Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

sat down and wrote Virginia a letter. "I'm sorry, Virginia — but you simply must try to understand. I've found the chance I've been waiting for. I'm afraid I won't get back to Chicago now. It seems to me that your place is with me in New York. I want you to share this wonderful thing. I've got a job for you, Virginia— a job as assistant stagemanager in 'Panic'. Will you come?" SHE arrived on Christmas Day — just a few days before "Panic" opened. A blonde wisp of a girl with expensive luggage, shivering in spite of her fur coat and her saucy little fur hat. She was frightened as she stood there in Grand Central station. They were married at once. There wasn't any honeymoon. No time for that with "Panic" opening. In true bridegroom spirit Orson hired a furnished suite in the best hotel in town — and they moved in there. He didn't have more than one hundred dollars in his pocket. There was the thrill of those three nights when "Panic" surpassed his wildest dreams — the thrill of seeing the MacLeish manuscript translated into terms of living theater — and the incredible joy of having Virginia always there. Two weeks later, still in a daze, he and Virginia were sitting in their palatial suite, when a knock came at the door. Orson went to answer it. A suave man with striped trousers and pomaded hair entered. In his hand he held the hotel bill, a week overdue. And Orson had no money with which to pay it. Until that moment, Virginia hadn't known they were so near to poverty. When the suave hotel man had retreated, taking with him Orson's promise to depart that very night and leave his baggage behind, she looked at her husband, whitefaced. He went to her, put his arms around her, tried to comfort her. But she was shaking with fear. With a sickening realization he remembered the night of "Romeo and Juliet." And Virginia's words. Poor and unhappy. Her family had said that. And a failure. He remembered his own angry defiance. And now — at the very beginning of their married life — he had fulfilled every one of their predictions. They slept that night on a day bed in a friend's Greenwich Village apartment. And next morning — art or no art — Orson set out to find himself a job. There weren't any, of course, on Broadway. The season was well along, and nobody was producing any new plays. Not even his good 30 friend Katharine Cornell. But he had to find something. Day after day went by, and every night he went home to Virginia, emptyhanded — home to the over-crowded apartment of his friends. Virginia couldn't stand it any longer. "I'll look for a job too," she said, and together they trudged up and down Broadway, the tall shaggy boy, and the pretty frail girl in her expensive clothes. Pretty soon there were no expensive clothes. Virginia pawned her muff, her fur scarf, and then her pretty dresses, one by one, for food and carfare and new soles for their shoes. It was the most painful winter of Orson's life. And yet in a way the happiest. For after that first shock of terror when she discovered that all their money was gone, Virginia It's practical! It's authoritative] It will help you to find fame and riches! Read How to Sing For Money, by Deanna Durbin's vocal coach —coming next month did not fail him. Finally Orson got a job. It wasn't much of a job. His old friend, the Chippewa radio actor, told him about it. Just yelling "Walla-walla" over and over again as an extra in a radio mob. But it paid $10 for the rehearsal and broadcast. The next day on the strength of that ten dollars, they moved into a room on the ground floor of an old brownstone house on 14th Street. But it had a chipped marble fireplace, high ceilings, an air of oldworld elegance. And to add to their happiness, Orson got another part on the air. "You wait and see," he promised, as they went shopping for a redchecked tablecloth, a dish-pan and a set of dishes. "We're going to save money. No more insecurity." But after the first few days of thrift, the money seemed to burn a hole in his pocket again. When he got his first real role on the air, he earned $50 in one gulp — and spent it all on a spaniel puppy for Vir ginia. She still didn't have a good dress to her name. But somehow they muddled on. Somehow they got along, helping, teaching each other. And finally, they were able to move to a little better place — a Greenwich Village studio apartment, where they had their own furniture. How happy they were in that little flat. Orson was on the air regularly now — reading poetry, acting in radio shows, and there was money coming in. They bought an old car, and went off to the country on week-ends. They entertained their friends. They dreamed of having a baby. And then, one night, the vision popped up again. The temptation OrsOn had been trying to forget. John Houseman dropped in to see him, and told him there was a chance to do another experimental play— for the W. P. A. Federal Theater Project. Houseman had a Negro group in Harlem — actors, all of them — on the W. P. A. With Negroes one could do something wonderfully exotic — something that would stir the blood. He painted exciting pictures — dreams like the ones he had once conjured up about "Panic." Orson sat there, his head down. He would not look at Virginia. But he was thinking, remembering the dread that had once come into her eyes. Finally he said: "I'm sorry, John. It— it sounds grand, but I can't make it." There was a long pause. Then, quite unexpectedly a shy voice came out of the shadows. Virginia's voice. ORSON, if you're turning down John's offier for me, I'll go away forever. Please, Orson, I want you to take this job. It's a chance of a lifetime. You must, Orson, you must!" The two men turned to look at her, in amazement. She came forward, rising out of her chair, a thin, childish figure, her face strangely alight. "Please, Orson, don't you remember? The things you told me about doing Shakespeare? Well — here's your chance — to do Shakespeare. Only in a different way. Orson — please. Why don't you do Shakespeare with an all-Negro cast? It's never been done before. Why don't you do 'Macbeth,' Orson — and — and lay the scene in Haiti? And — and—" She stopped, too carried away to go on. But, sitting there in that Greenwich Village living-room, Orson and John Houseman knew — somehow — (Continued on page 52) RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR