FullReads

In less than a year Wallie Ascher was working with Hahn. No one knew his official title or place. But “Ask Wallie. He’ll know,” had become a sort of slogan in the office. He did know. At twenty-one his knowledge of the theatre was infallible (this does not include plays unproduced; in this no one is infallible) and his feeling for it amounted to a sixth sense. There was something uncanny about the way he could talk about Lottie, for example, as if he had seen her; or Mrs. Siddons; or Mrs. Fiske when she was Minnie Maddern, the soubrette. It was as though he had the power to cast himself back into the past. No doubt it was that power which gave later to his group of historical plays (written by him between the ages of thirty and thirty-five) their convincingness and authority.

When Wallie was about twenty-three or -four Sid Hahn took him abroad on one of his annual scouting trips. Yearly, in the spring, Hahn swooped down upon London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin, seeking that of the foreign stage which might be translated, fumigated, desiccated, or otherwise rendered suitable for home use. He sent Wallie on to Vienna, alone, on the trail of a musical comedy rumoured to be a second Merry Widow in tunefulness, chic, and charm. Of course it wasn’t. Merry Widows rarely repeat. Wallie wired Hahn, as arranged. The telegram is unimportant, perhaps, but characteristic.

MR. SID. HAHN,
Hotel Savoy,
London,
England.

It’s a second all right but not a second Merry Widow. Heard
of a winner in Budapest. Shall I go. Spent to-day from eleven
to five running around the Ringstrasse looking for mythical
creature known as the chic Viennese. After careful
investigation wish to be quoted as saying the species if any
is extinct.

WALLIE.

This, remember, was in the year 1913, B.W. Wallie, obeying instructions, went to Budapest, witnessed the alleged winner, found it as advertised, wired Hahn to that effect, and was joined by that gentleman three days later.

Budapest, at that time, was still Little Paris, only wickeder. A city of magnificent buildings, and unsalted caviar, and beautiful, dangerous women, and frumpy men (civilian) and dashing officers in red pants, and Cigany music, and cafes and paprika and two-horse droshkies. Buda, low and flat, lay on one side; Pest, high and hilly, perched picturesquely on the other. Between the two rolled the Blue Danube (which is yellow).

It was here that Hahn and Wallie found Mizzi Markis. Mizzi Markis, then a girl of nineteen, was a hod carrier.

Wallie had three days in Budapest before Hahn met him there. As the manager stepped from the train, looking geometrically square in a long ulster that touched his ears and his heels, Wallie met him with a bound.

“Hello, S.H.! Great to see you! Say, listen, I’ve found something. I’ve found something big!”

Hahn had never seen the boy so excited. “Oh, shucks! No play’s as good as that.”

“Play! It isn’t a play.”

“Why, you young idiot, you said it was good! You said it was darned good! You don’t mean to tell me–“

“Oh, that! That’s all right. It’s good–or will be when you get through with it.”

“What you talking about then? Here, let’s take one of these things with two horses. Gee, you ought to smoke a fat black seegar and wear a silk hat when you ride in one of these! I feel like a parade.” He was like a boy on a holiday, as always when in Europe.

“But let me tell you about this girl, won’t you!”

“Oh, it’s a girl! What’s her name? What’s she do?”

“Her name’s Mizzi.”

“Mizzi what?”

“I don’t know. She’s a hod carrier. She–“

“That’s all right, Wallie. I’m here now. An ice bag on your head and real quiet for two-three days. You’ll come round fine.”

But Wallie was almost sulking. “Wait till you see her, S.H. She sings.”

“Beautiful, is she?”