Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

Mother, of course, was worried that her baby might fall prey to theatrical wolves. ‘Remember – never give anything away. No man really wants that. Every man wants his wife to be a virgin when he marries her.’ My ‘nice Jewish girl’ upbringing pounded into my head constantly. ‘Keep your distance – darling.’

I slept and dreamed all the right dreams. Up at dawn the next day. I said goodbye to Grandma, Charlie and Rosalie, Jack and Vera, Renee and Bill by phone. Mother and I were a little weepy – after all, it was my first step toward leaving the nest. Not final, but it was the beginning and we both knew it. Yet the truth is that, though I saw myself living alone or sharing an apartment like a big girl, a serious life without my mother had not really occurred to me.

At the station the assistant stage manager was waiting at the appointed gate and the company had begun to gather. There was anticipation in the air – everyone was in high spirits, laughing, joking – even the most experienced performers could only feel optimistic at a new beginning. Anything was possible, and with that happy attitude we boarded the train. A family of actors all going to make it or not, together. Interdependent. No one could do it alone.

We arrived at Wilmington and went to the hotel next door to the Playhouse Theatre. We were to report to the theatre that evening, but I went right over – I didn’t want to miss a minute. They had begun to hang the set. There’s nothing like a theatre as all the pieces of a play are being assembled. There are lights on the stage, the set designer and lighting designer and their assistants are at work, all sorts of technical directions are being given. It is the labor preceding childbirth. The cast was told to go to the lounge downstairs, where we would just run the play for lines. We wouldn’t get on the stage until the next day, when the technical rehearsal would begin. Pictures of the company were to go up the next day – we’d been photographed in costume and make-up at the dress rehearsal in New York. So much was happening and going to happen, how could one sleep? The next day, September 15, was the day before my eighteenth birthday. What was I going to do to celebrate? Nothing, obviously – what better celebration than being in Wilmington, Delaware, doing what I was doing?

The technical went on all day and night. Every time a new character walked onstage he had to be lit – new scene, move from stage left to right, downstage to up. It’s a slow process. When I wasn’t in a scene I sat in the orchestra watching. I loved being there. Of course I wanted to be around George Kaufman as much as possible. I worshipped him. Finally we were dismissed. George and Sheekman wished me happy dreams on my last night as a seventeen-year-old. I blushed, smiled, and said something funny and fresh, I suppose. I always seemed to be more knowing than I was. I actually knew nothing of life and of relationships – men and women together were a mystery to me. I had never been much exposed to such relationships in my childhood, so what I thought I knew was all imagination.

The next morning I was eighteen years old! I looked in the mirror – same face, same flat chest. But I knew it was a milestone day – I could legally be served a drink in some places at eighteen, I could do almost everything but vote. I hopped out of bed. Usually I slept so soundly not even a fire would wake me, and for the first hour was always grumpy and very slow in coming to. But that day I did hop. Dressed, rushed downstairs for breakfast – there were telegrams from Mother and Grandma, Charlie and Rosalie, Jack and Vera, wishing me happy birthday. Everyone in the company wished me a happy birthday Dorothy and Florence Sundstrom (semi-leading lady and funny) told me Arthur had been kidding George, saying, ‘She’s no longer jail bait – should we invite her out for a drink?’ I was never invited, thank God – I didn’t drink, and in no way would I have lived up to anyone’s expectations.

And then, the next evening, the first preview with an audience. We were in our dressing rooms at 7:30 to start getting ready. Sitting at the make-up table, checking make-up. The voice comes over the loudspeaker: ‘Half-hour, please – half-hour.’ My heart skipped twelve beats – the first call from the stage manager, announcing that we had half an hour until curtain time. Then ‘Fifteen minutes – fifteen minutes, please.’ I was dressed and well on my way to my first set of shakes. ‘Five minutes – five minutes.’ I made sure I had everything, ran to the john at least five times in that half-hour, started toward the wings, stage left, for my props – I was to make my entrance carrying a few books. ‘Places, please – places, please.’ Total silence now – the curtain is raised – the play begins. The sound of dialogue emanating from the stage – audience reactions being heard for the first time – applause for Dorothy Peterson, familiar from films more than from theatre. I peeked through the curtain to see faceless forms in the audience – one always started out with a full house, especially out of town, I was told. My cue coming up. Maud appeared onstage as a daydreamer, reciting poetry – I think my opening line was ‘The robbed who smiles steals something from the thief.’ I took a deep, deep breath, held tightly to the books, and started to move. Knees knocking, I walked onstage and said my line. The audience began to laugh. I almost died – had I done something wrong? Was my slip showing? Oh God, what was Kaufman thinking? It was a comedy, they were supposed to laugh, but not when I made my entrance, as far as I knew.

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.