Broadway Heartbeat Memoirs Of A Press Agent

113544

BOOKS BY BERNARD SOBEL

The Indiscreet Girf
Buiieycue
Theatre Handbook

BROADWAY
HEARTBEAT

Memoirs of a Press Agent

BY Bernard Sobel

HERMITAGE HOUSE
NEW YORK 1953

COPYRIGHT, 1953, BY BERNARD SOBEL

First Printing

All Rights Reserved

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 53-12014

Published simultaneously in Canada by Geo. J. McLeod, Ltd., Toronto

To

Lorraine Sobel Lee

my beloved sister

selfless, understanding and inspiring

Contents

1 A Boy's First Impressions of Show Business 11

2 To Chicago-and Back 33

3 Purdue Student, Purdue Teacher 44

4 I Become a New Yorker for Good 73

5 Press Agent for Earl Carroll 87

6 The Great Days of Ziegf eld 101

7 Ziegf eld Stars 115

8 End of the Ziegf eld Era 150

9 A Variety of Assignments 201

10 Movie Publicity and I 221

11 Press Agenting for Vaudeville and Radio 235

12 Research into Burlesque 247

13 Literati 259

14 Broadway Characters 273

15 Man About Broadway 283

16 An Interlude in Journalism 291

17 The Nineteen-Forties 310

18 I Become a Textile Publicist 336
Index 347

Broadway Heartbeat

CHAPTER 1

A Boy's First Impressions of Show Business

P

IVE minutes after a hurricane blasted the greater part of Attica,
Indiana, I came into existence, "the cyclone baby," possessed of the
jittery gestures and general apprehensiveness that have made me
easily ludicrous throughout a lifetime.

For many months after that historic storm, local conditions were
not conducive to my acquiring poise. Friendly conversations in back-
yards, church vestibules, and front parlors were spoiled by disturb-
ing references to funnel-shaped clouds, weather reports, memories of
cows flying over restaurant roofs and upright pianos floating down-
stream. Every time, indeed, that a dark cloud blotched the sky, the
whole town rushed to the nearest cellar.

Meanwhile, my parents, both in their middle twenties, had the
double task of adjusting themselves to these hysterical circumstances
and also to each other. Mother was city-born and unacquainted with
the ways of a small town; and father was a "greenhorn," fresh from a
Kurland rabbinical school and unacquainted with the ways of a great
democratic nation. It was not surprising, therefore, that after ten or
twelve agitated months, they collected their broken china and bat-

11

tered furniture and moved from Attica to Lafayette, Indiana, 27
miles away, a tedious trip then by horse and buggy or the milk train
which stopped "at every telegraph pole."

Here father set up a cigar manufactory which gave him the chance,
so important to new Americans, to proclaim his patriotism. For he
called his factory ^Fountain," in honor of the township, and his first
cigar "Lafayette," in honor of the liberator who gave the city its
name. His staff included a bookkeeper, a superintendent, a sorter, 22
cigar-makers, six strippers and a man-of -all-work.

That all these people should be working for my father I took for
granted. The factory was part of my expendable environment by
divine right of birth; and this naive impression did not break down,
alas, until long years after, years full of disillusion, grief and financial
disaster.

Whenever we moved our home from one district to another, the
factory moved with us. So, whenever I felt inclined, I dropped in and
watched the cigar-makers at work, never realizing in those early
years that their work provided my living. What they did represent
was diversion, the fun of absorbing their adult conversation and lis-
tening to the gossip of the girls. They were continuously fascinating.
How I enjoyed watching them powder and paint their faces, at that
time a small-town impropriety.

Their experiences fed my curiosity. When Flo, a handsome, au-
burn-haired tobacco stripper, failed to report for work one morning,
her best friend, Lula, told everyone what happened:

"She spent the night with a traveling man at the St. Nicholas Hotel
and^she had the cheek to tell her aunt that she was staying with me.
She's been getting away with murder."

The men smiled and winked at each other. The girls looked em-
barrassed, pretended to be absorbed in their work. But Flo didn't
come back that day or the next. What would she say, I wondered,
when she did come back-if ever? What would become of her?

In less than a week Flo was forgotten. Another girl took her place
and soon after, still another, for cigar people, like barbers, are al-
ways changing their jobs.

As father s business improved, our homes improved. The first one
that I remember was a large frame house, painted green, with a wide
porch and a small yard at the corner of Tenth and Main Streets. It
was exposed on the left to traffic, dust and noise, but sheltered on the
12

right by a large oak tree which shaded the porch. My sister, Lorraine,
was born in this house: and here also, my father woke me one night
to show me, proudly, a new baby, my brother Harry.

When I was about five years of age I discovered the pleasures of
running away from home. The adventure became so exhilarating that
whenever I had a chance, I ran around the corner to the neighbors or
rode off with the milkman, causing my mother and the maid much
anxiety and the nearby policeman many extra exertions.

Casually, one summer night, I returned from one of these adven-
tures on my velocipede. The time was eight o'clock. Supper was long
over, and my parents were standing at the gate waiting to meet me.
In the fading evening light, they looked mellow and shadowy, but
their mood was as severe as it was determined.

"Because you're always running away," said father, "we 're going
to punish you by not taking you to hear Gilmore's band."

I started to plead with them, to beg for another chance, but they
deliberately walked away to the concert which was being held just
two blocks away, at the Grand Opera House. I called after them. I
begged and begged until they were out of sight. Forlornly, I stood on
the sidewalk, and then walked into the house. My supper was on the
table but I couldn't eat a bite.

Finally, I undressed and went to bed, though not to sleep. Instead,
I climbed up to the window facing in the direction of the theatre.
And there I stood, silent and taut, hoping that some stray sounds of
the music would escape through the theatre walls. This miracle did
not happen. Yet no melodies could have been more poignant than
the sounds of that band unheard.

When several years later, the victrola came on the market, I
wanted one badly, of course, but the price fifty to two hundred dol-
larswas more than my father could afford. The day, however, that
the Stewart-Warner Company put on sale an instrument for five dol-
lars, I opened up my savings bank secretly and bought one, together
with one record, the "Prince Igor" dances, an additional dollar and
a half.

Happily, I rushed home and called the family into the dining room
for a feast of music. Then I put on the record and wound up the
machine. It began to rotate at once and smoothly, but I waited in
vain for musical sounds. What was the matter? I leaned down and
waited impatiently. Finally, as I held my ear close to the record, I

13

heard a musical whisper. And that was all I heard. The instrument
didn't have enough power to reproduce a standard record. It was
scarcely more than a toy.

Soon after that disappointing incident, we moved to another corner
house, a two-storied colonial structure, with a wisp of a yard and a
Bartlett pear tree. On the opposite side of the street, across the street-
car track, was a candy store whose chief attraction was a penny
licorice-coated ball, about half-an-inch in circumference, which was
composed of alternating layers of black and white candy and some
sort of bitter seed at the center.

I patronized the place regularly, yet never ventured, in spite of my
curiosity, into the adjoining feed store. This cavernous establishment
with its bulging bales of hay and sacks full of grain was owned by
the Martins, a typical Middle West family which had considerable
local prestige because the eldest son, "Ollie," was a quarterback on
the Purdue University football team.

When the circus came to town, the management bought hay and
feed from the Martins, giving them, in addition to enough business to
carry them for a year, dozens of passes. These, alas, were never dis-
tributed among the people of the neighborhood. But posters in the
windows of lovely ladies riding bareback, pan-faced clowns and wild
animals, informed me that there were specific amusements in the
world whose delights superseded all the delights of that amorphous
thing called "play."

When I was seven I had my first impression of the Big Tent. Our
neighbor, Bill Shearer, got me up one morning at five o'clock, and
walked me miles over public highways, damp grass and stone ditches
to the railroad yards where we watched the circus unload. What a
sight! Toughs and show officials mingled with railroad crews and
sightseers. Wild animals, securely caged, looked out pathetically
through narrow bars. Patient horses and solemn camels made the air
smelly with their mixed excretions. Scores of workmen rushed here
and there, gauging spaces, tossing ropes and pitching the tent The
tension of urgency dominated the fact that the show must go on.
But the excitement increased when an alert animal trainer inter-
rupted a love affair between two elephants while the crowd shouted,
"Leave 'em alone."

The following year my parents took me to see a regular perform-
ance with its tinsel, sawdust, balloons, souvenir programs and lemon-
ade. The admission must have been about twenty-five cents, for it

14

was a one-ring show, the kind that toured the Middle West in those
days and that now plays the Florida circuit during the winter. The
company included about thirty-five performers, two elephants,
twenty horses, and some trained dogs. The canvas was so small and
insecure that the performance threatened to break up in a hurry at
the first windy preliminaries to a rainstorm.

Once inside the tent and in my reserved seat, I luxuriated in the
excitement, pageantry and dexterity. From the first moment I knew,
somehow, that the gold was only gilt and that the panoply was syn-
thetic. Nevertheless, I regarded both, consciously, as 100 per cent
real. And this has always been the way that I consider certain condi-
tions, my friends and the arts. I take them for what I wish them to be
rather than for what they are. My wishful ear pushes the flat note to
pure pitch. My tolerant eye compensates for the painter's lapse in
color. My idealizing supplies the virtues that a friend lacks. The out-
side world may interpret this enthusiasm as indiscriminate. I call it
optimistic hypnosis, a striving to make the best of life.

For me, the circus became a terrestrial paradise. The performers
were so near to the audience that I could follow them easily, admire
their grace, their costumes and their behavior. The animal acts were
tedious, forced and cruel The ringmasters, as they cracked the whip
and issued commands, were fascinating in their slick boots, glistening
top hats and red topcoats. But my chief interest went to the trapeze
performers, especially the women. From them I got my first idea of
the beauty of the female figure and, also, the impression that theii
flesh was as pink and flawless as their immaculate tights. The clowns
bored me, for I can never find amusement in humor dependent on
slapstick, grotesque make-up and ridiculous costume.

Fortunately for those in the cheap seats, the biblical pageant, "Sol-
omon and the Queen of Sheba," paraded around the entire tent, giv-
ing everyone a dose-up of the bands, horsemen, floats and elephants.
Solomon lolled on a golden divan, surrounded by odalisques and
dancing girls who clashed cymbals, giving the impression that all a
king had to do was to enjoy himself while the realm took care of
itself.

The climax of the show came when a performer called Diavolo was
shot out of a cannon from the top of the tent and through a series of
flaming hoops.

After I returned home from the circus, I lived over the joys of that
experience for months. Then, happily, going to public entertainments

15

aad shows became soon a regular part of our lives, for father's busi-
ness was going well.

After school and up until eight-thirty at night, I played with other
boys in the neighborhood, engaged in the usual marauding expedi-
tions, rang doorbells, threw stones at windows and ran breathlessly
up alleys for fear of being caught.

But one mental and physical hazard I escaped: joining the Wilmer
gang, a group of young hoodlums who operated on the other side of
the tracks. Arthur Wilmer was head man. His father owned a bottling
works which distributed soft drinks to saloons and candy stores. Ar-
thur had a kind of careless bravado and the gift of leadership.
Around his mouth there was always a pinkish discoloration which the
boys said came from drinking too much of his father's red pop.

Though I didn't link up with his gang, I was always friendly with
the boys who were a part of it. So when Arthur offered to sell me a
ticket for a show in his barn, I was delighted; and on the day of the
performance I took my place in the front row of chairs, expecting
heaven knows what kind of attractive entertainment.

To my surprise, the show consisted of practically nothing. Arthur
and his pals horsed around, bawled out directions and counter-direc-
tions, took time off to play the harmonica and breezed tihrough a
mild trapeze act.

Finally, the show came to an abrupt end, with the entire company
of nine boys walking down to the front of the stage, and saying, in
unison, "The show is over and you can kiss our ass/'

It was like a hoax in Huckleberry Finn. Cruelly disappointed, in-
sulted and mystified, I hurried home.

This unwillingness to accept disillusion has persisted throughout
my life. I always take everyone at his face value, never suspecting the
motive behind the countenance. Absurd, also, was my conception of
class distinctions. Up, indeed, to the age of fourteen, I thought that
the world was divided into two classes: the employer, my father, and
the employee, the cigar-maker. With the eventual arrival of a new
bookkeeper, Saul Solomon, I discovered that there was also a kind of
mid-way status that entitled him to inclusion in our household even
though he worked for us.

Saul came from a good family and must have been about twenty
when I was six; and though he was much older than I, I felt that he
was entitled to my full friendship. He was orderly, well-bred and
capable, a helpful part in father's business.

16

On Sundays he would take me out walking with his pal, Nick Nor-
rissey, a young man of 21 or 22 years. And through these weekly
walks, I gained, unconsciously, my first abstract craving for sex.

As the young men ambled along, talking, I followed, rushed ahead
or took time off to swing on a gate. Occasionally, I'd catch bits of
their conversation. Once, just as we reached Tenth and Columbia
Streets, a girl stepped out of a small apartment house. She looked
serious and passed by without paying any attention whatsoever to
either young man.

"She won't speak to me," said Nick.

"What's the matter?" asked Saul.

Only part of the next sentence did I catch, but it ran something
like this: "I was alone with her up in her room. I tried to throw her
across the bed and she got sore."

That was all, yet some basic zest for sexual pursuit surged up in
me then and made me desire, as young as I was, the same experience.
Yet, oddly enough, the urge was only transitory. For many years I
lost all thought of sex in growing up, playing games, going to school,
making my grades, going to the "gym," reading books and, above all,
longing to be a writer.

Concrete stimulus to this ambition bobbed up unexpectedly on
Thanksgiving when our turkey dinner was interrupted by the arrival
of Sarah Atlass, my senior by four years. She announced that she
wanted to take me to a matinee. The invitation was so unexpected
that my parents discussed it in undertones, finally giving their con-
sent, a circumstance that influenced the entire course of my life.

We went to see Uncle Tom's Cabin and I learned for the first time
the excitement of going to the theatre and the peculiar exhilaration
that starts with entering the lobby and lasts until the final curtain. I
walked past the ticket-taker, who, like one of the Fates, can grant or
prevent admittance to the beyond. I took the program which the
usher handed me, not knowing that it was a bridge to the other side
of the footlights. I heard scattered conversation around me. I
watched mischievous children running up and down the aisles and
carrying back cups of water to their seats. I heard the dowagers gos-
siping as they barged awkwardly into their seats.

Suddenly, the laughter and bustle gave way to perfunctory ap-
plause. The members of the orchestra came out and took their places
in the pit. The director tapped his baton and the musicians began to
play, but no one paid any attention to the music. Then the lights

17

flashed and I, like the others, was caught up in the taut silence as the
curtain rose.

The play itself was a lush combination of extravagant acting, lurid
settings, assorted costumes, psalm-singing Negroes, and yelping dogs.
It was wonderful and terrible. I was frightened breathless when the
chase for Eliza began; sick with heartache when Uncle Tom was
whipped in the slave market; and reduced to tears when simpering
Little Eva went to Heaven in a maze of backdrop angels and a con-
stellation of golden stars.

As the curtain fell on this shining tableau and the orchestra played
Nearer My God To Thee, I left the theatre in a trance.

After that holiday matinee, I went to the theatre every Saturday
afternoon; saw all the popular melodramas of the era: The Gambler's
Daughter, The Biddle Brothers, and Queen of the White Slaves.
Most of these were, basically, modernized morality plays in which
the villains and heroes represented Good and Evil. And not until
Henrik Ibsen demonstrated, many years later, that circumstances
might make a man partly good and partly bad, did these primitive
concepts change on the American stage.

At the end of the year, we moved from Tenth and Main Streets to
Fifth and Sixth. Our new home had a great deal to do with nurturing
my idyllic haze. It was a mellow old brick house covered with vines
that climbed up two and a half stories. It had a beautiful, long stair-
way in the main hall, a large parlor and a living room with tall win-
dows which ran from the ceiling to the floor level, permitting the sun
to pour in by the hour.

Our neighbors were our landlords, the friendly Behns, a devout
Catholic family; and because the old lady reminded me of my be-
loved grandmother, I expected her to warm up to me. But she never
did, preferring to sit quietly in the sombre background of her home,
a home whose only color was supplied by lithographs of the Virgin
and a bleeding red heart.

On the other side of the street was an old-fashioned mansion, the
Brockenbrough home which extended over almost half a block; it
was largely concealed by old maples, oaks, tall vines and white Iflac
bushes. A wide portico gave the house an added romantic seclusion.

I often heard my parents discussing a subject that had filled their
minds for many months-'Own your own home/' It was the popular
American ideal at that time; and despite father's business vicissi-
tudes, his trouble with cigar-makers, his anxieties in bringing up a
18

family and his difficulties in accommodating himself to a new coun-
try, the day came when he managed to realize it. This financial feat
he accomplished, of course, with the aid of my mother whose thrift
and industry were extraordinary.

But the simple matter of moving to our new living place, a beauti-
ful, three-storied frame structure, had a tragic effect on me. It split
my lif e in two, one part body, and the other part spirit. The carefree,
happy part-my body remained at the old home while the other
part my spirit confused, sad and even tortured, took tenuous root
in the new.

In changing residences, my parents believed, of course, that they
were doing the best thing for their children. Without knowing it
they were planting misery in my heart, a misery whose repercussions
persisted throughout the years and continue to this very day.

When I lived on Fifth Street, my associations were happy and
gracious. Most of the boys and girls in that district belonged to good
families. They had breeding and principles acquired from their par-
ents. Being with them made me feel secure.

In moving, I had to change to Ford school, and from the moment
that I entered the new classroom, I knew that I was a stranger; that
everyone regarded me in the same way that human beings always re-
gard the newcomer: with suspicion and dislike. Most of the boys and
girls had grown up together, knew each other well and spoke the
same commonplace language. Theirs was a lower standard of living
than that of the Centennial school children.

Their chief interest was sex, sex in the form that Frank Wedekind
presented in his pioneer play, The Awakening of Spring. All through
the day, the boys kept writing notes to the girls, making off-color re-
marks and arranging to meet after school, at Barbee's Grove or some
other convenient rendezvous.

About three weeks after I enrolled at Ford school, I walked
blithely out of the schoolhouse, glad to be free of the classroom, and
to get home. As I reached the corner, I saw a group of about seven
boys, headed by "Dutch" Stecker, the son of a German butcher.
''Dutch" had a low forehead and a nose that resembled the snout of
a swine. His skin was greasy and the only life in his face came from
his eyes which were gray, soulless and glowing with congenital hate.

Scarcely had I reached the street corner than "Dutch" began yell-
ing, "J ew ' J ew ' Jew!" Then all the others began yelling and throwing
stones at me. I started to run and they after me. I ran. and ran and

19

ran; and the faster I went, the greater was their speed. Their menac-
ing cries were frightening. They hurled stone after stone, and
shouted, "Get the Jew! Get the Jewl"

Instinctively, I knew that if they once caught up with me there was
no telling what might happen to me. By some miracle, however, I
escaped and gained the shelter of my home, panting and sick. But
safe.

The next day, however, I went through the same ordeal, and the
next, and for weeks after. The gang would wait for me at the corner
and immediately start pursuit. They never gave me a chance at a
fair fight, not one of them being decent enough to challenge me
openly, boy to boy.

How I lived through the terror of those days, I don't know or how
I was able to study, sleep or eat. I can see myself now rushing down
those precipitous hills, down, down, down, one hill after another,
past trees and houses, striking a stray pebble, falling over, cutting my
knees and hands, with the remorseless "Dutch" constantly in back of
me, hooting, ugly, fiendish.

When I think of the situation now, I believe it might have been
better if I had let them catch me and beat me up. Perhaps, if they
had exhausted their hatred by beating me up, they might not have
done permanent harm to my spirit. For though I escaped serious in-
jury, something more terrible left its scar: a feeling of persecution, a
feeling that I was a part of the pogroms in Poland and Russia. I was
a boy in a free country, but the pogroms set their stamp on me;
marked me as something apart, different, something detestable a
Jewl

Out of this misery there grew up resultantly, I am certain, a lack of
faith in myself, self -depreciation.

Instead of strengthening my belief in myself, it made me switch to
self-appraisal and comparison with the standard type. Worst of all,
it made me wish to be like everyone else, to curb my actions, my ap-
pearance and even my thoughts.

Eventually, temporary forgetfulness of heartache and prejudice
came through a luminous avenue of escape, the theatre, happily ac-
cessible for the price of a ticket of admission. Anything that had to
do with amusements, from the classical Comedie Francaise to a tent
show, made me forget my troubles, enthralled me. From those early
days until now I fall, like millions of others, for the first announce-
ment of a theatrical attraction; and I memorize, automatically, every

20

theatrical news item published until I see the entertainment itself.
My taste is promiscuous. I want to see everything labeled show.

My first visit to a county fair I owed to Bill Shearer who was again
my guide. The grounds were about four miles out, but Bill and I
walked to save the carfare so that we could spend it on shows and
rides. On arrival, however, we drank so much wild cherry phosphate
that Bill got a stomach ache, and left me to wander about alone. I
didn't mind because there was so much to see: exhibits of foods, arts
and crafts, pet animals, prize cows, lunch stands, hawkers and games
of chance.

Suddenly, a reedy instrument announced the opening of the
hootchy-kootchy show; whereupon I rushed forward madly, quite ig-
norant of what I was going to see. There was a crowd already in
front of the tent and everyone pushed and shoved when the barker
shouted out, "Gather in closely." Then six girls appeared, all heavily
painted and wearing kimonos that gave the shocking impression that
they had just come out of the bedroom.

One of the girls had a scar on her face that was covered with pink
make-up. Another, called the "Princess," a brunette with regular fea-
tures, seemed young, hard and very beautiful. The barker was a
young man, likable and expert. I listened to his spiel until I knew it
by heart:

"On the left, we have Mme. Zoo-Zoo from Paris. When she dances,
every fibre, every tissue in her entire anatomy shakes like a jar of
jelly from your grandmother's Thanksgiving dinner. Now, gentle-
men, I don't say she's that hot, but I say she's as hot as a red-hot stove
down in Jacksonville County on the Fourth of July."

The admission price was ten cents and I longed, of course, to enter
and learn the mysteries of life at once, but I was embarrassed, afraid
of being ordered out because I was too young.

After the girls, followed by the crowd, went inside the tent, I stood
alone with the barker. Somehow the two of us began to talk; and
even though I was a kid, he began telling me things about himself.
Consciously, I put on a profound air as though I knew all about
the amusement business, hoping, simultaneously, that I'd have the
experience which nearly all the world desires seeing a show for
nothing. But the barker, alas, proffered no invitation; and as evening
was coming on and also the hour for going home, I finally rushed up
to the box office when his back was turned, bought a ticket and
stole in.

21

A crowd of men was already standing in front of the small stage,
making wisecracks and shouting to the girls to hurry. After what
seemed centuries, the curtains parted and the barker stepped out to
act as master of ceremonies* I hadn't guessed that he took part in the
show and I was embarrassed, hoping he wouldn't see me. But he did.

"Gosh, boy/* he said, leaning over, "I didn't know you wanted to
see this sort of thing. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have passed you in."

The show itself consisted of living pictures: girls in pink tights
who acted out anecdotes about the traveling salesman and the farm-
er's daughter, with one girl, representing the salesman, smartly
dressed in men's clothes and wearing a false beard and mustache.

The double-entendres were numerous, but the whole performance
was pretty tame until the last number when a girl did the hootchy-
kootchy. She wore a thin chemise, voluminous skirts, harem slippers
and a sash that made her stomach prominent. She wiggled her hips so
violently and with such dexterity that she actually reached the floor,
dusting it off with her wriggling belly.

With this number, the performance came to an end. The curtain
fell and a moment later, one of the performers announced that there
would be an after-show which would reveal what happened to the
country boy who came to see the sights of New York.

I stood rapt and curious, listening to every word and taking it for
Gospel truth; and I was just getting ready to spend another dime
when the barker looked down at me and shouted, "Children under
sixteen not admitted!"

The indelible effects on my memory of that hootch and the bark-
er's spiel were to supply a minor footnote to the history of the theatre.
Years afterwards, Kenyon Nicholson invited me to the opening of
his play The Barker, and asked me what I thought of it. I told him
that the play was excellent, but the spiel was weak.

"Will you write one?" he asked.

Glad to be helpful, I sat down and wrote out, verbatim, the same
ballyhoo that the young barker had delivered many years back.

Two years later, while walking down Broadway, past the Gaiety
Theatre, I heard a victrola record wheezing about Mme. Zoo-Zoo
from Paris, the same old spiel, the come-on this time for the motion
picture version of the play.

But the fugue had not yet come to a conclusion. Late in 1946, the
New Yor k Times printed a letter which I wrote called "The History
of the Hootchy-Kootchy," a subject so daring that the dramatic edi-

22

tor, Lewis Funke, confessed that he was surprised that the paper per-
mitted it to appear. That piece led to a long article which was pub-
lished in Dance Magazine which traced the history of the danse de
ventre from its introduction at the Chicago World's Fair, in 1893, up
to the present, the only comprehensive account of the subject ever
recorded.

Nothing concerning my personal experience at the fair did I tell
my parents, because I knew they wouldn't approve. They were busy
turning me into a model youth, giving me violin lessons, dancing les-
sons, Hebrew lessons and courses at the Y.M.C.A. But in spite of the
fact that I had a fine voice, they didn't give me singing lessons. Nev-
ertheless, I gained so much attention as a boy soprano that I was in-
vited to appear as a soloist at a Soldiers* Home benefit. The night of
the concert, unfortunately, I caught cold and all that my vocal cords
brought forth was a frustrated croak. My voice had changed forever;
and from that night on I was never able to sing a note.

At the age of thirteen, I became a recognized follower of the Jew-
ish religion by way of the Bar Mitzvah ceremony; and at sixteen I
went tibrough that experience which was once a necessary phase of
adolescence: getting interested in Socialism. Responsible for my sud-
den but evanescent conversion to the cause was Sylvia Newman,
happily visiting Lafayette.

"Do you realize," she cried, suddenly, while I was enjoying my
dinner, "how many underpaid workers have toiled to make this meal
possible?"

As a matter of fact, up to that time, I had taken my meals for
granted; and the jolt which accompanied her economic and humane
revelations was so powerful that for a time I couldn't coordinate eat-
ing with sociology. I lost my appetite. I felt guilty, guilty for the sins
of omission. I began to read about socialism night after night.

Many of the writers, of course, used terms like bourgeois and pro-
letariat; and when I spouted them off in general conversation I felt
that I was on my way to being an author. My high school course was
coming to an end and I was hoping that some teacher would give me
the specific instruction that I craved: how to get into print

The first time I knew the ecstasy of this experience, my publisher
was a magazine called High School Life. I was sixteen and my re-
watd was immediate. It came in the form of recognition from my his-
tory teacher, Miss Lydia Marks, who called me an author before the
class. But, after several subsequent pieces appeared, someone

23

dubbed me "The Walking Vocabulary"; and I knew, also, for the
first time, the baleful influence that speech was to have in my life.
My choice of words and phraseology gave people the wrong impres-
sion of me from the beginning; and this impression was emphasized
by the tone of my voice, a voice that has too much of a tempera-
mental range.

"From what part of Europe did your father come?" David Burton,
the motion picture director, asked me one day, years later, as we sat
in the Green Room Club. 'There's one district where the people talk
exactly like you. They use an upward inflection. It's bad, but I can
cure it. Hereafter, try dropping your voice, decisively, on the last
word of every sentence. The effect of finality will make your voice
sound forceful."

I did as Burton told me and found that he was right, but I couldn't
remember to drop my voice every time I uttered a sentence and I
soon tired of trying to do so. Yet I held stubbornly to my penchant
for unusual speech. Words fascinated me; gave me often an emo-
tional outlet, usually satirical.

"The more words you know," I said to myself, paraphrasing James
Russell Lowell, "the more ideas you have." So every time I found a
new word in a book, I wrote it down on the flyleaf, then looked it up
in the dictionary. If I was happy or bitter, I'd go into a verbal rhap-
sody; and whether people understood me or not, nothing stopped me.
My blow-offs were worse than drunkenness, a form of exhibitionism
and, simultaneously, a cruel exercise in my own playground, the
world of words.

One day, when in one of these moods, I happened to meet "Bill"
S. N. Behrmann and I started the word-spoofing; whereupon "Bill"
remarked: "Bernard is the only person alive who continues to talk
like Oscar Wilde."

"While you," I replied, "are the only dramatist alive who writes
like him."

And, assuredly, this is true from the standpoint of dialogue and
epigram. "Bill" is the most consciously literary speech-maker I know,
The novel and play have since shunned, largely, brilliant expression.
They have discarded grace and purity, for raw, often blasphemous,
realistic vernacular. "Bill" holds up the tradition of manner, dignity
and finesse.
The habit of studying dialogue I had acquired in my early teens

24

when the publishing of modern plays was a new trade venture. Like
hundreds of amateur writers throughout the mid-west, I began soon
to absorb dramatic technique and appreciation through the writings
of George Jean Nathan, Walter Prichard Eaton and grander
Matthews. About the same time there was something of a minor
renaissance in the amateur theatre created by the one-act play. Con-
tributing influences were the writings of George Middleton, George
Kelly's delightful The Torchbearers, and various Little Theatre
tournaments.

The number of books I bought was limited because they were too
expensive. Besides, father's business was gradually failing and my
spending money was limited.

Up to then, he had made his way successfully, a tireless and in-
telligent worker. Whenever one of his men laid off or quit, he'd sit
down at the table himself and make a thousand cigars. Every cigar
meant his family's health and comfort; it paid bills and education.

What he hated was the dead-beats and the low-grade customers:
loud-mouthed saloon keepers, drunken hotel keepers, tricky conces-
sionaires at state and county fairs. Other customers were his real
friends. They entertained him at their homes, gave him gifts of eggs
and butter to take home.

It was about this time that the trusts were growing and people
were discussing Ida Tarbell's expos6 of Standard Oil scandals and
Theodore Roosevelt's muckraking. The term "trust," however, meant
little to father until he went on a business trip to Chicago to buy leaf
tobacco.

"Just think," he said, as we walked down Wabash Avenue, "one of
the biggest cigar factories has sold out to the trust for thousands of
dollars. It's a kind of octopus. It swallows up whole businesses, I
wish that my factory were large, so large that the trust would buy me
out. If they don't buy me out, I'm afraid they'll force me to close
down, A small man can't compete with them."

That was his first intimation of coming catastrophe. The hundreds
and hundreds of men who had smoked father's cigars and liked them
throughout the years had their taste diverted. They had fallen for the
huge trust advertisements national brands. The only thing left for
the small manufacturer was to try to get a job as a cigar-maker, learn
another business or just go to the devil.

While father was worrying about business, I was having my own

25

small trouble on this brief Chicago visit. The theatrical billboards
and electric signs were dazzling, and I wanted to see a show, but I
was afraid to ask father to buy me a ticket.

Usually, he gave me almost everything I wanted, but he was stub-
born about the theatre. He believed that I was stage-struck and
wanted to be an actor, a profession that had no standing in those
days, either socially or financially. So what I wanted most I couldn't
have. Instead, I sat all evening in the hotel bedroom looking across
the street at the Majestic vaudeville electric sign, wishing and wish-
ing that I might see that show or any show.

On my return home, this sort of grief over the theatre came
abruptly to an end when my parents decided to give me twenty-five
cents a week for a gallery seat at the Grand Opera House. Their gen-
erosity gave me endless pleasure. I lived on the anticipation of on-
coming shows. I ruminated on those that I had already seen. I
learned about plays and players, stars who came to town for a one-
night stand Richard Mansfield, Amelia Bingham, Maude Adams,
Grace George and Otis Skinner.

In small towns like Lafayette, seat location in the theatre indicated
social status. Orchestra seats cost two dollars apiece and those who
paid less sat behind a railing, thereby disclosing automatically that
their funds were limited. People sitting downstairs dressed up, but
not those in the gallery and balcony. When I grew older and socially
conscious, I missed many a show because I was ashamed to be seen
in a cheap seat.

One memorable performance, however, had for me the glamour of
a miracle. It was the night that electric lights were first used in the
theatre, an innovation that set the whole town agog.

The attraction was The Casino Girl, fresh from a long New York
run, and considered extremely shocking because the chorus wore
pink fleshings under black chiffon harem trousers, a costumer's sly
arrangement that created the impression of screened nudity.

During the second act, the comedian came out and sang a song
that went:

Sweet Annie Moore. Sweet Annie Moore,

And you'll never see sweet Annie Moore, any more.

The audience, delighted, was demanding an encore when sud-
denly the electric lights went out. For a few moments the theatre was
quite dark and the performance came to a halt There were catcalls

and shouts. Then, after a wait that seemed much longer than it really
was, the illumination came on again not electric, however, but gas
from the old fixtures attached to the walls, fixtures which had done
service for years. And not until the show was almost over did the new
electric force come back.

When A Runaway Girl and Marguerita Sylva, in The Princess
Chic, came to town, I was standing in the queue at six-thirty in the
evening, hoping to get as near the first row in the gallery as possible.
Standing with me, and hoping for the same privilege, were about
four hundred men-gallery-god students from Purdue University,
rowdy, happy and half-frozen from hours of exposure in the winter
cold.

In giving me those weekly twenty-five cent pieces, my parents
were making their usual effort to please me in spite of what they con-
sidered their better judgment. They were very close to me, eager to
know my ambitions, yet just as puzzled as I was concerning what I
was going to be and how I was going to earn my living.

One memorable week father arranged a surprise party in mother's
honor, that being a favorite form of celebration in those days. Like
us, most people got their entertainment in their homes. As soon as a
number of young folk assembled for a party, the hostess would be-
gin to beg her guests to sing or play. Immediately, everyone would
freeze up and the party would come to a dead standstill, with the
amateur artists dying to perform and the others dying not to hear
them.

Etiquette required, however, that no one perform at the first in-
vitation. So, no matter how eager a girl might be to sing the "Holy
City" or to play the left-hand version of the "Sextette" from Lucia,
she had to pretend that she was unprepared, out of practice or had
forgotten her music. Finally, everyone present would join in a com-
munity plea, crying, "Please, Stella, please sing! Please! Pleasel
PleaseP

How soon New York was liberated from this sort of entertainment
tyranny, I don't know.

Fortunately, for this generation, the radio, victrola and television
must have killed off, by this time, the amateurs who make parties
ordeals.

Personally, the entertainment I wished for friendly, intelligent
conversation about books and writing I never had before I entered

27

college. Until then, I was constantly lonesome. Not a single boy or
girl in my classes at high school wanted to be an author. There was
not one with whom I could talk about books and plays,

Evenings were almost always lonely. I was hungry for new faces,
new streets, adventure, Chicago, New York, and, above all, achieve-
ment. Yet I did not make the most of my time from the standpoint of
self-development. My longing for change and the desire to do some-
thing great was not matched by my persistence.

After dabbling in writing, reading, music and drawing, I'd go
downtown for a walk, expecting heaven knows what new experience,
hating to pass too-familiar areas of vacant lots and empty houses,
seeing few people who meant anything to me, and lamenting with
every step that I wasn't where I belonged at home studying. If I
could only escape to new people and places! If I could only live in
New York or Chicago.

Intermittently my habits were more methodical. I sought knowl-
edge at the annual Chautauqua, an uneven form 'of public instruc-
tion. Sometimes a lecture like "Acres of Diamonds" stimulated
thought, but most of the programs were commonplace: Swiss Bell
Ringers, dramatic readers, magicians and instrumentalists. Culture
oozed seemingly from the platform.

In the winter, Lyceum Bureaus and university lecture courses of-
fered much better programs with famous speakers and fine musi-
cians. Fortunately, too, the season-ticket system made single admis-
sions very low.

My own attempts to discipline myself dissolved usually in failure
and loneliness. During the summer I was happier, for I frequently
found entertainment in the heart of the city, in front of the Court
House, a beautifully built stone edifice topped with a great dome,
four grand tiers of steps facing the four points of the compass, tall
pillars and wide corridors, recalling Roman temples.

Here, the itinerant medicine man, incongruously oblivious of the
somewhat classic background, would park his horse and wagon and
sell his wares. Florid oratory was his sales medium, high sounding
speeches full of pseudo-information about drugs and bodies. He
made his panaceas appear so desirable that those who weren't sick
wanted to be for the sheer pleasure of enjoying the cure. When he
felt that interest was waning, he would stop the sale of drugs, put on
a false nose, a pair of whiskers or black up. Then, with the aid of his
driver, a guitar, a banjo or some other musical instrument, he would

28

put on a brief variety show including songs, sleight-of-hand tricks
and comic stories, mildly off-color when the police weren't too near.

And while he entertained, I stood captivated in the crowd, jostled
by honest citizens, casual passers-by, farmers wearing overalls and
wide-brimmed straw hats, pickpockets, bums and shills.

The whole scene came back to me the other day: the medicine
man, the horse and wagon, the saucepan torches, flickering in the
night, the attentive crowd, so easily amused then, for movies and
radio were unknown and the stalest jokes were fresh. It all came back
to me, oddly enough, when I discovered, to my surprise, that away
back in the Middle Ages, the Commedia DelTArte had its beginning
in just this same sort of patent-medicine selling, with entertainment
offered free in the Italian public square.

The outgrowth of the medicine show was the popular American
minstrel show which had its beginnings in the slave market and
Southern plantation. Minstrel companies visited Lafayette at least
once or twice annually and I got a great deal of pleasure out of fol-
lowing the street parade with the drum major and the uniformed
band and listening to the brief concert in front of the theatre, just
before the performance.

Every entertainment had numerous stock features which were as
well known to the public as a Sunday School hymn: the first part
with its jokes and singing, the second part and olio, the end men
"bones" and "tambos," the interlocutor, and the well-known behest,
"Gentlemen Be Seated/'

Pleasant enough, yet I really didn't care much for minstrel shows.

Eventually, the Lafayette Chamber of Commerce decided to pre-
sent what was then a new kind of entertainment, much more preten-
tious than the medicine and minstrel shows; namely, an annual free
carnival. The purpose was strictly commercial, for the carnival craze
which spread suddenly throughout the country was regarded as a
means of speeding up business. The advance newspaper stories I
read religiously, and they proved true and accurate.

Real stages were erected on all four corners of the Court House.
Banners floated from improvised flagstands. Electric lights hung over
street crossings.

For one whole week the carnival lasted. There were shows morn-
ing, noon and night, with me, always in the audience, all ears and
eyes, watching ladies in pink-and-red tights doing acrobatic stunts on
rings and trapezes; listening to the O'Laughlin Sisters and other so-

29

called sister teams, singing songs and dancing the clog; staring at
grotesque comedians pommeling each other with slapsticks and blad-
ders; and watching wire-walkers scoot forwards and backwards in
mid-air.

But all good things come to an end and the joys of carnival week
were unexpectedly superseded by a much more important experi-
ence: my first trip out-of-town by myself at the age of sixteen. Be-
cause I had been overworking at school, my parents decided to send
me to French Lick Springs, then a famous Indiana health resort. I
had never traveled or lived among strangers before, and the thought
of registering at a hotel, paying bills and ordering meals made me
apprehensive.

The first day or two, I made some big blunders which certain
guests noted. I tried, for instance, to get into the hotel through the
kitchen instead of the main entrance. I dropped my wallet in the
main lobby. I failed to take the place assigned to me in the dining
room.

Annoyance over these incidents I forgot however, when several of
the guests invited me to go with them to the stag dog races. They
were friendly, even enthusiastic about my joining them; and when
we arrived at the track they asked me to act as one of the judges. I
was flattered, but knowing nothing of the game, declined the honor.
Disregarding my protests, they forced me on the judges* stand; and
again I felt flattered. The auditorium was packed with men smok-
ing, talking, shouting, and I was so excited over the responsibility
that I could hardly breathe.

Finally, after a great hullabaloo, two little wizened dogs appeared.
They had tin cans tied to their tails. They stood there looking at
each other without even barking. The dog race was a hoax and I was
the selected butt of the occasion.

Though I felt like sinking into the floor, I took the general ragging
in good spirit and with happy results, for the men concerned in the
hoax became real friends. For the first time in my life I was in strictly
adult society, a society made up, without my realizing it, of drunk-
ards, con men, gamblers and broken-down rous.

Meanwhile, I made friends also with various guests at other hotels.
Among these was Fannie Hurst. She must have been about nineteen
or twenty then, stout, red-cheeked and gay-spirited. Most of the time
she was accompanied by a handsome little fellow whom she called

30

her "watch charm." She talked to me frankly about her hopes and
experiences.

"My parents want me to live a society life/' she said, "but I want
to be a writer."

Then she told me how much William Marion Reedy, veteran dis-
coverer of talent, had done for her and how much she admired him.

"I've just sold a story," she said enthusiastically, "to the editor of
Argosy. I called it 'Episode/ w

That was my first encounter with anyone who was due to appear
in print; and after I returned home, I bought Argosy for many
months, eager to read a story by an author whom I knew. But I could
never find the story.

Recently, after almost thirty years, I found out the cause of my
disappointment. The occasion was a tea at Mme. Alma Clayburgh's.
Andr Maurois, the novelist, was there and Fannie, wearing her fa-
vorite decoration, a great enameled lily with a gold stem, four or five
inches long. I spoke of our meeting long ago. She seemed consider-
ably moved, then added;

"I'll tell you why you never found that story in Argosy. The editors
published it in another one of their publications."

After my trip to French Lick I returned home. Here, the last year
in high school was happily concluded by my winning the Women's
Relief Corps gold medal, awarded to the senior for the best composi-
tion, a first indication that I might be justified in trying for a writer's
career.

The day after graduation, I discovered that although almost every-
one in the class had made his plans for college, I had none. When I
mentioned the fact to my parents, they told me sadly that they
could manage to send me to Europe for a brief trip, but after that I
would have to go to work.

"Work!" The word sounded silly to me for I had no conception of
what I could do. They had never before mentioned our financial con-
dition to me. I never saw the ledgers in my father's factory. I didn't
know how much money he had, how much was due him or how
much he owed.

While I was floundering around in my disappointment, not know-
ing what to do, a woman came to visit us, a grand old lady, Mrs.
Hannah Newman, Sylvia's mother, who spent much of her life work-
ing for various charities and who aided the pioneer sociologist, Jane

31

32

CHAPTER 2

To Chicago and Back

1 HE 150-mile trip from Lafayette to Chicago was laborious; took al-
most four hours. As we came to the outskirts of the great city, I
heard that peculiar crackling sound which a train makes as it crosses
many railroad tracks. It was stimulating, yet awesome. Tracks, tracks,
tracks, carrying hundreds of trains to the city and thousands of peo-
ple, talented people, experienced, good-looking, well-dressed people,
all of them looking for jobs. In such a multitude, what chance had I?

The sight of the station gave me courage. I jumped off and hurried
into a South Side streetcar. I was half an hour ahead of time, for I
wanted to establish my enthusiasm at once, remembering that
slogan about the early bird.

The Home which was located at 53rd Street and Ellis Avenue,
stood out on a great green lawn with the clear-cut perfection of an
architect's drawing. It occupied an entire city block, was four stories
high and had an impressive stone stairway leading to the main
entrance.

I rang the bell and one of the attendants came to the door. He
asked me my name and then said tersely, "You're not due yet. The

33

committee is considering your application just now. I suggest that
you leave and return in three hours/*

Three hours of suspense! What could I do in the intervening
time? Walk? Sit in the park? Would it be right for me to go to White
City, the famous amusement center?

No, I shouldn't spend my limited money that way. Besides, how
would I feel, after the expense of the trip, if I didn't get the job? To
go to White City was wrong undoubtedly; but by this time I was
on a street car there bound. The lure of the amusement park was
stronger than my resistance.

When, three hours later, I returned to the Home, the committee
had come to a decision.

"After a stormy battle," Mrs. Newman confided, "you we re elected,
but the people in charge, the superintendent and his wife, Mr. and
Mrs. Gallon, don't want you. They wanted a relative. You're going to
have a battle with them, I'm afraid. I'm sure, though, that you'll make
good."

Two weeks later, I reported to the Home for work. The building
was cold and immaculate. The chairs stood in precise position. The
steel engravings on the walls looked colder than steel.

A few minutes after my arrival, a woman of about fifty came into
the lobby, She was fat and had a whitish skin with spotty, red cheeks.
Her eyes were black and beady. Her black hair, pulled back tight
and gathered into a little knot at the top of her head, made her look
like Mrs. Katzenjammer in the famous cartoon of those days. Her
right hand was covered with a bandage and she held out her left,
saying, "Welcome, Mr. Sobel, to the Home. I'm Mrs. Gallon, the
superintendent's wife. Shake my left hand. It's nearest the heart."

The gesture appeared deliberate, the first move in a campaign to
overthrow me and get me out of the place.

The next day, Sunday and visiting day, gave me my first view of
the inmates of the Home and their parents. Most of them came from
Chicago slum districts. Some had deliberately deserted their families
and managed to get the Home to support their children. Some
strolled in with a mistress or a new lover, unembarrassed before their
questioning children. The arid institutional atmosphere seemed to
stimulate them. They cried and laughed over their children, overfed
them on sweets; gave them a hasty reprimand or a quick slap; and
then left, shamelessly contented with themselves.

I soon grew accustomed to the perpetual activity of the institution,

34

continuous association with two hundred children from about five to
sixteen years of age, all seeking pathetically, under one roof, what I
had enjoyed in the privacy of my home affection, food, drink,
clothes, instruction, amusement.

"Heaven pity these youngsters," I said to myself. "There's no love
in their lives. They must grow up, on their own, as best they can."

A complete juvenile world was this, with the fittest determined to
survive. Before long, I knew that I couldn't protect the weak from
the strong or administer equal justice. As soon as my back was
turned, every child went his own way.

At six in the morning, I got up and supervised the regular attend-
ants in helping about 130 boys of all ages wash, dress and prepare
for school. As each boy finished, he would sit on the floor, his legs
straight in front of him and close together, forming part of a long
squatting line that reached down the hall. Some boys we would have
to prod, rushing them on with their toilets. Others we would have to
watch and discipline to keep them from teasing the others, pull-
ing their hair or stealing their pocket money or other treasured
belongings.

When all the boys were dressed and given breakfast, I started for
the university, usually worn out and still sleepy. Each day was a
long one, with only a few moments to myself. Yet somehow I man-
aged to prepare my Latin, English and History and attend classes
regularly.

When I returned from the campus, I worked on the Home corres-
pondence, writing in longhand an intolerable procedure for me
letters of thanks to the charitable people who sent in a box of soap,
a couple of handkerchiefs, old clothes and small donations. These
items had to be entered in a ledger, a tedious and continuous book-
keeping, work which I hated and often neglected. As a result, on
committee days, I was in a fever of anxiety, for fear that someone
would discover that the entries were incomplete. Worse yet, I didn't
concentrate on my studies for fear that while I was in the library Mr.
Gallon or his wife would accuse me of some real or concocted mis-
take. What if I lost my job?

All of a sudden, too, I felt the impact of money. I, who had never
had a financial worry in my life, learned suddenly the value of pen-
nies and nickels. I knew that I had to live within my Home salary. I
knew that I wouldn't and couldn't ask my father for a single cent. If
I lost my job how would I pay for my room, board and tuition?

35

There wasn't, however, much time for worrying about my own
affairs. In the evening, I helped the attendants in the main dining
room serve supper to the children, an unhappy duty with the Home
officials disciplining them as they ate the poor food from ugly metal
plates.

After the meal, I went to the office where the Gallons and I dined
in isolated importance on a tablecloth thrown halfway across one
end of a refectory table. The conversation was a matter of foiling.
They pretended to be interested in my interests my work at the uni-
versity and in the Home; and I, striving to conceal my real thoughts,
parried question with answer.

At first, I was no match for them, not realizing that they were
checking up on me even to the amount I ate, the number of lumps
of sugar I put in the fearful coffee.

At home, I had been accustomed to the excellent meals my mother
prepared, the best meats, duck and chicken, homemade bread, mar-
velous twists coated with yolks of eggs and poppy seed, the purest
butter, quantities of milk and cream.

But my diet changed completely the first night I entered the
Home; and for days it was almost impossible for me to adapt myself
to the new food. The low quality bread was served with small
squares of whitish butterine, something I had never tasted before.
Tlie meats were cheap cuts, often chopped intestines, Desserts were
usually limited to a tasteless coffee cake, dusted off with sugar and
cinnamon.

Saturday was my busiest day. I acted as superintendent of the
Sabbath School; gave a weekly lecture in the little chapel as if I were
an ordained minister; and taught the confirmation class. Later in the
year I wrote the speeches for every one of the confirmants and gave a
brief sermon at the formal services. I was only eighteen then, but I
put into those ceremonies the best of which I was capable, my naive
belief in God and divinity.

My few moments of freedom I spent in enjoying the sights and
sounds of Chicago: rushing off to the theatres; attending open lec-
tures at the university; and meeting people. Without realizing the
fact, the multiplicity of my duties, a kind of hodgepodge, had be-
come my training school for future work. For through directing the
children's plays, I learned, unconsciously, to evaluate them. I learned
how to put them across the footlights and something of the essentials
of dramaturgy. Also, through publicizing the children's amateur per-

36

formances, arranging photographs, stunts and interviews, I learned
the basis of press agentry, the profession that was to bring me my
living.

But I was too busy then to think of the future because after din-
ner my duties began all over again. I sat in the library, in charge of
about forty inmates of the Home, boys and girls who were attending
all grades from elementary to high school. They did their homework
in the library, and I had to keep them in order and simultaneously
help them with their studies.

Thus, I became a kind of mental kaleidoscope, presenting educa-
tion en bloc. I scrambled desperately to solve mathematical posers
that the smart boys submitted to stick me. I defined the tricky re-
strictive clause and the potential mood. I worked on Latin para-
digms, bounded the Balkan states and explained the hydrostatic
paradox.

One of the boys, a f attish boy named "Izzy," gave me trouble in the
study and playroom. Up to then, I had been gentle with the children,
and they, naturally, took advantage of my mildness, and sometimes
disobeyed me openly.

"Mr. Sobel is too easy with the children," I overheard Mrs. Gallon
say one day, and her words brought me to my senses. I realized that
my kindness was hurting me. The realization had an electric effect.
That very moment I changed into a disciplinarian, autocratic and
severe. My transformation was so swift and so complete that it sur-
prised me.

While standing with a group of boys, "Izzy" started his shenani-
gans. A thorough bully, I caught him molesting the younger and
weaker boys. I told him to behave himself. He defied me. So I de-
cided to make an example of him. I didn't strike him, but I took him
by both shoulders and shook him so hard that he was crying and
choking.

My anger and his fused into a kind of physical vibrato, so strong
that I could scarcely force myself to let him go.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Alger, a lovely woman and one of the
Home trustees, walked down the corridor and over to where I stood.

"What's this I hear about Isadore?" asked Mrs. Alger. "I was in
the lower hall just now and found him crying. He said that you had
struck him. When we received your recommendation, Mr. Sobel, we
heard that you came from a fine home. Is this the kind of treatment
that we're to expect from you in dealing with the children here?"

37

Just what answer I made, I don't know now, but my earnest de-
fense must have won the woman's understanding and sympathy. At
any rate, the incident was ignored, and I didn't lose my job.

From that moment on, my fortunes changed in the institution. I
commanded respect. I grew in strength; and, like Machiavelli's
Prince, I worked for my own good, played up to the vicious superin-
tendent and prospered. My naive belief in the goodness of human be-
ings started fading. I began to size up people, to test their worth be-
fore taking them into my confidence.

I came to Chicago believing that "God's in His Heaven, all's right
with the world." I taught the children at the Home to believe in the
same blissful concept, a concept similar to the ingenuousness of The
Green Pastures. Then, all of a sudden, an ugly experience jogged me
out of my dream.

Often, when my work was over, I would wander about the various
departments of the Home, talking to the nurses and attendants,
studying the children. On one occasion, I saw little Sammy, aged
four, in a rage. His features were taut, his skin purplish, the veins on
his bullet-shaped head swollen with inhibited emotion.

"Keep away from him," warned a nurse. "That boy tried, recently,
to kill his own little sister. But say nothing. The society ladies on the
committee expect us to turn him into a gold medal winner."

In another ward, the nurses showed me two smiling, beautiful
babies.

"They look sweet," said one of the nurses, "but until we learned
their habits and before we stopped them, they would reach for their
own excrement. They're perverts from birth."

That night, as I went to bed, I strove to clear away the horror of
this revelation. Infant degenerates. How could they ever appear be-
fore the throne of God, I wondered? Like the infants who died be-
fore baptism, they were self-damned throughout eternity. The in-
cident wrought an abrupt change in me. At that moment my belief
in a formal religion came to an end.

Meanwhile, Sylvia, again on the scene, continued her interest in
my work. She was a volatile thinker on any subject, lovable and
truly possessed of what the novels call "a musical laugh/' She had a
handsome figure and was often compared with Anna Held. She lived
in Chicago with her mother and the two of them shared my griefs
and triumphs at the Home. Often they fed me real food at their
apartment

38

Sylvia was still a "parlor socialist/' and going to her home meant
meeting Greeks, hotel waiters, ministers and salesmen. One girl
named "Irish Kate" kept all the guests waiting for dinner one night
while she took time off for a bath. Memorable, also, was a picnic
given by William B. Lloyd, "the millionaire socialist" Sylvia was in-
vited and she took me along and Jerome N. Frank.

Jerome is now a famous supreme court jurist and an authority on
legal subjects. During our college days, he gave me tickets to the
theatre and invited me to his home for dinner. These were unfor-
gettable occasions. Mrs. Frank, his mother, was handsome, prema-
turely gray-haired and a fine pianist. His father, a lawyer, was at
ease with his own son, a somewhat rare relationship in Jewish fami-
lies where the admonition, "Honor thy father," chilled intimacy.
They were companionable, exchanged Greek phrases over the table,
bandied jokes. .

The picnickers, mostly members of the Socialist Party, made them-
selves at home immediately, stretched out on the sandy beach and
started in on that continuous controversy which was their meat. The
word "bourgeois" kept resounding in the air while Sylvia drank in
profuse references to the "proletariat" as if she were inhaling sacred
incense. What sublimation! What altruism! I felt that I was a mem-
ber of an anointed company and was helping make a new world of
right and goodness.

Reminiscences of that picnic came back to me when I read in the
New Yorfc Times of July 10, 1946, that William B, Lloyd had died at
the age of seventy-two. He was the founder, according to the story,
of the American Communist Party and one of the eighteen men con-
victed at Chicago on March 19, 1921 of advocating the overthrow of
the American government. After serving eight days in Joliet peniten-
tiary, he was pardoned by Governor Len Small. Lloyd came of im-
portant ancestry. His father, a man of great wealth, was a student of
sociology while his grandfather was William Bross, editor of the
Prairie-Pioneer and then the Chicago Tribune.

About the middle of January the number and complexity of my
duties got the better of me. Teaching, bookkeeping, publicity, re-
hearsing plays kept me rushing and worrying. The winter, which I
always hated and which is always at its worst, it seems, in Chicago,
got me down. I caught cold, and became so sick that I had to be car-
ried on a stretcher to the train for Lafayette.

And when I got back home, I had to go to bed for weeks to re-

39

cuperate. My first fight for success had failed. People were too much
for me. What would happen to me next I didn't know and, for a time,
I didn't care.

After the illness I had to have outdoor exercise and the Eckhauses,
packers and butchers, came to my assistance. The father or son
would go out with me every morning to herd cattle. They taught me
how to ride on horseback and govern recalcitrant steers which were
determined to rush over the railway tracks. The animals scared me,
but I gradually grew used to their lowering their horns at me and
charging headlong.

My principal support in these operations was a great whip which
I learned to crack as I rode my horse. Though this trick seemed
simple, it took weeks of aching muscles to perfect. I learned, also,
how to run down a sow intent on getting away. But pursuing one
too swiftly was bad. I killed one sow that way, a large financial loss
to my friends, the butchers.

Fortunately, the hazardous exercise made me strong again and
kept me, at the same time, from worrying about completing my
education.

When all my hopes for the future seemed dim, someone suggested
that I attend Purdue University. The idea was a good one for it per-
mitted me to stay at home and continue my studies at little cost Up
to then the very thought of attending the school was abhorrent. The
students were known as the toiler makers/' and the curriculum was
given over largely to scientific subjects. At that time, their lack of
interest in art and literature was notorious.

Admission was now easy, thanks to my Chicago credits. So I
started school and, simultaneously, got a small job on the Lafayette
Morning Journal, through Charlie Smith, city editor.

This publication and the Evening Courier kept Lafayette ac-
quainted with the news. It was a lively sheet with a brilliant editor
named Herbert Light. It was comprehensive in its coverage. In ad-
dition to the local news, it carried a wire service and ran a daily
society column that everyone gobbled up with Oliver Twist avidity.
There was also space for music and drama criticism and the proverb-
ial woman's page.

To me, Charlie Smith was "Mr. Smith," and I regarded his fur-
rowed hatchet-face and tired half-closed eyes with respect, admira-
tion and awe.

In return, he gave me only slight attention, a few meager direc-

40

tions about the newspaper. Yet his seeming lack of interest didn't
fool me long, because I knew that it was he who always called on me
to fill any emergency, from re-write to drama criticism, from city
news to obituary.

Soon, however, after I became the regular music critic, I had one
of those heartbreaking routine encounters with office jealousy that
makes earning a living difficult.

The day that Mme. Emma Calv6 was announced to appear at the
Grand Opera House, Milton Pottiitzer, dramatic critic and best
friend of the publisher's brother, George Haywood, decided that the
event was so important that he would turn music critic for the occa-
sion. Straightway, the Haywoods, who had, on many occasions
praised my criticisms, turned the tickets over to Milton, never even
troubling to get extra passes for me.

I felt humiliated, of course, but refrained from protesting because
the Haywoods could put me off the paper forever. I didn't even buy
tickets for the concert, for I felt that everyone there would be
pitying me because I had been robbed of my office.

But by eight o'clock, the lure of Calv was too much for me. I had
heard of her as the most famous Carmen in the world; and even
though I suspected that her concert tour might be the wind-up of her
career, I longed to hear her. So I went down finally to the theatre,
bought a general admission ticket and took a seat in the last row.

Calves voice was still lovely and though it lacked volume, it had
distinctive beauty. Her second number was the old stand-by, Gou-
nod's "Smile Sweet Slumber.*' Because I knew it well, I was surprised
when either the singer or the accompanist failed to repeat a phrase
that is recurrent. What was the matter? Something had gone wrong,
evidently, for after singing a few more passages, the soloist stopped
abruptly and began to clear her throat. There was an embarrassing
wait. Then Calv6 motioned to her accompanist, began the number
again and continued to the end. After that, she walked off the stage
without singing the final song in her first group.

The next moment someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned
around to discover the local house manager, Ora Parks, and at his
side a stranger, Mme. Calv6's manager.

"Will you please come back stage with us?" said Ora. "We're in
great trouble." Surprised, I rose hastily and we went behind the
scenes.

"Mme. Calv6," said her manager, "is having some difficulty with

41

her accompanist and she refuses to continue the concert. You're the
only one, as music critic, who can correct matters. Will you please
step before the curtain and announce that Calve has a bad throat
and asks the audience to excuse her slip in the Gounod number?"

"That would be a mistake. She requires no apology," I said in-
stantly, but by that time Calve herself was standing next to me.

In an instant, without ever having seen each other before, we were
involved in a mutual crisis, she pitted against me, I against her.

For many years the world thought of Emma Calv as the perfect
Carmen, primitive and fascinating. I saw her as a stout, aged woman,
ill-kempt, swarthy and fuming with rage.

"I insist," she cried vehemently, her eyes blazing, her black hair
seemingly on end. "I insist on the explanation."

There was nothing more that I could say. In a sort of trance, I
walked out on the great stage and pled the cause of Mme. Calv6. It
was absurd and incongruous, but somehow the apology went over
and took on such an exaggerated importance that the Sunday Leader
published the details of how I had been robbed of my critical post
and how I had won the only honors of the evening.

Quite different was my experience when I attended Mme. Johanna
Gadski's concert. I was again the music critic that night, with full
powers, and, in recognition of my office, I had seats in the first
row. Here I sat with my sister Lorraine in an auditorium which was
only partly filled.

The well-known soprano was at her best and she sang the famous
war cry from Die Walkure, the first time I had ever heard it. As the
program advanced, I had the strange feeling that she was singing
personally to me; and by the time the concert was over, I said to Lor-
raine, "I never go back stage to meet the artists, but this time some-
thing makes me feel that I should."

And I was right. Just as we stepped back stage, Mme. Gadski
walked forward to me. She held out her hand and her eyes were full
of tears.

*I was singing to you," she said, "every note. Tell me, what have I
done to deserve such a small audience? I thought this was a univer-
sity town where people love music."

"It is," I explained, <c but the university is devoted to science, not
musicl"

My explanation helped her immediately; and after a moment, the
three of us began talking as though we had always been friends. I

42

was getting my first glimpses of the great, a chance to study their
emotions, to learn, perhaps, the secret of their success. Fame, cosmic
and far away, was what I desired. I was not a hero-worshipper, but I
basked in superlative accomplishment.

All the while I was striving to write plays, sometimes at my desk in
school while the students were studying and sometimes between as-
signments at the Lafayette Morning Journal. Eventually, I had two
one-act plays accepted. One, The Spider Web, won a place in the na-
tional contest established by a dramatic society at the Hull House in
Chicago where it had a full week's presentation. Another was pro-
duced by the Anne Morgan School. To my surprise, it went over
nicely before a gracious audience. As a result, I had to make a little
speech. Doris Keane, starring then in Romance, was the guest of
honor. She was accompanied by her manager, Louis Nethersole,
brother of the famous Olga, whose staircase scene in Sappho precipi-
tated legal proceedings and her arrest.

Doris talked informally, and I got a first-hand impression of an
actress on exhibition, off-stage.

Some weeks after the incident, Prudence Jackson, a graduate of
the Anne Morgan School, met me and told me that she had received
a letter from the faculty members saying that I had "made a favor-
able impression."

About this time my assignments at the city desk increased, thanks
to Mr. Smith, who never gave me a chance to thank him for his kind-
ness. Every day I saw him growing older and his eyes dimmer.
Eventually, he had to hold copy right up to his eyes in order to sort
out one word from the other. Cruel and pitiful was his job, but he
had to keep on working for his living. For in those days, as Jim Tully
notes, "the very wealthy enjoyed their wealth without the pricks of
social conscience." The employer's attitude toward his workers was
largely impersonal and Social Security was unknown. I sometimes
think the only happiness Charlie had in a lifetime were the few
hours he spent at home with his family.

Never will I forget the last time I saw him. He was standing on a
windy street corner, in a snowstorm, hawking papers an old-man
newsboy, totally blind. I felt hopelessly frustrated. I could do nothing
for him. His plight was too serious.

43

CHAPTER 3

Purdue Student, Purdue Teacher

IN order to shut off my sadness, I ran across the street, grabbed a
taxi, and told the driver to take me to another world-the academic
world, Purdue University across the Wabash, one mile away in
West Lafayette.

Time went fast there and within a month the chief topic was the
1908 Tank Fight, an historic annual conflict between freshmen and
sophomores.

The fight had grown increasingly brutal with the years, and uni-
versity authorities and townspeople had tried to stop it many times.
Nevertheless, the interclass conflict continued, picturesque, bar-
baric, dangerous.

The battle always took place on the West Side, on a wide meadow-
land, near the campus where a great metal oil tank stood, dominating
and invincible. On the side walls of this tank both freshmen and
sophomores strove to place their class numerals to demonstrate that
one class was superior to the other.

Plans for the fight were arranged long in advance. Officers ap-
pointed by the class outlined strategy, attack and defense. Then, on a
44

given date, hundreds of men from both classes assembled on the
battleground, taking positions which had a tactical purpose. By seven
or eight in the evening, the great area surrounding the tank resem-
bled two opposing armies; and here the men bivouacked from early
evening until early the next morning.

Meanwhile, townspeople from both Lafayette and West Lafayette
stood along the sidelines and watched the proceedings. Prostitutes,
following the custom of war, managed occasionally to steal behind
the lines to meet classmen who were willing to risk the chance of be-
ing caught and expelled.

At a signal the fight was on and going at full speed. Boys were
beaten up, knocked down, tied up with ropes. Their clothes were
torn, their faces painted. Latent sadism vented itself. Those who were
down were sometimes kicked. Injuries were numerous. It was all in
fun, of course, though brutal.

This particular night, the largest Tank Fight in the history of the
fast-growing school, the scene was memorable. The extensive campus
seemed preternaturally beautiful, the buildings dignified, some with
high towers, silhouetted solemnly against the star-lighted sky.

Everyone was enjoying the spectacle, the excitement of the illicit
and the nocturnal. There were laughter and loud voices. Hawkers
sold candy, ice cream and sandwiches. Wiseacres made jokes. Kids
with ukuleles sang songs. By this time the battle between the
classes was accelerating. Occasional torchlight glimpses of the boys
showed tense faces, strained muscles, bleeding arms, bodies writh-
ing in pain. An hour passed. Two hours. The pleasant evening
slumped into dampness and chill. The ground was soggy, the sky
dark.

Gradually, the general clamor gave way and an ominous something'
took hold of the areas of ground and people. At first, no one knew
what had happened. By degrees a rumor crept through the night:
a boy had been killed! No! It was just a rumor. The Tank Fight was
tough, of course, but no one had ever been killed. Then the rumor
was confirmed. Someone had been killed, a young life snuffed out.

The fight was off now, of course. Death was mightier than college
tradition. All voices were still. The mood changed. Hundreds and
hundreds walked off the campus, with a feeling of complicity. In all
directions they scattered, silent, miscellaneous figures, a shadowy
cortege, retreating deep into the night. That tragedy ended the Tank
Fight forever.

45

Once started at Purdue, I woke suddenly to the pleasures of the
university world. While attending Chicago, I had had no time to get
acquainted with the students. Now I had more leisure for friendship.
I sat, happily, in hotels, bars and fraternity houses, talking sports,
books and "profs."

Sex, of course, was the chief topic, opinions varying according to
the speakers. There were worldly-wise boys and innocent ones, pro-
fessional chasers and thoroughly normal lads who treated sex with
dignity and casualness. Some of the fraternities had high moral codes.
Others made a joke about taking the boys "down the line."

For some men, house parties were frequently cover-ups for sex
holidays. Chaperones were easy or severe and the smart boys got
away with license, sneaking out of the fraternity house while the
party was on for affairs behind the shubbery.

Chastity, as a requisite for successful marriage, was on the way
out, but there was an overall attitude that was significant, a growing
feeling of tolerance toward a double standard of morality which must
have percolated through from Ibsen and the suffrage leaders.

"What a girl did before I marry her makes no difference to me,"
I heard more than one boy say.

Seeing Bjornson's The Gauntlet impressed me greatly. I had al-
ready tried to write a play about the single standard of morality;
and I rejoiced in finding my theories so vividly confirmed by the
Norwegian playwright. I never dreamed that the day would come
when I would completely discard the principles of single morality
for double. The process was slow and difficult, with books and plays
the earliest catalytic agents, particularly plays by Brieux, Sudermann
and Hauptmann. Never will I forget the realistic impact of a line in
Stanley Houghton's Hindle Wakes: "Marrying a blackguard will not
make me an honest woman."

Sex was a subject I never discussed at home. I was held back by
that embarrassment, once so characteristic of Jewish family life
"the-shame-of-father-and-son." As I look back now, I'm sure that
father would have met me more than half way in frankness.

About this time, the progress of my life was interrupted by a fan-
tastic circumstance: a terrific rainfall which lasted for days and ex-
tended throughout the midwest. Locally, it had a frightening effect
It turned what had always been an insignificant thread of the Wa-
bash River into a torrent, swift and terrible.

People went down to the banks to watch the flood rush by. The
46

sight was startling, hypnotic and heterogeneous. Floating on the
surface of the ugly water were pieces of household furniture, dead
animals, roof tops, musical instruments. The whole world, it seemed,
was passing through the heart of the city.

Everyone was apprehensive, alarmed, shouting opinions. Secure
little Lafayette was in danger. In a day, the river had risen to the
height of both bridges, the great iron Main Street Bridge and the
nearby Big Four railroad bridge.

Squatters along the banks began to move out of their shacks. The
powerhouse was imperiled and the electric light plant. How long
would the bridges hold?

By four o'clock in the afternoon, even those people who lived
far from the banks, in hilly sections like Highland Park, grew wor-
ried. The next day the water supply began to give out. The gas works
had already shut down. There was a shortage of milk. By noon, all
transportation had come to a halt and a food famine threatened.

At the end of three days, the Lafayette Morning Journal, reduced
now to several pages, warned the public to conserve supplies.
Straightway, there was a rush to the grocery and butcher shops.
The rumor spread that people were hoarding food. Everyone became
suspicious of everyone else.

In the midst of all this excitement, my French professor, Madame
P. Mariotte Davies, telephoned me. She was head of the French De-
partment at Purdue, and had an important influence on the faculty.
In her class, I absorbed the spirit of Paris, for although she had been
away from that city at least twenty years, she continued to live its
life. She read Paris papers, and the latest French plays in UlUustra-
tion. She even kept up with the current slang.

When I talked with her, I felt that I was in the company of
Georges Sand, for this elderly French woman had the somewhat
masculine appearance of that author and a similar independence in
thought, dress and action. Without my ever seeing Paris, she made
me love the city.

"Bernard," she said, "I telephoned you today because the flood
is so bad that I can't get to my classes. The Main Street Bridge went
down a little while ago. There is only one way to get to the uni-
versityby riding miles and miles around. I'm too old for that now."
Though I didn't know to what her words were leading, I listened
sympathetically.

47

<c Will you do me a favor?" she asked, "You're my best French stu-
dent. Will you please go over and conduct the classes for me?"

"Gladly, Mme. Davies," I said, pleased by her confidence in my
ability while realizing my incompetence. If I had only studied harder,
read and talked more French! I told her that I didn't know enough,
but that I would be glad to do my best and help out during the
emergency.

Mme. Davies thanked me and gave me some general directions.
Then I told my family about her assignment. They were happy, of
course, until they knew the danger, for by this time the only way to
cross the river was by walking the ties of the railroad bridge. I told
them not to worry and was soon on my way, but when I reached
the Court House, I learned that the bridge had been closed to
pedestrians. Disturbed by this ruling, I went to the police station to
get permission to cross.

"Nothing doing," was the answer. "You'll have to see Mayor Dur-
gan. If he gives you written permission, you can go ahead."

So I went at once to see Mayor Durgan. He was a good friend of
mine and he reluctantly gave me permission, with the proviso that
I crossed at my own risk.

Half an hour later, I was walking the long stretch of ties, keeping
my eyes straight in advance and trying not to look down or think
of the speeding flood that seemed just a foot beneath me.

This incident turned me into a school teacher, without my ever
expecting to be one. By the time the flood was over and the regular
curriculum re-established, members of the faculty and the students
became accustomed to seeing me holding classes, for my work did
not close with the emergency. From the French classes, I went to
the psychology classes, again as an emergency instructor and simul-
taneously a student.

Among the faculty members, Prof. Edward Davis, instructor in
economics, became a helpful friend. One night, when I had finished
my first year as a special student, he said: "Why don't you collect
your Chicago credits and pick up a Purdue degree?"

Excited by this prospect, I got busy, engaged tutors, and did about
a year's work in mathematics, German and psychology during the
summer vacation. Then I took a half dozen examinations. Fortu-
nately, I passed them all and enrolled for another year, met all con-
cluding requirements and gained a Bachelor of Science degree.

When the commencement ceremonies were over, I was happy and

48

relaxed for the first time in months. I could start out now earning my
living. My hopes about writing brightened. Abruptly a new idea
suddenly flashed into my mind: if I hurried, I might rush straight to
the railway station, board a train, return to Chicago University,
enroll, finish the course I began there two years back, graduate again
and get my Bachelor of Philosophy degree.

My parents objected, of course, but I won them over. That after-
noon I left Lafayette and by three o'clock the next day, I was busy
at Chicago University, making up all the work that I had missed
during the intervening school years. At the end of summer, I got
my Ph.B.

And the matter of earning my living was solved by a friend on the
Lafayette school board who, with the other trustees, offered me a
teaching job at Jefferson High School.

I accepted, for even though returning to a small town was not
pleasant, there were compensations. Teaching was easy for me and
I liked it. In my spare time, secure in my own home, with a salary
coming in regularly, I could write.

My first days as a high school teacher recalled my first days at
Ford School. The moment that I set foot in the classroom as a new-
comer, the entire school set out to break me. I was a town boy, and
they'd show me. To prove my worth, I'd have to fight. The principal
stood by me, theoretically, but whenever I got into trouble, he
skipped out.

"I want to bring my subject near to my pupils," I said to myself,
"and I'm going to get them to like it, if I have to trick them into do-
ing so."

My first objective was to give my classes some concrete hints
about writing. I couldn't instill ability to write, but I could, at least,
offer some rational suggestions.

My procedure, for instance, in teaching extemporaneous public
speaking gained the popularity of a game.

First I handed the student a number of cards which, on the under-
side, bore the titles of all sorts of subjects: robbery, skiing, love,
history, bootblacks, charity. The subjects were incongruous by in-
tention. They were intended to surprise the student into mental alert-
ness and into expressing himself, instantly yet decorously, regardless
of the tide.

To meet this emergency, I advised the student to seize the first

49

logical thought that bobbed into his mind, apply the title to his own
experience, define or develop this thought in a paragraph or two,
introduce an incident or anecdote for illustration, and then conclude
with a summary, a joke, or a question.

Highest honors in this exercise always went to Steve Hannagan,
a smiling sophomore with a knowing look on his Irish rotund face.
He met the challenge of this game of words and wits with that same
skill which helped make him, eventually, one of the three or four
greatest public relations stars in America. He started the craze for
bathing beauty pictures and he named Sun Valley. His friends in-
cluded Darryl Zanuck, Ernest Hemingway and Bing Crosby. He died
in 1953 while on a business trip to Africa.

Soon after I started teaching, my social life in Lafayette began
to develop. People invited me to parties, concerts and dinners. The
exclusive Dramatic Society asked me to write a play, an honor previ-
ously accorded to George Ade and George Barr McCutcheon, whose
contributions were noteworthy.

Mine should have been also, after all my talk about writing, but
the best that I could do was a one-acter, Mrs. Bomptons Dinner
Party. It was a little above high school grade writing, but I attended
the performance in full evening dress, and expected an ovation.

An hour later, I was glad to sneak out through the gallery exit in
the polite hush that follows a theatrical flop. I was ashamed, of
course, and should have been. Some good did result, however, from
the experience. Several weeks later, Prof. Edward Ayres, head of the
English Department, came to the high school and asked me to join
his staff at the University. Purdue recognition came rarely to local
boys and I was pleased.

Meanwhile, my writing had extended to acting as press agent for
the Family Theatre, an arrangement that was secret because I didn't
want smug Lafayette to know that one of its teachers was writing
publicity for a cheap vaudeville house.

The manager, popularly known as "Tubby," was one of the most
eye-filling men I ever looked upon. Short and fat, his eyes bulged
out, gray, cat-like and cold. His skin was purplish, with small veins
showing here and there. His jowls extended over his collar. His belly
protruded immensely, a burdensome sight.

The Family Theatre was an unusual structure, the lower part a
commercial playhouse and the upper part surmounted by a tower
and steeple, the remains of what had once been the Second Presby-

50

terian Church. The top admission price was twenty-five cents, but
once a week, on Ladies* Day matinees, women in pairs were ad-
mitted for five cents apiece.

Paul Specht was the first violinist. He became my friend, told me
about intimate back stage happenings and gave me a commercial
slant on acts. Years later, at the beginning of the bandleader craze,
he, like Paul Whiteman and Vincent Lopez, became a popular New
York favorite. At that same time, I invented for him the term "sym-
phonic jazz" which other leaders soon appropriated.

Specht introduced me to another student musician, a blonde-
haired young man with the odd name of E. J. Wotawa, Jr.

After classes, one day, Wotawa said, "I know that you don't care
much about meeting vaudeville actresses. However, there is one at
the Family who is very nice and talented, a very young girl who
travels with her mother. If you like, 111 take you back stage and in-
troduce her.**

The girl he spoke of was doing imitations, a brilliant one on Harry
Lauder in which she introduced the wheeze, now decades old, "The
captain and I are thick friends, but I'm the thicker of the two.'*

Charmed by the young girl's stage skill, I accepted the invitation,
eagerly.

"The mother is nice, too,** he added. "She tells fortunes."

"A fortune teller?" I stumbled for an excuse. "No, Ed, I'd rather
not. Thanks just the same. We'll let the matter drop!"

Thus it was that I missed the chance of meeting, in the early years
of her brilliant career, the erstwhile foremost comedienne of the
American stage, Ina Claire.

Gradually, my association with the theatre, the university and the
newspaper led to a widening of my acquaintances. John Cowper
Powys was the first important author whom I came to know well.
He visited the university on my recommendation as a result of my
reading his book, Suspended Judgments.

On his arrival, he seemed to recognize immediately the conven-
tional attitude of the Lafayette community and, as an apostle of
modern thought, he did all he could in a short space of time to break
down local benightedness.

Tall, gaunt and harried, swathed in a black gown, he looked like
one of the prophets in the Sargent murals. He made gestures. He
praised and derided; then he culminated his discussion of Dostoev-
sky with a scene from Crime and Punishment in which the harlot is

51

apotheosized. He used the word "harlot," and in doing so, he shocked
that staid audience out of a century of equanimity.

I was both thrilled and frightened, being largely responsible for
Powys' presence. When the lecture was over, I rushed back stage
where he confronted me, obviously agitated.

"Have I gone too far?" he asked me.

The question came as a great disappointment. If he were not sure
of himself, how dared he try to influence an audience?

"That's something, Mr. Powys," I answered, "which you must de-
termine for yourself.'*

His talk, nevertheless, did make history by actually precipitating
a new era in local cultural life. Certain members of the university
faculty were jogged out of their smugness; and the good people of
Lafayette were also brought to see the light or, at least, a stray shaft.
Even the Public Library opened its purblind eyes and decided to
admit a few of the modern novels that the country was then dis-
cussing.

While teaching at the high school my pioneering for the growing
Little Theatre movement gained unexpected recognition. As I sat at
my desk one morning, the doorbell rang; and when I opened the
door, I saw two young men standing there.

One of them, Kenyon Nicholson, as handsome a young man as I
had ever seen: the features firmly hewn, high brow, perceptive,
kindly eyes, fine, straight nose, deep red lips, a cleft in the strong chin.
His companion, Harold Watson, was a sandy-haired Yankee type,
alert and angular, though short in stature. The two of them had come
all the way from Wabash College, a distance of thirty-five miles, to
consult me about my work. A safari! In a brief ten minutes we were
all talking theatre and in that short interval a friendship for Kenyon
began which has lasted throughout my life.

A week later, the Indianapolis Community Theatre accepted one
of my one-act plays and invited me to attend the performance. The
program was to include three one-acters by Indiana authors: The
Robbery by Max Ehrman, which concerned a group of bank robbers;
Nevertheless by Stuart Walker; and my piece, Phoebe Louise, which
concerned a girl thief.

As my university classes ran until about four in the afternoon I had
to dress in the morning, catch the five o'clock interurban train for
Indianapolis and meet my sister Lorraine at Five Points, the station
on top of the hill. The railroad connections were so close that even

52

if I got to the capital city on time, I'd have only five minutes before
the rise of the curtain.

Judge, then, my annoyance when, on stepping on the train, I dis-
covered that my high, stiff white collar, then the style, was badly
soiled.

"No matter how short the time/* I said to Lorraine, as we arrived
at the station, 'Til have to run into the first haberdashery shop and
get a fresh one."

The first one happened to be a block ahead, and, as we entered
the place, we were surprised to find that it was as vast as a storage
house, with front, rear and side entrances and numerous counters
displaying ties, shirts, handkerchiefs and accessories.

Out of this cavernous area, a clerk finally appeared and sold me
the collar I wanted. I handed him a ten-dollar bill, having neglected,
in my usual helter-skelter fashion, to bring some silver with me.

"Just a minute,*' said the clerk. "I'll bring your change at once."

Then he left us, vanishing somewhere in the rear, presumably to
the cash register.

After waiting about five minutes, I called out:

"Hurry, please. I'm in a great rush to get to the theatre."

My request met with no response. We waited for what seemed
hours, but the clerk did not return.

"What shall I do?" I said in despair. "The curtain will go up, per-
haps on my little play, and I won't be there to see it. Wait here,
Lorraine, while I go back and find out what's the matter."

Quickly, I walked to the rear of the store and there, standing at
the cash register, was, not the clerk, but a man with a slouch hat,
tinkering at the keys. I waited for him to speak, and when he said
nothing, I strove to get his attention, saying:

"I beg your pardon, are you trying to uh open the register?"

"I certainly am," was the answer; and with those words, he turned
straight around and put a revolver to my chest.

"Don't move," he added, "or I'll kill you."

My first thought was of Lorraine; and so, instead of obeying the
order, I turned around abruptly, with the revolver now at my back,
and shouted, "Run, Lorraine. Get out of here."

Lorraine, however, instead of deserting me, deliberately started
toward the back of the store. But before either of us had time to take
a breath, I was facing another revolver. This one was in front of me
and was pointed by another man a policeman. The situation was

53

so fantastic that I felt I was dreaming or taking part in a silent movie
comedy.

"Perhaps this is a practical joke/ 9 1 said to myself.

It was not, though. It was a real hold-up; and to the clerk to whom
I had handed my bill, I owed my life. For he, while pretending to
get my change, gave his partner the chance to run out the back way
and warn the police.

In a moment, the whole incident was over and we were on our
way to the theatre. The hold-up man was arrested and given a jail
term and the following morning the papers announced that the
author of a play about a thief had been held up on the way to the
performance. Often, after all these years, I wonder what became of
the man who went to jail.

A week after this experience the Victoria, a beautiful new La-
fayette theatre, changed its policy from vaudeville to silent pictures;
and the new proprietor engaged me to do the press work. His name
was Gallos and he was a Greek, with a clear olive skin, a broad
smile, large white teeth and a smooth, assured line of talk. He hired
me for ten dollars a week, and from that time on I worked, again
surreptitiously, as a combination press agent and college instructor.

Motion picture publicity was not organized then; all I had to guide
me in advance on the nature of the subjects was a large booklet
which listed the forthcoming pictures by date, number and title. As
I disliked the silent movies when I first saw them in what were called
storeroom shows, I soon developed a system whereby, through con-
sulting the titles listed in the book, I could guess at the subject matter
and write the press story without seeing the actual picture.

This procedure, though simple, led to unexpected consequences.
After the twelfth performance, the proprietor of the theatre called
me to his office and said: "The subject of this picture is Mushroom
Culture/ Your publicity discusses the tricks of social climbers. Look
at what we have on the screen!"

I looked, and there stood a couple of farmers pulling out large
mushrooms from fertilized soilrealistic culture of Cantharellus ct-
barius, the edible mushroom.

After this experience, I was more careful. In order to hold on to
my job I took an occasional look at the pictures, but even this brief
view made me dislike them more than ever. This dislike culminated
in what was, I believe, the first sustained attack on the movies ever
published. It came out in Theatre Magazine, and disclosed that the

54

silent movies reduced all emotions to one level the visual: they
lowered love, patriotism and religiosity to a physical plane.

The attack was so severe that the motion picture magnates, be-
ginning already to feel their power, showed their displeasure by
threatening to withdraw their advertisements from the magazine.
But one stray article couldn't stop the movies. Their great growth
and development from silent pictures to talkies is now history. They
invaded Broadway, the producers never dreaming that proud
theatres like the New Amsterdam and the Globe would some day
become ignominious "grind" houses.

But matters far more serious than motion pictures were soon to
occupy my mind. School had closed, and mother, Lorraine and I
went to Ottawa Beach for a brief vacation.

One morning on my way to take a swim, I bought a Chicago
Tribune. There, I read the first story of the beginning of World War
I. Until then, war was just a word encountered in books. At that
moment it became an immediate reality. Many agitating thoughts
filled my mind. Can it be possible that war can break out in this age
of civilization? Will it continue? Can it spread?

Vacation meant nothing now. We went back to Lafayette. Here
the war was soon going strong, centering in a local way, around
President Winthrop E. Stone, head of Purdue University. Well-
named, he was a man who might have been hewn from stone. His
figure had the architectural impressiveness of a tall structure. His
character was indomitable, his integrity absolute. A great patriot
and a civic worker, he had organized a local Red Cross Chapter long
before anyone thought of war. But society leaders were striving to
wrest away his office. Why? Because he, a man of first prominence,
had divorced his wife when divorce was considered a cause for social
ostracism.

Worse yet, he had married his ward, a girl, according to town
gossip, of German birth. In their campaign to secure his office and
regardless of the good he had done, the local propagandists whis-
pered about ground glass that might get into the Red Cross sup-
plies. Yes, the local war was horrendous.

From my own standpoint, I was eager to go if I could be an in-
terpreter or get into Intelligence because I had no technical or mili-
tary skill whatsoever. I couldn't run a car. I could never learn to
shoot because I had never been able to control the muscles of my
eyes to sight a target The thought of submitting to military disci-

55

pline was maddening; death didn't frighten me, but uniformity did.

Disturbed, I went at once, and long before the draft, to the uni-
versity commandant for advice. He told me to write to every war
department that could use my services. Of course, I followed his
advice and wrote letter after letter. No answers came and no ap-
pointments. By the end of the summer I was desperate. In the in-
terim, I was drafted, but not called.

Finally, the commandant advised me to go to Wisconsin University
to work, as I had planned, for my Master's degree, and to wait there
for further developments. I did so. Then, half through the course, I
dropped everything. I felt the need to enlist so strongly that I rushed
to Chicago and signed up for any kind of service.

The preliminaries over, I started to walk across the street and at
the crossing was run down by a newspaper truck. The driver made
a round turn at the corner. Round turns were unknown at that time
in Lafayette. So I headed ignorantly straight into the truck.

Somehow, I picked myself up and managed to get to a telephone
booth where I called George Knapp. He was my best friend in the
Chicago University days, was married to beautiful Henrietta, and
was a successful architect.

George came immediately to my assistance; took me to the Hotel
Morrison and called a doctor. He found that a bone was broken in
my right foot, but after ten days I was able to limp back to the re-
cruiting office. The officials wouldn't accept me.

For the moment, I didn't know what to do, to wait until my foot
was well and enlist again or go back to Wisconsin University. After
talking the matter over with George, I decided to return to Wisconsin
and take my oral "exam" for the Master's.

On the day appointed, I went on crutches to the university where
three professors quizzed me. How I ever answered them HI never
know. The war was pounding at my brain, the war, far-off from Wis-
consin and literature. That night I couldn't sleep, couldn't even drink
myself to sleep, because I had no liquor. Without anyone's ever believ-
ing that it could come about, Prohibition had suddenly clamped
down on the town, the saloons closed their doors, and liquor ran
down the gutters.

My hopes for a writing career were now over. Only the urge to
take part in the war counted. What was I going to do? Just when
this question seemed tragically unanswerable, Will H. Hays, at the
suggestion of George Ade, called me to Indianapolis to work on the

56

State Defense. A week later I was sitting at a desk, a swivel-chair
writer in the world conflict.

Will Hays was, at that time, chairman of the Republican Party and
head, also, of the Indiana Defense. His energy was boundless, his
knowledge of detail enormous; and when he gave a speech in public,
his power was surpassed only by the grotesquerie of his gestures.
Vibrating with the force of his own feelings, he moved his head and
arms with the angular incongruities of a jumping jack.

One afternoon, as I sat writing a piece, I looked up and saw
President Stone enter the Defense Headquarters. Without even
glancing in my direction, he walked toward Mr. Hays's office.

A presentiment of change took such strong hold of me that, re-
gardless of office routine and proper respect for men of importance,
I rushed over to Mr. Wilson, Mr. Hays's private secretary.

"Please," I said, "may I go in and speak to Mr. Hays? I'm afraid
President Stone has come here to talk about me."

*1 couldn't think of letting you do so," he answered. "The door is
closed."

Yes, the great oaken door, high as the capitol chamber, was indeed
closed. I could do nothing except stand there baffled. After some
minutes I returned to my work. Then the door opened and when
President Stone came out, he walked to my desk and asked me to
step into the lobby.

When we got there he said: *Tve asked Mr. Hays to release you.
I'm sorry if you prefer being here, but we need you at the university
and when you come back, I'll give you a professorship."

The moment was a proud one for me, sad also, and tinged with
shame. I should have been at war. Now I would have to leave my
small part in it. I would have to leave the city and go back to teach-
ing, I said goodbye to President Stone and told him I would be back.
When I returned to the office, Mr. Hays was waiting for me.

"President Stone," he said, "is a very powerful man in this state,
Bernard. We'll have to do what he wishes. I'm sorry. Anyway, he
says that if I let you stay here, you're such a live wire that you would
eventually put dynamite under the State House."

That same week I returned to Purdue and resumed my classes,
forcing myself to be content. President Stone kept his promise. He
recommended the professorship which I gained with the unanimous
vote of the faculty. Then the Publications committee appointed me
editor-in-chief of the first Purdue Alumni Magazine.

57

When, soon after, Sigma Delta Chi installed a Purdue chapter,
the journalistic fraternity made me one of the first three honorary
members. That same year, the Association of American Professors
elected me to membership.

At the end of some months my work was again interrupted, this
time by a telegram. It came from Dr. E. W. Prentiss, head of the U. S.
Employment Service, calling me to come to Chicago for a place in
his department. When I arrived at the given address, instead of
meeting Dr. Prentiss, I met A. H. Krom.

I knew then the source of my call. Krom was the first man in all
my experience to use that vague expression, "111 keep you in mind,"
and hold to his word.

A year before, he had visited Purdue in behalf of the American
Association of Engineers, noticed my work in publicity and welfare
service, and promised that he would find a place for me at some
future date.

The first hour after my arrival in Chicago, he put me to work turn-
ing out copy for the Engineering Division of the U. S. Employment
Service; the following afternoon I had an editorial in the Chicago
Post concerning this new activity.

Day and night I worked with the office staff, happy to be active
in a service that was at least close to the war. Again, I wrote, spoke
before the Chicago Chamber of Commerce and attended committee
meetings. I scarcely took time to eat.

After weeks of intensive application, Krom said: "Why don't you
relax? You can take a little recreation without slighting your work.
See the town. Go to a show.'*

That was what I longed to do. Chicago was full of shows and
again I was in that city without seeing a single one. So that night I
went to the Blackstone Theatre where Ruth Chatterton was appear-
ing in A Marriage of Circumstance.

I bought my ticket and as I strolled through the lobby, I saw Ora
Parks. From a small Lafayette theatrical manager, he had grown
into the big-shot manager of both the Blackstone and Powers
Theatres. Success had not spoiled him. He greeted me warmly, told
me to come back again and promised that he'd give me some work
that I could do after my office hours.

The next time I entered the Blackstone Theatre, thanks to Ora, I
had become Chatterton's special agent, without her knowing it I
did an interview with her that night. The following morning., I de-

58

livered it; and on Saturday I saw, for the first time, my name and
writing in a big town paper, the Chicago Examiner.

Following the Ruth Chatterton engagement at the Blackstone,
two players came to Chicago who were eventually to become famous.
One was Lynn Fontanne, then playing a secondary role with Lau-
rette Taylor in Happiness, at the Powers Theatre; the other was Al-
fred Lunt, who was supporting Alexandra Carlisle in Booth Tarking-
ton's The Country Cousin.

Concerning Fontanne, Ora Parks made one of those predictions
that are so common in theatrical lobbies: "They're grooming her to
be a star. The company manager says that as soon as she returns to
New York, she'll have a play for her own/'

The prophecy seemed absurd to me then, for Fontanne's part was
that of a carping, cynical female who looked and acted like Ilka
Chase.

I didn't get a chance to interview her, but I did get to see the
young Lunt. The fact that he knew Wisconsin University gave me
an opportunity to talk about a pioneer of published drama, Professor
Thomas H, Dickinson. From Dickinson the conversation drifted to
Russian literature which, at that time, was being regarded here as
something of a discovery. Young Lunt had already read Dostoevsky,
Tolstoy, Turgenev and more recent writers like the Polish Artzi-
basheff. His opinions, young as he was, were certain. He talked
fluently also about other modern dramatists like Bjornson, Haupt-
mann and Ibsen. Then he told me about touring vaudeville with Lily
Langtry, quoting the Jersey Lily as saying something 111 never for-
get. It was this: "Alfred, some day I'll write my memoirs, but they'll
be from the waist up only."

I left the interview, never surmising that this clever young man
would soon be one of the most popular stars of the American stage.

After that, every night when my office duties were finished, Ora
and I used to do the town, spending much of our time with girls and
drinking. The speakeasy was now a part of American life and we
knew all sorts of Loop hideaways. A serious flu epidemic threatened
us all; and copious drinking was supposed to ward off a disease
which was often fatal.

Chicago was then known as the "Windy City** and was symbolized
by a female figure resembling Athena, who wore across her breasts
the words, "I will." The leading citizens concentrated seriously on
the arts; and the city came to be known as a literary center through

59

the accomplishments of men like Ben Hecht, William Vaughn
Moody (credited with writing the first literate American drama, The
Great Divide), Robert Herrick, the novelist, Burton Rascoe, James
OTDonnell Bennett, Harry Hansen and Percy Hammond.

For a number of years, the Loop was a thriving theatrical district,
and the distinguished Studebaker Theatre building boasted numer-
ous art and dance studios.

The opera singer, Mary Garden, gave the town a musical impor-
tance that was recognized throughout the world and that rivaled the
fame of the Metropolitan Opera Association.

Before her American debut, Mary was already a glowing per-
sonality, the idol of Paris, thanks to her success with roles in Louise,
Pelleas and Melisande, and Salome roles written in the modern
manner; that is, realistically and largely free from the absurdities
of the established opera plot, stock characterization and stodgy
direction. She was the greatest actress-singer of the era.

Possessed of a voice whose merits were debatable, but a superb
actress and a natural publicity genius, Mary made the opera front-
page news. She shocked the clergy with her Dance of the Seven
Veils. She rowed with impresario and conductor. She identified her-
self with various love affairs. She finally assumed the directorship
of the company itself, thereby providing some of the most brilliant
passages in the history of international opera, passages that are
vividly recorded in the works of her great and erudite admirer,
James Huneker.

I never imagined that I would ever know this extraordinary woman
when I saw and read about her. Yet that grand experience fell to me.

In 1952, when the lady admitted to being seventy-two years of
age, I finally met Mary Garden and, within a short time, grew to
know her well, a magic telescoping of time and personality catching
up with the sight of her in the Jongleur of Notre Dame, behind the
impersonal footlights, and then, after a great interim, sitting down
with her, person to person, eye to eye, and talking in friendliness.

She was a combination of contrasts, bursting out at almost any
moment with anything she chose to say. She dubbed John McCor-
mack "the chambermaid's delight/' She spoke feelingly of Debussy
and how he encountered both his first and second wife in an un-
expected dressing-room interval. She described vividly the manner-
isms of Charpentier, composer of Louise.

Quick on the trigger with caustic comment, she startled me with

her flashy statements and lush appraisals. Sometimes, in speaking of
an artist, she gauged values severely and then again she would break
out into paeans of praise where praise did not seem to be quite due.
I found it difficult to understand how one so extravagant with words
in her private life could ever have exercised the restraint in her pro-
fessional life, the self-critical, stark appraisal which had resulted in
her superlative achievements.

Mary talked a great deal about her love affairs while declaring
that she was never really in love with any man; and though her
voluble confessions were detailed to the return of a valuable ring,
she was not convincing.

On the lecture platform Mary had the exuberance of youth, ra-
diant in spite of her age in a handsome cerise evening gown, with a
long train which she kept kicking from side to side and a deep
d6collet at which she kept tugging somewhat indecorously.

It so happened that after one of my talks with Mary, I met Dean
Everett W. Meeks, of Yale University. He said that he had heard
Mary sing in Paris at the second performance of Pelleas and Meli-
sande. He was sitting in the second row, feeling proud and notably
fortunate because she was singing directly to him. At the same time,
however, he was puzzled, not knowing her, at being the recipient of
this great distinction.

During the intermission he discovered the truth. Mary was sing-
ing, not to him, but to the man in back of him Oscar Hammerstein I,
who had come to Paris especially to hear her and who was so im-
pressed by her performance that he brought her to New York where
she sang for her countrymen for the first time.

At that date I couldn't foreshadow the fact that my unexpected
friendship with Mary Garden was to be typical of the years ahead:
meeting the oncoming celebrity, talking with the established artist,
reminiscing with the forgotten famous, analyzing continuously the
art of the stage in its relation to personality.

My life in Chicago was a duplicate of my life at home. I was
serving two masters again, an interesting duality, yet detestable, be-
cause, even though I was giving the government service full time and
overtime, I felt foolishly compelled to conceal my association with
the footlights.

One night, while standing in the lobby of the Powers Theatre, I
heard the box office treasurer call out to the house manager, "Oral
Hurryl Come at once. The theatre's on fire."

61

Horrified, I stood silent. The audience was on the inside. I was
on the outside. What should I do? Stand ready near by to help if
there were need for help or should I go quietly into the theatre, con-
trive to get on the stage and warn the audience to be calm?

As I deliberated, a fireman passed me. Fire alarms sounded and
firemen rushed in. Side exits opened with a clang, but from the in-
side of the theatre with all its people came no sound.

Finally, the company manager hurried into the lobby. Sighting
me, he shouted, "What are you doing here? Get the hell out."

I slunk away, an ignominious would-be hero. Anxiously I waited
until the early morning for news of what happened. To my surprise I
couldn't find a line in the papers. The cloakroom conflagration was
mercifully stifled; and, thanks to the management's political influ-
ence, the public never heard a word about what actually happened.

The averted catastrophe did not sober Ora and me or interfere
with our gay evenings.

I had always believed that my introduction to sex would be a
spontaneous, poetic merging with a beautiful woman. The thotight
that sex depended for perfect realization on mechanical co-ordina-
tion, planned technique and physiological structure had never
grazed my imagination. Love and passion, I thought, were ideal-
istic concomitants, constants to which lovers reacted similarly,
a force like the Moonlight Sonata., which moves all hearts spontane-
ously with its beauty. When I learned that this was not true, I had
to readjust my whole conception of sex.

The thought that others, through an ignorance of sex similar to
mine, suffer the same disillusion, gave me a vicarious feeling of sad-
ness. I felt sorry for the human race at the mercy of erratic nature.
I hated poets and writers for painting sex as something that reached
idealistic completion through mere recognition and indulgence.

Unfortunately, too, my first experience was not as I imagined it.
Instead, the occasion was deliberately planned. In my teens, I be-
lieved in celibacy as a sacrificial road to literary art; I felt that hold-
ing my body intact would enhance my creative ability. But when I
suddenly realized that I'd have to know the mystery of sex or have
nothing to write about, I forfeited my idea of a dream girl and took
the first woman accessible, a blonde-haired, plump, wise-eyed gin
devotee.

The circumstances were commonplace and earthy. She told me
afterwards that she had a baby; and for days after, not knowing the

62

lady, I went around worrying that I might be the cause of her having
another one.

The most disillusioning part of the experience was its casualness
as far as I was concerned.

My education from this point on continued, largely under the per-
sonal direction of L.R.S. He was a man entirely different from any
of my earlier college friends, thin, dark-complexioned and neat to
the point of eccentricity. He was a professional pianist, and thougji
scarcely twenty-two, he was married, divorced and a specialist at
sex. Women, for him, were merely the media for his personal enjoy-
ment, to be won, used and forgotten, according to convenience.

Eventually, I found that his particular type of women were ha-
bitues of night spots and the underworld and that their attitude
toward the male was practically identical with his. They took the
best that they could get from any man, then dropped him or held
him as conditions warranted.

Soon, I had entree to the Savoy Cafe, a notorious restaurant where
L. and his orchestra played. It stood on Wabash Avenue which was
then the beginning of the Twenty-second Street tenderloin, near
the historic and infamous Frieberg's Hall and Colosimo's.

At Frieberg's Hall, the visiting playboys threw greenbacks on the
table and set 'em up to whiskey and wine. Despite the seeming
promiscuity, no girl dared leave the place with a male escort. At
Colosimo's, the scene of a murder, Dale Winter sang pianissimo at
the tables. She sang also in a church choir, a two-fold allegiance to
the vocal art that caused a front-page scandal.

In this district there were sideshows and small museums which
flaunted colored banners and posters exploiting monstrosities and
freaks. From penny-arcades came the din of mechanical pianos. For-
tune-tellers sat in shops half-lighted and heavy with imitation ori-
ental rugs and tapestries.

The undercurrent of excitement and general gregariousness en-
chanted me. I managed to get acquainted with some of the attaches
of these places, doormen, trap drummers and ticket-takers, people
who could tell me about life in the raw. I hung on every word they
said, striving to appear detached and sophisticated.

One girl I'll never forget. L. and I met her in a dark, cheap saloon,
in the very heart of the dive district. He was eager to have me know
her because she was different from the average hooker.

My first glimpse of her natural blonde beauty depressed me. How

63

had such a lovely young girl sunk so quickly to the depths of hell?
For some reason or other, I began talking to her in that incongruous
literary speech that served me as an escape from reality. I called the
girl "starry-eyed/' sidereal" and "rhapsodic"; and when she, finally
growing curious about my words and intentions, asked what I did
for a living, I answered, "I'm a bartender! But don't judge me by my
conversation. A bartender can be a gentleman. Lots of us are, and
we don't drink, either."

The girl smiled somewhat cynically.

"Besides," I went on, "serving drinks is a difficult profession.
You've got to concentrate. You must remember which customer
orders and what, the brand of Scotch, the kind of Vermouth. YouVe
got to know who gets a beer chaser, who takes plain water and who
demands ginger ale. You must keep your ears open constantly to
arguments across the bar in order to prevent fights. You must know
how many drinks people can stand and when to stop serving them
without making them sore. Meanwhile, you've got to make change,
sell cigars and cigarettes, keep the bar clean and . . ."

"Good heavens," cried the girl astonished, "I believe he really is
a bartender."

She began to study me, but I edged away. The very touch of her
was equivalent to contamination. My course in preventive medicine
at Purdue University had given me a horror of prostitutes and
brothels and had frozen desire.

For a few minutes more the girl and I talked. Then I made a get-
away, pleased that during the nights which I had spent with Ora
Parks in giving an occasional friendly hand to various bartenders I
had learned enough about their work to pass myself off as one.

When opportunity permitted, I continued to go to the Savoy Caf 6;
and often during intermissions, L. would leave the orchestra platform
and tell me what was going on.

One night, a well-dressed woman came in with a prosperous
looking escort. Noticing L. at the piano, she began to flirt with him,
surreptitiously. Then she sent a request for a special song together
with five dollars.

"Tips like that are all right and fairly common," L. said, "but
these women are pests when they come in with their husbands or
sweethearts. I've got to be careful or I'll get into trouble."

Equally informative were his comments about the people in the
Caf& He pointed out the house hookers, the two or three privileged

64

girls who were permitted to frequent the place, unmolested, be-
cause they were well-behaved and expert at getting the men to buy
drinks. They themselves were usually served phony martinis water
and lemon peelfor which the house got the full price and the girl
a percentage.

During those days the new dances were just coming into vogue,
the "Bunny Hug" the "Bear Cat" and the "Chicago," dances that
revolutionized the traditional dance posture, for the male faced the
female directly, breast to breast, navel to navel. Dancing, as a result,
disintegrated into a form of sexual recreation that came to be known
as "belly rubbing."

Everyone knew exactly what was going on, but only occasionally
did a bouncer order a couple off the floor. Usually, while crowded on
the small dance space, the girls made arrangements with their danc-
ing partners about rooms and rates.

In addition to the Savoy, I visited dives in lower Clark Street,
ventured into sporting houses of the notorious Red Light district.
Each joint was a small slave market. Most pitiful was the lot of the
streetwalkers in this district, for they had to solicit the passing work-
men and bums. Often they tried to pull them into their cribs.

News of these conditions gradually percolated through to the
general public. The White Slave trade became a fashionable subject
for discussion and there were several cheap plays and books on the
subject which furnished material for pseudo-literary discussions.

Frequently, while in Chicago, I went with L. to visit certaix,
hookers in their apartments, visits interrupted, occasionally, by the
appearance of their pimps. Here, the topics of conversation were
bedroom manners, nightly takings and varied sexual appetites.

The details were often loathsome and disgusting, yet I felt the
information was obligatory for a writer. I had to know how the other
half lived. I had to pry into souls so that I might eventually disclose
what I had discovered.

Among the professional prostitutes were two particularly interest-
ing girls. One came from the south and called herself "Tex." She was
sweet and gentle. The other, Flo, was an Irish girl, a real nympho-
maniac, destined from birth for prostitution.

Sometimes all four of us would go over to a basement restaurant,
drink beer or milk, and feast royally on spaghetti at twenty-five cents
a portion, a small amount, but one that taxed my budget.

For me, those evenings were substitutes for experiences which I

65

still lacked travel here and abroad, substitutes for the far-off D6me
in Paris and the Latin Quarter. They compensated, also, for the years
of experience which I'd lost in smug Lafayette. I realized at that
late date how much of the world lived by crime and skulduggery.

By forcing a change in my point of view I learned to look on "Tex"
as a human being and even forgot that she was a professional prosti-
tute. So when she told L. that she was going to give him up for me,
I was almost vain over the involuntary conquest.

"Tex," grown suddenly prosperous, had a new wardrobe and an
apartment of her own, a walk-up which she had decorated with
souvenirs of Coney Island, dolls and seashells from street fairs,
Niagara Falls and White City. Over the mantlepiece was a photo-
graph of a dark-eyed, serious-looking woman, with a sweet though
solemn smile.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"That's my mother," said 'Tex/ "Isn't she nice?"

I could find no answer to that question. It seemed unthinkable
that a girl would want to have her mother's picture in that room to
look down on the bed and the various people in it! I thought of Nana
and her mother. Zola certainly must have once seen the same kind
of photograph in the same kind of room.

My lessons in dissipation were interrupted at this point by an un-
toward occurrence. A new sporting house had opened in the vicinity
and L. took me there to have a look at the place. I started out in
high spirits, reinforced by my friend's extensive experience, feeling
that he was able to help me out of any situation that might develop.

In those days, organized gangster rule had not yet taken hold of
houses of prostitution, and individual houses often had a certain
dependable status for order and treatment.

The entrance to this house was by way of a saloon and, as bad
luck would have it, the two of us had to buy a drink at the bar to
get through to the rear and upstairs. I ordered the drinks, paying for
L.'s as well as mine, and giving the bartender what I thought was a
ten-dollar bill.

When he handed me the change, he gave me something like four
dollars and fifty cents. I called attention to his mistake; whereupon
he declared that I had given him only five dollars. I strove to prove
my point and he refused to listen. Our voices rose. Before I knew it,
I was involved in a saloon quarrel.

It was humiliating and scandalous. The waiters rushed up and

a policeman. What a disgrace! What would happen if my friends
heard about it or my family! The fear of consequences made me
suddenly stop my protests. The five dollars was as big as twenty-five
to me then, but there was no use trying to get it back.

"Come on, L.," I said. "Let's go upstairs."

I started to follow him, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I was
so unhappy over the loss of my money.

When we got upstairs, a blonde girl walked over to me and with
her I went into the bedroom. I was white, trembling with anger, and
passionless. That such a thing could be possible was a surprising
discovery to me. Still knowing little of sex and not realizing that I
was in no state of mind or nerves for it, I got the idea suddenly that
I was impotent.

Tm sorry I'll have to make a telephone call,** I said to the girl,
handing her the fee. 'Til see you some other time."

As we walked out of the place, I wanted to die. And L. gave me
no help. Instead of telling me that my condition was due to the ex-
citement of the moment, he almost led me on to think that there was
something wrong with me; and I, always susceptible to an ugly
thought, became a prey to the idea of impotence.

For days and weeks, the fear tortured me and killed the sex im-
pulse. I wrestled with that negative thought as if I were fighting for
my life. Had I not eventually won, I would never have had the power
to conquer other negations which sprang up like weeds throughout
the years.

Many years after, while reading Matthew Josephson's inspiring
Life of Zola, I came across a sentence that seemed to me the best
guide for mental health and independence. It was this: "Zola dis-
regarded his obsessions." The idea impressed me. I began to see the
humorous as well as the serious side of sex. I learned the conven-
tional predatory procedure. I learned how to disassociate the sexual
act from romance, philosophy and ethics. My success increased, of
course, with my new knowledge.

Late that summer, I met a friend who had attended Chicago
University with me.

"Come up to rny apartment/* he said. Til have a party for you in
honor of our reunion; and 111 have a pretty girl for you too."

Invitations of this kind are usually empty, the promise seldom
fulfilled. In this instance, however, my friend kept his word. For

67

when the party was over, I found myself walking out with a lovely
girl, blonde and hand-picked.

We started toward her hotel, and on arriving there, I discovered
that it was a new kind of structure: an enormous building, about
fifteen stories high, made up exclusively of one and two-room apart-
ments. The tenants of both sexes had the privilege of entertaining
in these small areas which could be changed in a moment from a
living room into a bedroom by simply opening the closet door and
pulling out a Murphy bed or vice versa.

This particular girl's room was very attractive as she had managed,
thriftily and with ingenuity, to supply it with the accommodations of
a large apartment, including even a collapsible miniature bar.

About three in the morning I left her. Ten seconds after I had said
goodnight, I was in a desperate situation. I was surrounded by total
darkness. Large as that hotel was, there wasn't a single exit light to
tell me which way to go. Unable to figure out left from right, I
couldn't even return to the girl's room to ask for a light. All I could
do was wander around blindly, here and there, without making any
headway whatsoever.

Finally, I remembered that a colored elevator boy had taken me
Up on an elevator which must have been at the center of the build-
ing. After what seemed like hours and hours of fruitless groping, I
reached and touched a solid substance that was the metal covering
of the elevator door.

Desperately, I kept searching for the buzzer, finally finding it. But
the discovery was of no help whatsoever, for though I buzzed and
buzzed, no elevator boy or elevator appeared.

I was desperate. What would I do if someone caught me prowling
around the place? How could I explain my presence there? I couldn't
defend myself by saying that I'd been spending the night in some
girl's room. Besides, I was suddenly aware of the fact that I couldn't
even remember the name of the girl.

The sweat poured out of my forehead. Blindly, I kept walking
and walking. Just when I decided to sit down on the floor and spend
the rest of the night in the place, I saw a very thin shaft of light. I
made my way toward it and there I found a fire escape.

Frightening though the distance was to the ground, I resolved to
go down the long flight of steps as quickly as I could. But as I
stepped on the ledge, I made a horrible, heart-sinking discovery:
the steps stopped midway down the building!

What should I do? I felt as if I were in a horrible dream with
safety simultaneously found and lost. Again I looked down and this
time I realized that though the steps extended only halfway down
the building, the weight of my body would make them expand the
remaining distance, like the trick steps used in fraternity initiations.

There was nothing left for me to do now except take my chances.
I started the descent tentatively and as I reached the last step mid-
way, the weight of my body forced the metal down with a terrible
clang.

My one thought then was, what will I say to any policeman who
may meet me when I reach the ground? Fortunately, though, no
policeman was there. I got by, free and unharmed. As I rushed up
the street, I rejoiced that I had saved my prized respectability.

Less than a week later, my mind was occupied suddenly with
matters less personal, but serious in their universal relationship.

Riding home on the Cottage Grove Avenue streetcar one evening,
I saw two men meet on the sidewalk and begin talking. There was a
kind of intensified excitement about their movements that made me
curious.

As the streetcar advanced a block or so further on, I saw the
same thing happen, only this time not two men, but a group of men
gathered at the street corner talking, shouting and gesticulating.

Ten minutes later, the crowds increased alarmingly all along the
way and also my apprehensive curiosity. For there was a kind of
insidious strangeness in their movements that reminded me, for some
reason, of Bulwer-Lytton's description of the eruption of Mt. Vesu-
vius in the Last Days of Pompeii, that moment when the released
lions began to snort at the air, scenting the odor of burning lava that
was soon to spurt forth.

By the time I reached Fifty-third Street, the whole South Side
was seething with turbulence. I jumped off the car, nervous and
worried. Something evil was happening and I could not determine
what it was.

Racial persecution was the cause of the excitement: whites
against blacks. The blacks had been encroaching on the South Side
residential districts by buying buildings and renting apartments.
They were ruining the financial value of a choice neighborhood.

Near the Drexel Caf6, a colored man and his family had been
bombed in their home. That incident started the warfare. It grew
and grew. Murder, stabbings and arson caused a reign of terror.

69

Eventually the city officials bounded whole areas of the South
Side as forbidden territory which whites could not cross and which
blacks could not leave, at the peril of death.

While the rioting was in progress, as I walked down proud, beau-
tiful Michigan Boulevard with its civilized people shopping at
jewelry shops, candy stores and fashionable furriers, there rushed
across the pavement a poor, terror-stricken Negro. After him came
a policeman on horseback, riding roughshod over the sidewalk. My
blood boiled at the inequality of the pursuit As I took a last unwill-
ing look at the fugitive, I heard great bloodthirsty cries of "Get him!"

Then I saw the poor Negro, his eyes staring, his panting mouth
open, strive, in the misery of his desperation, to climb up a telegraph
pole!

While these saddening riots were going on I continued with my
own government work. As Director of Opportunities, a promotion
to a new national leadership, I helped allocate professional men for
specialized service.

Hopes for the end of the war were vague. Casualty lists grew.
Daily, we searched for names of relatives and friends. We read the
headlines while dreading their story. We drank in order to forget
what we couldn't forget. We continued to drink to prevent the flu
which was still taking many lives.

As the months dragged on, we strove to strengthen our hopes of
peace. Disappointment succeeded news of victories. Forecasts ne-
gated theories. Suddenly rumors turned to facts. Hope grew and
after what seemed an eternity there came the announcement of
Armistice Day, first the false day and then the real.

Everyone was on the streets, shouting, dancing, pushing, shoving
and cheering. Paper, paper, paper poured out of the windows. Ber-
serk reaction came with relief!

On the crowded street, I met a girl by the name of Jeanne Barnet
I had known her in Lafayette and never liked her. At that moment,
however, she represented love, humanity, peace, life. I kissed her
kerplunk: a moment later, I lost her in the crowd and never saw
her again! The crowds surged on. Bands played. The war was over!

Soon after, I was back again at my teacher's desk at Purdue Uni-
versity. I, like everyone else, began to put my affairs in order. Inter-
est centered now on normal life, visiting friends, going out to dinner
and reading. My fling at city life was over, I was back again where
I started. For a time I was so glad the war was over that I was con-

70

tented. Then I began to fret about the monotony of a small town
and the unendurable repetition of teaching the same things over and
over again.

One night, while entertaining my family, our host, Solomon Loeb,
said, "Bernard, I think that you should go to New York."

He had voiced the wish of my life. Wishing was easy. Going there
meant having the money and some reason for staying there. Mother
and Lorraine echoed Solomon's suggestion. Even though they re-
alized that my leaving would necessitate sacrifice on their part, they
urged me to go at least for the summer vacation.

So I began to make plans for the trip. Perhaps I could break away
entirely from Lafayette and the university. Perhaps I could make my
living in New York. Perhaps I could write a book.

School closed. I bought a ticket for New York and said goodbye to
all my friends. The night before I left was definitely mine. For the
Country Club committee engaged me to put on a program of one-act
plays which I'd written and directed. For my services I received
twenty-five dollars, twenty-five dollars toward my New York trip.

At 8:30, I opened the program by reading some dialect verse be-
fore the Country Club audience. At 9:00, 1 was putting on a pirated
performance of The Flower Shop, with my student-player proteges.
At 10:30, I presented my own adaption of an O'Henry story, "The
Prince and the Pauper," and at 12:00, I received the final acclaim
of a small-town community leader.

Quite happy, I rushed away from the Country Club to my home,
thoroughly worn out. I started to undress. I reached for my pocket-
book. It was gone! Somehow or other, in working out my miscellane-
ous duties of the evening, I had lost the twenty-five dollars!

The following morning I started out for Indianapolis where I had
hopes of getting a temporary job with the Stuart Walker Players.
Kenyon Nicholson was the manager and he introduced me to Stuart.

Like Jessie Bonstelle, another great producer of hinterland reper-
tory, Stuart was one of the most important forces for good plays in
the American theatre. He established stock companies and overcame
financial difficulties, year after year, carrying out, to a surprising
degree, his fine ideals of what the public should have.

He was one of the exponents of a renaissance movement in the
Theatre that included the Washington Square Players, the Theatre
Guild, and Gordon Craig.

He started with the Portmanteau Players who carried their scenery

71

and costumes in suitcases and other hand baggage and could put on
a play at a moment's notice, in any high school auditorium, town hall
or accessible barn. He was the first stock company manager to cam-
paign for a literate theatre and was the first to present the plays of
Lord Dunsany in America.

Stuart was a star-maker and had, at one time, more than eight
graduates of his company playing, simultaneously, on Broadway,
Among these were Mary Morris, Gregory Kelly, Ruth Gordon, Paul
Kelly, McKay Morris, Blanche Yurka, Elliott Nugent, Norma Lee and
George Gaul.

Walker's theory of acting was based largely on a simple principle:
Make the audience believe. His teaching concept was similar to that
of the Moscow school: coordinating associated arts like modern
Delsarte, voice placement, dancing, and fencing.

When I told Stuart that I wanted to join his company in any de-
partment that he could find a place for me, he sat down and talked.
He described, poignantly, as if he were communing with himself,
the heartbreaks of a professional stage career.

"Don't stay here though," he said as he brought his talk to an end.
"If you want to be connected with the theatre, go on to New York."

I went to the station and started out for the greatest city in the
world.

72

CHAPTER 4

I Become a New Yorker for Good

As

I stepped off the train at Grand Central Station and looked
around me, I saw a gloomy series of trains and tracks with an am-
bient roof and a long covered passage leading to the exits and wait-
ing rooms. There, behind the ropes, stood the only person I knew
in the whole great city, Lee Goebel, a college chum and a former
Purdue football hero.

"I'm going to take you to the frat house to live," he said. "It's op-
posite Columbia University. You'll enjoy all the privileges at fra-
ternity rates and meet some fine men. The university, you know, is
on Broadway/'

The idea of an educational institution on the Gay White Way sur-
prised me, but I was to learn from that minute on that New York
owes some of its success to its disregard for incongruities.

That night I slept at the Phi Gamma Delta fraternity and the next
morning I rushed eagerly to the window. There I saw Columbia
University, the great wide steps leading to the library, the areas of
green campus, the statues, the marginal expanse of dormitories and
halls, the trees and the paths.

73

I hurried to breakfast and then barged into room after room.

"Can you tell me where to find a job?" I asked every man whom I
had met the night before. They took my request as a matter of course
and gave me names, addresses and directions.

Then, and for days following, I started out looking for work with-
out knowing one street from another. I took the wrong subway
trains, expresses that shot me past local stations. I ran into people of
all sorts. I met courtesy, indifference and suspicion. But I kept right
on going, seeing the city on the run, glimpsing the high buildings,
drinking in the sounds and movement of cars, buses and the elevated.

What kind of job I wanted, I didn't know, for the simple reason
that I hadn't any conception of what I could do. What I did know
was that I didn't want to teach. I was ashamed to say that I was a
teacher, because I thought it indicated lack of business know-
how.

One employment agency signed me up, gave me an interview,
took my fee. Another rejected me. Still another told me, generously,
that I could get free employment service if I were an alumnus of
Columbia University.

Thanks to this tip, I went straight to the Columbia University Em-
ployment Service which undertook to find me a job even though I
wasn't a Columbia graduate. Similarly helpful was the university
housing department which found me a decent living place within my
means; that is, a room for about five dollars a week.

I could have paid more as I had a reserve fund of about $7000
in U.S. Steel and several hundred dollars in cash, but I resolved to
hold this amount intact, if I could do so, and to live on as little as
possible until I got a job.

My experiences in this respect were much the same as those of
most people. I filled out application blanks and waited for hours in
offices. I spent nickel after nickel on the subway and in telephoning
to my landlady, fearing that while away from my room, someone had
called me.

My first job was incredibly colorful, exploiting a priest who had.
made a motion picture of pygmies in Africa. The priest must have
been a high church official, for when he took me to lunch at the
Commodore my first visit to a big New York hotel almost every
waiter in the great dining room saluted him.

The job came to an end after three days, as a result of a combina-
tion of circumstances that had to do with the approval of the Church

74

and the machinations of the film companies. My pay amounted to
fifteen dollars.

This money I showed proudly that night to "Gabe" and Arthur
Showalter, another Purdue Phi Gam. So we celebrated by going to
Keen's Chop House, where I almost keeled over looking at old play-
bills with the assorted names and titles of Richard Mansfield, Clara
Morris, John Drew, Ada Rehan, Hoyt's Texas Steer, The Black Crook
and Charleys Aunt.

"Bernard," said "Gabe" during the meal, "Arthur and I have de-
cided to give you a New York party. We Fijis have, as you know, a
ceremonial function called the Pig Dinner, the important event of
the fraternity year which is open only to members of the fraternity.
You've been with Purdue Phi Gams many years. You've practically
lived at the Purdue Chapter House; and you're such a warm friend
that we've decided to break tradition. We're going to have a Pig
Dinner all to ourselves, just the three of us. We'll meet you at the
national headquarters downtown. Write down the address and the
date and be there promptly."

Having made this rather elaborate statement, the two of them
looked at each other with a great deal of satisfaction. Gratefully, I
thanked them.

On the specified date, according to directions, I rang the doorbell
of the national Phi Gam headquarters on 55th Street, happily ex-
pectant, yet somewhat intimidated at the noncommittal exterior of
the structure and by the knowledge that it symbolized the activities
of one of the greatest fraternities in the country.

After a moment or so, the door opened and a young man whom I
didn't know said, <c Hello, Bernie. Glad to see you. Will you please
take the turn to the left and walk through the door at the landing?"

Surprised and pleased at this hospitable salutation, I went to the
next door and here again, another young man, also a stranger,
greeted me with the words, "Hello, Bernie. Glad to see you. Won't
you go upstairs?"

As directed, I walked upstairs and found myself alone in the cor-
ridor, standing before a closed door and feeling as if I were being
initiated. I knocked on the door and it opened.

The next moment there was a great shouting and a hullabaloo;
and before I knew it, I was being lifted up in the air and carried
around the room. As I looked at the faces of the men carrying me,
it seemed as if I were in a dream, a wonderful dream. For I rec-

75

ognized faces of the past and the present, the friends that I loved
throughout college days: "Shine'' Geupel, "Nev" Foster, "Bobbie"
Byron, Wilson Miller and others, boys from east and west, from one
class and another. They had all assembled here for the Pig Dinner,
and they had all known that I was to be the guest of honor. That was
the surprise, the kind of surprise that comes to few men, one that
would help dissolve much of the pain, misunderstanding and mis-
interpretation that saddened the years to come.

We ate. We drank. There were toasts. It was a party royal.

The next morning, the gaiety forgotten, my drab job-hunt began
again, a seemingly hopeless hunt. When I was most discouraged I
received concrete help, a letter from Sylvia Newman's niece Flor-
ence, Mrs. George Hamlin Shaw, later national president of the
Travelers Aid Society. The letter was addressed to Earl Carroll, then
a Broadway boy wonder and the producer of a current play, Daddy
Dumplins.

I grabbed up the letter and tried to see Carroll for several weeks,
never finding him in. But when I did meet him, he was gracious and
impressed me with his sincere wish to help me. He had nothing for
me then, however, and as I walked out of his office regretfully, I
wondered if he or anyone would ever call me.

Returning home, I found two letters, one from Purdue and the
other from Indiana, both asking me to come back to my teacher's
desk. Out of a job and with no prospects whatsoever, the temptation
to return to security was strong, yet I conquered it by writing letters
of resignation to both schools. My bridges were burned now; and
my search took on real anxiety, anxiety that soon made me jittery,
for in spite of all my applications, I couldn't get permanent work.

By the end of summer all my money was gone, except the reserve
fund in U.S. Steel, and using that meant endangering my family's
future. Only one course was now open. In spite of my resignations,
I decided that I would have to return home and try to get back again
into at least one of the universities.

The last day of my quest came in August when I had just enough
money left to pay for my meals, room and return fare home. Though
heartbroken over my failure, I still had a childish desire to do one
thing before I left town-see Coney Island. I felt, country-like, that
I couldn't go home and tell my friends that I hadn't seen that famous
amusement place.

76

So I walked up to one of the sight-seeing buses at Times Square
and stood there staring, reluctant to spend one dollar for the trip. I
didn't know then that I could have gone to the amusement park on
the subway for a nickel. I didn't know that simple fact, it is true, yet
if I had known, the entire course of my life would have been changed
and the lives of my family.

"Hurry up," cried the barker, walking up to me. "Buy your
tickets here/*

"How soon are you leaving?" I inquired, anxious to get going.

"Immediately," he replied. "Immediately. See, these people are also
in a hurry."

I looked and, sure enough, there were already three or four men
and women in the bus, waiting for it to start. Fearing that the driver
would go without me, I paid my dollar and jumped in, expecting to
speed off at once. But nothing happened. We just sat there and
waited. Finally, I went into a kind of metaphysical trance:

"Here I am," I said to myself, "seeking pleasure again. Going to
Coney Island when my heart is breaking. I'm a failure. I can't get
a city job. I'm impractical. All that I can do is think about the foot-
lights and entertainment. What's going to happen to me? I don't
want to live any more!"

By this time, about ten people were in the bus and the barker was
calling urgently to the passersby, trying to coax them in. I continued
my meditations:

"How ashamed I'll be to meet my friends when I return! What's
the matter with me, anyway? Why can't . . . ."

As I looked out the bus window, I thought I saw a familiar face.
The next moment I leaped out of the bus and to the street shouting:
"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Andrews. Charlton Andrews!"

The man turned around and, sure enough, he was Charlton An-
drews, once my English teacher in the Lafayette high school. He had
made a fine career for himself since I'd known him; written at least
one novel and the play, Bluebeard and His Eighth Wife.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Looking for a job," I answered. "Can you help me get one?"

"Let me see," he said, apparently not at all surprised at the abrupt-
ness of my request. "Certainly, if I can do anything, I'll be. . . ."

I started to explain and as I did so, I felt somebody tugging at my
arm. I looked around and saw the barker.

"We're starting now," he announced.

77

"Oh, I don't want to go," I said, brushing him off, disturbed and
embarrassed that my former school teacher should find me going to
a child's amusement place.

"Go ahead, Bernard," he said. "Why don't you? You can meet me
tomorrow."

"Oh, it's only a trip to Coney Island," I started to explain. "I felt
that I couldn't return home without seeing it."

"Certainly you should. Besides, I have an idea. You go up to
Theatre Magazine and tell them that I sent you. Perhaps they'll
give you a chance to write some reviews. The compensation is two
tickets free for the show. No money, however. Ask for Arthur Horn-
blow, the editor. Go there tomorrow."

With that suggestion he went away and I returned to the bus. The
ride to Coney Island and what I saw of the place I can't remember
because everything was so glossed over with hope and wishing.

At ten-thirty the next day, I was standing in front of Theatre
Magazine office, waiting for Mr. Hornblow. When he arrived, I met
a model editor, distinguished in manner and appearance: an English-
man, shrewd and competent. He looked me over, his mood definitely
disagreeable and his attitude unfriendly.

After a brief talk, I discovered that he had mistaken me for some-
one he disliked. I, finally, succeeded in explaining that Charlton An-
drews had sent me and that a year or two before, Theatre Magazine
had published my piece on the movies.

"Oh, I remember now," Mr. Hornblow said hastily, "We'll be
glad to have you review plays for us, occasionally. Give me your
name and address/'

I did so, all the time realizing that by the time that he'd call me up,
the telephone number would no longer be mine and that I'd be gone.

I can see him now as he stood there, rising to extend his hand, then
stopping a moment, evidently to consider some passing idea.

"I say, Sobel," he said, slowly, "can you manage the typewriter?"

"Pretty well, with two or three fingers."

"Well, my secretary's away now and will be away for two or three
weeks. If you want to take his place, you may do so. The job won't
last longer than that. I'll give you twenty-five dollars a week."

"Agreed," I said, so happy at the offer of a job that I could scarcely
speak.

And that's how I happened to remain in New York City. Those
fifty dollars for two weeks' work tided me over for two weeks more.

78

The association with the magazine gave me half a dozen contacts
with other people and publications. I had a start.

After the two weeks were over, however, getting a regular income
was again a serious matter, for I couldn't carry on much longer liv-
ing from hand to mouth. My temperament wasn't geared to that sort
of thing.

But more trouble was in store for me. One night, as I was eating
a fifty cent table d'hote dinner in a delicatessen, I saw a headline
which read: "E. W. Wagner Commits Suicide!"

Hastily, I called for my check and rushed to a newsstand and
read the story. It confirmed the headline. E. W. Wagner had killed
himself; and the last thing that I had done before leaving home was
to entrust his firm with all my U.S. Steel stock!

This was the final catastrophe. I was desperate. Whether or not
I would ever get back my stock I didn't know. Without this reserve
fund, I would now have to take any kind of work that I could find
and at once.

Desperate I turned to the Help Wanted section of the paper. In
all the columns there was only one job I could fill, one which I hated,
a part-time teaching position, evenings. If I could only get that, I
could continue looking all day for other jobs, and be certain, at the
same time, of a small income.

Resolutely, I inquired my way to the address given, somewhere in
Brooklyn, and boarded a crowded subway which took me there after
what seemed hours and hours of riding.

Arrived finally at the number given, I rang the bell and waited
anxiously. After several minutes, a fattish man, with a very round
head, shiny face, red cheeks and small suspicious gray eyes, opened
the door.

"You've come to see about teaching my son?' he said. 'Tm very
glad. I have a wonderful son and I need an excellent teacher."

Courteously, he led me into the front parlor, a room glittering with
expensive furniture, oriental rugs and quantities of bric-a-brac. He
motioned me to a seat; then sat down and began telling me about
his offspring.

"He's an extraordinary boy and there is no doubt about it. Never-
theless, for some reason he doesn't make good progress at school. The
teachers don't seem to understand him. But such a head for figures
I've never seen. A genius. If you're the right type of teacher, I'll make
it well worth your while."

79

By this time, I was getting thoroughly impatient, eager to see the
boy and to learn whether he'd like me well enough for his father to
engage me.

The sound of a door interrupted my thoughts and simultaneously
a maid entered the room, leading the boy by the hand. He was about
eleven years old, the physical counterpart of his father, with a head
that was just a little too large for the rest of his body. His eyes met
mine with a sly, unfriendly look, and he edged into the corner as if
unwilling to talk to me.

In the ensuing silence, the father seemed to appraise my feelings
and the boy's. Then, spurred on by some planned intention, he said,
"Charlie, speak to this gentleman. He's a teacher. Perhaps, he'll be
yours, if you're a good boy."

Charlie paid no attention whatsoever to this suggestion. Instead
his face became more set and his expression more sullen.

"I suppose he's tired tonight," the father explained. "School tires
him, especially the unsympathetic teachers. Maybe, though, I can
get him to do some arithmetic for us."

He motioned to the boy and said, "Charlie, add up 654, 734, 832,
845, 811 and 299."

The boy's expression changed instantly. His features tightened.
His dull eyes lighted up, and in a flash he gave the answer.

Without trying to add up the large sum myself, I felt sure that it
was correct. For somewhere in my experience in the theatre, I had
seen a similar mathematical phenomenon, a man apparently on the
verge of idiocy, who had to be led on and off the stage, but who
could juggle all sorts of large sums as if he were an adding machine,

I voiced my astonishment over the boy's ability; whereupon the
father induced his son to give several further demonstrations.
Nothing else happened. The boy left the room and his father wished
me goodnight, declaring that he would send word within the week
about my fitness for the position.

I walked out of that house thoroughly dejected over the drab out-
look and the lost hours. My future was at the mercy of an idiot. I took
the crowded subway again.

Unaccustomed to this kind of travel, and standing for miles, I be-
gan to feel sickish. Someone pushed against me. I looked up angrily,
but the eyes I met were apologetic and friendly, the eyes of a studi-
ous-looking young man with books under his arm.

I asked him if I was on the right car for New York and he assured

80

me that I was. Instead of thanking him I told himI don't know why,
except that I must have had a desperate need to talk to someone
about my troubles in looking for a job and my experience with the
imbecile boy.

"Why don't you go to the College of the City of New York and ask
for a teaching job?"

"Do you think/' I asked, surprised at the suggestion, "that they'd
take me in a big school like that?''

"Certainly," he replied. "You say that you've already been a mem-
ber of university faculties. That's a good reference. Besides, the col-
lege is always taking on new people. I'd go up there tomorrow if I
were you. See the president himself, Dr. Frederick Robinson."

"Ill do that," I said mechanically, not really intending to try for
something that seemed so far beyond me. Nevertheless, the next
morning I went to the college where, without any trouble whatso-
ever, I met the president. His eyes twinkled and his blonde goatee
emphasized his latent humor. He talked to me sympathetically, took
my word about credentials and experience, and said in the simplest
manner possible:

"Go see Mr. Howard Green tomorrow. He's head of the night
school English Department. Tell him that I sent you. You'll find him
a little difficult at first, but it will work out."

And so it did. I saw Howard Green, a tired-looking, smooth-faced,
high-tensioned teacher, who questioned me solemnly, then engaged
me, pronto, as an instructor. On. the paper he handed me was my
schedule: four classes, two at 6:30 P.M., Mondays, and two at 8:30
P.M. on Thursdays.

Before I had a chance to exult over my good fortune, I was teach-
ing four nights a week, with an assured salary of twenty dollars, every
seven days: money for bed, food and laundry; and for time during
the day for job-hunting.

The college was a new kind of educational world, quite different
from the universities. The students, mostly adults, instead of talking
about swank clothes, t sports, "frat" dances and "getting by," took
education as a vital necessity, colored with opportunity, enjoyment
and inspiration.

Classes were held at Lexington Avenue and Twenty-third Street

in the old overcrowded Commerce Building which looked like a fire

* trap. The students were American and foreign, all ages, shapes and

81

sizes, many untidy and hungry-looking. Most of them were too in-
tense to bother much about manners; and if an instructor didn't give
them full service, they complained to the authorities.

Happily, I made good and, as a result, stayed on for five years, long
after there was any financial need for doing so. But my early days of
uncertainty had made me so concerned about poverty that I was
afraid to give up the job, even when I was making a large salary.

Almost every pupil was an individual, with a challenging need for
direction. This direction I was able to supply in one or two happy
instances.

During the winter semester, the old New York World ran an
amateur literary contestone dollar for the best short piece entitled
"My Most Interesting Experience/*

Holding a copy of this announcement, one of my students, a man
in his forties, came up to my desk at the end of the class period. He
was a Rumanian, emaciated, his eyes penetrating, his look feverish.

"What's the matter with me, Mr. Sobel?" he asked. "I was a writer
in Rumania and a good one. I wrote many pieces for the magazines
and got paid for them. Here, I can't do a thing. I can't even get hon-
orable mention on these one-dollar contests."

I took the announcement and read it over. Then I pointed out the
American way of writing, and some devices for catching and holding
attention.

The student listened attentively, applied the suggestions, and at
the end of the following week came to me, displaying proudly a dol-
lar check. After that, the checks came regularly, enough of them,
finally, to pay almost half of his tuition.

While I was helping others, important help came to me from a
new and happy source. Among the teachers at the City College was
a man named Arthur Chapman, novelist and poet, and father of John
Chapman, the dramatic critic. His kindness was unusual, for he
sought me out deliberately to lend me a hand.

"Why don't you write something for the New York papers," he
asked me.

"Because I'm new here," I said. *1 don't know anyone/'

"That's easily solved," he said. 'Til have you meet Arthur Folwell,
dramatic editor of the New York Tribune Magazine Section."

True to his word, Mr. Chapman introduced me to Arthur Folwell,
one of the finest men I've ever known and one of the most beloved in

82

the newspaper world, distinguished for his early recognition of H. C.
Bunner, Joel Sayre and other authors.

"What would you like to write for me?" he asked, graciously.

"About the desserts of New York," I replied. "There are so many
kinds of people here and so many different kinds of food that I think
that the subject would be interesting."

"Go to it/' he said. "Get the story ready for me at once, but don't
run up too big an expense account/'

Expense account! I had never thought of such a boon. I soon
found, though, that without money, the problem of tasting parf aits,
French pastry, pies, ices and bombes was expensive. As a matter of
fact, in order to pay for the sweets in my article, I had to omit the
entree and give the waiter the impression that I had already eaten
my main course somewhere else.

In the enormous kitchen of the Astor Hotel, however, I was lucky,
for the chef handed me a dessert equivalent to what they used to call
a complete repast: a combination of banana, ice cream, nuts,
whipped cream and cake that assuaged my hunger for hours.

The reward for writing the article, in addition to the check, was
the stray facts I learned through talking with Greeks, Frenchmen,
Armenians, Poles and Italians.

My home was then in a brownstone front at Twenty-third Street
in a district called Chelsea. My room was five flights up; whenever
the telephone rang, I scrambled desperately down all those steps,
afraid that I'd lose the call before I got to the hall below.

At the same time I looked anxiously also through the mail, espe-
cially for letters that came from the Sun. That paper ran a back page
column called "The Suns Rays," a collection of human interest
pieces that made entertaining reading on bus and subway. The col-
umn was a blessing to me, for whenever I met with something un-
usual, Td write a brief piece about it If sold, it brought a check at
space rates.

Hundreds of beginning writers used this department to get money
and gain recognition, for sometimes a succession of pieces resulted
in a definite assignment.

The source of my best copy was Frank Polliver whenever
I could find him at home. That was often a difficult spot to lo-
cate because it changed frequently overnight, according to secret
circumstances and possibly legal complications. Sometimes he lived

83

in a small hotel, sometimes in a side-street walk-up, but no matter
where he lived, his place, always freshly decorated, served as an
hospitable rendezvous for politicians, military and naval officers,
nondescripts, stray girls and mild, self-effacing married couples.

Frank's weight must have surpassed three hundred pounds. His
huge belly, decorated usually with a large apron, jutted into every-
body's way when he was not in the kitchen cooking gefulte fish,
broiling filet mignon or dropping canned asparagus into a hot skillet,
coated with melted butter.

His spirits were gargantuan. His voice boomed. He distributed
portions of food so prodigal that his guests begged him to hold off.
Occasionally, he would stop cooking or serving long enough to tell
some personal experience or to force a well-to-do guest to contribute
to one of his charities. Whatever he did and no matter how he did it,
Frank never stopped helping others, acting as a liaison agent, getting
people appointments for jobs and auditions for radio.

His speech was often foul, yet Rabelaisian. His was the fertile
mood of outdoor nature caged in architecture. He was greasy, robust
and a kind of living replica of the circus owner in Gus, the Great.

After lunch, one day, he told me this story about his scufflings with
the law:

A young boy who belonged to a very poor family was riding a
bicycle early one morning when he collided, somehow, with a truck
and was run over and killed. There were no witnesses to the accident
and no possibilities of ever finding out who was responsible.

"The case/' Frank explained, "was unusual and it tickled my im-
agination for two reasons: I wanted to get some money for the boy's,
family and to pin the accident on a firm that could pay well. For sev-
eral days I studied the trucks that went by, and among them was a

series of five trucks from , That was enough for me. They

could pay. But I had to be sure that one of these trucks was active on
the day of the accident. Two of them, I found, weren't working at
that time so they had to be eliminated. That left only three trucks for
the particular day.

"There was only one thing for me to do then," continued Frank,
"and that was to pin the accident on the last two. But which two?

"In order to answer this question, I visited the district where the
accident occurred and began to study the boys who were playing
there. Finally, I picked out one of them because he looked unusually
stupid.

84

" Tfou're a bright boy,* I said. 'What do you know about that bi-
cycle accident that happened around here a few days ago?

<<c Nothin?

* 1 see. Well, I want you to tell me about it or youll know the
reason why. Speak up if you don't want to get hurt. It was the last
truck, wasn't it?' I mentioned the number slowly. It was that num-
ber, wasn't it?*

"The boy looked up proudly and turned to the other kids. 'Didn't
I tell you,' he said, 'that it was the last truck?'

"After repeating the number several times so that it sunk into his

head, I went secretly to the garage, took some grease from the

wheel of the truck and rubbed into it a lock of the boy's hair which
I contrived to get from the morgue.

"When I had uncovered this phony evidence, I went to the Police
Department. There we found, of course, that the boy's hair matched
the hair which was stuck in the grease of the truck belonging to the
Company.

"We won the case. The boy's family got his share. It was a worthy
charity. That's my specialty. But I got my share also, of course. The
work was worth it. 5 *

When I heard that story almost thirty years ago, I was horrified.
Since then, the details, far excelled in ingenuity and criminality, are
routine features of radio, television, play and picture.

Another topic that I used for "The Sun's Rays" column was the
dexterous method for collecting money employed by professional
cripples. I wrote a piece about the deformed men and the half-men
who crawl along the sidewalks. Though the law forbids this type of
mendicancy, two or three shrewd ones have been working this racket
along Broadway for almost thirty years, averaging daily a definite
number of dollars to the city block. They bribe the precinct police to
let them work without interruptions and carry on, unmolested by
the law.

One of these beggars has a chauffeur who brings him, at conveni-
ent hours, hot coffee and choice meals. When his day is over, he re-
tires to his automobile which is specially constructed to accommo-
date his deformed body. Then, his pockets bulging with money, he
spends the evening in the brothels.

For many months I continued writing stories for the Sun. Then a
new chance to make money came through an advertisement of a
funeral director, who wanted a new advertising agent.

85

The original writer had caused a sensation with his treatment of
this solemn subject. My hopes at succeeding him were based on the
fact that when I was attending Chicago University, a man who pub-
lished a trade publication on coffins had asked me to write some
pieces at two cents a word.

I showed the man in charge of the funeral advertising department
a few samples of my work.

He looked them over and said, "This is exactly the type of thing
we've been using, and exactly the type of thing we don't want. We've
decided to change our entire campaign."

Just as I started to leave, he stopped me right at the door. "Where
do you live?"

"On Twenty-third Street."

"It's a bad neighborhood," he remarked succinctly.

At that moment, I learned, for the first time, the value of a good
New York address; and I resolved that I would get out of Twenty-
third Street as quickly as my funds would permit.

While wondering where I should go next, I met Mark Vance, a
writer on Variety and a friend from home. His years in New York,
bucking up against life, had not changed his character one jot. He
was still naive, genuine and persevering.

He took me to the offices of the Dramatic Mirror. His relation to
that famous old magazine thrilled me, and the chance to do occa-
sional articles seemed wonderful. I didn't know then that it had be-
come a strictly commercial sheet and was nearing the rocks. When I
heard that the cover of the magazine had been bought for a picture
of a well-known actress, I got my first shock about the inner work-
ings of some publications.

86

CHAPTERS

for Earl Carroll

B

'Y the end of the month, I was considered a regular member of the
staff, sometimes working for nothing and sometimes at space rates.
With a publication in back of me, I had a certain influence. So I
rushed over to Earl Carroll to write some pieces about him and his
failing play, The Lady of the Lamp. Because of this production, Car-
roll vaulted suddenly into spectacular prominence. To the astonish-
ment of everyone, he violated Broadway's fitness of things by turning
on his first friendly sponsor, A. H. Woods. In an advertisement he
declared that Woods had done him an injustice in not properly sup-
porting the production.

Several weeks later, noting my efforts, Clarence Jacobson, Car-
roll's general manager, said, "Why, this Sobel is getting more stuff
for us than our regular press agent/'

His observation fell on attentive ears. Two weeks later, the long
hoped-for telephone call came. It was from Earl Carroll.

"I want you to come to work for me, Sobel," he said, "as my press
agent. Ill give you fifty dollars a week."

"Ill be down to the office at once/' I cried, wildly happy.

87

I didn't know anything then about publicity in New York. I be-
lieved, though, that I had a great deal of feeling for the theatre and
that as soon as I got on to the run of things, I could turn out readable
copy.

Carroll, however, had already anticipated that I needed help; and
when I arrived at the office, he called in a young fellow with a clear
pallid skin, scrupulously neat, and wearing a black derby hat that
gave him height.

"This is Mike Goldreyer," said Carroll. "Hell teach you how to
make the rounds of the papers."

Just what that meant I didn't know until Mike had led me from
one New York paper to another and introduced me to the dramatic
editors, including Heywood Broun at the World, who impressed me
as a slovenly newspaper man with noticeably soiled hands.

Not long after, Broun began to grow in popularity. He wrote
pieces and appeared in plays. He engaged in controversies. He did
the courageous thing, a thing that protesting writers seldom do, when
he left the World because he didn't agree with its policy in regard to
the Sacco-Vanzetti case.

For a time Broun was in a somewhat bad way, and that serious in-
terval gave me a chance to do him a service. I recommended him for
the position of dramatic critic on the New York Theatre Program,
where he presented his original comments about the footlights with
his customary skill.

After introducing me to Broun, Mike took me over to the New
York Herald Tribune to consult Harriet Underbill about a piece.

"She's always in love with a juvenile," Goldreyer told me. As a
matter of fact this interesting and likeable woman loved not only
juveniles, but also the entire theatre. She had no prejudices and no
inhibitions. Because she always wrote what she felt like saying, she
was under constant editorial surveillance. Yet she managed, occa-
sionally, to slip in double-entendres and wisecracks so bawdy that
the paper was embarrassed. She wrote her pieces in longhand and
used space lavishly.

Harriet and I became friends quickly and she began taking me to
parties for the early movie stars.

One of these 111 never forget. It was given by Mrs, Bacardi just
divorced from the rum king. The guests included Ramon Navarro,
Bebe Daniels, and a number of Spanish notables. The movie stars
stayed in one room and the Spanish guests in another.

88

During the evening, Mrs. Bacardi took several favored guests aside
and showed them something of which she was evidently very proud
a scrapbook of clippings concerning her divorce from Bacardi.

As I look back now on Harriet, I wish that I had given more atten-
tion to her story. Her admiration for personable young men and her
adulation of screen stars, as expressed in the Tribune, helped develop
the delirium of early motion picture star worship. For Harriet, there
was only one life worth living, being a part of Broadway. When she
learned that she had tuberculosis and was advised to move to Arizona
to prolong her life, she refused, preferring earlier death in the glow
of the white lights to the salutary force of the out-of-doors.

The first day I went to work for Carroll is associated with memo-
ries that are imperishable. For on that day I stood alone for the
first time in an empty theatre at that zero hour before the staff comes
to work and the play goes on. It seemed a natural happening: walk-
ing on accustomed ground. The enormous space before me had only
a single sphere of light to give me frugal guidance: the pilot light that
always stands on the bare stage. Yet I felt no confusion. The great
walls were friendly with memories of what happened when the play
was on and with anticipation of what would continue to happen.
Here was the land of wish fulfillment, laughter and tears, the en-
joyable suspense that tides over anxiety and pain.

By the time that I was with Carroll a week, I was writing press
stories about him: how he started his career as a poverty-stricken
usher in a Pittsburgh theatre and how he managed to take a trip
around the world. Reaching China, he edited some sort of paper
there and became an enthusiast about Chinese objets d'art. Then
he returned to New York, wrote a song "Dreams of Long Ago," with
Enrico Caruso, won a commission in the Air Service, and turned out
a musical comedy called So Long Letty, with Charlotte Greenwood.

Much of his leisure time I shared, making the rounds of the
theatres, dining with him and visiting his friends. Often, too, he used
to take me to the Lambs Club where he'd buy me the club luncheon
which I, still without salary and short-rationed, devoured.

Among the friends we visited was Lenore Ulric, who went motor-
ing with us in Central Park, with make-up on her fingers, a holdover
from the performance of the night before. He also introduced me to
Evelyn Nesbit Thaw.

That was about thirty years ago when the history of the Stanford
White murder in which Evelyn figured was still a remembered scan-

89

dal. White, according to Dixon Wecter, was one of the three great
American society architects of that era.

Evelyn married Harry K. Thaw, a millionaire, and his mother ac-
cepted her socially. But some psychological quirk aroused a jealousy
in Thaw that led him to kill the architect.

Because of the recency of the crime, I felt that I didn't want to
meet Evelyn, that I was intruding on her personal tragedy. Her face
conformed to all requirements of rare beauty. Large eyes, regular
nose, lovely lips. Though she smiled and talked with animation, I
felt all the while that a handsome mask was speaking. The spirit had
burned out. She was running a tea shop, and her conversation was
arty, full of cliches, and about paintings and tapestries.

Then, for no particular reason, she changed the subject and ex-
plained that she was angry because her little pet dog which had just
died couldn't be buried in the canine cemetery with an appropriate
tombstone.

That Evelyn had a brother, I didn't know until I met him one day
in her tearoom. He was a meek little fellow, a salesman.

"It's a shame the way people treat Evelyn," he complained. "She
gave one man a solid gold watch chain studded with diamonds. If he
would just give her back one link right now, he could help her out.
But no, nothing doing."

Carroll took me, also, to meet Marjorie Rambeau and her actor-
husband, Hugh Dillman, who later married Mrs. Horace E. Dodge
and became the social arbiter of Palm Beach.

In Marjorie's dressing room was a woman who was continuously
busy doing chores and confirming Marjorie's opinions. Every time
that the star asked for something, the woman supplied the want.
When Marjorie expressed a doubt about her abilities, the woman
praised them. If Marjorie mentioned the condition of her health, the
woman declared, for Miss Rambeau's edification, that she never
looked better.

That was my first encounter with an actor's yes-man, male or fe-
male, the faithful Achates, whom some well-to-do players carry with
them to help them believe that they are gods. Without this function-
ary, the stars might be greater artists or even failures. Perhaps, too,
they might be more human. There have been many of these faithful
ones throughout the years, some of the most famous being Lowell
Sherman's valet; Talullah Bankhead's secretary, Eadie; Al Jolson's
constant companion, Harry Wardell; Fannie Brice's laughmaker,

90

Roger Davis; and Marilyn Miller's hefty "Mecca" who used to carry
her on and off the stage, at rehearsals, as if she were an infant.

Texas Guinan was another of Carroll's friends. She was an out-
standing figure during the Prohibition era, a night club queen who
addressed her patrons as "suckers" and exploited her entertainers
with the words, "Give this little girl a hand."

Texas grew to know me so well that when my father and mother
came to New York, she entertained them at her club. Characteristi-
cally, Texas directed all the attention toward mother. Every time that
anything would happen, Texas would cry, "How did you like that,
mother? How was that, mother? Did that please you, mother?"

The attention, though very flattering, was to have its repercussions.
A week after, when mother and I went to see Carmen at the Metro-
politan Opera House, we made the customary lobby promenade, dur-
ing the first intermission.

All of a sudden we saw a woman rush up to a man, grab him by
the arm and cry, "Look, Charlie, there's mother from Texas Guinan's ."

The incident struck me as so funny that I wrote it up and sent it
to the old Life magazine, which straightway published it and sent
me a five-dollar check.

The story of Texas Guinan has been told, I believe, in songs and
films, but my own sidelight on her career partakes of the incongru-
ous. Though she spent practically most of her time in the de-natured
atmosphere of a night club, when her work was over, I have heard
that she sank into a bed covered with multiple pillows, amid heavy
hangings, perfumed dolls and bric-a-brac. Doubtless, too, the win-
dows were closed for fear that a gust of fresh air would contaminate
the odor of greasepaint.

Fresh air was what Carroll and I sought when the day's work was
over. We would leave the office, hail a bus and have a carefree time
sitting atop, talking over plans.

"Some day," he promised, "I'll have a theatre of my own. It will be
a wonderful structure, not a barn like some of these New York the-
atres. It will have decent dressing rooms for actors and many new
arrangements. You'll realize your writing ambitions, also, Bernie. Ill
have a place in the building where you can live. You can work for
me and write also."

What a promise! No wonder that I centered all my energies on his
success. My immediate concern was Mr. Will R. Edrington, his finan-
cial backer, a handsome, bronzed Texas millionaire, cultured and

91

conservative. He met Carroll through the character actor, Maclyn
Arbuckle, when he was starring in Daddy Dumplins; and from that
day on Edrington was interested in Carroll's idea of a theatre.

Cleverly, also, Carroll saw to it that Edrington did not forget that
idea, for he had me follow the banker everywhere he went with
newspaper and magazine articles. If Edrington went to his home in
Texas, he would find a piece in the local paper that I had planted
therean article extolling Carroll. If Edrington went to California,
he would find in his hotel an article about Carroll discussing what a
modern playhouse structure should be. I invented stories. I made
Carroll a kind of superman.

Happily, Edrington built the theatre and Carroll became a po-
tential Broadway power, confident and sure of his perquisites. If he
missed an early telephone call from Edrington or his family, I
would be troubled, but Carroll would say:

"Don't worry. I can do as I please. I'm afraid of no one. There are
no strings attached to this deal. I'll have the best theatre in New
York. The others are barns."

Day by day, I watched the plans grow and, day by day, my won-
derment grew. I was to be a part of a fine new structure. I was to
have a permanent place in the theatre world and, perhaps, even a
permanent home in the new building. What a change after a hall
bedroom! My days bulged with happiness. I became so familiar with
the plans that I, who knew nothing whatsoever about technical archi-
tecture, described the structure clearly enough for a feature article in
the Scientific American.

The dedication of the theatre was unusual. The entire membership
of the Lambs took part in an afternoon celebration which started at
the club headquarters. Here the members, stars, playwrights and
producers, led by a brass band, started a parade to the playhouse
where Prohibition liquor soon made the guests gay and "high."

The dedication was my first big publicity stunt, and it went off
perfectly. But the next morning, in reviewing the event, Bide Dudley
of the Evening World, still inspired by the refreshments of the pre-
ceding day, wrote: "Credit is due the press agent, Arthur 'Narcissus'
Kober."

All my hard work was credited to another press agentl
No sooner was the Carroll theatre completed than Mr. Edrington
called to invite me to a cocktail party at his new home on Park Ave-
nue. After introducing me to his guests, he showed me around the

92

place, an apartment which he had bought from Mrs. Duke, of the
tobacco family.

"I struck a bargain," he said. "Mrs. Duke spent ten thousand on
that little electric light system concealed behind the molding; and I
got the whole place for not too much more than that. There are doz-
ens of tiny bulbs here and in the miniature flower house in the
lobby."

Ten thousand dollars for electric lights! My education was con-
tinuing. I had my first glimpse into the home life and needs of the
superlatively rich.

"I hope, Bernie," said Edrington as I started to leave, "that youll
look over Carroll's script and see that it has no mistakes in English."

"I couldn't do that," I replied. "Mr. Carroll is a kind of natural
genius, self-trained. Let him make his blunders. He'll do the better
for them, I'm sure. His natural abilities will get him by."

And that's the way I worked with Carroll. Unless I could give him
guidance indirectly, without cramping his style, I never gave him
any. Only once was I forced to come out in the open with a correc-
tion, an incident that led to hot words on his part.

The completed theatre symbolized his highest ideals in life. So,
after helping him arrange an elaborate program for the opening, I
suggested that he place on the cover, as a novelty dedication, the
line, "The Play (house )'s the thing."

"Marvelous, Bernie," he said, enthusiastically. "Well use that sure."

Then, a day or so afterwards, he said, "I've been thinking about
that suggestion of yours. I think it would sound better if we said,
'The Theatre's the thing!' "

"But don't you see," I explained, "it spoils the twist on the Shake-
speare quotation? When you say 'The Play (house)'s the' "

He didn't give me a chance to continue.

< *Why do you cross me in everything I do?" he stormed. "Why
don't you let me work on my own?"

He walked out in a tantrum, his face red with rage.

Accustoming myself to temperamental outbreaks of this sort was to
be my life work I realized then, for gusts of anger and seemingly
senseless rampages are indigenous to the art firmament. Quieting
these disturbances for the sake of peace and progress represented,
strangely enough, part of the pleasure of working with, creative artists.
In spite of his megalomania, Carroll appreciated the need of others
for free action. He let me follow my own ideas. As a result, I picked

93

a man and his potential career out of the wastebasket. The circum-
stances were fortuitous.

Carroll called me into his office, saying:

"What do you think of bringing a man here to help around the
office? I've a letter from a disabled veteran at Columbia University.
He wants to learn to be a press agent andahI thought I had the
letter, but it's gone. Too bad! That settles the matter."

"What a pity," I said, irritated at his ruthlessness in dealing with
a soldier. Then glancing down, I stepped over to the wastebasket
and pulled out the letter, a brief one, from William A. Fields.

"Let's give him a chance," I said. "We'd be doing a good act
and *

"It's your responsibility," said Carroll.

And that's how one of the finest men I ever knew came to Broad-
way. He was a soldier in World War I, and a volunteer officer in
the second.

On my recommendation, he took charge subsequently of publicity
for Stuart Walker and was so popular with the Cleveland community
that when he left the city the Plain Dealer carried an editorial about
him. Later, he represented such notables as Elmer Rice, S. N. Behr-
man, Robert Sherwood, Sidney Howard and Alexander Woollcott.
Today, he is a Broadway producer, his stars including Raymond
Massey and Ruth Gordon.

Eager to prove his worth, Fields took hold from the first moment,
his devotion slavish, his industry unceasing. After being with me for
several weeks, however, he said: "I want to give up my classes at the
university. This work means more to me."

Still the pedagogue, and feeling that he needed more routine
training, I asked him not to do so. This advice I thought he was fol-
lowing until he came to me several months later and showed me a
magazine article signed with his name.

"I learned to write," he declared, "by typing your pieces. Without
your knowing it, I quit the university long ago."

That admission made me proud, yet I was even more pleased
when, several years later, he said, "I never get a line in print that I
don't think first of your seeing it."

The matter of signing articles came up soon after with Carroll,
just after a matinee performance of his play, Daddy Dumplins. I
walked into the lobby of the theatre and met the author, George Barr
McCutcheon, from my home town. We talked about old times.

94

The following morning I wrote a piece about McCutcheon, handed
it to Carroll, and asked him to sign his name to it.

"Bernard," he said, "y ur interests and mine are along the same
lines. We both write. I don't want you, therefore, to attach my name
to anything that you write."

I liked him for saying that. The matter of authorship, however, did
give me an idea. So when Carroll's new theatre became a certainty,
I persuaded Earl to give a luncheon for a hand-picked group of au-
thors, writers, artists and critics who were then largely unknown to
him, but who could give him important advice: Kenneth Macgowan,
Ludwig Lewisohn, John Farrar, Gilbert Seldes and Sheldon Cheney.

To my surprise all these notables accepted Carroll's invitation for
what was to be my first Olympian luncheon.

During the meal I listened proudly as he described his theories
about a modern theatre and the one that he planned to build. A gen-
eral discussion followed on the function of lighting, scenery and
equipment. Carroll paid close attention to every comment, absorb-
ing the various ideas his noted guest introduced. By dessert, some of
those ideas, already transmuted into his own concepts, he was hand-
ing back as brand new.

Carroll was similarly quick in adapting himself to any situation
and he was soon talking to all the notables as if they were old
friends. Whenever he got out of line I gave him an admonitory kick
under the table. He was always an engaging person to work with,
mercurial, inventive, and surprising. He played an ingratiating game,
obscuring himself in negations and simulated modesty, trying always
to make people love him.

He had a kind of physical delicacy that reminded one of a cameo.
His shoulders, however, were too broad for his large frame. His hair,
worn long in the back, recalled cartoons of the old-fashioned barn-
stormer actor. He was always perfectly dressed and prided himself on
the fact that his shirts and underwear were made of silk. He had a way
of moving his hands to indicate subtleties and of letting his fingers
graze your clothes, to inspire a feeling of intimacy.

Carroll was never idle; and soon after the dedication of the theatre,
he concentrated on the opening attraction. Simultaneously, he began
worrying about a leading man.

"I want someone," he said, "who is the John Barrymore type, ro-
mantic and fine looking. See what you can do about finding someone
to fill those specifications, Bernard."

95

'Tve already found the man/' I said, proud of being entrusted with
this responsibility. "He's the lead in Mary Robert Rinehart's play,
Spanish Love. His name is William Powell/'

That night Carroll went to see Powell, and the next day he en-
gaged him for the lead, a role that definitely furthered his fortunes,
giving him the recognition which led to his subsequent fame in the
movies.

Another member of the cast, destined also for wealth and promi-
nence, was Carlotta Monterey, now Mrs. Eugene O'Neill. S. Jay
Kaufman, then an industrious talent scout, introduced her to Carroll,
explaining that she bore the title "The Most Frequently Photo-
graphed Woman in America." The title was merited, for her face had
a regularity of feature and a depth of expression seldom matched.

By the time that Carlotta, Bill Powell and the other players were
busy rehearsing, I began to learn the grief of being a theatrical press
agent. Up to then, I thought that writing original stories, placing
them with negligent and forgetful dramatic editors, and doing stunts
were jobs difficult enough to keep me working day and night. These
jobs, however, were simple as compared with the task of serving as
counsellor in public relations. For that is what a press agent must be,
Broadway is continually prying into the producer's life, questioning
every move that he makes. Variety shadows him and the Times chal-
lenges him.

Meanwhile, the press agent must serve as a smoke screen, holding
up the producer's ideal of himself, making him appear right whether
he's right or wrong. It's a game that tests a man's principles. It's an
intricate game, but the real newspaperman recognizes the integrity
of a good press agent. So both of them do a great deal of reading be-
tween the lines and laughing up their sleeves.

In the case of Carroll, my most serious responsibility at the outset
was an odd one. I had to befuddle the press and the public about his
first production in the newly dedicated playhouse.

Concerning his play, he would make no revelations whatsoever.
He wouldn't say a thing about the subject or whether it was comedy,
tragedy or melodrama, Nevertheless, he set the date for the premiere
and started the seat sale. Also, he began to publicize the piece ob-
liquely; that is, he refused to divulge its title. This odd procedure ir-
ritated the public and the dramatic editors to such an extent that the
veteran critic of the World, Louis De Foe, finally came to me and

protested, saying that Carroll's tactics damned the play as spurious,
even before the curtain went up.

To carry this information to Carroll took courage; but my doing
so had, fortunately, an immediate effect. The next morning he an-
nounced that the name of his play was Bavu, a title which was, of
course, almost as noncommittal as anonymity, yet one which gave the
editors and public something that could at least serve as a tag.

In the short time that I had been associated with the theatre, I had
already learned that it exists, by necessity, on personal vanity. The
player must believe in himself and his physical and mental capaci-
ties. He must see himself as right in the role and as the only one
right for it. Let his self-assurance slip the least bit and he is lost. Im-
mediately, the producer and the casting agent feel his insecurity.
The public will know that he is not what he pretends to be.

In order to enforce his vanity, the player must proceed every mo-
ment of his life as if he were surrounded by mirrors which show him
to the best advantage in every aspect of living, from clothes to
posture, from vocal inflection to complexion tinge. He is his own
world and all other satellites, including the earth itself, are less. To
maintain their assumed superiority, actors must fight each other for
audience applause and public attention.

An influential star can force a dramatist to take good lines away
from other characters in the play and to add them to his own thick
part, especially if the lines are laughs. And when a minor player gets
a good line, the star can claim it for himself or ruin its value by cut-
ting in too quickly on the cue.

Musical comedy stars sometimes force the management to delete
hit numbers that belong to lesser players. I can remember Frank
Morgan one night in his dressing room a year or so before he be-
came a great radio star. He was greatly depressed.

"They're cutting out my song," he said, "in spite of the fact that it
gets three to four encores a night."

It was true. His success lessened the glamour of the star's weak ef-
forts and he saw to it that the number was dropped.

For similar reasons, Mary Martin, while on tour in a musical, lost a
show-stopper, but sailed happily to stardom regardless of the
deletion.

There are scores of other ways of deflecting attention. Among these
is the old trick of doing a bit of stage business that diverts the atten-

97

tion of the audience from the actor who is speaking to the one who
is making the gestures. The procedure is ruthless, yet it is the thing
by which the actor lives.

In Carroll, I found the actor's vanity heightened, if such an in-
crease is conceivable. He had himself in mind so continuously that he
told me he never went out to an eating place unless it was one at
which he could be seen. He measured the size of the "L's" in an ad-
vertisement to prevent their limiting the force of the capital "C." He
talked continually in terms of other producers, predicting how he
would supersede them.

His voracity for fame was exemplified, compactly, in the program
for the opening night of his theatre. On the cover was a picture of his
wife, Mrs. Earl Carroll. On the first page ran these credits:

EABL CABROLL

Theatre

EABL CABROLL

presents

Bavu

A New Play in Three Acts
By

EABL CABROLL

At the end of the performance, the playwright-producer-theatre-
owner, wearing an open shirt, a la Lord Byron, and clad casually in
his working clothes, his old aviator's uniform, made a curtain speech.
Five minutes after he rushed to me back stage, quite excited.

"Did you notice,** he asked, "the last scene where the hero is buried
behind the wall and all that you can see of him is his limp hand?"

"Yes. What about it?"

"Well, that was my hand. In addition to writing and producing the
play, I acted in it."

He would have done better, though, to have used his hand to push
his pen harder, for the play was a failure. He didn't get to play the
hand for many performances. The piece, too slight for the box office,
had an early closing.

After I left Carroll he went in for fantastic forms of publicity. He
wore black collars. He exhibited pictures in the lobby of the Music
Box which were judged indecent. The penalty for this misdemeanor
was a term in jail. Later, he put on the notorious "naked girl bathtub"
stunt which resulted in his committing perjury. The penalty in this
instance was imprisonment in a penitentiary where he was supposed
to have had a high old time living on the best food and liquor, enter-

98

taining girls and building up his scrapbook. It seemed as if Carroll
had a mad on against respectable human institutions and an urge to
break them down.

After Bavu, Carroll started a series of revues called the <c Vanities,"
but in spite of all the fanfare attending their production, they faded
out after several seasons.

Soon too, his name, carved in stone on the playhouse, gave way to
a five- and ten-cent store sign above the Woolworth building erected
on the site of his short-lived grandeur at 50th Street and Seventh
Avenue.

Vanquished, Carroll packed his belongings and, following the ad-
vice attributed to Horace Greeley, went west all the way to Holly-
wood. Here, with his customary skill, he gained a place for himself
in the almost inaccessible world of the movies. Before he was there
long, he announced that he would express himself in this new
medium with the picture, Murder in the Vanities.

Again there was publicity and extensive promises of new achieve-
ment. Again, too, after several pictures, his movie career, like his
song writing, playwriting, theatre building and scenic designing,
came to a futile end.

Carroll's next switch was surprising, for it represented a partial de-
sertion of the arts or rather a linking of them with big business. His
new project, according to advance notices, had hippodrome propor-
tions, for he decided to build, in California, something of a Holly-
wood adaptation of Radio City, with theatre, restaurant, cabaret, ex-
ecutive office building and aeroplane stations and landing.

The plan was well under way when Carroll was killed in a plane
crash. Incompletion furnished the tag line for his life.

Newspaper accounts revealed that he left a fortune. The theatre
had brought him little but debts and litigation, but his various prop-
erties had brought a return of a million dollars.

A lawsuit followed soon after his death. But when the moot points
were resolved, the judge approved one of the odd stipulations in his
will: That figures of show girls surround his grave.

In discussing the funeral, Life Magazine said:

"The scene of Carroll's funeral ... is said to be the subject of
Evelyn Waugh's best-selling novel, The Loved One. In as brutal a
satire as has been written in modern times, Waugh excoriates the
fatuousness, combined with cold commercialism, which produced
this 300-acre graveyard where no mention of death is allowed and

99

the deceased is unctuously referred to as 'The Loved One/ Earl Car-
roll, another loved one, would have thought his funeral a wonderful
production."

Personally, the most depressing part of my experience with Carroll
was my inability to retain my regard and respect for him. My debt
111 never forget, for I owed him much. But I paid him back in full.
What I prized most was the introduction he gave me to New York, a
guidance that took me rapidly along the road to publicity.

Before many months passed, I had, to my surprise, my own busi-
ness, my own office, a private telephone and a secretary. I was get-
ting more offers for work than I would accept, because I had re-
solved from the first, to give every client full service.

My office came through an extraordinary bit of good will. The
J. P. Muller Advertising Agency was then the biggest theatrical or-
ganization of its kind in New York. Often I went there to talk about
the amusement ads, which they placed for the producer.

"There's no use of your wasting your time coming here," said Mr.
Muller one day. "We like the way you do business and we believe
that you would be an asset to our firm. Stay here with us and well
give you your office space free, without any obligations."

Just a year or so before, I hadn't known a soul in New York and
my hallroom bedroom was in a disreputable neighborhood. Now, I
had an office, free of charge, with the best theatrical organization in
New York.

Soon the money began to pour in. At the end of the third month,
I made as much money in a single week as I had made in an entire
year teaching high school at Lafayette. Each day was happier than
the preceding one. I worked until I could hardly breathe. I exploited
shows and, best of all, I did magazine and newspaper interviews,
continuing my explorations into the behavior of the famous.

100

CHAPTER 6

The Great Days of ZiegfeU

C

HISELED deep in my memory is my recollection of the day on
which I interviewed Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., producer of the Follies,
originator of the American revue, star-maker and glorifier of the
American girl. Meeting him seemed to be a reunion with one whom
I had always known and understood.

He talked slowly and smoothly, without giving the slightest indica-
tion of the inner forces which made him one of the greatest showmen
of his age. He smiled and laughed. He expressed himself in long un-
wieldy sentences that had power because they never came to an end
until his thought was completed.

His office was drab and shadowy, lighted largely by the intermit-
tent flickering of the electric signs coming from across the street and
through the iron-barred windows. His desk was cluttered with orna-
ments, newspapers, women's silk stockings and licorice candy. Un-
like many producers, he was frank with his answers, at ease, and
made excellent copy.

Two weeks after my interview was published in the New York
Herald Tribune, his secretary called me up and said abruptly, *Mr.
Ziegf eld would like you to work for him/'

101

"What do you mean?" I asked,

"He liked your interview. He likes your enthusiasm and he wants
you to work for him/'

"That's wonderful, I know," I said, greatly pleased. "I'm making a
lot of money, however, running my own office at least $400 a week.
Why should I give it up for Ziegf eld?"

"You don't have to give up your other work. This will just be extra
money/*

"But I'm working on a special assignment just now for the Shu-
berts, his competitors.**

"He won't care. He wants you."

"O.K.," I said, then walked over to the Ziegfeld office and settled
the business details.

From that moment on, earning my living became a glamorous oc-
cupation. The name of Ziegfeld superseded everything else. I strug-
gled, suffered and resigned. I planned, plotted and reconsidered. I
basked in the beauty garden of the world. For ten years, on and off,
I was the glorifier's slave. I loved, hated and respected him, but I
could never quite convince myself that I, an erstwhile college profes-
sor, was his aide.

Yet, gradually, I became Ziegfeld himself, the articulate Ziegfeld,
one who could frame his thoughts in oral and written speech; express
his theories on female beauty, the topic on which he was a world au-
thority; voice his opinions on any subject that the occasion required.
Ours was an authentic state of metempsychosis.

The world of Ziegfeld glittered, glowed and coruscated. Only the
superlative was admissible: the best scenery, the finest fabrics, the
most expert craftsmen, the quickest brains.

He engaged the most beautiful girls, the finest stars, the greatest
modistes. He ate the choicest food, drank the rarest liquor and
smoked dollar cigars.

He worked in a continuous buzz of excitement. Specialists from
all departments of the theatre and numerous high-pressure men kept
coming in and out of his offices all day long. Secretaries rushed back
and forth with important letters and documents. Telephones rang
continually. Messenger boys dodged in and out.

Famous actors came for appointments, just as worshipful in their
admiration of the glorifier as the scores of beautiful girls who
crowded the waiting rooms, hoping for appointments, praying for a
chance to get into his shows.

1Q2

Certainly, not until the movies came into existence did one office
hold such a continuous assemblage of female pulchritude as the name
Ziegfeld attracted. His was an ideal of loveliness to be associated
with names like Helen of Troy, the grace of Grecian vases, the sym-
metry of Hellenic sculpture, an ideal that was eventually to become
universal. For from his first revues came Mae Murray, Marion
Davies, Billie Dove, Olive Thomas, Martha Mansfield, Jacqueline
Logan, Lilyan Tashman, and Dorothy Mackail, the first film stars
of the silent days who established the type of beauty requisite for
subsequent cinema heroines.

Ziegfeld was one of the most active men I ever met. Multiple ac-
complishment was his meat. He'd put on two or three shows at a
time; fight with ticket speculators; start search for an obscure girl
featured in a rotogravure section; stew over numerous bills, long past
due; write his own newspaper advertisements; give out an interview
on how to make up; take time out to eat a perfectly prepared meal;
and then, in the midst of a noisy rehearsal, go sound asleep with a
newspaper in front of him.

He changed clothes every day. In winter, he wore a grey beaver-
lined coat which made him look like a patrician bear. His shoes were
handmade. He was always clean-shaven and always faintly per-
fumed. His fingers, long and shapely, were always well cared for.

His meticulous appearance he owed to his exacting valet, Sidney,
for he seldom did anything for himself. Wherever he went he carried
a small retinue of office attaches to drive his cars, run errands and
answer his sporadic telephone calls. He used two or three limousines.
He traveled in private railroad trains, paying for tie use of the
tracks. He sailed in the regal suite of the S. S. Majestic. When he
couldn't get what he wanted by buying it, he would try barter and
diplomacy, believing, apparently, that the end justified the means.

Working for him meant being on call twenty-four hours of the day,
every day of the week. Usually, I was up before he 'phoned me in the
morning, but about half an hour later at eight-thirty, just as I was
finishing my shower he'd be on the wire, telling me what to do for
each paper. He talked swiftly and endlessly while I, striving to take
down every word exactly as stated and holding the receiver to my
ear, went nearly wild.

Often, though my arm ached or went numb, I couldn't ask him to
stop a single moment because the slightest interruption made him

103

angry. Worst of all, he would rattle off long lists of figures and box
office receipts, expecting me to take them down accurately.

Ziegfeld's fondness for sending telegrams was well-known. He sent
them everywhere, sometimes from his office to the dressing room
downstairs.

The following telegrams, selected at random, show how he mixed
generalities with details, repeated the same statement over and over
again and harassed me into turning out more and more publicity.

The first telegrams reveal the typical showman's resentment of in-
novations, his inability to recognize the entertainment potentialities
of motion pictures.

WHEN JEROME KERN AND I READ ARTHUR HAMMERSTEINS
ANNOUNCEMENT THAT HE WAS TO USE CANNED MUSIC
IN THE ORCHESTRA PIT AS AN ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE
SINGING OF LIVE FLESH AND BLOOD ACTORS WE
LAUGHED SO HEARTILY THAT WE NEARLY FELL OVER-
BOARD FROM THE DECK OF JEROME KERNS YACHT SHOW-
BOAT REGARDS.

* *

JUST READ MR. ARTHUR HAMMERSTEINS ALLEGED COME-
BACK TO MY RIDICULE OF HIS PRESS YARN ABOUT MOVIE-
TONE ORCHESTRA TO REPLACE THE LIVING BREATHING
HUMAN UNION ORCHESTRA FOR HIS INFORMATION
PLEASE PRINT THE FACT MY PEANUTS UP TO DATE HAVE
NOT BEEN ROASTED BY THE WAY IF THE PLAY AN-
NOUNCED BY HAMMERSTEIN AND KERN EVER OPENS I
WILL WAGER THAT A MOVIETONE ORCHESTRA WILL NOT
BE ONE OF THE DETRIMENTS TO REPLACE LIVING
BREATHING HUMAN UNION MUSICIANS ITS REALLY MAR-
VELOUS IF THE LEGITIMATE THEATRE SURVIVES WITH
WHAT PRODUCERS TRY TO DO TO IT.

GET EVERY OUNCE OUT OF AMERICAN AND JOURNAL
THEY HAVE HEARSTS INSTRUCTIONS ITS UP TO YOU TO
SUPPLY WORTHWHILE MATERIAL THAT WILL FILL THE
BALCONY DURANTE STONE BRING ROGERS AND STONE
INTO THE STORIES AND GET PHOTOGRAPHS OF DURANTE
AND STONE TOGETHER GET McGURK AND BRINKLEY TOO
AFTER MIRROR.

#' * *

TODAY FIRST WEEKS PAPERS CAME SORRY THEY DID I
WAS GREATLY DISAPPOINTED GO AFTER PIC WITSON AND
SMITH GET WHAT WE DID FOR RIO RITA LOOK BACK AT
THE SCRAPBOOKS SEND OUT NOTICE TO NEWS AND ALL

104

PAPERS OSCAR SHAW WILL PLAY THE AMERICAN IN WING
TOY THE STAR WHO WILL PLAY WING TOY HAS NOT BEEN
SELECTED YOU SEE AS MY PRESS DEPARTMENT COSTS 3
TIMES AS MUCH AS ANYONE ELSE I EXPECT AT LEAST AS
MUCH IN THE PAPERS WE DONT GET IN WHAT WE WANT
AND THEY PRINT WHAT WE DONT WANT MENTIONED
STORY ABOUT GENERAL HAPPEINHEIMER AND HUNTING
AND FISH CLUB WAS NOT DRAMATIC NEWS WE PUR-
CHASED 40 THOUSAND ACRES NEW CLUB HAS ONLY 25
MEMBERS I AM PRESIDENT GENERAL DIRECTORS WILL
WIRE WATSON HIS SUNDAY SHOWING WAS AWFUL SEE
PAUL BLOCK NEWARK REGARDS.

# * #

DEAR SOBEL WHATS THE USE EVIDENTLY THE PAPERS
WILL NOT PRINT ANYTHING EXCEPT HEARSTS I PAY FOR
TIME CHICAGO NOTES ALMOST IGNORED UNEQUALLED
SUCCESS OF SHOWBOAT TIME BOSTONS NOTE STATE
COCHRAN AND SELWYN BITTERSWEET COMES TO TRE-
MONT AND SO IT COMES SOMEONE DONT THINK FAR
ENOUGH AHEAD MY PRESS DEPARTMENT COSTS AT LEAST
AGAIN AS MUCH AS ANYONE COST A MANAGER AND I AM
GOING TO DO AWAY WITH IT ENTIRELY AS SOON AS BIT-
TERSWEET OPENS NOVEMBER FOURTH PAPERS WILL NOT
PRINT ANYTHING AND EVEN IF THEY DID NO SHOW
COULD CARRY THE PRESS DEPARTMENT EXPENSE I AM
NOW UNDER SORRY YOU CANT MAKE THE BOYS COME
ACROSS OUR GIRLS ARE ALMOST FORGOTTEN I BET I
COULD GET A PICTURE PRINTED REGARDS.

# * *

ALL I CAN GO BY IS WHAT I SEE IN THE PAPERS 40 YEARS
I HAVE WORKED FOR THE AMERICAN ZIEGFELD GIRL AND
NOW WHEN I HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF ALL I HATE
TO SEE THEM SIDETRACKED AND FORGOTTEN MAKE
SURE GLADS PICTURE IS IN EVERY PAPER WHEN SHE RE-
TURNS I FEEL IF WHITE OR CARROLL EVER GOT HOLD OF
A BEAUTY LIKE RUTH MORGAN THEY WOULD HAVE EX-
PLOITED HER LIKE I DID DELORES JUST LOOK IN MY OLD
SCRAPBOOKS AND SEE HOW IT WAS DONE WHITE DOES
SAME FOR SUSAN FLEMING SEND NOTICE OUT URBAN
COMING UP HERE EXPLOIT HAZEL FORBES AND RUTH PAT-
TERSON IS ALMOST FORGOTTEN SEE YOU SOON PUT UN-
DER STONES NAME IN ALL DAILY AND SUNDAY ADS AS
DIXIE DUGAN ITS NOTHING PERSONAL YOU OR NO OTHER
MAN CAN GET SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS WORTH WEEKLY
IN PAPERS FOR ANY MANAGER THATS WHY MY PRESS DE-
PARTMENT COSTS PAPERS WONT PRINT THAT MUCH STUFF
REGARDS.

105

These telegrams, sometimes as frequent as six or seven a day, used
to break my heart. Yet my work, despite my grief, kept me continu-
ously interested and paradoxically happy.

In dealing with his girls, stars, friends and newspaper men, he was
.gentle, but he was also frequently cruel, sarcastic, never satisfied and
seldom grateful. He nagged, constantly, at all the members of his
staff in order to force them to carry out his wishes. Sometimes, these
wishes were fantastic: buying rare butterflies for his beloved daugh-
ter, Patricia; persuading a tire company to give him free tires for an
endorsement; making a composer write a song in a night or forcing
a chef to leave his Baltimore business to cook for him in Florida.

He was a specialist in fabrics and a connoisseur of women's
clothes. Dillingham called him a dressmaker. He was obsessed by the
value of lighting and criticized the electricians constantly; whenever
the girls came on for a big number, he would shout: "Bring on the
lights" though they were usually already on. He declared that com-
edy should never be performed in a red light.

He worked sometimes for twenty hours in his shirt sleeves. Other
times he made others work from morning to night while he lay com-
fortable and calm on his bed, distributing orders on the telephone.
He was generally optimistic and enjoyed indulging himself. Though
petty about pennies he was lavish about millions.

He sometimes picked out an idea for a Follies sketch from a news-
paper advertisement. He used to tell Patricia to place a mouse up
her nurse's leg. He sent orchids to visiting friends and failed to pay
the milkman. He loved to gamble and usually lost.

At Christmas, he doubled the salary in gold of everyone in his em-
ploy, including the scrubwomen. Though he was a stickler for clothes
and required all his staff to wear evening dress, he himself went
to his swanky premieres in street clothes. He was the perpetual
predatory male from caveman on. A glimpse of a beautiful woman
transfixed his attention: made him forget home and family, stage
emergency, signing a contract, or the income tax man waiting bel-
ligerently in his office trying to collect or else.

To insure the best service, he deliberately pitted the members of
his staff against each other, a system approximating mild espionage.
He commanded the complete respect of the entire amusement world.
He made everyone want to please him, denoting his occasional ap-
preciation with an embrace or more often with the word "Love"
signed to a telegram. He was the greatest of musical comedy and

106

revue star-makers and one of the first to give a great colored artist-
Bert Williams distinguished attention. He introduced a mixed cast
in Show Boat when doing so approached being a scandal.

He represented the once-powerful divine right of the producer.
Presumably, he seldom read a book. When I gave him a volume
called Sketches by Kenyon Nicholson, I thought he'd be pleased with
my introduction signed with his name. The next day I found the
volume in the wastebasket Authorship didn't seem to mean much to
him. The daring new craze for dangling sex openly in plays like The
Voice of the Turtle and rival revue sketches, he dubbed "sophistica-
tion" without catching the new meanings that the term implied.

Ziegf eld would do anything to get the people whom he wanted in
his shows. If they were praised extensively, he fell prey to their pub-
licity, even though he hadn't wanted to. The morning after Grace
Moore made her debut at the Metropolitan he tried, without realiz-
ing the absurdity of the offer, to induce her to return to musical com-
edy as the star of The Three Musketeers.

On one occasion he sent me to Atlantic City to persuade Dorothy
Knapp, an Earl Carroll girl representing the producer at the contest,
to leave Carroll and join the Follies at a much higher salary. On an-
other occasion, eager to get a show girl to return to the revue, he paid
a discarded bill amounting to almost $2,000 in order to have her
photographed by her favorite camera man.

Girls were his constant obsession. He exulted in their beauty, en-
joyed their company. He would sit during a rehearsal talking in-
formally with stars or choristers. If he started to sign a check or to
write an important contract, and a beautiful girl appeared, he would
stop to talk to her, completely forgetful of all else except woman's
enchantment.

'Vivacity," Ziegfeld said, "must be a girl's outstanding character-
istic, for vivacity means youth and the speed of modernity. She must
be intelligent, for the clothes-horse is pass6. Her figure must be al-
most perfect. She must not overdo make-up. Her hair-do must con-
form to her features. She must have plenty of sleep and outdoor ex-
ercise. I recommend also instruction in dancing and fencing."

Then continuing, he made this surprising comment:

"I place my first emphasis on the beauty of a girl's ankles. No mat-
ter how perfect her dimensions may be, if her ankles are bad, the
whole effect is lost because the first feature that the audience sees
when the curtain rises, is the ankles."

107

Shortly after the publication of this announcement, Ziegf eld faced
a crisis: the advent of the boyish form. What should he say or do
about it? His success was built on curves. The boyish form ran to
ugly, straight lines that repressed the voluptuous bosom and reduced
welcoming, rounded hips. The producer, challenged about the new
profile, hedged and faltered; he could never sympathize with this un-
feminine new fashion and he did not live to see its decline and fall.

What was the typical Ziegfeld girl like? She was a composite,
partly blue-blood and partly wrong-side-of-the tracks, a homogene-
ous blending of all classes of American society. Included in the vari-
ous companies were a waitress, runaways from convents and finishing
schools, art models, stray social debutantes, a file clerk and one ex-
pert bacteriologist, Marie Stevens, who became Mrs. "Buster"
Collier, Jr.

The inner office records read like a local geography, for attached
to many a girl's name were terms like "Miss New Jersey," "Miss Cali-
fornia;' "Miss Chicago" and "Miss Atlantic City." These titles be-
longed to contest winners from county fairs, bathing beaches and
recreation centers. Declared beautiful by expert judges, they came
fresh to the Follies, making the show nationally representative.

Those who were fortunate enough to get personal auditions saw
Alice Poole first, Ziegfeld's famous telephone girl. A turbulent ex-
ponent of love for the theatre, love of duty and love for Ziegfeld, she
was made of the material of which characters in books are built.
From her obscure corner at the telephone board, she had access to
all New York. She knew every important connection by heart and
how each one tied up with "Ziggy's" aims and productions. She knew
the personality of practically everyone whom she put on the wire.
She acted often as a super-confidential agent, preceding a telephone
connection with some suave suggestion or plea that would insure the
consummation of the producer's wishes.

For the girls she had an affection that was permanent and touch-
ing. She knew the type that Ziegfeld admired. Often she made sug-
gestions about appearance.

"Put on your hat," she would say, "before Ziegfeld sees you," or
"Take off that fur. It doesn't go well with your hair. That's your best
feature."

Thus Alice did her part toward building the Follies; and after the

108

girls were in the show, she acted as their confidante and guide. To
her they came with their troubles, their back stage woes, sometimes
even for a small loan. And Alice never failed them.

From the telephone desk, the applicant proceeded to the office of
Goldie, Ziegf eld's personal secretary. She is another character famous
in the history of Broadway. Black-haired, bright-eyed and attractive,
this petite young woman was one of those theatrical geniuses who
knew the whole range of show business.

Tactfully and expertly, she met those who were privileged to go
into the inner sanctum. She read all letters of introduction. She inter-
viewed everyone who wanted to see the producer. Quiet, sympathetic
and capable of holding all office activities in her mind at one time,
she was the final intermediary between the outer world and the glori-
fier, the one person who knew the history of the Ziegfeld girl from
her first salary to her last engagement

From Goldie's office, the applicants would go directly to the pro-
ducer's office. Most of them entered frightened and trembling. But he
set them quickly at ease. His smile was friendly, his voice kindly.
His eye, though, was that of an eagle and in one second he sized
them up from head to toe.

A character study that I chanced to read in a current book im-
pressed me so greatly that I decided to take it to the office to show it
to Alice and Goldie.

Concealing the name of the subject of the description, I waited
anxiously to hear what they would say. Their answers were brief.

"Ziggy to the life/' cried Alice.

"That is the best characterization of Mr. Ziegfeld that I've ever
read," said Goldie.

But the personage described was not Florenz Ziegfeld. It was
Lorenzo de Medici, the Magnificent.

Those girls who had introductions nearly always gained personal
auditions. Others had to take their chances in a general "call," the
term applied to mass auditions. These were conducted according to
an established routine.

First, at a signal from the stage director, the whole chattering,
giggling, apprehensive crowd of aspirants walked onto the stage,
filling it completely. At a second signal, the girls at the front of the
stage formed an orderly line and walked down to the footlights.

109

There they would stand, about forty of them, many beautiful in face
and figure, yet part of a strange motley group in dress, headgear and
color.

Meanwhile, in the first row sat the glorifier himself, and next to
him Goldie, with her perpetual notebook, his general manager, and
one or two other office attendants.

For a few moments Ziegfeld looked pleased, smiling and casual.
Then, suddenly, he would become business-like and look at the line
with the eyes of a lapidary.

The place would grow tense while the girls tried to appear un-
concerned. A bold one dared smile. A clever one, with a seemingly
slight gesture, would call attention to the beauty of her lines.

Then Ziegfeld would turn to Goldie, his secretary, and to his stage
director and quietly discuss the qualifications of one girl and an-
other. After a moment's hesitation, he would point from right to left,
indicating number 8, 11, and 22. Then the stage manager would call
out: "Numbers 8, 11, and 22 in the line. Please step down here/'

The girls selected then walked down the small flight of movable
steps into the auditorium where they learned when and where to re-
port for rehearsals.

The others left sadly, reluctantly, with perhaps one of them cry-
ing. After the dismissal of the first group, the procedure was re-
peated, row after row, until the stage was vacant.

Out of seven hundred aspirants only forty-seven were chosen. The
road to glory was closed.

The first time I heard of Billie Burke, I was standing in the lobby
of the Grand Opera House in Lafayette, listening to the manager, a
Mr. Pickering, complaining about her.

"I swear/' he said, actually doing so, "this Burke engagement's a
pain in the neck. She wants the world with a fence around it/*

His hand was shaking with anger as he held up a letter, and, for-
getful that a manager never reveals back-stage secrets, opened it and
read aloud:

"Send a cab to the railway station for Miss Burke. Take her to the
theatre. Then have the cab return to the station, pick up her maid
and take her to the theatre. When the performance is over, have the
cab take Miss Burke to the railway station and, after that, have the
cab go back to the theatre for her maid and . . . /*

He broke off abruptly. "It's too bad/' he said, "that two females

110

can't ride together in the same cab. But she's English, and a snob, of
course, and . . . ."

His mood changed suddenly. "She sells out the theatre though, one
of the biggest attractions the road has ever seen. And when she steps
out on the stage, every eye in the audience follows her from the
moment she enters until she exits!"

Some years after that, I interviewed Miss Burke at the old Para-
mount Studios, when she was appearing in silent pictures. It took
just five minutes to dispel the impression I had had for years.

Tm not English," she stated, <c but an American, the daughter of a
circus clown. I started my theatrical career as a chorus girl/*

About two years later I was Miss Burke's press agent, an associa-
tion that led to a life-long friendship. The first noteworthy thing that
I learned about her was her conscientiousness as an artist. She is as
highly individual as Ziegf eld was, and just as exacting with herself as
with her associates. I saw her go over a radio script at least ten
times; and then, not content, she marked off every important phrase
and inflection to insure perfect reading.

Back stage of Annie Dear, she would barge through a group of
chorus girls as if they were dust of the earth. Then, five minutes later,
she would hand the doorman a dollar bill for bringing her a two-
cent stamp.

Billie Burke rivaled Ziegfeld as a personality, her real character
little known to the world. As a star of the legitimate stage, through-
out the greater part of her career, she symbolized what a perfect
lady should be, Victorian style. Her deportment was faultless. She
curved her finger in tie proper way. She uttered modish cries and
shrieks, lifted her skirts gingerly. She sustained the illusion that a
lady could do no wrong. She was an exquisite bit of bric-a-brac,
dressed with all the perfection of a Dresden china figure. For years
the audiences loved her in this artificial guise; and for years she was
one of the most popular actresses on the road.

She has often declared that she was not a great actress. Alexander
Woollcott, the will-o-the-wisp critic, who concurred heartily with
this estimate, on resigning his post as critic of the World used his
farewell article to repeat churlishly his rating.

Following the death of Mr. Ziegfeld, both Woollcott and the gen-
eral public might well have altered their opinion of her acting, thanks
to a change in type. She made an important place for herself in the
talkies, on radio and television, learning through financial necessity

111

and artistic drive, the new arts and contributing thereto a distinctive
character the fatuous yet lovable female chatterer, as perfect an
example of creative acting as any critic could demand.

Left alone to support herself and child, Patricia, she put up a
battle, practical and artistic, that has been valiant, yet not surprising
for those who really knew her. For Billie, off the stage, is an out-and-
out realist, with a perspective as comprehensive as it is clear. She
knows the world and she can hold up a cynical glass to inspect it at
close range.

In one way only was Billie Burke disappointing. Though she had
appeared in plays by some of the foremost writers of our era, Booth
Tarkington, Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham, she never seemed to
remember anything in particular about these notables and how they
acted at rehearsals or what they did to their scripts. Mark Twain was
the exception and then the reminiscence was brief.

"He always used to joke with me," she said, "because we both
had red hair."

When Miss Burke signed up with the Shuberts to star with the
English playwright-actor, Ivor Novello, in The Truth Game, the staff
was sad because we looked on them as rivals without distinction.

The show was a weak one and I was desperate, at first, for an idea
that would help the box office. A chance introduction brought me the
aid I needed. As I walked across Broadway after lunch, I met Law-
rence Weiner who introduced me to a man named Josef Ranald.

"He's a master-mind palmist," Lawrence said. "Almost always he
hits on the truth."

"The truth," I repeated. Then I hazarded a question.

"Would you be interested, Mr. Ranald, in working for nothing in
order to get some sensational publicity?"

"Certainly," was the answer. Tm a stranger here and anxious to
get attention."

"Good," I cried; and that night Ranald was sitting in the lobby of
the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, reading the probable truth in people's
hands as a come-on to The Truth Game.

At first, patrons were diffident about sitting there publicly for
seances, but I overcame that difficulty by planting a few shills in a
waiting line. By the end of the third day, patrons were clamoring for
free readings and business went up. It went up so substantially, day
after day, that the run was extended and the show was able to go on
tour, the first tour Miss Burke had enjoyed for years.

US

The proudest moment in my association with both Miss Burke and
Ziegfeld was crystallized in a letter which she wrote me, a letter
which Ziegfeld never knew about.

My dear Mr. Sobel:

There is part of an article in the February Atlantic Monthly,
"The Well-Tempered Mind," that struck me as being very in-
teresting. So often one comes across the question, "What makes
for happiness?" The quotations used in this section of the article
seemed so part of Mr. Ziegfeld's philosophy not that he ever
talks about it or gives forth long discourses. (But that, of course,
is one of the amazing things about him. He simply goes on work-
ing out and doing things without haranguingsuch as others do
who are always talking of what they are doing for the theatre
and he goes right on giving beauty and his life's blood to his
ideals, which he never admits to having. )

They express him so completely, starting with Krutch's inter-
pretation, "Given an ethics which does not rest back upon in-
dividual satiety, an eye which can discern positive achievements
and significant victories, as well as difficulties and defects," etc.
on to T.S. Eliot, of "struggle and effort in capacity for appreci-
ation" and Hegel, who says he sees "the healthy man as one who
asked not so much for happiness as for an opportunity to exercise
his capacities, for which power and freedom he is willing to pay
the penalty of pains" and then Robert Louis Stevenson, "for to
travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true
success is to labor" and then, above all, Shaw in Man and Su-
perman, defining the joy of life as "being used for a purpose
recognized by yourself as a mighty one the being thoroughly
worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap the being a
force of Nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ail-
ments and grievances, complaining that the world will not de-
vote itself to making for happiness." And there is more of equal
interest.

I thought you could incorporate some of this sometime when
you are writing about him. To me, quite outside of being his
wife, he interests me so in his attitude toward life. I have a slant
on him quite different from anyone else, owing to the above re-
lationship, but it in no way blinds me to the intense interest he
possesses as just Ziegfeld the man.

I am longing for the day when you can sit down quietly and
write the things about him that I know. Not that you haven't al-
ways presented him magnificently, but his eccentricities some-

113

times shadow his finer and greater qualities; so when I came
across these views of great men, F.Z. leaped from the page, they
seemed so part of him.

The letter is a revelation also of the real Billie Burke, the one that
she, alas, doesn't completely reveal in her autobiography; and that is
a pity, for the world has based its estimate of her character on her
roles, never having the opportunity to judge her wisdom and depth
of feeling.

During her engagement in The Marquise, by Noel Coward, Billie
noticed Bichard Rodgers, the composer, sitting in the front row. He
was waving his handkerchief as if to draw her attention to the other
side of the stage. When she glanced in that direction, she discovered
that the velvet bell-rope next to the mantlepiece was on fire.

Thinking quickly, she deliberately pulled a table cover off a ma-
hogany stand, walked over to the pull rope and snuffed out the fast
growing flames. Then, turning to her leading man, she said:

"I've told the butler a dozen times to have that rope repaired/*

114

CHAPTER 7

Ziegfeld Stars

HARK BELLINGER, who was one of several reporters who used
to drop in regularly at my office, pleased me greatly one day by
offering me a chance for getting some important publicity.

"The Daily News is going to have a beauty contest/' he said, "and
I'd like pictures of some of the girls who could be entered in the
competition."

"Good," I said, happy for a tie-up with the tabloid.

I went to the files and came back with about eight pictures. Mark
looked through them grimly and said, "Is that all?"

"Well, those are the ones that Mr. Ziegfeld has asked me particu-
larly to exploit."

"Don't you have a girl here by the name of Gladys Glad?"

"Oh yes," I said, somewhat startled because I knew that though
she had recently joined the Follies, Ziegfeld had never mentioned
her.

"I'd like to see her picture."

"Very well."

I returned to the files and came back with the picture, inwardly

115

concerned about the consequences because I never gave special at-
tention to a girl on a big stunt unless it was one Ziegf eld favored.

"That's the girl/* said Mark; and he took tiie picture together with
some of the others I had already shown him.

I dismissed the matter from my mind until the News came out with
a handsome full page picture of Gladys. Mark brought it in and
showed it to me.

"I'm sorry," I said, "that you have given the girl so much attention
because I've asked her to take part in several minor stunts and she
didn't keep faith."

"Oh, I think she'll do her part this time," was Mark's laconic
response.

Several weeks later, on the day of the contest, Mark arrived early
and we went back to the dressing rooms where the girls selected to
take part were preparing their make-up and outfits.

"Let's get Gladys Glad first," said Mark, "and see if she's ready/*

"O.K." So I went straight to her dressing room and knocked at the
door saying, "Gladys, are you ready?"

To my consternation, she replied, "I'm not going."

I looked at Mark crestfallen. Then he began urging her. Finally, I
said, "Gladys, you have to keep faith with the newspaper. They gave
you a whole page photograph. You certainly can't walk out on the
contest at this time."

'There's no use of my going," Gladys answered angrily. "It's all
fixed already."

"What do you mean," I asked.

"Well, Ziggy gave Katherine Burke permission to wear the lace
bathing suit she uses in the show."

"That's true," I answered. "That shouldn't

"And Susan Fleming is outfitted from top to toe."

It was true although I was astonished to discover that she knew.
For two days before, Mr. Ziegfeld had told me to take Susan down
to Saks Fifth Avenue and buy her the handsomest black bathing suit
that I could find. I bought her also a pair of black sandals with high
red heels. Togged out in these, she looked incredibly beautiful.

"Well, what of it?" I said. "There's more than one Follies girl in the
contest and you promised to compete."

Grudgingly, she consented; and although she was beautiful, my
astonishment and that of the whole company was great when we
learned that she had won the prize.

116

Not until many years afterwards did I learn that Mark was one of
the four judges and that he persuaded Capt. Patterson, the publisher
of the Daily News, to vote for Gladys,

Mark was a very definite personality, black-haired, with shiny,
synthetic-looking teeth and appraising eyes, taut and determined.

One night he invited me to go out with him, Gladys and Helen
Walsh; he told me at the outset that he was going to give me the
famous ''Bellinger treatment." In other words, he was going to keep
me drinking liquor until I was drunk.

"I don't want to spoil your party, Mark," I said, "but you can't get
me drunk. I like liquor, but I know my satiety point. No matter how
much you give me I won't get drunk, but I may get very sick."

And that is just exactly what happened. We were riding that night
in Mark's brand new car and by the time we had visited a number
of bistros and the party was over, it was necessary to take the brand
new car to the garage for an immediate cleaning.

Crude this incident is, but I tell it for the sidelight it threw on
Mark's character. For some reason or other, he set out to tear down
the dignity of his guests, no matter how fine or famous. He was never
satisfied until he had tried to get them drunk. Paying the check was
also a compulsive act of his.

From bistros to gangsters was an easy step for Mark. As we sat
drinking one night, he took out a cigarette case and said proudly,
"Do you know who that's from? Capone." I shuddered. To me the
gift was covered with blood.

Less than three months afterwards, I was in Chicago publicizing
the Follies and in the enforced role of press agent, was accompany-
ing Harry Richman to the penitentiary for a visit with Mr. Capone.

That was indeed a drab adventure: the bleak surroundings, the
tasteless meal and the dull cutlery. I couldn't eat a single morsel
though I put on an act of doing so. Nor was I sorry, in spite of my
curiosity, when an official told us that Capone couldn't be our host.

To Mark I owe a generous service which he carried through,
despite the fact that it might have placed him in an equivocal posi-
tion.

About one o'clock on a Sunday night, Eli Dorset rang my doorbell
and entered my apartment with a beautiful blonde girl. After a pre-
liminary conversation about the weather and Broadway, he came out
flat with a proposition:

117

"This young lady wants to get into the Follies. She needs your help.
She's attractive as you can see; and if you'll help her, shell be glad
to remain here tonight as your guest."

"Sorry," I answered. "Nothing doing. I never use the old casting
couch. Besides, I never make introductions/'

That settled it. Eli left scowling and the girl left, smiling.

Then I closed up shop for the night and went to bed, only to be
roused again, one hour later.

This time it was the girl by herself.

"I don't care much about getting in the Follies," she said. "Eli
doesn't know it, but I'm already signed with the Shuberts. You've
been very kind. I'm going to remain a while. I like you and I don't
expect anything of you. Not a thing."

Just the same, the next morning I felt that I had to do something
to help the girl get in the revue. So I went to my beloved Alice.

"Please do something for me," I said. "Never have I asked you to
help me get a girl in the Follies. Now, for the first time, I'm begging
you. Please help a friend of mine. Use anyone's name for an intro-
duction so that Ziggy will see her. I don't care if she wishes to get in
the show or not, but I want her to have a chance at an audition."

Alice, of course, did as I asked, and the girl got in the show.

But "mortification" is the only word I can find to describe my
feelings when Alice told me that she had used Mark's name to get
the introduction.

Mark found out, of course, yet he never said one word to me about
the whole complicated mess. My gratitude was incalculable.

While going through my books recently, I came across Mark's
The Ten Million. With mixed feelings I opened it and read his in-
scription:

"To Bernard Sobel who has been so kind and helped through the
years All best Always. Mark Bellinger."

One day I received a call from G. P. Putnam's concerning Billie
Burke. When I went there the editors told me that they wanted me
to write her biography. Of course I was extremely happy at the op-
portunity and more happy still when my outline was accepted. But
at that very moment I decided I couldn't write the book.

"I'd have to write an honest one," I said, "and Miss Burke won't
tell everything. Couldn't be expected to, especially about the girls
in Ziegf eld's life."

118

So regretfully I gave up the assignment and my regret was intensi-
fied when, several months after, in a magazine piece Miss Burke
made reference to Ziegf eld's love affairs, adding later, in a letter, that
she loved her husband, all his accomplishments and even his love
affairs.

Later, when she wrote her autobiography, With A Feather On
My Nose, Miss Burke was even more frank. She declared that Flo
was "careless with women."

Careless indeed! A whole volume could be written about his care-
lessness with heaven knows how many beautiful women. When,
overcome by suspicion and jealousy, Miss Burke did make specific
charges, Ziegfeld made the following reply:

'The trouble with you, Billie, is that when you accuse me, you
always pick the wrong girl/*

These revelations release me, I believe; permit me to mention here
some of the girls that I knew Ziegfeld admired. There were many of
them. The impression, however, seeped through to the public that
Gladys Glad was his greatest love affair. That impression was caused
undoubtedly by her proximity to this generation and Mark Hellin-
ger's persistent publicizing, so high-pressured that he edited every
note concerning her that went out of the Ziegfeld offices.

Miss Burke never mentions Gladys in her autobiography, but
she speaks in varying detail of his outstanding love affairs with
Lillian Lorraine, Marilyn Miller, Olive Thomas and Anna Held,
Ziggy s wife fifteen years before Miss Burke knew him.

The stage success of these beautiful women was not limited to a
single partial management. They had authentic talents which were
sought by many producers throughout the amusement world. Their
names, in almost every instance, are still remembered.

Miss Burke describes Ziggy's first important love, Anna Held, as
"utterly beautiful, this Empress, strange and dark, with enormous
jealous eyes." She credits her with suggesting the Follies revues.
When Anna was dying, she sent her from their farm at Ziggy's sug-
gestion baby broilers, eggs and vegetables.

Of all the girls in her husband's life, Miss Burke was "most jealous
of Lorraine/' She believed "that he loved her." "If Marilyn Miller
had been a success in Smiles, [she] doesn't know what might have
happened. When the show failed, his interest waned/'

Of this love affair I had already caught glimpses while working on
Rosalie, starring Marilyn and Jack Donahue.

119

Ziegf eld was making a great effort to please Marilyn and, as usual,
he was giving gifts, regardless of the expense.

"Collect all of Marilyn's clippings since the opening of Rosalie,
he said to me. "Place them in the handsomest leather scrapbook you
can buy and then have that young artist, Armando, decorate the
book in colors with pictures of Marilyn.'*

Quickly as possible, I did as he directed and soon the book, quite
handsome, was in his hands. But neither that gift nor anything else
helped the situation.

About seven-thirty one night, I saw him standing before Marilyn's
dressing room. "Will the Princess Rosalie permit me to enter?" he
asked. The answer was "No/' and I rushed away embarrassed for
him whom I so greatly admired.

Toward the end of the run, the musical began to fail and Ziggy
became a whining loser. Grieved by his treatment, Marilyn com-
plained to me:

"What does he want me to do? Go out in the street and drag in the
people? I can entertain them when they're here if I have decent
material, but I can't force them in."

Marilyn was a conscientious worker. Every evening as early as
seven o'clock, before the performance, she would come to the theatre,
put on her practice clothes, imprison her golden hair in a large hand-
kerchief, run down to the bare stage and practice her ballet exer-
cises. Then she would rush back to her dressing room where her
maid would apply the electric dryer and prepare her costume for
the first scene. The constant use of the dryer surprised me, for I
feared it would ruin her beautiful hair.

Marilyn was always smiling off stage and on. She seemed so happy
and convent-like that no one would have ever suspected the depth of
her feelings and her capacity for dissipation and passion. Her first
marriage was ended by an automobile tragedy. Her second to Jack
Pickf ord ended with divorce, her third with her too-early death. Jack
Warburton, the handsome beau of this era and another one of her
suitors, aided her, according to report, in returning an engagement
ring Michael Farmer had given her.

Marilyn's affection for Jack Donahue, however, seemed to inspire
some of her best work. After his death and during the run of her
show at the Music Box, she fell in love with a chorus boy whom she
married and to whom she left her estate, with resultant litigation on
the part of her family.

120

Poor lovely Marilyn! She was intended only to smile and delight
an audience. Her death was certainly tragic. Yet from the cold stand-
point of the theatre, she had already passed her heyday. Ziegf eld had
slyly disposed of her contract and in her last productions she had to
share stellar honors with other luminaries.

Until the sad day when Ziegfeld left for California and his death,
his hours were full of girls and their pursuit. Prominent on the long
radiant roster were Ruth Morgan and Hazel Forbes.

Mentioning their names has no implications whatsoever about the
nature of their friendships. I knew absolutely nothing about Zieg-
feld's personal interests outside the theatre. But I give names here
as a compliment to lovely womanhood; these names shine in the
stage legend of fair women.

Among Ziggy's infatuations was one that was never known to
Broadway Jean Harlow. When she came to New York for a brief
visit, shortly before her death, he was so fascinated by her golden-
haired beauty that he wanted to star her in the speaking role of The
Three Musketeers.

He was so enamored of Hazel Forbes that he pursued her with
telegrams and promises of important billings while she was on a
cruise. Fortunately for her, Hazel ignored his appeals in favor of a
millionaire whom she married. Later a widow and a millionairess,
she married and divorced a Ziegfeld star, Harry Richman.

The glorifier was so taken with Ruth Morgan that he gave her a
diamond and ruby lavaliere and had a small part for her written into
Smiles, with handsome costumes to match the distinction. Ruth's am-
bition to be an actress was both inspiring and pathetic. She deliber-
ately gave up her spot and her salary in Smiles to take a "bit** part in
Candlelight, starring Gertrude Lawrence.

In discussing her appearance in that play, it was Lee Shubert, I
believe, who stated that he had never in his experience seen anyone
create a similarly overwhelming effect on an audience. When she
entered, golden-haired, her face beautiful, her figure perfect, dressed
in red, everyone from gallery to orchestra actually gasped at her
loveliness. Five minutes later, everyone had forgotten she was in the
play. She didn't have what it takes to get over the footlights.

That's the odd thing about acting. All the training in the world and
all the ambition won't give a person the ability to act if he hasn't the
peculiarly necessary spark. Nothing but that spark will put him
over.

121

If only the thousands of would-be actors could apply a Geiger
test to themselves, how many wasted lives could be saved!

No matter how numerous or violent were Ziegfeld's attentions to
beautiful woman, even those which Miss Burke herself defined as
his "real loves/* I believe that there was one transcending love that
superseded all other passing flare-ups of the affections and that was
his love for Billie.

As I worked with him I saw numerous manifestations of this emo-
tion; how he thought in terms of her; how he made plans that would
please her; how he made judgments that coincided with hers.

An involuntary evidence of his real feelings was revealed to me
and only to me the night that Billie opened in Annie Dear. Ziegfeld
stood, as usual, in the background and I was near him though he
did not know it. When Billie made her entrance, I heard a kind of
muffled sob, and as I looked up, I saw the tears coursing down his
cheeks.

Actors seem to form a pattern of their own. They are largely im-
pervious to hardship and suspense. Their social and financial status
is improving rapidly. Many are wise enough to entrust their money
to personal managers who hold them to a budget.

My first-hand knowledge of their ways came largely through the
Ziegfeld stars who frequently discussed their hopes and beliefs with
me.

During his many years in show business, Ziegfeld employed al-
most every famous musical comedy star of the era except Al Jolson.
That great comedian he contrived to use for nothing, Jolson, at
the time, was so infatuated with his new wife, Ruby Keeler, that
when Ziegfeld suggested that he sing a love song to her from his
seat in the audience, Al accepted; his way of singing the chosen song
was so intimate that it embarrassed the audience.

My memories of Al Jolson go back thirty years to the day I inter-
viewed him about his stage training. He said that he had started
earning his living by selling glasses of water for pennies in the
gallery of a burlesque show. He was about ten years old and one
night, when he went back stage, he saw a girl smoking a cigarette;
he was so shocked that he cried.

When the Follies show was on the road Al used to join our after-
theatre parties. He was gay and carefree, always the minstrel. His

122

last will and testament astonished me, for I had never detected a
trace of the broad humanity shown therein.

While all the world was paying admission to see Ziegfeld stars
like Eddie Cantor, W. C. Fields, Marilyn Miller, Evelyn Laye, Fred
and Adele Astaire, I had the fun of studying them personally and
learning their slant on life.

Most urbane of Ziegfeld stars was Fred Astaire, the greatest dancer
of his era, the best dressed and the most un-actorish. His modesty
was an exception in a world given over largely to self-display.

We had great talks in the dressing room and sometimes he ini-
tiated me into the mysteries of his make-up, showed me how he
effaced his premature baldness for stage purposes by painting his
pate with common, ordinary black grease paint and how he tied
shoes with one lace without the usual bow a feat that I could never
learn no matter how often I tried.

"My dogs are tired/' he said one day about twenty years ago. Yet
he has continued in pictures, a supreme artist who never lets down.
A touch of glamour was added to American stage history when his
sister, the dancing-comedienne star, Adele, married an English lord.

The first time I made my rounds of the Ziegfeld shows, I met
Eddie Cantor. Instantly, I became an admirer, fascinated by his
mental and physical activity, for he was, indeed, all over the place,
entertaining guests in his dressing room, mingling out front with
the standees, giving people gratuitous advice, cracking jokes, plan-
ning investments. He loved to impress people with his humanity
and charities.

Once Eddie was the cause of my losing columns of publicity. The
incident had to do with Maurice Chevalier.

The first day the French star was in town, I took him to the bar-
ber shop. Eddie happened to be there, and when I introduced
Maurice to him, Eddie immediately took him in hand, and in his
well-known fatherly way, counselled him about every phase of
publicity, not from the point-of-view of Chevalier, a newcomer,
but from his own established position.

"Don't do things for nothing!" Eddie admonished; and that sug-
gestion was all the gifted, parsimonious Frenchman needed to lock
up his publicity assets. From that moment on, he was a changed
man. He wouldn't cooperate on a single stunt unless there was gold
on the dotted line. He even balked at interviews. He wouldn't per-

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form at a party in his honor, a brilliant debut event on the Ziegfeld
roof, with Paul Whiteman and his band, Morris Gest, the press and
many notables in attendance.

When I asked him to do interviews, he protested, saying, "I'm a
simple man of the people. I have nothing interesting to say."

Usually, clinging to his silence, he entrusted all conversation to his
wife, the wife he later divorced.

Once, however, he consented to attend a party where the guests
included George Gershwin, Otto Kahn and many other celebrities.
The next day, someone asked him, "Did you like the party, Maurice?*'

"Oh, yes, veree much."

'Was Otto Kahn there?"

"Oh, yes. He was there/' he smiled ingratiatingly. "Who ees Otto
Kahn?"

The night after that party came the Roof opening, with all its
Social Register glamour. Just how Chevalier would go over we
didn't know because his art was then considered too slight for Amer-
ican audiences. But he scored heavily with his smile, his protruding
lip, his straw hat, his ingratiating vocalizing and his naughty songs.

Off-stage, Chevalier was cagey and penurious in the French man-
ner. His artistic range was limited, yet precious, memorable and
altogether engaging. Years later, when he was the idol of the movie
fans, he described to me his astonishment over my publicity pro-
cedure.

"You rawshed me so," he said, in his full Gallic accent. "You
rawshed me here and you rawshed me there. I was all ovair Amer-
eeka before you gave me the chance to know where I am!"

The last time I saw Chevalier, after World War II and his sus-
pected collaboration, he was serving, prior to a second concert tour,
as the come-on for Mme. Reine's millinery show. He had finally
learned the value of publicity.

At that time and for the first time, a critic unmasked him by
stating that his condescension was obvious; the critic said that Che-
valier showed the traditional French attitude toward all foreigners
in looking down on his American audience.

Contrastingly appreciative of the efforts of others was Ruth Etting.
She evidenced her thanks for my work in a thoughtful way, by
sending her chauffeur around for my father and mother, regularly,
to take them for long rides in the park.

A quiet, lovable little woman, she was for a time the most popular

124

radio singer in America. Ruth was married for a number of years
to a small, grim-looking little cripple called "Colonel Gimp" who had
discovered her when she was either a seamstress or a singer in a
Chicago night club and who, as her manager, had engineered her
subsequent career.

He was so jealous of her that when Ruth even talked to any of the
men in the cast, the whole company would grow apprehensive. When
a real rival showed up, the man who eventually became Ruth's sec-
ond husband, "Colonel Gimp" did a little shooting and went, as a
result, to jail for a number of months.

Lupe Velez was a subject of curiosity and discussion. When she
entered the theatre, she was swarthy and untidy, her skin drab, her
clothes uninteresting. She looked, usually, as if she had just stepped
out of bed. In the dressing room, however, she was able to transform
herself into a superb beauty. She used a pancake make-up, then
new, that made her muddy complexion perfect, emphasized the
beauty of her facial contours, and by the time she had slipped into
her evening gown, she was young and enchanting.

Lupe was a very devil to manage, never keeping her appointments
and refusing always to go to the photographer. After long and con-
sistent cajoling, I succeeded in getting her to go to the Arnold
Genthe Studio where she became suddenly amenable, fascinated by
the famous artist's ideas and procedure.

When the sitting was over, she grew suddenly temperamental.

"Now I want a chance to amuse myself," she declared.

That was a large order. She had been everywhere. Nevertheless, I
complied with her demand by taking her to the flea circus. That
historic place was on West 42nd Street and it brought back memories
of visits to drab Clark Street during my university days at Chicago.

The long rectangular lobby was filled with men and women,
largely riff-raff. They shoved, pushed and shouted, forcing Lupe
along with them toward the stairway. I was afraid that they might
hurt her, damage valuable Ziegf eld property, but the little firebrand
didn't mind. She just moved on with the crowd to where the master
of ceremonies exhibited the trained fleas.

Their performance won her rapt attention. The fleas did virtually
only one thing they moved slightly under some kind of pressure.
Lupe regarded their performance, however, as remarkable and in-
sisted on seeing it again and again.

125

Her enjoyment reached its peak when a few minutes later, for an
additional ten cents, we descended to a lower basement and saw
the after-show: a hootch dance. The hootch dancers were terrible to
look at, homely, middle-aged women who were too indolent to give
more than a perfunctory exhibition of belly-wriggling. Nevertheless,
Lupe watched them with delighted interest, praised them highly,
she, the most daring and skilful belly dancer of that era. Strangely
enough, no one in the crowd recognized her.

Another Lupe incident, strictly earthy, occurred at the famous old
Mayfair Club. While I was dancing with a girl, someone goosed me.
I turned around to discover that it was Lupe.

"Why, Bernie, you don't mind my goosing you, do you?" she cried,
all laughter.

"No," I said, Tm not ticklish."

Half an hour later, we danced by Peggy Hopkins Joyce, who was
seated at a ringside table.

"Mr. Sobel," Peggy called, "Lupe tells me that goosing doesn't
bother you. May I try?"

"Of course," I answered; and turning around in my formal full-
dress suit, I prof erred my rear end so that the famous, much-married
lady might also goose me.

Every moment, during and after a performance, Lupe kept every-
one in a state of excitement. She came to the theatre in a mannish-
tailored suit and a man's fedora hat. She had a row at the stage door
about unpaid jewelry bills. She demanded extra rehearsals for her
Gloria Swanson imitation. She used her sister as a maid and was
insulted if someone forgot to address her. She reminisced to anyone
who would listen about her former sweetheart, Gary Cooper.

No one ever dreamed that this tempestuous creature, the life of
every gathering, would take her own life.

The star whom I loved best was Helen Morgan. She was as excit-
ing as an old-fashioned cinema serial. Edna Ferber described her
aptly as "an orchid slightly decayed" and long after she played in
Show Boat, Nicky Blair said wisely, "She still thinks that she's Julie."

She was adorable as a woman and unforgettable as an artist. Her
identifying specialty was singing on top of a piano and twisting a
handkerchief as if it were her tortured soul. She was always in per-
petual motion, planning new roles, talking about new love affairs,
books, drinking and giving presents. When she had her own night

126

club, the House of Morgan, she'd disappear, go on a drinking and
visiting binge, and show up at a rival establishment.

At one time she became a collector of rare books, at another, of
goldfish. There was something comical about this latter enthusiasm,
because fish became so important to her that Helen gave up one
whole room in her apartment to their accommodation. Fish bowls
stood on tables, on window seats, chairs and tabourettes. Special
utensils and electric lights made the place look like a small aquarium.

There was even an unpleasant odor in the general atmosphere, an
odor to which Helen was oblivious, for she sat relaxed, living her
life, talking about books and plays and drinking brandy while the
fish in the adjoining room lived artificially, cohabited realistically,
brought forth progeny copiously and died prematurely, after the
manner of fish.

From fish Helen switched to poetry, stray verses about a China
doll on the mantlepiece and a snooping bronze cat on the hearth-
stone. I told O. O. Mclntyre about their gay feud and he arranged
to have College Humor buy the manuscript.

Every once in a while, Helen would decide that she ought to play
in Camttle and the artistic possibilities of her portraying the role stim-
ulated the imagination of Guthrie McClintic. So Edna May Oliver,
Florence Reed, Stanley Gilkey, Helen and I went over to the pictur-
esque McClintic-Katharine Cornell home at Beekman Place for what
was to be an informal audition.

The evening started pleasantly, Miss Reed talking a beautiful Ger-
man, an unexpected accomplishment, and McClintic sparring with
Edna about people and places.

Helen had been drinking her favorite brandy that night, and when
the conversation turned toward the theatre, she suddenly grew
opinionated, then controversial with the result that the pleasant eve-
ning ended on a friendly, rather than a contractual, note.

Several times announcements have been made about a biographi-
cal film on Helen. If it is a good one, she will be an altogether lovely
heroine, a rare talent snuffed out too early because brandy, success
and temperament got in her way.

One evening while roaming around back stage in the Ziegfeld
Theatre, I heard a rumor that a strip tease dancer, freshly plucked
from downtown burlesque, had been engaged for a role in Hot-Cha.

"Isn't it awful?" groaned the patrician show girls. "We'll have to

127

share our dressing rooms and associate with a burlesque queen.
Ziggy must be crazy/*

So vehement was their expression of outraged propriety and back
stage snobbery, that I felt sure that the new girl, Gypsy Rose Lee,
was going to have trouble.

"They'll kill her spirit/' I said to myself, "unless someone comes to
the rescue."

Then and there, without seeing the girl, I resolved that I would
strive to give her so much space in the newspapers that she would
rate, from the standpoint of publicity, with the established glorified.

On Sunday, the day before the Washington tryout of Hot-Cha, I
fired my first shot by placing Gypsy's picture in every important
paper in the Capital, together with press stories and cast listings.
She thus became a Washington personage with the morning editions.

The next day, at rehearsal, I went back stage a little worried
whether Gypsy could live up to this advance ballyhoo. Would she
be as handsome as her photographs, would she be as crude as her
burlesque origin? These apprehensions were instantly forgotten in
the spell of our first encounter. Her beauty was matched by a
straightforward speech that won my heart. Her humor has the same
casual spontaneity as her famous undressing. Noteworthy was her
regularity of features, her clear skin and eyes. Her ears were small
and as beautiful as wondrous seashells. She was tall and indicated an
admirable self-confidence. She was ready to cooperate on any stunt.

She was certainly worth all the help I could give her; so I decided
to spread her name and pictures all over New York when the show
arrived there; and just because she had a stage-pariah origin, to give
her a social build-up.

I don't know why, but I decided to begin my campaign with a
literary attack, a dinner party for publishers and their wives. The
guests included Margaret and John Farrar and Frances Dutdbdn,
another Follies beauty.

On arrival, Margaret established at once an entente cordial by
handing each of the girls an orchid corsage. The meal had scarcely
begun when I noticed to my surprise that the conversation concerned
books with Gypsy taking the lead.

After that first party, seeing that Gypsy could take care of herself,
I proceeded to take her everywhere, to charity teas, society benefits,
and to columnists' haunts, like the Stork Club, "21," and the old
"Park Avenue," so that they could make note of her visits there.

128

By the end of the season, Gypsy had branched out on her own
and was entertaining old and new friends in her little apartment; her
guests included such notables as Carl Van Doren, George Jean
Nathan, Heywood Broun, Beatrice Kaufman, Claire Luce (the ac-
tress), Tallulah Bankhead and Moss Hart.

About this time, Leon and Eddie, the night club owners, sent me
a call for help.

"You've been our friend for years. Help us out. Business is bad.
Think up a stunt,'* they begged, "which will pull back the crowds."

For some reason or other, I thought of Gypsy. "Now that she's in
a Ziegfeld show," I said, "and no longer a strip tease dancer, she
should have a successor."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we ought to have a strip tease contest and find some
girl who can take her place."

And that's exactly what we arranged. We sent out notices to the
papers announcing a strip tease contest, together with the conditions
necessary for entrance and a list of the prizes.

Resultant interest was almost instantaneous. The newspapers gave
the story prominence. The columnists queried, twitted and predicted.
The idea of a successor to Gypsy had Broadway agog. Reservations
poured in by mail, messenger and telephone to Leon and Eddie.

Then an unexpected obstacle blocked all operations. In spite of
the chance for fame and money that the contest promised, not a
single girl sent in her name as a contestant. The outlook was bad; if
we didn't have at least five or six entrants, we'd have to call off the
stunt.

Desperate, I realized that the only way for me to prevent a col-
lapse of the plan was to go directly to the booking agents. But it was
no go. Not a single one of them would supply a strip teaser, even for
an increased commission.

"What if our girl loses the contest?" was the plaint. "We can't
afford to have our artists jeopardize their reputations."

Dejected, I left the office, but not the vicinity. I hung around the
street surreptitiously, until I spotted two dancers whom I knew.
Politely, I tipped my hat and told them about the strip tease contest,
handed each one of them a ten dollar bill and signed them up for the
contest before their agents could prevent them from entering it. And
those two young ladies served in the double capacity of contestants
and decoys, because as soon as their names were published, other

129

contestants signed up, five or six of them, short, tall, known and
unknown.

The night of the contest, the great crowd that gathered included
round-the-towners, ticket brokers, talent scouts, hangers-on, stage
stars and screen celebrities. Every table was filled. It was like old
times.

There was something jittery, however, in the excitement, as if the
police might walk in at any moment. But the entrance of Eddie
Davis, as master of ceremonies, gave tone to the occasion and eased
the tension.

A moment or so later, the members of the orchestra took their
places and the lights grew dim. Then, from a far corner, the first con-
testant appeared, a girl swathed in multi-colored chiffons, who went
through the routine pseudo-aesthetic dance, finally stripping to the
G-string.

Not a sound disturbed her number. When she finished, however,
the applause was tumultuous.

Up to then, I had sat silent and nervous, expecting cat-calls, boos
and hisses. The suspense was over now. The reaction was almost
reverent, setting the mood for the evening.

Another girl came out and then another, each one, in turn, doing
her dance with all the personal turns and twists of the traditional
tease artist. The audience, its critical faculties challenged, was serious
to the point of austerity. Everybody in the place, from the waiters to
the comedian, Bert Wheeler, was trying desperately to compare and
rate the contestants.

When all the girls had completed their routines, Lois de Fee, fa-
mous strip tease artist, was sighted in the audience, and everyone be-
gan shouting for her to do her number. She refused coyly until Vinton
Freedley, the producer, handsome, gallant and helpful, added his
plea.

"All right," she said. *1 won t do my dance, but if you insist, I'll
appear on the floor."

A burst of applause followed this gracious offer; whereupon Lois
walked to the center of the platform, removed all her clothes, and
in the midst of a palpitant silence stood for one brief moment, vir-
tually naked.

With this impromptu number the program came to an end. Gypsy
and the other judges rose, made their way to the back of the room,

130

and went into a huddle. They deliberated five minutes, ten minutes-*
minutes that seemed to prolong themselves into hours.

Yet all the while that large audience, the innermost group of hard-
boiled Broadway, sat motionless and anxious, fearful of disturbing
the judicial conference.

When the judges finally came forward and announced their de-
cision, the applause broke forth. It was mixed applause, however
almost threatening. The mood of the audience had changed from
friendly accord to open discord. Soon the place was seething with
controversy and dissension. The art of the strip tease had not been
justly appraised. The winner was not entitled to the prize. The award
was unfair. Protests from one table were so strong that one gentle-
man, appointing himself spokesman, rose and declared, "The second
girl deserves the prize. The one with the blonde hair and the green
scarf."

Others took up this cry, and soon counter-cries rose all over the
place. The crowd was bristling. From my seat, I could see Eddie
Davis in his corner, pacing up and down, trying to size up the situa-
tion, wondering how to prevent a free-for-all. But he didn't have long
to worry. Gypsy Rose Lee knew what to do. Completely in control
of herself, she got up and defiantly announced the name of the win-
ner again.

"The girl who won first prize is entitled to first prize. I'm an au-
thority and I knowl"

There was a cheer, then Eddie walked over to the belligerent ring-
side table.

"Did someone here/* he asked casually, "say that the second girl
is entitled to the prize?"

"Yes, yes, she ought to get the prize,"

"All right, then," said Eddie, "why don't you give her one your-
selves?"

"We will! We willl" went up the shout; and the next minute sixty
dollars for the other girl flashed across the table and landed in Ed-
die's hand.

The contest was over. Everybody was satisfied. The fete of nudity
was a success. Leon and Eddie had made a comeback.

With the passing of the days and weeks, Gypsy's importance as a
stage celebrity increased. When the Minskys opened for the first time
on Broadway they decided to hold a graduation exercise for strip

131

tease dancers. They asked me to act as Master of Ceremonies and
award the diplomas.

The ceremonies over, I announced that Gypsy Rose Lee, who was
then on tour, would be granted the title of Doctor of Strip Tease, in
absentia. Gertrude Lawrence accepted the diploma for her and the
walls reverberated with applause. Reginald Marsh, cartoonist of
burlesque, spoke. Aaron Copland, the pianist, and Mrs. Busch
Greenough, the socialite, were among the guests of honor. E. E.
Cummings, one of Gypsy's favorite authors, was announced to speak,
and when he didn't appear, someone in the audience called: "YouTI
find him in the lower case!'*

Continuously active, Gypsy never surprised me with her multiple
accomplishments and interests. One day she served champagne for
noon breakfast. Another day she gave a party for some royal person-
age of illegitimate birth. As hostess at her newly acquired country
place, her conversation included a discussion on how to run a fur-
nace, the habits of gangsters, decoupe pictures, oriental -dinner
recipes and auction sales.

As she sat at the window one day, she saw a strange man wander-
ing over her grounds. Annoyed and suspicious, she rushed outdoors
and shouted:

"What are you doing trespassing on my property?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Lee, I want to apologize."

"Who are you?"

Tm your neighbor and I've lost my dog."

At the word "dog," Gypsy grew mellow.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Go right ahead. And when you find the dog, come
back and have a highball neighbor."

When the man returned with his lost dog, he sat down on the
porch, drank his highball and dazzled by such unexpected proximity
to fame and beauty, said:

"Oh, Miss Lee. It must be a grand relief for you to be in the
country away from the noise, the traffic and the limelight/'

"It is indeed!" said Gypsy, soulfully. "There's a rhapsodic thrill
in the green trees and the mellifluous bird carols. The day merging
into night. The edge of dark. Crepuscular, silvery twilight. The gran-
deur of the stellar constellations. And when I go out into the yard,
I'm up to my ass in violets."

This story I've told frequently, the last time with Gypsy listening.

132

Her attention was rapt. Her mien serious. When I had finished,
she said, objectively:

"It's easy to see, Bernie, that you're not an agriculturist. I didn't
say violets, I said clover."

For a time, next to the Duchess of Windsor, Gypsy was the most
talked-of woman in America. Her jewel robberies, marriages and di-
vorces, motion pictures, stage appearances, books and articles com-
manded extensive newspaper space.

Soon she was the subject of controversy and criticism, the routine
accompaniments of success. Some people have called her opinion-
ated, cruel, greedy; others have said she is a hard bargainer, a per-
son who uses her friends.

To me, Gypsy has always been lovable and extraordinary. She
is demanding so far as recognition of her talent is concerned, a
natural demand for one who has fought so hard to gain recognition.

Just recently, I found her slaving long into the night on the editing
of the UGWA publication.

Tve got to put this over," she said. "After all, I started in vaude-
ville and I want to stick by the variety artists. Though vaudeville is
out, supposedly, the vaudevillians number the largest list of perform-
ers in show business. Their lot has been pitiful. They're cheated and
shoved around. In some places men and women have to use the
same dressing rooms. I'm going to help better their conditions. I'm
going to make this magazine their spokesman. I'm going to get ads
and articles. I'm going to work and make others work. Will you write
me a piece?"

The place to learn a certain kind of news was at the corner drug
store, only a half block from the Ziegfeld Theatre. Here the show
girls and dancers used to assemble at noon for lunch or after re-
hearsal. They made the counter glitter with beauty, color, youth and
spirit They shouted news and made dates with playboys and some-
times with the soda jerker. Here, after the show, they "gold-digged"
for expensive perfumes and cosmetics.

The glorified girls owned the world and this drug store center
proclaimed their possession. If a puritanic dowager customer hap-
pened to step into the store, as one sometimes did during the day,
she was astonished to the very roots of her grey hair at the un-
abashed display of bare legs and bare breasts, half -hidden by such in-

133

formal rehearsal clothes as abbreviated bathing suits, over-alls and
panties.

At the dinner hour, and after the show, the girls presented a very
different appearance, often being dressed in evening clothes, ermines,
mink and orchids. These were the hours for checking on appoint-
ments with their hoy friends or getting rid of undesirables by way of
the telephone.

Gradually, the store began to attract shady characters. Gangsters,
bootleggers and confidence men preyed on the girls and on every-
one else connected with the Ziegf eld organization who could be use-
ful to them. Once, in fact, I was startled by being told that a man to
whom I had been talking was the gangster, "Dutch" Schultz.

Quite frank was the approach of one millionaire playboy:

"Bernard/* he said, "if you'll introduce me to a certain girl in the
show and shell marry me, 111 buy you a Rolls Royce,"

"Since your intentions are honorable/' I replied, "I'll gladly intro-
duce you."

He shook my hand to confirm the contract, but on the way over
to meet the girl, he sighted another one who attracted him more and
that was the last time that he ever mentioned the first one and
marriage.

This sort of dizziness is typical of the playboy. He can change his
mind while making up his mind. He's apt to take a trip anywhere at
anytime. He has spurts of generosity when he entertains everyone
within drinking distance. He often plays casually with firearms. He
has a penchant for South Africa and hunting.

Without deliberately intending to do so, I once effected an intro-
duction at the drug store that involved millions.

In the Ziegf eld show was a handsome brunette named Lorelle Mc-
Carver. She was so reticent and serious that I seldom gave her the
opportunity to take part in publicity stunts. But I liked her, and once
in a while we would walk to the corner together. There I stopped
long enough, one day, to introduce her to a young man, William
Randolph Hearst, Jr. That young man she married, and the marriage
lasted about fifteen years. Later he married the handsome and bril-
liant Augustine, mother of his sons, William Randolph Hearst III and
John Augustine Chilton.

Bill Hearst I counted as one of my real friends, a fact proved by
an emergency. On one occasion, when I needed his help concerning
an advertising campaign, he left his office and came to mine where

134

he met the president of the organization, straightened out a difficulty,
and for good measure, boosted that same president later in an
editorial.

When after his father's death he became the publisher of the
paper, I took great pleasure in noticing that he headed the organiza-
tion with the same keen and omniscient interest that his father had
shown. And when he came out with his first by-line story, I sat down
and wrote him a congratulatory letter. I don't go in for prophecy, but
I anticipate important, far-reaching accomplishments from Bill.

A short time before the diamond mine owner, M. A. Schlesinger,
passed away, he had a talk about journalism with my sister and me
in Central Park. He opened the conversation by saying that though
he had lived across the street at the Savoy Plaza, this was the first
time he had entered the park in many years. He was in a reminiscent
mood and recalled his early days of poverty in Harlem. He said that
contrary to the general impression, Hearst's yellow journalism had
had a healthy influence. His papers, printed in large type, were easy
to read, made readers of people who had never looked at a paper
before, stimulated a desire for learning.

Hearing Mr. Schlesinger express his gratitude to Hearst was a
moving experience, considering the great success he had made of his
life. Short in stature, and soft-spoken, he had developed from a poor
New York boy to a member of a family whose fortune was said to be
more than $150,000,000, including 150 theatres. He had gone far
intellectually and geographically.

For me, the drug store was usually a recreation center, but some-
times battling with Ziegfeld would make me so unhappy that I'd
have to get away from the whole f ootlight area and call up a girl who
was happily accessible in the old Chelsea district, about fifteen taxi-
minutes away. She was a good-looking brunette, clever and ana-
lytical.

On this particular occasion, I was so unhappy that I told her that
I wanted to give up my job.

"Working for that man gets me," I complained. "It's not worth it"

"Don't concentrate on your troubles. Think of something else,"
said the girl. "The Hindus have a marvelous way of forgetting
trouble through concentration. I'll teach you how. Come to my apart-
ment. Well take off our clothes and sit calmly on the bed. We'll sit
and look inward as the Hindus do, studying the navel. It's concentra-

135

tion. Out of this concentration will come a strength and self-control/'
I did as she asked. Both of us undressed and sat on the bed. For
the moment, there was something incongruous in our separatedness,
both of us sitting apart and looking inward instead of enjoying each
other. Yet, just as she predicted, calm came from the repose. I forgot
my troubles. I grew rested. I began to think of the force of Yogi be-
lief and wondered how far it could carry me.

I saw that girl, week after week, and our friendship continued
happily. Then, one night, according to a previous engagement, I
went to meet her. I reached the street at the appointed time, and as
I looked about I had a strange, sinking sensation. The apartment
house was gone. What had happened? Overnight, in the few days
since I had last been there, the building had been torn down and in
its place was just a great empty space. I never saw that girl again.
She disappeared like the little streetwalker in De Quincey's Confes-
sions of an Opium Eater.

Visitors were seldom permitted back stage of the Ziegfeld shows.
Those fortunate enough to break through the restrictions got an im-
pression of intensified movement, scurrying beauties, perfume, grease
paint, nudity, laces and satins, an impression that they were not likely
to forget.

Preparations for the rise of the curtain started about eight
o'clock. By this time, stars and chorus members were at their make-
up tables, the wardrobe mistresses were mending, pressing and ad-
justing frocks, understudies were hoping and fretting, the stage
manager and his assistants were consulting rosters, electricians were
testing out lights and orchestra men were opening up violin cases,
sounding out cornets, blowing trombones and tuning up generally.

Discipline was largely subconscious. To work for Ziggy meant
living up to full responsibility in every department, for the producer
might, at any minute, find fault with lights, make-up, dialogue, or
dance numbers. Once, during rehearsals of Annie Dear, he had the
costumers re-make costumes three times for two girls who were on
the stage two minutes, barely time for the audience even to see what
they wore.

The words, "Ziegfeld's out front/' put every member of the cast
on the alert; and the mention of his name in rival theatres, whether
they were musicals or dramas, had the same effect on every com-
pany. He was the living measure of high theatrical achievement.

136

And the Follies became, gradually, the measure for American
beauty, style and taste. Ziegfeld girls gave their names to all sorts
o commercial products from hats to compacts. Their presence was
sought for all types of drives under the patronage of social register-
ites, orthodox charity leaders and newspaper photographers.

The truth is that the Follies was really a university with Ziegfeld
the head and members of his staff the faculty. Every girl who ex-
pected to keep her place in the show, had to attend rehearsals
promptly and obey back-stage rules. She had to learn the art of the
stage and also the art of living and keeping her balance in the
glamorous land of Broadway. This last task was superlatively dif-
ficult

Those who passed their examinations successfully had happy,
often, brilliant lives, for a time at least. They made important mar-
riages, won recognition in the arts, on the screen and the stage, and
also in business. Others married stage hands, worked in laundries, had
their names published in murder trials, lawsuits and suicide listings.
Many, to a greater or less degree, were thrown off-balance by what
happened in the easy live-today atmosphere of back stage and by
what they saw and heard in the dressing rooms. Many were confused
by the adulation that the outer world pays to almost any woman
who is connected with the footlights. They took flattery on-the-make
for true love.

In the dressing room the girls, often just teen-aged, learned their
first lessons about sex, love, and the intricacies of living. The first
exercise would frequently start with a dinner for two, just before the
performance. The instructor would be a wealthy playboy who would
take the girl to a night club like the Stork or El Morocco. Here she
would meet his friends, playboys like himself, stage and screen stars,
socialites, climbers, phonies and a few real people.

That party would often be the first important one in her life, an
occasion for which she had no preparation, an experience too daz-
zling and too sudden. Usually, the girl took everything in her stride.
She talked, danced, dined and drank. If people liked her manner, her
wisecracks, her beauty and her clothes, she made the grade and re-
ceived a diploma: that is, more invitations to dinners and parties,
presents of jewelry, an apartment and occasionally an offer of
marriage.

Carrying on from here seemed simple and easy, but it was really
nerve-wracking and difficult Sophistication was necessary and the

137

ability to pretend, for some of the girls came out of poor homes.
They had no clothes. They had no furs or jewels. They had never
been in a good night club and knew nothing of society and its ways.
But they had to give the immediate impression that they were at ease
and accustomed to every luxury. By a miracle, a great many of them
succeeded. And for a very good reason: they had native ingenuity,
the American spirit. Often, too, on parties they ganged up for mutual
protection; they whispered advice to each other, made signs.

The standard of culture in a Ziegf eld show was consistently high,
worthy of the producer. Back-stage conduct was exemplary. When-
ever an emergency did arise, the girls solved it in their own way.
Some of the girls were university students or graduates. Most of them
were great readers. When Michael Arlen was at the height of his
fame, he came back stage during a matinee and was surprised to find
twelve girls reading The Green Hat, two reading Will Durant's The
Story of Philosophy, and the rest absorbed in magazines.

The intellectual status of the Ziegf eld girl was high, a fact demon-
strated scientifically at Columbia University where several members
of the faculty gave an extensive psychology test to a group of repre-
sentative chorus girls from half a dozen Broadway musicals. Dorothy
Wegman won first honors and her right to these was confirmed con-
sistently through the years. She turned out two novels, Glorified and
Morning at 7, a touching study of family life. She married Samson
Raphaelson, author of The Jazz Singer, and numerous other stage
and screen fictions.

At times, oddly enough, mothers of the Follies girls were infected
with back-stage fever. Some, forgetting their age, dolled up in youth-
ful clothes, joined mass auditions, and tried to get into the chorus.
Others managed to absorb the excitement by meeting their daughters
nightly at the stage door. Three or four, their fortunes changed and
their youth gone, joined the staff as wardrobe women; and some-
times these mothers had to dress their own daughters.

Touching was an incident concerning one of the show girls, a
handsome blonde, who came to the theatre regularly, accompanied
by her mother. She had an attentive boy friend, tall, good-looking
and rich who sent her orchids, candy and expensive gifts. One night,
however, the girl failed to arrive at the regular hour.

"What has become of her?" asked the others. "She's seldom late.
If she doesn't get here soon, she won't have time to put on her
make-up."

138

Just before the curtain was due to rise, die girl arrived. She looked
pale and desperate, her eyes red, her hair uncurled, her clothes
untidy.

"What's the matter ?" everyone asked.

"Something dreadful," she said, sitting down and bursting into
tears. "My mother ran away with my sweetheart. They got married
this morning.**

A Follies beauty had been eclipsed by her own mother. Incredible!

Suddenly, to everyone's consternation and regret, the back stage
story would sometimes switch to the front pages. Gangsters like
"Legs" Diamond would be the chief figure in the story; gunfire
would furnish the punctuation; and a Follies beauty like Kiki Rob-
erts would supply the love interest.

That Kiki Roberts would ever be associated with outlaws was un-
thinkable. The only unusual thing about her during all her seasons
in the Follies was her change of name from Marion Strasmick to Kiki
Roberts. Otherwise, she was just a reticent, lovable child, a brunette
and so beautiful that art magazine editors gave her photographs
preferred spots.

She must have been about sixteen when she joined the Follies,
bright-eyed, buoyant, seemingly not too intelligent, but wholesome
and candid. She appeared from the first to have no freedom, for
almost every night her mother, a stern-looking woman, recalling
the stock austerity of a school teacher, would call for her at the
stage door. We got the impression, somehow, that Kiki had very
little pleasure in life outside of that which she snatched visiting back
stage with the people in the show. Kiki's subsequent relation to
"Legs" Diamond, possibly her first real love affair, the shootings,
defiance of the law and jail sentences, made crime history. Poor Kiki!

My experience with Jimmy Durante, another Ziegf eld star, made
stage history. He wasn't always on his own. About twenty-five years
ago, he was a member of a night club trio called Clayton, Jackson
and Durante, whom Ziegfeld engaged to appear as a unit in Show
Girl, a musical comedy based on J. P, McEvoy's book of the same
name.

No sooner had the rehearsals started than Ziegfeld noticed Du-
rante's extraordinary abilities. He saw that he was the exceptional
entertainer of the act, who, in spite of his crudities, perhaps by very
reason of them, meant something to the show. As a result, he called

139

me into Ms office and said, "Cut Durante away from Jackson and
Clayton. Center all publicity on him. Break up the team."

As commanded, I set to work immediately on this cruel operation;
and I shall never forget the pathos of the resulting situation. Clayton
and Jackson, of course, were good performers. But they grew in-
creasingly alarmed as they watched themselves being sloughed off,
their fame vanishing, their act withering, their means of a livelihood
fading away!

"What's this?" said Clayton one day, storming into my office, angry
and ready to beat me up. "Giving Durante all those plugs and leaving
us out? That's got to stop. We're a team. A team! Do you hear me?"

Yes, I heard all right, though there was nothing that I could do
about it. I followed Ziegfeld's order and helped break up the team.
And now that the years have passed, that old wheeze about the
greatest good for the greatest number seems to justify everything.
Clayton became the manager of the team until he died, and Jimmy
has used live-wire Jackson in every spot available, letting him do
practically the same numbers he did all those years ago.

Just about the time that Show Girl was due to close, Sam H.
Harris announced that he was going to close June Moon because
Harry Rosenthal, pianist-conductor, was leaving the cast.

Without letting Jimmie know and he won't know until he reads
this I went to Mr. Harris and begged him to put Durante in the part.

"He can act comedy as well as pathos do anything I'm sure."

But Mr. Harris smiled tolerantly. The range of Duxante's talents
hadn't yet been demonstrated and he wouldn't take a chance.

Jimmy Durante, solo, has certainly increased laughter for film and
theatre audiences as he never could have done as part of the trio.
He is one of the great comics of the era.

Of all the laugh-makers, W. C. Fields was my personal favorite.
To hear him discourse in his dressing room was a stimulating experi-
ence. He could be deadly serious. He made down-to-earth observa-
tions that had the ring of philosophy. His appraisals of character
were thorough. He knew what is called life.

Away back in 1920, W. C. Fields told me this story of his first job.

**I came to Atlantic City," Bill explained, "by way of Norristown,
Pennsylvania. I was a Md then and had a little job in an amusement
park. Bickel and Watson were on the same bill, and they were doing
a German act. I got five dollars a week and the manager took one

140

dollar and fifty cents out for commission. Out of this I paid forty
cents a day fare from Philadelphia.

"After a time Bickel and Watson went to the Fortesque Pavillion,
Atlantic City, and they recommended me to the management. They
sent for me and I got ten dollars, double my old salary, and also my
food and room, neither being much to rave about.

"I worked on the stage at this place which was a kind of restaurant
There was no admission. Patrons would buy a glass of beer for five
cents, and the sale helped pay our expenses. Business would get
pretty bad every once in a while and so it would be necessary for
them to take me out and drown me. This was more simple than it
sounds.

"I would swim out into the ocean and when I got out some dis-
tance, I'd holler 'Help,' go under, come up after a moment, spitting
a lot of water. Then two or three men, all 'plants/ waiting on the
shore, would swim out to me, battle around me while everyone
would run up to see what the excitement was. 'Someone's drowning/
they'd all begin shouting, and start a ballyhoo. Then when the crowd
was big enough the men would drag me in. I'd be spitting water here
and there, and sometimes one of the bystanders would get a face
full. Three or four fellows would carry me then right into the pavil-
lion with the crowd following after us to see what was going to hap-
pen. Next, they'd throw me across a table and begin working on me.
But by this time the band would be playing, and the funny Irishman
would walk out on the stage. So they'd all begin to look at him and
forget about me. Finally I'd get up weakly and slouch away. Those
still standing around would say, 'Oh, he'll be all right. He's all right.
Let's take a look at the show now that we're here and see what's
going on.' Some would remain and take seats at the tables while
others would walk out. And that was the way we got the money."

Sometimes Bill would sing a gay, bawdy song about a French
soubrette who halted the attentions of pursuing admirers on the
beach with the aid of a little sand properly placed. That number
with its broad dialect was one which I enjoyed greatly, and when
I saw Charlie Chaplin in the audience one night, I fished him out
during the intermission and led him back stage to Bill's dressing
room.

Arriving there, I begged Bill to sing the song for Charlie. He did,
and what a memorable performance it was, a one-man show, with
Charlie and me his two auditors.

141

During the Prohibition era, Bill kept in his dressing room a trunk
full of the choicest liquors. He also held open house for a limited
few who enjoyed the contents of that trunk. Occasionally, as I rushed
by, worried about putting over a story, Bill would call me and say:

"Doesn't your mother like Gold Water?" Before I could answer,
he would hand me a bottle of the priceless liquor which I took home,
happily and proudly.

For many years Bill carried with him a dwarf -like valet and stooge
called Shorty. If the little fellow ever had more of a name than this,
no one ever heard it. Shorty was not good to look at, and Fields's
growing dislike for him culminated in the stooge's discharge after
many years of service.

That dismissal was the only occasion in which I found Bill cruel.
I was surprised, therefore, when reviewing Field's biography, to find
that Hollywood had made him an autocrat whose odd behavior was
matched only by his drinking prowess. Somehow, I couldn't believe
that Fields had let fame distort him.

Frequently teamed with Fields was Ray Dooley, a member of the
famous Dooley family, and the wife of Eddie Dowling. She was one
of the most lovable of Ziegfeld's stars and one of the greatest low
comediennes, a rare type. She always nurtured resentment concern-
ing an unrecognized accomplishment: she put on the crying baby
act in the Follies before Fannie Brice had even whimpered.

Ray's adagio dance with Fields was a laughter miracle.

Jack Pearl, another Ziegfeld star, was noted for his superstitions.
If a person would touch him on the ear, he would run like mad all
over the theatre until he also had touched his annoyer on the ear.
Good-hearted and ingenuous, he represented the last example of the
German dialectician, a form of comedy once exceedingly popular
that died out with the first world war.

Jack had a brilliant past as a comedian and radio star. Then he
dropped out, a rich man, according to his own statement, but a dis-
appointed one, for his talents were rich ones.

Early retirement from the theatre is more common these days
than it used to be. Stars don't last as long as they did once, but they
have opportunities now for new careers in pictures, radio and tele-
vision, which provide forgotten stars and even famous ones like Ed
Wynn and James Barton with new incomes and a fresh chance for
revealing their virtuosity.

142

James Barton is the most versatile comedian o the era. His mad
dog drunk is a creative masterpiece. He is a singer, a pantomimist,
a dancer and a real comic. His power to create character was dem-
onstrated when he moved to the legitimate stage and played a star-
ring role in Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh.

Almost unaccountable was the behavior of the mainly serious,
somewhat preacher-like Will Rogers. My memories of him are touch-
ing, though never profound. After studying him week after week, I
found that he had a natural wit and a kind of Yankee canniness that
made him capable of discussing a subject without really knowing
much about it.

Once, for instance, I was surprised to find him reading a best-
seller, The Life of Henry VIII, by Francis Hackett Anxious to get
his impression of the book, I brought certain passages to his atten-
tion, only to find that Rogers didn't really get their meaning.

He was, at all times, a picturesque figure, sentimental, and occa-
sionally a typical ham. His attitude toward the Ziegfeld girls was
always patronizingly humorous. Sometimes, at a rehearsal, he'd com-
plain sadly because they weren't all wearing mink coats. His debut
on Broadway, according to his agent, Max Hart, was attended by
an odd circumstance.

Rogers, originally a vaudeville actor, was having difficulty making
progress; and he appealed at last to Max to get him into a Broadway
show. Max succeeded eventually, putting him in a musical that
opened at the George M. Cohan Theatre, opposite the Times
Building.

Arrangements were made to have Rogers go on briefly in the first
act, then do his monologue in the second. During the intermission,
the audience walked out, as was customary, for a drink and a smoke.
But no one came back and Rogers never did his monologue, for op-
posite the theatre, on the giant New York Times electric sign, were
the tragic words: "Titanic Sinks!"

Another story about Will Rogers came from Charles Dillingham
who starred him at the time he did a monologue in bare feet. Dil-
lingham said that Rogers used to ask for part of his salary to be paid
in dollar bills. Then, after the show, he would leave the stage door
and walk down the street giving them away, one by one, until all of
them were gone.

There was a kind of pathos always in Roger's literary industry,

143

an industry that made him a magnificent symbol of American folk-
wisdom and worthy of a shrine. He wrote all his own stuff, worked it
out laboriously in the theatre where he shut himself up in his dress-
ing room until the curtain went up. He almost crushed the type-
writer, looking for the right word.

Seemingly unimpressed by social gradations, people were just
human beings to Rogers. Titles he tossed off with a democratic indul-
gence for a guest's eccentricity in having one.

One night, I introduced him to a visiting princess, a handsome,
dignified woman in formal evening dress. In a moment, Will was
talking to her enthusiastically and, as usual, chewing gum. Then, to
reinforce an opinion, he slapped her bare arm.

Annually, Rogers gave a party for the entire staff of the Follies,
from the scrubwomen and doormen to Mr. Ziegfeld himself. The
menu could best be described as a barbecue with unlimited steaks,
chops and beer, served after the performance, on the stage on im-
provised refectory tables.

At the height of the gaiety, a crowd of drunken hoodlums broke
through the scenery entrance door somehow and rushed onto the
stage and into the party. Their unexpected appearance in the sacred
theatre area threw everyone into a panic. The stage hands rushed to
oust the hoodlums and a free-for-all started, with an unexpected
and incredible climax. For Rogers was unaccountably left to face
the ruffians by himself; and, alone, he stepped out and defied them.
It was a fine display of spontaneous courage during a fantastic
moment in which his life was just as certainly in danger as if he were
on a battlefield. The scene resembled one of those Westerns to
which Bill belonged by birth.

For some strange reason the stage-hands stood tense and silent,
no one coming to his assistance. Then, definitely over-awed by the
man's valor, the hoodlums backed out. The crisis was over.

At this point, little dimpled-kneed Ann Pennington began to
whimper, "I don't want them to hurt Bill! I don't want them to hurt
Bilir

Rogers' subsequent national fame was somewhat disproportionate,
making him, at times, very difficult to manage. Only one line of his
writings is now recalled: "All I know is what I see in the newspapers."

Thanks to Fannie Brice, I enjoyed one of the most unusual lunch
experiences in my life. The guest of honor was Fannie, just returned

144

from Hollywood, with her children and several persons who made
up her retinue. The place was the private offices of the Pennsylvania
Station. The menu consisted of sandwiches and soft drinks. The host
was William Eagen, stationmaster.

Knowing that Fannie was pressed for time, he stopped dispensing
railway information during the meal and saw to it that Fannie
was comfortable and well-fed.

At one time Fannie embarked on a venture that shook the world
of fashionable physiognomy. She had her nose bobbed, the first
famous star to risk what was then considered a hazardous operation.
All kinds of stories had flourished until then, the grandfather of them
being that tampering with the nose would ruin the singing voice.

This, of course, proved to be incorrect. What did affect Fannie
for a time was the aftermath comment of certain critics. They de-
clared that minus the hooked proboscis, Fannie wasn't Fannie any
more that her change in countenance caused a loss in humor. To a
degree she may have lost what is called "the sight-laugh/' but so far
as her subsequent career was concerned, her power to create laughter
continued, culminating in her masterpiece, "Baby Snooks."

More than twenty-five years ago, Fannie told me about her ex-
periences trying to get a job, an account slightly at variance with
that presented by her biographer.

The first chance she had to get a stage job that was offered her, she
didn't accept. The locale was Macy's Department Store and the
occasion was Fannie's search for material which she used to make
organdie dresses and black velvet sashes. The people concerned were
a woman and a little girl she met at the counter. The woman studied
Fannie's dress and said, politely:

"Pardon me, little girl, will you tell me where you bought that
lovely dress? I have been trying to get one just like it for my little
girl."

"I didn't buy it. I made it myself. Get some goods and 111 make
one for you."

"You will make it for me?" asked the woman, surprised.

"Yes, I'll make it. I love to sew. Get some goods. It's only ten cents
a yard."

"Will you really do it?" reiterated the woman, trying to reassure
herself of her good luck.

"Yes, I'd love to," Fannie emphasized.

So the next day she went to the woman's house, sewed away

145

merrily, boasted about how she sang on Thursdays and Fridays on
amateur nights, and departed. But not before making an extraor-
dinary discoverythe lady to whom she had given her services so
generously was no less a person than Millie de Leon, the original
"Girl in Blue," one of the most important burlesque queens. Though
de Leon offered her a job, Fannie considered herself too talented
at that time for burlesque.

What she later wanted was to be understudy to the soubrette
in a burleycue. Her chances were slim, or stout rather, as the regular
soubrette was a big, husky, Italian girl, the wife of the stage manager,
and she had never been known to be sick.

"You couldn't knock her out," Fannie declared.

One day, however, to the surprise of everyone, she began to com-
plain. It seemed that she had acquired an abscess behind the ear. But
it did not keep her away from the show. Not even when it grew
bigger and bigger. She suffered, of course, but held on heroically;
and when it grew so large as to be easily visible, she tied a pink
ribbon around it, to conceal the swelling.

Meanwhile, Fannie did everything she could think of to make it *
burst. She even tried to knock pieces of scenery against her head }
in the hope of a happy impact. But no luck. In Cincinnati though,
Mother Nature came to the rescue just as the persistent soubrette
was about to step on the stage.

"The abscess burst, and simultaneously I burst into her role. When
she started screaming with pain, I was singing out in front, the first
verse in In the Land of the Buffalo. Her dance routine I didn't know,
so I did the one I learned with the chorus most of the time the same
steps over, frontwards, backwards, and sidewards. Then the en-
cores began. They wouldn't let me go.

"I made such a hit that Joe Hurtig, who happened to be in Cin-
cinnati at the time, let me keep the part and put the soubrette back
in the chorus."

Later, Fannie applied for a job with the College Girls Company.
But needing material, she rushed out frantically to the music pub-
lishers, Berlin, Waterson and Snyder.

"Hello, Irving," she cried. "I want two songs to sing at a benefit."

"What kind of songs?"

The question flabbergasted her to whom songs then were just
songs.

<e l leave it to you, Irving."

146

Surmising her perplexity, Irving walked over to the piano and took
two songs, "Cherry Rag" and "Sadie Salome." He sang them: the
"Salome" with a Jewish accent

Up to this time Fannie had never done a line of dialect. Automati-
cally, she followed the composer's lead and sang as he did.

"That was a crucial moment in my life," she declares, "though I
didn't know it, I suppose. If Irving had given me an Irish song and
done it with a brogue, I would have been an Irish comedienne
forever."

To one Ziegfeld star I owe a great debt, Ed Wynn. Following the
period after my father's death when I didn't want to work and
wouldn't take jobs offered me, he heard about my state of mind and
came to my assistance. He was not appearing on the stage or radio
and had decided to become a producer. With a play developing, he
called me one day, saying:

"I've taken an office in the Sardi Building. I'm going to put on
some plays. Come over and be my play reader. I'll give you a weekly
salary."

That offer brought me back to life. I was with Ed every day,
talked and planned with him, ate with him and went to see the
shows that he wanted to see. The relationship was happy; I enjoyed
Ed's imaginative conceptions of plays and acting, his mixed naivete
and sophistication, his humor.

That Wynn is a genius no one can deny who has followed his suc-
cess in The Perfect Fool on the stage and radio. He is altogether
lovable.

Yet Ed is possessed of all the contradictory traits that are the
actor's inheritance. True to the legendary comic temperament, he
is Hamlet, moody to the point of melancholia. Sometimes before a
performance of Simple Simon, I would have to walk with him all
around the block, negating his fears, arguing him out of his obses-
sions. The effort was terrific and saddening, yet I knew that by the
time I had re-established his faith in himself, he would walk into the
theatre and put on a perfect show, child-like in his charm, engagingly
wistful in his assumed credulity, a jack-in-the-box in his surprise
response to situations and dialogue which he had himself concocted,
a master of mob psychology.

The day came, unfortunately, when we broke our relationship.
He selected a play which I told him wouldn't go. But he was stub-

147

born, wouldn't, for the first time, heed my advice. So I told him I
couldn't honestly continue, certainly couldn't publicize a piece in
which I had no faith.

We parted enduring friends. The piece lost many thousands. If
Ed had only listened to me!

One gayer incident I must recall. While a rehearsal was in prog-
ress, just an hour before the curtain was to go up for the Boston
premiere of Simple Simon, I suddenly remembered that Ed hadn't
had a bite of food all day. I suggested that he eat some dinner, but
he was too concerned over the opening to take the time. Finally, at
my insistence, he said: "All right Bring me something light. A plate
of frankfurters and baked beans with a dill pickle."

The show must go on" if temperament doesn't block the passage.
This I learned dramatically during the run of Show Boat through an
incident never before disclosed. Somehow the management dis-
covered that Charlie Winninger, the immortal Captain Andy, had
a Jap valet who was bootlegging back stage and consistently break-
ing down the morale. Charlie was repeatedly told to discharge the
valet. He refused. Conditions grew so bad that the management
ordered the valet out of the theatre.

That night, after the first act, I happened to walk into Charlie's
dressing room. Apprehensive, I began to look for him. He was no-
where in the theatre. Some instinct made me rush to the stage door
and out to the street There was Charlie, liquored up and furious
over tihe dismissal of his valet, rushing in costume and full make-up
to the nearest saloon in the midst of the performance.

As fast as I could run, I went after him to plead with him to return
to the theatre. Doing so was not easy. He refused to budge until I
started dragging him back to the theatre. That indignity seemed to
sober him and reduced his anger. The lovable old artist came to his
senses, reached the playhouse in time, and the show went on.

Actors are not essentially creative, though they sometimes dis-
cern in a role meanings the dramatist himself hasn't suspected. All
the great ones have done the Shakespeare roles. They could always
be replaced with greater or lesser success. Their strength is in-
terpretation.

The truly creative artist of the stage is really the comedian. W. C.
Fields and Raymond Hitchcock were exceptions. They were limited

148

largely to the material provided them. Many of the modern comics
originate a great deal of their material or at least suggest it and edit
But the comics can't be replaced, duplicated or succeeded. They are
unique.

Though I publicized Bob Hope in Ballyhoo, I had no chance to
study his creative faculties. But his wit and the wit of Milton Berle
and Jack Benny attest, certainly, their possession of rare creative
power. I never worked in a show with Jackie Gleason, the brilliant
Fred Allen, young "Red" Buttons, or with Bobby Clark, but they
evidence analytical conceptions of comedy that are superlative.

Bobby was particularly thorough in his discussion of "eye-laughs/'
the outward matters of costume, physical misadventure and make-up
that are practically automatic stimuli to laughter.

Ed Wynn has this same faculty, only his imagined characters are
completely innocent of the ways of the world. Once his characters
are brought to life, he establishes their surroundings, a feat of in-
estimable value.

Eddie Cantor doesn't have the range of character creation, but
his clap-hands, banjo-eyed, bursting-with-energy f ootiight personal-
ity is one of the most delightful, lovable and thorough contributions
ever vouchsafed the comedy stage. But Cantor doesn't stop here. He
imagines characters and business for everyone and what would make
a rounded play. He is one of the most prolific comic artists of this
generation.

149

CHAPTERS

End of the Ziegfsld Era

I

WENTY-FIVE years ago, there were more New York papers, but
I, like most of the press agents, had to battle fiercely for space. Yet
the fate of the play we were exploiting depended, to a degree, on
dramatic editors. One story more or one picture more might have
meant the continuance of the run, for the life of even the best play
is partly dependent on the fortuitous. The editors, at that time,
ranged from expert and honest to incompetent, drunken and con-
niving. Some of them gave space strictly on the merits of a story, a
picture or a production. Others gave space because of personal
feelings about the agent, A few accepted presents for space privi-
leges. One, two or three borrowed money and never returned it.
One editor favored a relative and gave him space every week, re-
gardless of just distribution. Another editor on a morning paper had
a special day each week for receiving press agents. But on that par-
ticular day, he rarely came in; so the stories that we had worked
over and prayed over lay piled up on the floor in the corridor, in
front of his locked door where any passerby could trample over
them or kick them aside.

150

The idea of a press agents' union, developed some twenty years
ago, saved the career of the legitimate press agent and led even-
tually to raising his status and insuring his rights. Like all profes-
sional workers, the press agent considered himself an individualist
who wished to work only on his own without interference. When
the word "union" first trickled into his consciousness, he disregarded
it contemptuously and said, "Not for me. A professional writer does
not join a union. That would be beneath him/*

But while he worked on aloof, a group of men, most of them
unskilled and seemingly incapable of handling a Broadway show,
jealous of our pay and our jobs, decided to form a union.

In a moment, we, the established legitimate agents, found that
we were going to be displaced and deprived of our jobs through
political out-maneuvering; and that the theatre, as a result, would
be at the mercy of men largely incapable of writing a story or of
knowing the literary worth of a play. Instantly, all the qualified men
of the profession decided that they would have to form a union, in
spite of themselves.

By this time, gaining recognition had become a serious and desper-
ate problem. The opposing group had a start, applied political
methods, and knew a way to squeeze us out.

Day and night we worked against ugly odds; we held emergency
meetings, and we were forced to plot, enlist influence, claim the ear
of national headquarters. Finally, we gained the proper recognition,
established a union of our own, based on the standards worthy of the
profession.

Soon, happily, the new union organization became part of the
press agent's life.

From that day on we were a self-respecting body devoted to the
best interests of the stage and the highest ideals of the profession.
The press agent had finally gained the dignified recognition of pro-
ducers and managers.

If the insurgent press agents had won, the loss to the art of the
theatre would have been terrific, because most of the insurgents
lacked culture and writing facility.

A tragedy followed after our organization. The leader of the op-
position fell down a flight of stairs to his death.

In spite of the struggles and the slights which the press agent
must still experience, he loves his work as every other worker in the
theatre does. He lives or dies by it, sustaining himself on the smell

151

of grease paint, the glow of footlights, and the continuous effort
necessary to keeping an art alive.

Press agentry is still one of the most fascinating forms of earning
a living. Each day it presents a new emergency and a new challenge
to the imagination.

The work, however, that I did for Miss Burke and Ziegfeld in the
way of publicity, I could never accomplish now, no matter how in-
ventive I might be or enthusiastic. For the whole business of pub-
licity has changed.

Twenty or thirty years ago, at the first mention of a novel idea,
editors would rush their photographers and reporters almost any-
where to cover it. Stunt pictures broke into front pages, rotogravure
sections and syndicated columns. They filled hundreds of lines
of space while establishing the name of the show or the player and
helping the box office.

With the arrival of the columnist and the sophisticated city editor,
theatrical publicity was tossed aside for exposes about stage people
and authentic news, news which grew with war, aviation and radio.
The price of paper went up and the rotogravure sections went out.
The make-believe world could no longer be sustained by make-
believe.

For my part, I know for certain that some of my publicity definitely
helped the box office while simultaneously giving the public a laugh.

Part of the press agent's responsibility and part of his fun had to do
with giving away free seats known by various terms such as
"Complimentaries/' "Two on the cuff," "Passes" and "Courtesies."

The practice seems to have started in the eighteenth century with
the footmen's gallery. Here these gentlemen sat, free of charge,
watching the play. If they liked it, they left the theatre, rushed home
and reported their impression to their employers. They in turn, if
impressed by the footman's recommendation, would betake them-
selves to the play.

The system worked advantageously for the box office, until one
astute manager, finding that giving space free resulted in a loss, cut
off the privilege.

The footmen, feeling that they were being deprived of a prerog-
ative, started straightway a feud with the managers. The feud cul-
minated in a hand-to-hand battle with the footmen charging right
onto the stage. There they met defeat.
This same battle for free tickets, however, continues until today.

152

Once they were easy to get, given in exchange for poster space and
other privileges. Actors, out of work, got them by simply saying, "Do
you recognize the prof ession?"

Sometimes, about thirty years ago, managers gave away all the
seats in the theatre for what were called "Professional Matinees,* per-
formances held on off-afternoons for the purpose of trying out a play
and avoiding the expense of an out-of-town premiere.

Free tickets now are difficult to get. The number given out on an
opening night, even to the press, is determined by the N. Y. Theatre
League.

During the days that I was working with Ziegf eld, the press agent
was up against it. With the literary development, however, of the
American stage and the advent of dramatists like Eugene O'Neill,
he won respect. Press agentry is no longer a matter of trickery and
stunts, but an educational occupation that acquaints the public with
meritorious plays and with actors and playwrights who take their art
seriously.

Nevertheless, Winchell strove consistently to push the press agent
backward, for though his own status was dubious, and though he was
dependent on the press agent for the greater part of his material, he
tried to build himself up by referring contemptuously to the stage
publicist.

A few years ago, my good friend, Louis Sobol wrote a column
lauding press agents and summarized my work in a few lines with
felicitous compactness:

"Or Bernard Sobel, who once glorified Flo Ziegfeld and Abie's
Irish Rose and then repented and earned an honest buck as a dra-
matic critic, only to fall from grace again and return to publicity a
shameful situation, which he endeavors to atone for by writing
books on burlesque, the theatre and pieces for highbrow magazines
like the American Mercury."

Some of my publicity stunts had unusual effects. One brought me
the gift of a walrus tusk from Alaska, another a trip to Havana.
Another made me a demi-urge who influenced the life of Ralph
Forbes about thirty years ago, without his ever knowing it.

This English actor came here to play in Havoc, with a company
whose members all became famous: Richard Bird, Joyce Barbour,
Mrs. Griffis, Leo G. Carroll.

Forbes took himself quite seriously and entreated me to give him

153

personal publicity. Finally, he told me, confidentially, that he was
only nineteen years old.

Anxious to help out the young fellow, I began to figure out a
method; and as I stood studying him, I was reminded of a re-
semblance to someone else.

"Did anyone ever tell you," I asked, "that you look like the Prince
of Wales?"

"Often," answered Forbes, swelling with pride. "Everyone in
England says so."

"That settles it. I've never seen him myself, but if your English
countrymen say so, the resemblance must be strong."

Promising to help him, I left the dressing room and called Cholly
Knickerbocker (Maury Paul), who had always been friendly to me.

"You must help me out," I begged. "I've got a young actor here
who looks exactly like the Prince of Wales. Won't you say that he
stepped into the Ritz and caused a furore among the debutantes, who
met him in the lobby? Then say that after he had won their hearts,
they discovered that he was not actually the Prince, but the young
actor, Forbes, in Havoc?"

Maury, who seldom mentioned stage folks, did exactly what I
asked. He wrote a long, convincing story for the society column
which helped put Forbes on his way to fame.

My influence on the young actor, however, was not yet over. While
I was working on Havoc, Henry Miller sent for me and asked me to
publicize his first musical.

As I stood in the office, talking over arrangements, I heard some-
one say, "We need a man for The Magnolia Lady. Who is this young
fellow, Forbes, in Havoc?"

Knowing that Havoc was about to close and that Forbes would be
out of a job, I spoke up.

"I can tell you all about him," I said. "He's just the man for the
part."

Without further ado, the manager made an appointment with the
young player and engaged him. Subsequently, Forbes became the
husband of Ruth Chatterton, starring in her first musical, The Mag-
nolia Lady.

Unwittingly, I had become a matchmaker.

After I wrote the above sentence, I happened to pick up the New
York Times. The day was Sunday and the date was April 1, 1951, and
there, heading the obituaries, was the announcement of the death of

154

Ralph Forbes. He had played eighty roles on Broadway and in Holly-
wood. He had gained high distinctions and then drifted into second-
ary ratings. He had married three times and been divorced twice. He
was only forty-five years old when he died.

What mixed emotions that notice gave me! I thought of the hand-
some young man I'd first met, and then of the middle-aged man, pre-
maturely stout, the spark gone. I thought of a full life and wondered
how I could define it. How much chance and circumstance has to do
with an actor's career!

Progress and retrogression move fast in the theatre. When Paulette
Goddard, for instance, headed one of my publicity stunts, she was a
plump little blonde dancer in the Follies. A few years later she was
one of the most famous and richest cinema stars in the world. I re-
membered with a smile how cleverly she took part in a stunt I ar-
ranged as a tie-up with Gentlemen Prefer 'Blondes, by Anita Loos.

In order to cash in on the popularity of the best-seller book to the
advantage of the Follies, I arranged a sham strike among Follies
blondes and brunettes on the grounds that Ziegf eld was favoring one
type over another.

To make the details appear real, I had Paulette interview the
newspapers as if she were actually heading the strike. Never before
had chorus girls been entrusted with putting over a publicity stunt,
but Paulette talked so convincingly that the Times fell for the story.

As a matter of fact, Ziegfeld inadvertently killed several more
stories that were scheduled. When the Times interviewed him, he
declared that he knew nothing about the strike for the simple reason
that he didn't know that it was a publicity campaign, cooked up in
his own office.

Once Ziggy rebuked me for putting on a stunt while simultane-
ously thanking and rewarding me.

The Army, at the time, was running a routine recruiting campaign
and when the officials asked me for the help of the Ziegfeld girls, I
assented immediately. I picked out about twenty girls and took them
down to City Hall, where they distributed free refreshments to new
recruits. That was all right, of course, but what was not all right was
my procedure. I sent the girls down in bathing suits.

The next day the papers were full of pictures and stories. Simulta-
neously, our lagging box office receipts went up so high that the fad-
ing play turned into a success and toured the country. But there were

155

repercussions from all over. Even from Washington. Using girls in
bathing suits to recruit aroused general disapproval.

A breathing space to rejoice that involved success was denied
me. Instead, ten hours later Ziegfeld called me into the theatre dur-
ing a rehearsal of the Follies. Standing next to him was Lina Bas-
quette, then an enchanting girl of about sixteen, our starred ballerina.

"I've just found out secretly," said Ziegfeld, "that Lina is going to
marry Sam Warner, one of the heads of Warner Brothers. The story
is already in the hands of Warner Brothers* publicity department, but
I expect you to beat them to it by getting the news in die papers be-
fore they do. Make it a Follies tie-up."

This difficult feat I managed to accomplish. Nevertheless, in spite
of the fact that I had scooped his story, Sam Warner invited me to be
his guest and Lina's at the wedding. This was a small affair, though
perfectly appointed, with the customary openers champagne and
canapes. But just as the ceremony was about to begin, the bride
made a serious discovery: there was no one to play the wedding
march. For a few moments, everyone was nonplussed. Then, to save
the situation, I sat down at the piano and played Mendelssohn's wed-
ding march by ear, thereby unexpectedly assisting at one of the most
sensational theatrical weddings of the year.

Not always, though, did matters go this smoothly. Sometimes work-
ing out a stunt caused me great anguish. Such was the case with
"Louie the 14th." We were all down at Pennsylvania Station, and I
had lined up the entire cast for a picture. I had stars, chorus girls and
chorus boys all in a group, standing in front of the diner. One of the
chorus boys, however, didn't seem to fit properly into the group. He
was standing too far forward.

Eager to make the picture look right, I said, "Back up a little there,
Curtis"

Then, in my anxiety to get him properly placed, I gave him a
shove; whereupon Jie disappeared entirely, falling into the narrow
aperture between the platform and the train.

I gave a horrified gasp, and everything stopped completely. For
several agonizing moments I didn't know whether the man had
fallen to his death or not. Fortunately, however, at that particular
part of the platform, the drop was only a matter of a foot or so.
Breathing heavily and smiling broadly, Curtis scuffled back to the
platform level, dusty but intact

Noteworthy, also, was a Ziegfeld party which one of the girl's

156

friends, William Guggenheim, gave at the Astor Hotel. We had a
private suite, professional entertainers, and the usual course dinner
with champagne. The dinner started about 5:30 and the laughs and
fun were going strong at 7:00. The girls kept taking on more wine
and growing more indifferent to responsibility.

"It's time that you were in your dressing rooms, 5 * I kept shouting.
"The curtain will be going up soon."

But no one paid any attention to my warnings and I became wor-
ried. In a way, I was responsible. If anything went wrong with the
show, I'd be partly to blame. What could I do?

As I looked around, I noticed that the room was empty, for by this
time most of the girls had retreated to the powder room. There I
could hear them laughing and talking in the security of female
privacy.

As the minutes went by, I grew desperate. The curtain would be
rising soon. I started pacing up and down nervously. What if I
didn't get them back on time for the show? What would Ziegfeld
say? I began to shout to them across the transom. My voice didn't
carry. I kept on shouting; and soon some of the girls began shouting
back, finding it amusing to boomerang my appeals.

I remembered then that the typical trouper, drunk or sober, re-
sponds to the call of the footlights in any emergency. So, without
further ceremony, and regardless of the proprieties, I rushed straight
into the ladies' powder room and with my eyes closed and head
averted, cried, "Curtain's going up! Curtain's going up!"

The words acted like magic. The girls came out so fast that they
almost fell over my retreating body. Fifteen minutes later, they were
across the street at the New Amsterdam, sobering up under the
faucet and preparing to enchant the world with their loveliness.

Associated with the Ziegfeld regime was the greatest press story in
theatrical history, but one which, oddly enough, could never be
fully accredited to any press agent associated with the producer.

The story was a brief one: Anna Held, his star and his first wife,
kept herself beautiful by taking a daily milk bath.

Though the story was known for at least ten or twelve years before
I came to New York, people were still asking me who invented it. For
years, I tried to trace the origin. I finally learned, through a chance
circumstance, what I considered the real source.

One day, while passing a stall in front of a second-hand book shop,

157

I found a collection of French short tales. One of them was by
Emile Zola, written back in the nineteenth century. Toward the end
of the story I found this line: "She was so beautiful that she must
have bathed daily in milk."

That was how the story originated, I believe. The efficacy of milk
as a beautifier was a French superstition. Anna Held, a native
Frenchwoman, had brought it to America and related it to the Ameri-
can press in an interview; and an alert press agent or reporter had,
without taking credit, circulated what became eventually the best
known press story ever publicized in these United States.

On another occasion the Maharajah of Kapurthala entertained
fourteen of the girls at a party that led to a surprising outcome. For
the potentate became enamored of one of the girls and promised that
if she would go with him to India, he would establish her there as a
motion picture star, with a film company of her own.

The girl refused to accept the maharajah's invitation; whereupon
he became more insistent and importunate. His various aides made
special appointments while lawyers drew up extensive contracts. The
maharajah was generous and even offered, as a gesture toward the
young lady, to subsidize the current edition of the Follies which was
not doing so well.

By this time, the entire company knew about the situation, a situa-
tion which took on the tension of a stage drama. Would the girl ac-
cept? Would she refuse? Her behavior fascinated everyone because,
up to that time, no one had ever paid any attention to her.

Finally, one of the maharajah's most trusted representatives had a
conference with the girl. He asked her if she objected to going away
with the maharajah because of his somewhat bronzed skin. Her
answer was succinct. She didn't mind. Then, without mincing words,
she told the maharajah's agent that she admired the potentate, that
she was impressed by his culture and was proud to know him and
was pleased with his attentions.

"Then what keeps you from accepting his offer?" asked the agent,
exasperated.

"There'd be stories and pictures about me in the papers, wouldn't
there?"

"Yes."

"That's just it. When those pictures and stories come out, what
would the folks at home say?"

And on that vague issue, the problematical opinion of people in a

158

f ar-off mountain town, people who had doubtless already forgotten
the girl, she based her final decision. It was No.

For fear of gossip, she gave up fame and fortune.

Incidentally, the maharajah gave me a surprise in etiquette that I
shall never forget. Though an Oxford man, one of the richest men in
the world and distinguished in his bearing, he said suddenly to me,
one day, "Would you like to see some pictures of my home?"

Then he called one of his attendants who returned after several
minutes, carrying a large album. It looked like a commercial souvenir
book and proved to be an intimate study of his palace with photo-
graphs of dining room, bedrooms, furniture, paintings, ornaments
and jewels. Carefully, page by page, he pointed out every detail.
Centuries of wealth and an Oxford education had not destroyed the
maharajah's new-rich impulse to show off.

Titles again illumined the New Amsterdam Theatre when another
oriental and his company of attaches called up Ziegfeld for reserva-
tions on the Midnight Roof. Characteristically, Ziggy replied by in-
viting the entire party to be his guests.

The evening went off perfectly. There was much gallantry on the
part of the orientals and much polite reciprocity on the part of Zieg-
feld who saw to it that considerable champagne flowed across the
table.

The night would have ended, indeed, in a blaze of glory had not
one of the orientals, imbibing too freely, become so enthusiastic that
he snatched off the false beard of one of the important guests. That
little gesture brought the party to an abrupt conclusion. The oriental
notables were Broadway playboys dolled up in oriental paraphernalia.

Noteworthy also was the experience of a French actress who came
all the way from Paris to join the Follies. She was the fiancee and
later the wife of George Winburn, millionaire soap manufacturer,
who had set his heart on her becoming a member of the revue. With
this idea in mind, he began sending cables to America asking how it
could be arranged. Finally, after several weeks* discussion, a member
of the staff wired my secret suggestion:

"Have the lady wear an antique dagger at her waist when she sets
sail. But don't let her explain to anyone her purpose in wearing it.
Then when she arrives here, tell her to say that it is a revenge
weapon which she hopes to wear as an ornament if she's engaged for
the Follies."

159

The plan, though fantastic, worked perfectly. The morning after
her arrival, the lady's picture appeared on the front page of one tab-
loid and on the second page of another. Three days later the glorifier
asked: "Who is this French dagger woman who wants to get into the
Follies?"

Everyone tried to answer the question to his satisfaction, but with-
out success. Ziegf eld was not interested. The French beauty returned
home without being able to say that she was a Ziegfeld girl.

Petty ideas, yes, but my life was largely frothy. I had no time to
think of politics or international affairs. My concern about the under-
nourished, a term that was just coming into use, I quieted by sending
out checks to various charities.

Forcing my imagination to ingenuity was my chief concern; I was
kept devising stunts for the papers, stunts that would keep me on pay
rolls. Yet all the time I was having fun. This was the period that has
come to be known as the Scott Fitzgerald era; and although I was
somewhat older than that generation, I was largely oblivious to what
was going on in the real world.

Almost everyone with whom I had a business connection managed
to increase my luxurious mode of living, for the business man had
just begun to publicize himself, and I happened to be an accessible
medium.

If I passed a florist shop, the owner would call to me and force me
to accept a boutonniere. My tailor gave me free suits because some-
one would ask me who made them. Tie makers sent me cravats and
shoe manufacturers gave me shoes specially made. To my astonish-
ment, for I had never thought of such a procedure, Knox the Hatter
gave me hats made to order, even two hundred-dollar panamas. Sim-
ply because I'd helped bring Ziegfeld girls over to pose for their hats.

When I refused a Navado watch, the manufacturer said, "Don't be
foolish; you'll pay it back automatically. The first person who sees it,
will order one."

And that was exactly what happened, for when I stepped off the
Ziegfeld elevator, Charlie Levy, once owner of the Broadway Ticket
office, said, "Hello. What a handsome watch you're wearing. Let me
see it close. Order one for me, just like it."

Of course, I knew that the flattering impression these matters made
on me was disproportionate and silly, yet I couldn't help recalling
that only a few months back, I had been a professor on a $1200 an-

160

nual salary, with one week-day suit, one Sunday suit, and a longing
for ties that I saw in the haberdasher's window.

If I ever expected to do anything, I realized suddenly that I'd have
to leave Ziegfeld, hide myself in a room and write. That was easy
enough to speculate about, but had I the guts to do it? The Follies*
atmosphere had overpowered me like a drug. The parties, the famous
people, the excitement, the personal attention. I hated to give up.
Furthermore, doing so seemed ridiculous, considering the handsome
salary I received and what it enabled me to do for my family. My
love for them and keeping them in the style which I now provided,
had me trapped. As usual, I wasn't free to take risks. I couldn't take
a chance with their lives.

As the days passed by, I kept worrying about my future. Out of a
clear sky the chance came for a major change. Anne Nichols offered
me a handsome raise in salary to exploit the screen version of Abie's
Irish Rose, which Paramount Pictures was producing. The job of-
fered me just what I wanted. Nevertheless, I couldn't make up my
mind to leave the glorifier. I had built up my office to such propor-
tions and had it running so well that I hated to relinquish what
seemed a half-a-lifetime position. Furthermore, every editor I knew
said that I belonged with Ziegfeld and that leaving him would be a
mistake.

"You're part of Ziegfeld," said Katherine Zimmerman, dramatic
editor of the Telegram. "We look on you that way, and you oughtn't
to leave him."

"What shall I do?" I asked myself; and as I sat worrying the an-
swer came over the telephone.

"Hello," I said. "Who is talking?"

"It's Edna Ferber," was the answer; and straightway this writer,
usually so detached, began telling me what swell work I was doing.

"Do you read my press stories?" I asked, surprised.

"Surely. I follow everything you do. You should write more!"

"I want to, Miss Ferber," I answered, "but I can't here, I'm too
busy."

"I have always felt," said Miss Ferber tersely, "that people do just
what they want to do. If you really wanted to do a book, you'd do it."

"Rightl" I shot back. Til leave Ziegfeld at once and go to Anne
Nichols."

That day, when I went over to Miss Nichols to discuss terms, I
made an outrageous business proposal.

161

"I'll work for you/' I said, "if you'll permit me to write a book
while I'm with you. That's my chief purpose in coming/'

"Willingly," replied both Miss Nichols and her manager.

"That settles it/' I declared, Til join you."

Then I went back to the office and wired my resignation to Zieg-
feld. Two hours later, he was on the phone. He talked for twenty
minutes trying to persuade me not to leave him.

Finally, when I told him that I couldn't, he asked me to bring my
parents to the phone. It was the first time in all the years that I was
with him that he even so much as acknowledged the fact that I had
parents. But they stood by me. Regretfully, they told him that all
negotiations were off and that I was definitely going to join Anne
Nichols.

"AH right then," he said solemnly and hung up. He had been talk-
ing from Palm Beach, Florida, when the price was a dollar a minute.

But Ziggy was not a man to give up trying to get what he wanted.
Two or three days after I had joined Miss Nichols, as we sat in the
office, a telephone call came for her.

"Yes, he's here," I heard her say. "No, he's not with Mr. Ziegfeld
any more. He's working for us."

The conversation continued and as it seemed to concern me and
was confidential, I started to leave the room. Before I could do so,
Miss Nichols stopped me with a gesture.

When she hung up the receiver, her cheeks were flushed and her
eyes angry.

"Who do you think that was?' she asked. "That was Adolph Zukor
talking! Mr. Ziegfeld called him up, and, using his influence with
Paramount Pictures, has asked Mr. Zukor to get you away from me."

She was offended, yet said unselfishly, "Do you want to go, Ber-
nard? I'll release you if you do, in spite of your contract. I want you
to do what is best for you."

"I wouldn't leave you," I assured her, "under any conditions. I'm
here, and I think that you're wonderfully generous."

So I stayed on. After a week passed, this telegram came from
Ziegfeld.

I FORGIVE YOU FOR LEAVING ME PERHAPS NEXT TIME
YOUR WORD WILL BE GOOD I WILL TRY TO DO ALL MY
OWN PRESS WORK HEREAFTER AS I HAVE NOTHING TO DO
AND SAVE 375 WEEKLY PLUS 50 DOLLARS FOR EACH SHOW
IN ALL 525 WEEKLY THAT IS WHAT I HAVE ASKED KINGS-

162

TON TO PAY YOU I HOPE YOUR NERVES WILL SOON GET
NORMAL AFTER YOU LEAVE ME I SUPPOSE YOU ARE EAT-
ING NOTHING BUT MATZOHS ALREADY PLEASE SEND ME
SIX BOXES ON 6040 TRAIN TONIGHT WHEN DO YOU MOVE
TO YOUR JEWISH QUARTERS GOOD LUCK MY POOR MIS-
GUIDED BEST PRESS AGENT IN THE WORLD.

The fate of Abie's Irish Rose as a picture is cinema history. It
opened at that unfortunate time when talkies were just being intro-
duced into the silent movies. We tried to introduce some sound ef-
fects, without success. The picture was a flop. The criticisms were
bad and the box office receipts were worse.

When things were at their lowest ebb, Miss Nichols came to me
and said, "Mr. Sobel, you know that I have a contract with . . ."

"Yes, surely," I said, "I know that."

"Well, I should have had your signature long ago. I wish that
you'd come up to the office now and sign it*

"You're a darling, Anne, but J don't think you should ask me to do
so. The picture hasn't gone over. IVe been a great expense to you as
it is. I release you from "

She would let me go no further. When I continued to neglect sign-
ing the contract, a matter she could easily have dropped, thereby sav-
ing herself hundreds of dollars, she required me to do so, binding
herself voluntarily for an entire year.

During this happy year an opportune circumstance permitted me
to do a service for Lillian Hellman. She and Arthur Kober were then
married and were having, I inferred, something of a financial strug-
gle. I went in to Miss Nichols, and knowing that she was interested in
new plays, asked her if she would take Lillian into the office as a
play-reader. Two days later, Lillian was working at a salary of
around thirty or thirty-five dollars a week.

The most old-fashioned dramatist of the American stage had
helped sustain the continuity of theatrical history by giving a job to
the most modern.

Some weeks after, on Christmas morning, there was a ring at my
apartment door. As I opened it, Miss Nichols walked in with her
secretary.

"I've brought you a Christmas present/* she said, handing me a
check; and when she left, I noticed that the amount was five hundred
dollars! Is it surprising that I love Anne Nichols!

Though Anne Nichols had been the subject of scores of articles

163

and interviews for more than twenty-three years, the famous play-
wright had never, in all this time, revealed more than fragments of
her real character. The very moment, in fact, that Abie's Irish Rose
became a hit, she transformed herself into a kind of gracious sphinx,
generous and accessible, but cautious about personal ties.

As a girl, Anne lived in Philadelphia. Her parents, she told me,
were bigoted and she was stage-struck. To escape intolerable re-
ligious discussions and enjoy herself at the same time, she went to
the theatre regularly, sat in the gallery and imagined herself the
heroine of every play she saw.

At the age of sixteen, she ran away from home, and with the money
earned doing odd chores, bought a railroad ticket for New York and
Broadway. Here, after telling a number of white lies about her age
and a non-existent stage experience, she got a job in a musical called
A Knight for a Day.

About her transition from the chorus line to dramaturgy, she told
me nothing. When I came to her she was already rich, living in a
gilded world, spending money lavishly. She bought black pearls. She
gave expensive parties. She helped various charities. She took a fling
at society. She developed a warm friendship with Marie, the Queen
of Roumania. Then came a number of disasters, culminating with the
market crash and what seemed an unjust, badly managed plagiarism
suit

Only scattered facts like these did I learn about Anne. Affectionate
by nature, she managed to conceal her real feelings. She surrounded
herself with doctors and nurses and secretaries; then would disappear
for days, even weeks. There was an air of mystery about her that re-
called the "Woman in White." Returning to the office, she was all
gaiety, yet somehow seemingly off-center. I worked with her, went
to theatres and dinners with her. I admired her and loved her, yet I
never really knew her. She was cryptic. She made a temporary come-
back with a radio version of Abie's Irish Rose. We had a grand re-
union at Dinty Moore's; and that's the last I ever saw of a great
friend and the author of one of the longest-running plays in the his-
tory of the stage.

That I ever lived through the responsibilities of opening nights
was surprising, for a theatrical premiere resembles that routine yet
precarious experience having a baby. You worry over the eventuali-
ties. You see to it that the critics are respectfully and comfortably

164

seated so that they won't damn the show because of their locations.
You pray that the weather won't be so cold that the people will stay
away or so hot that they won't walk out at the first intermission.

If the show goes over, the chances for a run are bright The box
office will make money and so will the playwright and the backers.
The actors will be happy because they will have money for food,
drink, clothes and room rent.

Many problems, however, endanger the outcome. Will the leading
lady recover from her laryngitis? Is the understudy up in her lines?
Will the costumes be finished in time? Are the advertisements draw-
ing an audience? Are the costs mounting? Will the Baptists object to
the big church scene? Will the photographs be in the house frames?
Will Gilbert Miller open his show the same night? If he does, who'll
get the first critics and who the second stringers?

Finally, the doors open for the premiere and anxieties multiply. In
her dressing room, the star is going mad. Her dress doesn't fit. The
black petticoat shows below her skirt. The hat in the second act
doesn't match her shoes. All the fashion editors in the audience will
object. They'll kill the play because of her clothes. Yet she insists on
wearing them. That's her strong point insisting. She dominates.
She's too old for the part. She spoils all the fine scenes. Nevertheless,
she's a drawing card.

The show opens. The first act is perfect, perfect until the moment
when the curtain comes down a second too early. Something like that
happens often.

The first night of Dead End, the murdered man jumped up too
soon. He killed all the carefully-worked-out realism. If he had only
remained on the floor a second longer. But he jumped up! The
blunderer! So everybody laughed.

It's time for the first intermission. The audience is strolling out.
"No smoking in the lobby!" shout the ushers. Everybody's too busy
talking to pay attention; and all the theatre attaches are too busy
listening in to heed anything except the scattered comments:

"Not so good." "Not so bad." "Clever." The leading lady's garter
showed." "She didn't have a stitch underneath her skirt." "The lead-
ing man's voice sounded husky. They say he's been drinkingand
running around too much." "Why didn't they advertise more?" "The
publicity was rotten."

Finally, the show is over. The curtain's down. You haven't eaten
all day. You've been praying, wishing, hoping, cursing. You go to

165

bed, but you don't sleep all night. How can you? The fate of the
play hangs on the reviews and they don't come out until three or four
in the morning. Nevertheless you have to get some sleep. You're
dead. You're done for. You drink, smoke cigarettes, jump out of bed.
You go back again, taking a sleeping tablet. You feel like the devil,
get sick.

It's three o'clock in the morning. In a half hour, the first edition
will be out and the first review. So you dress and begin walking the
streets, out into the cold, bleak night, waiting for the first delivery
wagon to drop the papers at the nearest newsstand.

At last you get the paper. You look first at the opening paragraph.
That's a test. You tremble. But the critic says it's good. Carefully, you
read the whole review, conscious of the critic's idiosyncrasies, the
ramifications of his personal attitude, the shadings you never knew
existed, the reflections, introspections, twistings, tropes. However,
he said the show is good. Thank Heaven for that! But damn itin
the whole review there isn't a single quote, not a line for an ad that
will draw in the man on the street.

All the next day long, you watch the telephone and the box office,
the sale of seats. The public will buy in spite of the critics or because
of them. Will they or won't they buy? Is the line growing?

This is what a premiere means. This is what I have lived through
over and over again. What misery and what pleasure! There's no
thrill like a first night, the self-assured, arrogant, bejewelled audi-
ence. The coalescing of playwrights', producers' and actors' artistry.
The glory of applause and curtain call. Curtain's going up!

No matter how a first night may agitate a press agent, a New York
premiere represents to the public the most desirable experience
imaginable, more exciting than brilliant balls and banquets, the ulti-
mate in first-hand observation of celebrities and the joy of being
among the first to see a possible Broadway hit. Everyone knows that
everyone else is either famous enough, slick enough, rich enough,
powerful enough or simply popular enough to be there. So, for this
evening at least, everyone's value goes up a notch. In the land of
Broadway, being here signifies superlative accomplishment and rec-
ognition; and everyone makes the most of it.

"Darling! Darling!* people shout half-way across the house. The
sound of kisses punctuates the blur of voices. Men and women hug
and embrace each other as if their momentary rapture were real and
continuous.

166

All of this is considered notoriously bad manners, but is it really?
Art, being dependent to a degree on opportunists, everyone makes
the most of the occasion to strengthen connections, maneuver con-
tacts, clinch deals, arrange interviews, check plans, and say a good
word. The people here assembled own the place somehow, because
they have contributed in multiple waysdirect and indirect to the
circumstances that make the premiere possible.

Bad manners at first nights are not new. James Boswell, in his
journal, describes definitely how he and several of his friends tried
to break up a performance. The long run has changed conditions.
The premiere has attained a peculiar importance.

As the years went by, I was able to see my own despised profession
ignoble press agentry gain respect, shed some of its declasse
wrappings.

During the war, and afterwards, publicity was called propaganda.
That was the fashionable word. Propaganda helped win the war. It
gained a social value. It had commercial respect.

"Big Business grows with the right sort of propaganda," was a say-
ing that went the rounds. Press agents became praise agents, pub-
licists, counsellors in public relations. Propaganda became a power-
ful force in holding back the communists.

And I, as a press agent, profited personally by the change in the
public attitude. The New York City Center theatre asked me to
write a piece for its program championing and lauding the press
agent. I emphasized the value of the new appellations and stressed
their broader connotations. I took pains to state that the P.A. now
gets the highest salary of any union man.

I had scarcely reached the end of my contract with Miss Nichols
before Ziegf eld asked me to come back again. Doing so was a happy
circumstance. I had made money and now came back at a higher
salary. I had my novel published with Farrar and Rinehart. It was
not a success. Yet I was modestly satisfied at having realized a life-
long ambition.

The duration of my return, however, was not long. An idea formu-
lated by Leonard Bergman, nephew of A. L. Erlanger, who, with
Charles Dillingham, was one of the trio that made up the great pro-
ducing firm, cut my Ziegf eld connection.

As I stood in the lobby of the New Amsterdam one day, Leonard
stepped up and said: "Here comes my uncle, Abe Erlanger. I want
you to meet him."

167

I turned around to encounter a short, heavy-set man, who gave me
a quick, friendly appraisal, shook my hand and said, "111 remember
you.*

For anyone in the theatre getting to speak to Erlanger was a dis-
tinction. Few had the opportunity. His theatres were numerous and
among his hits, numerous through the decades, was the delightful .
Pink Lady.

Before meeting the man, I had received an impression of him from
a story that Pat Rooney, one of the most famous dancers in the his-
tory of vaudeville, told me.

"I was getting a hundred dollars a week," said Pat, "so I made up
my mind while going to the producer's office that I'd ask for a hun-
dred and fifty a week. So all the way over, I kept repeating to myself,
'One hundred and fifty dollarsone hundred and fifty dollars . . . .*

"When I finally got to the office, I was ushered in like a lord. Er-
langer praised me, discussed my chances for success, and then asked,
'How much salary do you want?*

"His manner was austere, his voice challenging. The minute he
said 'salary,' my voice dropped twenty-five dollars. *One hundred and
twenty-five dollars/ 1 said.

"Dick,* Erlanger called to his manager, Tiave him sign the con-
tract right now/

"It's funny how that happened," said the dancer, ruefully. "I got
a lump in my throat and I just couldn't say, 'One hundred and fifty
dollars!"*

But Rooney was not the only one Erlanger intimidated. Though a
stubby person, he was really formidable. Like other producers of this
period he was largely illiterate and though seemingly ignorant of the
art of the stage, he was, strangely enough, capable of producing
musicals that were a credit to all concerned.

A week after our meeting, Erlanger called me to his office.

"I love Flo," he remarked. "He is wonderful. We've always been
partners. I want you to work for me, but I can't take you away from
my own partner,"

He was silent a moment; and we looked at each other understand-
ingly. Then he said, "Could you go to Europe?"

"Yes, I could, Mr. Erlanger."

"Good. And when you come back, you can work for me. It
wouldn't look, then, as if I had taken you away from Flo. I'm going
to build a new theatre and I want you to do my publicity."

168

Two days later, I was on the ocean, taking my first trip to Europe,
happy as a king, feeling sure of my future, glad to be seeing a world
that I had dreamed of all my life, and joyful in the knowledge that
all my expenses would be paid.

The voyage was idyllic, the weather perfect, the boat service ex-
cellent. For the first time in my life I was free from responsibility.
Everyone, it seemed, made friends with me on board the Leviathan.
I talked with people along the deck: merchants, Wall Street brokers,
priests, actors and buyers. The captain entertained me and intro-
duced me to Max Reinhardt. Clara Bell Walsh invited me to a cock-
tail party for "FifT Widener and Dr. Milton- Holden, then a bridal
couple.

My headquarters in Paris were at the Hotel Scribe; and as I was
standing in the lobby the second day after my arrival, someone's
hands covered my eyes, I freed myself and turned around. It was
Claire Luce, a former 2Seg*f eld girl, now a Paris favorite who fol-
lowed Mistinguette in a revue. She had learned how to sing and
speak lines in French and she simulated Mistinguette's vocal intona-
tions skilfully.

From that moment on, my good times started. Every night, Claire's
friends would take us both out. Methodically, they would check up
on what I hadn't seen and what I should see. In a week, I caught up
with the famous show places of Paris, the Florida and the Grand
Ecarte, night clubs of that era that all tourists had to see.

Claire Luce, the actress, has been frequently confused with Clare
Boothe Luce, the playwright, although the first names are spelled
differently. Claire, blonde and with an incredibly beautiful figure, is
a Follies graduate who, through developing her numerous and varied
talents, grew from an obscure dancer into a Paris favorite and be-
came a London luminary as the star of Burlesque. She was the first
American actress to appear at Stratford-on-Avon where, according to
W. A. Darlington, distinguished critic of The Daily Telegraph, she
gave the finest interpretation of Cleopatra in the history of that
famous playhouse.

In her own United States, Claire made an enchanting dancing
partner for Fred Astaire in Gay Divorcee, starred in several plays,
made motion pictures and created the only woman's role in Of Mice
and Men. Yet she has never won full recognition here.

In the first World War she was caught in Spain, but thanks to her
long friendship with Randolph Churchill, the Honorable Winston

169

Churchill saw to it that a battleship rescued her and landed her
safely in England. Arrived there, she seized the nearest musical in-
strument accessible, an accordion, and went straight to the front, the
first American girl to entertain the English troops.

While in the Follies, Claire made a courageous ascension at every
performance, rising to the top of the proscenium in a large sealed
metal ball. One night, the mechanism broke down, the ball refused
to open, and if it had not been for the alertness of the stage crew,
Claire would have been suffocated in mid-air.

Claire spent much of her time playing alternately here and in
Europe. When I learned one day that she had just returned from
France and was staying at the Waldorf Astoria, I called up at once
and, scarcely waiting for a reply to my hello, cried: "Darling, how
are you? How soon can I see you?"

The reply was a cold one: "Miss Luce isn't in, and I can't say just
when shell return."

"Oh, thanks," I answered, disappointed. I called again that after-
noon and the next day, crying, "Darling, is that you? Are you really
back, and for how long?"

Finally I got a direct answer, "Yes, this is Clare Luce and I'm very
much annoyed by your repeated messages; your calling me 'darling'
has embarrassed me greatly. What will my husband say?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Luce. I'm sorry that I made a mis-
take. Are you the author of that amusing acidulous comedy, The
WomenT

"Yes, I am."

"Well, I'm surprised that anyone with your sense of humor would
regard my mistake like one of your sharp-tongued characters in The
Women."

As I left the telephone booth I met Radie Harris. Irritated, I told
her what had happened. The next morning, to my regret, the incident
was published in the Morning Telegraph. If Clare Boothe Luce had
been an actress instead of a playwright, the error could not have oc-
curred for Equity now establishes nomenclature priority.

A second embarrassment came about inadvertently through my be-
loved Claire. I invited her to ^21" for lunch and she brought another
girl along. I didn't catch her name, but in the role of conventional
host, I went through the routine procedure of trying to be courteous.
I asked her about her training, her history and, yes, even about
ambitions.

170

The girl turned out to be Danilova, one of the most famous balle-
rinas of the era. I had seen her and her beautiful legs, arms and
bosom dozens of times in divertissements but I didn't recognize her
swathed in street clothes with conventional hat to match.

Claire persuaded Florenz Ziegfeld to secure a live ostrich for her
to ride in a Follies ballet. The animal came all the way from Florida
and kicked out the back of a box car while enroute. After that, two
attendants had to guide it around blindfolded to prevent similar
recurrences of temper. Then, to make matters worse, someone dis-
covered that the day before the premiere was the exact date on
which the ostrich molting season began. The bird, as a result, began
at once to shed feather after feather, hour by hour, until the next
afternoon when it was stark naked.

Excitement back stage was intense until one of the stage managers
got the idea of rushing down to the costumer, Daziens, and buying
his entire stock of ostrich fans. These fluffy ornaments were carted
up to the theatre, torn apart and then glued, plume by plume, on the
body of the recalcitrant bird.

Particularly gay was one night in a Paris cafe during which
Maurice Chevalier and Erskine Gwynne led the fun by putting on a
pantomimic baseball game. I had no inkling then that I would be the
first person to exploit Chevalier in America, and that Erskine would
become one of my good friends,

Erskine, in fact, became the symbol of all that I longed to be, not
from the standpoint of character and accomplishment, but from the
standpoint of universal experience.

Born into the Vanderbilt clan, he had the advantage from birth of
exceptional surroundings. Leaving for World War I in his teens, he
gained early maturity. Subsequently, in the various countries in
which he lived, he learned the language of the people. To talk with
him was to know the parlor and kitchen history of authors, musicians,
globe-trotters, titled men and women, barflies and tarts. His informa-
tion seemed limitless; yet, unfortunately, it never ennobled him. He
could make lofty generalizations about whole careers; and then
lapse into petty gossip, vicious and feline.

After some harrowing experiences in World War II, he returned
home, changed in character and in health. So ill that he looked like
the aged father of himself, he suffered months and months, clinging
to lif e by a diet so exacting that he had to weigh even the amount of

171

water lie drank. He never complained, though, and gave his last
energies to writing his autobiography. His experiences, however, he
couldn't sell. Several times I helped him get hearings with publishers
but none of them would buy the manuscript.

Ersldne was only one of the people who made memories of my
first trip to Paris ineffaceable. Every moment I was there I lux-
uriated in the populace, the boulevards, the narrow lamp-lit streets
and the shops.

Those were the days of the boom when arrogant Americans lit
their cigarettes with franc notes. The ladies at Giro's were loaded
with jewels, real and paste. The stores were crowded with extrava-
gant tourists. Argentinians dripped money from their fingertips. The
Grand Ecarte, Scheherazade, Florida and other night clubs gave
away handsome souvenir dolls. Josephine Baker, then known as a
countess, shocked tourists by inviting ringside guests, male and fe-
male, to dance with her.

I learned the routine Parisian life. I learned that well-known peo-
ple could borrow money from the Ritz bartender and that the bell-
boys would order theatre tickets, break engagements, send telegrams
and run errands while one sat comfortably in the Steam Room.

What a room that was! Predatory men and beautiful women
packed together into a small space, all a-glitter and all a-chatter:
playboys with their show girl mistresses; stray American girls, stun-
ning in Paris dress, perfectly at ease in the show girl manner, a man-
ner which made them adaptable to any situation at any hour at any
place; men and women with titles, phony and real; routine tourists;
adventurers and spies,

An outstanding habitu6 of the bar was Barry Wall, up until the
last days of his life. He had spurned America for Paris where he
lived as he chose. He dressed with that eccentricity which only one
assured of his position dared affect.

Every noon he came to the bar and drank his daily quota of
champagne. He held court. Lovely women patted his cheek. The
newspapers recounted his exploits. What had Barry done to merit
this honor? As a young man he had devised and worn the first tuxedo
or dinner jacket. For this accomplishment he was put out of a hotel,
but he continued to wear the coat and in doing so established the
garment as the proper thing for less formal wear. Simultaneously he
launched his own career as a leader of what was once called the 400.
Oddly enough, his claim to fame has since been disputed by others

172

who are credited with snipping off the long tails of a full dress suit
so that they might sit comfortably in a short jacket.

My last night in Paris I spent at Les Halles, watching the fann-
ers bring in fruits, food, fish and garden supplies that turned an
empty area into a glorified fruit market, what Zola called "the sym-
phony of the vegetables." Finally, I made my way to the boat train
around three o'clock.

A few hours later I was on the boat crossing the Channel on my
way to take my first glimpse of London. Here, too, I wanted to see
so much that I strove to crowd a complete sight-seeing tour into
three days.

Paris and London in retrospect! How real they are to me now:
parks, streets, people, castles, rivers. Certain assorted memories keep
recurring: seeing Notre Dame at sunset from the Tour d'Argent res-
taurant, standing in Hyde Park and watching Londoners out of
doors, visiting Sir Seymour Hicks in the Green Room of historic
Daly's and then getting lost almost the rest of the night in a dark
theatre, drinking champagne at Grosvenor House with Guthrie Mc-
Clintic and chatting in the lobby with J. J. Shubert.

While in England I had my first visit to the English countryside
as the guest of the former Mayor of London, Sir Denys Lowson and
his beautiful wife, Patricia. When I came down to breakfast they
asked me if I enjoyed my night's rest and bath.

"Yes indeed," I said, "but tell me why/'

"Because," answered Denys, "we bought this place from the
brother of Queen Mary and the suite we gave you is the one she
used when she spent her weekends here/'

At these words my body began to tingle, not so much at the mem-
ory of my bath, but at the realization that I had enjoyed intimate
contact with royalty by-remote-control.

When I stepped off the boat in New York, I found my parents
there to meet me. They had with them a belated message telling me
to report at once to Erlanger. So I hurried from the pier to the Er-
langer office, eager to start work. What happened was surprising. No
plays were in production. To be sure, Erlanger was building a new
theatre which he insisted on calling Erlanger's in his desire to empha-
size, by means of the apostrophe, his possession. But he had nothing to
publicize. That seemed to cause him no concern. He asked me if I
had visited the Louvre, then told me to go downstairs and take my
place at a little desk and chair that stood in a dark alcove, act ar-

173

rangement that approximated solitary confinement. Here I waited,
for almost twelve months, silent and impatient, longing for the upper
office to give me something to do in return for my large salary.

Things had certainly changed during my absence. Erlanger had
changed also. Before I left for Europe he had been talkative,
lively and determined to impress me with his intellectuality. He told
me about Napoleon's Tomb. He even quoted one or two generalities
about the Napoleonic tradition. He pointed to the rows of books
around his desk, volumes that looked like the prop books in a stage
library set. He sat pompously at his desk, a box placed under his
swivel chair to increase his height. He symbolized power.

Now he was a sick man whose strength was quickly dwindling. On
his infrequent visits to the office, he had to be led to the elevator and
to his chair. To my surprise, he told me that I was not to work for
him, but for his partner, Charles B. Dillingham.

While I was in Europe, Dillingham had opened a show called
Lucky, which failed to go over. So Erlanger lent" me to him. No
sooner, however, had I started on my work in the Dillingham office
then Ziegfeld called me on the Dillingham-Erlanger-Ziegfeld party
line.

"Well, Bernie," he said, "did you have a good time?''

Then to my dismay, he began giving me some work to do; and
from that day on, he never let me alone. He told me to write stories
just as if I were still in his employ. And when Ziggy wasn't on the
phone, Erlanger was telling me not to heed Ziegfeld's directions.
Then, to make matters more complicated, Dillingham would give
me the same advice.

After several weeks of this guerrilla telephonic warfare, I didn't
know what to do. Then, suddenly, the three partners got together
and arranged to have me work not for one of them, but for all three
at once.

For a time my duties centered about Dillingham, one of the finest
men I ever met, considerate, talented, gay and humorous. He pre-
tended to ignore my work, yet I knew from things he said from time
to time that he noticed everything.

One afternoon, he called me into his office, saying, "Come with me/'

I ran in breathlessly, worrying whether he, Erlanger, or Ziegfeld
was about to cut off my head.

"Where's your hat?" he asked, giving me a swift, solemn look.
"Go up and get it right away."

174

When I returned with my hat, he was wearing his well-known
derby that was always a size too small for his large head.

"Follow me," he said, as we started toward Broadway, but at the
corner, he turned and instead of going down toward the New Am-
sterdam, he led me up to the Plaza Hotel and into the famous Oak
Room. Here, the conversation started with Ziegfeld.

"He and I," said Dillingham, apropos of nothing, "met each other
first when we were both young men in Chicago. We were courting
girls in the same hotel, one floor above the other; sometimes while
the girls were dressing for dinner or cocktails we would slip out on
the adjoining fire escape and smoke. Our meetings occurred so fre-
quently that we finally began to talk to each other and became
friends."

Dillingham went to New York and got started in the theatre. Zieg-
feld, in the meantime, had been working in Chicago exhibiting San-
dow, the strong man, and contracting concert bands, hold-overs from
the World's Fair of 1893. The lure of the theatre, however, drew him
to New York where he applied to Dillingham for a job. Eventually
the two men united to form with A. L. Erlanger the well-known
theatrical triumvirate.

"When tired of working in the office/' Dillingham recalled, "I used
to go to the park where I fed the ducks with bread. Ziegfeld went
along once and suggested giving them caviar. That was character-
istic. Always extravagant When Patricia, his daughter, was six
months old, he bought a bunch of flowers violets in the winter
which cost him between fifteen and twenty dollars. And when he
heard her say that she was studying butterflies in school, he bought
her a rare collection. Once, I saw him win $100,000 at roulette in the
South of France. When he left the place three sharpers followed him
and they finally picked him up at Aix-les-Baines where they got all
the money back.

"As a matter of fact, it was I " continued Dillingham, "who started
Ziegfeld on his social career in Palm Beach; and he certainly made
the most of the circumstances. I gave a dinner party one night and
invited him, against my wife's wishes.

"When the meal was over, I found Ziegfeld out in the kitchen and
learned that he had already hired away my cook. Before the week
was over he was sending various gifts to my guests, people he had
just met. The social game was new for him, but he played it well
and successfully."

175

With the coffee, our conversation came to an end and the two of
us walked back to the office. Here Dillingham, with great politeness,
said, "Pleased to have met you!"

Years after, I learned from a nurse who took care of him while he
was in the hospital, that Dillingham had deliberately planned that
little party to frighten me into thinking that I was in trouble again
with Erlanger and Ziegfeld just for the lark of it.

That was the man as I knew, loved and admired him. He liked
planning practical jokes. He liked laughter and people. According to
report, he served as the model for the delightful hero of Michael
Arlen's play, Aren't We All?

When he found out that Ziegfeld, working through Erlanger, had
succeeded in getting me back in his employ, he called me to his
office and said:

"I would like to ask you a personal question. How much does it
cost you a week to live?"

Together we sat down and calculated the minimum sum necessary.

"Very good," he smiled. TU give you that as long as you want it,
even though I have no work for you to do. I don't want you to have
to worry yourself to death with Ziegfeld."

That magnificent offer, of course, I couldn't accept, but it was
memorable, the most gratifying tribute of my whole life.

My last visit with Dfllingham took place about two or three weeks
before his death. As our talk came to a close, he walked over to a
table and picked up the photograph of a woman in a silver frame.
She was very beautiful. Dillingham raised the picture to his lips and
kissed the face gallantly.

"Isn't she lovelyr he said. "That's Edna May. The last time I saw
her, I could hear her false teeth rattier

Before returning to Ziegfeld, I finished my stint at Erlanger's
where the office force ignored me or worked against me. The air of
secrecy and intrigue was like a mystery novel.

Every time that I asked to see Erlanger, his secretary shooed me
off courteously, but determinedly, for there were things going on
that she didn't want me to know about. On one particular occasion,
while I was discussing some business letters, someone sent up word
that Erlanger was arriving on the elevator. That settled my interview.
Immediately, the secretary and her aides rushed me to the stairs, but
not before I saw the ballyhoo that they put on in honor of Erlanger's
arrival. It was incredible. They greeted the decrepit old theatre

176

magnate as if he were making an Act I entrance. They fawned as
they helped him to a chair. They patted his back. They cooed.

And Erlanger, once a competent theatre owner and producer,
cautious and level-headed, accepted this homage blissfully as if he
were Napoleon reincarnated.

Less than five years later, the sixty-five millions accredited to hi
in newspaper headlines were said to have faded away. His office was
closed and his staff gone from Broadway. Through the courts, the
status of his common-law wife was established, a decision that led,
I believe, to the end of New York breach of promise suits.

My last glimpse of Erlanger I shall never forget a little bullet-like
specimen of lost power, a bristling example of empty vanity, capti-
vated by the simulated fanfare of his own hirelings.

When he died, all Broadway turned out. The greatest men of
Broadway were pallbearers, united in the death ceremony though
never in life.

When the new Erlanger Theatre opened, George M. Cohan, star-
ring in The Merry Malones, was the attraction. So when I went to
the World dramatic department to exploit these two luminaries, I
expected that the whole paper would be handed over to me. Instead,
Wells Root, dramatic editor, said, "Erlanger and Cohan are both
has-beens. We'll try to give you a picture if we can/*

Neither of us realized at that time that Cohan had before him
many comebacks, both as a dramatist and a star.

As soon as the Cohan premiere was over I went back again to
Ziegfeld and my handsome office at the new theatre. Conditions had
changed during my absence, changed ominously. Ziegfeld, always a
loser at roulette, games and fights, was a heavy loser on the market

Soon after the 1929 crash he began to cut salaries and to decrease
his staff. Our expert office boy, in order to keep his job, scrubbed
floors and ran the elevator, a humiliating necessity in the patrician
Ziegfeld regime. Word came also that similar cuts were being made
in the Ziegfeld household: Sidney, the distinguished valet, was
doubling as butler. Matters went from bad to worse. To escape the
sheriff, Ziggy had to slip through a side door of the playhouse. Dur-
ing the day, he sat in his office wearing his fur coat because there
wasn't enough coal to keep the place warm.

Depression: drab word that connotates an American setback. Re-
lief, the W.P.A. theatre, restricted immigration, large apartment
houses cut up into smaller ones with too many tenants all trying to

177

put on a front by holding to a good address. The plight of the actors
was pitiful. When news came to me that the Actors Dinner Club
couldn't hold on, I blessed the fact that I was on a newspaper with a
column for my use-to use to get food for starving players. I wrote
appeals and followed them up by personal solicitation. I went to
Sardi s, to Leon and Eddie's, to other restaurateurs; all of them gave
me help. Some donated a certain number of meals a week. Eddie
Dowling helped me gather waste food. Jane Hathaway collected
money. Vera Maxwell, a famous Ziegfeld beauty, gave money and
somehow I managed to keep the food going until the original or-
ganizers of the Actors Dinner Club were able to carry on again.

Two matters which Miss Burke omitted in her autobiography were
Ziegfeld's desire to have a theatre of his own and his association with
William Randolph Hearst.

Until recently, rentals and leases on playhouses have diff ered from
those of almost every other edifice, for the theatre owner receives, in
addition to his rent, or as rental payment, a share in the profits.

Thus Ziegfeld saw Erlanger, the landlord, sitting in his office and
getting richer, season after season, on the productions the glorifier
put on his circuits, productions over which he suffered, sweated
and worried continually about profit and loss.

Tired of making others rich, Ziegfeld wanted to be his own land-
lord, in order to collect the full share of profits on his creative work.

Mr. William Randolph Hearst provided the fulfillment of this
wish. After forming a secret alliance with the publisher, Ziggy broke
away from Erlanger and Dillingham, throwing Broadway into a tur-
moil of surprise.

This surprise increased when Hearst announced that he was going
to build a theatre for the glorifier and that he would name it the
Ziegfeld, in his honor. Instantly, Ziggy's importance zoomed. He was
no longer a mere theatrical producer. He was a theatre owner and
the business associate of one of the most powerful men in America.

Again, I found myself publicizing a New York theatre; and this
time I sat in, happily, on the plans for an office that was to be mine.
Joseph Urban was the architect and he designed a beautiful struc-
ture. It was a marvel of modern art with all the accommodations for
players that had been largely denied them in all ages, all countries
and nearly all theatres.

The interior of the auditorium was noteworthy for its murals

178

gamecocks, a favorite subject with Urban, on the loose in a wilder-
ness of flowers, gold and color.

Ziegfeld had a handsome suite which included a large outer of-
fice where Goldie Stanton, his secretary, held sway, and a longitudi-
nal personal office, resembling a banquet hall, capable of receiving
a hundred guests and equipped with kitchenette, bath and a small
balcony which commanded a view of the entire theatre and from
which he could check up on rehearsal and play any moment he
chose.

The suite was crowded with beautiful furniture, modern electrical
conveniences, and a great refectory table laden with objets d'art,
silver cigar boxes, Tiffany glass vases and a collection of Dresden
china, jade, silver and gold elephants, all with the trunks up.

The dedication ceremonies for this playhouse took place right on
the sidewalk, the day of the laying of the cornerstone. To accommo-
date all the guests of honor, Ziegfeld had huge benches built in front
of the half completed edifice and on these benches sat Harold Mur-
ray, Ada May, Bert Wheeler, Ethelind Terry and Robert Woolsey,
all stars of the opening show Rio Rita, together with stars from his
other shows, friends and socialites. The area was roped off and the
police held back the hero-worshipping crowd.

Just three weeks before the ceremonies, Ziegfeld gave me these
directions: "Get your friend, Vincent Lopez, to bring over his band
and give us a free dedicatory concert."

This surprising request embarrassed me, but Vincent, one of my
real understanding friends, consented. On the scheduled day he gave
out music in the picturesque street corner ceremony.

In appreciation of the publicity that accrued to him, Vincent gave
me a baby grand piano. It was the finest gift I had ever received, so
I celebrated by inviting all my friends over to my apartment. We
clustered around that piano as though it was an altar. My apartment
took on a pretentious look, and became the center for many parties
until -the day when two piano-movers came in and carried the in-
strument away.

It seemed that Vincent's business associate, hearing that Vincent
had given me a piano, had decided to take it back without
apology. And I, having bragged about the gift and exhibited it for
weeks, had to go out and buy another one to save face.

This incident did not break my friendship with Vincent He con-
tinued to invite me to his night clubs and as recently as 1951 put me

179

on his radio programs. His rise to fame was speedy and consistent;
he has remained on the same high musical level for years. Mean-
while he has bobbed up as an astrologer and prophet. This new
role seems somewhat absurd to me, who knew him as a fiercely
ambitious director, a discoverer of new talent like Betty Hutton, and
a courter of beautiful women.

As a matter of fact, Vincent is a baffling sort of person. His clothes
are as well-bred as his reserve. He takes himself solemnly, works
like a beaver; yet, so far as I know, never has he ever disclosed the
real inner man. He was a popular Palace headliner. He was the first
one to use special lighting effect to intensify the musical atmosphere.

No sooner was Vincent's Ziegfeld Theatre street concert over and
the crowd scattered than my new duties began, full force. I soon dis-
covered that I was the first one to benefit through the alliance with
Hearst. I didn't have to worry any more about getting stories into
his papers; publishing them was an editorial must. Behind every pic-
ture and news note that I submitted was the awesome power of
Hearst.

The publisher himself I met only once and that was when Show
Girl was failing and we needed all the publicity we could get.

Prepare some special stories," Ziegfeld commanded, "and rush
them over to the Ritz-Carlton. Hearst will be there and hell see to
it, personally, that foe stories get into the first edition."

"What a l uc ky Dreak for mej j sai(J to myse]f ^ fa ^ answer

to a press agent's dream."

Hastily I began turning out copy and after I finished, I went to
the Ritz. There, sure enough, in the lounge waiting to meet me was
Hearst a heavy-set man, his face large and whitish, his eyes alert
and cold.

I handed him the material and he thanked me, promising to put it
in the first edition of the American.

pfcank you verymuch," I said. "We need your help badly "
Don't worry," responded Hearst. Til attend to it "

Judge my feelings, though, when the first edition of tie paper came
out without a single line of the material. What had happened? Hearst

. ears

J JT d t0 PkCe *' mat ^^ could I offer Zieg
Undoubtely, someone whom Hearst had entrusted with the

_^ I*!., r . _ --... VXUM. uoit^u. W1LJU. LilC rtJ-

q.on S1 bihty of seeing the job through had failed to carry on. But I
couldn t wait to check up. The deadline for the next edta was too
180

near. Desperate, I grabbed the telephone and called the city editor
of the American.

Tin speaking for Mr. Hearst," I said. "He sent down a number of
pictures and stories about Show Girl which were to be published in
the first edition of the paper without fail. He sent them down hours
ago, but there's nothing at all in the first edition."

"What do you want me to do about it?" asked the city editor,
worried.

"See if the stories are there/' I said, "so that we can hit the next
edition/'

Breathlessly, I waited for an answer; and finally the editor said,
"We've located the pictures and the stories/'

"Good!" I commanded. "Now pick up the dramatic page and make
it over exactly as I direct you."

Then, step by step, over the telephone, I told the editor how to
make over the page, what stories and pictures from rival producers
to eliminate and which of the stories and pictures that I had sent
down to insert in their place.

Completely worn out by the strain of this obligatory supervision,
and terrified as to what would happen when Hearst found out what
I had done, I put the receiver back on the hook and sat down with a
glass of whiskey, to wait anxiously for the next edition.

When it was due, I rushed to the newsstand and found that the
dramatic page was made up exactly according to my directions a
brilliant display worth thousands of dollars.

What Mr. Hearst had failed to do, because of the negligence of a
staff member on his own paper, I had put through on my own.

Once in command of his own theatre, Ziegfeld bristled with con-
scious power. He ignored Erlanger. He made elaborate production
plans. He bought lion cubs for his personal zoo. He invested in auto-
mobiles. He did something also that was characteristically note-
worthy. When he heard that Lindbergh, before hopping off on
his flight to Paris, had expressed regret because he had not first seen
Rio Rita, Ziegfeld offered to give him a special performance on his
return to America.

He kept his word and opened up his beautiful theatre on that his-
toric occasion for tie great flier and his friends, giving away every
seat in the house, and serving free refreshments between the acts for
the entire audience.

181

The tickets, even though free, were, of course, at a premium, for
everybody wanted to see the hero and to enjoy the excellent music.

All matters concerned with the entertainment went well until the
morning before the performance. Then Ziegfeld called me into his
office.

"I'm in a jam," he said. "Mrs. William Randolph Hearst wants an-
other ticket for the performance."

"Give it to her, Mr. Ziegfeld, I'm sure you have one/' I urged,
knowing that he always kept a few stray tickets up his sleeve for
every important performance. "Can't you scare up just another
ticket?"

"Not very well," he said, a little sheepishly. "You see, the extra seat
that she wants I've already given to Patricia. If s next to Col. Lind-
bergh. Naturally, Patricia wants to sit next to him."

Here, indeed, was an emergency. Hearst had just given Ziegfeld a
brand new theatre, and Ziegfeld was unwilling to give up one seat
in that theatre to Hearst, his benefactor and associate. What could I
do to prevent a possible rift over the matter of one ticket?

I took a chance in opposing him.

"Yes," I said, "it would be swell for Patricia to sit there. It's a
great occasion, but if Patricia will give up her seat for just this one
performance, she can meet Lindbergh after the show. Indeed, she
can meet him many times, even in your home."

Ziegfeld kept silent, so I kept on talking.

"After all, it would be awkward if, when Mrs. Hearst comes in,
she finds that the seat she wanted is being occupied by Patricia, who
is only a child. Don't you think that it would be wise to give up the
seat to Mrs. Hearst and let Patricia sit in your private box?"

"I guess so," said Ziegfeld, like a spoiled child, grudgingly handing
me the ticket.

Scarcely was the Lindbergh show over than Ziegfeld, always in-
tent on keeping his name in the papers, announced another sensa-
tional plan, which, to everyone's surprise, he carried out. After de-
claring that he would produce a show in Florida, long theatrically
barren, he actually organized a company of stars and chorus, and
transported them to Palm Beach, an unprecedented theatrical feat.

Irving Caesar, Rudolf Friml and Gene Buck wrote the lyrics, score
and book. Art Hickman, bandmaster, supplied the music, Morton
Downey the chief vocal numbers. Beryl Halley and Marion Halley
were the nudes. Claire Luce and Edmonde Guy captivated with

182

body and dance; and the chorus included Paulette Goddard, then a
teen-age dancer, and Susan Fleming,

Claire Luce created momentary excitement during her Indian
number by hurling her tomahawk at the orchestra director, who was
Al Goodman.

To house the limited spring engagement, Joseph Urban turned an
old assembly hall into a charming little theatre, with a real palm tree
piercing through the marquee. There were boxes at about twenty
dollars a seat for the Stotesburys, Tony Drexel Biddle, Leonard Re-
progle and the young Countess Millicent Salm. There was a promi-
nent place also for an English visitor, Sir Oswald Mosley, cold,
haughty and dead-pan-faced.

Palm Beach was then a boom paradise that made and lived by its
own rules. Wealth and influence dominated. One scion from Boston
refused to park his car according to regulations; when the doorman
tried to correct him, he whipped out a gun. One debutante stepped
up to the box office, handed over a hundred-dollar bill for two
tickets, and said to the treasurer, Tommy Brotherton: "Send the
change to my seat; I never stop for change!"

A mannish member of the cast, the daughter of a baronet, de-
liberately made an open play for some of the distinguished ladies
sitting in ringside seats. An acrobat took a shocking hold of a girl
as he lifted her in the air. A chorus boy entertained on a private yacht
by singing bawdy songs; and reported that the guests rolled on the
floor laughing.

The day that the Bath and Tennis Club opened, the officers closed
that part of the public beach to the masses. Never before had the
free beach been cut off from the public, but from that moment on,
the rich occupied one section of the sand and the masses (and yes,
the players) another.

Bootleg liquor, gambling at Bradley's, banquets at the restricted
membership club, the Everglades, made night and day teem with
dissipation. Paris Singer and a group of his guests, including John
Harkrider, the dress designer, attended one performance in costume.

Every night we met, after the theatre, in what we called the Sun-
set Club, an unconventional rendezvous for certain men and their
friends and available chorus girls. We ate caviar, drank sparkling
burgundy and had a very jolly time.

Only the press, the little Palm Beach press and its lady editor, re-
fused to join the bacchanal. Ignoring the opening night, the paper

183

wouldn't publish a line about the show. So Ziegf eld had to wire for
me to rush down and win back the alienated paper. That was a happy
assignment and I made the most of it, won back the editor, employed
everyone connected with the show for publicity and, at intervals,
snatched glimpses of Florida.

One day, as I walked through the sunny streets of Palm Beach, I
suddenly encountered an incongruous sight a winter circus, running
full blast. There were tents, side shows, banners, barkers and a
calliope. The old fascination my love for the canvas came back.
As I stood enchanted, I got the idea of tying up the circus with our
swanky revue.

Two days later, the whole circus came over to the little theatre and
put on a special performance for the Ziegf eld girls who sat on camp
chairs and improvised benches, queenly and dressed in their best,
entranced by the al fresco performance.

First, there was a parade and dancing on the green while clowns
climbed up the palm trees and scampered down again. The horse-
back riders, the trapeze performers, the ringmasters with their high
silk hats and great whips performed expertly. Ponies, horses, ele-
phants solemnly did tricks while the glorified girls looked on and
applauded.

Five minutes after the show came to an end, Ziegfeld walked up.
He had missed the whole stunt.

As soon as the Palm Beach show was running smoothly, Ziegfeld
looked around for larger fields of conquest

"Go down to Miami," he told me one morning, "and tell the papers
that I'm going to build a theatre down there."

Doubting his sincerity, I balked a little, for I never knowingly gave
out a false story to the papers. On this occasion, however, I realized
that he might have potential backers who were willing to buy Florida
property, because, at that timeboom time people were rushing
there to invest money with a fever comparable to that of the Klondike
gold rush.

So, in order to place my story, I went the next day to Miami. What
I saw there 111 never forget conditions as fantastic as they were
incredible. The streets were seething. Hundreds and hundreds of
people were walking up and down the sidewalks, negotiating, buy-
ing, selling, watching the sights. Stores had been turned into lecture
halls and real estate sales agencies. Everyone was vying for atten-
tion. Real estate posters hung on walls and telegraph posts. Some

184

windows had signs advertising free performances by Swiss bell-
ringers, monologists and other old-fashioned vaudeville acts.

In one place, dozens of people sat listening to a man who was rav-
ing about the merits of a section of land. He pointed to a picture
of Henry X. Williams, owner of the land. He emphasized Henry
X. Williams* virtues. He repeated his rave about the land. Then he
reached a climax, saying, "Let us all rise now and thank God for
enabling Henry X. Williams to place this lot on sale!"

At these words, everyone present rose and began to sing a hymn.
It was incredible. It was mass dementia!

From the extravagance of this scene, I rushed to the offices of the
Miami Herald. Here I gave my story to the editor who accepted it in
good faith.

And the next day it appeared on the front page, a column long
"New York Producer to Build Theatre."

Back at Palm Beach, Ziegfeld did something unusual: he praised
me; and I thought that he would let me relax a few hours so that I
could see a little of Florida and perhaps fly over to Havana.

Instead he said: "Pack your suitcase at once. Go to Milwaukee and
work on the opening there of Kid Boots, starring Eddie Cantor.**

So two days later, coated with a heavy Florida tan, I found myself
in a Wisconsin blizzard, rushing into a Milwaukee playhouse. It was
about two o'clock in the afternoon and standing in the box office, in-
stead of the regular treasurer, was Al Jolson, whose show was the
current attraction. He twitted me a while about his rival Eddie
Cantor and the show; then he left the box office abruptly, peeved.
Patrons were asking for reservations for Eddie's show, not for his,
and he couldn't take it.

That was Al Jolson, lovable, one of the greatest entertainers in the
world, an adolescent and an egoist The story used to circulate
around Broadway that once, when Al was caught in a terrible storm,
he looked up toward the heavens and, between the thunder and
lightning, cried: "Look out for me, God. This is Al Jolson."

Naturally, the first thing I did on my return to New York in the
evening was to rush into the office to inquire about the receipts for
Cantor's opening. Fortunately, they were excellent. My next job was
to go through my mail.

Included in the miscellaneous assortment of requests, demands and
suggestions, was an invitation for an extensive dinner party that night

185

at eight-thirty. There was only time enough to put on dinner jacket,
black tie, and taxi over to greet my hostess at Sherry's.

The waiters were already passing the cocktails when I arrived. I
was about to grab one when I noticed a tall, handsome blonde. She
wore a pink satin evening dress with pearl ornamentation. She wore,
also, many jewels that set off her finely shaped head and shoulders.
Her name was Belle Gage and she acknowledged my introduction by
walking abruptly away and joining someone else. She was obviously
enjoying herself. Though I didn't interest her, the other guests did.
Later, at the dinner table, she talked pleasantly with everyone, all
old friends, I inferred. But as the evening advanced, she paid no
attention whatsoever to me.

After the dessert, most of the guests strolled out to a kind of terrace
for coffee and liqueurs. Immediately, about five men claimed Belle's
attention while other women stood by, neglected.

Soon after the coffee, a small orchestra set up places in an alcove
and some of the guests began dancing. Belle, too, was soon spinning
about the room in the arms of a handsome young lieutenant; and
her grace and skill made me long to dance with her.

I loved dancing; so regardless of the fact that she had ignored me,
I asked her to dance; and she, in a perfunctory manner, as if she were
granting a favor simply to be polite, accepted. We danced a waltz.
After that, we danced again and again. Then we talked also a little,
speech on my part being exceedingly limited, for I was dazzled by
her looks and her manner and my good fortune in being able to hold
her for more dances.

At the end of the evening, Belle asked me casually to call her up
some time, and I replied I certainly would, while fearing that the
spell would break and that she wouldn't remember my name or an-
swer the telephone.

The next morning I talked about Belle with Alice Poole, the god-
dess of the Ziegfeld switchboard.

"Alice," Walter Wanger, the movie producer, once said to me, "is
the real New Yorker. She has the heart of the city at her telephone
switchboard. She knows how to make connections and cut them off.
She knows who's who and why, the real and the phonies."

And he was certainly right: Alice was a genealogy guide, the ter-
minal of Ziegfeld to the world, a peculiar mixture of generosity, love,
sagacity and self-sacrifice, who was continually doing something
good for someone else.

186

"Well, Bernie," Alice said enthusiastically, "if you were really with
Belle Gage, you're stepping out. She's the sister-in-law of Paul Block,
the publisher, one of Ziggy's best friends. She's worth millions and
she's a widow."

"That settles it," I said. "Thanks for the information. I'll never see
her again. No press agent can go calling on a lady that important*

"Yeah?" scowled Alice and promptly started bawling me out for
giving up so easily.

"Take this and send it at once to Mrs. Gage/' she commanded,
handing me a ten-pound box of candy.

"I won't take it," I said. "Someone gave it to you and you keep it
Furthermore, I'm not. . . ."

"You know I don't eat candy," she insisted, "and if you don't take
it, 111 just pass it to every Tom, Dick and Harry around the office.
I'm having this box packed right now and Joe can take it over to
Mrs. Gage."

The box, to be sure, was worthy of that lady; and sending it with
my card was a happy thought indeed. But where would I go from
there? What was the use? But Alice persisted and won me over to
her idea.

Belle acknowledged the gift, and invited me to dinner. Then, in
less time than it takes to tell, we were together all the time, at the
theatre and at parties, driving and taking long walks. For the first
time in my life I neglected my work for a girl. Her interests became
mine and mine became hers. I had someone to advise me, someone
who even told me how to invest my savings, seemingly much too
small for her consideration.

Her social world became mine; and I found to my surprise that I
could afford it. The conditions were similar to those in Lafayette: a
bachelor is always a convenient extra man for social purposes. All he
needs to keep in good standing is a dinner jacket, black tie and a
certain amount of small talk, preferably about current books and
plays. He doesn't need much money except for taxi fares; and if
there's another man in the party, he can usually avoid paying those.
A bachelor doesn't have to entertain. Others do that for him in
return for his filling a chair at a dinner party or and this may sound
incredible merely completing the number of couples required for
a Mediterranean cruise.

Accustomed though Belle was to luxury, she soon adapted herself
to my economical way of living. Often, when the day was over and

187

I was worn out, I would leave the theatre at eleven o'clock and find
her in her electric coupe waiting to take me home.

"You look tired tonight," she would say. "You're not eating
enough."

Her faith in me urged me on, goaded and taunted me. She did
everything to help me throw off any feeling of inferiority.

The more I saw of Belle, the more I felt the imperative urge to
slide out of the picture. I couldn't conscientiously keep up with even
a part of her social life without neglecting my work.

"Your entourage," I said, "is too much for me cook, chauffeur,
butler, maid, even a night watchman!"

But I never accepted her hospitality without responding, accord-
ing to my means, with some gift: candy, flowers, books, tickets for
the theatre. I never wanted to be obligated to her.

Gradually, nevertheless, I began to think in her terms; I grew ac-
customed to luxury. In the light of what has happened to the world
since, this indulgence now seems selfish, even shameful, yet my apol-
ogy was the need to know every kind of life. I wanted to be a man-
about-town, a world traveler, acquainted, at least, with all human
activity, not merely for the sake of pleasure, but for the purpose of
collecting literary material.

Dear Belle! How fond I am of you! What a beautiful part you had
in my life and in the life of my parents when they lived in New York.
How they enjoyed their visits to your home. You were the first to sit
by mother's side when I lost father. Your children have a great place
in my heart. Your influence will always have the glow of your
golden hair and the sparkle of your deep blue eyes.

The event that knocked me personally forever out of my optimistic
Ziegfeldian daze of security was the market break. My absurd rela-
tion to this catastrophe came about through one of the first friends I
made in New York, Jim, who proved to be my evil guide.

I met him during my early weeks in New York, when I didn't know
one street from the other. One of the stage stars whom I was exploit-
ing at the old Republic Theatre asked me during a matinee to go
around to the nearby drugstore, call for Jim, and buy a quart of
Scotch. I had never been in the store before and I was afraid of get-
ting into trouble for buying bootleg liquor, but when I stepped in
the door a little fellow met me who glistened, like fresh laundry, with
amiability.

188

Without questioning me for identification, lie graciously sold me
the Scotch; then invited me to come back any time for anything I
wanted.

"Anything," he added pointedly, "in the drug line!'*

That very afternoon I was back for more liquor, and before many
weeks Jim had managed to ensconce himself in my confidence.

Having had no time to make friends, I accepted his kindly at-
tentions gratefully. And, at first, he was a great help. He took me
out for good meals, meals that were often "on the cuff' because of
some obligation that permitted acceptance without embarrassment
to me. He sent me liquor when I had the flu. Best of all, he intro-
duced me to girls.

He taught me to dress a la Broadway, to buy shirts and ties that
looked as if I belonged. Gradually, too, I began to mix with some
of his customers. They were assorted and often sordid, largely men
and women from actors* boarding houses, petty racketeers, bootleg-
gers, streetwalkers, transients, out-of-town sightseers, bellhops, po-
licemen cadging drinks and everything else that they could get free.

Frequent among the customers at the drugstore were nurses and
interns. They were always on the loose, striving to pack a whole
year of fun into their limited nights off. Overworked and paid too
little for their grueling and nerve-shattering work, they found sur-
cease and momentary happiness in movies, drinks and free love.
What if they were worn out when on duty the next day? What if
the shaky hand or tired brain imperiled the patient a wee bit? So
what? They took a shot of benzedrine to "pep" up. After all, nurses
and interns were human. They wanted to live, even though hospital
salaries wouldn't give them enough on which to live.

Jim somehow was always ready to help others, using his connec-
tions and his knowledge of drugs with quick wit and success. Once
he showed me a telegram from a girl who was worried over possible
pregnancy. It was brief: "Arrived safely. Many thanks/'

Through Jim I had, however, a fearful experience. The scene of
this ordeal was a free-and-easy hostelry where the girls would
shout appointments across the open courts. Jim's store was on the
first floor of the building; and he, the ever-ready felicitous liaison
agent, made a reciprocal arrangement with the hotel manager which
enabled him to obtain a room for me, without charge.

On this occasion, however, the use of the room came through
Perky, one of Jim's friends. Perky met me with a girl whom I had

189

taken several times to the hotel and when Perky saw us together, he
said:

*Tou arrived at the right time; come up to my apartment and have
some Scotch."

Then, as we stepped off the elevator, he added: "As a special treat
and because you're friends of Jim's, 111 show you some of those dirty
motion pictures you've heard so much about."

"Great," cried the girl. "I'm dying to see them."

We walked into the room. Perky quickly passed around the Scotch
and then busied himself setting up his moving-picture machine.

Just as we started on the drinks and cigarettes, someone knocked
on the door, and our host admitted another friend, explaining apolo-
getically to us that he had an engagement with him and that they
would both be trotting along as soon as he showed the picture.

No sooner, though, was the machine prepared for operation than
another guest arrived, a blond-haired fellow whom I had seen
hanging around the hotel; and he was followed, in less than five
minutes, by two or three others.

This influx of visitors surprised and troubled me. I motioned to
the girl that we should clear out, but she, unperturbed, indicated
that she was going to stay.

As I looked around the room, however, I realized I didn't like the
appearance of the assembled company. My host didn't trouble to
introduce me to the gentlemen, so I politely introduced myself. At
the same moment, I caught derisive grins. That was all I needed to
bring me to my senses.

"I think I'll have to be going," I said, and started for the door. As
I opened it, I almost collided with two or three men; and before I
could get past them, the last man stepped inside and turned the
lock. Simultaneously, he opened his coat and showed a badge.

A dirty picture raid was in the works and I was part of it The
whole business was obviously a frame-up. Someone had tipped ofi
someone else. What would happen? Arrest certainly. I tried to recall
similar cases in the newspapers and all I could think of was whole-
sale arrest, the whole bunch carted off to jail. I was distracted. Why
hadn't I gone out a moment sooner? What should I do?

In the meantime, the officers, instead of closing up the machine
and leading the owner of the machine and all the rest of us to the
patrol wagon, turned out the lights and began showing the pictures.
It was incredible. Everyone was on edge, but the officer in charge

190

set the machine grinding while one of his assistants gave a moral
lecture.

"Look at that/' he said hypocritically while obviously enjoying
the picture. "Disgraceful."

If the other officers were looking, they looked grim, even menacing.

The sweat was oozing down my forehead and face. My throat was
parched, my lips dry. As I listened to the sound of the machine, I
saw my own shame in the headlines: Ziegfeld Publicist Caught in
Raid.

I began to groan and carry on; and finally one of the officers said,
"If you don't shut up over there, 111 take you straight to the hoose-
gow!"

I silenced myself and, agonized, I saw my parents dishonored, my
friends gone, and myself an outcast forever. All that I had worked
for was lost. I could never face the world again. Even if I died, the
memory of my disgrace would cling to my name.

Finally, the grinding came to an end. The picture was over. One
officer turned on the lights while the others merely dragged off the
owner of the machine and ignored the rest of us as if we were so
much excelsior.

Just how we escaped I don't know. It seems that they could not
make a collective charge against us. The only one liable was the
owner of the camera.

For days, I kept re-living that awful experience over and over
again. I thought of my proximity to ruin and my narrow escape.

Eventually, I consigned to the past the whole terrible occurrence,
for a new anxiety then took hold of me brand-new, unexpected, in-
congruousanxiety about the stock market.

Yes, I, a former school teacher, had been playing the market. It
was booming in those days. Everyone was talking in golden futuri-
ties. Ziegfeld talked about highs and lows. The company manager
hung on the 'phone giving his brother instructions. The electricians
passed along tips.

I was making five hundred a week. I had money in two or three
banks and owned several thousand shares of stock outright. I
hoarded every penny, the memory of early hardship in New York
pressing me constantly into thrift. Thus, when Jim, wanting to help
me, suggested investments in the booming market, I ridiculed the
idea, saying school teachers had no business in the market. He kept
hammering at me every day; and my money was coming in so

191

rapidly that, in spite of my thrifty instinct, I eventually permitted
him to buy me some stock. Instantly, I began to make money, and
though still fearful, I let Jim make additional investments, invest-
ments that invariably brought handsome returns.

Every night I added up my gains; checked over every cent I had;
marveled that I, who had made $1200 a year not so long ago, had
so much money in the bank. Sometimes I couldn't sleep, I was so busy
thinking of the time I'd be free, with money enough to leave Ziegf eld,
live on a small income, and write a book.

Eventually, Jim requested me to start a joint arrangement that
would permit him to trade on my account. He didn't ask for money
but only for the privilege to establish or enlarge his credit or some-
thing of that sort. I consented, like a good fellow, though against my
apprehensive judgment At the same time I entreated him not to
plunge beyond his or my resources.

"We're going too fast," I said. *I don't know anything about the
market, yet I do know that no matter what you try to prove, the
market will eventually drop way down,**

As I grew richer, I worried much about the possibilities of disaster.
I had almost enough money for what I wanted, but to be certain, I
sat down and figured out my income. It was just a few hundred
dollars under six thousand dollars a year from stocks alone; enough,
at that time, to keep my own little apartment, another one for my
mother and father, living expenses, and occasional checks to my
sister. Good! I decided to resign my job and start writing. My
parents were even more ignorant about money than I. Before giving
up my job, however, I called them in to my room for a conference.

Tfve been going over my accounts," I told them. "I have just
about enough for us to live comfortably, if youll be content to live
simply. I'll give up the continuous strain of publicity, retire, and
spend the rest of my life writing.'*

I expected them to be pleased and to say yes immediately. Instead
they were both silent. Surprised, I studied their faces. After a few
moments, my mother said:

*We think you're too young to give up work. If that, however, will
make you happy, and you want to write your book, we'll be glad to
change our way of living; well even be willing to go back to
Lafayette."

Further discussion had to be delayed just then because I had to
rush off to Boston where I was publicizing Rosalie, starring Marilyn
Miller and Jack Donahue. I remained in Boston about six weeks.

192

Then, following the opening, I packed my clothes and took the train
home, happy in the anticipation of seeing my family again.

My seat in the parlor car was inviting. I could relax. My duties
were temporarily over. I picked up my book, looking forward to a
restful trip. When we reached the second station out of Boston, the
platform presented a strange appearance. The crowd seemed too
great for the size of the platform and there was too much movement
and excitement for regular train arrival and departure. One man,
sitting near me, got up to look out, then another. In front of me
there was scurrying. People were flashing telegrams. Some of them
boarded the train and began running up and down the aisles, calling
to each other. Never before had I seen such odd behavior on a train,
especially on a parlor car.

Nicky Blair was sitting in back of me, and we both kept wondering
what had happened. He surmised one thing* I another. But we soon
learned the terrible truth: the stock market had crashed. The bottom
had fallen out. Wall Street was topsy-turvy.
What I had anticipated had come to pass.

"I'm ruined," I said to Nicky, "Every penny I've saved is gone."
My personal panic merged with the catastrophic dementia of the
frantic passengers.

At the next station, the excitement increased. Then Nicky handed
me a paper which he had bought on the platform. The headlines
read: "Consolidated Film Plant Burns To The Ground!" Consolidated
was one of the few stocks I held outright. My ruin was complete.

The Test of the trip was a nightmare. People walked up and down
the train, commiserating with one another, lamenting, explaining,
calculating.

As soon as I got home, J rushed to the broker's and sold out the
rest of my stock, trying to close my eyes to my own misery and
that of those around me. The cataclysm was in progress. Men stood
crying, sobbing, talking all at once, waving their hands desperately,
arguing, begging. Every second the misery grew. The grinding ticker
tape wiped out its victims relentlessly.

Ruin! Nothing but ruin! And I, absurdly, a part of it, a stray school
teacher, tricked into that incredible whirlpool of pyramiding losses.
I went home. I tried to brace myself and to conceal my grief from
my parents. They had already learned what had happened, tried
to console me. But, of course, it was no use. After that and for many
mouths, I kept thinking of money all the time, goaded by the re-

193

current thought: If I had only sold sooner. If only I had sold. . . .

Sometimes, I felt too depressed to carry on. I kept grieving over
the fact that I had imperiled the security of my family. Eventually,
I forced myself to forget my losses and began all over again. I took
any job I could get. I saved. I went without clothes and luxuries.

The years passed on and out of them came, eventually, a change
for the better in my circumstances. Fortunately, I was employed
almost continuously and could keep up a front, the clothes exterior,
the first essential of Broadway.

The crash was a Grand Guignol curtain-raiser to the second World
War, the influx of totalitarianism, Hitler, Mussolini. Words like
"lost generation" rhymed with aviation. The Machine Age became
the Plastic Age which would gradually give way to the Atomic
Age, full of fear of world destruction, full of hope for a new genera-
tion that may eventually be free from disease and food shortage, but
rich in new medical and motor force. Historians and philosophers
recorded and wrestled with the complex circumstances. The theatre
reflected the changes, perplexities and twisted ideologies while con-
tinuously enforcing conceptions of liberty and democracy.

My lot was, of course, the common lot. Yet talking about losses
soon became bad manners. Everybody was in the same boat, and
the only thing left to do was to carry on. To be poor became par-
donable. To move to small quarters was routine. To wear worn
clothes was fashionable.

I managed to get a handsome apartment for little money, but my
pleasure in the place soon evaporated because my father died there.
Carrying on was increasingly difficult and I didn't care much what
happened. In order to spare mother as much worry as possible, I
sent her away to my sister Lorraine and I lived alone.

Every day, as I passed father's room, my own feeling of grief grew
more intense, for according to my philosophy, his death made our
separation final. Only the spirit of what he had been and meant was
perpetual. I, my family and the friends who knew and felt the im-
pact of his spirit would pass on that influence to others and they, in
turn, to others through the generations. That was eternity, the only
kind I could conceive of.

Curiously, I became associated with a book, one that was wholly
foreign to my ambitions. Thanks to my foolhardy association with the
market, I had lost $50,000 and I never wanted to hear the word
"stocks" again. Through Arthur Wiesenberger, broker, however, I

194

actually became an indirect power in Wall Street Arthur, a friend
of mine for more than twenty years and a prominent investment
banker, called me to his home one night for dinner and to discuss
some of his financial theories.

Greatly interested, I saw their value to the investor, to Wall Street
in general and to libraries.

"You ought to put those pieces into a book," I said.

Straightway, Arthur followed the suggestion. He set to work de-
veloping his idea. He engaged an editor and a staff and eventually
published a yearbook entitled Investment Trusts that has been ap-
pearing ever since. Thus, indirectly, I of all people have been vicari-
ously influencing the market.

The day the book was published, Arthur sent me the first copy. It
bore this inscription in gold letters:

June 28, 1945

To my dear friend Bernie: The guy who really inspired me to
do this first edition and who has been a constant inspiration
ever since.

Arthur Wiesenberger

The book has appeared annually ever since and costs $20QO
a copy.

There was little time though to think of myself, for the Ziegfeld
fortunes had tumbled down along with my own.

Hearing of my losses and knowing that I didn't dare leave, Stanley
Sharpe, general manager, took advantage of the situation and cut
my salary.

Then something unusual happened to Ziegfeld. He sought outside
financial help, help anywhere he could find it, not the help of the
class of backers with whom he had always been associated. Ac-
cording to report, Waxie Gordon was one of the backers of Hot-Cha
and evidence of the gangster's association was stressed when some-
one declared him to be the host at a lavish party for the entire com-
pany which followed the Washington premiere.

I had already met the man at an audition of Strike Me Pink, for
he actually sat in on the auditions like a professional producer, pick-
ing out the girls; and I even felt his power when one of Waxie's rep-
resentatives, finding some circulars, let me know pointedly that the
wording was wrong and would displease our silent partner.

"But the circulars are dead," I explained. "As soon as we heard

195

that the wording wouldn't do, we killed them. There they are, lying
in the outer office. The fresh ones are now in the hands of the ushers,
ready for distribution/*

The impression that incident made on me was startling. I was
taking my orders, not from Ziggy but someone other than him a
gangster.

Soon after the show opened in New York, I saw Waxie regularly.
My surprise can well be gauged when I met him one night at another
premiere and he called out, as if we'd been lifelong friends, "How
are ya 3 Bernie?"

That was just before he went to the penitentiary. This harrowing
experience, however, did not change the man. He soon returned to
his old tricks, was imprisoned again, and died behind bars.

During the run of Hot-Cha y a new motion picture firm came into
existence. Ziegfeld and Goldwyn joined hands, presumably on equal
terms, to produce movies worthy of their combined names. The
event, like so many of Ziegf eld's transactions, took place first in print
and was photographed for the eyes of the public even before the
papers were signed, with both Ziegfeld and Goldwyn practically
holding the pen at the same time, as proof of their equitable in-
tentions.

My task was not this impartial. In every situation having to do
with the partnership, I had to see to it that Ziegfeld got all publicity
preferences, such as putting him on the left for the reading from
left-to-right caption, making him the spokesman for both men in all
interviews and crediting him, insofar as possible, with having origi-
nated and developed the whole plan.

Happily for me everything worked out that way as the newspaper
records of the transaction will show. Ziegfeld was all over the place
and Goldwyn was obscured, perhaps for the first time in his career;
and Goldwyn, brilliant and offended, grew more irritated with each
successive story.

Finally, beside himself, he came to me saying, "See here, Sobel,
you're a nice young man, but you're not treating me fairly in the
stories."

Immediately I offered excuses; for I honestly felt sorry at the raw
deal he was getting. Yet I couldn't help being amused. Goldwyn, of
all men, had met his Waterloo at last Ziegf eld.

However, Goldwyn could forgive and forget; several years later,
196

he offered to make me the head o his New York and English pub-
licity offices, an offer I regretfully declined.

After much telegraphing and many conferences the Ziegf eld-Gold-
wyn film firm died during gestation. And for good reason. Ziggy was
in trouble, serious physical and financial trouble. Hot-Cha, in spite
of its gangster backing, was a flop. The revival of Show Boat with
Dennis King, Paul Robeson, Helen Morgan and Norma Terris wasn't
doing well.

Catastrophies multiplied. News of Ziegfeld's health was serious.
From time to time he rallied. Finally, far-off from his home, his
shows and his Broadway, he died in California.

The glorifier's era had come to an end. And his whole regime.
Overnight a new organization took charge, an organization that
practically killed off a tradition more than forty years old.

Peggy Fears, one of Ziegfeld's favorites, and her husband, A. C.
Blumenthal, since divorced and now domiciled in Mexico, stepped
in and took over the Ziegfeld realm. Incredibly fast, they as-
sumed command of the organization. They took control of the box
office; they took charge of the productions; they held meetings with
Ziggy's creditors, suddenly rampant for what was due them. Then to
add pomp to the circumstances, they arranged a New York funeral,
a special funeral even though the body Ziegfeld was now the
body was in the far west and not yet buried.

For the ceremonies they chose the only place available for their
purpose, a secondary radio station. Here the mourners, invited and
uninvited, sat behind a glass partition while the notables rose in
turn and stood in front of the microphone.

What followed was very much like an informal theatrical per-
formance, with the audience smoking cigarettes, consulting notes,
chatting occasionally and conferring with the M.C. From time to
time, newspaper and camera men barged in. At one point indecision
brought the ceremonies to a halt.

Peggy Fears and A. C. Blumenthal, the theatrical heirs, had a little
discussion as to the propriety of their posing for photographs. Bert
Lahr spoke. Jack Pulaski, of Variety, spoke and "wondered if he
had gone over well." Helen Morgan, weeping and sincerely moved,
sang a torch song.

Ziegfeld was gone. The papers carried columns of biography,
eulogy and lament. And the papers carried a picture of Peggy Fears,
for she had finally decided to pose, weeping, of course.

197

Meanwhile the last guardian of Ziegfeld was still at her post-
Alice Poole, the telephone girl Her love for Ziegfeld was as sub-
limated as it was frenetic. To please him was her only aim; to fight
for him, her passion, whether the cause was real or invented. Mag-
nificent Alice, pathetic, romantic.

Stanley Sharpe, general manager, was dead. Sam Kingston was
dead. Dan Curry was dead. Tommy, the office boy, was dead. Zieg-
feld was dead. Only Alice remained, faithful custodian of the switch-
board.

Empty were the stage, office, halls, wastepaper baskets and ink-
wells. Far-off, too, was the old grey-haired elevator boy. But un-
expectedly he came on the scene. A reporter asked him for permis-
sion to enter the sacred Ziegfeld office; and the elevator boy, with-
out asking permission from Alice, let him in. That was treason. Alice
revolted. She shrieked. She rushed at the elevator operator. The two
shouted at each other, cursed each other, reviled each other. Alice
went into a paroxysm of hatred, denunciation and frustration, sank
back crying and exhausted.

All this pandemonium for Ziegfeld. All this poignant allegiance
to Ziegfeld. And Ziegfeld was dead.

Fantastic? No, not at all! Alice represented the spirit of the slaves
of the theatre, the spirit of all the workers doormen, wardrobe mis-
tresses, managers and secretaries who are determined that the show
must go on and whose faith in a leader like Ziegfeld leads them to
preposterous self-sacrifice. And it's fortunate that they have foot-
light fever for their mad allegiance brings forth the completed work
that gives pleasure to the world.

With Ziegfeld, the revue passed out, not to be revived soon again.
Previously, in addition to the Follies, New York supported the John
Murray Anderson Greenwich Village Follies, Artists and Models,
Passing Shows, Vanities, and George White's Scandals. Most of them
ran simultaneously during the summer. Interest in this form of enter-
tainment came to an end for some inexplicable reason.

In perfecting the American revue, Ziegfeld glorified the American
girl. He gave his show girls salaries as large as those some of the
principals received two hundred a week, even five hundred. More
important, he exploited them as personalities, listed them in the pro-
gram, had them photographed by camera artists like Alfred Cheney
Johnson.

During his reign the show girl, wearing mink coats and diamond

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bracelets, dominated the playboy precincts, glittered in night clubs,
after-the-theatre motion picture premieres and eventually at society
functions that were a come-on for charity. For the girls proved
glamorous and a publicity outlet.

The successful girls were usually spoiled, demanding, and phi-
landering; they played mfllionaries for all they could get, snubbed
the lesser members of the ensemble, and achieved a prominence that
sometimes obscured the stars of the company. With the passing of
the revue, these decorative ladies went into obsolescence.

About two years after Ziegfeld passed away, a call came to me
from Hollywood to act as an adviser on the forthcoming picture,
The Great Ziegfeld. Hunt Stromberg was on the 'phone; he wanted
me to fly out immediately to do research.

*Td rather not," I answered. Tve just lost my father, and I have
to support my family. Besides, I'm afraid to fly."

"I don't blame you," Hunt replied. Til call you back in two hours.
You might pack your clothes in the meantime so that you can grab
a train quickly/*

I went home and packed. By two o'clock no message had arrived.
Hour after hour I waited, and week after week. Finally, my worst
apprehensions were confirmed. I had lost the job because I didn't fly.
Opportunity had knocked at my door at last and I failed to answer.

Some of my grief finally dissolved when Metro called me for a
less important assignment, which was to exploit the picture, The
Great Ziegfeld, an offer that compensated, to a degree, on my losing
the chance to do the research. The first thing I did was to establish
the Ziegfeld Club. 'It's a publicity stunt," I said frankly to the press,
"but also a wish-fulfillment ideal, a club that will celebrate Zieg-
f eld's memory and serve also as a charitable organization for indigent
Ziegfeld girls."

With this idea in mind, I started out on my own to form the
club. My methods were unconventional. Every time I saw the name
of a Ziegfeld girl in print, I hunted her up through reporters and
editors. Every time I met a Ziegfeld girl on the street, I told her about
the club and asked her to pass the word on. Every time a former
Ziegfeld girl appeared in a new Broadway show, I'd run back stage
and ask her to spread the news.

In the meantime, the outlook for an organization began to im-
prove. The newspapers started to print notices; and the old stand-

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bys, Goldie Stanton and Alice Poole, came to the rescue with tele-
phone numbers, addresses and suggestions. Then the wonderful
thing happened the first meeting at the Stork Club. I shall never
forget it. The girls looked inspired, beautiful; were all eagerness to
get things started. The Ziegfeld spirit at its best! Somehow we felt
that we were making stage history. In less time than it takes to tell,
we elected officers, organized committees and started a campaign.
One group of girls, with characteristic initiative, went to the editors,
requesting space for pictures and stories. From that moment on, it
was fascinating to watch the club's development. Glamorous glorified
girls who had dominated Broadway came again into the public eye.
The years faded away and life was young again. Friendships long
broken were renewed.

The day actually came when the club gave its first annual ball.
Ned Wayburn volunteered his services and staged a typical Follies
floor show, with all the beautiful costumes, music and effects. As
glorified girls passed by in glamorous procession, a host of stars
presented their favorite numbers: Vivienne Segal, Ann Pennington,
Mitzi Mayfair, Jack Norworth, John Steele, Alexander Gray, Ada
May, Dan Healy and Irving Fisher.

After this, the club grew rapidly. Help came from many sources,
from Billie Burke, Fannie Brice, Eddie Cantor, Fred Astaire, Irving
Berlin and Harry Richman. It is the first organization, I believe, ever
established for the purpose of perpetuating a particular period, one
of the most glamorous in the history of society. At the twelfth annual
ball the proceeds surpassed more than ten thousand dollars.

Years have passed since the club was organized and during that
time it has thriven miraculously. Wonderful, indefatigable Gladys
Feldman Braham, president, and a few girls have kept it going, have
won recognition and inclusion in other important clubs, have con-
tributed beds to hospitals, given medical treatment and free instruc-
tion in trade schools and buried their dead. The memory of Ziegfeld
lives on!

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CHAPTER 9

A Variety of Assignments

P

OR some time before ZiegfelcTs death, the question that agitated
Broadway was: who will be his successor?

The answer was as unexpected as it was incongruous: Peggy Fears,
originally a Ziegfeld chorus girl and then a minor principal.

Shortly after his death, she produced, with her husband, Music
in the Air, by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II. The produc-
tion was almost identically Ziegfeldian: the finest collaborators, dis-
tinguished stars, beautiful girls and handsome settings.

Unfortunately, Peggy did not continue producing musicals. She
became, for a time, a popular night club singer. She was successful
also in a long and front-page fight for alimony against her husband.
That gentleman is now a powerful personage in Mexico. In develop-
ing Acapulco, he has created a resort that surpasses for beauty and
convenience the historic Riviera.

Incidentally, "Blumey," who looks like a minor member of a
Charles Dickens cast, diminutive, neat, but really homely, is credited
with precipitating the break between the Prince of Wales and the
Vicountess Furness.

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When the Vicountess's sister, Gloria Vanderbilt, had "Blumey" as
her escort at parties which the Prince attended, "Blumey" would
slap the Prince on the back and call him "Davey." The familiarity did
not please the Prince, and was one of the minor alleged reasons for
his shifting his affections to the present duchess.

The spirit of Broadway was exemplified thirty-odd years ago in
S. Jay Kaufman. The foremost columnists at that time included the
dean of them all, Bert Leston Taylor of the Chicago Tribune, F.P. A.,
Christopher Morley, Rttssel Grouse, and Odd Mclntyre. Kauf-
man, F.P.A. and Bert Leston Taylor opened their columns to aspir-
ing writers and printed their poetry, quips and oddities.

Odd Mclntyre covered New York life, not exactly as it was, but
as out-of-towners would have liked it to be: glamorous, colorful and
tinged, from time to time, with nostalgia.

He and Mrs. Mclntyre sought me out one day after there had
been numerous mentions in his column about my association with
Ziegf eld, and when we sat down to dinner he told me that he had
worked for the producer years before.

From that meal on and for a number of years, I met the Mclntyres
weekly. Odd was famous, wealthy and, strangely enough, removed,
to a degree, from the very world that he represented. His being cut
off gave me the chance to come to him with fresh facts picked up in
my daily life.

The chauffeur would drive us out to City Island, then Odd and I
would get out and walk several miles with Maybelle (Mrs. Mc-
lntyre) following with the dog and with the chauffeur creeping
along, ready to pick us up when our talks were over. Their friendship
was one of the happiest experiences of my early New York life.

Odd criticized the pieces I wrote and said one day that while he
might not be a great writer, he was a fine editor. After he was gone,
Cosmopolitan gave me the assignment of finishing one of the pieces
he had written.

When S. J. Kaufman went on a vacation, he asked me to take over
his entire column on the World. That was a great privilege because
he was a stimulating force in the theatre. One of the first to point
out new talent and to follow up his discoveries by bringing actors
to producers, Kaufman helped playwrights and occasionally turned
out a one-acter of his own.

Through him I became a member of the Green Room Club, a vet-

202

eran organization made up of actors, authors and professional men.
The club had an amiable spirit, not destroyed even when an officer
skipped with Club funds, precipitating the organization's fall.

Two members of the Club were Robert and Everett Riskind, both
fine-looking, alert and genial. Robert used to ask me regularly to read
his short stories, but I always got out of doing so, for I had corrected
so many themes in my life that I hated to read unpublished manu-
scripts. But Robert progressed, of course, without my encourage-
ment, and became one of the ace scenario writers of Hollywood, the
author of the extraordinary hit, It Happened One Night.

In the earlier days, however, when he was having something of a
struggle to get along, Bob came to me and asked me if I would help
him get the daughter of Bernarr MacFadden, the eccentric publisher
and health theorist, into the Follies.

Though I never intruded on Ziegf eld's casting plans, I decided in
this instance to make the request, knowing that Ziggy liked to be
friendly with and use newspaper publishers and writers.

When I mentioned MacFadden's name and added that if we en-
gaged his daughter that he would give us a great deal of publicity,
Ziegfeld called the girl to the office and engaged her. And the girl
merited glorifying. She was beautiful and had a perfect figure. In
the show she was on the stage about four minutes, during which
brief time she did a single number turning a continuous forward
somersault across the stage. Yes, that's what the daughter of a
millionaire publisher did at every performance.

As a matter of fact, anything could happen in the Ziegfeld regime.
One day, for instance, I received a telegram from Ziegfeld asking
me to see a picture called Tabu, with Reri the star. I rushed at once
to the old Jolson Theatre and discovered that Reri, the star, was a
native Tahitian and an expert swimmer. The lines of her figure were
superb, the limbs long and slender, the waist small, and the breasts
beautifully rounded and always decorated with flowers and leaves.

The girl was certainly an eyeful, and when I returned to the office
and raved about her, Ziggy said drily, "I'm bringing Reri here to star
m the Follies."

"But she's in Tahiti," I protested. "And she's not a professional
actress. She couldn't fit into our shows. Someone just picked her up
for Tabu because she's a swimmer. Besides nobody knows who the
girl is. I don't think she can even speak English. What about Equity
and the immigration laws?"

203

"Ill take care of all that/' said Ziegfeld, brusquely. "I've already
got a good travel bureau on her trail and explanatory cables going
all over the world."

For Ziegfeld to desire a thing was to have it. At the end of three
weeks, the girl was actually on her way to the United States, due to
arrive by way of ocean liner, fast express and airplane. My task was
to meet her at the Grand Central Station and I'll never forget the
effect that girl's personality had on me from the first moment I saw
her! A lovely smile. The skin just a shade off white, the eyes trustful.
The figure superb. She was enchanting.

As I said hello in French, I handed her a native Tahitian skirt,
a lei and some ornaments that I had rented from the Brooks Costume
Company; five minutes after arrival, she was being photographed
on the platform of the observation car. By six that afternoon the
papers were out and the whole town was talking about Reri, for her
publicity spread speedily and almost automatically.

The girl's ease in making herself at home in a new country was
astonishing. She made friends at sight. She blended into back stage
life as if she had been born there. All indications were that she
would be a great hit. But all the indications were wrong.

Once on the stage, Reri couldn't do a thing except her native
dance, a combination hula and hootch. And she couldn't put that
over. She couldn't speak lines. She couldn't even sell her native
beauty.

Desperate, Ziegfeld tried in several ways to build up her numbers.
What he should have done was to throw her out of the show in-
stantly, but with that vanity which is common to most producers
and which makes them incapable of admitting a mistake, he spent
money and more money trying to put her over. He added a rhumba
band, a show girl background and new costumes. Nothing helped.

In two or three weeks, Reri received notice, and sometime after-
wards the transplanted Tahitian beauty disappeared from Broadway.
There were rumors later that she was appearing in Harlem night
clubs and even in Paris. Also there were reports of poverty and
illness. What really became of her, no one ever knew.

It's doubtful if Ziegfeld ever thought of her again. A theatrical
producer can't be bothered about the little people. He must be ruth-
less. If he stopped to be humane about dismissals, substitutions, cut-
ting out numbers, retaining songs and the multiple details that repre-

204

sent the aims, ambitions and accomplishments of the many people
who make up his shows, he would be lost.

Percy Hammond was one of the most powerful critics during the
days when critics dominated public opinion to a large degree. He
was of the earth and of the arts, a combination of humanness and
technical acumen. He had an enthusiasm for words and phrases
linked with humor that made his crackling style highly personal
and engaging.

About a year after Ziegfeld's death, he wrote a piece stating that
the glorifier had depended largely for his success on nudity. Sur-
prised that Mr. Hammond, always an admirer of Ziegfeld, should
express this unfair opinion, I wrote him a long letter in protest, call-
ing attention, at the same time, to Mr. Ziegfeld's showmanship, his
gift for discovering and developing stars, his sponsorship of out-
standing composers and writers.

To my surprise, I received no answer to my letter. Then, after
several weeks, I learned that Mr. Hammond was seriously ill. Soon
after, he died.

About a year or two later, I was in Budapest visiting a famous
night club called the Arizona. It was a small place, but extremely in-
teresting because of its trick arrangements. The performers shot
out of the floor, appeared in the galleries, hung from the ceiling,
and bobbed up here and there with extraordinary dexterity.

As I sat there enjoying the novel effects, the food, and the per-
formers, someone tapped me on the shoulder and I saw a serious-
looking young man who was a stranger to me.

"I want to ask you a question," he said, abruptly.

"Certainly," I replied, inviting him to take a chair at my table.

"You don't know who I am," he said, "but I know who you are,
I suppose that you often wonder why you didn't get an answer to the
letter that you wrote to Percy Hammond."

"Yes, indeed, I have," I responded, "but how did you know about
it and who are you?"

"Well," he said, and his tone was low and sad. Tin Percy Ham-
mond's son. Father's illness was somewhat strange in that he seemed
unwilling to live in spite of the fact that there was a chance for him
to do so. In the midst of the critical days, your letter came and it
was so provocative that the doctor thought that if we showed him

205

your comments, they would arouse his interest, and he would answer
them and, in doing so, simultaneously revive his desire to live. But it
was no go."

After that, of course, we talked for a long time about Mr. Ham-
mond. I told his son about the distinction which his father had con-
ferred upon me, one which I believe no one else ever shared. When
Will Rogers' Illiterate Digest was published, Mr. Hammond per-
mitted me to review it under his byline.

Running wild, yes, the world was running wild, in New York City,
in Chicago and in Boston, everywhere that people assembled who
wanted a drink. For the days of the Dry Era had set in and Prohibi-
tion was fostering the gangster and the gangster's moll.

Meanwhile, people of all classes were having a good time. They
brewed their own beer or paid a dollar for a ten cent bottle in a
speakeasy. Here, the food was usually very good because the big
profits came 'from selling drinks. Though there were thousands of
speakeasies, every patron felt that he was enjoying exclusive privi-
leges in being permitted to break the law at exorbitant prices. When
the fun ran high, some well-mellowed gentleman would offer his
theatre tickets to anyone who would take them, preferring the ef-
fortless entertainment of guzzling to seeing a play.

Toward the end of the era, bootleg soliciting was so open that
firms would leave their cards under the door, with their name, ad-
dress and rates. The law prevailed, however, in one instance: Variety
had to stop publishing its weekly list of prices on bootleg liquor.

Every little hole-in-the-wall bar gave out tickets of admission that
are now collectors* items. One daring, imaginative restaurant owner
established the Key Club and handed out individual keys by the
dozen, keys which permitted the bearer to enter the place without
knocking, password or personal identification.

The Dry Era in New York was a period of adventure, risk, irrita-
tion and dissipation. New speakeasies opened almost daily, each one
striving to attract patrons with tricky architecture and furnishings,
entertainment, hypothetical privileges and introduction cards. Along
52nd Street, decent citizens, to protect themselves from intruders,
had to put cards in front of their homes reading: "This Is Not A
Speakeasy!"

Out of the disorder, Club "21" emerged, Jack and Charlie's oasis
of good liquor and hand-picked society. The owners built up a sys-

206

tern of protection against the police that was worthy of the Middle
Ages. Next to their modest place were two run-down brownstone
fronts filled with migratory tenants. Jack and Charlie bought these
two structures but permitted the tenants to continue living there.
The cellars, however, they took over for their own use and filled them
with hundreds and hundreds of bottles of the choicest wines.
Regularly, of course, the police raided the place, but they never found
anything for the simple reason that the brickwall door separating
"21" from the adjoining cellars was governed by electricity and shut
so securely that no one ever dreamed that it was a door leading any-
where, certainly not to the adjoining brownstone fronts.

Thanks to the extraordinary acumen of Jack and Charlie, "21** was
planned on a design familiar in New York, placing similar industries
in the same neighborhood. More important still, the Club reclaimed
the lost art of dining out; it lifted the speakeasy from an illicit eating
place to the level of gracious living. The influence of "21" can never
be estimated. No one can tell how many plots for plays and picture
engagements for stars were consummated at meal-time and at the
bar. Some of the happiest years of my life were spent there, the ideal
spot for my gregarious nature.

Many pleasant incidents come to my mind regarding the men as-
sociated witih "21." Charlie used to take me on his nightly rounds
when he was introducing "21 Brands/* Jerry entertained me at
Easter brunch. Mac gave me a specially ordered dinner, complete
from caviar to the proper vintage wines, as a bon voyage celebration.
Bob brought me ties from Italy. Peter gave me best sellers and
Jimmy wise advice. Molly I loved for her beauty and naturalness.
Trivial bases these for friendship? Yes and no. To me, human con-
tacts, momentarily meaningful, are worthy of recall.

One of the high points of that period came with the transformation
of the Harold Vanderbilt private residence into a speakeasy. On the
first floor stood a great refectory table filled with choicest food, lob-
ster and chicken salad, pat de f ois gras, caviar. On the floor above,
an orchestra played the new song hits. We danced, ate and drank
liquor, free-of-charge, for refreshments were the come-on for the
attractions on another floora gambling room, full of lure-money-
away devices.

These were the days when Jack and Charlie, my good friend
Sherman Billingsley, Tony, and other nightclub notables gained their

207

supremacy. My home was then at the Whitby. I went there one night,
harassed by my usual obsession: fear that I couldn't get to sleep.
It was about eleven or twelve and I said to mother, "I think 111
run to Pete's across the street and get a nightcap."

I didn't bother to put on a coat. I just ran over as I had done
dozens of times before, in trousers and shirt. When I got as far as
the small iron gate I noticed the customary group of people trying
to get in. Among them, obviously escorted by a dignified middle-aged
man, was a handsome woman. She started at once to nod and wink
at me, I was flattered at making such a quick conquest but, under
the circumstances, at a loss how to follow it up. Simultaneously, also,
I was annoyed at not being able to gain admittance into the speak-
easy. Impatiently, I waited and so did everyone else.

The scene was typical of Prohibition days. For although there
were actually scores of speakeasies, the lucky devils who were for-
tunate enough to get in would, snobbishly, turn their backs on the
unknown unfortunates who were trying to gain entrance.

Finally I got so sore at the delay that I barged past the doorman,
shoved open the gate and walked in.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Why can't we get in?"

"Who wants to know?" asked someone in the group.

"I do " I answered hotly.

"And who are you?"

"I own the place," I said, knowing that I was always welcome
there.

"Oh, you do? Well, consider yourself under arrest!" and with those
words the speaker grabbed my arm. I had arrived just in time for
a raid. Half-dressed, without credentials and, on my own say-so, an
owner of the speakeasy, I was definitely on my way to the hoosegow.

I tried to explain, but the officers kept me there while I sweated
and cursed my bad luck. All efforts, however, were futile. My con-
ceit had done me in. I knew now why the girl in the group at the
door had winked at me. She was warning me to stay away.

In the midst of the excitement, for some unknown reason or other,
the officers finally let me go. What a lucky escape! As I rushed to the
door, one of the policemen took me by the arm and remarked gra-
ciously "Say, Mister, if you want a drink, why don't you go around
the corner? We're not touching that street tonight."

Among the queens of this almost forgotten time was Belle Liv-

208

ingston, once the idol of the noctambulists. She is, now in her eighties,
a large woman, self-assured, with red hair and a flushed skin. She
indicated that her past was distinguished and went in for literature.
Her night club introduced the informal idea of having guests sit on
the floor, a floor made comfortable with voluptuous pillows which
flanked the walls, walls made equally comfortable with satin up-
holstery. Outside the police hovered regularly about the place and
created that illicit atmosphere which made those days continuously
exciting.

Belle was the first woman in New York to run a speakeasy. She was
dubbed the Belle of Prohibition. She once remarked to Texas Guinan:
"My place won't seem like home if I'm not raided." She was jailed
at one time for four weeks in a Harlem prison.

Belle was an extrovert. As her popularity grew, she was always
promising to write her memoirs, Livingston in Darkest America, a
promise never fulfilled. Her clubs included The Alimony School,
Reno, and the 58th Street Country Club.

These items might have been included in her autobiography. Belle
was allegedly abandoned when a baby in the buffalo grass of Em-
poria and adopted and reared by Major John R. Graham, of that city.
At sixteen she came to New York where she married Richard Wherry
and was acclaimed in the 90's as the "Sunflower Girl" because of her
"poetic legs." Her second husband was Count Florentine G. Saltazzi.

It wasn't long after I finished reading Courtney Ryley Cooper's
Here's to Crime, with its appalling description of the vice ring and
the traffic in women, that I met Thomas Dewey. He was then the cur-
rent center of interest, for the "Lucky" Luciano trial was just com-
ing to an end.

The invitation to meet him came through Wheeler Sammons, pub-
lisher of Who's Who, who called me up and said: "I want you to
come to dinner to meet Tom Dewey. He's very formal. Bring an at-
tractive girl with you and tell her to play up to him as a joke on him
and his wife."

Wheeler's idea of meeting the great crime investigator with a prac-
tical joke in mind seemed incongruous, but I told the girl, a former
Follies beauty, just what to do. When we arrived at the Sammons',
however, Dewey was all seriousness from the beginning. He never
noticed the girl.

After a few moments, we walked to an alcove overlooking the East

209

River, and there the two of us had a long serious talk. Dewey spoke
so frankly about his feelings and intentions that I was surprised and
complimented.

"I have little hope of winning the trial," he volunteered. "Luciano
is too powerful. His income runs into the millions. I'm afraid it's
hopeless." He talked also of conditions in Jersey and prophesied
many solemn events which subsequently took place.

At dessert, Wheeler announced that he had seats for Murder in
the Old Barn. That we should go to a show so titled seemed singu-
larly in keeping with the spirit of the evening. The play was put on
in an old church, re-made into a theatre; and when we finally stepped
into the half-empty auditorium, we seemed to hear the echo of our
voices. The general effect was not pleasant. Anyone, as a matter of
fact, could have walked into the place, shot down Dewey and made
a getaway before a policeman could have heard the shot. Dewey
was doubtless conscious of the situation, but he seemed fearless.
When Murder, Inc. was published in 1950, the text revealed that
gangsters were gunning for Dewey at the time, but decided his death
would create such a scandal that they dared not kill him.

After a while, handsome Harry Bannister, producer of the show,
came up and apologized for the small audience, then signaled to
the orchestra to start the show, a burlesque on the old-fashioned
melodrama. After the final curtain we left the place and went out
into the cold night, again without a bodyguard.

"Lucky" was convicted and deported, to become the idol of the
Isle of Capri; and the Red Light business was supposedly curbed.
But every night, as I walked to my own home, right before me at
the corner of 55th Street and Sixth Avenue I saw the same two or
three streetwalkers, standing at doorways, in rain or snowstorm, ac-
costing men openly and going into secretive business huddles. The
racket still went on in spite of court edicts, while the poor street-
walkers risked arrest and struggled for food and a roof to cover
them from night to night. Meanwhile "Lucky" in exile was enjoying
the luxuries of this world.

Not long after I met Dewey, I was a guest at the annual party of
the Dutch Treat Club, once the most important stag event in the
social calendar of art and letters. This particular year my invitation
had heightened value because it was to begin with cocktails at
Eugene ReynaTs with Ogden Nash and me as the special guests.

Reynal had just started his publishing business and he confided to

210

me that he was particularly anxious to put over a deal with Ely
Culbertson for a book about bridge.

From Eugene's we rushed to the party which started, happily,
with cocktails and continued with more cocktails, all through the
Dutch Treat dinner and show. Ogden's song about bastards brought
down the house; and by the final curtain, everyone was in a state
of combined fraternal and alcoholic ecstasy. At this point Eugene
grew serious.

"Please go with me," he asked, "to the Bridge Club at the Wal-
dorf-Astoria. I want to make a publishing deal with Ely Culbertson."

We grabbed a taxi and a few minutes later reached the club where
a group of men and women in evening dress were playing cards.
Prohibition was in force, but on every table stood a large pitcher of
champagne.

Eugene sought Culbertson, and I gained my first and surprising
picture of the man. He talked books and editions with the efficiency
of a publisher. He tossed figures back to brilliant Eugene with the
certainty of an accountant He knew as much about publishing, it
seemed, as he did about cards. That he could also write a book, a
sparkling novel, The Strange Lives of One Man, he proved several
years later.

Their talk over, Eugene took me over to a gray-haired dowager
whom he asked to help him with the plan which he had mentioned to
me.

"That," she answered, "will all depend on Harold Vanderbilt."

By this time the name Vanderbilt was part of my conversation with
Neil at the house almost daily.

So, well filled with Dutch Treat Club liquor and bubbling en-
thusiasm for putting over Eugene's plan, I blurted out:

"To hell with Harold Vanderbilt!"

Whereupon the dowager turned to me and said:

*T11 have you understand, young man, that Harold Vanderbilt
is my brother."

Some years after that party, Culbertson invited me to his office
and asked me to take charge of his campaign for World Peace. His
faith in my being able to put over the cause, made me proud. I ad-
mired the man, his tense, purposeful face, his inspiring confidence
in his lofty project. I admired him, also, for his disparate achieve-
ments in bridge, his courage in meeting the hazards of gambling, his
literary facility and his skill in ordering a connoisseur's dinner.

211

"Tell me what the plan is," I said. "If it's simple enough for me to
understand. 111 start working."

Graciously, Culbertson began to explain his theories. We ex-
changed question and answer. He reiterated his points and I asked
more questions, and more.

"But it's all in this booklet/' he said, finally. "Read it and youll
understand."

As directed, I took the book home and read it, but I didn't under-
stand it. The plan was too complex for me. So, regretfully, I gave
up the idea of working with the great bridge player.

My bad manners at the Bridge Club had no repercussions.

Anything, as a matter of fact, could happen those days. Like
scores of others, I risked my life, time after time, drinking bad al-
cohol and trying to forget my market losses. Frequently, my com-
panion was Wallace Groves.

He was surprised when I told him as we walked along Broadway
one night that the white slave traffic continued. "There are taxi
dance places right here on Broadway," I said, "that are linked up
with the white slave trade."

"Let's go see one," suggested Wallace.

"If you wish," I replied, not knowing what was in store for me.

Around 50th Street and Broadway, we found one of these halls,
wide open. A barker-doorman showed us the way up the stairs.
There, a hat-check girl took our belongings and collected our ad-
mission fee and sold us dance tickets.

Then we entered the hall, a large room that gave the impression
of having been carelessly thrown together: a rickety railing around
the floor, a terrace with tables in the rear, cheap modernistic decora-
tions, mirrors and shadowed lights.

We had scarcely taken a step when about twenty girls, stationed
behind a low gate, began pleading with us to dance with them. They
were from eighteen to thirty years of age. They had a synthetic clean-
liness, emphasized by hair-do and make-up. They wore cheap even-
ing gowns, cut very low, and obviously had no underclothes.

One girl was loving up a fellow in an alcove; another was letting
down the strap of her gown so that the man could clutch her breast.
All the others, having no escorts, were clamoring around us. They
begged and begged for a ten-cent pittance, the price of a cardboard
ticket, in the hopes of getting a large tip or, perhaps, a patron after
hours at regular prostitution rates.

212

The longer we stood there, the more importunate they grew. See-
ing women before a gateway, begging for a ten-cent dance, recalled
the degradation of Zola's Nana.

"This is awful/' I said to Wallace. "Let's get out. I don't want you
to be seen here."

"No," he replied in his leisurely way. "Let's see what goes on."

"But, Wallace," I protested, "maybe you ought to leave. Some
columnist might come, see you and. . . ."

"Bernie," he interposed, "I can do just exactly what I please. I don't
fear anyone, and I don't give a damn!"

The popular term for this period was the roaring twenties. Why
not call it the Age of the Columnists?

Just how accurately any term fits a period sometimes puzzles me.
As a matter of fact, I have always regarded generalizations about
people, races and epochs as suspect. The Age of Reason, the Augus-
tan Age, the Age of Innocence, the Age of Pericles, the Victorian
Age. Why not the Aspirin Age? Dependence on aspirin started about
this time and continued. Or why not the Age of Freud? His influence
was percolating through and people were talking about being
psyched. The career woman was also starting about this time; and
so were easy divorce and re-marriage. Polly Adler called the era the
Golden Years.

People, especially actors, seem to me unchanging. Caught in the
vice of a dictator or a Puritanic crusade, their outward behavior may
change but their basic desires, hopes and ambitions are human radi-
cals, mathematical certainties which will always, if given the op-
portunity, resolve into an equation whose sum adds up to the one
wordindividualist.

The columnist did a great service for the stage, for until he came
on the scene, a star, a producer or a sponsor could kill off a minor
player. At the "Met" for instance, an American singer was persona
non grata until Lawrence Tibbett caused such an applause-riot that
the management had to recognize him, and this incident led to the
natural inclusion of native singers in the outstanding casts.

Nowadays, thanks to the columnist, talent, great or small, cannot
be obscured, shushed or blotted out. The legitimate critic hadn't
the time or space to concentrate on minor players. The columnist
plugs away for them.

The columnist and his syndicated publication brought the theatre

213

to the hinterlands, ushered in a new era of vicarious playgoing and
learning about players and playwrights. The hit plays occupied the
minds of the out-of-town column readers, and when they came to
New York all they wanted to do was to get on the bandwagon.

Abel Green, as editor and publisher of Variety, also widened the
theatrical scene to include through a new department, "Literati/ 7 all
tie arts, with special emphasis on books and writers. Abel, astute and
sensitive to his finger tips, also correlates the Paris scene that he
knows so well, with domestic goings-on in the amusement world.
Popular and indefatigable, co-author with Joe Laurie, Jr., of Show
Biz and The Spice of Variety, Abel is a one-man dynamo for every-
thing that is original, worthwhile and, above all, entertaining in the
land of make-believe. His fractured French had all Broadway
laughing.

The roaring twenties, joy rides, John Held girls with abbreviated
skirts and boys with pork-pie hats yes, this was the era that made
the nation a cocktail-drinking population. Yet how many other tags
have been applied to the same span of time: The Jazz Age, the "un-
restrained age 9 * (Theodore Pratt's tag), and the age of the "collegiate
attitude/' a name favored by Bosley Crowther who recalls the
"mighty campus hero, the frivolous flapper, the hip flask and the
raccoon coat." Why not the overlapping age of "Poetic Renaissance"
that began with Poetry Magazine in 1912? Why not the age of the
"time" novel and the short short story?

Meanwhile, Broadway had changed physically. In the twenties
there were as many as fifty theatres, all holding plays, a number that
dwindled down sadly to accommodate fewer productions and fewer
playwrights. Grand old theatres like the New Amsterdam and the
Globe were now "grind" houses, open for continuous performances.
Over their gracious facades hang garish banners. Along the old street,
disintegration set in overnight Cheap shops, penny arcades, "gyp"
joints, movie ads, auctioneers, street peddlers and professional beg-
gars turned wondrous Broadway into a mean street.

Trick electric and neon signs combined to make the Great White
Way a second Coney Island. Where once first-night elegance flour-
ished and ladies and gentlemen in evening dress made their happy
entrance into the flowing lobbies, a rabble now barges its impudent
way over sidewalk and crossing.

As I stood and looked at the worn out Rialto, all sorts of events
and people merged together without a date line, to form a montage.

214

I thought of the Banshee luncheons and my talks with its guiding
members: warm friend Joe Connolly who once honored me by ask-
ing me to publicize International News; kindly, brilliant Bradley
Kelly and his George, Jr., Republic charity; Ward Greene who flab-
bergasted me with Follies memories that antedated mine. I thought
of weekly social occasions: the Cheese Club luncheons, the Saturday
Review luncheons with my great friend Norman Cousins presiding,
and Jack Cominsky keeping the over-extended guest list in tow,
Inez RobbY buffet suppers, and Clark Kinnaird's obligatory table
dlidtes. Almost every day or night, I tried to out-match gay-hearted
Frank Farrell on party attendance.

Gradually, the montage grows three-dimensional with people,
places and happenings, the past merging with the present: Bruno's
Pen and Pencil champagne supper for Ethel Merman, Bill Doll's
orangeade refreshers, Harry Hershfield's sotto voce stories, El Mo-
rocco's pandemonium New Year celebrations, Marion Byram's foot-
light enthusiasm, Max Reibeisen's prandial gatherings at the Ver-
sailles, Clara Bell Walsh's costume party for Amos and Andy, George
Jessel, actor, producer and superman toastmaster, N. T. Grandlund's
pioneering radio programs, Bob Sylvester's off-beat Rialto stories, Ed
and Pegeen's engaging controversies, Irving Hoffman's wit criticism
and Helen Morgan cartoons, Billy Reed, former dancing expert and
his sensational rise to Little Club importance, the old Beaux Arts
Balls and Mrs. George Washington Kavanaugh's jewelry displays,
Milton Shubert's first night invitations, Toots Shor's multiple birth-
day parties for "Bugs" Baer.

A halt here, a halt at the Stork Club with Sherman Billingsley, the
most consistently kind spirit in theatrical environs. Handsome, gen-
erous and modest, he used to sit with me in the Cub room, night after
night, talking about the ways of waiters, the behavior of men and
women, and the grueling hardships of his youth, now happily offset
by lavish gifts to his friends, an endless succession of gold cuff links,
novelty suspenders, radios, cases of wine and rare perfumes for the
lady who dines with you.

The marginal influences that illumine Broadway with moods, dol-
lars, ideas and fervor rush by:

Theresa Helburn's "Bab Ballads" declamations; Dorothy Kilgal-
len's Sunday pieces, done with distinction; John Ringling North's
personal box at the circus; listening to Hy Gardner's aerial interviews;
crowding into beloved Gene Leone's; the theatrical snacks at the

215

Grand Central Station with Jack Nicholas as host; the kick I got out
of my first ball point pen, a gift from Leonard Lyons; chatting, with
difficulty, with kindly, stuttering Arthur Rosenfeld, forty years a
manufacturer of theatrical display frames; the delightful shock of
Earl Wilson's first bawdy columns.

Broadway, with its paths to Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, Green-
wich Village, and the Little Church Around the Corner had changed.
The Great White Way-my lost street

That I should want to stop working and remain idle for the rest
of my life was a state of mind that, up to now, I could never asso-
ciate with myself. Nevertheless, that was my mental attitude after
the Ziegfeld debacle and the market crash. I just wanted to go to
sleep and never wake up.

Hunt Stromberg, the motion picture producer, brought this un-
happy state of inaction to a sudden end. He sent me a telegram and
the insistent ringing of the messenger boy forced me to get out of
bed, accept, read and answer it.

Though I knew a great deal about the man and his work as a dis-
coverer and developer of stars on the M-G-M lot, I had never met
him when he asked me to work for him in Hollywood. The offer,
long wished-for, brought back my early experiences with motion
pictures and served as a check-up on my preparedness. My first over-
all view of the industry came shortly after my arrival in New York
in June, 1925, through James R. Quirk, publisher of Photoplay
Magazine, who, at the suggestion of Louella Parsons, one of my first
influential New York friends, asked me to write a piece pompously
called "The Psychology of the Movies/' by Prof. Bernard Sobel.
Louella not only made the arrangements to have me meet the editor
but also published my picture in the Morning Telegraph together
with an article about my work

To cover the story, I went directly to the Fort Lee Studios in New
Jersey. Up to that moment I'd never seen the inside of a studio and,
like everybody else, I was impressed by the expanse of buildings and
the number of officials, secretaries, office boys and factotums.

The stars featured in the plans were Elaine Hammerstein, Bfllie
Burke, Mae Murray, Norma and Constance Talmadge. Their be-
havior varied according to their mood and reaction to my questions.

Constance was talkative and pleasant All went well until her press
agent, Beulah Livingstone, rushed onto the set and said quietly:

"Will you kindly break off the interview, Mr. Sobel? It's a pity but

216

Constance is getting too interested in you. She must stop talking so
that we can continue shooting the picture/*

So I strolled over to where Norma Talmadge was working just in
time to see the attendant bring in a great tray of French pastry which
she snatched with the eagerness of a child and ate greedily while
a string orchestra played softly, a Hollywood innovation to keep stars
entertained while they worked. Her beauty was matched only by her
inability to provide me with interesting copy.

My next interview was with Mae Murray, blonde and lovely,
dressed handsomely for a picture about an oriental idol. When I
asked her what she thought of the psychology of the movies, she
looked frightened and gasped jerkily: "Psy-chol~o-gy." I knew she
was saying the word for the first time.

Doing a piece about Elaine Hammerstein proved impossible, for
one of the officials told me there were too many male admirers
around her that day to enable her to keep her mind on a serious talk.

Instead, I did an interview with Olive Thomas, once a Ziegfeld
girl, then a motion picture actress who died young under somewhat
mysterious circumstances. My interview with her happened to be
the last that she gave out before her untimely death. Her beauty was
statuesque but cold. She wore a blouse and slacks, apparel which I
found embarrassingly intimate as compared with Lafayette, Indiana,
dress decorum. She smoked cigarettes also, but by that time I was
getting accustomed to seeing women addicted to the habit After
Olive's death, the Dramatic Mirror asked me to review her last pic-
ture; a strange, sad coincidence, doing her last interview and then
reviewing her last picture.

A sentence in my review read as follows: "The picture affords an
excellent sidelight on the talents of Olive Thomas, talents which
made her beloved by thousands." She said that Everybody's Sweet-
heart was her favorite type of play. It was her ambition to secure
plays of settlement life, similar to this one, in which she could sur-
round herself with young players and thoroughly natural old men
and women.

About this time, motion pictures were getting their first serious
consideration by way of the Film Guild, which was organized to act
as a sort of sponsor, with Anne Morgan prominent in the organiza-
tion. To my surprise, at a party at her home, she singled me out for
attention by drawing me over to a window and showing me the East
River.

217

"Don't you think I did the right thing by building here?" she asked
as if imploring my approval. "I think the place is attractive.**

"Yes," I murmured, not dreaming then that Sutton Place would
eventually have extraordinary real estate value.

Among Miss Morgan's guests was Olga Petrova, a prominent silent
film star, author, actress and vaudevillian whose act included the
operatic aria "Visi D'Arte," from Tosca and a program of peculiar
noises. Olga, a tall, handsome woman, liked to exploit her intellectu-
ality. She told stories from a collection she had written. She served
unusual foods like shepherd's pie at her numerous dinner parties.
"Whatever happens to me/' she said, "good or bad, I adapt myself to
the next alternative. This to me is economy and my best known
means of progress."

At the height of her popularity she married a well-known physi-
cian, then disappeared, only to come back around 1940 with an auto-
biography which won critical encomiums and the possibility of be-
coming a motion picture story.

Contrastingly reticent and obviously a serious thinker was Lillian
Gish, who, with her sister Dorothy, was the first really important star
of the cinema. Lillian Gish, blonde, wistful, appealing, told me about
the first picture she made, the influence that D. W. Griffith had on
her career, and the relationship that both the man and his pictures
bore to World War I. As one of his cast, Lillian, aged fifteen, be-
came a catalytic agent in international affairs.

This strange circumstance came to pass at the beginning of the
war and before America was a part of it The French and English
governments, anxious to effect an alliance with the United States, de-
cided to arouse the sympathy of this country by means of propa-
ganda; and the medium for disseminating this propaganda was the
motion pictures, which were just beginning to grow popular.

To carry out this plan, the two nations invited D. W. Griffith to
come to London to produce pictures. Already a famous cinema pio-
neer, he accepted, bringing with him his own company, a group of
young people headed by Lillian Gish and her sister, Dorothy, then
girls of about fifteen or sixteen years of age.

"Photography at that time," explained Lillian, "was so crude that
Mr. Griffith was forced to use children. Otherwise the heroines would
have looked old and wrinkled, thereby killing the love interest.

"Included in the company was a young man who has since grown
world-famous. He was an outsider; that is, an Englishman; yet so

218

pleasant that we took him into our crowd. His name was Noel Cow-
ard. In the picture he played the role of a soldier. It was the first pic-
ture that we made Heart of the World.

"Mother/" continued Miss Gish, "who looked after sister and me,
made Noel feel that he was one of us; and he has been kind to her
ever since. In fact, he never comes to America that he doesn't look
her up. In those days, Noel was gangling and at least a full head
taller than I. But that was during my 'teens. Today I've grown so
that I'm almost eye to eye with him."

While making pictures at the front, young Lillian learned to know
life in the raw, a knowledge which she believes served as an im-
portant background for her work on the stage.

"I've always felt grateful to Griffith/' she said, "for making me
study people and everything around me. We were right at the front
with the soldiers, the fury of war all about us. When we first went on
the set, it was frightening. After a while, however, we got used to it;
and though shells and shrapnel kept bursting near by almost in-
cessantly, we scarcely took notice. As a matter of fact, the sound of
battle became just an accompaniment to our daily work, except in
cases, of course, when the explosives came too dangerously near.

"As a matter of fact, we were more moved by terror during breath-
less London nights when, out of the inky darkness of the night, we
could expect bombs to rain ruthlessly on the city at any moment.
There was no protection from the German planes in London, but at
the front there was always the French Army,

"Always," continued Lillian, "Griffith would say to us, 'Watch peo-
ple and learn.' And if he hadn't so instructed us, we might never have
looked. For it's an American tendency to turn the head the other way
when someone is grieving.

"Every day of my life, therefore, it seemed I would sit in Waterloo
Station and watch them bring in the wounded. I saw grieving fathers,
mothers and sweethearts in heartrending scenes with departing
soldiers. I got the pure emotions. The lid was off. Their restraint was
gone. Their feelings were too strong and the emergency too great. If
I hadn't been an actress, I never would have had that experience.
But I did make the most of it for the sake of my craft, my subsequent
screen and stage roles. I studied, analyzed and remembered."

With the "talkies" the Gishes lost their place in Hollywood. From
time to time, though, they returned to the legitimate stage.

In 1947, their first preceptor, D, W. Griffith, died. A belated wail

219

went up straightway from Hollywood. He had been neglected and
ignored. He was almost penniless, his fame forgotten. Regrets,
omissions and encfomiums piled up, all too late. D. W. Griffith, the
pioneer, was dead.

That's the way of Hollywood where the past is soon swallowed up.

No one, for instance, remembers the pioneer firm of Al and Ray
Rockett When young men, these two brothers engaged me to work
on their picture, Abraham Lincoln. It was based on a factual study
of Lincoln's life and took four years to make.

When the picture was completed, the Rocketts, who regarded their
film biography as a somewhat reverent accomplishment, decided
that they would show the picture first to President Calvin Coolidge,
for the benefit of the disabled soldiers at the Walter Reed Hospital.

After arrangements with various officials were completed, the
Rocketts and I carried the heavy film to the train ourselves, and kept
it next to us so that nothing might happen to it. When we arrived in
Washington and had placed the film safely in the hotel, we left im-
mediately to see the Lincoln Memorial. Once there, we stood long
and silent. When I turned around to look for the Rocketts, they
seemed to be in prayer, as if they were proffering their picture to the
martyred president. Their sincerity was touching and revealed a
depth of feeling seldom associated with motion picture people.

That night, we visited the hospital where the audience was made
up of hundreds of men, young and middle-aged, maimed and crip-
pled, veterans of the already forgotten World War I. Helpless, they
lay in wheelchairs, some listless, others obviously in pain, the
brighter ones striving eagerly to see the picture.

Everyone commented on the fact that there was little interest in
Coolidge when he came into the hospital. For me certainly, shaking
hands with the cold-mannered man and looking into his noncom-
mittal face, was not a particularly lively experience. He sat through
the picture and kept his opinion to himself.

The next time I visited Washington, I had more of a chance to
study the Capitol. Herbert Hoover was President at the time, and
when he extended his hand in greeting, I noticed that his grasp had
no pressure. He looked so flabby and tired that I thought he would
keel over any moment I learned later that men in public life who
shake hands a great deal have a technique. They proffer a loose hand
and thus withstand the strain of continuous claspings.

220

CHAPTER 10

Movie Publicity and I

M

Y FIRST publicity assignment for the silent films was getting
space for Mabel Normand, a custard-pie Mack Sennett beauty who
had suddenly become a legitimate comedienne in a full length pic-
ture called Molly-O.

To celebrate the occasion, Mabel had decided to come to New
York for her first visit in a number of years. This fact I announced in
the following story:

WILL REJOIN HER LOVER OF
TEN THOUSAND YEARS AGO

Mabel Normand, picture star, has arrived in New York on an
odd love quest. Being a theosophist and a believer in reincarna-
tion, she expects to meet, while here, a former suitor, a man who
lived ten thousand years ago, but who is now resuscitated and
alive in this generation.

The idea, though fantastic, was based on the popular conception
of reincarnation. In order to give credibility to the press story, I read
some elementary work on theosophy.Then I prepared a list of defini-
tions and terms which I typed out neatly as a guide for Miss Nor-

221

mand for answering interview-questions because I knew that stars
usually required help in responding to reportorial quizzes.

The following day, I took my little typed guide over to Miss Nor-
mand's apartment at the Gotham Hotel and handed it to her. She
glanced over it hastily and then, giving me a contemptuous look,
threw it into the wastebasket Half an hour later, when the interview-
ers arrived, Mabel was discussing theosophy on her own; and before
she had talked five minutes, I found, to my humiliation, that she
knew more about the subject than I could ever hope to know.

Fortunately, Mabel placed no emphasis on the incident. She
seemed, indeed, to like me; and before the day passed she sat talking
books and plays as if we had always known each other.

Mabel was very feminine, with a kind of languorous appeal. Her
masses of pitch black hair always appeared ready to fall over her
shoulders. Her regular features were dominated by black eyes, note-
worthy for their size and beauty, a beauty intensified by short
blotches of mascara along the lower lids.

It was Mabel who lent me the first copies I ever read of Max Beer-
bohm's Seven Men and George Moore's Hail and Farewell. When I
opened these books at home, I found that they belonged to William
Desmond Taylor. He was the famous director who was murdered, a
mysterious tragedy in which Mabel and Mary Miles Minter were
allegedly involved and which has never been solved.

Not long after reaching stardom, Mabel died. Many years after
that regretful event, I met Mack Sennett, producer of the pie-throw-
ing comedies which gave Mabel her start.

The Sennett meeting was important to me, for announcement had
just been made that the veteran producer, gray-haired and seemingly
broken-down, was to have his life story made into a biographical film.

"Tell me about poor Mabel Normand," I said eagerly. "I was
grieved over her early death. I want to know more about her, your
first stars and your pioneering."

His answer IVe never forgotten:

'That's all water under the bridge. I'm thinking of tomorrow.'*

His abrupt dismissal of the subject seemed brutal; it took my
breath away. On reflection, though, I decided that there was some-
thing magnificent in that terse, ruthless speech. It expressed his de-
termination to live in the present and the future. He was an old man
only in years. At heart, he was young, with no time for reminiscence
and regret.

222

Charlie Chaplin I met at a small party about thirty years ago when
he was at the apex of his popularity. To my surprise, I noticed that
he was already graying. A little man, smooth shaven and seemingly
reticent, he won my regard at once established the impression that
we had been friends for years, called me by my first name and asked
me to address him similarly.

The party started around midnight and about an hour later Char-
lie became the focal point of attention. His reticence gave place to a
sort of boyish need for cutting loose.

First, he performed a pseudo-African tribal dance with "Bugs"
Baer, the humorist, beating out a tom-tom accompaniment on a dish
pan. After that, he sang Basque folk songs to fabricated sounds re-
sembling foreign words. Next he grew serious and recited Robert W.
Service poetry with an intensity that made me feel he was intoning
psalms. Finally, he grabbed a huge vase and using that as the head of
John the Baptist, devised a Salome divertissement, supple, graceful,
sensuous, his trim hips undulating and insinuating.

During the applause his mood changed. Ignoring the other guests,
he walked over to where I sat and began talking quietly about his
conception of the Deity and the efficacy of prayer. This revelation
may have been improvised acting but to me it seemed personal and
heartfelt

The party finally came to a close. The girls bade Charlie a loving
goodbye. The Negro musicians put away their instruments with a
last laughing look at his gray hair and kindly smile. The light of
morning trickled through. An imaginary rooster crowed from an
imaginary steeple.

Much of my life has been spent in meeting people at railway sta-
tions, aerodromes and piers. Sometimes I was the first contact that a
star made on reaching American soil. Such was the case with Hedy
Lamarr, famous before she arrived in America because of a sensa-
tional film called Ecstasy. Though extremely handsome, she looked
more like a show girl than a star. Her hair was deep black, her eyes
large, her skin clear, her forehead at least a half inch too high. She
took her arrival in wonderful America as casually as if she was go-
ing to the hairdresser's. The was something irritating about her com-
placency. Surprisingly, too, her speech was so pure and accurate
that I asked her how long she had studied in English schools.

223

"I've never been in an English-speaking country/' she said. "I
learned the language by listening to the radio and victrola records
and by going to American films/*

Less than a half year after her arrival, Hedy was one of the most
talked-of women in the world.

Quite different was my first encounter with Greer Garson.

When she stepped off the boat, she made an attractive picture,
with her reddish hair, clear complexion and star-like eyes; and the
impression of beauty was heightened by the fact that she carried in
her arms a tall plant, with an orange-like flower, apparently some
sort of hardy orchid. The plant seemed to be her first consideration
and she was all cheerfulness in the enjoyment of this possession.
Then tragedy in the shape of two customs officers descended on her.

"No, madam, you can't bring the plant in," they declared. "It's
against the law."

"But it's a flower," she protested, "an innocent, beautiful flower.
Please let me . . . ."

"Nothing doing," was the stern reply and brusquely they took the
plant away from her as her eyes filled with tears.

The law about importing plants is, of course, a good one, for the
soil clinging to the roots may hold some parasite that could do in-
calculable harm. The whole incident was as charming as it was ex-
traordinarya Hollywood actress in tears about a plant in blooml

When I met Greer Garson again she had established her impor-
tance as a motion picture actress. About six years had passed and I
recalled the incident

"In tears over a plant," she said, disgustedly. "Not me."

She had repudiated an incident that ennobled her.

Built up by publicity, players are now largely at the mercy of the
press, particularly of the columnists. Once they could behave as they
pleased. Now, if they are not cooperative, they are, in some instances,
publicly listed as uncooperative.

Sometimes their situation is pathetic. This fact was brought
sharply to me the day I met Luise Rainer at the Grand Central Sta-
tion. She was a winner twice of the Oscar and then at the apogee of
her success.

When she stepped off the train, she was the newly-married bride of
Clifford Odets, the dramatist But her smile of welcome to the news-
papermen and photographers vanished quickly when one of them

224

told her bluntly that her new husband was already paying attention
to another Hollywood star.

Tearful and sad, Luise gasped with horror while striving to conceal
her surprise. Determinedly, nevertheless, she refused to respond to
their direct questions.

"I don't have to answer you/* she shouted defiantly. "My personal
life belongs to me."

"It belongs to the public," shouted back a reporter, filled with the
savagery of the new journalism.

Goaded like an animal, Luise bit her lips, strove to conceal her
feelings, clutched at a telegram in her hand.

"I have a message here," she said, "which will explain everything,
but I will not show it to you."

Solemn and on the verge of tears, she kept her silence. Then, after
the reporters had gone, she handed me the wire, an affectionate note
from Odets.

Tft's terrible to get a shock like that," she said. "The wound may
heal, but the scar remains."

I felt sorry for her; I regretted the new tendency to force the stars
to tell what they didn't wish to tell.

However, I couldn't grieve over the treatment accorded the young
Mickey Rooney, whom I found as arrogant and bad-mannered as he
was precocious.

During an interview, for instance, he actually belched in the face
of a critic, adding a moment later his opinions about people.

1 like everybody," he announced patronizingly. "I like people. But
if they don't like me, I'm not going to worry about it. It's just too
bad."

The most irksome experience I had in the movies concerned
Mickey and H. Allen Smith, the author. Mickey was in his 'teens and
there was much talk about his rumored behavior that was com-
pletely out of character with the role he was then playing, the
ideal American boy. Metro naturally feared that the gossip would
affect his box office value. So we handled him carefully and sat in
nervously on every interview.

When Smith asked to meet Mickey, I rushed him up to the young
actor's suite at the Waldorf Astoria and waited anxiously for his
opening sentence in order to discover the trend that his interview
would take.

225

"My kids are crazy about you, Mickey," were Smith's* first words,
"Regardless of all the interviews I've done, I've never asked a star for
a photograph. Yours, Mickey, I must have, because my children
begged me for one."

Judge my relief at this friendly approach. From that moment on,
all was sweetness and light. Not only did Mickey present the picture
requested, he asked also if he might pose with Allen for a picture,
conclusive evidence of camaraderie on the part of a Hollywood
Olympian.

The interview then continued with a serious discussion of Mickey's
next film, his plans and his ambitions. We all parted in fine spirits
with no apprehension whatsoever on my part about the forthcoming
published interview. When that appeared, there wasn't a single refer-
ence to our talk. Instead, there was chatter about Mickey, the bees
and the birds, an extensive double-entendre, open to any sort of in-
vidious interpretation. And every single word of it was the invention
of the writer.

As the years passed by and Mickey grew to manhood, the public
learned much of his personal and professional life, his vituperative
break with Metro, his divorces and various marriages.

Another experience with Smith was far more grievous. I took him
for an interview with Robert Benchley at the Royalton Hotel; John
McClain sat in. When the interview came out, Benchley called me
and said, "Isn't this frightful? My mother just called me up and re-
marked: This piece sounds as if you were a dipsomaniac.' "

There was nothing I could do, of course, about the way in which
Smith had saturated the interview with alcoholic innuendoes.

One of the most lovable stars I ever met was Mary Pickford. Hej;
hazel brown eyes, blonde hair and regular features were, for me, the
perfect beauty combination.

Her screen career over, she had become a sort of personal repre-
sentative of the Deity by way of her book Why Not Try GodPa,
spiritual burgeoning in which I found something of pathos. For
though Mary seems to have a good mind and a pleasant humor, she
appears to lack, alas, the reinforcement of a substantial formal
education.

Some years later, her book already forgotten, I studied Mary at a
party at Mr. John's. Time had not helped her find herself. When the
conversation changed from one subject to another, Mary veered
about pathetically in an effort to appear informed. She recalled a

226

singer with a fine, natural voice who lacked confidence in her ability
to hit the high notes because she hadn't learned the scales. As the
party came to an end, she launched forth on her favorite topic, the
whereabouts of the lost tribes.

The life, art and business of Hollywood I learned through my
work at Metro, Paramount, Twentieth Century-Fox and other stu-
dios, talking to stars and producers, reading office communications,
getting accounts of sneak previews, and personally visiting Holly-
wood.

The film colony was a conglomerate assemblage of real people,
phonies, parasites, writers, artists, musicians, stray girls, directors,
business men and all types of opportunists.

Stars were garnered from gutter and street corner when spotted
by scouts looking for handsome, physical specimens or types. They
came also from the Social Register, the ten-cent store, Broadway,
colleges and beauty contests. They gained their positions by way of
the casting couch, through nepotism or real ability, and with the aid
of synthetic publicity.

One group of men important in the industry had a connection
with a night club which employed teen-aged chorus girls for the
floor show. Here, after the long day's work, these men would go for
food, liquor and entertainment.

While there, they would chat with girls for whom they had a yen.
They would back up persuasiveness with specific promises of jobs
in the movies. And through their interlocking connections as night
club owners and film officials, they had the power to deliver. They
were able to back up their promises by getting the girls all sorts of
Hollywood assignments as extras, stand-ins and even stars.

Sometimes, what seemed like a wonderful contract boiled down
to some commercial posing, after which the girl was on her own,
stranded, disillusioned, glad to get a job as a waitress. In the mean-
time, those gentlemen of influence back in New York were prospect-
ing for new recruits. The New York night club was Hollywood in
the making and on the make. It was a modern slave market.

In the days of the silent movies, the stars were lords of creation.
Most of them lacked the training of the legitimate players. But what
these early film stars didn't know, the directors taught them, for these
marvels of patience and skill had the responsibility of developing a
new art, an art that was eventually to become the "talkies" and a
potential rival of the stage itself.

227

The public made gods of these early players, a public that was
scarcely ten years of age mentally lush in its enjoyment of lush act-
ing, fascinated by commonplace and repetitious melodrama and
tedious slapstick. With no standard for their behavior, actors and
producers ran amuck. Salaries pyramided.

Most of the screen stars early lost their sense of proportion and
shaped their lives to rival the Gods of Valhalla; they bought mansions
and swimming pools; invested in jewels, lived on rare foods, drank
champagne and descended occasionally on New York to accentuate
their importance by giving the populace a sight of their godliness.
Often their demands were preposterous.

When Rudolph Valentino first came into prominence as a dancer,
his manager engaged me to do a press story about his debut at the
Knickerbocker Grill. He gave me one hundred dollars for my work
and Rudy was so pleased with the publicity that even though the
piece which I invented concerned his art, he never bothered to
read it.

Later, however, when he became a renowned motion picture star,
he grew so arty that he once held up a filming three times in one
afternoon and demanded that the working crew set up a number of
screens to shield him from the vulgar view of passing observers.

No story of the Hollywood stars exemplifies the behavior of some
better than the experience I had with Norma Shearer when she was
invited to pose for a color-picture cover on the Sunday News, one of
the biggest distinctions accorded players and one of the most reward-
ing. After accepting the invitation through her secretary, two days
before the sitting, she cancelled all arrangements, saying that she
preferred to make the picture on the coast. This decision was an
affront to the News and would have killed the cover which, because
of the size of the sheet and other mechanical details, could be made
only in the New York office.

After a great deal of persuasion, we induced Miss Shearer to keep
her appointment, but with the proviso on her part that the picture
be postponed an hour. This request, although granted, caused ad-
ditional embarrassment, for the sitting was set for Saturday morning,
a half holiday, and the delay meant shortening the photographers*
weekend.

Worse yet, after the request was granted, Norma asked for another
delay of a half hour. Yet when I arrived for her at the Pierre, she

228

was visiting at the telephone while messengers rushed in and out
with letters and telegrams and bellhops delivered boxes of flowers,
candy, books and magazines.

Urging her to hurry was useless. Obviously, she was going to take
her own time. When we finally arrived at the News, Miss Shearer
went to the dressing room and began to make up as if she hadn't
just finished making up at the hotel. The staff stood by waiting
patiently. But their endurance had a further test.

When Norma finally walked into the studio, she refused to let
a single photographer approach the camera until her head was ac-
curately placed, her smile properly set, her hands gracefully draped
and her feet gracefully crossed. Then satisfied, at last, she sat back,
and the men sprang to the cameras ready to shoot. They were too
swift, however, for her plans.

"Bef ore you start," she said, "I want a mirror so that I can see how
this pose looks from every angle.

Someone immediately produced a mirror, but Norma rejected it,
saying that it wasn't large enough. Whereupon, the studio chiefs,
stumped as to where to find a larger one, had to stop all operations.
There was an unhappy pause. Then some genius in the organization
dug up from the outer studios an enormous mirror on wheels, large
enough and wide enough to reflect half the room.

Satisfied now, Norma studied her image from every angle. This
done, she asked the artist whether her hand should rest in her lap
or drape her neck. When this posture was determined, she said:
"Okay." But just as the color expert rushed to his camera, she dis-
covered that another photographer was preparing to take a "still"
at the same time.

"You didn't say that I was to sit also for stills," she complained.
"Please call him off."

Protests, apologies, more poses and lighting had to start all over
again.

"The still is important, Miss Shearer," said the photographer. "It is
to accompany the announcement that your picture will appear on the
cover on a specified date. If we don't get the still, we don't get an
audience for the color study."

The word "audience" struck a commercial nerve and won the
lady's consent.

Norma Shearer is largely forgotten now, but the photographers,
journalists, maids and electricians have never forgotten how she

229

made them lose their half-day vacation and ruined their weekend.

Of course, it was the duty of us press agents to show stars in the
best light. But up to now, stories could be piled up about indulgence,
profligacy, abuse and cruelty that are perhaps unmatched in the
history of the combined world of business and amusement business.

While working with Lewis Milestone on Guest in the House, he
told me about a bet that he had taken and lost.

"I thought it was a sure thing," he said. "I wagered a sable coat
I lost the bet and was in for the price o the sables. Fortunately,
however, the other party compromised and I was able to settle for
a Minerva car.*'

This casual little anecdote is descriptive of Hollywood; epitomizes
the spirit of the industry. Milestone came here from Russia and had
a desperate time earning a living. He had lodgings for a time over the
Palace restaurant in a cheap rooming house on West 45th Street
Then luck, a wide culture, and his natural abilities drew him to the
movies where he deservedly gained fame and wealth as a director.

Only one honor became obligatory to crown the grandeur of the
Hollywood queens a real title. Time and circumstances combined
for the consummation of this pomp: the Mdvani brothers, Georgian
princes, showed up, conveniently, and the Marquis de la Falaise. No
one took the pains to consult the Almanac de Gotha.

Mae Murray became the Princess Mdvani, generously passing on
the title to others, after divorce and subsequent litigation for her
son's support.

At a party worthy of the term "Roman banquet," Paramount cele-
brated the marriage of the Marquis de la Falaise and Gloria Swan-
son, who also generously passed on the title to Constance Bennett.

Hollywood had received the ultimate accolade.

In the days when Adolph Zukor was head of the booming Para-
mount Pictures empire, he had an extensive estate near a handsome
golf course. One day, while playing golf, Mr. Zukor found that he
could not make his golf ball hit the hole. Someone told him that the
course had been laid with the wrong kind of grass. So he had it
ripped up at a tremendous cost and put in another kind.

Sometimes the extravagant spirit of Hollywood spread to New
York. According to a report that started along Broadway, Jack

230

Kriendler of "21" sent Dave Selznick, the producer, as a Christmas
present, a tree covered with orchids.

Profligacy extended also to the working staff, the men whose busi-
ness it was to keep the industry going. Conventions were debauches.
Intended for the betterment of the industry, they were planned to
realize certain objectives. But how they ever did so is part of the
mystery of the industry itself, for the convention-goer usually started
by getting drunk and often stayed drunk.

One of the officials in a certain company began the proceed-
ings by shouting, "Bring on the whores." Whores, as a matter of fact,
and famous brothels were indispensable adjuncts to business when
Eastern representatives hit the town.

To criticize Hollywood behavior is easy though not necessarily just.
To withstand success of any kind takes character. To withstand suc-
cess in the sham world of amusements requires even more character
because from the days when the term "matinee idol" flourished, pro-
fessional entertainers have always been treated like supernatural
beings, set up as models of achievement, their photographs and auto-
graphs treasured in the home, their biographies read avidly.

The motion picture hero, being a superman, is an increasingly
dangerous influence to the man on the street. His physical strength
is matched only by his graceful agility. He jumps over trains, climbs
mountains, hurdles gangplanks or, with the aid of a stand-in, saves
ladies from drowning and effects their escape from burning build-
ings. He is a mental giant His speech is brilliant, witty or smooth,
captivating because a hoard of collaborators has written every line
he utters. His inflections are perfect, thanks to his diction tutor. His
taste in clothes is faultless, thanks to a sartorial committee. His
beauty is incomparable, for if his hair is thin, the specialists increase
the growth with a patch or a toupee. His smile is entrancing because
the orthodontist perfects his teeth. He is the ideal lover poetic,
adroit and overwhelming, master of the soul lass. His personal life
is glamorous because the press agent makes it so.

It is not surprising, therefore, that he "sends" even the most strong-
hearted American female. Simultaneously, he gives the American
male an inferiority complex which only supernatural powers could
efface. In the eyes of the girl whom he takes to the cinema, the
average man can never measure up to the screen hero. For the
cinema hero is really a Frankenstein who creates a lasting and un-

231

fortunate impression of perfection on the female mind through audi-
tory, optical and mental stimuli. He stimulates comparison, com-
parison that places the average man at a disadvantage.

The screen heroine, of course, is also synthetic, but her menace
is not so great because men are accustomed to having women im-
prove their appearance with artificial aids. They take their excel-
lences, real or assumed, in their stride.

Synthetic or not though the heroes and heroines might be, I found
myself surrounded by them one happy spring day, thanks to Hunt
Stromberg's calling me to Hollywood to acquaint the cast of The
G-String Murders with the history of burlesque.

In a flash, I found myself a part of that miraculous community
actually instructing famous stars, directors and technicians about
burlesque. How happy I was at that moment and how frightened the
next when Hunt told me that he wanted me to help cast the various
roles in the morning!

Naturally, I was up early and waiting for activities to begin. I
went directly to the main office which had a reception desk and a
bench just large enough to hold two people. Here I took my place,
clutching the multigraphed copy of the cast of characters in my hand.
About twenty were listed and I wondered how, even though I had
read the book, I could possibly make sensible suggestions.

About a quarter way down the list, however, I came across a
personality in the book who had impressed me, a girl character who
was something of an evil spirit. Immediately, there flashed into my
mind the actress who could take the part perfectly, a girl who was
beautiful, blonde and a "smoothie.*' That, however, was as far as I
could go toward identifying the girl. My usual memory trouble
blotted out her name, and I sat there lost to the world, trying my best
to fit the girl and her name together.

I must have sat that way for at least twenty minutes, when I be-
came aware that someone seemed to be observing me steadily. Witt
a start, I looked up. There, sitting next to me, smiling and friendly,
our first reunion in five years, was the girl whose name I had for-
gotten, the girl I had picked for the part, Marian Martin.

Only one more detail was necessary to complete my happiness
my Hollywood status.

"I've always told you/' said Hunt, "that I wanted to take you out
of press agentry; and I have. I'm making you an assistant producer,
and that will now be your title."

232

Hunt kept his promise, announcing the appointment in the screen
publications.

Thus, I became that wonder man of the stage, screen and story
a Hollywood producer.

I rejoiced in this new status. The whole history of the movies raced
through my mind like the music of an accordion, first compressed,
then spreading out, convolution after convolution.

I had jumped headlong from those first movies at the Victoria in
Lafayette to the completed motion picture industry in New York, an
industry still seething with competition and at the mercy of new
innovations.

Though I had missed actually sitting in on the interval of develop-
ment, I learned quickly about the chances the early producers took,
the pirated scripts, the broken partnerships, the exploiting of the
horizontal position in ads, the rise of the directors, the continuous
litigation, the rise and fall of the stars, writers and technicians. Yes,
I learned about the change of silent movies to "talkies,** the burst
of technicolor and the power of the camera. Turmoil is the word for
Movies. Turmoil!

Hunt's next picture was to be about Reuben's restaurant: "From
a Sandwich to an Institution." Ed Sullivan was to do the scenario and
he and I had a swell time visiting the famous eating place, the lard-
ers, the kitchens, watching the staff at work.

Reuben told us that he hit on his famous sandwich by chance. One
night Marjorie Rambeau came in late for a snack. The kitchen was
practically bare but, anxious to please the star, Reubens took odd
bits of cheese, tongue, corned beef and turkey and fitted them to-
gether with a diagonal slicing. Thus was the popular sandwich born.

Only one more circumstance remained for completing my motion
picture cycle. In 1947, a popular monthly engaged me to become
its motion picture critic. This time, however, I reversed my previous
dramatic criticism procedure. After reviewing pictures for four
months, I took the initiative and relinquished the office. Definitely,
I no longer wished to be a critic.

The movies had extraordinary influence on theatrical architecture.

The first stage in theatrical history was a small or large area, any-
where, probably on the actual ground, a space that separated the
actor story-teller from the audience. Later this space was the top
of a hill or on a slope. Artificial elevation followed, arena style. Plat-

233

form bounded by tiers of seats served as the model for the ancient
stages which became the Greek theatre.

During the Middle Ages stages were portable, made up of trestles
and a few boards which could be easily taken down or set up, an-
ticipating the first "Fit-Up" model.

From these elementary arrangements, the European stage devel-
oped. Eventually the need for permanence brought about the build-
ing of structures designed to hold both platform and spectators, fore-
runners of the modern playhouse, with its balconies, galleries, boxes
and trap doors.

In the Elizabethan days, the playhouse was divided, and the pit
came into being. The gallants sat on the stage and at tunes tried to
break up the performance. The modern theatrical structure had
usually a main floor, sometimes called 'parquet/' and family or dress
circle, one or more galleries, and occasionally box seats.

Following the introduction of realistic drama, innovators started
a crusade for little theatres and intimacy. With the building of the
Capitol Theatre in New York, the movies went in for the colossal.
With the recent revival of the Arena Theatre came a new acting
technique, but this form of presenting plays is limited in its appeal.

The newest movement in New York is to follow the English sys-
tem, install bars and place the theatre partly underground so that
the upper structure may be used for commercial rentals. The con-
summation of this plan may have a great influence on the financial
and social future of the metropolitan theatre.

Soon after tibe completion of Radio City Music Hall, I received
word from Purdue University that the new Assembly Hall was com-
pleted. It would supersede the old Fowler Hall where my English
Players performed on a few square feet of space in front of the pipe
organ, partially concealed with colored cheese cloth.

Fowler Hall was so small that the audiences which crowded in
to see my programs of one-act plays had to stand in the aisles and
outer lobby. The new Assembly Hall has three more seats than the
Radio City Music Hall.

At this point it is pleasant to note that the achievement of the mo-
tion picture critics have been unprecedented in the annals of art.
They recognized the early possibilities of the medium, established
principles, offered constructive measures, and lifted the form toward
an aesthetic ideal.

234

CHAPTER 11

Press Agenting for Vaudeville and Radio

B

ELP us fight Keith-Albee vaudeville. Join us and exploit our
newly organized Affiliated Vaudeville."

This was the odd request that came from the Shubert offices.

As usual, the thought of undertaking a new kind of work disturbed
me. Whether or not branching into a new area of show business was
wise, I couldn't say. Every other form of amusement had somehow
been dropped into my lap. That I was destined to learn about vaude-
ville and its players at first-hand seemed inevitable, though I never
regarded circumstance as an inevitability.

I accepted the job and soon found myself worrying about twenty
different shows, more than that many stars, and how to crush the
rival syndicate.

Vaudeville, now a form of entertainment observable in stage shows
and night clubs, was at that time a flourishing and formula-ized
business.

Credit for establishing the original vaudeville circuits goes to Mar-
tin Beck who became one of my great friends. His career was un-
usual in everything he did; he built the first New York theatre to go

235

up without a mortgage; he reserved a table daily at Sardi's for use
of invited friends. He was characterized by alternating steadiness
and capriciousness, cold critical judgment, erudition and spurts of
kindliness.

Out of the world that Martin Beck helped create came a new type
of human being the vaudevillian.

Wliile working in a western vaudeville show, Martin Beck con-
ceived the idea of linking it up with another that was playing in a
nearby city. When this plan worked out successfully, he began link-
ing up other cities and out of this procedure grew the vaudeville
circuits, a business that eventually amounted to millions, necessitat-
ing the building of new theatres throughout the country, an industry
that enlisted the services of hundreds of variety artists and that pro-
vided entertainment for half the nation.

Some observant compiler of terms dubbed the vaudevillian the
"ten-minute mind," and the term is a miracle of connotation. It de-
scribes precisely this highly specialized performer who supported
himself through the greater part of his life, by appearing in an act
which lasted about ten minutes, an act that displayed him spot-
lighted, with all eyes on him, at the center of the stage. Here he ex-
hibited his wares, juggled, danced, told stories, played instruments;
and here, indeed, so far as anyone could discover, began and ended
his intellectual and artistic contributions to society at large.

Often, as was the case with extremely popular acts, he never
bothered to change his business routine or dialogue though he faced
the same audiences for decades. When the act was over, all he had
to do for the rest of his professional life was to talk about his act, his
bookings and himself.

The Palace Theatre was his goal. Occasionally, the chance to slide
from there into musical comedy and revue, even stardom, meant
higher salary, longer contracts, New York publicity.

The bills at the Palace were divided in two parts with an inter-
mission. Monday matinee, the momentous opening performance,
was attended by prominent actors, agents and producers who would
often be introduced from the stage, rise for a moment amidst the ap-
plause and take a bow. But the monopoly on genuflections went to
the vaudeville actor until he achieved a curtain speech. This speech
was nearly always the same regardless of the performer a mingling
of saccharine thanks and false modesty.

The Palace! Magic name! Here was the place for records. Here was

236

the spot where Eva Tanguay knocked 'em cold, Elsie Janis charmed,
Lou Holz had 'em rolling in the aisles, Phil Baker snared the wise-
acres with his stooges, Georgie Jessel telephoned his mother, Frank
Fay ran up another record, Pat Rooney and Marion Bent introduced
the tabloid musical, and Harrigan and Hart established laughter
marathons.

And outside the theatre, between performances, the employed and
the unemployed variety actors stood on the sidewalk called the
"beach," and surfeited themselves talking about acts and acts]

My first Affiliated assignment was provocative: exploiting the
comeback of two famous comedians of whom I had heard a great
deal but had never seen-Joe Weber and Lew Fields, both long ab-
sent from the variety stage and by this time approaching their
seventies.

Their years, however, didn't trouble either of them. "Snappy"
described their conduct, for they were busy every moment, invent-
ing new business and practicing the old business that made them
famous, particularly the well-known act wherein Lew Fields in an
awkward effort to remove something from Weber's eye, gouged it
out completely.

As I looked at the two veterans, their whole history passed before
me: how they started as children in burlesque; how they suffered and
starved; and how, eventually, they became the foremost producers
of a series of revues with Lillian Russell, Pete Dailey, David War-
field, and "million dollar legs" Frankie Bailey.

Weber's memory was astonishing. He recalled street addresses of
forty years back. He knew old and modern slang terms. He was full
of reminiscences.

"A comedian in the nineties," he explained, "had to be versatile.
He had to know how to sing and dance, do a 'turn,* and then a 'dou-
ble turn.* We played in burlesque and variety houses and sometimes
with minstrel shows. I played the end man or interlocuter and when
I was in burleycue, in addition to putting on my own monologue
and appearing with the other comics, I had to take part in the after-
piece. We had no written parts, just a sort of diagram, penciled
often on the back of an envelope, giving us the opening line, a gag
or two and the closing tag line. Out of this scant material and a
couple of cues, we made a complete routine."

"The top salary for a single Number One act," said Fields, "was

237

thirty-five dollars a week. Sixty dollars was as mucli as a crackerjack
team could get.

"Theatres had no drops then. They had flats or sliding doors which
just came together at the close of each act. One western manager
painted the letter *N* on one door and *G' on the other, signifying
that when the doors closed abruptly on the performance the act was
*No Good/

"Many actors got their professional start in the dime museums
which ran almost twenty-four hours a day. First, the audience would
go upstairs and look over the curiosities, freaks, and deformities like
the fat woman, the Albino girl, the living skeleton, the midget and
the giant. Then the crowd would rush down into the theatre where,
for the variety show, the admission was five cents extra. Sometimes
we put on our act as many as twenty-five times a day, but being
young and ambitious we would stay in the museum all day long,
never thinking of going home.

"Our meals we would eat at a restaurant nearby called Beefsteak
John's. A glass of beer a large schooner was five cents and with it
we could get a complete free meal. A steak cost ten cents. One of this
restaurant's ads was very funny. It read, 'Our knives are very sharp.*
The floor was covered with sawdust and if a sandwich fell on the
floor, the waiter would pick it up, put together the slices of bread
along with the sawdust, and serve it.**

"Brother teams" continued Weber, "enjoyed a great popularity
for about fifty years. Kaufman Brothers, Klein Brothers, Roger
Brothers, Russell Brothers, Six Brown Brothers, Folley Brothers, Wil-
son Brothers, and the Gordon Brothers. The term *brother' rarely
indicated kinship.

"I can still remember some of their stock gags. One fellow would
say, *My father wants the noise stopped'; and the other would an-
swer, Well, tell him to get a left-handed monkey-wrench and turn
it off!*

"The usual bill consisted of eight acts and an after-piece which,
as a rule, included a team of men and women, who opened the show,
talked and did acrobatics. Then came a single act or double act,
followed by a quartet number. The program was announced on a
large sheet of paper posted on the proscenium arch. Here each act
was listed, one under the other."

While starring in a tabloid version of Camflle at the Palace
Theatre, Sarah Bernhardt exerted unconsciously a noteworthy in-

238

fluence on the beginning career of Eddie Dowling, actor, author,
and producer. Her act up until this time drew so many curtain calls
that the audience walked out on the remainder of the bill, leaving
the theatre comparatively empty. The management, as a result, was
unable to secure a good closing act

Finally, Eddie Bowling, though young then and unknown, was
offered the tricky spot; and he, delighted at the opportunity of ap-
pearing in the best show window, the Palace, signed up.

Then he set to work on his routine, rehearsing long and con-
scientiously. But on the afternoon of his debut, when he saw the
crowd surging into the theatre to see Bernhardt, he lost courage.
Grabbing desperately at the first person he knew, a veteran vaude-
villian whose name he didn't even remember, he cried out:

"I can't follow Bernhardt. Please be a good fellow and go back
stage and tell the management that I'm in the hospital, got the
measles anything. I can't risk my reputation against odds like this.'*

"But you've got to go on," remonstrated the veteran actor. "You're
billed and advertised. Do what I tell you to do and youTl be a hit."

"What's that?" asked Eddie, joyous at the prospect of receiving
last minute advice.

"Don't go into your regular act when you first come on. Repeat
instead, the last word in her act, 'Armand.* Imitate the sound of her
voice and yell 'Armand, Armand, Armand.* *

Faithfully, Eddie followed these directions. No sooner did the
curtain drop on Bernhardt's act than he began shouting "Armai^
generally. The audience, startled, turned around instead of leaving,
not knowing what to expect. And Eddie played on this expectancy by
going directly into his comedy routine.

The stunt became the talk of the town and proved so amusing to
Bernhardt that she called him to her dressing room and taught him
how to mimic her voice in perfect French accents.

But Bernhardt's enthusiasm did not cease here. At the end of the
week, she said: "After this when it's time for you to go on, Eddie,
nicry'Armand:"

And she did at every subsequent performance!

As I closed the door on Affiliated Vaudeville, I saw the conclusion
of that circuit's feud with Keith-Albee. Feuds, however, have always
been indigenous to theatrical soil. Their causes range from the trivial
and the personal, to the universal and the lofty.

Extremely picturesque was the controversy between the Water-

239

men's Company and the actors who played in Southwark, which
Marchette Chute describes graphically in Shakespeare of London.

Watermen made up more than a third of the householders in that
district. Their passengers were estimated at about forty thousand
people. When plans were made for building the Fortune Theatre
on the London side of the Thames, the Watermen, fearing the loss
of their income, petitioned the government "to force the actors to
stay on the Southwark side of the river/*

The first professional acting company in the Colonies, Lewis
Hallam's troupe of English actors, whose advent has been called
"the beginning of American theatrical history," had to battle against
Quaker opposition before it could open in Philadelphia in 1754.

A valiant fight for the player's rights and one that resulted in his
continuing and growing importance, was the battle of the actors
against the managers, Equity versus Fidelity. This feud is, of course,
a complete story in itself with Ed Wynn chief hero and George M.
Cohan playing an ignoble part.

The officials connected with the old Manhattan Opera House
battled savagely and almost won their fight to keep the new Metro-
politan Opera House from carrying on.

Lillian Foster, a talented American actress, appearing in London
met Hannen Swaffer and slapped his face because she was annoyed
at his criticism. Richard Watts, the well-known American critic, was
also struck by a resentful member of the theatrical profession.

Because of a battle with Equity over racial discrimination, Wash-
ington, the capital, was deprived of shows for several years.

When I shut my desk, I had a flashback. I recalled for the first
time that after I had finished my work for the movies at the Victoria
in Lafayette, the management had asked me to come back to publi-
cize their bills when it turned into a vaudeville house.

At the time, William Morris and Albee were having a national feud
which was being fought out locally at the Lafayette Victoria, a fact
of which I was well aware, for the home conflict gave me this new
job and also a feast of entertainment. Why? Because the local Family
and Victoria Theatres, as outposts of the combatants, put on bills of
such length and adorned by so many star acts, that the shows were
practically given away.

Then suddenly the bubble burst. As I sat in the office, I heard a
strange conversation. The speakers were either unconscious of my

240

presence or so confident in their trust in me that they talked as if I
were not there. Just the same, I held my breath when I heard the
manager say to one of the headliners:

"Here's the week's receipts in this valise. I've kept a certain amount
out, of course, which I'll divide pro rata with the rest of the acts.
You rush on now to Chicago and well diwy up when I get there."

Five minutes later, the headliner was gone and I had lived through
a traditional procedure in the old-time theatre: the manager abscond-
ing with the box office receipts, this time with the aid of an actor.

The incident occurred, of course, on Saturday night; and after
the performance the manager called in all the acts, told how much
money he had on hand and said that he would distribute it pro-
portionally.

The silence that met his words was taut and pathetic.

After busying himself counting the cash residue, the manager
read aloud the name of each act, the contracted salary and the per-
centage allotted. Death-like was the behavior of the actors as each
act accepted its pittance.

Finally, a headliner, a Miss LeMarr, I believe, spoke out:

"It's a terrible thing to lose one's salary board, room and railroad
farebut it's much worse to have that salary blurted out here. That
is a calamity, for an actor's salary is his only protection, his safeguard
of personal dignity and professional standing. You have violated our
most precious possession, the barometer of our rise and fall.'*

Radio was the next new world opened to me when Edward L.
Bernays persuaded me to work for Columbia Broadcasting, for the
special purpose of building up William Paley as a personality.

Regretfully, I left the theatre and made the change, believing that
I was going to improve my fortunes. Before a month had passed I
began to learn a new profession and to learn, simultaneously, that I
had made a mistake in taking the job. Why? Because the first time
that I suggested writing a story about Paley, I was shushed.

"For God's sake, say nothing about Paley," I was warned. "He's
in the papers too much already."

For some cryptic reason, never revealed to me, the policy in re-
gard to this brilliant pioneer was changed overnight.

Paley was snuffed out, and I with him. So fearful was the staff of
offending the new radio public that even my stories about the radio
performers were killed or edited to lif elessness. I was desperate until

241

Jack Foster, Jr., feature editor of the New York World-Telegram,
asked me to do a by-line piece about Toscha SeideL

He accepted it at once and asked me to do a regular weekly piece
in the same vein. But the Seidel story contained a bit of risibility
which shocked the head of the publicity department; he called me
down, saying, "We must treat radio artists with more dignity."

After fhat s getting my articles to Jack Foster was an edgy ex-
perience. Every time I sent him a column, I thought it would be
the last, for I feared that Columbia, lacking then a sense of humor,
would ask me to discontinue the series in spite of the space value
they represented. Yet, somehow, by bribing secretaries to help me,
and sending the pieces surreptitiously by Western Union at my own
expense, I managed to keep them going a year.

Soon I discovered that radio was a minor theatre world which
was concentrating on graft and sex rather than achievement. Booking
and advertising agents were on the make for $30 to $45 a week radio
singers. Executives were tied up with stenographers. The "biggies"
were so busy at social climbing that they had no idea what was going
on in their own organization. Everything was in a state of flux.
Vice-presidents were being appointed, transplanted or dismissed
overnight. Departments were being constantly shaken up or re-built.
Intrigue and upheaval were the order of the hour.

At that time, people of the theatre thought, as they did in the case
of the early movies, that they were too good for the radio. So my
task was to act as liaison agent between the stage and radio, in
order to unite the casting for both forms of entertainment

With this idea in mind, I brought Bill Robinson and the entire cast
of a musical comedy company to the studios for a broadcast The
program was memorable, demonstrating for the first time, I think, in
the history of radio or screen that tap-dancing could be broadcast. I
can still remember the trouble we had in putting down a temporary
platform made of wooden slats, placing the "mike" on the floor at
the proper distance, and testing for sound and clarity.

New experiences followed, trite, fantastic and sometimes im-
portant To me, for instance, fell the peculiar honor of being the
first one to publicize Tony Wons, rugged philosopher, once nationally
famous. When I first heard him in the studio, I had a feeling of hope-
lessness. His material was deadly dull, puerile, moronic. I couldn't
imagine that anyone could ever listen to him without falling asleep.
Yet for months Tony influenced the minds of millions. His broadcasts

242

even got into book form and sold. Now his name is forgotten.

Early radio actors had to go through tedious auditioning and try-
outs. Yet almost anyone who could talk English considered himself
a potential radio star. Some of the aspirants who made the grade
were strangely incongruous entrants to the entertainment world.

One of the first programs, for instance, was presented by the
Crockett Family, a group of five or six hill-billies. They were tall,
gangling fellows, a father and sons, with the raw, outdoor manner
which confirmed their mountain origin. Shy and groping for recogni-
tion, they were at home only when singing their songs. One o the
brothers surprised me, however, by telling me proudly that he was
about to be married.

"Congratulations," I cried. "Say why not get married over the
air?"

Reluctantly and bashfully, the young man agreed to the sugges-
tion, with the result that several weeks afterwards we put on the first
ether matrimonial ceremony. The bride and groom said "I do." The
minister pronounced them man and wife. CBS musicians lent har-
mony; and I resuscitated my old violin long enough to play the
Lohengrin wedding march.

A week later I had to take on a woman beauty doctor's account
Her program was highly successful; yet she was forever complaining
about lack of publicity. Anxious to please her, I hastened to her
office, expecting to meet a great beauty. What I actually saw was a
woman in her early thirties, her hair badly dressed, her face greasy,
her brows bushy and irregular, her lips large and pouting.

At the outset she was suspicious and obdurate, certain of her mas-
tery of early radio technique.

I endeavored to win her confidence, week after week. I praised her
ability. I called attention to her expressive eyes. Then I hazarded
the question, "Don't you think that you, as a beauty doctor, should
make the most of your features and get photographed? The radio
audience keeps writing in for pictures."

"No, indeed," she snapped back, angrily. "I have thousands of lis-
teners on the air who hear me and believe in me. It makes no differ-
ence what I look like. They never see me!"

"You're young, though, and . . ."

But there's no need for tracing the details of my procedure and the
accompanying incidents. The day came when I led that radio beauty
doctor to a professional beautician. Then I stood behind the beau-

243

tician's chair and, following a diagram that I found on a page in a
beauty magazine, I told her just how to pluck the radio lady's brows,
how to shape the lips and how to distribute the paint and powder.
When we finished the remodeling, the radio beauty doctor was so
pleased that she went straight to an expensive photographer.

Radio, as The Hucksters, Frederic Wakeman's extraordinary novel
demonstrated, was, and still is, the opportunist's playground. De-
pendent on fortuitous polls, now somewhat discredited, and on the
precarious judgments of opinionated sponsors, every program is at
the mercy of the loudest speaker, the most publicized name, the
shrewdest politician. Imitation, vulgarity and synthetics rule while
the taste of the public is wilfully contaminated. Everyone strives to
gain the applause of the ten-year-old moron audience.

What went on during the radio boom was exhaustively revealed
in the Wakeman book. And I can confirm, by my own experience,
the ugly facts. The advertising agencies were largely unprepared for
the programs which they had to oversee. They had a few men on
their staffs who had the cultural and box ofBce sense necessary for
successful programs. These few had to assume problems of presenta-
tion and audience reaction, problems which may never be resolved,
but which they were expected to work out almost overnight. For the
sponsors were pouring in quantities of money and the staffs and
the artists were eating it up while the critics were shrieking "Good"
or "No Good" to the tune of dialing on or off.

The advertising agencies are, indeed, models of intrigueusually
by force of circumstances. Yet, in all fairness, I must say they are up
against it. They have a job to do and they must do it. Furthermore,
the job is a still new one, after all these years, experimental; and the
authorities, by reason of their jobs, must govern and make judgments
without knowing just what is the right formula.

No one is genius enough to juggle adult program and moron au-
dience. No advertising agent can be expected to put on a complete
operatic program, engage the proper artists, select choruses and
conductors, pass on musicians, and observe union demands.

The agency staff worked blithely; made the most of the moment;
ran up enormous expense accounts at "21," conducted phony audi-
tions, signed up artists, discharged, played politics, seduced girl
aspirants for jobs, convened with columnists, played up to sponsors,
waxed fat, got stomach ulcers, became vice-presidents, helped im-

244

peril one of the finest potential forces for good that the world has
ever known.

Though most of these matters now belong to the past, the whole
situation is still deplorable. What could be a great art has disinte-
grated into what is largely rubbish, an insult to the ear.

Mad insistence on publicity is its sad summary, for it nurtures
anyone's desire to show off.

What applied to radio, now applies to television. Placed before
a microphone or a camera, the most obscure American man or
woman will say anything unembarrassed by the studio audience
or the unseen listeners.

"Who rules the house?" asks the master of ceremonies. "Do you or
your wife? How did you court her? How much money do you earn?
Is your mother-in-law a nuisance? What were the exact words you
used when you proposed? Do you ever take a holiday from your
wife?"

People are not ashamed to make shocking personal confessions.
One girl recently told the radio office that she got her husband by
deliberately stealing him from her sister. Another said that she de-
served a second honeymoon because her mother had accompanied
her and her husband on their first and had never left them.

The answers are swift, frank, unblushing. And in front of the
audience, men and women make fools of themselves, crawl on all
fours, exchange each other's clothes. Unembarrassed, they face their
friends the next day, dopes, dupes and morons.

Brains rot away while commentators beat out the same commercial
message. Serials roll on with killings, jailings, suicides and miscel-
laneous crimes. Microphone voices drool torch songs. This is the
auditory atmosphere in which the child grows up.

"Radio and television/' Clark Kinnaird notes, "are the only forms
of amusement that have to pay an audience to listen in."

Hedged in by code and commercial censorship, the power of the
movies, radio and television to become important arts grows slighter
every day.

Oh, the radio and the television! Mine are not on. My neighbor's is,
going full blast, loud speaker. I must listen to what he wants to hear.
He's got a torch song on, a whining, crying boogie-woogie You
Kicked Me in the Face, Dear, But I Love You Just the Same. On and
on. "I love you," hour after hour. I can't concentrate on my writing or

245

reading. I call the hotel office asking them to stop the noise. I humili-
ate myself shouting out the window; 'Turn down that radio! Turn
down that television! Turn it down!"

Other voices shout back. They can endure the loud speaker but
they can't endure my protest. I call the police. By the time they ar-
rive, the noise is over. The owner of that radio is dead or has fallen
asleep. The police, annoyed, look stolid and unsympathetic. I offer
them a drink. ""No," they protest. "We don't drink when driving a
car."

How moral! Perhaps they want a five spot. They go! The radio
starts again. It wakes me in the morning. It keeps me awake at night.
There ought to be a law! There is a law. Who cares! Man's in-
humanity to man! How much do we owe the radio and how much do
we owe television? Doesn't the misery offset the gain?

Radio dealt the theatre a fatal blow and one from which it has
never fully recovered. The free audition was the assailant, and Ed
Wynn, I believe, was the first important star to employ it. From that
moment on, paid audiences dwindled and stars lost their footlight
glamour. All you had to do to see these once rare birds was get a
ticket from the agency and stand in line by the hour, for a stellar
close-up.

Sometimes I hope that television serving the eye may save the ear
and that when every home has a TV set instead of a radio, there
will be less noise, or perhaps a contrivance that legally governs the
sound range.

Just what the merger of movies and television will effect only the
future can disclose. But if commercial sponsors step aside, the
chances for a new form of theatre are limitless.

In the meantime, I make the best of conditions by using the blab-
out which eliminates the voice of the repetitious salesman while
holding the image on the screen.

246

CHAPTER 12

Research into Burlesque

A

IT the age of nine I became an involuntary champion of the art
of burlesque without ever seeing a burlesque show. And my subse-
quent relation to this outcast form of entertainment and its people
especially in later years represented a complete contrast to the
social and moral standards on which I had been reared and which
my community upheld.

Burlesque was an unmentionable subject, but I grew to love it and
to note the early prejudice that imperiled its presentation. Before I
knew anything of the theatre and this laughter medium, I sensed
the important relation that T^urleycue" bore to the art, as a whole,
and to pity the harassed pioneer performers.

My first interest developed back in Lafayette when I saw Mr.
Weiss who lived across the street from our Tenth street home,
pointed at derisively and sometimes jeered at by boy hoodlums.
No one in the neighborhood would speak to him, his wife or his chil-
dren. They were ostracized people, to be stared at and despised.

Mr. Weiss owned the burlesque house alongside the Monon rail-
road tracks and above a notorious saloon. No righteous citizen would

247

enter his place and the police always hovered nearby, ready to raid
it.

I used to see him walking home at night, his head bowed, as if
ashamed. I felt sorry for him and his family. I grieved over their
lonesomeness.

But I was shocked by the highly colored posters that Weiss dis-
played all over town in saloons, poolrooms and cigar stores; pictures
of great fat brassy ladies with enormous breasts, decollete gowns
and large tapering legs, decorated with skirts that came only to their
knees.

My first view of these ladies in person I had when I was fourteen
years of age, on a visit to Indianapolis. There I saw my first burlesque
show. The audience was made up of men, smoking, jeering and
shouting. An undercurrent of crackling excitement indicated the
fascination of the illicit.

A sudden break in the noise was caused by the appearance of the
candy butcher who sprang up suddenly in front of the first row.

He started at once a "spiel" which approximated an oration
concerning the boxes of candy that he was about to peddle down the
aisles to the first customers. The boxes, he said, held valuable prizes,
varying from a diamond ring to a pair of miniature opera glasses,
for the low sum of a nickel or half a dime.

Next he displayed, with the utmost precaution, but with copious
innuendos about the farmer's daughter and the traveling salesman,
souvenir albums of beautiful photographs of lovely ladies caught
off-guard in pleasing poses and picturesque postures. A riotous rush
ensued, with the patrons striving frantically to get copies of these
rare studies revealing "woman's hidden charms."

The clamor gave way all of a sudden to a hushed lull as the cur-
tain rose. Revealed in their full number, the chorus of twenty young
ladies hailed us. To my enchanted eyes they were all glamorous
beauties pure and unadulterated, their smiles divine, their figures
commodious.

Had I been more critical in my observance, however, I would have
noticed that paint, hair dye and copious use of lipstick veiled their
somewhat shaggy facial assets; that they were dancing in and out
of time; that they were chewing gum, ogling the front row and con-
ducting little arguments among themselves while the orchestra
played and their discordant voices blasted out their welcoming
number.

248

When a girl broke into the number wearing red tights, I was en-
thralled and from that moment on, my early delight in the beauty of
women's legs, incased in tights, grew and grew.

The theatre was called the Empire and it was built, like many
other burlesque houses, behind another building and with an alley
exit so that the patrons could leave without being seen.

No decent woman would ever pass there if she could help it; and
when walking by was unavoidable, she lifted her skirts gingerly,
to escape contamination.

The comedians followed the opening chorus. Usually, there were
four of them, the star and three others: the Chinaman in laundry
pure white, the colored boy in tatters, the straight man, handsome in
last year's full-dress suit, the Irishman, and the dude or "sissy."

The star always had a personal identification like a by-word, trick
costume, or double-entendre. Bert Lahr, for instance, used his ex-
plosive ga-ga-go. The comics always did a monologue. They also ap-
peared in the comedy sketches. These were known as the "bits" and
took their origin in the f ar-off Gesta Romanorum, the later medicine
show and the current Pullman car story. Passed on from generation to
generation, largely by memory, their main outlines were always the
same: the opening sentence, the story, the tag or closing joke. The
audience grew to know everyone by heart, but enjoyed them all the
more for the pleasure in recognition and in the observance of the
comic's procedure, the manner in which he made old laughs new.
Most of these "bits" gained applause through projecting elemental
emotions like fear, terror, cowardice and physical pain. Some stressed
"eye laughs" with the aid of mechanical apparatus.

Nearly every burlesque show, for example, had a dentist scene
with a trick chair which had handlebars, metal levers and other
fantastic attachments. At the opening of the scene, the patient would
walk in, ask the pseudo-dentist for a treatment and timorously as-
cend the chair. Then would follow a riotous scene in which the den-
tist would give the patient most unprofessional treatment, yanking
him up and down and around him until he begged for mercy.

One of the most historic pieces of apparatus in the burlesque
show is the wooden gavel which is usually introduced into a famous
"bit" caUed "Irish Justice."

The scene shows a courtroom with the judge in charge; and he,
regardless of personal dignity, swats the various witnesses over the
head with a bladder, another historic piece of burlesque apparatus,

249

shoots beans at the attorneys throught a bean-shooter and finally
socks himself over the head with the gavel.

The general excitement and the physical distress of the judge
himself has made this bit so well-loved and so well-known that the
audience practically supplies the dialogue before each cue.

Another important piece of apparatus was the Pickle Persuader.
The Pickle Persuader is the general name given to a papier mache
cucumber, obviously a phallic symbol which the straight man
would offer the other comedians saying, "If you flash this charm
before a beautiful lady you will win her love immediately/'

The comic, pleased, would do as directed and the audience would
watch his procedure expectantly, as the girls of the chorus appeared
and capitulated to the spell of the Pickle Persuader. But the last
arrival on the scene would give the remaining comic a sound slap in
the face.

Another, and much more extensive piece of apparatus, is the
gazeeka box, a kind of portable bathhouse with attached curtain.
Before this curtain, the straight man stands and tells the trustful
comics that he will produce a number of beautiful ladies if they will
only stand by and give attention.

Then, as promised, one lady appears after another and walks
away with the various comics. But the last funny man is doomed to
disappointment. When his turn for the lady arrives, the curtains part
and out jumps a live monkey.

Some of the "bit" apparatus consists of simple house implements
like the water sprinkler, used in the Crazy House scene. However,
the sprinkler causes plenty of trouble. The comic walks in, suppos-
edly ill, with a doctor and nurse in attendance. He wears what seems
to be a regular nightgown, but what is actually a kind of rubberized
overall robe that swathes his body from head to toe.

No sooner does he jump into bed than the various attendants of
the hospital begin to maltreat him. They fire guns, sound alarms and
make him so uncomfortable that he squirms out of the bed and
lumps back into it, time after time.

Finally a pert little nurse enters with a sprinkler and while
announcing that she is watering the flowers in her garden, she pours
the contents of the sprinkler over the distracted comic until he is
saturated from top to toe.

In the "Barroom" skit, which is usually a burlesque of western
life, a siphon plays a similar part in making the comic uncomfortable.

250

Two other important properties were the revolver and stage
money. Betting scenes were always popular, with the dumb comic
always the dupe of the occasion, eventually losing every cent he has.
While the betting is in progress scores of bills are flashed, wallets
displayed and dozens of pieces of worthless paper, colored with
numerals and green ink, scattered over the bar and stage.

The revolver and the blank cartridge appear most importantly in
the infidelity scene.

The husband goes away, supposedly on business. The wife pro-
ceeds to entertain her gentleman friend, when suddenly the alert
husband returns and does a bit of miscellaneous shooting.

This hard but thorough school was the training ground for
almost every American comic. Here he learned how to use the
audience to suit his own ends, not only how to make them laugh,
but also when the difficult trick that is called "timing."

In addition to the "bits," the show included illustrated songs,
sung by a davenport tenor, chorus numbers, and an olio made up of
vaudeville acrobats or novelties. Last of all came the "Extra Added
Attraction," which, along with amateur bouts, until the arrival of
"strip tease," was the most popular number on the program.

The Extra Added Attraction was called the Hootchy-Kootchy or
Oriental muscle dance. "Little Egypt" introduced it at the Chicago
World's Fair in 1893. Subsequently, scores of dancers who called
themselves Little Egypt or Fatima were the big box office attractions
at carnivals and fairs.

Intimate contact with the superlatively desirable! That was what
the burlesque show symbolized for the males of days gone by. And
no matter where he sat, in the first row, gallery or box, he shared the
pleasures of Mahomet's paradise with the houris present in the
flesh. Here he sowed vicarious wild oats, tasted forbidden fruit and
enjoyed his first palpitant view of the female form.

Nor was he ever disappointed, for the burlesque show was a
consistent entertainment, built on a perfected pattern. The charm of
the familiar pervaded, and the editions continued for years.

No matter how shady the beginnings of burlesque, it served as
the training school for most of the great comedians. Its graduates
became the stars of the revue and musical comedy world and, sub-
sequently, the mainstays of radio, motion pictures and television.

Noteworthy among this group were Al Jolson, Fannie Brice,
Montgomery and Stone, Will Rogers, Leon Errol, Sophie Tucker,

251

Bert Lahr, Willie Howard, W. C. Fields, Jack Pearl, Clark and
McCullough, Jimmie Savo, "Red" Skelton, Gallagher and Shean,
Abbott and Costello, "Rags" Raglund, Ethel Shutta and James
Barton.

Their training was savage, hazardous and heartbreaking. The
moment that they stepped before the footlights, they were on their
own, facing a challenging, heckling audience which was quick to
throw tomatoes and cabbages or to shout viciously, "Get the hook."
Hoots and cat-calls drowned out jokes. Beer bottles rolled down the
aisles. Clouds of tobacco smoke choked the voice. Brawls sizzled up
and died down. A police raid might carry off the entire company at
any moment.

But it was all in fun. Laughter prevailed and kept the world
young, laughter that was to be the foundation for musical comedy
and revue. The American public owes a never-to-be-paid debt of
gratitude to the burlesque comics and to that fascinating, illicit,
sexy, human entertainment the burlesque show.

When I started writing Burleycue, about the year 1932, burlesque
was temporarily done for. Police regulations, the movies, prohibition,
union rates, and a Puritanic crusade within the organization itself
had reduced box office receipts and brought about the dissolution of
the ^various burlesque circuits. Legs were no longer a novelty as
women were wearing short skirts on the streets and Broadway shows
were exploiting nudity and even bare breasts.

Furthermore, the stars of burlesque had deserted their audiences
for the sake of formal recognition and high salaries on Broadway.
Some of the veterans, long since retired, were well-to-do or engaged
in a different business. But the shame of the old days still clung to
them. They evaded my questions and sloughed over facts until I
gained their confidence and convinced them that they had had a defi-
nite and laudable part in the history of the American stage.

Particularly difficult was the task of interviewing Gus Hill, one of
the most important burlesque managers and stars, notorious for the
cruel way he treated his performers.

When I walked into his office, after he had made and broken sev-
eral appointments, I found him sitting at a high desk in a musty, ill-
lighted room, talking with another old man who was sitting at a
smaller desk.

Gus, once rich, was almost seventy years old then, a tall, thin man

252

whose speech seemed to be motivated by a youthful inner energy
and whose physical strength was still so great that in spite of his age,
he was doing an acrobatic act in a night club show.

When I told him that I wanted to ask him some questions about
burlesque, he gave me a hard look and said, Tm writing a book my-
self on the same subject/'

Immediately I apologized for intruding on his province and offered
to go. But Gus wasn't ready to have me go, being evidently curious
about my intentions. After deliberating with himself for some time
he said he would help me; so I asked him for any old program or
clipping which he did not need himself.

After a moment of thought, he walked over to an old chest and
took out an enormous scrapbook, large enough to hold hundreds of
stories. Slowly, he lifted the covers and looked down one page and
over the next. At times, he would inspect an article as if intending
to give it to me, only to change his mind. Then, after keeping me in
suspense for almost twenty minutes, he finally handed me an old
worn-out handbill that had no value at all.

As I started to leave the place, he asked me if I had any connec-
tion with the Broadway theatre and if I could please get him a pair
of passes for a show. Several weeks later he wrote me a letter, a
somewhat threatening letter, warning me that I shouldn't trespass on
his private property burlesque. Long after my book came out, he
sent me another letter, in which he discussed his own book again, yet
up to his death he had never written it.

Whatever became of his enormous scrapbook? I'd give anything to
know. Priceless, vanished theatrical Americana!

Other experiences in gathering research material were similarly
involved. In one instance, the actor, pretending that he had some
rare information, held me up for cash in advance before he told me a
few inept anecdotes. In another case, I managed to get an unwilling
husband, once a manager, to talk by constantly bribing his wife,
who, in turn, kept forcing her spouse to reminisce in proportion to
the amount given her.

Everywhere I went I visited burlesque shows, front and back
stage. In Detroit, following the market crash, I found a theatre which
advertised a full show with motion picture features at the extremely
low price of ten cents. The place looked so dirty that I hated to go
in, but I bought a ticket resolutely and took a seat near the stage.

253

The performance, I saw, was extraordinary. Two comedians and
eight forlorn girls put on a complete burlesque show, using all the
stock features from the blackout through the dances.

When the curtain came down, the motion pictures began, faded
second runs of very old films. They ran on and on, until finally, an
amazing notice was flashed on the screen. It ran something like this:
"The pictures run continuously. Stay all night if you like!"

Burlesque, in other words, had turned into a depression flophouse!

When I was almost through with the book I asked Sime Silverman,
publisher and editor of Variety, if he would read the manuscript be-
fore it went to the publishers, and he promised to do so. Sime was
the "diamond in the rough" type. He had put on many a vigorous
battle over forgotten theatrical issues that affected the history of
Broadway and had nearly always been the victor. Burlesque was
one of his pets, and when he agreed to check my work, I was happy
and fearful. Would my account of this complicated subject come up to
his rugged point-of-view? Would it reveal the big and minor issues
concerned with this pariah art?

Two A.M., after the magazine went to press, was the hour ap-
pointed for this test, upstairs, over the Variety press room, in Sime's
private office. Nervously, I rushed there and found him waiting for
me, with Jack Pulaski. He got down to business at once. He dis-
cussed involved matters like the history of the burlesque wheels. He
reviewed the history of the stars. He traced the relation of the busi-
ness to the films and prohibition. Then he said succinctly, "You've
covered the whole ground and accurately."

All my life I had been taking examinations for degrees and for
positions, but never did I feel the happiness and the relief which
those words gave me. The greatest authority on burlesque had ap-
proved my book.

After the first draft of my book was in, my publishers, John Farrar
and Stanley Rinehart, gave a party in my honor. Graciously, they
asked me to invite anyone I wished, in addition to the list already
determined.

Some erratic chance made the name of Mark Bellinger shoot
into my mind. "He's just had a book published that's had no rec-
ognition. Let's invite him," I said. "Doing so may help his writing
ambitions/*

The party eventually included Burton Rascoe, Dr. Rinehart and
William Soskin, who brought along a guest, Bill Johnson.

254

We went to Springer's, a speakeasy restaurant, and then attended
a performance at historic Minsky's. That night was one of the
happiest of my life.

And that party for Burleycue might have resulted in widespread
publicity for the book and a good sale had it not been for an in-
truding literary agent, who brought along a guest, William Faulkner.
This extraordinary genius had just created a sensation with Sanc-
tuary, and was the subject of general curiosity. So the agent handed
him over to another guest, Joel Sayre of the New York Heralds-Tri-
bune, who interviewed Faulkner then and there and gave him the
space intended for Burleycue.

Several days later, Sayre apologized for his neglect in a long letter
in which he praised my book. But the loss was irrevocable, for Sayre
was himself an authority on burlesque, once commissioned by
Mencken to write a history on the subject; and if he had written the
piece, the history of the book might have been far different.

The Burleycue party and treacherous waters developed a subse-
quent tragic relationship. Two weeks after, Bill Johnson met his
death by drowning. Scarcely had this news reached us than another
tragedy occurred. Mark Hellinger went yachting as the guest of
Harry Richman, with Gladys Glad and beautiful, lovable Helen
Walsh. A terrific explosion tore open the yacht, killing Helen and
injuring Gladys, Mark's fiancee. The catastrophe occurred on a Sun-
day. I was spending the day with General E. F. Jeffe and his artist
wife, Huldah. I left them at once and hitch-hiked my way to New
York to break the dreadful news to Ziegf eld.

I wrote off these deaths as coincidental; but during the summer of
1945 I had occasion to recall them seriously when I set out to spend
a day on a large schooner.

The day was beautiful, all blue sky and sunlight, perfect weather
for a holiday. We sailed for miles. We ate. We drank. Then Arthur
Dietz came to us with a swell idea.

"How would you like to jump off the boat and have a swim?"
"Perfect," I declared, for I like nothing better. "It's safe, isn't it?"
"Certainly. We'll drop anchor down right here near the shore."
I got into my trunks, and then, as I was about to plunge off the
boat, I noticed the captain of the schooner, standing nearby with two
of his men.
"It's safe," I asked again, "isn't it?"

255

"Certainly," he replied "The three of us will stand by and watch
you. We're anchored. And here's the life preserver/ 7

As he finished the sentence, he threw a life preserver, attached to
a rope, into the water and I climbed down the ladder. Arthur was al-
ready in, and I followed. The water was cool, just the right tempera-
ture, exhilarating. I swam out several hundred feet in the direction
of the shore. By the time I was half-way there, Arthur was back
again and up the rope ladder.

So I turned and started back but just as I came within the reach
of the ladder, the water began to carry me past it. Surprised, I could
not understand what had happened. I increased my efforts without
making any headway. Why couldn't I make the ladder?

Feeling somewhat foolish, I reached for the life preserver. It
floated off in the opposite direction. In that split-second, I realized
that the tide or an undertow was carrying me along with it and that
I would be hard put to make the boat. Simultaneously, the captain
and crew made the same discovery and began calling to me.

"Grab the life preserver/' they shouted.

"I can't," I shouted back, as I kept sliding along with the tide.
By this time, the preserver was beyond my reach. I was nearing the
side of the boat, and before I knew it, the tide had swept me under
it. Everything seemed calm and incongruous. I was alone in the
water, my roof the dark boat, death beneath me and silence all
around. Then the darkness dissolved and I was in the sunlight again,
carried by the undertow to the other side of the schooner, with
everybody rushing across the boat to see what had happened to me.
I knew already that I was being sucked away and before long I'd
be done for.

It seemed so silly! Fifteen minutes before I was secure in this world
and now I was needlessly lost. Everyone began shouting and running
back and forth. A sailor threw out a rope, but being unable to reach
it, I kept drifting out further to sea.

For no reason at all the word "jocund" flashed through my head.
I had come to the end of my life and yet, instead of seeing all my
sins before me, I felt a sense of gaiety. Jocund! I tried to keep my
spirits up; forced my lips into a smile to reassure those on board.

So this was how my hopes and ambitions were to end. I reached
for the rope again, and again it failed me. Everyone shouted. In-
stinctively I didn't fight the water-just drifted. Then finally another

256

rope came. I had just strength enough to reach it and this time I got
hold of it.

"Don't hold too hard," everyone warned me.

Heeding the advice, I held on desperately and yet tried to relax
my grasp. It was as if I were playing a trick with the water. I kept
hold and the rope held, too.

Gradually, they drew me back and up out of the water to the deck.
Jocund!

"Why, you're perfectly blue/* someone shouted as everyone
crowded around me.

"Oh, I'm all right," I said; and by that time I was throwing the ex-
perience into the background and welcoming warming robes and
swallows of whiskey!

One week later, I set sail on the Normandie for a vacation. When
the boat was well underway, I looked through my package of Bon
Voyage books. One of them was called Man Overboard, by Freeman
WUlcrofts. I read it, and imagine my feelings when in the last chap-
ter I discovered that the hero of the story went through exactly the
same situation that I did. Our anxieties were the same and our strug-
gles. Only in this instance the boat went on, leaving him behind, a
prey to the sea.

When I returned home, Burleycue was on sale and I soon learned
that a new feature had come into burlesquethe Strip Tease. Who
originated this number has never been authenticated, but with the
advent of Ann Corio and Gypsy Rose Lee it became the most talked-
of stage attraction of the era.

As developed by these two ladies, undressing became an art with
a special technique and nomenclature. The number itself was a com-
bination of posing, strutting, dancing and singing, punctuated from
time to time by thrusts and twists of the abdomen called "bumps"
and "grinds."

The various steps were known in succession as the "flash" or
entrance; the parade or the march across the stage in full costume;
the tease or increasing removal of wearing apparel while the audi-
ence, lusting for bed and body, shouted, "Take ? em off. Take 'em off.
More. More": and the climactic strip or denuding down to the G-
string, followed by a speedy retreat into the obscuring draperies be-
fore the police could assert their authority.
At first., each show had only one strip tease dancer. Then, opposi-

257

tion managers began increasing the number until the entire chorus
stripped, exposing an array of bare breasts as naked as a candid
camera cannibal closeup.

Nudity, as a result, killed the comedy, burleycue's rich contribution
to the art of the theatre.

Meanwhile, strip tease had become a household word. Society
women were doing it at charity bazaars.

The number had broken into Broadway by way of Pal Joey, and
also through a delightful burlesque number performed by Imogene
Coca. Fifty-second Street was the mecca for the undressers and all
lands of new names came up in electric lights and all sorts of cos-
tumes came down in muffled lights and shadows.

Back home, meanwhile, in Indiana, the local wiseacres expressed
immediate contempt for Burleycue, and declared that I should write
about something that was appropriate to my training and reputation.
And I couldn't be too much annoyed at their attitude because I was
also a little surprised to find myself discussing this subject. But, re-
gardless of the proprieties, I had become an authority. The New
York Public Library had the book on the reserve shelf. The Midweek
Pictorial asked for a feature piece on strip tease and the N.Y. Times
Magazine published a by-line article on comedy. The Saturday Re-
view of Literature arranged for a piece on the strip tease and The
Oxford Companion to the American Stage requested a discussion
of the leg show.

Eventually Fortune Magazine decided to publish an extensive
study of burlesque, and after the work was finished, the editors sent
me the proofs twice to edit. Then Ruth Benedict sent me a copy of
the published work, with this message:

"To an authority like you, Fortune can give little in an article on
burlesque."

Today, a souvenir of the publication ornaments my apartment.
It is a water color of a luscious nude woman surrounded by satyrs
and bears this inscription, "with the apologies of an incompetent in
the way of this lady."

It was drawn by Norman Douglas, author of the forever delightful
South Wind.

258

CHAPTER 13

Literati

Y involved personal business life took on new complications when
Beauvais Fox, dramatic editor of the New Jork Herald-Tribune,
asked me in 1925 to do a weekly piece on the technique of the drama.
The work gave me the opportunity of meeting almost every play-
wright who came to Broadway, to peer into his mind and study his
creative processes, an experience that was as diversified as it was
challenging.

Adventurous was this assignment and one that lasted about four
years under at least four successive dramatic editors, including the
well-beloved Arthur Folwell and the graciously human Charles Bel-
mont Davis, brother of the novelist, Richard Harding Davis.

Turning out the interviews meant keeping world drama in mind,
while concentrating on the American output. How romantically that
native drama had grown: first the groping toward theatre by way of
Indian treaties with the pioneers, the details acted out because of
the fact that neither side understood the language of the other. Then
the play-acting in the colonies, with English soldiers taking part.
Then the English again on the scene, arriving with the first pro-
fessional company.

259

The scope of my articles was enchanting. I had to make note of
everything from the Japanese Noh drama through Bernard Shaw. I
thought of the audience as participant in the Commedia del 'Arte
and of Racine's idea of drama. I thought of pantomime and of con-
structivist art, of the florid Gabrielle D'Annunzio and the deft Piran-
dello with particular emphasis on their relation to the American
stage.

One of my first tasks was to interview Booth Tarkington in con-
nection with his current play Ttoeedles. The Indiana notable was not
in town; so, knowing his double accomplishments as a playwright
and a novelist, I wrote to him in Indianapolis, asking him to give
me some of his thoughts on the relation of drama to fiction. His
answer was brief:

I do not know that I have a special method for
writing plays; therefore, I am unable to say
how I developed one.

I am unable to perceive its relation to my writing
of novels, and I do not think that it has any.

I have no definite opinion of the American stage
and its tendencies or of all my contemporaries.

Much more gracious was Eugene O'Neill. He was just starting
his important career then; and although Beyond The Horizon had
already disclosed his great powers, I had no idea of the tremendous
figure he was to become in the American drama.

What happened seems scarcely believable now, for he wrote out
his answers to my questions in longhand and brought them to me
personally. He was so timid and reticent that I took hardly any notice
of him at all, just thanked him gratefully for the manuscript and, in
my stupidity, didn't save that. Eager to get the article into type, I
rushed it over to the Tribune, without holding on to the autograph.

The matter of autographs came to my attention again when Ken-
yon Nicholson and S. N. Behrman were beginning writers. They were
living in a small apartment at that time in Greenwich Village and had
only one autograph between them for the simple reason that they
were turning out stories for pulp magazines, collaborations published
under a single coined name, Paul Haley.

When I barged into their apartment, Kenyon greeted me heartily

260

and introduced me to Sam whom he called "Bill/' They were both
jubilating at the moment over a supply of canned goods which they
had just bought at a Macy sale. Happily it was lunch time; so we all
sat down and ate a hearty meal of baked beans, red beets and other
canned goods.

As I started to leave, Kenyon said, "I want you to see something
in the hall," and he pointed to a small walled-in area at the center
of the corridor. I walked up closer and found that it was a cubicle
living-place, reaching almost to the ceiling, just large enough to hold
a cot and a chair.

To make up for the lack of windows, the poverty-stricken tenant,
a painter, had drawn pastel counterpart apertures on the beaver-
board walls. Deprived of light, the poor fellow had striven to com-
pensate for its absence with the aid of his imagination.

Before many years had passed, both men were famous playwrights
and well-to-do! Behrman is probably very wealthy, to judge by the
number of hits he has turned out here and abroad throughout the
years.

At the beginning of his career, "Bill" was a reader for the old Did
and one of the first literary experts to recognize Sherwood Anderson.

Incidentally, the Dial published a review that I wrote on a Swin-
nerton novel. When I met the managing editor, Gilbert Seldes, for
the first time in New York, he said: "I didn't know that you were in
the city. Your review came from Indiana and IVe been trying to lo-
cate you for a long time. I've been holding your check. It's a year
overdue, but you'll get it in the next mail."

Shortly after my visit with Behrman and Kenyon, I worked out
a publicity stunt entitled "How to Kiss a Girl." The newspapers and
magazine editors liked the idea and promised to send cameramen
and reporters over to photograph Jane Richardson, star of Just Be-
cause at the rehearsal hall. When they arrived the photographers de-
manded a presentable man to appear opposite Jane. For the moment,
I had forgotten that it takes two to make a kiss; as a result, I thought
the stunt was off, for there wasn't a man around whom I could put
in the picture.

While I was worrying, Kenyon Nicholson walked into the hall to
see me.

"The man for the picture," I said to myself, but Kenyon had al-
ways been so averse to publicity that I'd seen him wince at even a

261

personal introduction. On this occasion, however, in response to my
pleading, he agreed to pose with Jane for the picture.

When the stunt was over, I forgot all about it. Kenyon was to
hear more. He was teaching at the time at Columbia University
where he received a sudden shock one day when the entire class
rose up at a given signal and held high in the air the page of a
magazine showing him, their teacher, demonstrating how to kiss a
lady.

He managed to pass over the situation with simulated casualness,
but the university authorities did not. A day or so later, the head of
the department called him and asked, "What's this I hear, Nicholson,
about your giving the public lessons on how to kiss? Hardly the
thing, I should say, for a young university professor to exploit."

For the moment, it seemed that Kenyon was going to lose his job.
Fortunately, though, the professor s disciplining ended with a verbal

Kenyon figured also in my experience with a girl named Miranda,
whom Til never forget.

We met at a party at the home of the Broadway idol, Dr. Leo
Michel, and hit it off well from the start, so well that at the end of
the party, she indicated her willingness to go home with me.

That was about one in the morning and half an hour later Miranda
sat cuddled up to me in a taxi speeding through a heavy snowstorm,
on the way to my little apartment on East Forty-eighth Street. Here,
in pleasant privacy, we sat down to a snack lunch of cheese, crackers
and beer and celebrated the beginning of the New Year.

When the time came for Miranda to leave, we discovered that
the hour was four in the morning. Hastily we picked up our hats and
coats and ran, hoping to get a taxi. When we opened the door, a cold
wind was blowing at a frightening velocity. The snow was coming
down in great drifts and the streets were sheets of ice and deserted.

"How the devil will I ever get you home?" I said. "How can we get
a taxi at this hour?"

The longer we stood there waiting, the more hopeless was the
outlook.

"I don't care," said Miranda, squeezing my hand. "I don't care
if we have to walk all the way home."

Just then, a beautiful limousine drove up to the curb in front of
us and stopped. A uniformed chauffeur slipped out, opened the door
and invited us to step into the car.

262

Miranda told me her address and I repeated it to him. Then we en-
tered the beautiful, warm car as if we owned it. Twenty minutes
later we were at Miranda's home. We said goodbye over and over
again while the chauffeur stood at attention. Then, when I jumped
back into the car, he asked respectfully, "Where to?*'

I said, "Home" omitting e< ]ames" but wondering what his name
really was and where he had come from.

Fortunately, he was too considerate to let me puzzle my brains
indefinitely. When I stepped out of the car he said:

"The charge will be four dollars. Glad that I was able to accommo-
date you. I came along at just the right time. Often after I take the
boss home, I give someone a lift; in this way, I help him and help
myself by picking up an honest penny or two/*

After that night, Miranda and I saw each other often. Sometimes,
I went to her apartment for dinner. Sometimes, she came to mine.
The longer I knew her, the more agreeable and helpful she became.
Yes, our arrangement was amusing because when we were not mak-
ing love, she did my typing and took dictation.

Once while I sat dictating, the doorbell rang and Kenyon Nichol-
son surprised us together. Counting his recent visit to the Carroll
Theatre, this was the third time I had seen him in one month, an un-
usual occurrence. A week later, he surprised us again. Both visits
were unexpected as Kenyon is a person who rarely favors friends
with personal calls. You'd see him or you wouldn't see him; and if
you had any tact at all, you'd let him alone until he chose to give
you a bit of his time,

On this occasion, Kenyon's curiosity, one of his most provocative
characteristics, began to work. He started a triple conversation, and
all of us began asking and answering questions.

Finally, he said something which made Miranda laugh. She
laughed and laughed and the more she laughed, the more concerned
I became. Watching Kenyon's face, I knew just how he felt and why.

That night he called me on the phone saying: "Bernard, you'd
better get rid of that girl."

Tm just about to do so, Kenyon," I answered.

"I'm glad of it. She has a very bad laugh, a dangerous laugh, I
think. Sometime, if she ever gets mad at you, she'll tear up your
manuscript/'

Fortunately, Miranda never got that chance. I didn't see her again,
and didn't answer her telephone messages and letters.

263

A year later, Cornelius Vanderbilt sent me a wire from Reno, ask-
ing me if I knew her. Not until then did I know the truth about her.
Although she had told me that she was a widow, she had been mar-
ried all the time that she was going with me and had only that week
secured a divorce.

There was little time though, to rejoice over not being named cor-
respondent in a divorce trial. My contacts through the Herald-Tri-
bune had become so numerous that I was meeting almost everyone
who had anything important to do with the world of the stage. Some-
times these notables contributed to my conception of the nature of
creative art. Sometimes they gave me a further insight into character.

In the case of Mae West, the interview led to a lasting friendship.
Mae, in private life, is one degree removed from her typical stage
role. Only one degree, however, for because of the tussle she has had
with life, the police, the critics and herself, she has become, or seems
to have become, suspicious of question and answer; she is con-
tinually on guard, revealing her full nature only to a few.

The first time that I met her, she was playing in her own piece
Diamond Lil, a colorful uneven melodrama which reproduced with
extraordinary fidelity the atmosphere of the barroom of the nine-
ties, with its singing waiters, streetwalkers, tramps and slumming
swells.

One of the sets revealed a real bar, just visible to the audience,
and long enough to accommodate six guests. Here, at every per-
formance during the Prohibition period, Mae entertained friends by
serving free, real beer.

Interviewing Mae was a difficult job because her jerky comments
and swift flashes of intuition kept me so busy writing down notes
that my fingers ached. Once she swerved from self-assurance to feline
acrimony to recall a famous actress who had recently snubbed her.

Back stage everyone in the company lauded her. "She's great.
She's wonderful/' and it was obvious that their enthusiasm was
genuine. She treated her company graciously and generously.

After the interview was published, I often took people back stage
to Mae's dressing room where she would courteously show them the
mechanical secrets of her hourglass figure, emphasizing the small
waist and the voluptuous undulating walk.

Once, as a special compliment, Mae invited me to a private spir-

264

itualistic stance which took place, after the evening performance, in
the downstairs lounge of die theatre. Here, about thirty of us
crowded into chairs arranged in rows facing a table and a parlor
screen. Our feeling of expectancy was intensified by the behavior of
a small man, with a weather-beaten face, who was in charge of the
stance and who kept walking up and down, impatiently consulting
his watch.

The lounge kept getting hotter and hotter as the restlessness of
the assembled guests increased. Yet nothing happened until Miss
West appeared, half an hour late. She made a dazzling picture, for
she wore a large hat, an enormous scarf and a huge muff, all of the
purest white.

As she gave us a clipped-off greeting and took the front seat re-
served for her, the ceremonies began in earnest. First, there was the
conventional combination of noise from behind the screen, voices,
rappings, bell ringings. Next, a high voice began to recite a jargon
litany: "Yaki-macho-nell-mo-do-ee-yaki-macho. . . ."

Then a solemn, slow-speaking male voice began to remonstrate
and cajole the unseen until we became conscious that an effort was
being made to communicate with the spirit of Rudolph Valentino.
Tension increased and so did the cajoling, but only silence followed
the effort. Obviously, the spirit was unable to make contact. A wave
of disappointment swept over the company; the stance seemed to
come to a standstill.

At this point, the little master of ceremonies stepped forward,
saying;

"Will Mae West please approach the table?"

Immediately Mae rose and approached the table as instructed;
she stood there a moment, then returned solemnly to her seat. At this
point, a lugubrious voice began to call, "Mae West Mae West "

The tone was so mandatory that everyone sat taut and anxious.
"Mae West Mae West" came the voice again, followed by the
words, "Don't change your room/*

"What's that he's sayinT' asked Mae, her matter-of-fact tone
cracking the reverential silence.

Again the voice intoned several words, this time, however, so in-
distinctly that no one could understand them. Straightway, renewed
efforts were made to ensnare the spirit of Valentino. There was more
gibberish, high-pitched voices and rattling of apparatus behind the

265

screen. Finally, the confusion gave way and the M.G. stepped for-
ward again, saying succinctly: "The spirit of Valentino will not con-
tact us tonight!"

All eyes turned at this moment toward Mae; and she, alert and
practical, swathed herself in the white furs, rose quickly and walked
directly out of the room. Five minutes later the place was entirely
empty.

Some years later I mentioned the seance. My interest was met with
lack of interest. Apparently communing with spirits no longer in-
terests Mae.

Her motion pictures, when shown in Paris, stimulated the creation
of a new mode that came back to America in the form of a Victorian
revival. The success of her pictures saved Paramount, according to
report, from bankruptcy, thereby influencing indirectly the whole
movie industry.

During World War II, the term, "Mae West," was applied to life
preservers. The lady had added a new term to the language.

Rich now, self-centered and independent, Mae remains an anach-
ronism. Nothing seems to bother her. She has no twinges of con-
science about the harm her pictures and plays may do. She licks her
chops with contentment. What the world thinks of her doesn't mat-
ter. Even so, she's likeable and disarming.

The wish to meet famous writers was fulfilled in the case of my
favorite author, Somerset Maugham. I met him first, by proxy,
through a young man named Henry James who was a member of the
editorial department of Prentice-HaH When a student at Yale, young
James was assigned to write a Maugham interview for the college
paper. Maugham, at the time the guest of William Lyon Phelps,
refused to be interviewed. Young James, however, disregarding
the refusal, managed to gain entrance to the Phelps's home, barged
right into the study and there met Maugham, face to face. But before
James could ask a single question, Maugham said:

"What can you tell me about yourself?"

The question was a command. So James spent the rest of the inter-
view telling Maugham about himself. At a later date, however, the
two met by appointment and grew to be good friends with Maugham
talking frankly, and this time about himself. Among other things, he
said that he regretted that he had exhausted his capacity for passion
with Of Human Bondage, a fact which astute young James consid-

266

ered Maugham's greatest limitation the lack of passion in his col-
lected works.

Not so fruitful was my own brief visit with Somerset Maugham. He
appeared as he had described himself, quite shy and quiet. His face
was not a happy one, the skin clouded, the eyes a bit distrait, the
mouth slanting downward. Restricted by drawing room conventions,
I was afraid that I'd bore him. Our conversation, perforce, was
limited. When he asked me what I did, I told him that I worked for
the movies; whereupon his reserve broke down and he exclaimed,
"Oh, you must be one of those film millionaire men!"

At that moment a woman rushed up and began kissing John Cot-
ton, who dramatized Rain from Maugham's story. Before I knew
what had happened, she had spirited both Cotton and Maugham
away. I hadn't spoken two sentences to my literary idol.

My conversations with H. G. Wells were similarly brief, though far
more satisfactory. The first time I met him he was standing in the
lobby of the Cort Theatre during a performance of Room Service.
He looked like his photographs and he had that high coloring
one associates with the typical, rugged Englishman. His manner was
simple and gracious. When I told him that I liked Tono Bungay bet-
ter than any of his other books, he seemed genuinely pleased.

The following year, I met him again, just as he was walking up
the steps at "21." Seeing me, he waved a hand in my direction and
said to the friend with him: "What do you think? He likes my Tono
Bungay best!"

Only then did I remember that Tono Bungay had not received a
friendly reception when first published.

The day that an invitation came to meet Colette, I began counting
the hours until the party in her honor at the Cosmopolitan Club. To
me, there has never been a writer so skilled in portraying the nuances
of amours.

But Colette herself was sadly different from her style. She was
large, stoutish, and had a serpentine smile. All I could do was keep
staring at her feet, bare except for sandals, heavy feet, with large
painted toes which looked substantial enough to belong to a truck
driver.

Meeting J. B. Priestley was also a disillusioning experience be-
cause he is one of those authors who never should be met. That so
charming a book as The Good Companions could be his work is al-

267

most incredible to me. The man is the typical smug Englishman just
as Priestley himself might portray him: cocksure, weighty, stand-
offish; but when he discusses playwriting, though he is free in his
criticism of American writers, he is entertaining and even in-
gratiating.

"My system of writing plays," he said, "is different. First of all, I
get an idea just a general idea, small enough in the beginning to be
put on a postcard. There's no scenario, no exits or entrances. It's
really the opposite of the conventional method largely used by play-
wrights and cinema writers. In Hollywood, the action and the plot
are first. The people are tacked on as you go along.

"For instance, you say, 'This man loves this woman. Now let's
see, maybe we can have the brother come in here; and a little later
we can stick in a friend of his, too/ The collaborators keep on putting
people in that way to the very end, often with the result that the
people are never real.

"Now 111 show you how I work: Here, right in this room, are three
of us sitting together you, your secretary and myself. Let us sup-
pose that a Broadway chorus girl comes in, also a manager of a
night restaurant and a gypsy from a tea shop. Now, when the six of
us are together in this room, something will surely happen. That's
how I write my plays. The action grows out of the characters."

Most irritating of all literary experiences was the canonization of
Alexander Woollcott after his death. His was a success built largely
on rewriting the works and experiences of others, skillful interviews
and literary appraisals. Snobbery was his mainstay, with the early
Round Table clique fostering his secondary accomplishment and
basking in his praise or wincing under insult.

Almost everyone in his circle was cagey about the man's real
character. Charles Pike Sawyer, however, long dramatic editor of
the Post told me that Woollcott at college was called "Putrid"; and
when I saw the man, I felt that the name applied as well to his looks
and manners. An exhibitionist with a following, he did what he
pleased, ran up and down aisles, waved his handkerchief.

Once I saw him put on a performance after a play. He was stand-
ing on the sidewalk with the rest of the audience when I heard him
give a little shriek, rush forward, and lift up bodily one of the
ladies in his party.

Brock Pemberton told me that writing a hit play or producing one

268

was, perhaps, Woollcott's unrealized ambition. Disappointed, he
couldn't endure seeing a former fellow critic winning the success that
he craved. This he learned through personal experience, for Brock
Pemberton was, for a long time, his friendly desk associate on the
New York Times. But when Woollcott reviewed Pemberton's first
production, Enter, Madame, he scarcely mentioned Pemberton's
name. Asked why, Woollcott said that Pemberton was not well-
known. When his own play, Dover Road, came along, however,
Woollcott shamelessly wrote a column about it. His subsequent at-
titude toward Pemberton's productions cost that producer hun-
dreds of thousands of dollars, for whenever his plays were wavering
between success and failure, Woolcott, instead of helping, pushed
them the other way.

Once Woollcott taught me a publicity trick that was helpful.
"Don't ask people at a preview for an opinion," he cautioned. "Tell
them to write it at their leisure."

Like Burton Rascoe, Frank Crowinshield had a substantial in-
fluence on American art and literature through editing, engaging
and firing Dorothy Parker, encouraging beginning writers like
Robert Sherwood, and so on. Shortly after the death of Gertrude
Stein, he gave me a quick appraisal of her work.

"She was not great enough," he said, "to put over a trick. De
Quincy or Boccaccio might get by with a stunt, but they had so much
to give that there was no emphasis on the trick. Her scheme of us-
ing words was not a new one. Swinburne tried it and so did one or
two others. The idea was essentially good: making the word, in it-
self, an entity, but she overworked the idea and became a bore. A
trick of that sort can't be repeated."

One day, Frank Crowinshield took me to the Dutch Treat Club
at the Park Lane for luncheon. We sneaked in, hid behind a high
screen, took a survey of who was there, and then walked out.

"It doesn't look interesting," he said, "let's go somewhere else."

Frank was deep in life then, yet he enjoyed being mischievous
as if he were a schoolboy.

On another occasion, he called me to say that he was giving a
luncheon in my honor at the Coffee House. The party included John
Golden and a burlesque actor whom Frank had dug up from the
past.

"This party was arranged to celebrate the enjoyment which your
book, Burleycue, gave me," said Frank, "and to prod your publishers

269

into putting out a new edition. In order to give momentum to this
idea, I'm going to write a piece myself for Vogue, if you'll help me."

"Certainly," I answered happily. So I worked with him, day after
day, collecting material and interviewing burlesque authorities.
Some weeks later, Frank, true to his promise, wrote the piece, a
stunning article on the old leg show. Somehow or other, though,
he forgot his initial reason for writing the piece and never mentioned
my name or my book.

Meeting Hannen Swaffer, the English dramatic critic, and for a
long time Variety's London correspondent, was something of a
shock, for he resembled an old-fashioned drawing of a ham actor,
his face dirty, his lounging robe soiled and his awkward feet some-
thing to look away from. He lived innumerable floors above the
street, largely to prove, I believe, that his financial success had not
deprived him of his simplicity, a topic that he dilated on in con-
versation.

"The English people," he declared, "are what they are. They
remain in their class. They have no wish to go places where they do
not belong. I myself would never think of going to a night club; and
if Harry Richman wasn't a friend of mine, I would not think of going
to the Casino de Paris. We English stay where we belong*"

This tirade over, Swaffer looked self-satisfied, not realizing, per-
haps, that his insistence on class was first-class English snobbery.

In March 1953, Time carried a piece about Hannen Swaffer on
his seventy-third birthday. Called the "Pope of Fleet Street," he de-
dared that one thousand people wished him dead because of the
cruel things he had said about them in his column.

After hunting for years for people who would discuss the tech-
nique of writing, I found my ideal at last in Thyra Samter Winslow.
She talked shop all the time and practically wrote her books and
short stories in the presence of her friends.

Til write you that story," she shouted to an editor, "with two men
and a girl or with two girls and a man, cut to order."

And I knew that she could well carry out her intention, for every-
body was copy to her and any place her workshop.

"I met the motion picture producer, So-and-so," she will say; and
then she will dash off a description which, whether it fits or not,
would satisfy her, at least.

"When you look into So-and-so's thin face," she will say, for in-

270

stance, "you know instinctively that he's the kind of man who
wouldn't like dessert. He'd be careless, also, about ties."

Hers is a staggering certainty about how other people will act.
She will go on and on, writing aloud, compelling the attention of
an audience and looking out of the corner of an eye for admiration.
She dominates all parties whenever she gets the chance.

Her zest in sheer existence is infectious. Even her body seems to
be a source of enjoyment to her, for she often kicks off her sandals,
giving her feet, ankles and toes free play.

Another author who occasionally talked shop with me was George
S. Kaufman. His work as a director and a playwright has long been
regarded as sure-fire box office. His reticence was equalled only by
his wit and technical knowledge.

"Don't write down to your readers," he cautioned. Then he went
on at length, discussing copy. Finally, we got around to the subject
of realism in the theatre.

"Realism," I predicted, "will soon kill playwriting. It has already
put a crimp in the element of suspense. Shakespeare kept the mystery
of handkerchief ownership running through Othello. Sardou sus-
tained similar little mysteries in every one of his plays. To do so now
would be impossible. Time and space have been conquered by tele-
phone, telegraph, radio, aeroplane and television. Suspense and
misunderstanding can be cleared up in a second. Everything is im-
mediate. The ubiquitous nature of science almost eliminates mis-
understanding and the changing nature of our relations with other
countries destroys villain types."

Kaufman looked at me somewhat startled and then said, "I think
I'll rush on to Hollywood." That was twenty years ago.

After I saw Salvador Dali's surrealistic ballet of Wagner's Venus-
spiel, at the "Met," I managed to secure an interview with the painter.
He proved a gracious conversationalist; also, elusive now you see
him, now you don't. His talents flash by. He is a provocative gentle-
man certainly, a writer of books, a commercial illustrator and a
male fashion innovator who sometimes attends parties with a
flower draped over one ear. Though still a young man, Dali has an
established status that gives him the importance of a modern classic.
Recently, he has chosen religion for the expression of his current in-
spiration, and whatever the final estimate of his accomplishments
may be, one thing is true: he stands on his own, a completely free
spirit, doing what he chooses to do.

271

Short in stature is Dali and extremely neat. The pallor of his
face is intensified by pitch black hair and a corkscrew mustache that
curves upward into a pretzel bend. His speech, tangled and strained
by his efforts to extricate his thoughts from the confines of several
foreign vocabularies, has a certain fascination. Notwithstanding, he
always knows what he is talking about.

One day Dali discussed with me a subject that has tantalized me
through most of my life: sleep.

"With me" he declared, "sleep is a hobby, my relaxation. I sleep
regularly, about ten and one-half hours a day. I go to bed around
nine and get up around seven thirty. Other people are troubled when
they drink coffee. I can take five or six cups without any ill effects
whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I can fall asleep under any condi-
tions, in an automobile, on a train, in a chair or in a garden.

"I dream, too. I dream about everything, especially about land-
scapes. Eating sea-urchins affects me. Sea-urchins are not well-
known here. They are delicious. When they are opened they are full
of eggs that are similar to caviar. They can be eaten either raw or
cooked. Two days before the rising of the moon they are best. They
act like a narcotic, but are not a drug. When a fisherman eats a
dozen or two, he gets a wonderful feeling. Then he takes a siesta/'

For a moment, Dali was so silent that I felt he had fallen prey to
the same somnolent influence. Abruptly, he rose, his introspection
over, saying, "I sleep for ten minutes at a time. During the afternoon,
I take what is called a Spanish monk's siesta. My procedure is simple.
I place a glass ash-tray or a plate on the floor at the side of my chair.
Then I put a key in my hand and hold it there. When I'm completely
relaxed, I fall sound asleep; and at the same moment my hand opens,
drops the key, strikes the ash-tray and wakes me up. But I'm greatly
refreshed. A brief sleep has a psychological effect. I recommend it
to people who want to relax in the afternoon. Sleep, as I said, is for
me merely a continuance of work. When the sign on my door says
'Don't disturb* it means 'Man Working.' *

272

CHAPTER 14

Broadway Characters

CTORS are by necessity supreme egoists, for if, as they stand be-
fore an audience, they lose faith for one moment in what they are
supposed to be, they are lost.

It was Rex O'Malley, a brilliant actor and a skillful raconteur, who
stated this fact in a brief anecdote:

"Ellen Terry was once acting with Sir Henry Irving when the fol-
lowing incident took place. At the end of the act, Ellen came to
Irving, greatly perturbed, saying:

" 1 fear they're not liking what they're getting/

" Is that so?' was his response. "Well, that's what they're going to
get-
Thus, certain of himself, the actor carries on regardless of circum-
stances and health.

"The only sick actor," Frank Bacon, veteran star of Lightnin, told
me once, "is a dead actor ?

The happiest moment in my experiences at the Herald-Tribune
occurred when George M. Cohan told me that my interview was the
best that had ever been written about him. Yet, even though I had

273

asked him many questions, I didn't find out to what degree he wrote
his songs, plays and lyrics. Along Broadway, there has always been a
legend that certain people didn't do all their own work, and to re-
peat this legend seems disloyal. Nevertheless, in spite of the frank-
ness of our conversation, when I discussed composition with him,
I never learned what I wished to know, the secrets of his creative
procedure. His part in the development of the musical comedy stage
was an observable and technical feat, however, and well established.
He gave speed to the American stage by hurried entrances and exits.
He exploited an American jingo spirit.

Personally, George was very attractive. He had a fine face, as
clear-cut as an intaglio, and a short well-molded figure with finely
shaped feet of which he was very proud. He never wore out a pair
of shoes, for as soon as they started to go down at the heels he'd
give them away. In his later years, he had an economical Japanese
valet who repaired the shoes without George's knowledge. When he
learned the truth, he refused to wear them.

Cohan was so prolific that despite his wonderful memory, he
occasionally couldn't recall some of his own songs, an important
circumstance because some of them, as a result, were never pub-
lished. He wrote "The Grand Old Rag" which helped establish his
fame and published it under that name. But the general public re-
sented it and he received so many adverse comments and angry let-
ters that he changed the title later to "The Grand Old Flag."

*1 don't know many of the critics," he told me once, "and I don't
know many people. I've never been a hand-shaker. But the friends
I had years ago, the real friends, are still my friends, and I always
hang out with my own little gang."

He had a long list of retainers, including players who had appeared
in his shows, but the money he distributed came through an inter-
mediary so that no recipient was embarrassed.

Once an actor had appeared in one of his plays, Cohan would
continue to write parts for him; and he wouldn't hesitate about
giving a chorus girl or boy a chance at a real role.

George has an unique place in the history of the American theatre
as co-producer of the last big minstrel show. This type of enter-
tainment, one of the earliest native shows, started with a free per-
formance from a wagon as a come-on for the sale of quack medicines.
It was the first entertainment to include the Negro. For about twenty-

274

five years touring companies appeared throughout the United States
and even played in London.

George M. Cohan's first wife, and the mother of his daughter,
Georgette, is Ethel Levey, who survived the early success of the
four Cohans. Later she divorced George, went to England, married
the famous aviator, Grahame White. During the first world war, she
was head of the Red Cross and officially entertained the King and
Queen of England.

Ethel's conversation approximates encyclopedic proportions. After
discussing her husbands, she talks about her admirers and suitors,
past and present, the attentions of Sam Bernard, Florenz Ziegfeld,
and a half a dozen others. From admirers, Ethel's talk veers to
food, dress, travel, plays, the peerage and business.

She can tell you what time of the year it is best to go to Canada or
Mexico for the sports characteristic of each nation and when skiing
starts at St. Moritz and the tennis matches go on at Wimbledon. She
knows at what seasons of the year royalty betakes itself to various
countries, how it goes and what it does. She contrasts the swim-
ming advantages of the Lido with those of Scheveningen in Hol-
land. She knows which hotels serve the best hors d'oeuvres and
where the choicest pat6 de fois gras is on sale. And she tops this
information by reciting off-hand her own recipe which requires a
particular kind of liver that is superior to all other livers.

She can toss off, in a moment, the personal history of any person in
the public eye from the Duchess of Windsor to Ruby Schinazi,
widow of the Turkish cigarette millionaire. She can reminisce about
the stage, clearing up such involved matters as when Irving Berlin's
Alexander's Ragtime Band was first presented. She can furnish side-
lights on the personality of Jesse Lasky, his history in vaudeville and
his adventures in films.

These topics thoroughly covered, Ethel will tell you why she
drinks a certain kind of rum cocktail that she herself prepares, to-
gether with reasons why it is the best drink for any occasion, and she
will reinforce her opinion with a graphic account of the effect on the
nervous temperament of other drinks.

She can sing a song as neatly as she ever did, doing creditably
operatic arias from La Boheme, and exceptionally well with songs
like "Frisco." She plays her own accompaniments, dances a belly
dance and, while doing an adagio waltz, takes time out to tell the
other dancers about the best dancing f orml

275

"The man should always stand straight," she'll urge, 'never bend
forward."

Her olfactory reaction to perfumes is distinctive. She knows natu-
ral odors and synthetic derivatives, and can give you a description,
if necessary, of the Garden of Roses, that fascinating place in Bul-
garia where the genuine odor of roses is distilled.

Though Ethel has been a star in practically all the great capitals of
the world, at the New York Palace she received one of the largest
salaries ever paid by Albee for a vaudeville headlines

The occasion was her brief visit here from London at the time
when she was said to be one of the idols of English society. Her first
numbers on the program had the dignity of a formal recital, but to-
ward the last, Ethel let loose and did a high back kick; and when she
responded to the astonished applause, she turned to the audience and
said, "Plenty of life in the old girl yet!" That was about thirty-five
years ago and Ethel is still appearing on Broadway in a role that re-
quires her to smoke a cigar.

Helpful, kind and somewhat wistful is Irving Berlin, writer of
heart-throb tunes, whose well-known career ranges from serving as a
waiter at "Nigger Mike's" to marrying lovely Ellen Mackay, author of
Lace Curtain, and daughter of Clarence P. Mackay, once the mil-
lionaire head of the Western Union Telegraph Company.

Alexander Woollcott has related Berlin's history time and again,
but this incident Berlin told me, as a result of moot questions about
Alexander's Ragtime Band.

"My first important vaudeville engagement," he reminisced, "was
at Hammerstein's in 1911, when I wrote Alexander's Ragtime Band,
the song that made my reputation. I was paid $750 a week. I sang
character songs in the act and introduced Mysterious Wagon in a
green spotlight, the first time, I believe, that such an effect was
brought to the stage.

"The big thing about the engagement, though, was not my open-
ing night, but the opening afternoon. On that date, a contingent of
my friends from Chinatown, fifty strong, headed by 'Nigger Mike 7
and 'Chick' Connors, the so-called unofficial mayor of Chinatown,
came up to the Hammerstein in a body, and presented me with a
wreath at the end of my performance. One of the group, a barker for
the sight-seeing buses, got up and made the presentation from the
audience, saying, 'He's still our boy.'

276

"Some time after the opening, I talked with one of the boys from
downtown, and he said, Tfou know, a couple of us almost got
pinched the afternoon that we gave you the wreath/

"When I asked him why, he said: 'Well, we hung around the lobby
and tried to steal that big photograph of you that was standing there
on an easel/

** 'Why didn't you ask me for the photograph?' I asked seriously.
1 would gladly have given it to you/

"He looked surprised; and his answer was typical of their ap-
proach:

" 'We never thought of that/ "

While sitting at my desk at the Herald-Tribune, one day, I looked
up to meet the eyes of a young man called Alex Card, who at that
time was a poor unknown who did occasional cartoons for news-
paper theatrical sections.

"Mr. Vincent Sardi asked me to come here for your advice/' he
said. "What do you think of my drawing the celebrities who come to
his restaurant and placing them in panels on the walls? Would it be
good publicity?"

"Nothing better in the world/' I answered. "Start at once/' Card
went back and carried my confirmation of the plan to Mr. Sardi and
that's how the famous gallery began.

Subsequently, Card made an arrangement with the restaurant,
whereby he received a certain number of meals in return for his
drawings of celebrities, a plan that carried on until Card's untimely
death.

Scarcely had the first cartoon appeared than everybody on Broad-
way began to work and plot for this recognition. Celebrities rushed
into the restaurant. The crowds rushed after them. Fame and success
followed. Sardi himself grew to be a notable so important that when
he retired he was a first page story in the Times; and Card went on
to distinguished recognition and the authorship of popular art books.

We reminisced about these matters, Card and I, one day at lunch;
and the next week Card was dead and I was attending his funeral
with Mr. and Mrs. Sardi, now along in years and retired. That funeral
111 never forget. It was Greek Catholic and the service very long,
with the congregation standing most of the time. Occasionally, a
mourner would walk up to the bier and kiss the dead man. on the
brow, a ceremony I had never witnessed before.

277

Card was a man of great integrity. His cartoons at Sardf s should
remain there for years, pictorial appraisals of the great and near-
great of Broadway, cruel and, above all, honest.

One of my associates on the Herald-Tribune was Ward More-
house who subsequently left that paper to become the dramatic critic
of the Sun and then the World-Telegram. He is a meticulous chron-
icler of the theatre. His love for the art of the stage is as strong as his
critical sense. He can tell you, at a second's notice, an actor's history,
remembering accurately his outstanding performance. Throughout
the years, Ward has been a great friend of mine, often my host. His
is an unconventionality that is authentic. He does largely as he
pleases, according to his likes, his loves, his wives and divorces.

A theatrical phenomenon is Billy Rose. When I first met him many
years ago, he was a man whose latent abilities had never been dis-
cerned by the Rialto. He was a song writer, the producer of a fairly
successful musical comedy and an ex-secretary who spent a great
deal of time boasting about his speed as a former court stenographer
and about his previous boss, Barney Baruch.

Since that time, Billy has become one of the most famous men in
America, free with his criticism from everything that is wrong with
the Metropolitan Opera to what is wrong with people, periodicals
and places. He was married for a time to Fannie Brice and also for a
time to the Olympic swimming champion, Eleanor Holm. He was for
a while a widely read columnist.

With the World's Fair at New York Billy vaulted into wealth and
fame, thanks to the success of his highly imaginative aquacades and
his direction of State Fairs. He bought a theatre and a diamond neck-
lace for his wife. He became a collector of modern paintings.

Consciously he wears the robe of genius, his abilities having
largely withstood the acid test. He understands and manipulates his
own universe.

To me, in our numerous talks, he has always been kindly. When
I interviewed him as a beginning dramatic critic, he said that he
feared that I was too kind to succeed with the assignment. When I
asked him in passing how it felt to be a small man, he said that he
had fired too many big ones to be disturbed about stature. At re-
hearsals, he wore a pompous white turtle-neck sweater that prac-

278

tically engulfed him, the roll collar permitting just a glimpse of his
head.

His office was amusing before he took over the Ziegfeld Theatre; it
was a gasping attempt to appear arty and individualistic in the early
Morris Gest manner. The furniture was cheap, modernistic and
gaudy; on the desk, the window ledges and the tables were little
wooden animal figures, probably plucked from a children's Noah's
Ark, yet so arranged as to give the impression, perhaps, that they
were neo-surrealist discoveries.

Billy made what might be called sensational theatrical history by
producing with Oscar Hammerstein II a Harlem version of Carmen.

He trafficked in the good old days at his well-known night club,
the Diamond Horseshoe, where he presented as many old-timers as
could be plucked from the public demesne. The place was lush in
nostalgia and though it was strictly commercial, it was a blessing to
Pat Rooney, Gilda Gray and many players then hovering on the
pension line.

He surprised the journalistic world by turning out a syndicated
column which he paid for, and it became so popular that a syndicate
snatched it up, paying him in turn for his wise observations and
clever anecdotes.

Billy owns a town house and a country house. He is one of the best
toastmaster extortionists at drawing the last dollar from conscience-
stricken guests at a banquet table.

The respect I have given to Billy is spontaneous and heartfelt.
Though he may have alarmed me at times by his behavior, I feel
somehow that his basic intentions are the best. He has always been
thoughtful about my interests without ever asking anything of me.

Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart were the Gilbert and Sullivan
of the early part of this era. They were plot innovators, the first col-
laborators to break away from routine plot and to prepare the way
for Oscar Hammerstein ITs subsequent union of score and story.

Larry, I knew well and admired. His verse was grown up, original,
brightly humorous and free from those abominable moon-June
cliches. Short and somewhat stubby, he was continually moving
about as if to release his countless ideas. Swarthy and black-haired,
he punctuated his facial expression with an ever-present cigar.
Though only half my size, he always took my arm and led me around
in a fatherly way.

279

One morning, when I interviewed him, he was getting up around
noon and coming out of his customary hangover with the aid of four
or five bottles of beer. Soon, completely serious, he renewed a prom-
ise that he would write a musical based on my book, Burleycue. That
promise he never kept. He died too soon. Poor Larry. Great Larry.
Poor human, victim of an appetite that scientists have not yet learned
how to quench.

Richard Rodgers, his musical collaborator, presented a marked
contrast to Larry in appearance and deportment. Handsome, re-
served, he commands the quick respect that goes usually to a much
taller man; it is the respect accorded genius.

While his musical Betsy, starring Belle Baker, was in rehearsal at
the New Amsterdam, Dick came to me and said:

"Come back stage with me. I want you to hear something." He led
me then to the piano, saying, "I just wrote this. See how you like it"
Yes, the composer of Oklahoma and South Pacific once played a
number for me alone.

"Actor in name only" was a description that I applied to one of the
members of a musical comedy cast whom it was my good fortune to
interview. His name was "Prince" Mike Romanoff, and he was the
last of a long though thin line of people who were put into shows be-
cause of some notorious experience or trait of character that made
them Front Page copy.

Mike's claim to fame at that time was panhandling meals from the
best people in the best restaurants.

According to hearsay, Mike was born by spontaneous journalistic
combustion into Russian nobility by way of a Brooklyn tailor shop.
Superlatively shrewd and endowed with an extraordinary sense of
humor, a conversationalist capable of detachment, he had established
himself with the press and the aristocracy before anyone had a
chance to mention credentials.

For Mike was avowedly a charlatan, a frank and engaging ad-
mission which gave him a certain substantiality. Occasionally, he
went to jail for minor misdemeanors. The remainder of his time, as
his fortunes improved, he dined on Park Avenue, graced the "Met,"
fraternized with socialites and caused his friends to squirm or jubi-
late over his anomalous activities.

He had no shame when it came to cadging a meal from anyone
whom he thought could afford to pay the check. If I were sitting by

280

myself dining at the Tavern, I would look up and see Mike standing
in the lobby, looking at me so hungrily that I would feel compelled
to invite him to be my guest. He would accept in a manner that in-
dicated that I was being complimented. He would then take the
menu and a drink. He never imposed upon his host; and he returned
in friendly conversation more than the price of his entertainment.

For me, Mike represented the triumph of individualism, the sym-
bol of America's appreciation and enjoyment of top accomplishment
in almost any form and its willingness, also, to tolerate any situation
for the laughs.

At first, everyone took Mike for a joke, and the humor of his proce-
dure took him far. But Mike has always been deeply serious though
never revealing that he was, unless pressed. He had a philosophy, a
clean-cut one, as I recall, having to do with basic accomplishment
and the varying nature of fraud.

"I admit I'm phony," he said. Then he described his debts and his
unwillingness to work, with something of the insouciance of Saroy-
an's poet idler in My Heart's in the Highlands.

In appearance, Mike looks like a diminished hooligan, with not a
trace of the patrician in his irregular features. His mannerisms are
softish. His clothes are softish, with an attention to color slightly eso-
teric. His attitude is straightforward. He has humor, cultivation,
Imagination and daring.

Though he went through the greater part of his life acting a part,
when he had a chance to play one on the stage for a salary, he failed.

He couldn't dance, keep time or talk. Though all personality off the
stage, he shied, somehow, at clothing his artificial personality with
another personality. That was the only time apparently, that he knew
fear. He could face the courts but not an audience.

Since his stage engagement, Mike has become a rich restaurateur,
who snubs the friends who once paid his bills and lets them eat or
not eat. But by recently marrying his secretary, Mike demonstrated
that he is not ail snob.

Mike has contributed something to the humor of American social
life. In doing so, he doubtless carried himself over a tragedy, for
there has been a persistent rumor throughout the years that Mike has
pure Romanoff blood in his sensitive veins.

My theatrical interviewing came to a climax with Lee Shubert,
King of Broadway, occasional philanthropist, multi-millionaire, pur-

281

veyor of hundreds of plays, and the governing influence for years and
years in the lives of thousands of actors.

It was Lee Shubert who caused me to lose the opportunity to write
a really important theatrical biography. Prentice-Hall furnished the
occasion by asking me to do a volume about this veteran theatre
owner and producer; and I started out on that mission with high
hopes. Thirty minutes later, I was in his office, all eagerness to start
work at once. Our conversation went something like this:

"An important publisher, Mr. Shubert, has asked me to do a biog-
raphy about you."

"Yes? Several publishers have already asked the same thing. What
will you give me?"

"The book will be about you, Mr. Shubert. They don't intend giv-
ing you anything. It's not customary. Besides, we didn't think you
would be interested in book royalties."

"But I am."

"Then I can't give you an answer now, Mr. Shubert. I'll have to
talk that over with the publisher. I hope, though, that you'll give your
consent. There really should be a biography about you, one that
would cover your career."

"That would be in the past," he said curtly, "and not today."

"We'd have both. All sorts of anecdotes about people whom you
know and whose lives you influenced. It wouldn't be difficult. I could
come in every day for about an hour and talk with you."

"Oh, that wouldn't be necessary. My biography has been written
for some time."

'It has? But don't you want a fresh one? I'd like to bring it up-to-
date. Your own extraordinary life, and stories about people you
know, the pain and the grief."

"All that can go into one book. But what's the use of putting it into
your words? They'd be my words anyway. You'd have to use them.
I couldn't permit anyone else to rewrite them."

That was final, obviously. So I called up the publishers five minutes
later and told them, regretfully, that I couldn't do the book.

Some day, I hope, there will be a biography of Lee Shubert. It
would be historically invaluable.

282

CHAPTER 15

Han About Broadway

ilURING my teaching days and for some time after, my ability to
remember people was exceptional. I knew the names of from fifty to
two hundred students before a school week had passed. I knew the
names of faculty members, club members and athletes at sight.

Eventually, President Winthrop E. Stone learned of this facility;
and when I became a member of the University Club he appointed
me for a peculiar kind of service, interesting, subtle and secret. It
was this: every time that the University Club gave a party, I was to
stand next to him and Mrs. Stone, at the head of the receiving line,
and pretend that I was talking with them.

Then, as the guests approached, one after another, I would casu-
ally say to the President, "You remember Professor Clark, President
Stone, 7 ' thus acquainting him with the name of the guest to whom he
was speaking and saving him the embarrassment of introductions.

Remembering with me was simply an automatic process until one
unfortunate day when I heard someone say that retaining small de-
tails like names impoverished the memory for large ones. Character-
istically, frightened by a negative suggestion, I decided at once to
stop remembering names.

283

When I returned to the office I said to my secretary: 'Hereafter,
when I say X, 111 expect you to fill in the necessary information,
name, date or whatever is needed. I won't bother to supply anything
except the important names and data."

From that moment on, when dictating a story or writing one, I
used the following formula:

On X date

Jeanette Black and Morton Anderson will appear

At the X Theatre, Boston in

Spring Nights

With a cast including Frank Jenkins and X, X, and X.

Day after day and week after week, I continued this system with
the result that it became so habitual that the mere mention of a
name, instead of registering John Brown or Mary Smith, evoked an X.

The effects of this procedure varied. Jed Harris who used to visit
me often in my office was representing Billboard magazine at the
time and earning, perhaps, scarcely enough to keep alive. He was
tall, gaunt and nearly always unshaven or at least so blackbearded
that his hirsute appearance was later to become one of his personal
trademarks. He had a habit of talking somewhat desperately, a fact
that was disturbing to me who had just escaped from the chrysalis of
a small town and its conceptions of security.

After a while he stopped coming in and I heard from time to time
that he had this job and that one. Then I met him on the street one
afternoon and offered him a job as a press agent He tossed me a con-
temptuous look and I cursed myself for trying to befriend him.

Not until I had done an interview with Jed Harris for the Mirror,
did I realize that I had known him as Jacob Horwitz, and that the
very day I offered him a job as a press agent, he had joined the pro-
ducing ranks with a play that failed called Love 'em and Leave *em.

One instance of his temperamental procedure has caused me an
abiding regret. I asked him to do an interview for me on his directing
technique. As was my custom, I brought along my secretary so that
she could take down his words accurately. His comments were note-
worthy and would have been helpful, I felt sure, to all students of the
stage. He asked if he might see the piece and I took it to him after it
had been transcribed and typed.

"Your secretary did a fine job/' he said, "but she got two words
wrong/*

284

"Sorry, I'll gladly correct them."

"Don't bother, I don't believe I'll give out the interview."

There was no use urging him. Because of two words, I lost some-
thing of considerable value.

For many years Harris has been one of the picturesque personali-
ties of the American stage, and reputedly the chief character in S. N.
Behrman's play Meteor and Frederic Wakeman's The Saxon Charm.
As a producer, he accomplished a miracle in 1947 by bringing back
a complete failure, Henry James's Washington Square, and turning it
into a hit, The Heiress, within a few months after it had folded.

He lives on a yacht now. He finds it an easy form of existence be-
cause the tradesmen ride up and sell their wares without his having
to disturb himself by going out to buy them.

Instances of this sort of difficulty with names increased. At a cock-
tail party given by Madeline Austin, she introduced me to one of her
guests, and I found her so interesting that we talked together almost
an hour. When it was time to leave the party, I said to Madeline, "By
the way, who is the young woman with whom I was visiting? I didn't
get her name."

"That's odd," Madeline responded. "She just asked your name, say-
ing that she didn't hear it. The young lady is Margaret Wilson,
daughter of the former president of the United States!"

Another incident concerned with names has left a regrettable spot
in my memory. While in Paris recently, I got a call from George and
Swanna Ainsley, inviting me to have dinner with them. I wrote down
the appointment immediately and the name twice as fast, because
that was a name that always eluded me. When I jotted down the
addressNo. 2 Port Said that seemed to jar some past connection.
But, unable to fix it, I gave up, put the name and address in my wal-
let and showed up on the appointed date, knowing that I was going
to have an epicure's meal with the right wines and surroundings.

One floor, if I remember correctly, held drawing and dining
rooms. Swanna had an entire floor to herself and George had one
also, especially constructed to suit his personal wishes. The art treas-
ures I couldn't list. They were too fine for anyone except a museum
cataloguer's listing.

After the visit was over, riding back in a taxi, the address No. 2
Port Saidcame to my mind again. It was the former home of Ana-
tole France and there wasn't a scrap of paper, a pen or pencil to jog
my lagging memory into knowing I was on hallowed ground.

285

The climax of my self-imposed forgetfulness came when I was
lunching one day with Phyllis Pearlman at Sardi's. During the con-
versation I strove to remember the name of the manager of one of
her shows.

"Oh, it's odd that you don't recall the name," she said. "His first
name's Eddie."

"Good heavens," I said, "his last name is Sobel."

The habit of substituting X for a name had grown so strong that I
couldn't recall a name even when it was the same as my own.

Occasionally, doing an interview would bring me an unexpected
increment information on some subject apart from the theatre. Such
was the case with Lionel Barrymore, who gave me a sidelight on his
life that is not mentioned in his autobiography.

"I'm going to Europe for a vacation," he told me, "the first time in
many years. Nevertheless, I still remember the days when I lived
there as a student. I was studying art at the time, and I had my
quarters in the very building in which Gambetta once lived. Out in
the yard was a statue of the patriot, and people would go by day af-
ter day, looking at the place, studying the statue and talking of the
great hero.

"While prowling around the garden, I found, concealed under
some vines, a bronze tablet. I looked at it wonderingly for a moment.
What message would it have to give? Imagine my surprise when I
discovered that the tablet bore an inscription stating that Balzac had
also lived once in that very building. Yes, Balzac, the great writer of
novels, imperishable for their revelation of human nature."

His reference to Balzac turned Barrymore's thought toward the
French people.

"They are thrifty," he declared. "They love everything that is their
own a piece of earth, even their own socks. They use small bits of
material. They keep vegetables and fruits fresh by putting paper
bags around them, bags which are usually made of scraps of paper
which they paste together. And what do you think happened in the
neighborhood of Balzac's home? The people living in that district
preserved their vegetables in scraps of paper made of original Balzac
manuscripts which they had found lying in tie yard/'

Had it not been for a certain circumstance, Dead End by Sidney
Kingsley, one of the most successful plays of the period and subse-
quently a noteworthy motion picture, might never have had a second

286

performance. Here are the facts, which Norman Bel Geddes, the
producer of the piece, will hear now for the first time.

During rehearsals, reports that the play was full of foul language
circulated along Broadway and finally reached the ears of the erst-
while Gerry Society. This watchful organization, anxious to protect
the morals of the numerous children in the play, promptly sent scouts
to attend the rehearsals and they confirmed the truth of the reports.

The day of the opening, the organization closed in on us, issued a
complaint, and threatened to take the children out of the play and to
revoke the theatre license. The child players were highly important
in the story, in fact, indispensable. If the Gerry Society decided to
withdraw them from the cast, there would be no play. Thousands
had already been spent on the production.

Geddes was desperate and so was his staff. For a time, it seemed,
there would be no play.

While worrying over the possible financial loss that confronted us,
I happened to think of the advertising outlay and then of our adver-
tising agent, Lawrence Wiener. I knew he had political connections
and was well-informed on tricky matters of the theatre; just as I
anticipated, Lawrence knew at once what to do.

*T11 call in Harry Hershfield, the cartoonist," he said. "Harry's an
intimate friend of Mayor LaGuardia!"

That settled it. Harry and Lawrence had a talk with the proper
officials and obtained an official stay. We got permission to open the
show, but only on one condition: the morning after the opening, at a
definite time, Bel Geddes was to report with the script to the Mayor's
office, where it would be read and its language purged before the
curtain could go up on the second performance. The understanding
was that if Geddes did not accede, the play could not reopen.

Well, the play premiered that night and made, as everyone knows,
theatrical history. It was an enormous success and not one of the
critics offered an objection to a single speech or a four-letter word.
Nevertheless, Geddes was due to report next morning, as arranged,
for a censoring of the script.

Came the dawn, the early dawn; and the bright morning came, but
not Bel Geddes. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock. We waited and waited
until we were nearly frantic. He never showed up! Finally, I called
his home. The butler answered promptly and decisively, "Mr. Geddes
is asleep, and I will not disturb him. Those are my orders/'

After an hour, I called again, only to meet the same impasse. My

287

appeals were futile. The conscientious butler was obdurate. As the
hours slipped by, it became evident that Geddes was not going to
show up with the script and thus, while asleep, he was imperiling
not only his own fortunes and those of his associates, but also the
future of one of the most extraordinary plays of modern times.

Finally, I had an idea. I recalled that the night before, as soon as
the papers came out, I telephoned the El Morocco where Geddes and
his friends were celebrating the premiere. I remembered, too, that
he was in high spirits at the time and that when I read the criticisms
to him, he seemed unappreciative of his good luck.

These facts were enough to set me in motion. I called the butler
and said, "This is Mr. So-and-So of the F.B.I. I was at El Morocco
with Mr. Geddes last night. He told me that I should waken him
promptly at twelve today. He has an important appointment with me
which he dare not miss/*

The tone I employed, the reference to the F.B.I, and the precise
statement of the fabricated appointment seemed to prove my right
to speak to Bel Geddes and satisfied the butler. Without further ado,
he woke the producer, who finally arrived, frantic and sleepy, but in
time to save the ship.

As a corollary to all the grief that the Gerry Society caused, and as
a sidelight on sociological theory, it is interesting to add here that
though the children in Dead End spoke dirty words, and though they
associated in the play with racketeers, gangsters, murderers and
prostitutes, most of them went on decently with their lives and suc-
ceeded like Horatio Alger heroes.

When Dead End closed, most of the youngsters went straight to
Hollywood to act in the motion picture of the play. After that they
became the "Dead End Kids," growing to manhood in this series,
regularly employed, year after year.

Stage settings have always been a subject for discussion among
theatrical folk. There are those who go back to Shakespeare and de-
clare that the writer should be able to describe the scene so per-
fectly that no settings are required.

The course of each year seems to bring toore emphasis on scenic
effects and backgrounds.

David Belasco threw a scenic bomb into Broadway when he intro-
duced a realistic Child's Restaurant setting with actual cutlery, crock-
ery, tables and chairs. Swerving then to the highly imaginative, he

288

had his characters sit in front of the footlights as though they were
facing the burning embers of a mantelpiece in front of them.

The settings for Dead End were, I believe, the most realistic ever
devised. Sidney Kingsley used the orchestra pit for an imaginary
swimming pool into which the boy characters dived, and Norman
Bel Geddes constructed a complete street scene, already set up be-
fore the curtain rose, that had apparently the substantiality of mor-
tar, asphalt and steel.

The treadmill has lent motion to plays like Green Pastures. The
revolving stage has done wonders to cut down the time necessary for
changing scenes.

Thornton Wilder extended the area of the stage by having a small
tent-like structure placed in the orchestra pit where the heroine of
The Skin of Our Teeth enacted an emotional scene. But in Our Town
he dispensed entirely with scenery.

Other scenic artists covered the orchestra pit and used steps lead-
ing up and down to platforms placed there in order to give wider
expanse to the play.

Jo Mielziner has used screening with extraordinary success. El-
don Elder created a Paris railway station scene in the Legend of
Lovers, which combined realism with suggestion to an incomparable
degree.

There was the American 10-20-30-cent period of melodrama dur-
ing the nineties, with a cardboard train spouting smoke, speeding
across the stage, almost but not quite killing the heroine tied to the
tracks. There were novelty effects like the one in Polly of the Circus
which showed a departing caravan on the back drop, disappearing
into the night.

What might be regarded as a climactic example of breakdown of
realism could well be an infinitesimal detail. Recently, Maurice
Evans presented his video version of Hamlet, a presentation that
made TV history and elicited columns of praise. The presentation
approximated perfection except for one tragic occurrence as Ham-
let collapsed and died, the attendants carried his body forward, so
far forward, that the whole TV audience could see the eyes of the
dead prince flicker as the lids opened a bit and shut too soon.

I could not have earned my living if I hada't had entree to "21," an
entree so frequently used that Lucius Beebe began a column in the
Herald-Tribune by stating that I was the first person whom the
celebrities met when they visited the place. Its exclusive nature, as a

289

matter of fact, made it possible for me to proceed with my work un-
der ideal conditions.

About this time, an enterprising publisher came out with a high-
priced book called Who's Who in Cafe Society. Announced as an an-
nual publication, the book died after one edition. But it left a crystal-
lized record of the era and its homogeneity, for printed on the
selected pages were the names of playboys, models, Park Avenue-ites,
specialists in social diseases and press agents. And under the letter
"W" were the names of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. American
Cafe Society had formally recognized them and given them a new
niche. In 1950, the newspapers showed the former king receiving a
new honor. He was enjoying the privilege of kneeling before the
king of the New Orleans Mardi Gras. The Duchess had a comparable
distinction when Earl Wilson dubbed her sponsorship of a ball her
"American Coronation."

Recently, when the Duke and Duchess sailed for Europe, the
Duchess remarked to a reporter: "After all, France is our home/'

One night a New York society editor took me on his rounds from
night club to wedding and from dinner party to bar. I met colum-
nists, club press agents and other society editors.

The conversation was intimate, off-the-record stuff and the traffick-
ing in information was astonishing.

<e You give me an item and I'll swap you a good one, something that
I can't use on my paper, but fine for yours."

What were these items? Oh, bits of news about human beings
whose reputations, failures and successes would be condensed to a
printed line or half -line which would in some way, good or evil, af-
fect their futures and the futures of those whom they loved.

Drivel, yes. Based on snobbery, yes, as is everything from Phi Beta
Kappa key to a crown. And shamelessly I admit that I like a whiff of
the artificiality at times, the glamour, the display and the pretension.

Society is important useful because it helps man pretend that
he is not that humiliating thing an animal while knowing all the
while that he is one.

290

CHAPTER 16

An Interlnde in Journalism

Jo

'URNALISM, next to publicity, is the most fascinating work that
I know. It never lets down. News is forever in the making and the
reporter is always part of it. The City room is the crucible for litera-
ture. Everyone here is an author, real, potential or disappointed.
Everyone is looking forward to the day when he can quit work
and write the great American novel. The pressure varies from
emergency to collapse. The routine seldom changes: quick sandwich
and a cup of coffee at the lunch counter. Turning out a story. The joy
of rare recognition from the desk. Lending money. Trying to get it
back. Using the office phone to date up a girl. Fraternizing with the
men in the press room. Squawking about injustice. Talking union.
Crabbing about the City Desk.

The hardest job, however, is keeping up with the drinking. Liquor
I liked all kinds without ever getting drunk. I can't drink, though,
at any time and anywhere and I can't swill liquor by the hour. So, at
the outset, I had to manage a campaign that made me a good fellow,
generous at treating, yet wary about the barflies, my health, job, and
money. In all these matters I succeeded to a degree by playing with

291

my drinks and emptying them on the floor when no one was looking,
giving booze hounds a speedy "So long" on the pretense of an im-
portant engagement, and grabbing a soft drink whenever the al-
coholic series was growing too long.

Of course, I lost much in camaraderie and contacts, lost possible
jobs, too, and chances, perhaps, to sell manuscripts. I missed the fun
at Bleeck's playing Odd and Even and throwing darts. But I avoided
an ulcer and held to my slender line of accomplishment.

That was my life, though. I had always something to worry about.
And when there was nothing real to keep me stirred up, I invented
troubles. I was surprised, therefore, when fortune suddenly favored
me. For out of the cosmic unexpectedness of things, A. J. Kobler of-
fered me the position of dramatic critic on the Daily Mirror. I could
scarcely believe my senses. The thing that I wanted most had come
to me unsolicited. I could escape the publicity business. I'd have
leisure to write.

Kobler engaged me, but when I arrived at the Mirror offices, the
first thing I did was to request Emile Gauvreau, the managing editor,
to assemble the members of the dramatic staff. This done, I asked
everyone present if my acceptance of the job was agreeable to them
all. Their response was "yes" and I started in to work in a happy
spirit.

A, J. Kobler was my chief and I sometimes talked with him daily.
About fifty-seven years of age, he was a meticulous dresser and a
stickler for the latest modes from cravat to shoes. He liked to talk art,
for he had an extensive first-hand experience in purchasing great
numbers of paintings and antiques for William Randolph Hearst* s
personal collection. He had, also, a reportorial flair for generalities
and could use terms like baroque, rococo, Empire and Byzantine
with reasonable accuracy.

As a father and husband, he seemed affectionate, considerate and
proud. Yet, on the side, he was concepied continuously with the pur-
suit of young women and actresses. To further his aims, he some-
times called me into the office and introduced me to a girl visitor, tell-
ing her that I could get her a job on the stage. "See the manager," he
would command. "Make an appointment. We want to get this lovely
little girl behind the footlights."

I always answered that I would try, but when he actually put on
the pressure, I would rush out of the office, grab a taxi and go to

292

this or that theatre, warning the manager to nullify in advance any
requests that might come from me later for introductions.

As soon as I started working on the Mirror, I discovered its short-
comings. Kobler listened amazed and I made little progress.

One day I told him point blank that his paper contained practically
no news at all. He denied the fact and then began to whine that
he couldn't afford a better news service. After that, we argued day
after day about the same subject. Sometimes he would call me into
his office, talk a while, and then take me for the plate luncheon at
the Ritz, letting me pay taxi fare and hatcheck tips. Then he would
recommence the arguments, working himself into swirls of frenzy,
choke and choke until I feared he was going to have an epileptic
spell.

Drama was, of course, my department, but to prove to him how
much general news the Mirror lacked, I made up a dummy news-
paper.

"Do you see this?" I asked, as I handed him the sheet. "It's full
of important news in today's papers. The Mirror doesn't carry a line
of it, but our competitors do. This dummy is made up of clippings
from the columns of rival papers."

Kobler blinked his eyes and said nothing, but that night he de-
tailed the hardworking and gifted Charles Wagner, editor and poet,
to collect general news for the paper; and some time afterwards, he
bought a news service.

As I continued with my work, I found Kobler unpredictable. I
never knew what his mood would be except in the case of women.
One day he would praise me; the next he would blast me. One day,
he told me that I was too easy on a worthy play; the next, he de-
manded that I praise a bad play written by one of his friends.

At that time, I never anticipated how his behavior would make me
wish for death. For like most people, I suppose, I've toyed at times
with the idea of suicide. The night that I reviewed Ballyhoo, thanks
to Kobler, I was on the verge of killing myself.

The circumstances were unusual. While publicizing the Show Boat
revival, I also started work on Ballyhoo. The job was highly im-
portant to me, for I had accepted it, under exceptional conditions,
almost a year before at the annual Dutch Treat Club party.

In the midst of the fun, four men hailed me gaily: Russel Patterson,

293

the artist, Bobby Connolly, the dance director, Lewis Gensler, the
composer, and Norman Anthony, editor of Ballyhoo magazine, then
the naughty, successful publication of the hour.

"Bernard," they said, "we're going to put on a show some day and
you are going to publicize it"

Their faith in my ability pleased me and I could scarcely wait
until the play went into production. When that day did finally come
we had plenty of grief. Players entered the cast and left. Bob Hope,
a principal, was practically unknown. Willie Howard's material
needed editing. The Hartmans were thrown out because no one ap-
preciated their originality. Some of the sets had to be discarded be-
cause they didn't fit the stage measurements.

When we finally started for the try-out in Atlantic City, the show
was in such a muddle that the poor chorus girls actually rehearsed
an entire night.

There was one scene in the play that was extremely vulgar, full
of double-entendres; and we held many conversations on where to
place it. Finally, we decided to put it next to closing, so late that
the critics, who usually left before the final numbers in order to get
their copy in for the first edition, would not see it and so could not
condemn it.

Every vulnerable point in that revue I knew; and all my publicity
strove to gloss over and conceal the weaknesses.

Then, unexpectedly, came the job of critic of the Mirror. I re-
signed from Ballyhoo that day, but, as bad luck would have it, my
first review was Ballyhoo. I was full of the responsibility of my task;
doubly concerned also, because I had to evaluate something whose
value I knew already and whose bad features I understood too well.

The first act started off so well that I had hopes of being able to
write a favorable review. The audience was having a good time and
their comments were laudatory. Naturally, I was happy at what
looked like a hit. But while I stood in the lobby, Kobler stepped up to
me and said, "Sock it to them hard in your review. This is a filthv
show."

I protested.

"You sock it to them hard," he repeated, savagely ignoring my pro-
test "Don't give me an argument. I'm telling you to pan them hard.
Earl Carroll, I'm informed, is bringing in a dirty play; and if we don't
land hard on Ballyhoo, we can't land on him."

I begged him to let me write a fair appraisal. I appealed to him

294

all through that terrible intermission, but without success. So when
the play was over, I went to the Mirror to give it an unfair panning.

This was my ignominious start as a dramatic critic. I would never
be able to explain to my friends, the boys who put on the show, that
I wrote my criticism under orders. Worse yet, I wouldn't dare to
resign my Mirror job then and there because everyone would say that
I had failed through sheer terror over the new assignment.

Somehow I wrote that review and when it was finished, I went
home. There I began drinking whiskey to forget my distress in sleep.
But the hours passed and I couldn't sleep. I walked the floor, and
finally, desperate, I went into my parents* room and woke them up,
saying, "I've sold my soul for a mess of pottage/*

They tried to comfort me, but I couldn't be comforted. I went out
into the street and walked and walked from two in the morning till
almost five when the first editions came out. Nervously, I opened
the Mirror to my review, to sear my soul by reading the lines I'd
written. But space limitations had come to my rescue. Most of the
bad paragraphs I'd been forced to write were out. I could live!

When I went to the theatre that night, I found my friends waiting
for me.

"Boy, you did swell by us," they cried. "That was a grand review.
We can never thank you enough/'

I gasped as if I were coming out of a strange dream.

"You're a real friend," they insisted. "You didn't know it, but
Russel was standing in back of Kobler last night when he was giv-
ing you orders. He heard you fighting for us. We think you did a
damn swell job to treat us so well."

Relieved and happy, I made my way back to the office.

The first year at the Mirror passed by and my contract was re-
newed with a slight raise in salary. The second year ended also with
a renewal. So I took courage to ask for a vacation, the first in two
years, without a single day's rest. The vacation was granted, and ex-
tended to include two weeks due me from the preceding year. That
arrangement would give me time to go to Europe, to get my first
view of Venice, Florence and Rome.

When I mentioned this idea to Kobler, he said to my surprise,
"We'll go together."

Though there was scarcely time to wire Washington for a special
passport, I managed to get all the necessary visas and all my pack-

295

ing done in time to catch the boat. The trip meant complete aban-
donment to sightseeing and pleasure, forgetfulness of quarrels and
anxieties about the Mirror.

When I returned to my desk, at the end of my vacation, I en-
countered a number of major surprises. Mr. Kobler supplied the first.
He took me to the Ritz for lunch and when we arrived there he asked
suddenly:

"What do you think of bringing Arthur Brisbane over to the
Mirror?'

To bolster the paper, Kobler had been bringing over various writ-
ers from time to time, including the incomparable Robert Benchley.
This fantastic addition to the staff, however, bowled me over.

"Ridiculous," I said. "We don't need him. Besides, he's competi-
tion. He's on the American. Don't think of doing such a thing."

"I see," said Kobler, giving me one of his cryptic, benignant
smiles.

My astonishment can well be judged, therefore, when I discovered
a day or so later that Kobler had been put off the paper and that
Brisbane was the new publisher. My hopes naturally rose. Accus-
tomed to changing my assignments almost every day to suit Kobler's
whim, I welcomed the change. Perhaps Brisbane would do some-
thing for the good of the paper instead of using it as a pawn for per-
sonal purposes. Perhaps, too, he would eventually establish order
in the drama department so that the same news would not appear
in duplicate and my own position would be defined.

But Brisbane did not effect these happy changes. He was inter-
ested mainly in his editorial page. He had no time for anyone on
the paper except Winchell, the two of them forming a mutual ad-
miration society.

That the standard of the paper did not improve will be evident
to anyone who studies the files preceding and during his regime.
The editorials continued to be sloppy and melodramatic.

To gain subscribers Brisbane brought two female woodchoppers
to the city, extolling their virtues. Worse yet, he revived the obsolete
"Advice to Lovers" department.

From the foreman and others, I learned how Brisbane carried in
his motorcar a dictaphone or typewriter hooked up in a way that
kept it from swerving. As he rode through the streets he picked up
ideas and spouted them, instantly, into editorials. His material ar-

296

rived, as a result, in terrible condition and had to be thoroughly
edited before it could go into print.

Oddly enough, I never met Brisbane. As he passed through the
office, gray-haired, his heavy body stooping, he gave the impression
of not hearing or seeing anything that was going on. Only once did
I talk to him. That was on the occasion of a Theatre Guild opening
when he called up suddenly, asking me to buy him six seats.

Of course, I couldn't get them at the last minute, but he called
again and again, scarcely giving me time to implore the Guild man-
agement for help and petition Lawrence Langner.

Finally, when I informed Mr. Brisbane that the tickets weren't
available because they were sold, long in advance, by subscription,
his voice grew angry and threatening.

"Find out for me," he said, "who owns the theatre in which the
Guild presents its plays. I'll soon put that organization in its place."

Fortunately, for the American drama, the Guild owned the
building.

The day that Brisbane died, the New York papers praised him ad
nauseam. Only F.P.A. was brave enough to come out with a frank
appraisal: ". . . Arthur Brisbane hath died, a great influence in
journalism, and more, I think, a bad one than a good one."

The rest of the Mirror story is brief. Kobler met me on the street
one afternoon, and said, "Your days on the Mirror are numbered.
Your worst enemy's best friend is coming back to take Gauvreau's
place/*

He was right. Walter Howey returned to the paper; and soon
after, he called me into the office and said, "Sorry. We'll have to dis-
pense with your services. We can't afford so many reporters."

I didn't trouble to tell him that I was not a reporter, and that my
contract named me acting critic. I just left.

People often asked me why I had stayed on with the odds against
me at the outset. The answer is that as I saw conditions remaining
there was the only thing I could do. If I had left at once, people
would have said the job threw me. If I had stayed a year and not
renewed my contract, they would have said I had been discharged.
I felt that I had to stay long enough to prove that I could do the
work. Besides, conditions at the end of the second year were so much
better that the chances of doing good work, unmolested, were prom-
ising. Hope buoyed me. It was the job I longed for all my life. I
hated to give it up.

297

John Mason Brown said I should have given up the job the moment
Kobler began to dictate to me, regardless of what construction
Broadway or anyone else except myself put on my resignation. He
was right.

Thanks to my work on the Mirror, I met George Jean Nathan and
we became friends. To me, he is the perfect theatre enthusiast, the
snost constructive of this era. I doubt, indeed, if anyone concerned
with the footlights in this generation lives so completely in the land
of the green cloth. Though he is conversant with the world of poli-
tics, law, war and peace, the dominating force in his mind is always
the theatre. He knows that it is not the real world. Yet it is for him
the only thing real, the art that is continuous through the ages.
George thinks, eats and sleeps theatre. No nuance of a performance
escapes him. So sensitive is he to acting talent that his active eye
catches glimpses of a chorus girl's latent potentialities during a
routine number. Proof of this extraordinary theatrical eye came to
me unexpectedly.

"Bernard/' he once said between drinks at '21,* "can you get me
an introduction to the little dancer in that musical at the Imperial? 7 '

That he should want to meet a chorus girl was surprising. Never-
theless, I arranged the introduction, and five minutes after he said to
her:

"I watched you through that second number in the show. I noticed
the way that you moved your hands, your facial expression, your
sincerity. I think you should play Alice. I'm going to suggest that
you do the part for the next Wonderland revival. I can see you. . . ."

"You are startling," the girl interrupted. "I've always wanted to
play Alice. I've seen the play many times with that idea in mind. If
the word were only new, Mr. Nathan, I would say that you're
psychic."

George Jean Nathan was right. He's almost always right. His early
books on tiie theatre steered a whole generation of theatre lovers to
the right road and to a knowledge of the wider aspects of the theatre
which the continental dramatists opened.

Nathan, handsome, continuously young, a man of fine sensibility,
enjoys the world and calmly observes its complex activities. Like
Euclid, he can retire to his tent when he finds a war outside and
there give himself over to the thing that means most to him and
much also to the world, if an art is to be sustained and preserved.

298

The thing that means most to him is plays, players and playwrights
and their technical, aesthetic and box office evaluation.

Once away from the Mirror, I had plenty of time to ruminate.
When I strove to retrace the history of dramatic criticism in the
dailies it seemed to me that longevity of even the finest critics is
something of a menace to the art of the stage. No matter how liberal
their views and no matter how determined they are to keep open-
minded and an courant, the very continuity of their personality even-
tually exerts an undue pressure on the public. The veteran critics*
opinions should always be available, but newcomers, guests or
visiting critics, members of a changing staff, should have their chance
too. The newcomers would help develop an open-minded public by
offering them new points of view. Such a procedure doesn't mean
giving up the old. It means finding in some way a place for the new-
comer. This idea came to me very clearly when talking one day to
Burns Mantle.

"Percy Hammond and I," said Burns, "were not brought up to
recognize the current type of realistic play as a play."

His comment indicated Burns's impartiality and his recognition
of change. But it didn't compensate for adverse criticism, even his
own, of a type of play that was beyond him; that is, not in keeping
with the era to which he was accustomed.

The old order changeth, and there ought to be a change!

For a short while, after leaving the Mirror, I thought that I would
be a Broadway producer. I found a play written by a friend of the
Roumanian queen, Marie, which gave a clear idea of how royalty
lived. There were very human incidents in which, for instance, the
titled children revenged themselves on a hated, visiting uncle by
forcing him to relinquish the opera which he loved for the sake of
inspecting the drab waterworks system.

I delivered the play to Johnny Shubert He read it, liked it and
immediately set up a partnership, a partnership in which he put up
all the money and I put up nothing whatsoever. Yet from that minute
on, he gave me the most considerate attention as if I were an equal
investor.

Adrienne Morrison was the play agent and before a week passed,
she was telling us who should be in it, how it should be staged, where
and when. By this time, die play seemed to belong to her, certainly
not to us.

299

Disgusted, Johnny decided to give up the production, but before
doing so, he called me in for a conference and with his customary
consideration, asked me if I was willing to withdraw. My "yes" was a
quick one.

Producing plays, however, was still on my mind when two months
later Mrs. George Hamlin Shaw and I had dinner at "21" At the next
table sat Dorothy Fields and her husband, Eli Lamb. During the
general conversation I said to Dorothy, "What play are you going
to do next?"
: 1 don't know yet*

For some reason or other, I blurted out, "Why don't you write
about Annie Oakley?"

"What about her?"

Full of the subject, I started in at once talking about Annie's ex-
ploits as a shooting expert and Buffalo Bill. Mrs. Shaw followed up
with several anecdotes.

Months after, the opening of Annie Get Jour Gun was announced,
but because of some mechanical complications, the premiere was
switched from New York to Philadelphia.

Elinor Loeb invited me over for the big event and during dinner
she said, "I had a difficult time getting tickets."

"Why son asked.

"I couldn't get good seats, only the last row, but just as I was leav-
ing the theatre I saw Dorothy Fields. I ran up to her and com-
plained.

"Dorothy said, 'Too bad/ not paying much attention.

" Tm greatly disappointed/ I persisted, "because I invited Bernard
Sober

" Is that so? 9 said Dorothy, her mood changing abruptly. Til see
what I can do/

"She returned a few minutes later and handed me two tickets in
the third row on the aisle."

" We want to see Bernard when he comes in,' said Dorothy. "We'll
be waiting for him.' "

And sure enough, when Elinor and I entered the theatre, there
stood Irving Berlin, Dorothy Fields and Richard Rodgers. Dorothy
rushed over to me and said, "You know, Bernard, that you are the
granddaddy of this show."

For the moment I was puzzled.

300

"You remember/' continued Dorothy, "the night that you told me
about Annie Oakley. Well, I went straight home and started my re-
search on the musical." :

Then I recalled the incident at "21." Even though I didn't get a
play produced with Johnny Shubert, I managed, by indirection, to
get a hit on Broadway.

Unheroic is the story of my business and social relations with
Walter Winchell. It has all the small-scale detail of a Jane Austen
novel, the poignant pettiness, the feline intrigue, the small suspense.

His entrance into my life was unexpected. He called "Hello" to
me one day about thirty years ago, as I was walking down Broadway;
and when I turned around, I saw a young man who reminded me of
a college youth, his features regular and attractive, his smile genial,
his manner so intimate that I took it for granted that we knew each
other.

He was writing then for a little weekly vaudeville magazine which
gave him some of the contacts and some of the training that were
to mean so much to him when he started his astonishing career on
the Graphic.

The effect of his first Monday column on that sheet woke up
Broadway to startled self-consciousness. People could scarcely be-
lieve what they saw in print. All the old secrets of personal sex re-
lationswho was sleeping with whomwere exposed to the public
gaze. Only Broadway Brevities and Town Topics had been pur-
veying that sort of information up to then.

If Winchell were to keep on talking this frankly, no one would
be safe. A fellow wouldn't be able to escort a girl across the street
without having everyone think that . . .

The buzz of comment and criticism and alarm spread from Broad-
way to Park Avenue.

"Can this Winchell do the trick again? Can he get enough material
for another week? If he continues to turn in more of that personal
stuff, somebody will sue him or punch him in the face. The idea
of exposing facts about lawsuits, discharges, engagements, preg-
nancies. . . ."

Yes, shocking, but soon the public began to look forward to Mon-
day with the voracity of a drug fiend. Everyone was wildly curious
to know the low-down on other people's sins and breakdowns while

301

terrified that his own name might show up and his secret misdeeds
be exposed in juxtaposition to recommendations for books and plays,
wisecracks, and freshly-coined innuendoes.

By the time Winchell reached the Mirror, he was an institution,
and the subsequent story of his rise to fame is, of course, old hat
now. He became a journalistic phenomenon, his early important
sponsors being Burton Rascoe and Donald Freeman of Vanity Fair.
Burton, always a discoverer of new talent, championed his earliest
columns. Freeman commissioned him to write articles for Vanity
Fair and introduced him to people with names.

At that time, Walter and I were next-door neighbors at the Whitby
on West 45th Street he with June and the first two children, and I
with my parents whom I had brought here from Lafayette.

Our relations were friendly and continuous. Often when his chil-
dren were ill, mother would send in hot soup. Daily I'd drop in about
noon to hear Walter talk about his column, his editorial requests for
articles, his worries, and his insomnia.

"Bills, rent, bills, rent," he'd lament while June toiled away with
the children, a lovely-looking mother, patient and capable.

Soon, Walter's financial worries were superseded by ample funds,
though not with an accompanying generosity. When the large checks
came in, Walter still let me pay for lunch tabs; and when at Christ-
mas I gave him a couple of bottles of gin, he complained: "Why is it
that other people always get ties and scarves and I just get liquor?
I don't even drink/'

*Tm sorry, Walter. I'll send you ties," I said.

"If you do, 111 give you back the gin."

He got the ties, but I never got the gin back.

Those who had connections, savoir-faire and growing or estab-
lished importance like Arthur Kober, George Jean Nathan, Percy
Hammond, he praised, exploited and clung to. Others he dropped;
and though he was dependent from the first for material on press
agents, he usually referred to them with contempt.

That the seemingly modest, friendly man would turn out this way,
I never anticipated, and I don't believe that anyone else did. So those
morning talks with him were enjoyable, something to remember. I
saw the miracle happening before my eyes, the miracle that I had
longed to achieve myself the creation of an author. Never was I
envious. I took pride rather in his achievement, being still, at heart,
a teacher.

302

When the column, "Things I Never Knew Till Now," began,
Walter's newly-developed interest in diction and grammar gave me
the chance to supply him with data. My helpful instincts had full
play now. I could direct, without fear of repressing. He absorbed
suggestions like a fire-eater and took on education with the speed of
a conflagration.

Just ^when Winchell was coming into the big money, word came to
me that he had dismissed Rose Bigman, assistant to his Girl Friday.
The news bothered me, and though I could give her only a pittance
of a salary, I asked her to come and be my secretary. Fortunately, she
accepted the offer and became one of my great friends. Her com-
petence and understanding were certain. Her finest trait, however,
is loyalty. Though she had worked for Winchell only a short time,
her loyalty and admiration for him were so strong that I instinctively
refrained from referring to him in her presence throughout the
years, I would not hurt her by impinging on her ideals.

When Winchell called up one day and asked me to send Hose
back to him, I did so, in spite of my reluctance. Her subsequent
record with him is unmatched for length of time and trustworthy al-
legiance to duty.

When I told him about the Round Table at the Algonquin Hotel,
he asked me to take him there. The Algonquin was somewhat stand-
offisli In those days and getting reservations was a minor feat.
Lucidly, the same day that I took Walter there, Burton Rascoe and
Arthur Kober were present. Burton asked all of us to write pieces
for Morrow 9 s Almanac, a novelty work he was to edit. ;

Bxtt ^when we returned to the Whitby, Walter began his new, yet
now customary, complaint: "Look, I'm worked to death. No sleep all
night and yet some editor wants me to write a magazine article. I
don't know what to write about. Besides . . /'

"For God's sake, Walter, don't turn down Burton or any other
editor. It's the chance of a lifetime. Call him at once. Well work
out something together."

And we did, then and many times afterward. First I'd give him a
suggestion or two. Sometimes I'd prepare an outline, a lead or a
few paragraphs. Then he'd do all the rest himself, emphasizing his
individual point-of-view, decorating it with Winchellisms and ma-
chine-gun phraseology.

Once I wrote for him a 6000-word piece on chorus girls, which he
worled over and polished, and which was later published under the

303

title "The Merry Magdalens." Arthur Kober was with him when my
material arrived and he told Walter that I could have sold the ma-
terial myself.

The harder we worked and there were many other friends then
who helped him and gave him materialthe harder he worked. When
he came to me as he did to others, and said, "Please write a guest
column so that I can take the week-end off at Atlantic City," I sat
down at once and turned out a signed column, never dreaming that
one of these signed columns was to cause, eventually, a long enmity
between us.

I took him to private homes, like the Schuettes*, or told him stories
about parties, to give him an idea of social life. But in less time than
it takes to tell and this fact had its humor his recommendations
were the guide to the right restaurants, his prefaces were the selling
point for books, his quotes were the inducement to see plays.

As a result, Winchell became for a time the great leveller of Ameri-
can taste. If he said a thing was good, straightway everyone ac-
cepted his judgment. Sometimes his judgments were based on first-
hand acquaintance, sometimes on partial views, and sometimes on
proxy. Yet out of these, sadly enough, has come to a degree the
American standard of appreciation.

He took himself seriously from the start. Thus, on finding him
so naive about the business of writing, I was surprised when I found
out that he was exhibiting around town his letters from editors, his
checks, and his notes of praise. People laughed, of course, but they
admired also and continued to collect items for him.

My own experiences during Prohibition enabled me to give him
tips about swanky parties taking place at the piers in the suites of
foreign ships' officers where all sorts of liquor were always on tap.

Columning now was being taken seriously. Rascoe and others
were already discussing its origin from the Greeks down to Broad-
way Brevities and Town Topics. Forgotten incredibly fast, in part
due to his efforts, were Winchell's predecessors: Bert L. Taylor,
S. Jay Kaufman, F.P.A., Karl Kitchen and O. O. Mclntyre.

Before long he was a dramatic critic, a vaudeville headliner, a
co-author, a motion picture and radio star. He went to first nights
with gangster Owney Madden. He sat with an orchid in a box oc-
cupying the seat adjacent.

His influence on journalism and social life was as certain as it was
swift. He speeded up the entire business of news-gathering and

304

publication. He added color to the vernacular with his own form of
slang. He revived the old rivalry for scooping. He set a standard for
daring reporting. Ignoring the individual's right to personal privacy,
he went straight to the womb for an advance story. The fact that a
woman might have two wombs did not become public information
until 1953. If Winchell could only have known this long ago, how he
could have doubled his announcements!

Simultaneously, he tore down the Fourth Estate tradition that no
newspaperman should ever reveal a discrediting story about another.
He enlarged the scope of news by making unmentionable subjects
general subject matter. He made the matter of libel, already highly
involved, more complex than ever, contriving, through his tricky
phraseology (a stunt for which Emile Gauvreau takes credit) to
print news that was supposedly libelous. Through his own syndicate
columns, he increased the importance of syndication. He gave honest
journalism a back seat, however, because in his early days he seldom
confirmed and seldom rectified in full. He debased reporting by
farming out news assignments to anyone from hatcheck girl to ex-
politician who chose to collect them.

The social and personal effects of his column were immeasurable.
He helped, through his irreverent notes on the so-called 400, to break
down crystallized snobbery. At the same time, unfortunately, in the
publicizing of infidelities, he retarded the growing trend for free
speech about sex, for his peephole attitude was anachronistic and
nursed the Victorian ideal of sinful. He must have killed many bud-
ding romances by making the parties self-conscious, embarrassed
about their published feelings before they were sure of themselves.
He injured writers by announcing the publication of their books be-
fore acceptances. The harm he did to individuals must have been
incalculable, for much of his columnistic success was built on men-
tioning other people's unhappiness.

The Ziegfeld arena was a rich source of material for Winchell. It
was the cause, also, of our first quarrel. He asked me to give him a
tip on the marriage of a certain girl; and I refused to disclose the
facts because I never gave out a story that broke a confidence with
stage people or that might harm them. My refusal made him sulk,
but the next time I failed to help him, he threatened me.

That incident took place the day that Jack Donahue was buried.
After the services, as I walked down the steps of the cathedral,

305

Winchell came up to me and said pleasantly, "You know that piece
you wrote for me in the Graphic about the Ziegfeld girl? I'd like
to use it again/'

"I'm sorry, Walter," I replied. *T11 give you anything else but that.
Ziegfeld material is something that I want to use myself. Besides,
the article carried my by-line."

Winchell wasn't listening, however. He was just getting angry.
Very angry. He cursed me and said something ugly about getting
even. After that, he didn't speak to me for many weeks, and never
mentioned me or anything that I did in his column. Eventually, as
a result, his enmity got on my nerves. I gave him the article, which
he published, with sundry Winchellisms but largely as written
originally and under his own name.

Above all, Winchell nurtured an American tendency to exploit the
superlative, the most successful philanderer, the prize crook, the
champion of what-have-you. In this equivocal achievement, he was
tops.

When I was called in for the Mirror job, as I said before, I asked
first for the good will of the staff. That given, I thought all was well.
But I was due for a surprise.

They said yes, without reservation. Five minutes later, just when
I was about to write down my signature as first critic, a Hearst offi-
cial came in and said, "It's true that Winchell is in a sanatorium
and that he'll never come back, but his contract reads: 'First Critic/
So, for purely technical purposes, Sobel, we better sign you up as
Acting Critic. It's the same thing, anyway."

Dope that I was, I believed him and signed. The day after came
the usual ballyhoo: a picture of me in the paper and a story of my
training and previous work. By the time I'd taken the job formally,
however, Winchell to my astonishment walked into the office. He
was in perfect health and straightway took his place as first critic,
making me automatically a second-stringer.

Every day after that was for me a day of guerilla warfare, with
Winchell telling me, through Kobler, what to do and what not to do.
If I wrote one sort of column, I was told to change it it was an en-
croachment on Winchell's premises. As a result, I never had a chance
to gain a perspective on reviewing.

For some of the things that Winchell did to me, I cannot blame
him entirely. Even though he was famous and successful enough not
to have been hurt by my involuntary intrusion on his territory, he

306

still had to fight Kobler and Gauvreau. If he had chosen, though, he
could have given me a place also without harm to himself; for around
town he had discussed frequently his dislike for dramatic criticism
and had said that he was going to give it up.

By the time that Stanley Walker came to the paper, Winchell was
friendly with me again. So I took the opportunity to have a talk
with him, explaining the conditions on which I had come to the
paper. I told him that I would never have joined the staff if I had
known that he was still a member.

Winchell is a self-appointed Diogenes, who does as he pleases
while carrying a lantern for prying on others. His energy is inspiring.
He knows no fatigue. His imagination is always on fire. He is a step
ahead of everyone else, creative, ready with copy.

Much of what is here written, I included in a piece for the New
Yorker. The magazine returned it with this letter:

Mrs. White has asked me to return this to you. We all think
it's very interesting, and appalling as a collection of the kind of
things the boys write about Broadway. However, ever since this
magazine started Mr. Ross has had a horror of writing about
newspapers and newspapermen, and especially gossip columns.
He thinks, and rightly, I guess, that it's an extremely special sub-
ject, of interest only to Broadway and those in the profession. I
would like very much to see this printed somewhere because it
certainly ought to be said, but I'm afraid it's not for us.

Sincerely,
Wolcott Gibbs.

Later, the New Yorker changed its editorial policy and published
a piece about Winchell, far more devastating than mine. WinchelTs
retaliation is a story in itself, following Harold Ross, the publisher,
to the grave.

To me, Winchell was a symbol of oppression. One did not dare
fight him back because doing so meant the possible loss of both living
and reputation. It meant the loss of reputation, for if he chose to
publish an insinuation, no matter how ugly or how false, it stuck in
the mind as does all slander. If he retracted, he did so adroitly, in-
tensifying the original insinuation or making the offended one appear
ridiculous.

His enmity definitely affected my livelihood because in his early
days inclusion in his column meant the boosting of my plays. He

307

jumped, too, so speedily into power, that he was soon in my own
backyard, calling Ziegfeld "Flo" and telling him how to run his
shows.

He invaded the home with pornographic suggestions by calling
attention to certain lines on certain pages in certain books. "See Page
440," says Margaret Mead of this type of procedure, "until Page 440
becomes greasy and ragged."

His practice of tipping off the mystery theme in "Stop the Music'*
was unfair from the standpoint of business methods; it was the kind
of scooping which would make him he who fatuously emphasizes
the value of minor scoops squeal to the heavens.

He wilfully harms hundreds of human beings with his blanket
aspersions. Concerning his practice, Variety said recently:

"Walter WinchelTs expose, by initials, of some surprising (sus-
pect) names of legit pressagents, producers, et al, has resulted in a
Broadway guessing game, also some misidentifications."

His is a history of evanescent accomplishment: his word-coinages
are forgotten and so is his fight against dialecticians. Danny Kaye
is the valiant response to this crusade, voiced in superb French
accents. Jack Pearl is back on radio. Peter Donald is a favorite.

His endorsements of books, like his recommendations of plays,
were for a time sure-fire. Now he's rarely quoted.

In order to monopolize a hold on gags, he strove to blot out Ben-
nett Cerf, who became, subsequently, the outstanding author of
humor in the history of Laughter.

His personal feuds have resulted in syndicate cut-downs.

Winchell is the apostle of liberty, but, according to report, carries,
or did carry, a gun. He addresses Mr. and Mrs. America, but alleg-
edly shirks the duty of every free man voting.

His most far-reaching accomplishment and the most vicious was
his glorification of the gangster. He courted underworld characters,
and cited them in his columns, his publicity giving the nation,
especially youth, the impression that the top criminal is a hero
worthy of emulation.

But he hasn't been able to hold his prized proximity to gang-
sterdom.

He besought Three Finger Luchese to give himself up, but that
gentleman disregarded Walter's pleadings, and gave himself up
voluntarily.

During the recent Micky Jelke case, he revived one of his old f ea-

tures his publicized love for his wife. The occasion was his pro-
ducing an unwilling witness to court, Miss Grace Appel.

Commenting on his achievement, Time Magazine said, on March
3, 1953:

"Unfortunately for the defense (and for Winchell) however,
'Mystery Witness' Appel had nothing much to say, the chief mystery
being why the defense had bothered to call her."

This feat furnished the occasion for a panegyric on the devoted
husband. Walter has often been in the society of a lady not his wife,
a matter of harmless appearance for which he has persecuted scores
of men and women. He ended his column with these words:

"The fact is, that for a woman to say she loves Walter Winchell
is no attack on her credibility the most beautiful woman in the
world has been saying that for the past thirty years and I believe
every word she says she is my wife, June/'

Never did I ask Winchell for one favor throughout all the years.
What did he do for me? For the guidance, the concrete help, the
telegrams he requested in time of family trouble, the loyal friend-
ship? The answer is simple: Three or four lines of praise, as his flies
will show, at the insistence of two of my friends.

309

CHAPTER 17

Tto Nineteen-Forties

P

OR me, the Forties opened with a personalised .book
"Copyright, 1940, by Crown Publishers."

The nature of this volume, The Theatre Handbook, 111 describe
later. Just now I want to say that on the dedicatory page this line
appeared: "For Jean Tennyson, Beautiful, Wise and Exacting."

Back of this dedication is a fabulous story and a friendship that
approximated kinship. The relationship began with Adrienne, my
first musical comedy assignment. Vivienne Segal was the prima
donna; and she was one of the two or three famous ones of that era,
having already starred in The Blue Paradise, The Little Whopper,
and The Yankee Princess.

That was away back in 1920 and Vivienne, who returned to the
stage in the revival of Pal Joey in 1952, had not changed perceptibly
in all those years. Her Dresden China figure with the small waist had
the same engaging proportions. Her voice was still lovely; and her
humor, grace and skill won citations for superlative achievement.

The first day that I entered the office of Louis Werba, the pro-
ducer, to begin work on Adrienne, my efforts to concentrate were

310

halted by a duet an impromptu rehearsal by Vivienne and Harry
Fender in the adjoining room. Two more beautiful voices never
graced musical comedy. Their harmonizing and the melody bowled
me over. I sat transfixed until I realized that I was there not to listen,
but to work.

Work, though, was a pleasure: conversing with the comics, Rich-
ard Carle and Billy B. Van, listening to the ensemble, watching the
dances, and turning all that I heard and saw into copy.

Pleasant, too, were my chats with Max Steiner, the orchestra
leader, who was eventually to be the first composer to give im-
portance to the motion picture score and who dominated Hollywood
music for many years.

After the show opened and had been running for some weeks, the
company manager, Harry Bryant, invited Jean Tennyson and me
to have dinner with him at a German restaurant. Jean talked little
until the end of the meal when she told me that she was the com-
pany understudy.

"But I thought you were a show girl," I blurted out, "and. . . ."
"That's the usual practice," interposed Harry. "Understudies al-
ways have a small part in a musical until there's an emergency. Then
they step into the leading parts."

The emergency came more quickly than anyone anticipated. Viv-
ienne suddenly got married and left the company. Replacing her in
the singing-acting role was difficult, so difficult, in fact, that after
trying out several prominent stars, we finally sent to London for
Madeline Collins, a prima donna with a big reputation.

After the lady arrived and had gone on twice, we knew that she
couldn't play the role, and Werba was, of course, desperate.

"You go on, Jean, in her place Wednesday matinee," he said, just
like that, without preliminaries. "We'll see what you can do."

What Jean did was astonishing. She played the part, letter-perfect
in songs and dialogue, and looked so blonde and beautiful that the
audience was captivated.

At the conclusion of the matinee, a moment after the audience
had left the house, I turned around and noticed that the curtain was
going up again; and there, standing in the center of the stage, stood
Jean surrounded by the entire company. Everyone was cheering and
applauding.

It was like the stage stories that I'd read: Understudy makes good.
Gets the star role. That happy circumstance, however, occurs rarely

311

on Broadway. There are only a few other important instances in the
musical comedy world Lulu Glaser, Julia Sanderson, Grace Moore.
From that moment on, I was Jean's slave and proof of my devotion
came out in the first publicity story I sent out about her and that
ran something like this:

A musical stowaway found in the ensemble of Adrienne has
been transformed into the prima donna. This sensational change
occurred yesterday afternoon at the Cohan Theatre. Madeline
Collins, English prima donna, was unable to appear because of
an attack of laryngitis. Louis F. Werba, the producer, sent word
to Jean Tennyson to go on immediately.

Without any protest whatsoever, the young woman obeyed,
went through the part perfectly, songs, dances and dialogue,
and created such a sensation that she was given a length of the
play contract.

"It was my only chance," she declared, "to get a prima donna
role, for I had no friends or influence on Broadway, despite my
experience. I began studying the title part of Adrienne in secret,
from the day I entered the cast, hoping all the while for an
emergency which would give me a chance to play the role my-
self. I was a behind-the-scenes stowaway."

The words "stowaway prima donna" swept Broadway. The public
crowded in to see and hear her, and they weren't disappointed. She
carried the show successfully through the remainder of the run and
then toured the country.

4 But wherever she was, Jean was a happy part of my life. She has
shared her success with me, her hopes, fears and ambitions, from
those days until now.

Before she left New York, I put on another stunt that had to do
with curtain calls. It ran something like this: the traditional curtain
call has no longer any value and is not fully expressive of the star's
appreciation of applause. A curtsey or bow is not enough. Instead of
a token gesture, the audience should receive a concrete acknowl-
edgment of the player's thanks. Instead of curtseying, a star should
throw flowers or candy over the footlights*

The morning after this story appeared in the papers, an alert candy
manufacturer offered to supply the candy favors, free of charge;
and he followed up this offer by sending pounds and pounds of
chocolates for every performance. Finally, he had to discontinue his
312

generous contributions because the cleaners complained about the
tinfoil wrappings which littered up the floor.

Toward the end of the run, Jean called me to her dressing room
and introduced me to a man who planned on taking her out for an
after-theatre supper, Dr. Camille Dreyfus, president of the Celanese
Corporation of America.

After the performance, Jean asked me if she should accept the in-
vitation and I urged her to do so, a bit of advice that eventuated in
an ardent though complicated courtship. For Jean could not make
up her mind about matrimony. She was much younger than the Doc-
tor and being a Broadway star while still in her teens intensified her
stage ambitions.

Sympathetic and unselfish, the Doctor did not press her for an
answer. Instead, he urged her to continue with her work and ambi-
tions before coming to a decision.

So Jean went to Europe, studied in Italy, returned to the United
States, took another Broadway prima donna role as a star of the
Vanities, went back again.

Between voyages she would consult my mother, asking her to help
resolve the matter of marriage. The consultations, despite my
mother's wisdom, were always inconclusive.

The night that the Ziegfeld Theatre opened, Jean attended the
premiere of Rio Rita with Dr. Dreyfus. As they sat there, a camera-
man, one of the first to use the new invention, the Speed Graphic,
snapped the couple holding hands.

The next day the picture was published in the papers, and the
following day the Doctor called me to his suite at the Vanderbilt
Hotel and told me that he and Jean were going to be married. He
told me, also, that he would like me to write and send out the press
story.

That marriage was to have a continuing influence on my family
and on me. It has lasted to this very moment for, as the years passed
by, Jean and the Doctor became more intimately a part of our life.
We shared our grief over solemn events in both families. We shared
our pleasures, too. We went together to Atlantic City when that
resort was a gracious recreation spot, the boardwalk colorful, the
vacationists reasonably well-mannered and theatre folk were attend-
ing or appearing there in an out-of-town premiere. There were trips
also to White Sulphur Springs and San Francisco, to the Paris
World's Fair and Switzerland.

313

While visiting him at Zurich, a famous Swiss health resort, the
Doctor took me mountain climbing in the early morning, a form of
diversion I wouldn't care to repeat.

Petrarch, I recalled, was reputedly the first writer to call attention
to the picturesque joys of mountain climbing. He is welcome to the
distinction. I prefer the flat planes. Insofar as scenery, as such is
concerned, I feel akin to Samuel Johnson. When Boswell called his
attention to some hills, Johnson said: "Yes, I see two projections/*

To overcome the effect of the rarefied air, I left Doctor Dreyfus,
took a stroll around the village and slipped into a little souvenir
shop. The proprietress was selling a collection of handkerchiefs to
a young lady customer. I don't know if the sale was ever consum-
mated, for suddenly the two of them began yodeling. I knew then
that I was really in Switzerland.

At our first meeting, Dr. Dreyfus precipitated a flashback to my uni-
versity days. He made me feel that I was in the company of a faculty
member rather than a business man. Pre-eminently a scientist, he
talked about his experiments, inventions and world affairs. By birth
and by instinct a gentleman, courteous and understanding, he had
the enduring admiration and devotion of his original staff which
swelled to thousands of employees, as his success grew.

As a young man and a native of Switzerland, Dr. Dreyfus's earliest
ambition was to create a synthetic silk for commercial purposes. To
prepare for this feat in chemistry, he studied at the University of
Basle and the Sorbonne in Paris.

Throughout the. years, I strove again and again, as did others, to
write his biography, but he never provided enough material for one
substantial chapter. Because of this inexplicable reticence, the great
scientist's achievements may never receive a sustained recording.

Contrastingly articulate about her life and her interests was Dr.
Dreyfus's wife, Jean Tennyson.

When I first knew her, she was a quiet, beautiful girl, with blue
eyes and golden braids, recalling the simplicity and loveliness of
Marguerite in Faust. Rarely did she express an opinion or speak of
herself. Both her ideas and personality were doubtless formative
then, for some years after her marriage she revealed a forthright
thinking independence which even I, in spite of my acquaintance
with her many abilities, had not anticipated.

She is, above all, a cruelly just appraiser of human beings, definite
and almost always accurate in her findings, findings arrived at

314

through the possession of great wealth which necessitates con-
tinuous awareness of other people's motives, true discernment of
sycophancy, roguery and beggary, and almost infallible perspicacity.
She has no illusions, yet she is without prejudice. She'll go to great
lengths to develop what is worthy in a person who is basically un-
worthy. Hers is an impartiality, attributed to her Norwegian ancestry,
for she helps even those who hurt her and she has been hurt.

Out of the blue, Jean called me one day and asked if I would like
to be one of the trustees on a new project, the Jean Tennyson Foun-
dation. Judge Samuel Rosenman would be the chairman and her
great friend Ruth Arno Phelps, organist for many years at the Mother
Church of Christian Science in Boston, and I would comprise the
board.

The appointment turned me, pronto, into a millionaire, or at least
into a person with the powers and resources of a millionaire. For from
our first meeting until today, our small group of trustees distributes
the money of that foundation as if it were our own. The only re-
striction placed on our endowments is that we place them where they
will do the most good. And this is a matter we discuss, consider and
evaluate in unafraid controversy.

Some of the Fund money has gone to the founding of an art school
for children at the Henry Street Settlement; aiding the native com-
posers by contributing to the Composers Forum; giving scholarships
and pianos to Fisk University; extending a foreign scholarship to an
organist prize winner; and scholarships to art colonies and similar
educational groups.

Working on the committee gave me the opportunity to study in
action a famous jurist, the man who wrote Roosevelt's speeches, is
the author of Working With Roosevelt, and editor of Public Papers
and Addresses of Franklin D. ' Roosevelt. He met me on my own
ground, with a simplicity that implied that my opinions were sound.
His grasp of a subject is swift and assured. He clips off a discussion
sometimes, just when it seems most involved and doomed to go on
forever, with a terse yet satisfactory summation. He .is interested in
all the arts, a versatility that makes him particularly helpful to the
foundation. He loves food and his family continually checks or tries
to check "seconds." He gives the pleasant impression that all's right
with his world.

About the Judge, the Foundation and Jean, there is much more to
tell later.

315

Just when The Theatre Handbook was about to go to press, I got
a call from the publishers to come immediately to the office. I did
so and confronted two angry, challenging gentlemen. One of them
handed me a manuscript with a first line which read as follows:

"As I walked into the room to do an interview, I saw Tallulah
lying naked on the floor."

I looked up casually and said, "Well, what's the matter?"
"Naked"

"Oh, I see. Well, I doubt if she was, but if she felt like relaxing in
that manner I wouldn't put it past her. I think, however, this is
merely sportive, a skillful way of indicating her independence of
mood and manner ."

"Well, whatever the purpose, it has to come out."
"I can't take it out," I said. "Ward Morehouse went to a great deal
of trouble to write this piece for me and I won't tamper with his
manuscript under any conditions."
"But this book has to go into schoolrooms and libraries."
We argued the matter for quite a while, with me holding out for
Morehouse and declaring that if I offended him by editing his manu-
script he might take out the whole piece.

The solution was left in the air. The weeks went by and finally the
manuscript went to press and somehow, somewhere, the word
"naked" was deleted and not until now will Ward know the story of
why one word of his text was missing.

Soon after this incident, Tallulah also consented to contribute to
The Theatre Handbook; whereupon I gave her a subject, "How to
Act." Then I interviewed her time after time, topic by topic, while
my secretary took down her replies verbatim. After that, Tallulah
asked to see a piece on a related subject that Raymond Massey had
written for me in order not to duplicate.

The material she finally gave us we typed out and sent to her. It
was returned a week later. Tallulah had edited the piece down to the
last comma and every word was her own.

The publication of the book was almost simultaneous with the
height of her feud with Lillian Hellman who had written Tallulah's
favorite role in The Little Foxes.

As I walked into "21" I met Lillian who said without preliminary,
"You wrote Tallulah's piece, didn't you?"
"I did not," I answered. "She wrote every line of it herself."

316

"You wrote the piece," repeated Miss Hellman with finality.

"Acting/' says Tallulah in her autobiography, "is an astonishingly
easy profession. IVe given no more thought to my best roles than I
have to my worst. Asked about technique, I grow evasive. I'm not
aware I have any ... I have an idea that only ersatz actors can
explain the thing called technique."

Quite the contrary are Tallulah's opinions as expressed in The
Theatre Handbook. Instead of being evasive they are concrete:

"The trouble with some actors, I believe, is that they read lines
without any reality. You don't get the impression that they say these
lines for the first time, but that they are reading them out of a book.
Personally, I believe you must be natural even when playing the
classics. I don't mean that you should neglect the rhythm and the
beauty of certain technical points that are peculiar to them; but
when you read the lines, you should give the impression of believing
what they say. Again, when you play in a modern piece, you must be
yourself. What else can you pattern yourself on? Even though you
play a character part, you are still Tallulah Bankhead. You can be
old, or put on glasses, or do anything else. But you can't disassociate
yourself from your personality. When people say, *Do you feel your
part?' I think they are so stupid that I could slap them."

The nature of acting as an art intrigued me constantly, especially
when I was working with legitimate players. The stock question
always led off: "Do you feel your part or do you merely simulate?"
The art of acting, of course, has changed greatly with the generations
and with the structure of playhouses.

The structure of the theatre once necessitated actors' knowing how
to put over an aside or a prologue, how to be discovered "on the
inner stage," and how to die "within the arch." They had to learn the
art of make-up and how to dress. Incidentally, the most dramatic
effect that anyone can achieve on the stage, more impressive than
death by stabbing, shooting or strangling, is collapsing and falling
down a flight of stairs.

During the 17th Century, actors who appeared in tragedies fol-
lowed conventions almost as stringent as those that belong to the
Japanese theatre. Their procedure was formal; they strutted back
and forth, they bellowed their lines or intoned them. Their gestures
were stylized and they contorted their bodies. Frequently, they
dropped on their knees, rose or flung themselves around another

317

actor s neck. They averted their faces and to emphasize their feelings,
clamped their hands to their heads or their hearts. But it was all
really done according to rule.

Various actors and directors throughout the years made certain
contributions to the art, contributions that can be found in books by
master players like Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. A revolutionary
change in procedure came, I believe, with the realism of Ibsen and
the static plays of Maeterlinck. Actors no longer "chewed" the scenery.
They brought their voices down to what was approximately normal
The term "repression" came into vogue.

Meanwhile, the Russian stage of Stanislavsky was developed. Here
the regimen was severe and extensive, and required training in
pantomime and dancing, with every actor capable of taking any part.

The American stage was far more expansive in its technique. The
early training ground was usually repertory with a change of roles
three to six times a week and all sorts of parts.

I can remember when the first actor during the 1920*s deliberately
turned his back to the audience with the idea of making his behavior
seem true to life. The action, slight as it was, caused, of course, the
customary controversial storm that accompanies every change, par-
ticularly in the theatre.

Acting can be taught but not by book. A manual such as Michael
Chekhov's is really useful only when it is accompanied by class work
under the supervision of a qualified teacher.

Unquestionably, the most interesting player I ever knew was
Tallulah.

The first time I saw her she was in a play called Forget Me Not, by
Zoe Akins. I was enthralled by her beauty. Imagine then my pleasure
at seeing her on the street one day, walking toward Broadway. I fol-
lowed her, getting as close as I could. I followed her block after
block so that her beautiful face was held permanently in my memory.
From that time on I followed her experiences in the newspapers;
and finally I met her at a cocktail party Ward Morehouse gave. The
refreshments were cold fried chicken, her favorite food.

Tallulah's extraordinary intensity is apparent in every role that
she plays. But until the night that she revived Private Lives, her stage
personality was curbed by acting techniques.

When she's away from the footlights, she breaks loose completely,

318

She spouts public and personal prejudices, recites lines from plays,
past and present, plays games, some improvised, with anyone who
happens to be present.

She parades up and down, wrings her hands, poses. She melts into
the completely feminine, then becomes abusive, makes wagers, ut-
ters prophecies. She gives out an interview while the chiropodist is
working on her.

On one unforgettable occasion, I saw her stand up in the dining
room of the Algonquin, which Frank Case had turned into a tem-
porary night club, and apologize publicly to Noel Coward for some
offense, real or fancied.

At another party, Bruno's famous champagne supper in honor of
Tallu, the actress growing suddenly saturated with the adulation and
carried away by her own exuberance and possibly by her conscious-
ness of artistic potentialities, still unrealized because of the intran-
sigence of time and circumstance, jumped up suddenly and cried to
the guests: "Why don't you go home?" Then, lifting her skirts knee-
high and singing "Bye Bye Blackbird," she began to do a dance, a
dance that soon accelerated into a tarantella of vibrations from head
to toe, approximating the Harlem shag.

Tallulah reveals herself, full face, in her autobiography. She has
failed, however, to reveal the depths of her nature, the divergencies,
the affections she inspires.

Zoe Akins came nearer to accomplishing this complex task in an
article in Town and Country which manages to portray with care,
insight and fidelity, the most exciting member of today's acting pro-
fessionineluctable Tallulah!

Oddly enough, though actors* living depends on a good perform-
ance, they often try to break up a performance while keeping it
going. They misbehave. They like to play tricks; make the heroine
sneeze when she's doing a death scene; tickle the players in a love
scene. They enjoy nothing more than "breaking up a show" by sit-
ting in a prominent seat and making the players on the stage forget
their lines, laugh, giggle and lose their morale.

One night, as I was standing in the Imperial lobby, I saw with
that great pleasure which I always get out of theatre crowds, hundreds
of people surging in to see Lefs Face It. There was the usual mass of
old and young, short and tall, all happily expectant of the entertain-
ment. Suddenly, I grabbed hold of the theatre manager and said:

S19

TRush back stage, for heaven's sake, and tell the cast that Tallulah
Bankhead is going to try to break up the show."

Swiftly and without question, the manager rushed behind the
scenes where he told every member of the company to ignore any
disturbance that anyone started out in front.

How did I know that Tallulah Bankhead was in the audience
without anyone knowing it? The answer fills me with pride. I de-
tected her real features through the heavy disguise that she was
wearing: a thick black wig and black goggles.

As a result of this discovery, Tallulah and her escort were com-
pletely ignored throughout the entire performance. Only once, before
the final curtain, did the company burst into laughter; and this was
not surprising, for just at that moment the gentleman accompanying
Miss Bankhead caused the front of his evening dress shirt to light
up in three colors.

Tallulah's autobiography, dubbed by John Huston as "the most
unprofessional," is, in my opinion, the best that a player has ever
written, not because of its detailed chronicling of the actor's hard-
ship, failures and triumphs, but because of its extraordinary revela-
tion of the nature of the actor, by direct statement, inference and
definite incident. It reveals his disregard for pattern and his deter-
mination to satisfy his appetite for exhibiting his abilities in every
form of entertainment that commands an audience. This appetite is
so urgent that it bears comparison with such basic impulses as
hunger and sex.

William Henry Betty, Young Roscius, provides the all-time sensa-
tional exemplification of this same urgency. He was born in Shrews-
bury, in 1791, the child of well-bred, middle-class parents. His
mother taught him reading and reciting and his father taught him
fencing, an odd art for a child.

One day his parents took him to London and while there they at-
tended a performance of Pizarro, with Sarah Siddons in the leading
part. The play made such an extraordinary impression on the child
that when he returned home he told his parents that he wanted to
be an actor. They paid only slight attention to his remark, but he
was persistent and finally declared:

"If I can't go on the stage I'm going to die/'

His parents disregarded his threat until they discovered he was

320

actually sinking. Greatly alarmed, they took him to Belfast where the
manager and prompter gave him an audition and decided to train
him for the footlights.

After two years of study, the boy made his debut at the age of
eleven in the part of Osman in Zara. His beautiful voice and graceful
person recalled the ease and charm of David Garrick and he won
his audience completely.

Many roles and pyramiding success followed. He toured England
and Scotland, the idol of the public. The climax to a long series of
triumphs came with his interpretation of Hamlet which created such
a sensation that the House of Commons adjourned in order to at-
tend his performance. Critics and the public were completely in
agreement concerning his extraordinary ability; and when one critic
dared to dissent, he was actually harried out of town.

In 1810, rich and famous, William Henry Betty left the stage to
attend Cambridge. In 1812, as an adult, he resumed his career. His
subsequent story was the old one. Like most child actors, he was
unable to carry his talents into maturity. He retired in 1824, and
died exactly fifty years later.

Adult actors have similarly been willing to die for their profession.
As a girl, Annie Ashley, wife of John Barton, Jimmy Barton's uncle,
was a member of the Sam T. Jacks burlesque show which played at
the notorious Bird Cage theatre in Tombstone, Arizona.

"Earning money," said Miss Ashley, "then was exciting, to say the
least. Every night rival feudists would come to the theatre. Some-
times they met each other there and shot it out on the spot. The
boxes were built in a ring like a horseshoe, and one gang would sit
on one side and the other on the opposite. Once our black face
comedian, Billy Hart, was on the stage when a cowboy came in
and shot the wig off his head just for devilment.

"As soon as trouble started everyone used to drop down and lie
flat on his faceeverybody. If we were dancing and the shooting
commenced, the lights would go out and we'd lie down flat on our
stomachs for protection/*

Did Miss Ashley quit the show at what might be called gun point?
No, indeed. She carried on, regardless of the danger, staunch in her
devotion to the theatre.

During the Elizabethan period, the English statute law lumped
vagabonds and players together with rogues and beggars. But
insults were no impasse. Starvation and imprisonment did not destroy

321

the race of actors. It grew and flourished, facing continuously new-
hazards and public condemnation. The first women to become
actresses must have suffered insult and persecution. They continued
nevertheless, and eventually tie actress became a recognized mem-
ber of the histrionic profession, her importance equal to that of the
actor.

By the time that acting reached the reign of King Charles, Nell
Gwyn was so forthright in her indifference to public opinion that
she shouted to a crowd that was holding up her carriage, "Make
way for the King's whore!"

Nell scored her greatest hits in roles that required her to wear
boy's clothes. She is credited with many acts of charity.

Craving for footlight reclam6 is stronger than blood relationship,
a fact that Cornelia Otis Skinner discloses in her autobiography.

Cornelia wanted to go on the stage and finally managed to get a
part in her father's company. She made good in her part and he was
proud of her. But when the time for the curtain call came, he took
it alone, saying to Cornelia, "You're on your own now/'

And this is and must be the law of the stage. Perfect esprit, every-
one coordinating to make the play a success, yet everyone, simulta-
neously, out for himself and the devil take the hindmost.

The struggles of the child actor have been long and heartbreaking.
For years and years, the juvenile player was a kind of slave, at the
mercy of anyone who happened to own him, parent, relative or
guardian. Sick or well, he did what his keepers compelled him to do,
and his survival depended largely on chance.

After a time, the public began to learn of his hardships. Sociolo-
gists and reformers rushed to his rescue. Charles Dickens became an
early champion and aroused public indignation with his story of the
"Infant Phenomenon," the little girl who was kept little on a forced
diet of whiskey and water. Thomas Bailey Aldrich also created wide-
spread sympathy with his story of the "Little Violinist'* and his pre-
mature death.

Deliverance, however, was slow in arriving. Even in the '90*s con-
ditions were still horrendous, as Fred Stone revealed in his auto-
biography, Rolling Stones. Sometimes managers would secure the
services of a child by seemingly legal methods, signing a contract
with his official guardians, a contract that was largely fraudulent and
guaranteed nothing to the child. Sometimes, too, managers would
trick innocent youngsters into joining a show for a single per-

322

f ormance. Then they would spirit them away when the show left
town, and hold them to use as acrobats or entertainers unless rela-
tives, townspeople or the police interferred.

Fred himself was held captive with a touring company for weeks
and weeks. Half-starved and overworked, he slept on straw in the
circus tent, and went without baths and clean clothes until he was
covered with vermin. Yet he had no chance of escaping, for his
letters were intercepted and his small promised salary withheld.

Similar were the experiences of Willie Howard and his brother,
Eugene, who traveled with a burlesque company. They were so
badly paid that they had scarcely enough money for food. And the
inhumanity of their company manager was incredible. Once, when
the boys needed a wig for their act, he sold them a second-hand one
at an exorbitant price, insuring payment by deducting a certain
amount from their frugal weekly salary. Then, when he heard that
they had an offer to join another and better show, he accused them
of stealing the wig. "If you leave the show," he shouted, Til have you
clapped into jail."

In spite of his poignant claims to sympathy, the child actor was re-
garded, until the late nineteen-forties, as a pain in the neck, self-
conscious, artificial and aggressive. Miraculously a new crop has
sprung up, artists who blend into the play, placing the role above
personality, enriching the stage immeasurably. Their number, es-
pecially in the movies, is legion.

Going to jail, starvation, slander and death do not deter the people
of the theatre. Walter Kingsley, famous vaudeville press agent, em-
phasized this fact. In an effort to identify himself permanently with
the footlights, he asked in his last will and testament that his ashes
be scattered over Broadway.

That the actor, like exponents of all the arts in varying degrees, is
largely unconcerned with the unconventional, is a matter of per-
petual consideration for the moralist, psychologist, psychoanalyst,
critic, the so-called "decent citizen" and members of the theatrical
profession.

Here juxtaposed, not to be sensational but simply to exemplify the
actor's behavior, are specific examples of the consonance of theatrical
achievement and the free spirit. Here, also, are certain references to
moods and matters inseparable from the stage nostalgia, reminis-
cence, excessive laudation and credits to who did it first.
They are clipped at random because the past and present are all

323

one to me. Fluctuant, like the stream of consciousness, the people of
the theatre pass by and as they pass, they contribute to the endless
aesthetic accomplishment that will terminate only with the end of
human thought. Thespis is as near to me as Robert Kean, Rejane as
near as Katharine Cornell, Joseph Jefferson and all members of the
bright galaxy are near, making me forget that the world is not what
itisl

Charles Macklin restored The Merchant of Venice to the British
stage, one of the most heroic struggles in behalf of a masterpiece that
has ever been chronicled. The original Shakespeare play had been
thrust aside and forgotten, in favor of an imperfectly paraphrased
imitation known as The Jew of Venice by Lord Landsdowne.

When Macklin decided to produce the original play, he faced a
vindictive manager, a mutinous cast and an antagonistic director. He
persisted, however, in spite of personal hardship, keeping his por-
trayal of Shylock secret till the night of the opening performance.
His success in the part on that occasion was so great that The Mer-
chant was permanently restored to the stage, Lord Landsdowne's
paraphrase falling into immediate oblivion and Macklin's characteri-
zation crowned by Pope's famous line: "This is the Jew that Shake-
speare drew."

Aside from his work in the theatre, practically every phase of
Macklin's life is shrouded in mystery and contradiction. He was
noted for his manliness and integrity. He had a lawsuit concerning
his role in Macbeth which was settled in court in his favor. In a fit
of passion, he killed a fellow-actor in the Greenroom of Drury Lane
Theatre for stealing a wig which Macklin planned to wear himself.
He was tried for murder and though acquitted, was branded in the
hand. A controversy about the date of his birth was carried to his
burial grounds, the Churchyard of St. Paul's Covent Garden, where
a chief mourner effaced the date with a penknife, and changed the
span of his life from 100 years to 107.

Edwin Booth, son of a great actor Junius Brutus Booth, was one
of his eleven bastard children. At the age of 17, Edwin was a drunk-
ard and at 20, a libertine. Almost simultaneously, he became a star.
In his maturity he shed his drinking habits and became not only the
greatest American actor of the nineteenth century, but probably also
the greatest actor of all times. He founded the Players Club.

Bert Wheeler, playing on a small vaudeville circuit when he was
young and unknown, came to grief one night, just fifteen minutes

324

before his act was scheduled. As he walked up the long steps leading
to his dressing room, he slipped, fell and broke his ankle. The stage
doorman, hearing about the accident, rushed upstairs, carried Whee-
ler to his dressing room and called the house physician, who speedily
bound the ankle.

Five seconds later, the manager stormed into the dressing room to
warn Wheeler that he was due to go on stage at once. But the warn-
ing had no effect. Wheeler found that in spite of determined efforts
he couldn't walk a step, not even with a cane.

'What'Jl I do?" cried the manager. "You've got to go on, Wheeler,
broken ankle or not. You're the only comedy number on the bill. If
we don't get some laughs, we'll have to ring down the curtain."

- "All right," said Wheeler, getting a sudden idea. 'Til tell you what
1*11- do. I'll go on if you carry me out and deposit me flat on the
stage. I'll do the act lying down on my stomach."

To everyone's surprise the act went over well, so well, in fact, that
Wheeler repeated it the next night and for almost eleven years there-
after, climaxing the prone routine as one of the stars of the dis-
tinguished Ziegfeld Frolics.

Samson Raphaelson had to make so many changes before the
opening of Skylark in Baltimore, that he realized it would be impos-
sible for the actors to learn them before the curtain went up.

Suddenly he got an idea worthy of a character in his own play. He
called in a stenographer and a draftsman from the local newspaper
office. Then the three of them began copying the new lines in letters
so large that they were visible at a distance of several feet. Some of
these lines were pasted in the hero's hat where he could read them
off verbatim. Others were placed in the handbag of one of the
women characters, while still others were pasted on newspapers and
open books. In the case of Gertrude Lawrence, however, Raphaelson
devised an unusually effective contrivance. He printed the dialogue
on a sheet of music manuscript, numbered the various speeches 1, 2,
and 3, and then placed the manuscript on the music rack which was
a part of the scene. The rest was easy.

Arnold Daly, the first actor to present Shaw's Arms and the Man
in the United States, came into my career through an actress who
was scheduled to play a "bit" part in a show I was publicizing.

"I was Daly's leading lady," the actress kept boasting. Her words
made me wonder how she could possibly have gained such fame and
subsequently fallen into such pathetic obscurity. s

325

Then the miracle happened. She came to me and told me that she
was going to star again with Daly. And she did. At an Actors Fund
benefit, in a sketch in which she stood opposite Arnold and was sur-
rounded by an entire company. They all took a bow. Then the cur-
tain went down and up, and they took another bow and another ad
inflnitum. That was the idea. Just a take-off on curtain calls. For the
laughs. Not a single word was spoken during those five minutes "of a
revival in which she starred with Arnold Daly,

Rubinstein, a popular Yiddish player, longed to appear in an Eng-
lish-speaking role on Broadway. After many years, he got a small
part and prepared for it with all the precision in make-up, rehearsal
and presentation that a fine artist would naturally devote to a role.
The night of his debut the actor, hearing his cue, stepped on the
stage, letter-perfect for his big scene, but all that he could utter was
a single word which he intoned unconsciously in Yiddish: "For-
gotten."

Rachel (Elisa Rachel Felix) had a genius for declaiming classical
French verse and was largely responsible for the revival of popular
appreciation of classical tragedy in the 1840's and 1850's. Called
uniformly unfaithful to her lovers, she disliked Dumas pere, but is
said to have fallen in love with his son. When the Prince de Joinville,
son of King Louis Phillippe, saw her in a play, he sent back a card
on which was written, "Where? When? and How Much?" The answer
came back immediately: "At your home. This evening. For nothing."

Adah Isaacs Menken, star of Mazeppa, startled the amusement
world by appearing, half-clad, strapped to the side of a speeding
horse. One night the horse plunged across the footlights and into the
pit. Adah was injured but she continued to repeat the stunt, regardless
of the hazard. Adah smoked cigars, wrote inferior poetry, and was one
of the first exponents of woman's rights. In her search for fame, she
went to Europe where she became the mistress of Alexander Dumas
pere, and beloved by Theophile Gautier, author of Mtte. de Maupin.
Her charm was celebrated in verse by Rossetti and Swinburne. Her
friends included Mark Twain, Dickens, George Sand, Walt Whitman
and Bret Harte. She died in poverty.

Bob Hope is one of the true gentlemen of the theatre. Off stage he
is just the same engaging light-hearted, hearty, wisecracking person
he is when exposed to the public eye and earan exceptional in-
stance of real character in a profession where success often goes to
people's heads,

326

Several years ago I saw Bob in San Francisco.

"Come here/' I called, "there's some old dowager that wants to
meet you/'

Grabbing his hand, I lugged him half way across the lobby, and
he accorded that dull old lady attention suitable to the Queen of
Sheba. That's Bob.

As I walked back to my table I couldn't help thinking of Rex Har-
rison. He was in a play called Sweet Aloes. The play was a flop. No
one paid any attention to him and he was grateful for my efforts to
get him publicity.

The next time I met him he was a star, and though he had talked
to me in the interim in London, he declared he didn't remember me
or the fact that we were both associated with Sweet Aloes.

Delia Fox, the Ethel Merman darling of her day, used to come to
the theatre occasionally, dead drunk. Carried to the footlights, she
sobered up immediately and put on a good performance.

The Dolly Sisters, who were at one time, the pets of the Continent,
were scheduled to appear at a gala night, a festive European oc-
casion. The assembled company included the King of Greece and
scores of notables. There was, however, no performance by the
sister stars. They announced that they were indisposed.

Playwrights, like actors, are similarly mercurial, independent and
indifferent to conventional pattern.

Shakespeare was reputedly a poacher. Ibsen was exiled from his
native land. D'Annunzio was a Fiume revolutionist and supposedly
heartless in his treatment of Duse. Marlowe died in a drinking brawl.
Oscar Wilde was a homosexual.

David Garrick, the sweetheart of Peg Woffington, was a great in-
terpreter of Shakespeare, yet frequently inaccurate as far as the text
was concerned.

"Your profession and you," said Johnson to Garrick, "are mutually
indebted; it has made you rich and you have made it respectable."

Yes, actors were once regarded as thieves, vagabonds, outcasts;
but nowadays they receive full social and artistic recognition.

Shirley Booth holds the world's record for distinctions. She is the
only actress to win an Academy Award, an Antoinette Perry Award,
a Donaldson Award, the N. Y. Drama Critics Variety Poll, the New
York Film Critics Award and the Drama League Medal "for dis-
tinguished performance.'"

The day after this record was published in the press, Thursday,

327

April 30, 1953, Shirley was named the world's best actress for her
performance in Come Back, Little Sheba, at the sixth annual Cannes
Film Festival.

Thus she ends the cycle that began with the actor's ostracism and
ends with his glorification.

The first American functions for the commingling of socialites and
stage notables have been credited to Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish and her
home vaudeville parties in 1900, an achievement that Addison Miz-
ner placed somewhat later and attributed to Mrs. William K. Vander-
bilt, Sr., who sponsored a little dancing club at her apartment.

Julia Hoyt, formerly Mrs. Lydig Hoyt, was the first socialite to go
into the movies, an event that was considered so important that the
New York Times carried it as a front page story.

In 1953, the vicious social circle turned superlatively gracious.
Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., entertained Queen Elizabeth II at his home,
not as an entertainer, but as her host.

Yes, the player had advanced socially and financially, but he still
has a frightful fight for existence. An Equity report issued in 1953
stated that only one actor in six worked as much as six months. The
average unemployment was 84 percent of the union's membership
of more than 6000.

With the progress of war and the increase in number of our allies,
villains -seem to be fading out. Throughout most of American stage
history, villains were Italians or "wops," Frenchmen or "frogs,"
Chinese or "chinks." In other words, they were practically stock
characters, regarded with contempt.

Now, however with all the free countries our allies, there is only
one type of villain who survives, the Russian or "Red." Furthermore,
and this is even more important with Ibsen, the one hundred per-
cent good or bad man died out. It was possible, as Ibsen showed, for
a man to be both good and bad simultaneously.

Strangely enough, though, the villain received scant recognition
in stage history. People applauded and hissed him, cheered and
heckled him, yet the actor who impersonated the villain got only
passing attention.

With this background in mind, I arranged a Theatre Handbook
annual villain, citation which I introduced formally at a luncheon
at Sardf s "broadcast in 1952. Sardi's broke tradition by turning over
the entire hour to me and permitting me to invite my own guests.
Sidney Kingsley, author of Detective Story and Dead End, Bert

328

Lytell, President of the Lambs, Jerry White, who staged all the
Rodgers and Hammerstein London productions, Louise Beck, Harry
Hershfield, famous humorist, Martin Gabel, the first short stout
actor to win honors playing lean and hungry Cassius, Tom Ewell,
Bradley Kelly, vice president of King Features, and Clark Kinnaird,
author of the new Damon Runyon biography, William Keighley,
Genevieve Tobin, Milton Shubert, Max Reibeisen, John Golden, Bill
Slater, Oscar Serlin, Mary Alice Rice, Arlene Francis, and George
Freedley were among those who took part in the radio roundtable.
The winners of the first contest were Sam Byrd, Mervyn Vye,
Howard Lang, Judith Evelyn, and Anne Meacham.

The need for encouraging villainy was dramatically indicated in a
legal action, March 9, 1950, which had its serio-comic overtones.
New York organized housemaids, taking offense at the housemaid
character in Mid-Summer, required the management to agree to
insert the following paragraph in the program:

"The character Rosie is intended to bear no resemblance to actual
hotel maids of the present day. The producers recognize the fact
that the 7,000 maids who are members of the Hotel and Club Em-
ployees Union, Local 6, New York, are industrious and able/*

Carrying to the nth degree this sort of objection to fictitious charac-
ters may ultimately kill all sorts of villainy and simultaneously rob
general literature of one of its most important assets conflict.

A secret about my relations to the stage, I can reveal now for the
first time. This relationship reached an exciting climax at a court trial
and concerned Who's Who. Summoned as an expert witness, I
found that the full list of witnesses included Norman Cousins., Editor
of the Saturday Review, Dorothy Thompson, renowned columnist,
H. V. Kaltenborn, H. L. Mencken and Hendrick Willem Van Loon.

Never before had I served in this capacity and my testimony was
pretty bad. When shown a copy of the English Who's Who, I couldn't
identify it though I had a copy of the volume on my desk at home.

The case concerned an infringement on Who's Who and fortu-
nately the plaintiff won. This plaintiff was one of my greatest friends,
Wheeler Sammons, the publisher of the famous volume. Humor is
his rare gift, humor solemnly dispensed with a searching light in
his eyes to see if you get it. That's not always easy because Wheeler is
really fresh from the pages of Zuleika Dobson, one of the rare gentle-

329

men who jumped out of the window in a series of similarly jumping
gentlemen, all of whom jumped for the sake of gallantry.

Giving pleasure to others is Wheeler's chief purpose in life. To
make me happy, he made me the drama editor of Who's Who. That
may not be the exact title, but my function was quite definite. All
through the Forties I made the recommendations which helped de-
termine which Broadway actors should be included in the book. My
office, like all offices on Who's Who, was strictly secret. Now, how-
ever, I can disclose it because my other work has forced me to
resign the responsibility.

Once Wheeler Sammons entertained me at the Chicago Club. He
knew that the place was so exclusive that none of the members ever
visited the place. Of course, I didn't know this, but after walking
into the dining room for two meals and finding myself surrounded
completely by empty tables and chairs, I left the place as quickly as
I could to the aftermath of laughter by my host.

The happiest hours of my life were those in which I was trans-
formed into a "ham." The Daily News worked this trick by inviting
me to serve as a permanent member of a Broadway quiz panel based
on The Theatre Handbook.

Danton Walker, columnist for the News, was the M.C. and the
guests included Bert Lytell, President of the Lambs Club, Sam Le~
vene, Paula Laurence, Francis L. Sullivan, Lee Tracy, Margy Hart,
Mary Boland, Oliver M. Sayler, Bernard Hart, Betty Card, Daniel
Blum, author of Pictorial History of American Theatre, Michael
O'Shea, publicist and Fritzi Scheff, prima donna, who chalked up
a world's theatrical record by singing one song, "Kiss Me Again,"
earning her living thereby and prolonging her fame from the night
that Mile. Modiste opened on December 25, 1904 at the Knicker-
bocker Theatre, until today.

Yes, I was part of the show world at last! A part, that is, until one
night Norma Terris arrived on the panel with her pet chow. She
placed it discreetly in the background behind a door. This done, she
joined the other panelists and the program began. All went well
until the middle of the program when the voices of the panel mem-
bers were drowned by the sound of snoring. Normals pet's nap had
percolated through to the microphone. That little incident broke up
the program and the anticipated continuance.

The Broadway Hour went literally to the dogs.

330

Working out the plan of The Theatre Handbook necessitated a
great deal of research, especially on musical comedy, for though this
form of entertainment is over fifty years old, no sustained history of
the entertainment was ever published until Cecil B. Smith's Musical
Comedy appeared in 1950.

The first examples of what eventually became the standard model
of American musical comedy were The Little Tycoon (1886) com-
posed by Willard Spence, The Isle of Champagne by William Wal-
lace Furst, El Capitan (1898) by John Philip Sousa, The Belle of
New York (1898) by Gustave Kerker, Wang (1891) by Woolson
Morse, The Strollers ( 1901) by Ludwig Englander, and Robin Hood
by Reginald De Koven.

The Belle of New Jork was the first musical to introduce the native
scene New York with its policemen, Salvation Army lassies, hoboes
and society swells.

Around 1902, the prolific team of Pixley and Luders employed the
American scene again in The Burgomaster, with a flashback to New
Amsterdam and its Dutch mayor.

Subsequently, George M. Cohan went all-American with musicals
like Yankee Doodle Boy, George Washington Jones, and 45 Minutes
from Broadway.

Cohan's scores were also all-American, but other composers Sig-
mund Romberg, Rudolf Friml, Victor Herbert and even Jerome
Kernwere dominated to a great degree by the continental masters
of operetta and opera bouffe: Franz Lehar, composer of The Merry
Widow, Oscar Straus, composer of The Chocolate Soldier, and Em-
merich Kalman, composer of Countess Maritza and Gypsy Princess.
Victor Herbert eventually created a native idiom in Mile. Modiste;
and Jerome Kern broke away to write the Princess Theatre musicals
and Show Boat which had a predominatingly native flavor.

Happily for me, Emmerich Kalman and his family emigrated to
America and I had a chance to know the prolific composer per-
sonally.

The Kalmans suddenly jumped into the front ranks of New York
hosts. Their dinner parties were lavish in the old-fashioned European
sense: food, food and more food. First came the hors d'oeuvres, meals
in themselves, ranging from chopped chicken livers to all sorts of hot
and cold canapes. After the guests had gorged on these and saturated

331

their thirst with cocktails, the dining room door would open and
everyone would rush in for the buffet supper.

Mrs. Kalman, handsome, golden-haired and often in white, would
herself serve the piece de resistance which was appropriately Hun-
garian goulash.

As the parties continued through the years, the guests increased
in number and importance so that attendance became an ordeal,
literally a fight for enough air to keep the respiratory system working.

The Kalmans were always identified with foreign titles. Prince
Serge Obolensky had led off a ball with Mrs. Kalman in a Viennese
Waltz, and danced with the skill of the perfectionist.

All the while that the parties were in progress, Mr. Kalman, short
and overweight, sat apart, a shadow of a smile on his lips, his cheeks
flushed, his eyes observant. He never uttered a word until called
upon to play the piano. Then he played a potpourri of his hits. That
was his part in the party. A moment after, he returned to seclusion
and was practically forgotten.

When the meal was over, Mrs. Kalman would suddenly clap her
hands and demand silence. Respectful and curious, all the guests
responded to the signal. Then, to their surprise, a new figure ap-
peared on the scene by way of the kitchen door. Mrs. Kalman intro-
duced her cook; whereupon the overfed guests applauded that over-
worked cuisine artist who had just enough energy left to bow herself
out.

For a time I did some press work for Sigmund Romberg and for
almost a year afterwards he kept sending me monthly checks. I
finally had to write and tell him that he had already overpaid me
handsomely.

Romberg was a soft-spoken, gentle person. His successive hits
made him increasingly modest. He was very human, apart from his
music, and was an epicure. He took special pleasure in teaching me,
at Robert's restaurant, the pleasures of eating his native Hungarian
goulash made somehow with a sour cream gravy and of drinking the
sickeningly sweet Turkish coffee. Often too incredibly happy ex-
periencehe played for me on his pipe organ, a rare and mammoth
instrument, seldom found in a New York apartment.

A sudden break with all tradition came with the advent of Irving
Berlin, the creator of the jazz bomb. Explosive also was the influence
of George Gershwin who dispensed with the waltz and created new

332

American rhythms and tempos. Kurt Weill introduced the modernists.
What was once called the libretto was a juvenile boy-and-girl love
affair, repetitious, incredible, vapid. The first act. nearly always
ended with a break in their affections, with the girl standing on one
side of the stage weeping and the boy on the other, misunderstand-
ing and obdurate. By the final curtain, however, their differences
were magically resolved, and there was no doubt that the two would
live together happily thereafter to the music of the grand finale.

Rodgers and Hart, the Gilbert and Sullivan of our era, broke this
tradition when in On Hour Toes they gave the story of plausible
theme or at least an original twist to the old plot. Some years later,
Oscar Hammerstein II, collaborating with Jerome Kern, in Music in
the Air, added more reality to the story by making the song numbers
an outgrowth of the situation.

The tendency these days is to base musicals on books that have an
intelligent story. And the practice, beginning importantly with Show
Boat, seems to be a wise one from the standpoint of art and public
support. Pal Joey, which recently won two prizes, was based on the
stories of that name by John O'Hara; South Pacific on the Pulitzer
Prize stories by James Michener; The King and I on Anna and the
King of Siam by Margaret Landon; Guys and Dolls on the stories of
Damon Runyon; and Wonderful Town on stories by Ruth Mc-
Kenney.

Fortuitous was my association with Oscar Hammerstein II, who
emerged in the Forties as the supreme genius of musical comedy
achievement. It began with a chance visit to the office of his uncle,
Arthur Hammerstein, producer of Rose Marie. Joe Flynn, publicity
stunt marvel, took me there and introduced me to the comedian
Frank Tinney and Frances White. Here, also, I saw several times,
but never talked to, young Oscar Hammerstein II, just out of Colum-
bia University and trying his hand at play writing.

For one of these, a drama called Jimmy, in order to oblige Joe
Flynn who was too busy to get out all the publicity, I wrote most of
the press stories without ever seeing the play.

Theatrical seasons, one after another, passed by, and I watched
Oscar's name appear again and again on Broadway with alternating
success. Then, to my surprise, he came to me one day and asked me
to do his personal publicity.

His diffidence made it almost difficult to talk personalities, but at
my urging, he explained that he felt that he was submerged by

333

famous relatives like Oscar I and Arthur, and that his progress was
being blocked by his inability to tear away from the clan and es-
tablish himself as an individual.

To me, there seemed to be no need for this feeling. I had as-
sociated him with his early successes, never realizing that subse-
quently a number of failures had seriously affected his finances.

His comeback has made him the most successful librettist, lyricist
and producer of the era. His genius has been matched only by his
charities and his activities as a patriot and a citizen.

Nevertheless, I took the job; and as I look back now, I think that
I didn't do much for him. Sometimes I fear that he didn't get his
money's worth, and that matter of money troubles me, for I didn't
know that those were the lean years for Oscar when he needed every
penny. If I had only known that I would have worked for him for
nothing.

Happily, years later, I worked with Oscar on the Show Boat cam-
paign compensating then, I hope, by my industry in helping establish
one of the greatest hits of the era.

Thanks to Jean Tennyson, the chance came to me to pay token
expression of my regard to Oscar Hammerstein. The occasion was
a party that Jean and I gave at "21" for Dorothy and Oscar. The
guests included the outstanding principals of the theatrical world.
Among these were Miriam Hopkins, first actress to appear in a tech-
nicolor picture Becky Sharpe, Lee Shubert, Lee Ephraim, often called
the Lee Shubert of London, Minnie Guggenheimer, the guiding spirit
of the Stadium Concerts, Leo G. Carroll, Jean Dalrymple, Max Gor-
don, producer of The Women, Clare Luce's great success, Stanley
Rinehart, Tom Ewell, Hope Hampton and scores of other notables.

A day or so after the party, Oscar sent me a letter. It concerned
the talented colored pianist who had supplied music for the party
and it ran something like this:

"When I came home, I realized sadly that someone had been
playing our songs and that I hadn't thanked him. Won't you do it for
me?"

The morning papers containing the first review are the first indica-
tions of a play's success or failure. Press agents, producers, actors
and even angels stay up all night waiting to seize the first editions.

In the case of South Pacific, the party at the St. Regis in honor of
the opening extended to the early morning hours, when attendants
suddenly appeared and rushed around from table to table, distribut-

334

ing early editions of the Tribune and the Times, an innovation.

The American musical comedy is still, happily, in a state of transi-
tion. It borrows boldly. Adventurers get their chance. Oscar Ham-
merstein II and Richard Rodgers plunged into personal ethics in
Allegro. Moss Hart tackled psychoanalysis in Lady in the Dark.

Rivaling other departments of musical comedy have been the
developments made in dance, ballet, costuming and scenery.

Dance routines have become noteworthy for their intricacy, beauty
and coalescing of early types of terpsichorean expression with classic
and modern ballet.

Ballet, beginning with Agnes DeMille and following Oscar Ham-
merstein II's concept, is frequently now an outgrowth of the story,
together with the lyrics and score.

In order to realize a wish that I had nurtured ever since my asso-
ciation with Adrienne, I asked the Ziegf eld Club to sponsor an an-
nual citation for the best American musical. Plans that I outlined in
the late Forties finally reached completion several years later at Sar-
di's. Abel Green, George Freedley, Gilbert Gabriel, president of the
Critics Circle, and William Hawkins met with me and formally ar-
ranged for the yearly citation, the first special tribute to this form
of entertainment in American stage history. Pal Joey was the first
recipient. Musical comedy had at last come into its own.

335

CHAPTER 18

I Become a Textile Publicist

A

BRIEF conversation resulted in tearing me away from the stage
world and projected me into the business arena.

Dr. Dreyfus called me in one day, saying: "It may surprise you but
Celanese, being a new textile, is not as well known as it should be. I
want you to publicize it in every way possible even through myself.
I want you to do for me what you did for Ziegf eld, so that every time
the public thinks of Celanese, they'll think of me and vice versa.

"You can stay with us forever/* said Dr. Dreyfus, "and do your
writing on the side.**

Too good to be true. Leisure time and permanent security. Too
good to miss. I accepted the offer, rejoicing in my good fortune.

Of course, the promise didn't hold good in its entirety. Before
many days had passed I was on duty day and night, so harried by
the exactions of my chiefs that when I had a moment for writing
I had no inclination to take advantage of it.

Before long I realized that I had sold my career as a theatrical
press agent and also myself. Yet, every day I kept hoping things
would improve and that this new experience in the business world
would eventually be of value to me.

336

Besides, there was something of a challenge in the new assign-
ment. Would I be able to apply my methods to a new medium? For
working for Dr. Dreyfus meant acquainting myself with an entirely
new profession. My associates were no longer authors and actors,
but cloak-and-suiters, commercial advertising experts, models and
fashion editors.

I had to study fashions for men and women. I had to learn the
chemical composition of yarns, study commercial advertising cam-
paigns and attend fashion shows.

The last requirement was the most difficult and would have been
thoroughly embarrassing had it not been for my stage experience.

Fortunately, all the fashion editors knew that I had been in the
theatre and that I had something of a knowledge of costumes; so
they were not surprised when they saw me watching models prome-
nade down runways exhibiting evening gowns, coats, hats and "in-
timate wear," the polite term for ladies* underwear.

When Celanese decided to give a style show, I had my chance to
link up with the theatre.

After some deliberation, I sent out a story in which I changed the
name of our salesroom to "The Green Room/' and explained that
here actresses could make their own selections of materials.

"This is the first time in the history of the stage," ran my story,
"that a star has had the chance to study textiles in the bulk and to
choose the type of fabric and color suited to her personality."

The stunt went over. The theatrical news columns mentioned
Celanese, the best kind of publicity, for getting a trade name and one
not well-known then, in a part of the newspaper where it was not
expected to appear is superlative show-windowing.

Before long, to the amazement of Celanese employees, "The Green
Room" boasted the presence of Gertrude Lawrence, Gypsy Rose
Lee, Zorina, Gene Tierney and other stage notables.

Active prejudice flourished at that time among the class coutou-
rieurs. They would use only pure silks. Synthetics were beneath
them. They confused rayons with acetate, regardless of the dif-
ference in their chemical composition. So every time that I managed
to get the trade name "Celanese," even when spelled with a small
letter, into print, I improved my standing; and when, with the aid
of Virginia Pope, fashion editor of the New York Times, I persuaded
that paper to use the name editorially, I effected a recognition that

337

continuous lawsuits with Federal departments didn't bring about
until 1951.

A solemn cause suddenly broke down all prejudice. The oncoming
Second World War made the need of Celanese and other synthetics
imperative. Real silk being no longer available, the Dress Industry
was not only begging for Celanese, but also paying for it by way of
the black market Suddenly, also, Celanese plastics became sub-
stitutes for almost everything, including parts of firearms.

Textiles became practically a war industry, with the fashion de-
signers and critics war leaders of an intensive campaign. On the
battlefield? No, along Seventh Avenue.

Overnight, a high-powered group of men and women of the gar-
ment industry united to form the now well-known Fashion Group
for the express purpose of destroying Paris, the fashion center of
the world, and transferring the title to New York.

"Break away from the Paris fetters!" was the war cry.

The Fashion Group went to the Style Front with modes and substi-
tutions, special meetings and procedures. By the time that the Fed-
eral government published its restrictions concerning dress, the
Group was ready to carry them out. Such a seemingly feminine mat-
ter as the length of the dress became part of the war movement,
along with color and the use of dyes.

As the restrictions grew, the buying public increased its demands
for what was not available. Women forgot the war in their determi-
nation to get the clothes they wanted, clothes which they would
wear largely for the edification of each other because so many male
observers, especially the younger ones, were at the front.

A shout went up for women's nylon stockings that could be heard
around the world, over the sound of cannon. The luxury tax, although
it increased the sale of furs and jewelry, did not deter buyers, and
the craze for costume jewelry assumed epidemic proportions.

To my surprise, I discovered that style traveled as fast as sound.
John Fredericks, for instance, introduced at a champagne party a
hat decoration called "the snowball veil." At the time, the veil was
so expensive that only well-to-do guests could afford the decora-
tion. Less than four months later, the dime store had snowball veils.

While publicizing the textile industry, I met a veteran dry goods
man who was a natural raconteur and a human compendium of
information about the business. He helped me catch up with the

338

history o my new profession and the skulduggery that was once part
of the dry-goods business, particularly in the poorer districts of New
York.

"In the nineties," he reminisced, "all the downtown New York
stores had two prices. Salesmen charged almost any price at all, just
to make a sale. Sometimes they made only a dollar on a sale and
sometimes five dollars, but they always made a sale of some sort.

"As a matter of fact, a customer could scarcely leave a place with-
out buying something. If one clerk couldn't hold him, another one
would rush up or a third, each getting a share of the commission on
the final sale. The racket was really brutal.

"A woman, for instance, would come in and the clerks would sell
her a dress whether it fitted her or not. When she would ask for
repairs, the tailor would be summoned, but all he did was to hold his
hand under her sleeve and say, It fits perfectly. It fits perfectly/

"Sometimes he would make a lot of chalk marks showing where
the dress should be taken in or let out. But the only actual repairing
done would be taking up or letting down the hem of the skirt.

"One woman was sold a suit that was so much too small for her
that when she went home and tried it on, the seams broke out. She
came back very sore the next day and showed us the suit, but got
no satisfaction. So she took the case to court, and when the trial came
off, the very same tailor involved in the first sale, pointed to the
original chalk marks, explained the phony alterations, took the stand
and repeated his same trick: holding his hand under the sleeve,
pushing it up and showing the court that the suit really fit her.
Finally, the case was lost; that is, the court said that she would have
to have another suit. But the court didn't bother to specify the price
of the suit, so she got back the original one.

"Returning to the store after lunch, one day," continued the dry
goods man, "I was surprised to find that the place was empty. No
customers were standing around and not a single clerk.

"As I walked toward the fitting room, I heard great shouts of
laughter and when I pushed back the door, I saw all the clerks and
the fitter. They were standing around a huge Negro woman. She
weighed about three hundred pounds and she was lying flat on the
floor, and while one clerk was presumably taking down her measure-
ments, the fitter was chalking down her outlines.

" We'll take it in here,' he said, 'and we'll take it in there/ cheat-
ing the forlorn soul and giving her a run for her money.

839

"The poor woman, ignorant of how the dress she had bought
could be made to fit her, was the butt of the staff which was giving
her a cruel fleecing.

"All clip joints in those days had the same exteriors and they all
looked alike because no firm names were printed on the windows.
Customers, as a result, couldn't tell one store from the other. One
day a colored fellow came in and we sold him a suit that was too
small for him. He came back, of course, and tried to find the clerk
who had sold it to him originally. The clerk ducked out. So when the
poor fellow couldn't find him he went home, got a knife, walked
into the first store that looked like the one where he'd bought his
suit and demanded an accounting. Failing to get it, he started in
stabbing at people miscellaneously. In return for his efforts to obtain
decent consideration, he got a two-year jail sentence. He really had
no chance. The cards were stacked against him.

"If a man saw a suit in the window marked $10.00, the clerks would
try to 'gyp* him for more; and if the customer wouldn't come across,
they'd sell him any suit, wrap up the package and bid him good-day.
When the customer got home he'd find that he had the coat and not
the trousers. Coming back, he'd say, 'What's the matter, you left
out the trousers,* and the clerks would say, 'That's all you bought.
The coat costs $10.00.'

" 'But look at the notice in the window. It says $10.00.'

" 'Oh, yes, my good man, the price is attached to the coat only,
not to the pants. You buy them separately/ "

Out of such malpractice great wealth grew up and an industry
that developed into the great department stores of today and into
various groups like the Merchants and Broadway Associations which
sponsor fair practice.

Concentration on war sales and priorities taught me quickly the
basic facts about the textile industry. As a matter of fact, textiles and
plastics, once highly technical subjects, became a subject of national
interest to all sorts of people, including the general housewife, who,
no longer able to pay the price for ready-made clothes and expensive
dressmakers, was anxious to know the properties of rayons, acetates,
and their care so that she could make her own clothes.

In order to satisfy this new interest, the big companies employed
a group of trained lecturers who went to schools, colleges and depart-
ment stores where they gave talks on plastics, frequently illustrated
with lantern slides.

340

Similarly alert to popular taste, Virginia Pope, fashion editor o3E
the New York Times, devised a special fashion number for the Times
Magazine which linked the various departments of the fashion in-
dustry and drew from them extensive advertisements.

She followed this unique achievement with her most important
accomplishment: the production of a fashion show put on by the
Times. The script, acting, and presentation were like those of a
Broadway revue, a deviation from fashion routines that affected the
entire dress industry.

Virginia has charm and simplicity, broad culture and humor. Edu-
cated abroad, she brought to her work a catholicity toward people.
She knows her art and her associates, whether they are formal
editors, models, fashion experts, society swells or cloak-and-suiters.

Another important figure in this world of women's dress is "Tobe"
Davis, style consultant. Urgency is a one-word description of this un-
usual woman. She goes on and on, regardless of time and place,
modern travel facilities enabling her to be ubiquitous.

One year, after the war, she flew twice to Europe, once to South
America, once to Palm Beach, three or four times to Hollywood.
Then she prepared for a trip to Honolulu.

Meanwhile, she runs her well-known fashion counselling service,
telling Big Business how women will or will not dress and how the
new look will go. Her mind is always working. She prophesies about
unpredictable matters, reviews political conditions, turns sidelights
on the textile industry, and then shifts to atom bombs.

In 1943, Tob established the Tobe Award for Distinguished Con-
tribution to American Retailing. Since then, it has been referred to
as "the most coveted award in retailing," "the retailing prize," and
"the Oscar of Retailing." Symbol of this honor is an engraved crystal
plaque in an ebony stand.

She also directs the excellent Tob6-Coburn School of Fashion,
turns out graduates, and places them in excellent positions. As a
matter of fact, Tob6 has always had an extraordinary gift for dis-
covering and training people, successful workers like Betsy Black-
well, editor of Mademoiselle.

Tob6 begins the day at 8 o'clock, sitting "half -upright in bed with
telephone in hand, mercilessly waking up half the world. As the
day progresses, she distributes generalities and specific details.

She arranges also for a dinner party in the evening, cocktails the
next day, a benefit the following day and an intervening luncheon

341

at **2L* Also, during the week, she helps organize a political rally or
a literary session at the Saturday Review.

Everything she does, Tob6 does easily, throwing off responsibility
as if it were the cellophane covering on a box of candy. Her house
is perfectly managed by a Japanese butler, a cook, a maid and extra
aides. She corrals celebrities and anonymities, shakes them up, turn-
ing out alternately a bright or a dull mixture. She can return from
an important mission and limit her comments to monosyllables or
she can grow voluble concerning a subject that happens suddenly
to interest her. In 1953, she won the Legion of Honor.

No sooner had I gone through the drudgery of learning about
textiles and the business angle, and carried through my struggles in
putting over some Celanese objectives, than I found myself back
again in the amusement world. Yes, the company put on a million
dollar radio program, Great Moments of Music, and the job of ex-
ploiting it was dropped in my lap. Did I mind? Of course not. I was
glad to escape business and get back into the world I loved. The
program lasted four years and had a great influence on American
music. The stars included many of the greatest artists of the operatic
and concert world: Jan Peerce, Leopold Stowkowski, Mario Lanza,
Robert Weede, Gaetano Merola.

World War Two over, panic suddenly seemed to seize all the big
business organizations. There were small meetings and large ones,
dismissals and readjustments.

Then came big general meetings with salesmen from all over the
country attending. Sobered by the new outlook, everyone walked
out of that meeting, saying, "The honeymoon is over."

Yes, the customers were no longer on their knees begging for
material. Prices had changed. Everyone was talking of a possible
World War III. The honeymoon was, indeed, over.

This was now the Plastic Age and I saw fantastic things happen:
new textiles appearing on the markets, cloth made of milk, cloth so
thin that it took up no space and had slight weight, capable of dis-
appearing or uniting with the old ones- with silk, with wool, with
cottons bullet-proof cloth stronger than steel.

Inventions were numerous: coverings that permitted fruits to ripen
without decaying, that prevented firearms from rusting, that per-

842

mitted the buyer to note the full contents of a box without opening
it. All these advantages within less time than it takes to tell were first
new, then routine, expressions of the plastic age.

Meanwhile, business had begun to employ theatrical methods,
and was publicizing its hitherto reticent business chiefs like stage
stars. Business men discovered the value of public relations.

They now have their pictures on the financial page; and they pose
and stew over these pictures as if they were actors. At public dinners
they sit on the dais. They present papers that probably someone
has written for them. They accept appointments as bank directors.
They keep their eyes on the green line determined to make money,
get into the best society and to marry off their daughters to the
proper son of the proper father. Golf serves as a universal entree
by way of the right country club, as does, of course, a good Wall
Street rating.

Culture consists of a knowledge of the financial page, good plays
and movies, best sellers, a thorough acquaintance with sports and
attendance at the fights, being on the Band Wagon.

My passion for learning about every kind of person and every
aspect of life was oddly realized when Celanese made me its repre-
sentative for Welfare Work. Until then I knew little of the part
that Big Business has recently assumed in charity work.

Soon I learned and was able to participate in a small way, still
publicizing the Celanese organization, but giving it wider personal
publicity by participating in the kind of community service headed
by the Rockefeller Foundation, the Ford Foundation, banks, in-
surance companies and other powerful organizations.

The cycle had completed itself: social service at the Home for
the Friendless, Director of Opportunities during World War I, and
now, Welfare worker.

Once started, I went from one campaign to another, being the
spokesman for furriers, notions manufacturers, jewelers, costume
jewelers, glove makers, dressmakers. I worked for the Red Cross,
the Metropolitan Museum of Costume Art, the Salvation Army, the
Greater New York Fund, everywhere that Big Business saw the
need. I visited Harlem social clubs and Salvation Army rest rooms.
I heard Henry Ford II describe the work of the Detroit Com-
munity Chest; I attended dull propaganda dinners, hearing repeti-
tions of the same dull data over and over again; I ate lunches with

343

the poverty-stricken for eight cents and I attended dinners at $100 a
plate for the underprivileged.

After working, talking and writing about the garment industry for
weeks and months, I suddenly found myself standing in the middle
of Ohrbacli's. Yes, I was standing in a department store and a big
crowd was around me. I listened to my own voice:

"Movies, movies"; I was talking about the movies. Had I reverted
to my old world of the theatre, had I missed it so much that in an
odd moment the movie industry had dug me out of my commercial
seclusion and released me from textiles? Had I gone ga-ga? No, I
was merely acting as M.C. at an anniversary celebration.

That's why I was in Ohrbach's, surrounded by a crowd. It was
approximately on that modern dry goods spot that years ago Adolph
Zukor had opened his first nickelodeon.

Did my work with Celanese cut off my relation with the theatre?
No. I continued to live the double life, the harassing split allegiance
that I had experienced since those days long ago when I was a high
school teacher by day and a press agent by night.

Never was there a time when the importance of the theatre to the
world in general and business in particular, was proved more con-
clusively. It was the bait for big business, the means of winning over
the out-of-town buyer and the fashion editor. Big firms had standing
orders for blocks of the best seats, bought at fabulous prices, $25 to
$100 a ticket. These tickets were always on tap, ready to supply any
customer's request. For months, the general public never had a
chance to buy these seats, for Seventh Avenue and other expressions
of big business monopolized them.

In Love in the Western World, Denis de Rougemont tells this
fable:

"A lovely maiden who awaits the true believer on the far side of
the Bridge of Sinvat, when he appears she says to him: 1 am thy-
self!"'

That's my state of mind concerning the theatre. I want to blend
with what it gives the happiest crowds in the world: the brightly
anticipatory crowds on the edge of a desired experience, the crowds
that surge into theatre lobbies, the crowds that seek temporary sur-
cease, renewal of faith, the manifestations of truth.

344

I MYSELF

I am 1. 1 am my own continuity. What I see, hear, feel, smell, taste
and think is what makes me myself. The sum of all my acts and
thoughts is I. And the way that these inner and outer forces combine
to make me influence others, even infinitesimally, throughout the
ages, constitutes the expression of my eternal I.

My chief purpose in writing this autobiography is to find myself
as an entity. Max Sterner in The Ego and His Own has phrased my
intention thus:

"Man's effort to get hold of himself out of the world's confusion
in which he, with everything else, is tossed about in motley mixture
. . . making the combat of 'self -assertion* unavoidable."

At the same time my effort to find and establish myself as an
entity is preposterous, considering the nature of the individual and
the fact that he means less every day.

Yet I must fight to preserve myself, hoping that doing so will be
contributory to some ultimate good. Above all, I must fight honestly,
no matter how shameful my self-analysis. With Benjamin Constant,
I say:

"I am going to show my fellows a man in all the truth of nature
and this man will be myself. I have shown myself as I am; con-
temptible and low when I was; good, generous, on occasions.'*

Freely, I've talked here of people, probably misjudged or over-
rated them. A man can't evaluate himself, but in meeting others, he
judges men by what they do to him, say about him, believe about
him.

Throughout life, I've been continuously fearful and apologetic.
The slightest criticism destroys my confidence. I can always see the
other fellow's point-of-view because I rate his intelligence as on a
level with my own. In retrospect, I can slash his personality to
pieces, evaluate justly every fault in character. But on the spot, I see
him as practically a duplicate of myself, his mental strength equal,
liis motives similar, his sense of justice comparable.

As the years passed by and I continued to fight with my obdurate
weaknesses, in an effort to improve myself and my work, I wondered
often if I couldn't cure my obsessions by making my mind dominate
my wiU; that is, by a kind of self -hypnosis.

345

It's rather late now for this treatment. Nevertheless, I'd like to try
it.

In my passion for knowing people and being known, I was merely
searching self-knowledge. But as Dostoievski said, "There are things
one fears to reveal even to one's self . . ."

Why didn't I marry? Because I was never deeply in love or
wouldn't let myself be. My first desire from childhood on was to
write books and I was willing to give up everything for the consum-
mation of this desire. Equal and perhaps stronger than this desire
was my love for family. It was so strong that it menaced and perhaps
defeated my first ambition. Ruthlessness is necessary for success in
the arts. But I couldn't throw off my family for the sake of my ambi-
tion. Instead of taking a chance at poverty to gain what I wanted,
I slaved at business to provide them with the comforts of life.

Then, too, there were allied reasons, one of these being the fear of
tedium and not living up to the conception that someone else might
have of me. No matter how much I liked people, I never wanted to
be with them too long at a time because I was afraid that I might
say or do something that would make them think less of me. I could
accept any fault in others and condone it, but I didn't want and
could not hope that others would be similarly tolerant. And though
I might be disinclined to remain long with people, my friendships
were consistent and lasted through a life.

Constant association with one woman was impossible for me. Too
repressing, too repetitious. I wanted to consult my own wishes first
and never defer to another unless I chose to do so. Furthermore, I
lacked the confidence in myself that made me think myself capable
of retaining the close and continuous intimacy of married life, the
power to hold a great love.

Sex was enough for me, and selected friendships.

People would say, 'In your old age you'll miss love." Fortunately
my late years have been so full of family affection and friendship
that I am not conscious of missing anything except the restrictions,
the anxieties of looking after others in illness and distress. Yes, I am
selfish and I don't offer my way of living as a model, but it has given
me a full life.

346

Index of Names

Abbott and CosteUo, 252
Adams, F. P., 202, 304
Ade, George, 50, 56
Adler, Polly, 213
Ainsley, George, 285
Ainsley, Swanna, 285
Akins, Zoe, 318
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 322
Allen, Fred, 149
Anderson, John Murray, 198
Andrews, Charlton, 77-8
Anthony, Norman, 294
Appel, Grace, 309
Arbuckle, Maclyn, 92
Arlen, Michael, 138, 176
Ashley, Anne, 321
Astaire, Adele, 123
Astaire, Fred, 123, 200
Austin, Madeline, 285
Ayres, Edward, 50

Bacardi, 88

Bacon, Frank, 273

Baer, Bugs, 215, 223

Baker, Belle, 280

Baker, Josephine, 172

Baker, Phil, 237

Bankhead, Talullah, 90, 129, 316-20

Bannister, Harry, 210

Barbour, Joyce, 153

Barrymore, Lionel, 286

Barton, James, 142-43, 252, 321

Baruch, Barney, 278

Basquette, Lina, 155

Beck, Louise, 329

Beck, Martin, 235-36

Beebe, Lucius, 290

Behrman, S. N., 24, 94, 260-61, 285

Belasco, David, 288-9

Benchley, Robert, 226

Bennett, Constance, 230

Bennett, James O'Donnell, 60

Benny, Jack, 149

Bent, Marion, 237

Bergman, Leonard, 167

Bernays, Edward L., 241

Bernhardt, Sarah, 238

Berle, Milton, 149

Berlin, Irving, 200, 275, 300, 332

Berlin, Waterson and Snyder, 146

Betty, William Henry, 320

Bickel and Watson, 140

Biddle, Tony Drexel, 183

Bijhnan, Rose, 303

Biflingsley, Sherman, 207, 215

Bird, Richard, 153

Blair, Nicky, 126, 193

Block, Paul, 105

Blum, Daniel, 330

felumenthal, A. C., 197, 201

Boland, Mary, 330

BonsteUe, Jessie, 71

Booth, Edwin, 324

Booth, Junius Brutus, 324

Booth, Shirley, 327-28

Braham, Gladys Feldman, 200

Brice, Fannie, 90, 144-47, 200,251,278

Brisbane, Arthur, 296-7

Bross, William, 39

Brotherton, Tommy, 183

Broun, Heywood, 88, 129

Brown Brothers, Six, 238

Brown, John Mason, 298

Bruno, 319

Bryant, Harry, 311

Buck, Gene, 182

Burke, Billie, 110-14, 118-19, 122, 152,

178, 200, 216
Burke, Katherine, 116
Burton, David, 24
Buttons, Red, 149
Byram, Marion, 215
Byrd, Samuel, 329
Byron, 'Bobbie,* 76

Caesar, Irving, 182

Calve, Emma, 41, 42

Cantor, Eddie, 123, 149, 185, 200

Carle, Richard, 311

Carlisle, Alexandra, 59

Carroll, Earl, 76, 87-8, 89, 91-9, 105,

107, 294

Carroll, Earl, Mrs., 98
Carroll, Leo G., 153, 334
Case, Frank, 319
Cerf, Bennett, 308
Chaplin, Charles, 141, 223
Chapman, Arthur, 82
Chapman, John, 82
Chatterton, Ruth, 58, 59, 154
Chekhov, Michael, 318
Cheney, Sheldon, 95
Chevalier, Maurice, 123-24, 171
Chilton, John Augustine, 134
Churchill, Randolph, 169
Churchill, Winston, 169
Chute, Marchette, 240
Claire, Ina, 51
Clark, Bobby, 149
Clark and McCullough, 252
Clayburgh, Alma, 31
Clayton, Jackson, Durante, 139
Coca, Imogene, 258
Cohan, George M., 177, 240, 273-75,

331

Cohan, Georgette, 275
Collins, Madeline, 311-12
Cominsky, Jack, 215

347

Connolly, Joseph, 215

Connolly, Robert, 294

Connors, Chick, 276

Constant, Benjamin, 345

Coolidge, Calvin, 220

Cooper, Courtney Ryley, 209

Cooper, Gary, 126

Copland, Aaron, 132

Corio, Ann, 257

Cornell, Katharine, 127, 324

Cotton, John, 267

Cousins, Norman, 215

Coward, Noel, 112, 114, 219, 319'

Craig, Gordon, 71

Crockett Family, the, 243

Crosby, Bing, 50

Crosby, Caresse, 213

Crouse, Russel, 202

Crowinshield, Frank, 269-70

Crowther, Bosley, 214

Culbertson, Ely, 211-12

Cummings, E. E., 132

Curry, Dan, 198

Dailey, Pete, 237

Dali, Salvador, 271-72

Dalrymple, Jean, 334

Daly, Arnold, 325-26

Daniels, Bebe, 88

Danilova, 171

Darlington, W. A., 169

Davies, Marion, 103

Davis, Charles Belmont, 259

Davis, Edward, 48

Davis, Richard Harding, 259

DeFoe, Louis, 96

DeKoven, Reginald, 331

DeMille, Agnes, 335

Dewey, Thomas, 209-10

Diamond, Legs, 139

Dickinson, Thomas H., 59

Dillingham, Charles, 106, 143, 167,

174-76

Dillman, Hugh, 90
Dodge, Horace E., Mrs., 90
Donahue, Jack, 119-20, 192, 305
Donald, Peter, 308
Dooley, Ray, 142
Dorset, Eli, 117
Douglas, Norman, 258
Dove, Billie, 103
Dowling, Eddie, 142, 178, 239
Downey, Morton, 182
Drew, John, 75

Dreyfus, Camille, 313-14, 336-37
Dudley, Bide, 92
Durante, Jimmy, 104, 139-40
Dutchin, Frances, 128

Eaton, Walter Prichard, 25
Edrington, Will R., 91-3
Ehrman, Max, 52
Eliot, T. S., 113
Englander, Ludwig, 331

348

Ephraim, Lee, 334

Erlanger, A. L., 167-68, 173-77

Errol, Leon, 251

fitting, Ruth, 124-25

Evans, Maurice, 289

Evelyn, Judith, 329

Ewell, Thomas, 329, 334

Fairbanks, Douglas, Jr., 328

Falaise, Marquis de la, 230

Farmer, Michael, 120

Farrar, John, 95, 128, 254

Farrar, Margaret, 128

Farrar and Rinehart, 167

Farrell, Frank, 215

Faulkner, William, 255

Fay, Frank, 237

Fears, Peggy, 197, 201

Fee, Lois de, 130

Felix, Elisa Rachel, 326

Fender, Harry, 311

Ferber, Edna, 126, 161

Fields, Dorothy, 300-01

Fields, Lew, 237

Fields, William A., 94

Fields, W. C., 123, 140-42, 148, 252

Fish, Stuyvesant, Mrs., 328

Fisher, Irving, 200

Fleming, Susan, 105, 116, 183

Flynn, Joseph, 333

Folley Brothers, 238

Folwell, Arthur, 82, 259

Fontanne, Lynne, 59

Forbes, Hazel, 105, 121

Forbes, Ralph, 153-55

Foster, Jack, Jr., 242

Foster, Lillian, 240

Foster, Nev, 76

Fox, Beauvais, 259

Fox, Delia, 327

Francis, Arlene, 329

Frank, Jerome N., 39

Fredericks, John, 226, 338

Freedley, George, 329, 335

Freeman, Donald, 302

Friml, Rudolf, 182, 331

Furness, Viscountess, 201

Furst, William Wallace, 331

Gabel, Martin, 329
Gabriel, Gilbert, 335
Gadski, Johanna, 42
Gage, Belle, 186-88
Gallagher and Shean, 252
Card, Alex, 276-77
Card, Betty, 330
Garden, Mary, 60, 61
Gardner, Hy, 215
Garrick, David, 321, 327
Garson, Greer, 224
Gaul, George, 72
Gauvreau, Emile, 305
Geddes, Norrdan Bel, 287-88
Gensler, Lewis, 294

Genthe, Arnold, 125

George, Grace, 26

Gershwin, George, 124, 332

Gest, Morris, 124, 279

Geupel, "Shine/* 76

Gibbs, Wolcott, 307

Gilkey, Stanley, 127

Gimp, Colonel, 125

Gish, Dorothy, 218

Gish, Lillian, 218

Glad, Gladys, 105, 115-17, 119, 255

Glaser, Lulu, 312

Gleason, Jackie, 149

Goddard, Paulette, 155, 183

Goebel, Lee, 73, 75

Golden, John, 329

Goldreyer, Mike, 88

Goldwyn, Samuel, 196

Goodman, Al, 183

Gordon Brothers, 238

Gordon, Max, 334

Gordon, Ruth, 72, 94

Gordon, Waxie, 195-96

Graham, John R., 209

Grandlund, N. T., 215

Gray, Alexander, 200

Gray, Gilda, 279

Gray, Roger, 91

Green, Abel, 214, 335

Green, Howard, 81

Greene, Ward, 215

Greenough, Busch, Mrs., 132

Griffith, D. W., 218-20

Groves, Wallace, 212

Guggenheimer, Minnie, 334

Guggenheim, William, 157

Guinan, Texas, 91, 209

Guy, Edmonde, 182

Gwynne, Erskine, 171-72

Hallam, Lewis, 240
Halley, Beryl, 182
Halley, Marion, 182
Hammerstein, Arthur, 104
Hammerstein, Elaine, 216, 217
Hammerstein, Oscar, I, 61
Hammerstein, Oscar, II, 201, 279, 333,

335

Hammond, Percy, 60, 205-06, 299, 302
Hampton, Hope, 334
Hannagan, Steve, 50
Hansen, Harry, 60
Happeinheimer, General, 105
JSarkrider, John, 183
Barlow, Jean, 121
Harrigan and Hart, 237
Harris, Jed, 284-85
Harris, Radie, 170
Harris, Sam H., 140
Harrison, Rex, 327
Hart, Bernard, 330
Hart, Bifly, 321
Hart, Lorenz, 279-80, 333
Hart, Margie, 330

Hart, Max, 143

Hart, Moss, 129, 335

Hartmans, the, 294

Hathaway, Jane, 178

Hawkins, William, 335

Hays, Will H., 56, 57

Haywood, George, 41

Healy, Dan, 200

Hearst, William Randolph, Jr., 134-35,

178, 180, 181
Hearst, William Randolph, Jr., Mrs.,

182

Hearst, William Randolph, HI, 134
Hecht, Ben, 60
Helburn, Theresa, 215
Held, Anna, 38, 119, 157, 158
Held, John, 214
HeUinger, Mark, 115-18, 254
Hellman, Lillian, 163, 320
Herbert, Victor, 331
Herrick, Robert, 60
Hershfield, Harry, 215, 287, 329
Hickman, Arthur, 182
Hicks, Seymour, 173
Hill, Gus, 252-53
Hitchcock, Raymond, 148
Hoffman, Irving, 215
Holden, Milton, 169
Holm, Eleanor, 278
Holz, Lou, 237
Hoover, Herbert, 220
Hope, Bob, 149, 294, 326-27
Hopkins, Miriam, 334
Hornblow, Arthur, 78
Houghton, Stanley, 46
Howard, Eugene, 323
Howard, Sidney, 94
Howard, Willie, 252, 294, 323
Howey, Walter, 297
Hoyt, Julia, 328
Hurst, Fannie, 30
Hurtig, Joseph, 146
Huston, John, 320
Hutton, Betty, 180

Irving, Henry, 273, 318
Jack and Charlie, 206-7
Jacks, Sam T., 322
"ames, Henry, 266, 285
r anis, Elsie, 237
yeffe, E. F., 255
Jeffe, Huldah, 255
Jelke, Micky, 308
Jessel, George, 215, 237
Johnson, Alfred Cheney, 198
Johnson, Bill, 254-55
Jolson, Al, 90, 122, 218, 251
Joyce, Peggy Hopkins, 126

Kahn, Otto, 124
Kalman, Emmerich, 331-32
Kaltenborn, H. V., 329
Kapurthala, Maharajah of, 158
Kaufman, Beatrice, 129

349

Kaufman Brothers, 238
Kaufman, George S., 271
Kaufman, S. Jay, 96, 201, 304
Kavanaugh, George Washington, Mrs.,

215

Kaye, Danny, 308
Kean, Robert, 324
Keane, Doris, 43
Keeler, Ruby, 122
Keighley, William, 329
KeUey, George, 25
Kelly, Bradley, 215, 329
Kelly, Gregory, 72
Kelly, Paul, 72
Kerker, Gustave, 331
Kern, Jerome, 104, 201, 331, 333
Kilgallen, Dorothy, 215
King, Dennis, 197
Kingsley, Sidney, 286, 289, 328
Kingsley, Walter, 323
Kingston, Sam, 198
Kinnaird, Clark, 215, 245, 329
Kitchen, Karl, 304
Klein Brothers, 238
Knapp, Dorothy, 107
Knapp, George, 56
Kober, Arthur, 92, 163, 302-03
Kobler, A. J., 292-98
Kriendler, Jack, 231
Krom, A. H., 58

Lahr, Bert, 197, 252

Lamarr, Hedy, 223

Lamb, Eli, 300

Landon, Margaret, 333

Lang, Howard, 329

Langner, Lawrence, 297

Langtry, Lily, 59

Lanza, Mario, 342

Lasky, Jesse, 275

Lander, Harry, 51

Laurence, Paula, 330

Laurie, Joe, Jr., 214

Lawrence, Gertrude, 121, 132, 325, 337

Laye, Evelyn, 123

Lee, Gypsy Rose, 128-33, 257, 337

Lehar, Franz, 331

Leon and Eddie, 129

Leon, Millie de, 146

Leone, Gene, 216

Levene, Samuel, 330

Levey, Ethel, 275-76

Levy, Charles, 160

Light, Herbert, 40

Lindbergh, Charles, 181-82

Livingston, Belle, 208-09

Livingstone, Beulah, 216

Loeb, Elinor, 300

Logan, Jacqueline, 103

Loos, Anita, 155

Lopez, Vincent, 51, 179-80

Lorraine, Lillian, 119

Lowson, Denys, 173

850

Lowson, Patricia, 173
Luce, Claire, 129, 169-71
Luce, Clare Boothe, 169-70, 334
Luchese, Three Finger, 308
Lunt, Alfred, 59
Lyons, Leonard, 216
Lytell, Bert, 328, 330

MacFadden, Bernarr, 203-04

Maclntyre, Maybelle, 202

Mackail, Dorothy, 103

Mackay, Clarence, 276 '

Mackay, Ellen, 276

Macklin, Charles, 324

Macowan, Kenneth, 95

Madden, Owney, 304

Mansfield, Martha, 103

Mansfield, Richard, 26, 75

Mantle, Burns, 299

Marsh, Reginald, 132

Martin, Mary, 97

Massey, Raymond, 94, 320

Maugham, Somerset, 112, 266-67

Maxwell, Vera, 178

May, Ada, 179, 200

Mayf air, Mitzi, 200

McCarver, Lorelle, 134

McClain, John, 226

McClintic, Guthrie, 127, 173

McCormack, John, 60

McCutcheon, George, Barr, 50, 94

McEvoy, J. P., 139

Mclntyre, Odd, 127, 202, 304

McKenny, Ruth, 333

Meacham, Anne, 329

Mead, Mafgaret, 308

Meeks, Everett W., 61

Mencken, H. L., 255, 329

Merman, Ethel, 215

Merola, Gaetano, 342

Michel, Leo, 262

Michener, James, 333

Middleton, George, 25

Mielziner, Joseph, 289

Milestone, Lewis, 230

Miller, Gilbert, 165

Miller, Henry, 154

Miller, Marilyn, 91, 119, 121, 123, 192

Miller, Wilson, 76

Minter, Mary Miles, 222

Mizner, Addison, 328

Monterey, Carlotta, 95

Montgomery and Stone, 251

Moore, Grace, 107, 312

Morehouse, Ward, 278, 318

Morgan, Anne, 43, 217-18

Morgan, Helen, 126-27, 197

Morgan, Ruth, 105, 121

Morley, Christopher, 202

Morris, Clara, 75

Morris, Mary, 72

Morris, McKay, 72

Morris, William, 240

Morrison, Adrierme, 299
Mutter, J. P., 100
Murray, Harold, 179
Murray, Mae, 103, 216, 217, 230

Nash, Ogden, 210-11

Nathan, George Jean, 25, 129, 298,

302

Navarro, Ramon, 88
Nethersole, Louis, 43
Newman, Hannah, 31, 32, 34
Newman, Sylvia, 23, 38, 39, 76
Nicholas, Jack, 216
Nichols, Anne, 161-64, 167
Nicholson, Kenyon, 22, 52, 71, 107,

260-62

Normand, Mabel, 221-22
North, John Ringling, 215
Norworth, Jack, 200
Novello, Ivor, 112
Nugent, Elliott, 72

Obolensky, Serge, 332
Odets, Clifford, 224
O'Hara, John, 333
O'Laughlin Sisters, the, 29
Oliver, Edna May, 127
O'Malley, Rex, 273
O'Neill, Eugene, 153, 260
O'Neill, Eugene, Mrs., 96
O'Shea, Michael, 330

Paley, William, 241
Parker, Dorothy, 269
Parks, Ora, 41, 58, 59, 61-2
Parsons, Louefla, 216
Patterson, Russel, 293
Patterson, Ruth, 105
Paul, Maury, 154
Pearl, Jack, 142, 252, 308
Pearlman, Phyllis, 286
Peerce, Jan, 342
Pemberton, Brock, 268-69
Pennington, Ann, 144, 200
Petrova, Olga, 218
Phelps, Ruth Arno, 315
Pickford, Jack, 120
Pickford, Mary, 226
PolHver, Frank, 83-4
Poole, Alice, 108, 186, 198, 200
Pope, Virginia, 337, 341
Potditzer, Milton, 41
Powysjohn Cowper, 51
Pratt, Theodore, 214
Prentiss, E. W., 58
Priestley, J. B., 267-68
Pulaski, Jack, 197, 254

Raglund, Rags, 252
Rainer, Luise, 224-25
Rambeau, Marjorie, 90, 233
Ranald, Josef, 112
Raphaelson, Samson, 138, 325
Rascoe, Burton, 60, 269

Reed, Florence, 127

Reed, BiUy, 215

Rehan, Ada, 75

Reibeisen, Max, 215, 329

Reinhardt, Max, 169

Reprogle, Leonard, 183

Reri, 203

Reuben, Arnold, 233

Reynal, Eugene, 210-11

Rice, Elmer, 94

Rice, Mary Alice, 329

Richman, Harry, 117, 200, 255

Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 96

Rinehart, Stanley, 254, 334

Riskind, Everett, 203

Riskind, Robert, 203

Robb, Inez, 215

Roberts, Kiki, 139

Robeson, Paul, 197

Robinson, Bill, 242

Rockett, Al, 220

Rockett, Ray, 220

Rodgers, Richard, 104, 114, 279-80,

300, 333

Roger Brothers, 238
Rogers, Will, 143-44, 206, 251
Romanoff, Mike, 280-81
Romberg, Sigmund, 331-32
Rooney, Mickey, 225-26
Rooney, Pat., 168, 237, 279
Rose, Billy, 278-79
Rosenf eld, Arthur, 216
Rosenman, Samuel, 315
Rosenthal, Harry, 140
Ross, Harold, 307
Runyon, Damon, 329, 333
Russell Brothers, 238
Russell, Lillian, 237

Salm, Millicent, 183

Saltazzi, Florentine G., 209

Sammons, Wheeler, 209, 329-30

Sanderson, Julia, 312

Sardi, Vincent, 277-78

Savo, Jimmie, 252

Sawyer, Charles Pike, 268

Sayler, Olive M., 330

Sayre, Joel, 83, 255

Scheff, Fritzi, 330

Schlesinger, M. A., 135

Segal, Vivienne, 200, 310

Seidel, Toscha, 242

Seldes, Gilbert, 95, 261

Selznick, David, 230

Sennett, Mack, 221-22

Serlin, Oscar, 329

Shaw, George Hamlin, Mrs., 76, 300

Shaw, Oscar, 105

Sharpe, Stanley, 195, 198

Shearer, Bill, 14, 21

Shearer, Norma, 228-30

Sherman, Lowell, 90

Sherwood, Robert, 94, 269

Shor, Toots, 215

351

Showalter, Arthur, 75

Shubert, J. J., 173, 299-300

Shubert, Lee, 121, 281-82, 334

Shubert, J. J. and Lee, 102

Shubert, Milton, 215, 329

Shutta, Ethel, 252

Silverman, Sime, 254

Singer, Paris, 183

Skelton, Red, 252

Skinner, Cornelia Otis, 322

Skinner, Otis, 26

Slater, Bill, 329

Smith, Charles, 40, 43

Smith, H. Allen, 225-26

Sobel, Eddie, 286

Sobol, Louis, 153

Sousa, John Philip, 331

Spence, WiUard, 331

Stanton, Goldie, 109-10, 179, 200

Steele, John, 200

Steiner, Max, 311

Stevens, Marie, 108

Stone, Fred, 322-23

Stone, Winthrop E., 55-7, 283

Stowkowski, Leopold, 342

Straus, Oscar, 331

Stromberg, Hunt, 199, 216, 232-33

Sullivan, Ed, 233

Sullivan, Francis L., 330

Swaffer, Hannen, 240

Swanson, Gloria, 126, 230

Sylva, Marguerita, 27

Sylvester, Bob, 215

Talmadge, Constance, 216
Talmadge, Norma, 216-17
Tanguay, Eva, 237
Tarkington, Booth, 59, 112, 260
Tashman, Lilyan, 103
Taylor, Bert Leston, 202, 304
Taylor, Laurette, 59
Taylor, William Desmond, 222
Tennyson, Jean, 310-15, 334
Terns, Norma, 197, 330
Terry, Ellen, 273, 318
Terry, Ethelind, 179
Thaw, Evelyn Nesbit, 89-90
Thaw, Harry K., 90
Thomas, Olive, 103, 119, 217
Thompson, Dorothy, 329
Tibbett, Lawrence, 213
Tierney, Gene, 337
Tinney, Frank, 333
Tobe, (Davis), 341-42
Tobin, Genevieve, 329
Tracy, Lee, 330
Tucker, Sophie, 251

Ulric, Lenore, 89
Underbill, Harriett, 88-9
Urban, Joseph, 178, 183

Valentino, Rudolph, 228, 265-66
352

Van, Billy, 311
Vanderbilt, Cornelius, 264
Vanderbilt, Gloria, 202
Vanderbilt, Harold, 207, 211-13
Vanderbilt, William K., Sr., Mrs., 328
Velez, Lupe, 125
Vye, Mervyn, 329

Wagner, Charles, 293

Wagner, E. W., 79

Wakeman, Frederic, 244, 285

Walker, Danton, 330

Walker, Stanley, 307

Walker, Stuart, 52, 71-2, 94

Wall, Barry, 172

Walsh, Clara BeU, 169

Walsh, Helen, 117, 255

Wanger, Walter, 186

Warburton, Jack, 120

Wardell, Harry, 90

Warner, Sam, 155

Watts, Richard, 240

Wayburn, Ned, 200

Weber, Joe, 237

Weede, Robert, 342

Wegman, Dorothy, 138

Weill, Kurt, 333

Weiner, Lawrence, 112

Wells, H. G., 267

Werba, Louis, 310-12

West, Mae, 264-66

Wheeler, Bert, 130, 179, 324-25

Wherry, Richard, 209

White, Frances, 333

White, Jerry, 329

Whiteman, Paul, 51

Widener, Fifi, 169

Wiesenberger, Arthur, 194-95

Willcrofts, Freeman, 257

Williams, Henry X., 183

Wilson Brothers, 238

Wilson, Earl, 290

Winburn, George, 159

Winchell, Walter, 153, 301-09

Windsor, Duchess of, 133, 275, 290

Winninger, Charles, 148

Witson, Pic, 104

Wons, Tony, 242

Woollcott, Alexander, 94, 111, 268

Woolsey, Robert, 179

Wotawa, E. J., Jr., 51

Wynn, Ed, 142, 147-49, 240

Yurka, Blanche, 72

Zanuck, Darryl, 50

Ziegfeld, Florenz, 101-16, 118-24, 135-

42, 152-62, 167-84, 195-96, 205,

275, 305-06

Ziegfeld, Patricia, 106, 112, 175, 182
Zimmerman, Katherine, 161
Zorina, Vera, 337
Zukor, Adolph, 162, 230, 344