I pressed on with the scene. I had to, of course. Everything went fairly smoothly through the first act – introduction of characters, plot. At the interval I was given no answers. Everyone was so busy with costume changes – running to the ladies’ – repairing make-up – general nerves – that there would be no discussion until after the performance. I did tell Florence I was nervous about that laugh – why had they reacted that way? She said not to worry, George would explain it when we all gathered for notes after the performance. ‘Places, please.’ So the second act began – which was more fun and was fraught with the problems of the main characters. All of us young girls got our instructions from the professor in that act, and at one moment when he was demonstrating how to enter a room and curtsy, Maud (me) said, ‘Oh, isn’t he the very personification of grace!’ (Sigh.) The audience laughed at that too – not a belly laugh, mind you, but a laugh nonetheless. That should give a notion of my role. The play went on to the end, we took our calls – and I was just as nervous through those as at any other time. What a relief as we ripped off our costumes and threw on our street clothes to rush onstage for notes. Now I would have the answer to my opening laugh. George was sweet and kind as always – told us we’d done well – gave us the changes he wanted for the next night’s opening – and did we have any questions? I was too shy to ask about my laugh in front of the entire company and decided to wait until the end. But the principals stayed on with George, so there was no opportunity for me. He hadn’t said anything about it, so I assumed it was not disastrous, but I still wanted to know.
The next morning – ‘Tonight will be my first real opening night’ – the combination of nerves, excitement, apprehension, dreams. How wonderful to be an actress. There was nothing about it I didn’t love, now that I had a job.
I went to the theatre – the only place I wanted to be – found George Kaufman and approached him. ‘Mr Kaufman, could I ask you something, please? I was wondering why the audience laughed when I made my entrance last night.’ He smiled and said, ‘Well, as you know, Maud is a dreamer and you walk onstage, very tall and looking off into space, and say your line and this pleases the audience. It’s a good warm laugh. Don’t worry about it.’ ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘that makes sense – most people moving around as in a dream can look funny.’ I didn’t know until much later that just the sight of me – this tall, gawky girl with her skirt to above the ankles, high button shoes, long blond hair and flat pancake hat – was funny. So they laughed.
Kaufman, Sheekman, and the Goetzes were almost always together, talking about something to do with the play. I can guess now what it was, but I certainly couldn’t guess then. We got through the day by rehearsing – no time to sit and stew. There was so much to think about that even the shaking didn’t begin until I started my make-up. I checked the mailbox on entering the theatre and found a few telegrams. From the family, of course, and one very unexpected one which read:
You may as well start being a star in Wilmington as anywhere. So be good tonight.
Buzz Meredith
Oh, I was ecstatic about that!
I went through the same panic as the night before with one difference: there were critics out front tonight. Which meant there’d be reviews tomorrow. There were – and they were mixed. The experienced actors all had known that some things would be changed as we went along, that’s what tryouts are for. But they all believed in the play. Yet it was clear even to innocent me that there were problems. Of course they would be solved, but something was not quite right. Kaufman seemed preoccupied, and was always meeting with the authors and producers. Some changes were made each day – a new scene, some new dialogue, restaging – but nothing major until Washington, when we would have a day or two without performances while the set was being hung and lit.
Washington was another new world. First of all, it was a large, beautiful city – many hotels, so we wouldn’t all be together. And it had the White House, in which a man I worshipped, Franklin Roosevelt, resided. As we weren’t due for rehearsal until the following morning, we had a few hours to ourselves. Of course I wouldn’t allow the day to end without at least seeing the Colonial Theatre – the stage, the backstage, the dressing rooms – but I told Joyce and Florence I’d be back in about an hour and then go with them to the theatre. I walked a bit and found a taxi and told the driver I wanted to go to the White House! I’ll always remember seeing it for the first time. It sits far back from the street and isn’t really beautiful, but he was in it and it was a hallowed place. I walked toward the gate gazing at the building as if I were in a church, scrutinizing the grounds, thinking, hoping, that maybe I’d see Mrs Roosevelt if not the President. Or maybe even Fala, his Scottie. Each time an automobile drove in or out of the gates my heart skipped a beat, but it was never F.D.R. or Eleanor or anyone recognizable to me. Still, I was thrilled to be walking around as much as I was allowed to – there were guards at every gate and you weren’t supposed to linger for too long. I saw the Capitol dome and the Washington Monument in the distance, but I was saving the Lincoln Memorial for Buzz.
The days passed. I was still happy at being in a play and out of town, but I felt somewhat lost. Monday came as it always does and I felt better. We’d all be together again, working, creating – the nerves would start again and I’d feel alive again. I quickly ate my tiny breakfast and dashed over to the theatre. It was filled with life. The hum of preparation, expectation. Actors were going in and out of their dressing rooms, paper cups were filled with coffee – it was wonderful. George Kaufman arrived – our director, our leader, our security blanket. I felt good when he was there, certain that everything would be all right. We were given new scenes. George told us we would read them through, then work on them roughly, then onstage, then technical. A full rehearsal day. Scenes were passed around to the principals and the principal supporting actors. They sounded better than the old scenes, and as we started to stage them, they seemed funnier. This was what all those meetings had been about. New scenes always, or almost always, make actors feel more solid psychologically. For me at that time it seemed that change was improvement, and that improvement must lead to success. It wasn’t that I’d expected disaster, but things hadn’t seemed quite right. Anyway, the changes were thoroughly rehearsed, and another opening night was got through. The Washington reaction was not the same as Wilmington’s. A different kind of audience, more sophisticated. They laughed, but in different places and not often enough. But there was still a laugh when I walked onstage. I guess I would have looked funny to anyone who saw the play anywhere.
We went for something to eat and waited for the reviews. Just some of the actors – not George, not Max Gordon or the authors. It was always very nervous-making, waiting for Judgment. Would they like it? Would they mention me? Most of us thinking the same worried thoughts. At long last the important Washington review. This one really mattered, it would affect the New York reception. It was a very mild reaction. The critic was pleased by some of it, but it didn’t measure up to expectations; some good characters in it, and all the students were good, with special mention to ‘Jackie Gately and Betty Bacall.’ My name in a newspaper! Something to cut out and take home to Mother. The other papers didn’t mention me and were far from crazy about the play. It wasn’t terrible, they said – it just wasn’t anything definite enough, didn’t succeed enough in its concept. But with Kaufman’s knowledge and talent it could be fixed.
The next night at the theatre I received a call from Buzz. Had I seen the Lincoln Memorial yet? No. Okay, I’ll take you tonight after the show. I hung up, jumped up and down like a child with a great new toy. Buzz was there! He must just like me a little bit.
No one else was jumping for joy at the theatre. Nothing specific was said, but the more experienced actors were all aware of something. I couldn’t imagine what it might be – perhaps a cast change? No one would tell me anything. The general drift was that the play was in trouble.
Buzz picked me up after
the performance, and when we emerged from the theatre, what was waiting but a horse and buggy! What a way to go to the Lincoln Memorial! I laughed, and loved it. Could anything in life be better than the combination of Lincoln, Buzz Meredith, and a horse and buggy? Not for me on that night. We approached the Washington Monument, passed the pool in front of it, and stopped at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. It was a clear, moonlit night. We started to climb the steps, and as we approached the top, there were shafts of light coming from the inside. There were white marble pillars – it is all white – and what I saw when I reached the top made me gasp. There, sitting in a chair, was Abraham Lincoln, looking as though he were about to rise. It was awesome – an extraordinary emotional experience. And reassuring. One felt such tremendous pride in America – that everything was possible. Nothing I’ve seen since has affected me the way that monument did. And still does.
The next night at the theatre there was no George Kaufman around. We hadn’t had a rehearsal and I still didn’t know what was going on. There were meetings that night. What did they talk about at all those meetings? The next day Florence told me. She and Dorothy had seen George and he had said we were going to close after our Washington run. I burst into tears. It had never occurred to me that this might happen. I’d never dreamed that we would not open in New York. That was my second heartbreak in the theatre. I cried and cried, and when I cry I am a sight to see. Swollen red eyes, a mess! Florence and Dorothy tried to comfort me, telling me not to say anything until an official announcement was made. I knew that if I met anyone else in the cast, they’d know in a minute just by looking at me. So I went back to the Lincoln Memorial.
It was a crisp, clear day When I got to the Memorial quite a few people were there, but everyone was whispering. It was too overwhelming to do anything else. Lincoln was still in his chair, still looking at me, eyes following me as I moved. I went over to one side to see if he might turn his head. He didn’t. I read the speeches inscribed there – the Gettysburg Address on one side, the Second Inaugural Address on the other – and was transported again, my own sorrow pushed to the back of my mind for the moment. I stayed for almost an hour, but as I walked down the steps and away from him, my own pain came to the fore again.
Would I see George that evening? When would everybody be told? I’d have to call Mother and give her the bad news. All dreams shattered once more. When I got to the theatre, I found a letter in my box at the stage door. It was addressed to ‘Peggy Bacall,’ on Hotel Carlton stationery. It said,
Dear Peggy,
I suppose you know the play is closing until it gets fixed. I hope there will be another, or maybe this one all over again.
George
He didn’t know my name, but it was kind of him and thoughtful to write me a note. No one else got one. I would treasure it, right name or wrong name.
The cast was gathering onstage. The stage manager stood there and grimly announced that the closing notice would be put up tonight. There was going to be a rewrite of the play. Messrs Kaufman, Gordon, Sheekman, and the Goetzes were very sorry, thanked us all, and hoped we would all be together soon again. That softened the blow a bit – for a novice like me. There was at least hope, hope that it would all happen again and soon. The pros were not surprised, they said sure it might reopen, but who knew when? Better not count on it. Could it all fall apart so quickly, all that work, the sets, costumes, lighting, actors? All those people out of work so quickly? Yes, it could.
The drama of performing the play – a comedy in particular – knowing it was going to close. We had ten more shows. That’s what they meant when they said the show must go on. How valiant the actors were, I thought. The audience would never guess. The company was working just as hard, caring just as much. I realized then what a noble profession the acting profession is, what terrific people professionals are. What a dramatic situation for an imagination like mine! Smiling through tears, drama within drama within drama. Made to order for the likes of me.
Was it all over? I had taken so long, I thought, to get this part. Would it be another year before I got another?
We all went for a snack after the show, building each other up, rehashing what all those past meetings had meant, trying to be hopeful about the play being done again. It was still only the beginning of October, maybe there would be plays casting for January openings. Anything could happen! We said good night sadly, we all felt closer to each other. Nothing like disaster to bring people together.
In my room I went over and over what had happened. I read and reread George’s note, clinging to the hope of a new play or this one again. I would savor every day onstage for the next eight days and try not to feel totally defeated at the end of that time.
I called Mother, told her we were closing for a while, they thought it was wiser to rewrite the play and then call us all back, it probably wouldn’t take more than a few weeks. Being totally unknowledgeable about the theatre, she believed me, and I was so convincing, I did too. ‘Anyway, I’ll be home soon and I miss you.’ She was wonderful as always. She knew how disappointed I was, said, ‘Keep your chin up, you’ll be back at work in no time.’ So we buoyed each other up on mutual love and no reality.
The ten performances came and went. We packed up Saturday night – make-up, personal effects back at the hotel – but not heading for Boston, our next stop on the road to success. Instead, back home to our failure. Some of us promised to keep in touch, we’d see each other soon, after the rewrite, meantime good luck. Goodbye Washington, goodbye Roosevelt, goodbye Lincoln … goodbye hope. Hello despair.
At least I had been mentioned in a review. At least George had written me a personal note – that might help the next time around. Eighteen can be knocked down, but eighteen doesn’t stay down for long.
I arrived home, showed Mother my clipping, my note from Kaufman. I called Charlie and Grandma, they were loving and sweet. My family made me feel safe. Charlie was full of encouragement and his usual rhymes: ‘Don’t be disheartened, you’ve only just started, I can see from afar, you will be a star.’ I adored him.
The next day I went to Max Gordon’s office. He was warm, apologized for the way things had turned out, and said the play might come to pass again. He told me I had looked very good in the play and that everyone involved had liked me. But if a job came up, take it; Franklin Street would not be done again quickly. Keep in touch with him and his office, and let him know how I was faring. That was the end of that chapter
Back to Walgreen’s, back to the casting lists in Actor’s Cue. Of course I told Betty Kalb and other friends that the play was going to be done again. I made it all sound more hopeful than it was, made my meeting with Buzz more dramatic, my conversations with Kaufman the same. I was the only one who had ever been on the road, after all – I knew things they didn’t know. That made me feel better. My fantasy world was a marvel. It allowed me to laugh and joke, to feel hope again.
Back to pounding pavements. I could not think in terms of going back to the garment center or ushering, though I surely would need the money soon. I had saved something from the tour – there hadn’t been much to save, but maybe it would get me through until the next job.
It was not easy being on the outside once more. Funny how you get the feeling that once you have a part in a play the work will never stop. Was that ever a wrong feeling – as I would spend the next thirty years discovering! At least I had one more credit – and a good one – when I went into producers’ offices, but that mattered not at all if there were no parts.
George Kaufman was casting a new play – Well, there must be something for me in it! I went charging up to Max Gordon’s office, asking where I could find George. Couldn’t I read the play, couldn’t I at least see him? He was never around when I was, so I had to content myself with leaving messages with everyone in sight. And hounding the office, making a general pest of myself.
One day I received a letter in the mail. The heading in red, center of the page:
&n
bsp; GEORGE S. KAUFMAN
410 Park Avenue
New York City
Wednesday October 28
Dear Betty Bacall –
I’m not so hard to reach as all that – the Lyceum Theatre or a note here (above). There’s nothing near your age in the play, so there’s nothing I can do about that. But there ought to be another play sometime and I’ll always try hard.
The best of wishes, and cheer up. It can happen any minute.
George Kaufman
That gave me such a lift, though it didn’t mean a job or even an audition; it did mean that he thought enough of me to write, and something might come along one day and he’d always give me a chance!
One Saturday morning in 1942, Mother and Rosalie took me to the Capitol Theatre to see a movie called Casablanca. We all loved it, and Rosalie was mad about Humphrey Bogart. I thought he was good in it, but mad about him? Not at all. She thought he was sexy. I thought she was crazy. Mother liked him, though not as much as she liked Chester Morris, who she thought was really sexy – or Ricardo Cortez, her second favorite. I couldn’t understand Rosalie’s thinking at all. Bogart didn’t vaguely resemble Leslie Howard. Not in any way. So much for my judgment at that time.
By Myself and Then Some Page 9