“I’ll see the family in Chicago, I hope,” Paul went on. “Aunt Fritzi in New York, perhaps, but Uncle Carl definitely. I’m going to Detroit.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the state of Michigan. A man named Henry Ford is going to introduce an automobile that’s said to be remarkable, because it’s both strong and cheap.” He shifted the position of the pillow at the small of his back. Thirty years old and aching like Methuselah, he thought with considerable disgust. Julie was continually urging him to hire an assistant. Even Michael said he was an idiot to operate without one. Julie teased Paul about wanting to do everything himself—which wasn’t far from the truth.
Paul’s study had been converted from a front bedroom. There was not much to be done with the rather feminine stained-glass flowers in the upper sections of the bay windows, but Julie had decorated the room itself to suit a man’s taste: striped wallpaper, dark furniture, two Chippendale-style bookcases, electric table and floor lamps with fringed shades of vivid red silk, a rolltop desk opposite the small fireplace. Edwardian fashion dictated less clutter than in the preceding age, but Paul remained an unconscious Victorian: he filled up every inch of space with books, papers, metal cans holding film reels, or souvenirs of his travels: beer coasters; matchboxes; picture postcards; a tin-plate Eiffel Tower; a Malay kriss with cruelly serrated blade; a Japanese folding screen; a spiked helmet from Germany that Shad loved to wear with a wooden rifle on his shoulder; a small Chinese gong struck at mealtime and, occasionally, to annoy parents; a raffish Indian floor mat that covered a fine Persian carpet. Paul sorely missed the room when he was away.
Shad started to ask another question, but the door opened. Julie peeked in from the hall. “Oh, my. Smoky as a cave in here.” Shad sprang up to throw his arms around his mother and bury his head against her skirt. A moment later, he slid out the door, grinning.
Julie—Juliette Vanderhoff when Paul first knew her in Chicago—was a slightly built woman with delicate fair skin and large, luminous gray eyes. His heart leaped when he saw how fetching she looked in her afternoon dress, silk chiffon with pleated sleeves, in a becoming shade of dusty rose. Over the wide neckline she wore the pearls he’d given her last Christmas, and matching earrings.
Julie was almost completely free of the terrible depressive spells she’d suffered as a young woman, when her crazed and possessive mother hounded her, constantly told her that sickness, weakness, nervous disorders were a woman’s lot. She had been forced into an arranged marriage with an abusive man, a playboy eventually shot to death by his mistress while she looked on, helpless to stop it. It had left scars: a marked fragility, a certain shadow in the eyes at times. Her children, her marriage to a husband who adored her had made the difference between surrender to the darkness and victory over it.
She was still soldiering for Mrs. Pankhurst, whom they’d come upon a week ago in Jean Tussaud’s museum, immortalized in a new wax statue. Julie’s dressing closet was piled high with packets of WSPU literature. She worked regularly at a desk in a corner of the sewing room, writing letters, petitions, and, just lately, a speech for a rally that was expected to attract thousands to Hyde Park in a few weeks.
Violence on behalf of the cause was escalating. Two women, unauthorized, had thrown rocks through windows at 10 Downing Street. There was talk of a mass invasion of Parliament and of hunger strikes. Prime Minister Asquith insisted the suffrage issue lacked sufficient support to merit legal reform. Every time that was mentioned, Julie fumed.
“What would you like Barbara to prepare for supper?” she asked now.
Paul slipped his arms around her. “Should be a fine warm evening. Why don’t we walk with the children for fish and chips?”
“I’d love that.” Julie spied the book in the window seat. “I’m so proud of you, Paul.”
“Without you, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to try the first paragraph.”
She slipped her arms around his neck. “Just don’t get so famous that hordes of women chase you.”
“I only care for one,” he said, drawing her into an ardent kiss. Julie’s lips tasted sweet and warm. Her body strained into his. She rested her chin on his shoulder, sighing. “I’m losing you to the world again.”
“Only for a few months.”
She kissed his ear, fondled the back of his neck. “An eternity. At least there’s no danger this time.”
A swift ironic smile passed over Paul’s face, unseen by his wife as they stood embracing. In seconds a reel of past events played on the screen of memory:
A crazed Bengal tiger charging while he filmed from an elephant howdah. Down on the ground, the mahout stumbled on a vine, and before the tiger was driven off, the little brown man was fatally clawed….
The rain-soaked soil of an earthen terrace gave way in the Culebra Cut, and a giant Bucyrus steam shovel tilted, then fell with a terrible slow majesty, crushing two workers to death on a lower terrace, where Paul had been filming; he ran with his tripod on his shoulder at the last moment. President Teddy Roosevelt, white suit and flashing smile, had come to inspect the great Panama canal project; not an hour before, he’d boisterously pulled control levers on the very same machine….
A tribesman in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains, seeing the camera and fearing it would magically steal his soul, tried to prevent it by firing at Paul with an ancient long-barreled fusil….
No danger? There was always danger if you did the job right. He’d narrowly escaped death in Cuba in ’98, in the Boer War, in the Philippine insurrection put down by the U.S. army. He always minimized such incidents to Julie.
“Don’t worry, I always look after myself,” he said as he kissed the warm curve of her throat. “I want to be sure I come home to you and the children.”
“I’ve been thinking, Paul. Betsy’s at the age when she might like a brother or sister. I spoke to Shad, and he agrees.”
Paul laughed and grabbed a fresh cigar from the cluttered desk.
“Capital! Shall we see about that tonight, in private?”
15. Three Witches and Four Actresses
Days went by—no jobs. She reduced her expenses to starvation level. For breakfast she ate two-day-old bakery bread and hot tea. Her main meal was another slice of stale bread and, once a week, oyster stew made on the gas ring in her room. She bought a single oyster from a delicatessen and warmed it in a pan of broth. She veiled her situation in every letter to her mother. “Everything fine! Prospects good!”
In all the months since she’d left Chicago, she hadn’t heard from the General or written to him. She foresaw no change in the situation. Some of the pain of their estrangement had worn off, leaving a resigned numbness that flared up severely only once in a while.
By late August she had descended to a nadir of discouragement. One particularly difficult Tuesday—four ads answered, no job—she presented herself at a wicket at the Grand Central Terminal.
“Schedule of passenger trains to Chicago, please.”
Five minutes later she threw the schedule in a street corner rubbish barrel. Ellen Terry scolded her for even thinking of running home.
Footsore and depressed, she trudged downtown as a sultry rain began to fall. She was soaked when she climbed the stairs at Mrs. Perella’s. Wasn’t two years in New York enough? She set a deadline. If she couldn’t find at least one good part by her birthday, next January 5, she would pack up, go home, admit defeat to her father, and look for something else to do with her life. Perhaps she’d work for a teaching certificate. She could always instruct in German and run a school drama club.
With the thought of this kind of retreat depressing her spirits, Fritzi stoically washed her face and put on her thin robe. Fitful air drove rain and the stinks of the city into her room, which she had begun to hate. She pulled her chair under the gas mantle and opened the New York Clipper, one of the publications that regularly carried theatrical notices. In the midst of ads for trained dogs and tots who could turn cartwheels, she found a notice that made he
r breathe faster.
CASTING IMMEDIATELY.
WITCHES, for new production of “THE SCOTTISH TRAGEDY” starring and personally presented by famed English tragedian HOBART MANCHESTER. Distinguished international company includes MRS. VAN SANT as Lady M. All ages considered. Readings 2:30–5 Weds., Novelty Theater, 48th St. Kindly use artists’ entrance immed. West of Cort Theater.
She experienced a delirious rush of excitement. She had played all three of the Weird Sisters in wretched Mortmain productions of “the Scottish Tragedy.” That and “the Scottish Play” were theatrical euphemisms for the name of the Shakespearean drama actors regarded as a bad-luck vehicle. A whole web of superstitions surrounded the play—things you couldn’t do or say in rehearsal or performance. Horrible accidents happened to actors who played in Macbeth, it was said.
Fritzi laughed at such drivel. Even the presence of Beelzebub himself, brandishing an invitation to Hell, wouldn’t keep her from showing up at the Novelty.
Next day she dressed neatly in her dark blue and tried to defeat most of the tangles in her blond hair. Her stomach ached as she rode the Broadway cable car, choosing to spend the fare so as not to dirty her clothes before reaching her destination. She was almost flung through the window when the grip man swung the car around Dead Man’s Curve at Union Square. She hoped nothing worse happened.
She stepped off at Forty-eighth, her shoulder throbbing. Walking east, she approached a garish marquee whose electric bulbs illuminated the name 5¢ VARIETY. The show was just letting out. She was buffeted by chattering men, women, and youngsters. In New York it seemed as though nickelodeons were opening in every other block. Fritzi sniffed and hurried on to the alley between the Novelty and the Cort.
“Sign the sheet and take a seat in the auditorium,” said the old man who kept watch on the stage door. He was busy feeding scraps to the theater cat, an overweight calico. Fritzi picked up the pen, inked it from an open bottle. She blanched. She was looking at a sheet already filled with names.
Horrified, she discovered a second full page underneath. Her elation about this audition, her feeling that her luck was changing, broke like a Christmas ornament in the fist of Sandow the Strongman. By her rough count, forty actresses had already put their names down.
Ye gods, she thought, not the Macbeth curse already?
Her rivals were scattered throughout the orchestra. They eyed Fritzi as if she carried the plague. She took a seat on the aisle near the back, tried to compose herself.
She noticed a hole in the aisle carpet. Paint was peeling from the navel of a cherub in the ceiling fresco. On stage, a work light on an upright pole lit a small table and chair. Sandbagged fly ropes hung down in front of the masonry wall at the rear. Though the Novelty had a reputation as a second-rate house, like all theaters it promised illusions and delights. Aromas of paint, mold, and dust were still sweet perfumes.
Three more hopefuls came in. A minute later a flurry of conversation in the wings preceded the appearance of a fat middle-aged man wearing an English walking suit, long opera cape, and wide-brimmed soft hat of the kind affected by bohemians. He carried a book and papers which he put on the work table. He flung his hat away and came down to the footlights, fists on his hips. He shouted at the gallery:
“Is anyone awake up there? Let’s have more light, sir, and right away.” The man’s voice surprised Fritzi with its baritone richness. From the high darkness a curse floated down. Instruments hanging on the front of the balcony blazed on. The fat man was fully lighted.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He made a leg, a courtier’s bow. His accent was upper-class, his words perfectly enunciated. He unfastened the tie strings of his cape and whirled it away like a bullfighter. “I am Manchester.” He beamed, as though expecting applause. One or two sycophantic applicants obliged.
Fritzi didn’t know what to make of the “famed English tragedian.” She guessed his height at five feet six, his weight two hundred or more; he was round as one of Count von Zeppelin’s airships. He was decidedly bow-legged, and she could clearly see the height-enhancing heels of his shoes. His face was red as a beef roast. Bovine brown eyes slanted downward from the center of his forehead, a reverse Oriental effect. His shoulder-length hair reminded her of pictures of Oscar Wilde.
“I see no red-haired gentlemen in the house,” Manchester said cheerily. “Upon entering the theater I tripped on the alley step. These are sure signs no ill fortune will attend our proceedings.” Oh, he’s one of those. Fritzi had encountered a few other actors who believed every superstition in the book.
Manchester strode to the table, picked up the signature sheets. Though he radiated self-importance, she liked his panache and his wonderful resonant voice.
Manchester was a traditional actor-manager, a combination of producer and star. The great actor-managers had dominated the nineteenth-century stage, but their day was passing. New forces drove the modern theater. The director, a relatively new position in stagecraft. The producer, the powerful money man who controlled everything from some hidden cubby upstairs. The star, an actor people came to see even if he or she did no more than juggle apples for three hours. Mrs. Van Sant, Manchester’s Lady Macbeth, was that sort of star.
At the footlights again, the great man addressed them.
“We all know why we have gathered here, do we not, ladies? The call of Thespis. The lure of the lights, the claques, the crowd! That literary giant, Mr. Charles Dickens, understood the lure full well. He was an outstanding actor. Organized amateur theatricals, gave platform readings of his own works which fairly tore the heart from your bosom. I was privileged to witness those as a youth, sometimes performing the most undignified menial labor round about the theater to garner admission.”
An older actress in front of Fritzi half turned and whispered, “Full of himself, ain’t he?”
Manchester touched the book on the table. “I trust I needn’t explicate or even summarize the famous work we are casting. We never speak the name of the play within a theater, unless we utter it as it occurs in the text. Today we want three witches. First witch will also play Lady Macduff in act four. Second Witch doubles as the Gentlewoman in act five. Third witch has only that role in which to shine, but it’s she who utters the fateful prediction that the title character shall be king over all. Each witch shall understudy all others. We shall conduct the tryout here on the stage, since we have no smaller space available. Kindly be courteous to your fellow professionals. Come up as I call your name.” He consulted the sign-up sheets. “Miss Dorcas, Geraldine.”
So began Fritzi’s ordeal of waiting through readings by actresses of every shape and disposition, actresses lamentably bad, competent, or dangerously good. Manchester chose the scene for each candidate. When Fritzi’s turn came, ten minutes past five, he gave her a side and said, “This is act four. Kindly begin with the speech at line twenty-two. I shall throw you the cue.”
His magnificent voice rolled out. “Double, double, toil and trouble—fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
“Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witch’s mummy, maw and gulf,” Fritzi read. “Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron—” She hesitated; the word always threw her.
“Entrails,” Manchester exclaimed. “Guts! Pray continue.”
“Thank you, um, tiger’s chaudron, for th’ ingredients of our caldron.”
“Excellent, please be seated. Who is next? Miss Levi.”
They finished at a quarter of six. Manchester studied comments he’d penciled on a separate sheet. “Permit me to thank you all most sincerely for participating. I regret I am not able to use each and every one. Will the following four ladies kindly report back to this stage tomorrow morning, ten sharp? The Misses Sally Murphy, Cynthia Vole, Elspeth Ida Whittemeyer, and Frederica Crown.”
Fritzi let out a little squeal, then blushed. The actresses not chosen, angry or wearily resigned, gathered their things and left. She heard one snap, “Hell with him, I hear he can’t pay his bills anyway.”
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Four actresses for three roles. Miss Murphy was a soft-cheeked young woman with perfect features and startling blue eyes. Miss Whittemeyer was older, with wild, spiky gray hair and a wall eye; she was sure to be cast.
The third rival, Miss Cynthia Vole, appeared the most formidable. She had a dark, almost demonic beauty, a bosom like the Matterhorn, and a husky voice that had frankly thrilled Fritzi almost as much as Manchester’s. With a glacial smile Miss Vole strode up the aisle. She happened to glance over at Fritzi. That glance said she would if necessary kill someone to get a part.
All she had for breakfast was a glass of water and two stale crackers. At that, she was afraid she’d heave it all up.
She tore her comb through her frizzy hair and donned her best suit, dark red silk. When she walked into the Novelty, Miss Vole was signing in.
“Oh, good morning, dear. That is the loveliest outfit. Let’s wish each other well, shall we?”
During this gush of goodwill Miss Vole continued to poke the nib of the pen at the open ink bottle. Somehow the nib tipped it. She cried, “Oh, dear,” as the bottle rolled over, splashing ink on Fritzi’s skirt.
“Oh, horrors. I’m so sorry. Whatever can we do?”
Speechless, Fritzi stared at the stain on her gored skirt. The old doorkeeper said, “Try washing it out before it dries. C’mon, there’s a dressing room with hot and cold taps.”
“My dear, I am so terribly sorry,” Miss Vole said as they left. She had laid out the rules for the contest: there weren’t any.
In the dingy dressing room the doorkeeper tested the sink taps, found an old towel. “Damnation,” Fritzi said, scrubbing the stain. “It’s ruined.”
“I’ll tell Manchester you’ll be a minute late.”
“Will he be mad?”
“No. He’s a gas bag, but decent enough when you let the hot air out.”
Fritzi worked valiantly but could wash away only some of the ink, leaving a large wet place over her thighs, with a black bull’s-eye. “Sorry about the mishap,” Manchester said when she walked on stage. “Don’t let it throw you, my girl.”