Stage-Struck

Article appeared in Vanity Fair in January, 1927

[Spelling and Punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

The Letters of a Young Peer Who Besieges the Theatrical Strongholds

I

Lord Frederick Bunne to his sister, Lady Agatha Bunne, Bunne Castle, Forfarshire, N.B.

120 Grosvenor Square,

London, W.I.

July 1st

Aggie, Old Dear:

Have just heard we are broke. Damned inconvenient and so like us. However, don't worry—I'm going to work. Not sure what at, at the moment. Meanwhile, perhaps you had better marry that fellow—what's-his-name—even if he did make his money in Fertilizer. Anyway, it's up to you—I mean, you've got to live with him, thank God. Cheerio,

Your Loving brother,

Freddie

II

July 5th

My dear Aggie:

Would you believe it! I'm going on the stage, my dear old thing. Fact. I decided last night sitting in the stalls at the Haymarket Theatre. Saw Gerald du Maurier this morning. He thinks I'm a born actor, but strongly advises me to go to America. They appreciate talent so much more there. Next I saw Basil Dean. He was also convinced I'd find more scope in America. Isn't that strange, Aggie? Must be something in it, what? Jolly old Dean gave me a note to a famous American Manager—Gilbert Miller. He's not sure where I can find Mr Miller just now, but says he's in Budapest most of the time, when he's not in London, Venice, Carlsbad, Biarritz or Le Touquet. Of course, every now and then he visits New York to see how his plays are going on, but Budapest is his favourite town, so I'm off there tomorrow to find him. What price enterprise—what?

Freddie

III

Budapest

July 9th

Worthy old bean,

Have been here two days. Some difficulty in locating the honourable Miller, my Hungarian not being what it used to be. Found him at last sitting in Cafe Otthon with plump gentleman with monocle, a writer fellow named Molnar. Nice chap, Miller. Said he couldn't understand why I hadn't gone on the stage years ago. Funny thing, though—said I ought to stay in England. On no account go to America. 'They might misunderstand you.' His very words. What do you make of that, Aggie? You could have bowled me over with a glance. But I very firmly insisted on going to America—oh, very firmly. I'm determined to retrieve the family fortunes. 'Well,' he said—Miller, I mean—'I shall be in Budapest for some years, but I'll give you a note to my friend, Al Woods, another famous American Manager.' 'Where is he?' I asked quickly. Miller said something in Hungarian to Molnar and they both laughed good-naturedly. I laughed a little, too—I forget why.

'Ah, there you have me,' he answered. 'You may find him at the Piccadilly Hotel, London—or he may be in Rome, Berlin, Aix-les-Bains or Atlantic City.' Some men would have been stumped by this sally, but not your jolly little brother. 'Describe Al Woods,' I snapped in a flask. 'Impossible,' said Miller. 'Describe him,' I insisted—and he did. If the description is accurate, I shall find him, Aggie. I leave Budapest tonight. At the Boy!! (American—meaning Hurrah!)

Cheerio,

Freddie

P.S. Have just heard the most ordinary actors get $3,000 a week in America. I could get through on $2,000 and send you $1,000. You could manage on that, living quietly in the country—what? So don't bother to marry that Fertilizer chap.

IV

120 Grosvenor Square

London, W.I.

July 16th

Now my dear old thing,

I mean to say! Don't be a silly old ass and take offence. Good God, Aggie—when I say 'Fertilizer chap' I don't mean 'Fertilizer Chap!' I just mean fellow who sells fertilizer. No harm in that—not that it's my idea of a career. However, the war changed everything—what! Point is—why will you persist in regarding yourself as an old maid? You're not an old maid, Aggie—you're only forty—and that's young, compared to sixty, for instance. Anyway, cheer up—I've good news. I found jolly old Woods. Not without difficulty, Aggie, and a perseverance almost heroic.

I have been all over Europe after him—five countries and twenty-one cities—and, at last, yesterday evening staggering into the Savoy for a quick one before dinner I spotted him. Recognised him at once. With him were seven or eight other famous American Managers. I met them all—one called Ziegfeld, a couple called Shubert, one or two Selwyns, several Harrises, and two delightful Scotch fellows, Macdonald and Bergdorf. Bergdorf wasn't really a manager, but a sort of agent. He took a great fancy to me and said, 'Lord Bunne, you stick by me kid!' (Quoint, eh, Aggie!) Very useful fellow, Bergdorf. Said he could do anything for me in America. They all had drinks with me and then Bergdorf whispered to me to invite them to dinner. I whispered 'All right,' and he whispered, 'I'll do it for you and you can give me the money—I know what they like.'

So Bergdorf invited everyone to dinner, ordered quite a lavish meal, and showed jolly good taste about the champagne. Then he suggested Charlot's Revue—and all the managers applauded and said, 'At the boy, Bergdorf!'—and he whispered to me, 'I'll get the seats, Count, and you can give me the money.' So I gave him the money, and he got two or three boxes, and off we went. After the show Bergdorf insisted on taking us to the Embassy for supper. I gave him the money for that, too, because I was really the host, though Bergdorf didn't mention it. He said it would look rather vulgar. I liked him for that, Aggie.

So, you see, it was a jolly successful little evening—even if it did cost a hundred pounds. When one's broke, Aggie, after all what's a hundred pounds—more or less—eh, what? Oh, I forgot to say, I had a little chat with Mr Al Woods during the show. Not desperately successful, old dear. When I said for the third time that I wanted to go to America, he said I ought to see the Grand Canyon. I said I wasn't going to travel, I was going on the stage. He laughed a good deal at this and slapped me on the back, and the other managers laughed too. He said he always knew Englishmen had a wonderful sense of humour, and changed the subject. I didn't think I'd been particularly funny. However, you'd be surprised what Americans laugh at.

Anyway, I've got Bergdorf. I may say I've got him in the hollow of my hand. Before I left him we agreed to sail together on Saturday in the Majestic. I'm going to get the tickets tomorrow. Bergdorf asked me to buy his at the same time, as he's very busy and doesn't know his way about much. And I want to be sure of having him with me. He's a very much sought after fellow. I've done pretty well, what? We'll soon be on our feet again.

Well, cheerio, Aggie old thing, in case we don't meet before I sail,

Bungho, 

Freddie

P.S. A great idea has occurred to me. Would you, if I could arrange it, care to marry Bergdorf? He's no beauty, but much more fun than our fertilizing friend. Send me a wire about it.

Lord Frederick Bunne to Lady Agatha Bunne, at Bunne Castle

On Board SS Majestic

July 21st

Honoured Sister,

Yesterday I received the following Marconigram from you: 'Are you mad Bergdorf sounds like a revolting person your horrible suggestion appals and frightens me please Freddie see ship's doctor and catch next boat back.' Now, Aggie, did you really send me that message? If so you have added insult to injury by saying such unkind things at two shillings a word. You're really mistaken, old dear. Bergdorf is a charming fellow. He sits quietly in the smoking room most of the day. We have the odd drink together, and he tells me he's been thinking a lot about me and my future. At night he gets up a little Baccarat table, which is great fun even if I do lose a bit. I was never lucky at cards. But Bergdorf is luck itself—he nearly always wins, and that's the kind of fellow to stick to. So you see how wrong you are.

I've been introduced to a Miss Constance Talmadge—she's a girl who acts in the cinema—also Miss Mary Pickford and Mr Douglas Fairbanks, they're in the cinema too. I go bathing in the pool every day with the cinema people. We have no end of fun—water-polo and what not. Then cocktails. Mae wears a red bathing suit. It goes well with her hair, which is very golden.

Here's how, old darling,

Freddie

P.S. Walking on the promenade deck today with Bergdorf, he made a most interesting suggestion. He said he had been thinking about my future. He thought acting might be a little—well, infra dig for a man of my position. He said actors were two a penny in New York—not entirely respectable, in a way. Then came his idea. He suggested I come in with him as a theatrical 'angel'—a far more important position in the theatre, and far more dignified than acting. What it amounts to is this. He has a wonderful play he wants to put on, and he says if I can let him have £10,000 he can make us an absolute fortune. He says I could easily raise the money on Bunne Castle—no problem at all—and you wouldn't have to worry about the fertilizer chap any more. What do you say, old girl?

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 65-70

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