"Winkie"

[This story takes place sometime in 1927 when Howard was appearing in Her Cardboard Lover with Jeanne Eagels at the Empire Theatre in New York • Spelling and punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

I ought to explain that 'Winkie' is not the real name of the somewhat tough young gentleman who visited me last week. In fact, how he acquired this, to him, embarrassing cognomen is a bit of a mystery. Whether it was applied to him originally by his mother or by me is difficult to say, and the whole thing is so shrouded in antiquity (his birth having transpired all of nine years ago) that it will probably never be quite cleared up. At school, where he is known by his real name of Ronald, he has had some difficulty with certain ribald spirits who, accidentally, discovered the shameful nickname. So, in self-defence, he has, to all practical purposes, dropped it.

But I knew at once who it was when my dresser, just before the matinée, committed the dreadful faux pas of announcing, 'Winkie is here'. I must admit that I was surprised. He is the only actor's child I know who has never had the pleasure of seeing his parent indulge his art upon the stage. Not that the opportunity has been withheld from him. On the contrary. Many has been the subtle hint I have held out that he come and see me perform. But, invariably, he has firmly and none too politely refused. If he must be entertained he prefers the movies, where people really get moving and don't just 'stand about and talk.'

So I was surprised and pleased that he had at last fallen, and was actually coming to a matinée. Pleased, because I suppose it is the secret ambition of most fathers to prove to their sons what clever fellows they are. We exchanged polite 'Hellos' as he entered. Then his eye roved round the dressing-room.

'Is this where you work?' he asked.

'Yes,' said I cheerfully. 'Nice little room, isn't it?'

'It's not very well furnished,' he remarked doubtfully.

'It's only a dressing-room,' I said, excusing it.

'It isn't even very clean,' he added.

'The Empire is an old theatre.'

'Well, why doesn't Mr Miller pull it down and build a new one?'

I suddenly realised he was quite right about the room. The truth is I have become so used to the unprepossessing cells allotted to actors that I had quite forgotten my original horror of them.

'Movie actors,' observed my son, 'have beautiful rooms. I've seen pictures of them.'

'Everyone connected with the movies is very rich,' I explained.

'I know,' said he, pursuing a thought. 'Why aren't you in the movies?'

'I suppose I haven't got the right kind of face.'

'Well,' he said, reflectively, 'there's no money in stage acting. You don't make much money, do you?'

'No,' I admitted briefly.

'But you could make more,' he insisted. 'Ed Wynn makes quite a bit. He's got a bigger house than we have.'

'Oh, yes.'

'And Miss Eagels, too?'

'Probably,' I nodded.

'But she's only a woman.'

'Well, why not?'

'Gee, I'd hate a woman to make more than me. Why isn't your name outside the theatre like Miss Eagels'?'

'She's the star.'

'You mean she's better than you?'

'Well,' I replied evasively, 'I think I'm very good.'

'Gosh, what a funny business where the women are better than the men. I wouldn't like to be in a business with women at all.'

By this time I realised that the theatre didn't look too good in his eyes, being neither paying nor dignified. However, perhaps he would change his view if he liked the show. I started to make up, thereby giving him an excuse for further comments. As I daubed my face he burst out laughing.

'Do you play the part of a Red Indian?' he asked between his chuckles.

'Don't be silly,' I replied with some dignity. 'I play a Frenchman.'

'What with a red face like that?'

'It doesn't look red from the front—it looks quite natural.'

'Why?'

'Oh—the lights and all that—I really don't know why, but it does.'

Then, voicing the feeling of every layman with regard to the theatre, he said, 'Gee, I'd hate to put that stuff all over my face every day—I don't see why you have to, really.' I tried to explain that the public demanded that we all look as beautiful as possible on stage, that they would not like us to look too natural or too like themselves, that, in fact, in a world of make-believe, we should feel self-conscious without this protective armour—but it obviously all seemed very futile to him.

At that moment, the stage manager came into the room, and informed me that, at the previous performance, I had made what he imagined to be the mistake of calling the bartender in Act I 'George' instead of 'Charles'. The manager had heard it from the front. Naturally, I should have had a ribald answer ready for this, but realised it was my duty to uphold the seriousness of my profession in front of my son, so I said gravely: 'That's terrible—however did I come to do that? I do apologise...' The stage manager withdrew, charmed by my concern. My son was regarding me in some amazement.

'Do you,' he asked, 'say the same words exactly at every performance?'

'We're supposed to,' I said seriously.

'Even if it runs for a year?'

'Even if it runs for ten years.'

'Holy-smoke, I wonder you don't go cuckoo!'

To which I wanted to reply, 'I do go cuckoo, my lad. After the first few weeks of saying the same things night after night even the substitution of George for Charles is a holiday.'

But what I really said was: 'A play is a work of art conceived by an artist and every word counts.'

But I had not shaken his conviction that the whole thing was a childish game which grown men pretended to take in earnest. However, perhaps seeing the performance would make him realise, at least, what acting was about and what, perhaps more important to him, his father did for [a] living.

'My dresser will take you round now,' I informed him, 'and the manager will give you a seat.' But at this he looked horrified.

'Have I got to see it?' he gasped.

'Isn't that what you came for?'

'Well—no,' he explained apologetically. 'I came to get seventy-five cents to see The Student Prince.'

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 97-100


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