finally sleep, but not for long.

At ten o’clock the next morning I was at the Lyceum stage door. The same stage doorman, the same stage manager, smiles of the same girls.
There were fewer of us this day, but still more girls than parts. But there were familiar faces and that felt good. A girl called Jacqueline Gately read Maud Bainbridge and Adele Stanley. Joyce Gates read another part. The same group were out front – we’d read, they’d whisper, we’d stand onstage trying not to faint or cry. At one point, about seven of us were asked to stand onstage together. It was not like a chorus call, but to see what the physical mix was, how we complemented one another. And when were we going to find out if we’d gotten a part? A lunch break, then would we come back –
would
I? None of us auditioning could bear lunch together, we weren’t sure where we stood, we didn’t know one another and it was too tricky emotionally. We were too apprehensive to share. I got back to an almost empty theatre. The stage manager and his assistant were having sandwiches at their table and going over something. Kaufman, Sheekman, Gordon, etc., had not returned. The other girls had not returned. So I sat backstage and looked at the sides again, trying to discover something new in the characters to try at the next reading. Gradually I sensed the arrival of others. Joyce and Jackie came back, asked if anything had happened. No, I said, though I thought it would be any moment now as there seemed to be sounds emanating from out front. So we sat, smelling the theatre. The glamour, the mystery were all in my head, they certainly didn’t exist backstage at that moment. The stage was bare, the wings dark and musty. If I could just be a part of it, really a part of it! Finally the stage manager walked out on stage and Sam Jaffe, the star of the show, joined us from the orchestra. A wonderful actor, a kindly face, but I could only see Gunga Din, his great movie role, as I looked at him. We were introduced one by one, and one by one asked to read a scene with him. Kaufman asked Jackie to read Maud, me Adele, and Joyce Agatha. It was my first reading with a professional actor – all the others had been with the stage manager. Jaffe read with authority and grace, and with accompanying gestures. I was mesmerized and much too tense to judge which of us auditioners was good or why, I only sensed something special was going on. Kaufman asked us to line up alone, then with Sam Jaffe. Wouldn’t someone say something definitely, please! My nerves could take no more. We three girls retired to the wings once again while another conference took place. We didn’t exchange a word – we were all so tense, we each wanted a part so badly. There was nothing to do, nothing – life in the theatre is one enormous
wait. At last a signal to Jackie Gately to go onstage. Joyce and I were left to wait. Finally Jackie came off talking to the stage manager, looking happy. She must have gotten something. Next Joyce was summoned. It was really beyond bearing for me. I was quivering, I felt sick. Another interminable wait. Then Joyce emerged the same way Jackie had, but she did give me a glance, was smiling,
she
must have gotten something. Well, it wouldn’t be long now, at least I would know. But why had I been kept for last? There loomed in the back of my mind the possibility of being told I wasn’t quite right for the part, but in the nicest way, the Messrs Gordon and Kaufman being the kind of gentlemen they were. At last the stage manager asked me to walk onstage. I tried to bluff myself into positive thinking. I was asked to step downstage, the better to see the faces who were to determine my future. George Kaufman looked up at me with a smile, saying, ‘Congratulations, you’ve got the part,’ and Max Gordon, coming down to the apron, ‘See, I told you I’d find something in one of my plays for you.’ I couldn’t believe it, was it really true, would no one change his mind? Oh God, let me out of there before they did. My first speaking part in a Broadway show, produced by Max Gordon, directed by George S. Kaufman. It wasn’t so bad to be a little Jewish girl, now was it? As a matter of fact, it was the best possible thing to be. Oh, was I happy!

I stopped at the stage manager’s desk after thanking them all profusely and telling them I’d never let them down. He took my address and phone number again, said he’d get in touch with me about rehearsals, wardrobe, etc., and did I have an agent? An agent – what was that? I knew nothing about actors’ agents then – they were not considered as important for beginners as they are now.

I guess I walked out of the stage door, I really don’t remember. I immediately felt I had an identity, this was my theatre, we would probably rehearse here. I knew absolutely nothing about rehearsal pay. out-of-town salary – I signed on at minimum, which was then fifty dollars a week.

It had to be Walgreen’s before I took the Eighth Avenue bus and headed for home. Just to see if anyone was there, Fred maybe. No one was. Wait till I told Mother and Grandma. They would be thrilled. Well, Mother would be. Grandma would be happy I had a job so I could help Mother with expenses, but she didn’t put much store in acting as a profession. Questionable people, actors – unreliable,
immoral, all the obvious feelings and reactions to a world she had never been exposed to and didn’t understand. But Mother never faltered in her encouragement of me and belief that I could succeed.