Radio mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

RADIO MIRROR streets of strange cities at evening, thinking. Gradually the hope of going back to opera waned and died pitifully. But after all — was there not a chance of being a great clown? Was not a great clown almost as dignified as a great opera star? His Irish humor asserted itself. He had noticed that the First Clowns in the Grand Circus of Barcelona flung off their Inverness capes and broad-brimmed hats with as much elegance as the stars of the Paris Opera House. SO, alone in his hotel room, he practised. Inside of two months he had created an act of his own that made him First Clown of the Grand Circus. His act sounds like a foolish little thing. But it made a great sensation. Dressed in a tiny pink ballet skirt over a long pair of pink tights, wearing long yellow curls, a little hat with a big red feather in it, and carrying a parasol, Ed Jerome simpered out into the ring. Over his own feet were a pair of enormous bare feet made of papier-mache. Suddenly Ed would spy a piece of plain white paper on the ground before him. He would point it out to the audience, then making up his mind, would lean forward to pick up the paper. The slap down of the huge bare feet would send the paper, which had been stiffened with flour and water paste beforehand, shooting straight ahead. Through this act he became known as one of the best pantomimists of Europe. One summer season, when the Grand Circus of Barcelona closed down temporarily, Ed, the First Clown, was sent around to entertain during the Corridas — the bull-fights, national sport of Spain. Many an afternoon, he heard the dazzling strains of "Carmen" played by the arena band, and saw the matadors and toreadors in the familiar costume he had once worn as Escamillo. His silent throat would ache to sing, but there would be nothing, not even the faintest whisper. Then the call would come, and out into the sawdust arena, Ed would mince coyly for the thousandth time, holding his pink parasol. It might have all gone on forever. He expected it to. Like a sort of monk, he had resigned himself to the life of silence. His companions were books. In every cheap hotel he left his scribbled pads, covered over with the record of his day, his conversations, his requests to strangers. He had almost forgotten that he was an American boy. And then one winter morning after three years of complete loneliness, Ed Jerome sat up trembling and whiter than the sheets on the bed of his hotel room. He had been able to clear his throat! He was afraid to move, afraid to get out of the bed, afraid to swallow for fear it would disappear. A delirium of ecstasy swept oyer him. He got up gingerly, slowly, like a man who has been paralyzed, a man who has been blind. For three days he walked around, still silent, still writing on his pad. He told no man of his new hope. He acted in the circus. And at night when he was alone, he shut the door of his room, locked it. As though he were committing a crime, he practised clearing his throat. The circus was in Germany. He had learned no German. His friends in the hotel were Spaniards. He walked those three days until he found an American restaurant, went in and sat down. "I'll have ham and eggs, a cup of coffee, and a piece of apple pie," he said to the waiter in a low trembling voice. Ed Jerome's terrible exile was ended. He rushed back to America still young — only twenty-two years old. But his hair was already streaked faintly with gray. In the quiet of his home, he worked to restore his speaking voice again. He rested, read, practiced speaking just words, sentences, then long speeches to himself. After a year, he felt sure that his speaking voice would never desert him again. And that magnificent singing voice? Ed Jerome never tried to bring back that fatal singing voice. It had been a great, a beautiful gift. But life somehow had torn it away, and left only long agony in its place. He wanted nothing of it. He saved and clung desperately to the thing he himself had salvaged, wrested from fate. To others a speaking voice might be taken for granted, be considered a possession scarcely worth mentioning. But to Ed Jerome it was the most precious thing in the world. He worked on his voice, polished it, he developed it into a great instrument of expression. 1A#HEN Ed Jerome projects that mag_" nificent voice over the radio, he is giving to millions his most priceless possession. The voice he lost so many years ago has become his entire fortune. Ed Jerome is settling his accounts with fate. PROGRAM DOTS AND DASHES: Rich Man's Darling has been on the CBS network since February 17, 1936, sponsored by Outdoor Girl cosmetics. . . . 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