Two Performances

by GRETCHEN FINLETTER

1

MY FATHER has always felt that members of a family should help each other. He has frequently bailed out his daughters and in turn has expected us to help him when the going was hard.

My father’s requests never were strange to him; for, being a man of great imagination, he saw a plan beautiful and whole, which might need only a little assistance here and there. But to us he seemed not always to recognize the realities.

My father liked doing the new works of composers, and they in turn were eager to have him perform their compositions, for he respected their intentions, did not cut, and gave a beautiful and inspired reading. Many years ago he invited Tschaikowsky to come to New York and conduct some of his own works at the opening of a new auditorium for music, Carnegie Hall. Tschaikowsky dined frequently at my parents’ home, and my father often described to us his gentle conversation, which was permeated with a kind of sadness.

The following summer my father went to England, to Cambridge University, to attend the presentation of degrees to five composers from five different countries: Saint-Saëns of France, Boito of Italy, Grieg of Norway, Bruch of Germany, and Tschaikowsky of Russia. At the great banquet in the evening Tschaikowsky, next to whom my father sat, described a new symphony which he had just finished and which was different in form from anything he had written before.

“The last movement,” said Tschaikowsky, “is an adagio and the whole work has a program.”

“Tell me the program,” begged my father.

“That, I shall never tell anyone,” replied Tschaikowsky. “But I shall send to you the first orchestral score and parts.”

In October came the cable that Tschaikowsky had died of cholera; but one week later the score and orchestra parts of the great Symphony Number 6, the Pathétique, arrived from Moscow for my father. Through the years, audiences when listening to this profound and moving work have had to ponder for themselves what the “program” was that Tschaikowsky had intended but never revealed.

My father liked taking chances with unknown young composers, and no matter what the demands were in the score, he provided the opportunity for the work to be heard. If it was an opera and he had no opera company at the time, he gave it in concert form; if the instrumentation called for fourteen harps, fourteen harpists were procured.

One day my sisters and I heard a new and irresistible kind of music coming up the stairs from the living room. We were drawn as by a magnet to the sounds. Seated at the piano was a young man with black hair and an engaging smile, puffing at a cigar as he played a melody that made one want to laugh with pleasure.

My father introduced us to George Gershwin; and though we did not know it, that introduction began for us some of the gayest years of our lives. My father asked Gershwin to write him something for the orchestra, and the Concerto in F resulted. Later at Gershwin’s request he gave the first performance of An American in Paris.

My father liked dramatic productions. Besides a good orchestra and singers, he liked a chorus, costumes, scenery, make-up, spotlights, rehearsals, opening nights. He liked the works and he had an uncanny power of pulling a show together. He was greatly interested in the technical end of a production and quickly established a blood brotherhood with a scene painter or wig man. He admired their skill; they liked his praise and they were always willing to change this or that to suit him. If a problem seemed insurmountable he would enjoy discovering some new craftsman who would find himself a sort of partner of my father’s in making blacker smoke for the dragon’s mouth or a longer sword to be welded.

Though most of a production is created in studios or draftsmen’s ateliers, my father liked as much as possible to be done in our home. He had ideas that he wanted to see carried out, and it seemed simpler to concentrate everything under one roof. He liked the singers to have extra rehearsals there; he liked costumes to be made then and there under his eyes; he liked to look at sketches of battlements and move the fort over from stage right to stage left; and he particularly liked to confer with electricians.

I do not know how my mother stood it. Like a tidal wave, rooms would fill up with tenors, medieval capes, scores to which were attached a copyist who needed an extra-large table, an assistant conductor, a ballet master, a photographer, while the piano never stopped sounding. If the group came in the morning, they stayed for lunch. If they rehearsed in the evening, they had a late supper. And no people eat so heartily as musicians. They are like athletes in top condition who break training every few hours.

Even when I was very young, certain words were already familiar to me though I did not clearly understand their meaning. There was a thing called “professional rates,”and two ominous creatures named “The Union” and “Overtime.” These ferocious animals seemed to be always lurking about, trying to destroy rehearsals. Their lair was a place called Local 802; and the older they grew, the stronger they apparently became.

2

WHEN my sisters and I were connected with a production, we did as we were told and were usually amenable. Anita, however, occasionally had the courage to defy my father. Sometimes there seemed to be a jinx on us, and our part of a performance went awry. A mishap occurred in The Children at Bethlehem. This opera by Gabriel Pierné is a little masterpiece musically and dramatically. In simple and poetic terms it tells the story of the children and shepherds following the Star to the stable at Bethlehem. They join a procession headed by the three Kings, and all present their gifts to the Child Jesus.

My father gave this opera at the New Theatre. Besides the singers, he had eight professional children for a small chorus. Polly and I were among the eight professionals. We received a dispensation from school, and we rehearsed both at home and at the theater. We used our professional rating to the limit, opened no schoolbooks, and talked boastfully to our friends of the exhausting life behind the footlights.

At this time the real professional children were creatures apart. Not only could they sing and act, but they could dance on the tips of their toes, whistle, and turn cartwheels. They were never frightened. They could repeat a scene over and over again with complete assurance. Polly and I were filled with a dreadful shyness. Not so the other children.

But when they acted, they were children imitating middle-aged men and women acting like children. They had studied artlessness. They were gay or surprised in the correct technical way to express these emotions. Perhaps the charm of children lies in their doing things because they feel like it and occasionally making mistakes. Never did these little professionals give a spontaneous gesture or go wrong. They were prompt in their cues, and they remembered exactly how they had been directed.

When the Star of Bethlehem appeared, Polly and I would show our admiration differently at each rehearsal, usually by opening our mouths wide and gaping, but we never quite remembered how we had done it before. The six others learned what to do and never varied. Two would put their arms about each other and skip a little, another would raise her hands above her head and clap them three times as she took two steps forward. We really were children but didn’t know how to put it over so that the balcony would murmur, “Aren’t they darling!”

There was one girl whom Polly and I regarded with a mixture of jealousy and envy. Her name was Tina Varesi and she was the daughter of a very successful Italian grocer. Tina had long yellow hair, and Mrs. Varesi, who accompanied her everywhere, would pass a comb through I ina’s locks if there was as much as a moment’s pause in the rehearsal. Tina had a clear, high soprano, sang well, and had acted since she was a baby. We envied her her life. She slept late in the morning, sat up late at night, and only once in a while went to school. We glossed over the fact that she spoke four languages and had a dancing and singing lesson every day.

Mrs. Varesi kept Tina apart from the other children, since she felt that Tina was almost a leading lady and must be treated in a special way. As we were the daughters of the conductor we could talk to her, but we bored Tina.

The soprano who sang the part of the Virgin particularly liked Tina. She found all Tina’s little tricks very endearing, and when she motioned the children to draw nearer with their gifts for the little Jesus, she always gave Tina a warm smile. This was a very beautiful moment in the opera. It was posed like a medieval painting. Several steps led up to a little platform which was a part of the stable. On the platform sat the Virgin near the manger; behind her were the heads of the Ox and the Ass looking through their stalls. After the offerings had been made by the children, the three Wise Men approached with their gifts. Then the entire cast, including the Ox and the Ass, sang the great chorus of the opera.

The day before the performance, my father asked the eight children to bring from home some simple toy, a fruit, or a vegetable to carry as their gifts. Mrs. Varesi listened carefully, as she always did to anything that might concern Tina’s role, and nodded her head vigorously.

“Si, si, Mr. Damrosch. Leave it to me,” and she passed her comb once more through Tina’s hair. My father patted Tina’s head, and Tina immediately assumed the correct pose of a child being patted on the head by an older man. She parted her lips and looked eager and grateful.

I planned to bring an old doll, and Polly, who was to be dressed as a boy and was deeply interested in her part, told my mother to get her a lot of brightly colored fruits which she could place in twos and threes at the foot of the cradle.

“Yes, yes,” said my mother absent-mindedly, “I’ll have them there.”

No matter how often artists have openings, they are always in a fever of excitement. My father was no exception. His nerves spread to us, and Polly and I arrived at the New Theatre a good two hours ahead of time. We wanted to be certain not to be late and we also wanted a lot of time to be made up. The child professionals were to use the dressing room of The Blue Bird company, which was playing at the theater. There waiting for us were two men in linen jackets, and a row of wags.

Nothing smells quite like a wig — that dry, dead scent which has its association only in the world of make-believe. Though my own hair was quite adequate to suggest a child, I seized on a head of henna color with two long braids. Polly chose a blond Dutch cut. Then we sat in front of the brilliantly lit mirrors with towels about our heads and studied our faces hard. We told the men we wanted a great deal of make-up. They obliged. Never was there such a snow-white and rose-red complexion as I achieved. Polly demanded an orange basic to suggest a sunburn and looked like a rather swarthy Hans Drinker.

Tina arrived much later with Mrs. Varesi, who was carrying a valise and a large package. Mrs. Varesi made up Tina’s face using hardly any make-up and no mascara on her eyelashes. Tina did not even wear a wig. She wasn’t having any fun at all. She hardly spoke to us; she was an actress already living her part.

There was the sound of the orchestra tuning up, and my mother had not yet brought Polly her fruits. Polly did not need these props until the second act, but the agitation of an opening had spread to everyone. The Ox was having trouble with his head and said he could not breathe, much less sing. The beard of one of the Wise Men kept slipping off his chin, and the Virgin was peering through a hole in the curtain and protesting hysterically that her friends had not been given good enough seats.

My father appeared behind the scenes, begged the Star of Bethlehem to keep her eye on his beat and not to drag it so, gave one horrified look at Polly’s complexion and mine, and went out to take his place. There was applause, the house lights were dimmed, and the footlights went up.

We sang our way through the first part without mishap, sustained largely by Tina, who became a little dynamo. The value of technique was made clear to me, for Tina seemed truly a little peasant girl dancing with her friends and then awed and humbled by the majesty of the Star. The scene went well, but it was not because of my henna braids: it was the tempo of Tina.

As the lights were lowered again for the second act, my mother finally arrived and handed Polly a small paper bag. “Here it is. You’re fine, but what have you done to your face!”

Polly opened the bag. My mother had been seized with one of those fits of economy which we felt sometimes overcame her at the wrong moments. The bag contained one very small cauliflower with a pink slip marked eighteen cents.

“Form in line for the procession of the Star,” called the director.

Then Tina appeared. Her father, the grocer, had not neglected her. In her arms she carried a great straw tray, and on it were piled hothouse grapes, bananas, celery, festoons of asparagus, Boston lettuce, and a cornucopia of nuts and raisins. It looked for all the world like a Dean Bon Voyage Basket. Polly was speechless.

The procession proceeded toward the manger. A radiant light fell on the Virgin by the cradle, and the Ox and the Ass, looking through their mouths at my father’s baton, sang to us. The three Kings, resplendent in their robes, marched forward.

I presented my doll, and the Virgin indicated that I place it on the lowest step. The other children in pairs gave their gifts. The last to come forward were Tina and Polly. I suppose that if this scene had truly taken place in medieval times there would have been a miracle. The cauliflower would have turned to gold or blossomed. Instead it seemed to shrink to the size of a tennis ball.

The Virgin had become a little excited over the offerings. She had apparently forgotten the waxen Baby by her side and was accepting the gifts as some sort of personal tribute. In pantomime she showed an increasing surprise and pleasure, climaxed by Tina’s great display of fruition. She motioned Tina to come nearer and expressed her admiration for this very expensive present by extending her arms and giving Tina her most brilliant smile. She pointed to her feet as the place of honor and indicated that Tina should place the straw tray there.

Polly waited nervously. Nothing happened. The Virgin ignored her. Then the great chorus began, so Polly determinedly walked up the steps and pushed her cauliflower into the cradle with the Baby. Somehow she knew that He was nearer her own age and would understand. What she did not know was that she had unconsciously righted a scene and made it Christmas again.

3

SEVERAL years later my father decided to revive this opera and give it during the Christmas holidays. He had been to Salzburg, where the pageant form had cast a kind of spell over him. He planned to make this production a much larger one and give it at a new auditorium called the Mecca, which had aisles wide enough for the biggest of processions.

Here my father’s imagination ran away with him. When he described a great medieval crowd coursing forward, led and lit by the glow of a star held by an angel, it sounded fine, but we pointed out to him that no star, even with a hundred-watt bulb, would give that amount of light.

“Leave it to me,” said my father. “Kaunitz, who lives around the corner on Third Avenue, is a clever electrician. I’ll explain to him what I want.”

Since I knew the opera, I helped direct the children. A number of schools agreed to furnish the choruses from their pupils, and three chorus masters who were tall asked if they might be the Kings. It gave them a chance to keep an eye on the children and to be part of the show.

Anita, who had come back from Paris that autumn, asserted her independence. She washed her hands of the performance. She was politely interested when plans were discussed, but she refused to have anything to do with it. She had three new hats and other interests.

My father began to have trouble with the star. It seemed the angel would have to carry the battery in her robes, like a kangaroo with its young. He visited his friend on Third Avenue several times but, detecting a skepticism on our part, only told us that he was working it out. Our home filled up again with singers, and rehearsals were on in full force.

The day of the performance, Polly and I rode over in a taxi with my father, who was carrying the star on a wand. It was too long to fit into the cab, so we had to open the windows and lay it sideways. The day was icy, but there was no other way to take it. Suddenly its light began to go on and off in a series of distress signals.

“Look out! You’re pressing on the battery!” cried my father.

“I haven’t touched it!” I answered. “It’s on your lap.”

The star shot out another SOS.

“For God’s sake, I tell you one of you is pressing a wire. Leave my star alone!”

We knew better than to get into an argument before a performance, but people in the street were beginning to stare. The star went out. My father touched it delicately and it signaled again with greater violence.

“He guaranteed it would give a steady, golden glow,” muttered my father. “The damn fool!”

He carefully carried it into the theater and called for the house electrician.

The first half of the performance went well. Great fir trees decorated the corners of the stage and the aisles. The large chorus of children sang with beauty and simplicity; and as the lovely music sounded, a feeling of reverence and Christmas happiness existed between the performers and the audience.

In the intermission Polly and I went around to the greenroom to see my father and tell him how it sounded out front. His face was red and indignant.

“Tell Anita to come here immediately!”

“Anita? She hasn’t anything to do with the performance.”

“Get her. We haven’t much time.”

Anita appeared, accompanied by a young violinist, Sam Dushkin, who had only recently returned from Paris and combined excellence of playing with exceptionally polished French manners.

My father asked Sam Dushkin to wait outside; then he turned to Anita and gave her a searching look.

“Yes, you’ll do. You’re big enough.”

“Big enough for what?” asked Anita.

“Get into it quickly. We haven’t much time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jameson, the third chorus master, has telephoned he has a sore throat. A complete lack of responsibility. He doesn’t have to sing a note.”

“What have I got to do with him?”

“He’s a Wise Alan. You’ll have to take his place.” “What!”

“ You’re taller than Gretchen or Polly. You can wear the robes over your dress. Hurry up!”

“I will not,” Anita announced, “walk down the aisle of Mecca Auditorium as a Wise Man.”

“No one will recognize you,” said my father. “You’re the black one.”

Anita’s face turned purple. “I absolutely refuse!”

My father then gave the oldest theatrical battle cry: “But this is a performance!”

“Then you’ll have to play it with two Wise Men,” replied Anita.

“You’ll look like a nice, rather young, colored Santa Claus,” urged Polly softly. Anita gave her an icy stare.

My father looked at his watch. “It’s a beautiful costume. I borrowed it from the Metropolitan. It’s from Aïda.”

“ I don’t care,” said Anita.

My father then went into a metamorphosis. Though in excellent health, he became the frail old musicmaster deserted by everyone. “You mean you won’t help me out when I’ve worked so hard?”

“No,” said Anita.

The make-up man appeared, carrying a lot of dark hair and a pot of black paint. “It’s getting late, Mr. Damrosch.”

There was the familiar sound of the orchestra tuning up. The feeling of urgency increased. Polly and I left. With Sam Dushkin we walked to the back of the house and waited with the standees to watch the great procession.

First came the Star glowing steady and true. Then the shepherds and the children singing softly as they bore their gifts. There was a roll of drums, the tempo of the orchestra increased, and the three Magi rounded the corner preparing to go down the aisle.

Sam Dushkin looked and unfortunately recognized Balthazar, who was having a little trouble with his robes, which were too long. Sam stepped forward and with gallantry and Old World courtliness offered the outraged King his arm. Balthazar indignantly took it and Polly and I gazed with a strange fascination as they too turned the corner. Sam pressed the unhappy King’s dark hand to his lips and left him to march haughtily down the aisle with anything but Christmas love in his black heart. I think some of the audience may have wondered why at this moment there was a salvo of applause from the back of the house.