The theater had a sad, empty feeling again. Backstage she met Sally Murphy and Mr. O’Moore and Ida, all as dispirited as she was. They embraced and exchanged addresses and promised to write, fully understanding that they probably never would.
She’d already spoken to Eustacia by telephone. Her friend had booked a cheap cabin on the first available trans-Atlantic ship, a Greek vessel sailing Monday for Cherbourg and Piraeus. Hobart had cut off her Astor subsidy, and she was forced to move at her own expense, to a lesser hotel on Ninth Avenue. “A humiliation not to be endured.”
Simkins said pay vouchers for the week would be ready at noon Saturday. Fritzi asked him, “Is Mr. Manchester in the theater?”
“Yes, but he’s incommunicado.”
“Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No, I’ll be in Albany. I signed on with a Prisoner of Zenda road company. The house treasurer will hand out the vouchers.”
“So it’s goodbye, Mr. Simkins. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”
“Oh, yes, very much so, Miss Crown.” They shook hands like a couple of mourners.
Outside, she stood under the marquee, pelted by blowing rain. Her hands were cold and raw. Her knit gloves had fallen apart. She could hear her mother say, “Liebchen, a young lady doesn’t appear in public without gloves.” No, but unemployed actresses did.
Water roared off the edges of the marquee and rushed in the gutter behind her. The bitter September air felt more like winter. She stared at the paper strip pasted diagonally on the poster. CLOSED. Her cheeks were wet, but not from rain.
She’d looked on the Macbeth engagement as a benchmark, a full and final test of her ability to succeed in New York. She knew she wasn’t personally responsible for the fiasco, but the result was the same. “What now?” She didn’t realize she’d spoken until a peanut vendor going by with oilcloth covering his tray gave her a queer stare.
A lobby door swung open. Turning up the collar of his cape, Hobart emerged. “Fritzi! Did you come to see if it’s true?”
“I suppose so,” she said with a rueful smile.
“What have you found? Any suitable auditions on the horizon?”
“Not immediately.”
“Too bad. How are you fixed?”
“I won’t starve for another two or three weeks.”
“Ah, the cruelty of the profession. I am only slightly more solvent. This afternoon I settled with the scenery and costume houses. I didn’t do it until I determined that we had enough to pay everyone in the company full wages.”
“I want to tell you again how sorry I am.”
“No sorrier than I, dear girl.”
“Tuesday and Wednesday’s performances were very good. Last night’s was thrilling.”
“Nevertheless, the curse on the play overtook us. I should have produced A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Fairies are harmless. I shall miss you, Fritzi. But we needn’t say goodbye just yet. I have enough in my pocket for supper at Rector’s. If you don’t order too much.”
He opened his cape, pulled out his pocket watch, disdainful of the rabbit’s foot hanging on the chain. “We can’t dine respectably for at least an hour. Let’s go see some galloping tintypes.”
“You mean pictures, at a nickelodeon?”
“Yes. I enjoy them. The Variety’s just there. Come.” He linked his arm with hers. She didn’t have the heart to tell him how much she disliked the cheap entertainment.
As they walked along beneath her umbrella, Fritzi said, “I understand the picture companies hire legitimate actors. I’ve heard the wages are good, five dollars a day. Would you act in one?”
“I? Certainly not.”
“I feel the same way.”
Hobart paid for tickets to the 5¢ Variety. Another program was just letting out. They found seats on a hard bench near the back. Soon the nickelodeon was full. The projector clattered, and a light beam pierced the dark. A flickering image appeared—a title card.
“Ah, good, another Biograph,” Hobart whispered. “They make rather thrilling little stories.”
In the one-reel melodrama, lasting about fifteen minutes, a young society girl was abducted by kidnappers and rescued by the family chauffeur with whom she finally eloped, love and courage having triumphed over social class. Fritzi was a bit embarrassed to find herself caught up in the story. A sequence of actualities, the kind Paul photographed, came next. A strong man lifted a lioness over his head; a Zeppelin floated past the Eiffel Tower; Kaiser Wilhelm’s Death’s Head hussars galloped through a Berlin parkland; five girls in bathing costumes frolicked in the surf at the Jersey shore. The program concluded with another reel split between a pair of short comedies. Characters stepped in buckets and fell off ladders. Autos came within an ace of crashing into one another. All this the audience, Fritzi excepted, found hilarious. She did observe that no actors were named on the title cards of the pictures, only the studio and, in one case, the director.
Later, seated on the upstairs level of Charles Rector’s swanky restaurant, they ordered platters of fried oysters, a house specialty. Fritzi said, “What will you do? Try the West End again?”
He fixed a melancholy eye on the ceiling. “No, I think not. Too many there know me. My professional failures, my—personal life. Furthermore, I admire this country of yours. I’d jolly well like to remain here. I know I can mount another production in a year or two. Then I’ll be right back on top.”
She recognized the unreality of his optimism. Actors were universally guilty of deluding themselves. It was how they survived in a frequently hopeless profession. She was no exception.
“I’ve made a few inquiries already,” he said. “William Gillette’s taking his Sherlock Holmes on another extended tour, a year or more. I might do Moriarty. It’s that or an outing with James O’Neill’s chestnut, The Count of Monte Cristo. Whatever happens, I want us to remain friends, and keep in touch.”
“We shall do both, Hobart. That’s a promise.”
Eustacia Van Sant’s suite on Athena was a luxurious accommodation of rosewood and red plush. She introduced Fritzi to a small, grinning Greek gentleman in a white jacket with shoulder boards. “Mr. Ragoustis is chief purser. The dear man moved me up from a cabin no bigger than a coffin to this suite. We’re going to be great friends.” She bent to kiss his forehead, giving him a peek into her cleavage. He left wearing an expression of bleary bliss.
“Here’s my address in Sloane Square,” Eustacia said. “Do not forget me.”
“That’s impossible, Eustacia.”
Eustacia moved in and out of a maze of trunks and grips, counting silently. “What are your plans?”
Fritzi sighed as she sat on a green velvet ottoman. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Don’t give up. You have an excellent talent.”
“It’s hard to keep believing that.”
The ship’s horn sounded. They hugged, kissed, and Fritzi ran down the gangplank to the pier. Eustacia appeared at the rail of the promenade deck. She waved, Fritzi waved, a band played. Passengers threw confetti and colorful paper streamers as Athena backed into the Hudson, swung about, and steamed toward the Atlantic. Fritzi discovered she was crying again.
27. Paul and Harry
In the last bright days of autumn, just before the national election, Paul returned to New York. He’d finished his trip in California, photographing spectacular scenery on the wild coast around Monterey, and then the remarkable rebuilding in San Francisco.
He checked into the small but smart Hotel Algonquin on Forty-fourth and telephoned his cousin. A woman with an accent said, “Just a minute, I go get her.”
“Aunt Ilsa told me about the play when I came through Chicago,” he said when Fritzi came on the line. “I’m really sorry. Are you in anything now?”
“My waitress oxfords,” she replied with a laugh. “I’m back in another hash house. When can I see you?”
“I’m afraid tonight’s out. My American publisher and his wife are taking m
e to dinner at Rector’s. What about tomorrow?”
“Sunday’s grand, I’m off.”
He suggested a picnic in Central Park. He’d make the arrangements. “With your permission I’ll invite an old friend. I met him on Rhineland when I came over in ’92. Herschel Wolinski was his name then. Now he’s Harry Poland. He writes music.”
“Oh yes, I know his songs. I’d love to meet him.”
They set the hour, half past twelve. “I’ll hire a cab and pick you up.”
“No, no, I’m too far downtown, I’ll meet you.” A sudden suspicion told him she didn’t want him to see where she lived.
He waited for her by the great equestrian statue of Sherman on Fifth Avenue. A big wicker hamper packed by the hotel kitchen rested on the pavement beside a lacquered case holding his stereoscopic camera. He had to have photos of the reunion. Even when he was Pauli Kroner, the boy who turned into Paul Crown, people had teased him about being a pack rat. He’d already collected mementoes of this trip—souvenir menus saved from Lusitania, picture postcards from cities he’d visited, a small metal Statue of Liberty for Shad, a doll for Betsy. He still needed a present for Julie. He missed her keenly. Today promised a small respite from his homesickness.
He checked his pocket watch. Twelve-fifteen. Just then he heard, “Pauli! Here I am!”
Waving, she bounced on her toes on the opposite side of Fifty-ninth. She darted across in front of a steam car and threw herself into his arms. They whirled around, hugging, while Sunday strollers stared. Fritzi wore a dark blue gored skirt and a long-sleeved shirtwaist, blue and white check with white piping. A navy blue admiral’s cap perched on her blond hair.
She kissed his cheek. “Don’t you look wonderful.”
“You too.” Actually, he thought she looked pale and starved.
“Where’s your friend?”
“He’ll be here presently. He knows where to meet us.”
“Tell me about him. How old is he?”
“Younger than I am. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.”
“Married?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, too bad. Lives in Manhattan, I suppose?”
“He has an office in the Tin Pan Alley district on Twenty-ninth Street, but he lives in Port Chester. He’s taking a noon train.”
“Is he bringing his wife?”
“No, she’s in a wheelchair.” They walked along a winding footpath. It had turned into a glorious day, clear and bracing. The trees showed vivid fall color; the light through the leaves had a theatrical quality. Leaf smoke from bonfires mixed with the pungent odor of horse droppings on the nearby bridle path.
“Harry’s wife suffered a stroke some years ago,” Paul continued. “She was a very successful singer, Flavia Farrel, twenty years older than Harry. He was her accompanist and musical conductor.” Her lover too. He didn’t mention that.
“Flavia helped Harry break in, gave him his first musical job. When the stroke ended her career, he married her. He’s cared for her ever since.” Harry was that kind—sentimental and loyal. Paul stopped on the path, studying a rise to their left. “There’s the place Harry described. Come on.”
He carried the hamper, she took the stereo camera, and they climbed to the sunlit summit of the knoll. The next half hour passed in a rush of questions about his trip, his lectures, Julie and Shad and Betsy. There were moments of sadness when they discussed her estrangement from her father.
Paul took off his cap and coat, loosened his cravat, rolled up his sleeves. Fritzi unbuttoned her cuffs and laid her hat aside. He handed her something wrapped in brown paper, which she undid.
“Oh, Paul.” She held up the book. “I’m dying to read it.”
“It’s the London edition. Whatever success I have with it, I owe to you. Dick Davis wrote me to say he liked it tremendously—oh, there’s Harry.”
On the footpath, a tall, slender man with broad shoulders waved to them as he ran uphill with a canvas satchel. He wore a fine black suit, worsted with a faint gray check. His shoes had fancy kidskin tops and patent leather needle toes shiny as black mirrors. His white linen shirt sported thin vertical red stripes and a detachable white collar. A Windsor tie matched the wine-colored band on his derby.
Fritzi stood smiling while the two men danced around one another, hugging and slapping backs. They’d reached Ellis Island together, but immigration doctors had denied entry to young Herschel Wolinski and his family because the mother had trachoma. Herschel passionately wanted a new life in America, but he wouldn’t abandon her and his two sisters. He returned to Poland with them while Paul went on to Chicago.
Determination brought him back to Ellis Island a second time. In 1901 he and Paul met by chance at Woolworth’s on Sixth Avenue. Another song plugger was playing a hit of the day, a slow, faintly melancholy piano novelty called “Ragtime Rose” by Harry Poland. The composer was standing there listening when Paul recognized him.
“So this is Fritzi the actress. Charmed.” Harry swept off his derby, kissed her hand. Curly black hair gleamed in the sunshine. His blue eyes were infectiously merry. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I can say the same, Mr. Poland.”
“Please, it’s Harry.”
“You write very catchy songs.”
“And his own words,” Paul said. “Good ones too. Pretty remarkable for someone who spoke only Polish ten years ago.”
“That’s very kind of both of you. I love American music. I write it for ordinary people who like tunes they can remember and hum. Do you mind if I remove my coat?” His suspenders were bright red, with brass buckles. Paul felt like a hobo in comparison.
“How’s Flavia?” he asked.
“Alas, no change.” He explained to Fritzi. “My wife is paralyzed below the waist. For a year she couldn’t speak. Her singing career ended abruptly.”
“I’m sorry, that’s sad.”
“We’re doing fine now. We have an excellent nurse-housekeeper who lives in, and I look after Flavia when I’m home. I can’t do any less. She did so much for me when I was a greenhorn who didn’t know a soul in the music business.”
Paul opened the picnic hamper, spread a white cloth. “Started your own publishing company yet?”
Harry was busy with the clasps of his satchel. “I’m still working freelance for other firms. Thinking a lot about it, though.”
“Your automobile song’s all over England and the Continent.”
Harry smiled. “Seven hundred forty thousand copies worldwide—so far. I’m happy for the income, but I don’t want to write topical novelties forever.” He turned to Fritzi. “My dream is to write for the stage. I’m working like the dev—working hard to get a song or two interpolated in a show.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Harry’s eyes sparkled. “As a matter of fact, so am I. There are no limits in this country. Everything’s possible, including Harry Poland on Broadway. And I will start my own company one day. Meanwhile—”
He pulled gaudy sheet music from the satchel. “Let me present you with two of my latest.” Paul read the titles. “Statue of Liberty Rag.” “Sadie Loves to Fox Trot.”
Paul exchanged another book for the sheet music, then handed the music to Fritzi. “Oh, no, take it to Julie,” she said, and he acquiesced.
Harry brought out a worn concertina. “I thought we should have music while we dine.”
The hotel had packed cold chicken, liver paté, crackers and crudities, potato salad and rye bread and a bottle of claret. At the foot of the knoll a little girl rolled a hoop with a stick. A small boy jumped out of some shrubbery and yanked her braid. She screamed and ran. Seeing them, Paul longed for Julie and his children, and a day like this in Green Park.
Harry began to play “On a Sunday Afternoon.” He followed it with “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” He’s giving a concert for her, Paul thought with amusement. Fritzi was enchanted.
“The Road to Mandalay” came next, and “Aloha Oe.” At
Paul’s insistence Harry played “That Automobiling Feeling.” The music attracted a strolling policeman on the path. He stood listening and tapping his billy against his leg. He saluted Harry before he moved on.
Harry played the first notes of “Meet Me in St. Louis” before he said, “I wish I’d written this, it’s truly American.”
Fritzi clasped her hands, swaying. Harry laughed and bobbed his head. “Yes, it fairly begs you to dance, doesn’t it? Do so!”
Fritzi jumped up, lifted her skirts to show the ankles of her long legs. She began to turn, surrendering to the music. Harry quickened the tempo. As she danced, she sang. She whirled faster, the afternoon sun lighting her blond hair from behind. Nimbly, she danced in the grass while Harry played, never looking at his fingering, only at her.
When the song ended, she sprawled out and leaned on her elbows, laughing and breathing hard. Paul said it was time for photographs. He took Fritzi with Harry, Fritzi alone, and then, using a clever built-in shutter timer, the three of them together.
Paul rolled his coat up for a pillow and smoked a cigar. Harry asked Fritzi about her career. She described the failed Scottish play, able to laugh about some of the worst mishaps. She did an imitation of a Mr. Scarboro, and although Paul had never met the man, he knew him, and his nasty arrogance, instantly. Harry’s applause egged Fritzi on to give them Teddy Roosevelt’s grin and high-pitched voice, then the waddling gait of the enormously fat Bill Taft.
Soon it was four o’clock, and Harry announced that he had to catch a train. Clouds blackened the west; a storm was building. Harry took Fritzi’s hand in a courtly way.
“It’s been a wonderful afternoon. What a pleasure to meet you.” He bent slowly and kissed her hand once more.
Fritzi murmured something appropriate and appreciative. Harry picked up his satchel and quickly disappeared in the Fifth Avenue crowds. Thunder boomed over the Hudson.
“I think he’s keen for you, Fritz,” Paul joked.
“He’s charming, but he’s married. I don’t expect I’ll see him again. Too bad. I liked him.”