Deadheads and the Hippodrome

by GRETCHEN FINLETTER

1

UNTIL I was almost grown-up, I always went to theatrical or musical performances in a second-tier box. It was the custom for professionals to give other professionals boxes, and if Charles Frohman or the Metropolitan Opera Company was giving a production that my father wanted to see, he would merely ask for a box, and the managers in return would be shown the same courtesy for some concert that my father was conducting.

This arrangement made a happy and easy way to go to shows, and it was a great shock to my sisters and me when the time came that we found we had to pay. We had been deadheads for so many years that we had a sense of outrage when we had to give real money — particularly for music. Music had always been free, and the second-tier box was our inalienable right.

If the play was not very good or the pianist not popular, we sat in the first tier, but never in seats. We saw everything from the side, and with the sets of those days we also saw well into the wings. We could see the actor acting and, what was much more interesting, we could see him getting ready to act. When most of the audience thought George, the son, had gone forever and would never, never return, we could observe him in a torn overcoat standing outside waiting for his cue. We saw corpses come alive after they had been dragged off; we watched brokenhearted old ladies suddenly look into mirrors, straighten their hair, and get ready for a curtain call. This gave us a sense of security and also a sense of superiority. Those simple people in ordinary seats were believing it and blowing their noses. We were weeping also, but we were the only ones in the theater who could see it was all pretend.

One of the first plays that I ever saw was The Squaw Man, in which William Faversham played the lead. I had never known that life could be so sad or so romantic. I only knew about life from children’s books, and suddenly one afternoon I received the wonderful awakening that it would be poignant and lovely to be grown-up. I had never imagined a man like William Faversham. He was so heroic and so handsome, and above everything he suffered so. It seemed to me that I was the only one in the audience who understood his peculiar gallantry.

The Squaw Man tells a story of Honor and Love and Sacrifice. The first scene takes place at Maudsley Towers, where Henry Wynngate, Earl of Kerhill, lives with his wife Diana and his mother, Lady Elizabeth. Henry is obviously a wastrel and is making his wife unhappy. Captain Jim Wynngate — played by Faversham — arrives, and it is soon apparent that he and Diana really love each other but can do nothing about it because of Jim’s loyalty to his cousin, the Earl, and above all to the family name. Henry, the Earl, is obviously troubled, and his mother asks him what is ailing him.

After considerable questioning it develops that Henry has, to put it bluntly, absconded with “the Regimental Funds.”

Jim gets wind of this crime and makes the heroic gesture of announcing that for the sake of Diana he will leave England so that the guilt will fall on him — thereby preserving in some strange way the honor of the family name. He makes one condition — Henry must give up gambling, “drop Mistress Camille, shut up her establishment,” stop all other “miscellaneous liaisons,” and be generally nicer to Diana.

Captain Wynngate goes to America, to the Far West; changes his name to Jim Carston and becomes a tough if rather unsuccessful rancher of cattle, involved in frequent feuds, and always trying to forget the past. This is difficult because in the subsequent acts British officers appear in private cars and guess who Jim Carston is. They insult him and once refuse to allow him to toast the King. Jim whitens beneath his tan but never tells. A young Indian girl called Nat-U-Rich, with long black braids, who speaks only in monosyllables, shoots a man to save Jim’s life.

The years roll by, seven of them; Jim’s hair silvers a bit at the temples, but otherwise he remains his handsome, gallant self. Then one evening, who should come to the broken-down ranch house from England but Petrie, the old family solicitor. He recognizes Jim after some piercing looks from under his shaggy white eyebrows. He then calls him “Milord” and says he has made this long journey to inform him that Henry, the Earl of Kerhill, is dead.

Petrie urges Jim to return to England and assume his rightful place as Earl of Kerhill, head of the house. He hints that Diana is waiting.

From here on the play becomes very lush. The sky turns pink and the orchestra strikes up in tremulo a melody of Sordini. Jim gazes at the desolate ranch house and makes a broken speech on how homesick he is for England, for Maudsley Towers “with its thousand-year-old oaks,” for the respectful servants, for all the little customs that only an exiled Britisher understands and yearns for.

At this moment a child’s voice cries from off stage, “Daddy — Daddy,” and a boy of about five with very blond hair and dressed in an Indian suit runs onto the stage and into Jim’s arms. At the same time Nat-U-Rich, the Indian squaw, comes out of the door of the ranch house, gazes searchingly at Petrie, and then walks out toward the mountain with her hands crossed over her chest. We all shivered with surprise and shock at this development.

Jim tells Petrie, the solicitor, that this is his son Hal; that he married Nat-U-Rich so that Hal would not “be branded with illegitimacy,” and this is the result of his loneliness. He can never leave. He is tied to the squaw.

Petrie, after his first horror at this turn of events, reminds Jim that Hal, though part Indian, is still the heir to the Earldom. Hal should return to England with Petrie and be educated as befits his rank.

After a brief and tortured struggle, Jim agrees and tries to explain to Nat-U-Rich in pidgin English that Hal is to be taken away from her. At this moment, Diana walks into the scene, having come to America as a surprise, and the unfortunate Nat-U-Rich, obviously upset by all these developments, pulls a revolver from out of her bosom and shoots herself. Jim picks her up in his arms, dead, while Diana murmurs “poor little mother” and puts her arms protectingly around little Hal.

As can be seen, it was a very unhappy happy ending. Diana, like Mrs. Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly, was not a sympathetic character, and something Fourth of July rebelled in me that an American squaw wasn’t considered good enough to be an English countess. But I never blamed William Faversham. Through it all he seemed to me a complete hero.

I spent many hours thinking of his life with Diana and little Hal. I so believed the play that I imagined he was really back at Maudsley Towers with the respectful servants, walking under those thousandyear-old oaks. I had one picture of him that I had cut out of a newspaper, very blurred, with Nat-URich kneeling at his feet. I clipped Nat-U-Rich out of the picture so that I might contemplate Faversham undisturbed by the squaw. This gave his extended arms a rather meaningless look — but not for long, for in the hole I inserted a snapshot of myself. The proportions were askew, Faversham looking as though he had a midget in a sailor suit between his arms, but to me it looked — right.

One morning at breakfast I received in the mail a glossy picture postcard of Faversham, shirt open at the throat, and across it written in black ink, “To Gretchen, Ever Truly Yours, William Faversham.” I was thunderstruck. How did he know my feelings? How did he even know of my existence? Perhaps he had seen me in the second-tier box and made inquiries. He was a friend of my father’s. That must be the explanation. I asked my father in what I felt was a casual manner if he had ever happened to discuss me with Mr. Faversham. My father said he couldn’t imagine in what connection, but I knew better. I analyzed and reanalyzed the meaning of the words “Ever Truly Yours.” It was more intimate than “Sincerely.” It went pretty far when one realized that it was on a postcard that anyone could read.

And yet though I kept that card on my bureau and looked at it morning and night, it was not enough to live on. When Alice told me several months later she had sent it, I no longer cared. Faversham had come to dinner and brought his handsome wife. He had talked to me about his children, who must be “about your age.” He had been faithless to Nat-U-Rich, Diana, Hal — and me.

2

THE plays that we saw drove their points home very, very clearly. The characters paid for their actions, and the wages of sin were unmistakable and unvarnished. There were many bad men in the theater who remained untamed until the last act.

In The Great Divide I suspected early that Ghent possessed a noble heart, though he had purchased the girl Ruth against her will by throwing a bag of gold nuggets down on the table, and was about to drag her off with him, as his, by sale.

RUTH : But — how yours? Oh remember, have pity! How yours?

GHENT: Bought if you like, but mine! Mine by blind chance and the hell in a man’s veins, if you like!

With sudden intuition I whispered to my sisters that he really loved her and I thought she was going to love him.

The Dawn of Tomorrow was the height of sophistication. One act was played in Oliver Holt’s Chambers. Oliver was the gay and demoralized nephew of rich old Sir Oliver Holt and he was waiting hopefully for his uncle to die. He gave a party in his Chambers — exciting word, no American possessed that kind of home — and the first arrival was Lord Tommy.

Lord Tommy asked who else was coming. Oliver said Madge Delorne was expected. They analyzed Madge as they got out the champagne.

“In any case — she’s a deuced clever woman — Madge Delorne.”

When Madge arrived in a low-cut evening dress, the corks popped and Lord Tommy sat at the piano and sang “The Owl and the Pussy Cat.”

This innuendo about the expected inheritance was ignored by Oliver, who was kissing Madge’s shoulder. Madge told him not to be a brute.

“You’re rather a brute yourself, you know, Madge — in your own alluring way.”

Then a little later the door of the Chambers burst open and Glad, the slum girl, with flaming red hair and dressed in rags, came in. Glad was the waif who had been kicked around but had never lost her hope. “I’m alive and there’s always tomorrow!”

Glad was played by Eleanor Robson, and she brought reality and heart to the role. When she was on the stage she galvanized the scenes. The audience believed her loyalty to her slum companion, the Dandy, her naïve goodness to Sir Oliver. She turned a sentimental evening into something dramatic.

Occasionally the theater was used for improvement. My mother and father had apparently concluded that anything that was in verse, that was in costume, that was tragic, and that was long, must be educational. Also there were plenty of boxes availablefor this kind of show. My parents were too canny to let themselves in for an endless afternoon of rhyme, so we would be sent with Minnie, my father assuring us that he had seen the play a few years before, or as a boy, and that it was charming. What was the story? He wouldn’t spoil it for us by telling the story. It would take away the surprise.

We saw in this way Brand, by Ibsen, and The Sunken Bell, by Hauptmann. Both were in five acts, and the plots were completely incomprehensible to us. Brand’s efforts to throw off the heritage of wrong and atone for his mother’s sin, illustrated by lengthy soliloquies overheard only by God, we could make neither head nor tail of. It wasn’t our idea of a plot with a surprise.

The Sunken Bell was a little better because more happened. There was a character called The Nickelmann, a water spirit who lived in a well. He always announced that he was coming up from the well by crying “Brekekekex!” We laughed at this loudly. There was a maiden called Rautendelein, who sat on the edge of the well combing her golden hair as she made a long speech to a bee: —

My sisters and I looked at each other in an embarrassed way and Minnie groaned.

Heinrich, the bell-founder, had been stolen from his wife, Magda, by Rautendelein assisted by Trolds and dwarfs. The story picked up considerably when Magda tried to get Heinrich back, the Trolds being nice and bad. Minnie groaned several times in a different way over the Trolds.

We acted The Sunken Bell at home, constructing a well behind the sofa. Polly climbed out with water on her face, saying, “Brekekekex — Brekekekex.”

Then we went on with the play in what we felt was improved and zippier Hauptmann dialogue.

3

THERE was one event to which we always went in seats — bought seats. This was the New York Hippodrome. The Hippodrome was the big treat of the winter. It was to us the finest form of entertainment. It was something to anticipate for months, to reflect on for the rest of the year.

In the first place it was such a satisfactory length. The matinee began about one-thirty — at least we were always in our scats by then — and at six o’clock it ended. You went into the Hippodrome in sunlight, and when you came out there were stars in the sky. But you had lived in those hours through a lifetime of adventure. You had been to foreign lands, at a circus, under the sea, in a balloon. You had watched battles, seen ballets, and laughed yourself into stitches over the clown Marceline.

When one entered the Hippodrome, two senses were immediately challenged. The lobby was decorated with great elephants’ heads with gold tusks, and on the end of each tusk was an electric bulb — lighted. And coming up the stairs from the basement was a smell of real elephant. Here we always paused — to look at those gold and illuminated tusks, to reassure ourselves by the smell that all was right.

The performance was divided into three parts. It began with “A Spectacular Drama” in a number of scenes played in many parts of the globe. The cast was enormous, but the story was comparatively easy to follow. I particularly remember the year in which the drama Around the World was given.

The first scene opened at an estate on the Hudson where rich Mr. Burlingham in a frock coat and silk hat was giving a party for his beautiful daughter Cynthia. Among the guests were an English Lord, a French Count, and an American Naval Lieutenant. As the Lord had a monocle, the audience knew immediately that he was a comic character, particularly because when the monocle fell into his coffee cup he reinserted it into his eye wet and brown and then accused his host of being a Blackamoor. The Count, being French, was naturally a villain, and it was a pretty good guess that the Naval Lieutenant would become the hero. Mr. Burlingham invited the group, which included some other gentlemen and ladies, to join his daughter and himself on a yachting trip around the world.

In the subsequent scenes the Burlingham party had many adventures, but the wonder of the trip lay in the fact that every place the group visited looked exactly as one had been led to suppose it ought to look.

Scene II. The Yacht in Mid-Ocean.

Scene III. Garden Party at Windsor Castle.

The English Lord entertained the Burlinghams on the lawn, having borrowed the Castle and grounds for the afternoon.

Scene IV. Switzerland. The Alps.

Scene V. Egypt. The Sphinx. Daybreak in the Desert.

The French Count tried to kidnap Cynthia and the Naval Lieutenant knocked him down and rescued her.

Scene VI. The Sandstorm.

Real sand was blown over everybody.

Scene VII. Constantinople. Garden of the Vizier’s Harem.

Scene VIII. India. The Durbar.

The English Lord borrowed the Durbar and entertained the Burlinghams on real elephants.

Scene IX. Italy. Venice — by Moonlight.

Here the French Count sat with a group of Italians in a gondola and serenaded Cynthia. Dark and apparently genuine clouds moved swiftly over the sky. Suddenly the clouds parted, showing an enormous crescent moon, on the end of which sat the Naval Lieutenant. A real American song burst from his lips, the first four lines being: —

At the conclusion he threw Cynthia a rose which she caught.

Scene X. Spain. The Bull Ring in Seville.

The final scene was played in Ireland at Blarney Castle, with a Kissing Stone and a Wishing Well.

A jig was danced by a large group and in the middle of it, dressed in a green coat and stovepipe hat, whirled the American Lieutenant, who sang that he was really an Irishman and would Cynthia be his little Colleen. The audience broke into happy applause and — the curtain fell.

The second part of the performance was given over to a circus and entirely dominated by Marceline. He was a Spanish clown who played deaf and dumb, who was always in trouble because of an overwhelming desire to help the circus along.

When the men appeared to set up the ring, Marceline pulled each peg out as it was hammered down and ran ahead with it to the man in front. To the ecstasy of the audience the men never caught on and they would have to set up the ring three times. When the carpet was unrolled for the ponies, Marceline rolled it up again just before the ponies appeared. Marceline pulled a net out from under the highest trapeze artist as he was preparing to drop down, and folded it neatly away, thinking the act was over.

The manager appeared in a red coat and high hat and protested in a loud voice. He gesticulated, he pointed up at the trapeze. Did Marceline understand! This was the Dip of Death! He must leave the net alone! Marceline looked at the manager’s gestures, pointed at the figure above, pointed at himself, shook his head, then nodded and smiled. Yes, he understood.

The drums rolled again. The Dip Artist started swinging and then at the very moment he was about to plunge, Marceline jumped forward, pulled at a rope, and net and all fell on the manager in a wild tangle, knocking him over, while the trapezist by a lucky chance caught another swing. The audience rocked with laughter. Trust Marceline!

It was the third part of the Hippodrome that was the climax. Here was displayed the great feature, The Tank — truly described as the hydraulic marvel of the age. The stage was filled with actual water and the marvel lay in the fact that when human beings dived or walked down into the water, they never came up again. I do not expect to be believed for this statement, but I can only swear that my sisters and I would stand up in our seats to find out what had happened. We saw mermaids being chased by sailors, we saw them disappear into the water — a few bubbles, and that was all. No one floated up to the surface. The mermaids wore a good deal and the sailors possibly had weights in their pockets which may have accounted for their bodies’ remaining at the bottom of the Tank. But it gave a ghoulish zest to the end of the show to think how many lives were being sacrificed.

The Tank was filled in the second intermission and we always cut short our visit to the animals in the basement when we heard the first sounds of gushing water. By the time the Tank was two-thirds full the whole audience was there waiting excitedly for the strange disappearances. Usually the water was used as a finale for a spectacle. Neptune floated in on a heavily decorated raft and blew a horn. Then down some great steps appeared his court, and in fours marched right into the water and out of sight. Before the final view I noticed that the water spirits wore a set expression around the jaw and took a deep breath. The climax came when Neptune, beard dripping, followed them down and was gone forever.

4

ONE of the earliest performances of the Hippodrome took place a few months after the conclusion of the Russo-Japanese War. Throughout the country sympathy was weighted in favor of the Japanese. The demands of Tsar Nicholas II seemed excessive; he had grabbed Port Arthur and was about to seize Korea. The Japanese attempted a settlement, but the Russian government, anxious to distract their masses from revolutionary activity at home, refused to negotiate and remained uncompromising. Americans did not like the Tsar and his Cossacks,” and made up a phrase which swept the country: “The Japanese are wonderful little people.”

When Port Arthur fell to the Japanese, there was great enthusiasm. The Hippodrome saw its opportunity. It put on a big spectacle called The Battle of Port Arthur and used in it three regiments of soldiers, a naval ship, artillery fire, and for the grand climax a wild dash of live horses into the tank. The story of the spectacle was so important — and complicated — that the management presented in the program an outline of what the audience must watch for.

BATTLE OF PORT ARTHUR

The first scene shows the beleaguered city. Beyond the great wall are the snow-capped hills that are soon to be reddened with blood. A prison pen is crowded with Japanese women. The street is thronged with women begging for bread. They become riotous and a Cossack charge drives them away. The commanding general arrives with bread. Troops come in and drill and give exhibitions of wall scaling. The Cossacks and other cavalry indulge in the skillful sports of soldier horsemen. Japanese spies circulate among soldiers and peasantry.

A captured Japanese officer is brought in and imprisoned. A courier gallops on with a message calling for reinforcements. The troops are assembled and the spectator watches with wonder the march to the front, infantry, artillery, and cavalry. The gates of the city are closed and the spies release the prisoners. A bomb bursts in a small house, shattering it and leaving it ablaze. The attack grows heavier, roll after roll of musketry is heard above the rattle of machine guns. Presently there is a wild shout. The Russians are in retreat. Troops rush in still firing at the pursuers. An artillery piece is placed near the gate and belches forth a deafening fire. The hospital corps come on with the wounded. With a fearful yell the entire cavalry retreats through the gate while the attacking party presses on.

A THRILLING BATTLE FOUGHT IN THE RAIN The second scene shows 203 Mitre Hill. The Russians are in_possession. There is a fort at the top while beneath there is a rocky plateau, the edges of which are washed by the waters of a lake. Here the enormous tank, at which engineers the world over have marveled, is shown to its best advantage. It is night. Sentries make their silent patrol while the troops, knowing naught of what day or dawn may bring, slumber uneasily among the rocks. An auxiliary gunboat floats about the lake, sweeping the hill with its searchlight. A Japanese party under a flag of truce discuss terms with Russia’s commandant. They are refused.

“Let your Colonel come himself,” says the Russian general.

“He will come,” replies the aide, “and at his back will come the army of Japan!”

There is a call to arms. The hill is then crowded with soldiers. Wildly shouting, Cossack cavalry rushes across the rocky way for the assembly. A shot is heard and instantly the flagpole falls with a crash. A Japanese spy tries to stab the commanding officer but he is shot, and falling into the lake, rises no more.

The attack at long range becomes a hand to hand conflict. Japanese rush on, fighting over the rocks. Machine guns keep up a heavy return fire on the fort.

A shell strikes the gunboat and it sinks with all on board.

Japanese infantry drive the Russians from the rocky fastnesses and, screaming their “Banzais,” scale the wall of the fort and place the Mikado’s flag upon its ramparts. It is raining like fury and the spectators are witnessing a battle fought in the rain. The Russians retreat and for a sensational climax the Cossack cavalry, in a mad gallop, cross the rocks and plunge into the lake. Cheers and deafening applause echo through the vast auditorium for the greatest battle spectacle of the age has thrilled as no theatric and mimic representation of the grandeur of war has ever done before.

As my dazed sisters and I stumbled up the aisle, having remained for every curtain call, we were all thinking the same thoughts. Which one of us had enough allowance saved to do a repeat on Battle of Port Arthur? Which aunt or uncle could be inspired to make the generous gesture? And how could we persuade my mother of the obvious fact that to be able to go to the same performance next week would be twice as wonderful as seeing it for the first time; we could anticipate the bliss ahead — the Cossacks drowning in the Tank.