Bridget Wingert: Happy to Be Here

Local barn makes good

In 1953, the New Hope Gazette published a long series of the founding of the Bucks County Playhouse written by Don Walker. The Herald is publishing the serialized account. The final days of construction conclude the account.

Part Ten

The lost battalion

As the contract needed “adjustment” and the “extras” piled on, whenever the sock was empty on Saturday morning Henry’s fountain pen, granted great respect by the Solebury National Bank, filled the gap. When he did not furnish cash he gave us his endorsement on the corporation note.

The details of our financial life are too complicated for even this detailed epistle. Construction, stock selling and borrowing went on hand-in-hand through May and June. The best overall picture of our financing I can give is by jumping ahead to the certified statement from the auditors on February 1, 1940.

As of that date the theatre had cost $47,203.45, of which $10,000 was for land. The building stood us $12,203.45 more than Mr. Chapin had bargained for, $22,203.45 more than our first dreamy guess, and the cost of every stick and stone had been haggled over, our contractor had gone into bankruptcy, no one had been paid for organization work.

Our first stock issue of $30,000 had been completely subscribed and paid in, and at this time I wish to pay homage to these people who supported us when all looked dark. There were a lot of reasons for buying stock in Bucks County Playhouse, though there always seemed to be many more reasons for not buying it. I have thought it would be interesting to classify our first true believers as to their possible motives in purchasing.

These then were our supporters, the original crazy $30,000 and if you think it’s easy to sell that much stock in that many parcels – try it some dull Washington’s Birthday. (list at buckscountyherald.com)

Mr. Chapin, as of the above date, in addition to his investment in “Hope Mill” had also purchased a goodly number of additional shares. He never found anyone to take the “Non-Profit Patronage Stock” he suggested, and it was never issued. As of February 1, 1940, he had loaned the corporation $10,775.38 himself, and had negotiated and endorsed the corporation’s note for $6,000.

Henry was game and gallant and, fortunately, able to bail us out. But before he knew it he found himself owning, or being obligated for, a bigger piece of the Bucks County Playhouse than all of the other 72 stockholders put together!

About the first of June, ’39, while the above frenzied finance was in full vortex, St. John Terrell announced that the opening bill, set finally for Saturday night, July 1, would be “Springtime for Henry,” an already shopworn farce by Benn Levy, with the movie comedian Edward Everett Horton – in person, not a mummy – in the title role. Mr. Chapin got a lot of good natured ribbing, for it was definitely June, and he was flying in every direction, busy as a bee, supervising, selling stock, writing checks, etc.

Another analogy always occurred to me. The words “Springtime for Henry” conjured up a vision of Mr. Chapin, blindfolded, walking a plank and, at the prodding of us pirates, springing into a deep, dark sea full of theatrical sharks and stinging jellyfish, with a school of eels near at hand to complicate swimming.

The frantic opening of the just-barely-finished-in-time Bucks County Playhouse on Saturday evening, July 21, 1939, was exhaustively covered by all newspapers within reach. The public history of the imbroglio, well-nudged at St. Terrell’s publicity factory, made all the wire services and thus became a permanent addition to the Recorded History of American Trivia.

In the presence of this blanket of information I am humble. Only as recently as June 4 of this year the Gazette (my incomparable publisher) carried an excellent article by Sara Maynard Clark entitled, “The Year the Playhouse Opened,” which admirably summed up commonly known facts. It is not the purpose of this “True Historie” to reiterate what has always been printed, so when in dealing with the opening, our biggest splash, I will try to fill in the cracks and give you the angle of the battered but triumphant battalion who promoted the obstinate structure.

Our architects had warned us that work would have to start by March 15 in order to turn over a finished theatre to St. John Terrell on June 18, the date promised him in the lease. Ground was not broken until April 4; then a flood delayed work. Naturally the Acorn Steel Company (no kidding), which had the contract for fabrication of supports for the stage structure, was infected by the inertia virus that lurked in the folds of any contract we signed that spring. Demolition continued, but no building began; by the first of May we had, instead of a broken-down grist mill, a bombed-out ruin. Finally some steel arrived and construction began. Work progressed at an agonizing snail’s pace; you could hardly see any change in the mess from one week to the next. April had gone, May flew by, June was jet-propelled.

Opening night had been set for June 24, with Terrell getting into the theatre a week earlier to rehearse. It soon became obvious that these dates were not just optimistic, they were impossible. We pled for an extension of time. Terrell gave it to us, but in exchange demanded concessions in his lease, to which we were forced to agree. One of these concessions, dealing with renegotiation of the lease in case we made subsequent alterations, returned to plague us later.

How any member of our “group” attended to any normal duties or business, or even ate, during this period is a mystery. Looking back over my records I note with some astonishment that during the season 1938-39, in addition to arranging music on a number of radio commercial shows, I also orchestrated “Yokel Boy,” produced by Lew Brown and featuring Buddy Ebsen – “Stars In Your Eyes,” starring Ethel Merman and Jimmy Durante with music by Arthur Schwartz, and “Leave It to Me,” starring Gaxton and Moore, with a book by our own (as of then) Bucks County Spewacks and a score by Cole Porter. It is a fact that, although I have done a lot of work for Mr. Porter since “Leave It to Me,” he has never again trusted your correspondent with an entire show. Cole has a long memory. He also likes to feel certain, when he gives an arranger a complete score, to orchestrate, that the fellow’s mind is exclusively concerned with Cole Porter’s tunes – not mainly preoccupied with devious ways and means for financing an unwanted summer theatre.

During the press of construction we found that even weekly directors’ meetings could not handle the mass of decisions that had to be made. We split up into six committees, recruiting gullible new stockholders to fill them out. We had Finance, Promotion (sale of stock), Liaison with Producer, Construction, Post-Season Activities, and Publicity Committees, as well as a Legal Representative – all overworked, and indifferent to their legitimate pursuits.

Early in June we got a windfall – our only one. Ed Schreuers, poking around a theatrical warehouse in New York City, searching for second-hand equipment, discovered a large turntable designed for the Norman Bel Geddes production, “Siege.” It took up a lot of room and the proprietor offered it free, if we could move it. It was carted to New Hope $55 and built into our stage for $60. Thus our playhouse acquired a revolving platform worth several thousand dollars for only $135. This incident is typical of the way in which we fought and struggled for our dream-shack.

Although Henry Chapin was picking up the slack every time our bank balance sagged, our stock-selling was being pressed with redoubled fervor. Since prospects could now be shown some activity on the site our hectic campaign began to meet with a little more success. Early in June a big investor appeared before our happy eyes. It was rumored that he had $10,000 to put in the project. There was only one catch, or “string” as it is termed in the theatrical profession. This gentleman had a “niece” who possessed a burning ambition to appear on the boards of the new Playhouse in starring, or at least featured, roles. Our heavily loaded prospect soon made it plain that the $10,000 and the “niece” were inseperable.

Such propositions are not unusual along Shubert Alley, but were new to our “Hope Mill Community Centerites.” Besides, the hiring of actors was clearly in Terrell’s province and he had been conspicuously indifferent to the manner in which we were to finance the building where he was to present his magnificent conceptions. Before selling our souls and approaching Terrell we decided to invite the “niece” to a cocktail party for a look-see. Afterward we all privately agreed that although the $10,000 might get our theatre built, no audience would ever enter it if the “niece” was performing. Offer rejected.

As July 1 approached with all the reticence of a roaring express train, bets were being made in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, even New York, that we wouldn’t make it. The odds were 11-5 against with few takers. When Edward Everett Horton arrived to rehearse he viewed the proceedings with apprehension and was heard to mutter, “Where are we going to play the show? On a raft in the river?”

For scaffolding still clung to the stagehouse, while workmen hurried to give it a roof so that the stage, if ever built, would be closed to the elements. The sloping floor in the auditorium – wood instead of concrete as we had wished – was nearly complete, but of course there were no seats. In fact, we had not yet purchased them. Restrooms were there, but without plumbing, who can rest? There was no box office and although mail orders were pouring in, Terrell found it hard to handle advance sales. The grounds were a shambles, littered with the unorganized debris of frantic construction, dangerous to limb and even life.

Around this cluttered, stageless ant heap there was no spot to hopefully rehearse “Springtime For Henry.” Terrell hired Worthington’s Hall, where after one day’s struggle the actress playing “Mrs. Jelliwell” had a breakdown and withdrew. Haila Stoddard, from Springtown, was enlisted and learned the long part in three days.

About June 28 things began to look better, probably because up to then they had looked so terrible. The scaffolding began to come down and carpenters began to build a floor over the open beams and girders that indicated where a stage should be. Of course, with no stage floor the scene designer, Horace Armistead, had not been able to construct the “sitting room of Mr. Dewlip’s apartment” as called for in the script, but he had accumulated scenery hanging around outside. Don Hedges had been to Philadelphia and purchased some seats out of a movie house that was being torn down, but they had not yet arrived. A little box office had been built – you can still see it in the center of the porch – and though the theatre was unfinished inside, tickets were being sold and money taken in. But the odds on opening on time were no better. Still 11-5 against!

Two frightening crises, never before published, now arose. On June 29 word got around that our main contractor was in financial difficulties and about to go into bankruptcy. Subcontractors began to stir and worry. A man appeared from Philadelphia with an attachment that could have hopelessly tied up the whole shaky operation. By some inspired hocus-pocus John Ross held it off, but it was a near thing.

Then on the night of June 30, only one day before opening, a workman fastening gutters on the side of the roof dropped some hot solder on one of the ancient wooden shingles that still covered the auditorium. He never noticed that the shingle was smoldering and after he had descended, a sizeable section of the roof suddenly caught fire. By prompt and vigorous action it was extinguished but the whole mad proposition could have easily been lost then and there. Even now, we old theatre veterans perspire freely whenever this horrific incident is recalled.

But somehow we had staved off the long arm of the sheriff and the gallant volunteers of the Eagle Fire Company were able to sleep peacefully in their beds that night of June 30. One crisis after another had been met and fought off, but July 1, opening night (!), was upon us. The stage wasn’t finished, there was no set – and, worst of all, no seats.

And even if the seats should be delivered in time they would have to be fastened down. (This wasn’t our idea. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, possibly for the protection of the actors, would not allow the house to be opened unless the chairs were secure.) So, as we waited anxiously, one wag suggested that we could give out, with each ticket, four screws, one screwdriver, and one second-hand seat.

Believe it or not, this idea, spoken in jest, was being seriously considered by the faithful as dawn broke over the Delaware Valley on July 1, 1939.

Not wishing to keep our readers in suspense any longer than we were at the time, I am pleased to report that the morning of Opening Day brought a truckload of seats for our heretofore empty temple of Thespis. At about the same time, the weary carpenters reported that the stage floor was finished. And suddenly, we realized that the house could open that night if (a) the seats could be fastened in time, (b) the set built and (c) a representative of the Department of Labor and Industry were brought in after the seats were installed so the building could be officially inspected and (we prayed) passed for use.

There were no dressing rooms, but who cares about actors? There were only four of them and they could have the whole river bank if they wanted it.

Our tight little nucleus, the “group” realized that no matter what we had given before, this first Saturday of July was the occasion of our greatest physical effort. All the families converged on the battleground for Operation Clean-Up. Dozens of workmen were all preoccupied with finishing their tasks against the looming deadline. They had no time to be fancy or tidy up. The job of just making the grounds and the building fit for an audience to approach, enter, and remain for a performance had not been faces until this Saturday morning. It needed an army of slaveys – it was not use dodging that issue – we were that army! Moving in after each construction job was completed, all day long we lifted, straightened, landscaped, swept out, scrubbed, dusted and scraped. It wasn’t enough that we had given our money and time and mental concentration – from the depths of our hopeful hearts we had to supply perseverance necessary for this sweaty climactic effort. The work was ugly – dirty and degrading; the lavatories grimy, the urinals stained. Our vision was about to materialize; the audience we had dreamed of would soon arrive, and what if they should dislike the accommodations and never return?

As the afternoon ended, workmen were still installing seats, the floor of the auditorium was a mess. On stage, scene-builders were performing their mysterious and unproductive motions while actors wandered about, reciting lines, trying to get used to the unfinished set. For a while, we serfs could do no more.

We rushed home, gulped cold sandwiches and partially dressed for the evening. When I say “partially,” I mean just that. Ladies put on long dresses, hiked them up, and covered them with aprons, tying scarves about their evening coiffures. The gentlemen donned dress shirts, covered them with old sport coats and wore dungarees, carrying their summer dinner jackets and trousers (people in Bucks County still wore formal raiment, on occasion, in 1939). Everyone put on their beat-up shoes, throwing their best ones in the back of the car. Off we all drove, back to the madhouse.

At the theatre, the unticketed curious had already gathered to gape at the notables, when and if they should arrive. Our motley crew caused no stir as we slunk in the back entrance. Inside, we found the seats secure but the floors unswept, so armed with brooms, we hurried to make the interior presentable. As we labored, Don Hedges entered with the Man from Harrisburg. This official could let the theatre open or send everyone home disgusted, as the physical facts dictated, or, for that matter, as his whim whispered. It was then 7:40, one hour to curtain time.

At 8:20 p.m., the State of Pennsylvania found the building safe to hold 292 spectators, provided we moved one seat that in the Commonwealth’s opinion, blocked an exit. The seat was hurriedly removed – I never found out who owned the ticket for it – and was placed out on the river edge where the patron could have a nice view of cars crossing the bridge. Our sweeping completed, we dashed to our cars to change our shoes and trousers and jackets, as the rest of the audience started to file in. They were all there, all the semi-celebrities and near-notables, all this publicity seekers and wealthy curious, the skeptical reporters and jaded cynics, the bored esoteric. And why shouldn’t they be? Flanked by the gaping and incredulous townsfolk they were entering the most publicized theatre in America in order to view a performance immeasurably enhanced by extraneous suspense and excitement.

We butterflies, having emerged from our drab chrysalises, handed in our tickets, purchased long in advance, and floated into our new theatre, the goal of our every conscious hour for nine long months. Like an equally time-measured pregnancy, the greatest agony had come at the end, but now delivery had been made, and we could relax and take bows while our baby grimaced and gurgled. We took our widely-distributed seats and expectantly awaited the curtain.

There was no need of haste. Backstage, they were still building the set. From behind the curtain, hammers could be heard, muffled voices hurled unintelligible orders and imprecations. The glittering audience waited patiently. They had been well-conditioned.

Finally, just about when patience had had its day, the hammering ceased, the muffled voices faded. Mr. Richard Bennett, “dear old Dick,” appeared to bestow a curtain speech.

I have been told that his curtain was started to quiet down the audience and to give the backstage workers a few more precious minutes. If this is true, as it very well may be, the speech went far beyond its intended purpose. I am sure that this was the last occasion on which Sinjun let anyone else make a curtain speech before a St. John Terrell production. Mr. Bennett started out all right, saying the common conventionalities, claiming the usual undeserved credits, promising the normal impossibilities.

Then somewhere, Dick’s needle got stuck in a groove, and he started to repeat the whole dull oration again and again. Like the famous piano routine of Chico Marx, Bennett kept going “past the finish.”

Bored, I wriggled, glanced around me. Here and there in the auditorium sat the “husband and wife” teams that made our “group.” Eagerly they sat forward, waiting for something wonderful to happen. Puzzled, they sat back as the redundant speech went on and on. The rest of the audience acted identically, first eager, then puzzled.

All at once, before my too-imaginative eyes, an ominous phenomenon seemed to occur. The once distinct faces of my dear friends who had fought so long and well for this theatre were disappearing into the conglomerate face of the audience, vanishing into what Oscar Hammerstein II has since aptly dubbed “the big black giant.”

You could see a touch of betraying sawdust on the shoulder of a dinner jacket here, a curl of a shaving in an upswept hairdo there, a few more than tired people in the house than you would normally expect—but it took a sharp and informed observer to pick out our indefatigable shock troops. Our gallant battalion who had truly gone beyond the call of duty was being infiltrated and absorbed; there was nothing to distinguish them from people who had stepped up to the box-office and paid their $2.40 for a seat with no further obligation given or received.

There was one exception. In his brand new beard, sitting erect in the front row, Henry Chapin looked every bit as distinguished as Albert Hirschfield, the visiting cartoonist from the NEW YORK TIMES. Mr. Chapin even looked like the theatre owner which, in fact, he was.

Just as the repetitious speech was going around for the fifth time, and backstage they were considering improvising a hook (the theatre was too new to have acquired one), the needle slipped out of the groove and Mr. Bennett brought the address quickly to a conclusion.

Assuming his most prophetic stance, an attitude that would have put Ezekiel to shame, Dick Bennett announced:

“This place will become a hallowed spot to which, each summer, pilgrims of Thespis will wend their way. No longer will Austria hold a monopoly on theatrical shrines! Yes, friends, we’ll do it! We’ll make New Hope the Stroudsburg of America!”

After that, “Springtime For Henry” was a definite anti-climax.