Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

The moment approached for our examination plays at the Academy. I was cast in a dramatic scene from The Silver Cord , a comedy scene as a maid in a play I’ve forgotten, and a character scene in another forgotten play. I remember The Silver Cord for two reasons: the scene was highly emotional – I had to break down at the end and I was never very good at that – and at the rise of the curtain I was to pour tea. There was dialogue among four characters onstage, and the noise of teacup hitting saucer in the shaking hands of yours truly interfered from time to time. It was my first time on the stage of the Carnegie Lyceum Theatre. In the audience were senior students, some outsiders, and all the instructors with pad and pencil taking notes. They would decide whether we were good enough to be invited back for a second year – whether we were fit to be in the theatre or not. Rehearsals were fun, as always – the choosing of costumes, make-up – it was my first taste of semi-professional performing. But to be judged like that at sixteen is pretty strong stuff. You learn very early on about pressure and how well you perform under it.

After the examination plays were over, there was nothing to do but wait for the final judgment. Lists were put up on the bulletin board of times for interviews with the head man, Mr Diestel, at which we would be given the final word. When the day came for mine, I was not ready. Having already discussed it with Mother, I knew there was no money for me to return for the second year. I could only hope that if he asked me back, the Academy might consider giving me a scholarship. So in I went. Mr Diestel, a large man sitting imposingly behind his desk, rose, invited me to sit down, and proceeded to read the comments of my various teachers. Some were very good – some not so good, suggesting I had improved but needed work along special lines. But all agreed that I should return – that I had something to offer the theatre. I was thrilled with that, but miserable with what I knew I had to tell him with tear-filled eyes and trembling chin – that I could not return. He stood firm on the ‘no scholarships for women’ policy and I stood firm on no money to pay for a second year. If I was good enough to be asked back, why couldn’t they make an exception and give me a scholarship? But it was no go, we both knew it, and in my heart of hearts I suppose I had always felt it was better to get on with the fight to break into Broadway. I left the office. Marcella and I had a cup of coffee in a drugstore – I was crying, she was crying – we were trying to help each other out. We would make it anyway, but it was an awful way to end a year of hope.

My poor mother was upset for me – even my grandma was, though she was happy that now I would have to get a real job. I knew I would have to get one too. But what could I do? I went to Harry Conover’s model agency – it was the biggest at the time for young, fresh faces. He looked at me, felt I was not much different from the girls he had except that they were already established and I was still flat-chested. Sitting in the outer office waiting for that interview, seeing all those beautiful girls come in with their hatboxes to pick up their assignments for the day, it looked so glamorous. I wanted to be able to do all that too. They seemed so grown-up, so sure of themselves. The answer to me was, ‘No, sorry.’ The only thing left was the garment center.

In Harry Conover’s outer office I asked a couple of other girls how to find work modeling clothes on Seventh Avenue. They said I should look in the telephone book or go down to certain Seventh Avenue buildings – nothing really below 500 Seventh Avenue. The best houses were in 550 or 530 and you could squeeze in 495, but that was it – anything below that was tacky. So I went to 530 and chose a name at random from the directory on the wall. The elevator took me to the proper floor and I proceeded to the name chosen, with shaking knees of course. I asked the girl at the desk if they were looking for new models to show their collections. She called a woman to speak to me. I said I was looking for a job – did she have any openings? She said she didn’t, but why didn’t I try David Crystal at 498? – he always took on extra models for the season. Down I trudged to 37th Street. Seventh Avenue is unlike any other street anywhere, it is peculiar to itself. Young men pushing racks of clothes of every description up and down the street – loading trucks, or unloading enormous bolts of fabric from other trucks – clothing in all colors, sizes, shapes, some hideous, some not. The streets always flooded with people wildly active from very early morning to day’s end at 6:00 p.m. – and inside perhaps eight buildings just about everything to do with clothing in America happens. It’s fascinating – noisy, dirty, creative, alive.

I found David Crystal after being pushed and shoved in all directions in the maelstrom of humanity filling the street. Having had one tiny experience half an hour earlier, I walked in with a suggestion of confidence. I was acting the part of a self-assured girl on the go. After waiting awhile I was asked to go through a door into what I later discovered was the showroom – a large gray room with open booths separated by half-walls – a table and two or three straight chairs around them. It was very quiet. A woman came out, looked at me, asked me about my experience – I told her I had been a photographic model for several years (a white lie), that I was an actress, that I knew how to move and would certainly be a very good model. A man wearing glasses came into the showroom and sat in the far booth. From a curtained doorway a girl walked toward him, turned around with hips slung forward, then faced him again and stopped while he mumbled something to her. Clearly she was modeling some item of the present line. I watched her so I’d have a clue about what to do if I were asked to display my wares. The woman went over to the man and they exchanged a few words in low tones – obviously she was saying, ‘That girl is looking for a modeling job – do you want to see her?’ I tried to seem brimming over with assurance. The woman called me over and introduced me to the man, who turned out to be Phil Crystal. ‘My God, it’s his place!’ I thought. He talked to me for a bit, asked me to walk for him. I kept telling myself, ‘It’s a part – play it . Remember swimming to the raft.’ Finally the woman asked me if I would try on one of the model dresses. She led me through those curtains to where a couple of models were sitting, and I put on the dress she chose. It was a bit big and I tried to make it fit better by adjusting collar, belt, etc. David Crystal clothes were sportswear, which was lucky for me – simple sports clothes always suited me. The dress was a simple brown-and-white tweed that buttoned down the front, short sleeves, brown leather belt – I’ll never forget it.

I walked through the curtains. Mr Crystal asked me to turn – I did, without falling down or getting dizzy – he examined the fit of the dress carefully, said, ‘Okay, you can change into your own clothes now and come talk to me.’ I did as I was told. Mr Crystal said, ‘We can use you starting in a week – the salary is thirty dollars. Bring your Social Security number with you and leave other information with Miss…’ whatever her name was – Jones?

Only after it was over did I realize how terrified I had been. But I had a job! And thirty dollars a week – a fortune – Mother and Grandma would be thrilled! It was my lucky day – I must remember the day, it was a Wednesday. (All good things and bad, all big things in my life would happen on a Tuesday or a Wednesday from then on.) I rushed home feeling as though I had accomplished some great feat. Thirty dollars – no more allowance, asking my mother for money – at last I would be able to give some to her, help her, and possibly save a bit each week. It was the beginning of financial independence for me. A big step.