“He is furious that I caught him as he was going to your dressing room,” said Moss. I froze. The thought of being alone in my dressing room with Director Frank and my Baltic accent was terrifying. “I warn you,” Moss went on, “he wants to sleep with you.”
“I won’t go to his office,” I said.
“I think you’ll have to.”
Ilka, Mia and Alja were waiting for us in a restaurant. A young married couple who had played in Mary Stuart and the lovely Helen R., our Sentimentale, joined us.
Moss was in a lyrical mood. He had appropriated one of my gloves and was kissing it and talking to it endearingly in his Saxon dialect, pronouncing p for b and d for t, which made the “Parons,” as he called Ilka and Mia, laugh till they cried. But soon Alja, with all his majestic dignity, announced that he was going to bed. Mia and Ilka followed obediently. I stayed with the others until Moss offered to see me home. His arm around me, we walked slowly under the dripping trees, my much fondled glove in his breastpocket. He said that he did not want to fall in love with me as he did not intend to get married. Indignantly I assured him that I had not the slightest intention of marrying him. When we reached my door he embraced me and said, “Good luck for your rendezvous with Director Frank. Be smart!” And he walked away, his coat flapping around his long thin body, while he sang “Steuermann halt die Wacht” from The Flying Dutchman, at the top of his voice, waving my glove like a flag.
•
At breakfast Alja read us the reviews, which pointed out my lack of experience and maturity, but admitted that I had “great assets” qualifying me to play tragic roles. Ilka and Mia were pleased. The general impression of my debut was favorable, they said, and I should be happy about my notices.
But I did not care about notices. In a few hours I was to see Director Frank and I was sick with fear. Everyone in the theater was talking about his drunkenness and brutality, and if my mother thought that living with the “Barons” would shield me from unpleasant experiences, she was evidently mistaken. Some of my colleagues were determined to scare me out of the theatrical profession, which in their opinion did not need “well-bred young ladies.” After Mary Stuart several of them showed me more cordiality, but I knew that to be accepted one had to be tough and cynical. Another great disadvantage was my nationality. Most of the ensemble were German or Austrian and hated the Poles and Czechs. A favorite pastime was trying to shock me. The comedian, a deceptively gentle, soft-voiced man, with the long, loose neck and head of a turtle, never failed to tear open his trousers and expose himself as soon as he caught sight of me. The elderly character actor, to the roaring amusement of the stagehands, would chase me all over the place, trying to force me into a dark corner. Fortunately I was stronger than he and could defend myself. But sometimes the snide remarks and dirty jokes were so funny that I laughed with the others. I was afraid of them but they fascinated me.
In the evening the ghost of their talent hovered over them, and in their exaggerated make-up, they acquired a mysterious dignity. Wandering amongst piled-up scenery they resembled strange, barbaric priests. They despised the audience and they despised Teplitz.
Both my enemies were in Director Frank’s waiting room, talking to the baldheaded secretary, when I came in. The comedian immediately put his hand to his fly, then changed his mind and told a very dirty but funny joke. I had to laugh. The secretary looked at me and said: “Tomorrow at ten, on the stage. Manon rehearsal.”
“That does not concern me.”
“It does. You are one of the young whores in the gambling scene and in the last act.”
I could not believe it. I should be a walk-on in an opera? It surely was a joke. I asked the secretary to announce me to the director.
“The director is busy.”
“He wanted to see me.”
“Well, there’s someone else in there, and he does not want to be disturbed. You better be at the rehearsal tomorrow. Ten sharp.”
I was outraged and humiliated, but at least I had escaped the dreaded interview with Frank. I decided to find out if Moss knew anything about my demotion.
He was rehearsing with Ilka and the tenor. My glove, now very dirty, was prominently displayed on the piano, right next to the score. As soon as he saw me, he kissed it, but did not interrupt his work with the singers. I waited; Ilka kept making the same mistakes and could not concentrate, and the tenor, who had a little more experience, was in a bad temper. At last they finished. Moss knew immediately why I had come.
“Now, don’t you make a scene,” he said, taking my arm. “I don’t want this performance ruined by the mugging of our ancient, fat chorus ladies. Can you see them as Parisian cocottes? I must have lovely girls in that act. Actresses! You must do it for my sake. Helene R. said she’d do it if you would.”
He implored me not to be selfish. The director from the Royal Opera in Stuttgart would see the performance, also a well-known impresario, etc., etc. Moss could be irresistible and anyway, there was nothing I would not have done for him and Ilka. But he was mistaken in thinking that Helene R. and the other actresses would cooperate. Helene promptly caught a bad cold; the others had long sessions with the director and got excused. Only I, two dancers, the ingenue and four extras, the youngest and thinnest, showed up for the rehearsal.
The première was much too soon, as the cast needed more rehearsals, but it seemed to go well. In the gambling scene we “courtesans”—on the program Moss had promoted us to this higher rank—looked glamorous and won his praise. Later, in ugly, gray prison garb, we stood on the stage, waiting to be deported to the distant shores of Louisiana. The protruding bow, mast and ladder of our ship could be seen in the opposite wing; the deportees were being jeered at by the chorus of citizens, while in the foreground Manon and de Grieux, eyes glued to Moss’s baton, were singing their farewells. Miraculously, Moss was holding everything together, except for the young singer who had to call the names of the “courtesans” as they boarded the ship. He forgot his cue, and petrified, he stared at Moss without uttering a sound. Finally I decided to take the matter in hand and get the courtesans aboard myself. I tugged the young man by his coattail and prompted him to call “Suzette,” the first one on his list. Then, trying to follow Moss’s beat, I nudged and winked to signal each name, but the young man was now so confused that I could only chose my own timing, disregarding Puccini’s music. As the last one to board the ship, I showed such eagerness that my hurried exit caused a ripple of laughter.
A note from Frank’s secretary waited for me in the dressing room, which I shared with the ingenue. The director wanted to see me immediately in his office.
“He’ll give you hell,” said the ingenue. “You should have let that damned scene go to pieces.”
“I’ll pretend I did not get the note.”
“Frank can fire you.”
I went, my heart pounding so wildly that I thought I could hear it echo in the deserted corridors. The waiting room was empty, the door to the office open. I saw him, in his shirt-sleeves, sitting on the couch. I knocked and he motioned me to come in, then staggered from the couch and closed the door.
There was not much dialogue in the ensuing scene. Director Frank was not what one would call an articulate man, but by grunts and by transferring the weight of his massive self to me, he drunkenly managed to convey that the time had come for us to know each other more intimately. Once I was able to extricate myself from his grip, it was easy to win the wrestling match. He lost his balance, fell, and cursed me. In a second I was at the door. Luckily he had not taken the key out, though he had remembered to turn it.
Bruised, disheveled and breathless, I raced back to the dressing room. The ingenue was still in front of the mirror, taking off her make-up. “That was fast work,” she said appreciatively, but then she looked at me and shut up.
For a few days Frank was invisible. Moss was in excellent humor and full of tenderness; I had told him and Ilka about my scene with Frank and both worried about the con
sequences. Manon was a great success. Moss’s agent promised to get him a better position; Ilka was offered a contract with a small German Hoftheater. She refused, because she did not want to be separated from Béla. After the second performance of Manon I had waited for Ilka and together we went home. As we were passing the blackboard we saw a group of actors whispering and laughing about a pompous announcement: “The next great event of our theatrical season will be Schiller’s Wallenstein Trilogy. The parts have to be picked up from the stagedoor porter. Upon urgent public demand Director Frank has consented to appear as Max Piccolomini.” The character actor was Wallenstein, Helene R. his daughter Thekla, the “Salondame” had the important part of the Countess Terzky. Other names followed in the lengthy cast, and at the very bottom I discovered my own: Thekla’s lady-in-waiting: Miss Steuermann.
My role consisted of one single sentence. I was to enter and announce: “The gentleman from Sweden” (in German: Der Schwed’sche Herr), and that was all. On the dreaded day, when the scene was rehearsed, Frank dominated the stage. To look the part of the dashing, romantic young hero, Thekla’s lover, he had squeezed his stomach into a wide, tight sash, which cut him into two huge bulges. He mumbled Schiller’s noble verse, interrupting himself to direct the other actors. The whole ensemble was in the wings watching with suppressed amusement. My cue came, the stage manager gave me a nod and opened the door. I stepped forward and said: “Der Schwed’sche Herr.” The next second Frank was shouting: “Once more.” I went back, repeated my entrance and immediately Frank said: “Once more.” Again I announced the Swede and again I heard “Once more.”
“What am I doing wrong?” I asked.
“I said ‘once more,’ didn’t I?”
I went back for the cue, then said my three words. Again Frank made me go back. This he repeated at least thirty times. The people in the wings began to show concern. “Keep calm,” they advised; even my dreaded enemy the comedian approached and patted my shoulder: “Never mind him, do it again.” Helene R. passed by and stroked my hair. By then I was trembling and almost losing my mind.
“This is the last time,” I said to the stage manager.
“Don’t be a fool. He’ll tire first,” he whispered, opening the door for my entrance.
Again came the now quite hoarse: “Once more.” But this time I walked to a table, grabbed a heavy, bronze candlestick and threw it at Frank’s head, which I missed. All I remember is that I heard a scream; then I was taken to a dressing room, where Helene gave me a brandy.
This could have meant the end of my theatrical career, but Frank feared a scandal. He preferred to pay me one month’s salary and fire me.
As all this happened in the midst of the season it was impossible to get another job. Ilka tried to persuade me to go to Vienna, and look for work there, but I did not have enough money and would have had to ask my father for help. Of course, Esther Mandl would always welcome me with open arms, and urge me to give up my ill-fated career. I knew she would say: “Thank heavens, you are not like the others!”
Moss approved of my “courage.” He had written to his agent, but was not sure if the man could do anything for me, as he only handled opera singers.
Time was running short when I received a telegram from the Schauspielhaus in Zurich, offering a three year contract. It called for guest performances as Graefin Terzky in Wallenstein’s Death, and Hedda Gabler. My traveling expenses were to be paid, and the salary, with yearly increases, appeared dazzling. The Schauspielhaus had an excellent reputation and I accepted enthusiastically, disregarding the fact that both parts demanded more maturity, experience and technique than my few months in the Teplitz ensemble could have provided.
It was my last evening and Moss was free. Ruthlessly I dodged the farewell supper planned by Ilka, to spend the evening with him. The weather was at its worst: snow and rain and a beastly, cold wind. There was no question of taking our nightly walk after the melancholy meal in a deserted restaurant and, for the first time since we had known each other, Moss suggested that we go to his place.
Had I only loved him as I had loved Stas! But in the sadness of the early morning I knew that the memory of my first night of love would be forever associated with his dreadful Saxonian accent. Besides it was late, I had not packed, and I dreaded running into the janitor.
At the entrance to my house Moss held me in his arms and I promised to be patient and faithful and to come back after my Gastspiel. A few hours later Ilka and Mia took me to the station. As the train was moving the unshaven Moss appeared on the platform with a bunch of violets in his hand.
* Imperial and Royal.
† An actress usually employed in drawing room comedies.
8
AS FAR AS MUNICH I shared my compartment with an attractive gentleman in gray tweeds, gray suede gloves and shoes, and with chic Vuitton baggage in the rack above his seat. He had watched me memorizing Graefin Terzky, and introduced himself as Baron von M., attached to the German Embassy in Paris. He said he knew many young actresses and was an expert in cueing. I accepted his help and by evening, as we approached Munich, I knew my part so well that he leaned back with a big sigh of relief, and assured me the part fitted me like a glove.
Next morning I arrived in Zurich. The town and the lake were wrapped in one huge gray cloud. The fog was so dense that it was impossible to distinguish the buildings from the water; nevertheless, my cabdriver brought me safely to the Baur au Lac, the charming hotel my traveling companion had recommended.
After my experience in Teplitz, the politeness of the Zurich ensemble was overwhelming. Everyone was well-mannered, some of the actors wore gloves to avoid the stage grime, some addressed each other as “Herr” and “Frau.”
The director, a potbellied young man with long hair and eye-glasses, contented himself with telling me where I had to stand, where to sit, where to enter or exit. Now and then he would whisper with one of my partners, then come back and say: “Fräulein C. is used to playing this scene in a lower key.” Or: “Herr K. would suggest you stay on his right.” “Frau B. would be grateful if you would not block her from the prompter.” We rehearsed all my scenes and I did not fluff a line.
At two-thirty in the afternoon the Herr Intendant (General manager and producer) appeared, a gray-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman. The director introduced me. He looked surprised: “Aren’t you a little young for the part?” “And you have never played it?” He turned to the director and took him back-stage, where they walked up and down. The director must have calmed his apprehensions, because he shrugged, wished me “Hals und Beinbruch”* and left.
Meanwhile the actress playing Wallenstein’s daughter asked me cautiously about my family, then invited me for lunch. Pleased that my father was a lawyer (hers was an industrialist), she took me to a vegetarian restaurant, crowded with middle-aged females.
When I told her that I was staying at the Baur au Lac she almost fainted. “What an insane thing to do! How much do they charge you?” I confessed that I had not asked for the price of my room. Her opinion of me greatly reduced, she insisted that I move immediately to another hotel, only a block from the theater and much less expensive. I anticipated that it would be as dreary as the restaurant, but did not dare to protest. As I had not unpacked, the moving went very swiftly and my suspicion proved wrong: the new room was clean, pleasant and warm. My helpful colleague went home—she had an evening performance, which I promised to see—and I fell on my bed for a short rest but, worn out by the long journey and nerve-racking rehearsal, I did not wake up until the next morning.
Again the day was dark and foggy and the rehearsal very long. Although very tired I felt confident; perhaps I was not quite the commanding and deliberate matron I had to portray, but it did not seem to bother my partners nor the director. I always felt secure as soon as I had stageboards under my feet, and it was in my nature to be blind to danger. I took a hot bath and went to bed for a short rest, convinced I could not fail. For a long while I
was wide awake but must have dropped off to sleep suddenly, because I was aroused by the maid knocking at my door: they had been phoning from the theater. I dressed in a second and ran downstairs. The sedate concierge firmly refused to call a cab. It was ridiculous: the theater was right there, a block away.
I stepped out and was lost. Wherever I turned in the impenetrable fog I could hear the splashing of water against the embankment. Shapeless shadows emerged and disappeared, answering my desperate pleas to show me the way to the theater with guttural sounds. Finally something which looked like an igloo but turned out to be a kind woman, took my hand and led me to the stage door.
In the theater everybody was frantic. The stage manager was just about to call the police. The wardrobe woman and the hairdresser raced me to my dressing room and while the one was changing me into my costume, the other pulled on my wig. It was all in curls and made me look like a stylized, black lion. They were still sticking hairpins into my scalp when the bell rang and I ran toward the stage, the wardrobe woman holding up the mirror for the hairdresser. Then I was pushed out, for better or for worse.
The first scene was short and went quite well, though the nightmare of wandering in the fog was still in my bones. Afterward I had enough time to repair my make-up. “If you only had been here an hour earlier,” moaned the hairdresser, “I could have used your own hair.” It was too late. The wig robbed me of a very important asset: confidence in my appearance. But Countess Terzky could not turn into a red-head in the middle of the play.
The performance dragged on. Finally the fourth act, in which not long ago I had so unfortunately announced the Swedish gentleman, started. I was waiting in the greenroom for my call. While I was trying to pin back my annoying curls, I saw the director standing behind me. In the next second he was covering my face and neck with moist kisses, murmuring that he had to spend the night with me. My call interrupted him and I went on stage. In a long scene before Thekla’s lady-in-waiting announced the “gentleman from Sweden,” I had to refer to him as the “Swedish envoy,” but instead I repeated those fatal three words, which Director Frank’s sadism seemed to have forever engraved on my brain, just as “Calais” was engraved on the heart of Bloody Mary. No one would have cared had I not gasped and stopped dead. My colleagues whispered, the prompter shouted, in vain. I could not remember one single word, and heard murmurs and laughter in the audience. At last I pulled myself together and finished the scene. The stage manager asked me what had happened, but I could not speak, and ran to my dressing room. The wardrobe woman gave me a glass of brandy and comforted me. I asked her to make my hairdo as simple as possible, changed into the nightdress I had to wear in the last scene and with my heart pounding waited for the last act.
The Kindness of Strangers Page 8