Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 100, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 April 1919 — LEAPING AHEAD AS A SCRIBE [ARTICLE]

LEAPING AHEAD AS A SCRIBE

NORMAN BROCHARDT MAKING HIT IN NEW YORK NEWSPAPER WORLD. Norman Brochardt is a rising magazine and newspaper illustrator. Likewise Norman Brochardt is a rising young writer of no mean caliber. All this is evidenced in an article appearing in the magazine section of the New York Times under date of April 20, 1919, and over Which stands the following introduction: “The writer and illustrator of this article is a young artist whose work in pen and ink was familiar to many readers of New York newspapers. Failing to get into the American army, he joined the Royal Flying Corps, in Canada soon after we entered the war, and was seriously injured in an airplane accident at a flying field in Texas. He is now one of the convalescents at Whitby.” The article written by the young author bears the title, “Amateur Night in an Army Hospital.” The sub-head reads, “Backstage at Whitby Where Canada’s Maimed and Sick Soldiers are Winning Back to Health and Usefullness.” Then follows the sketch, with illustrations, which runs like this: All the bloomin’ world’s a stage an’ we are struttin’ on the boards of it. The forlorn figure in that once fashionable color—khaki —swung the mop over the oiled floor lackadaisically. How could one take more than a passing interest in mopping when his heart was yearning for the glory of the spotlight? Joy went clean out of the mopping as he swung the oiled rags more and more slowly over the floor. You see a passion for theatricals had rescended on Whitby. It is a curious fact that just as actors love to dress up and play the soldier, so soldiers love to dress up and play actor. And here at Whitby there was little else for soldiers to do.

Whitby is the home of Canada’s maimed and sick men, returned after months or years of fighting and not so fit and ready yet to start where they left off in civilian life. It is a world in its self, from gymnasium to theatre—a world composed of men gathered from all trades and professions and classes—alike in that they gave up what they had and were to serve a cause, and alike also in that they have all been more or less broken in that service. The man with the mop was one of them. He had been an aviator once. Before that he had been an artist of sorts. Now he burned to be a player. And Whitby supplied the means of realizing that ambition. All he had to do was to get “assigned to perform” by the officer in charge. Now was the night of the performance. And here was in front of a small door marked “Strictly Private.” “Sure,” he said, “I’m a private and a performer likewise,’’and opened the door and disappeared within. The backstage regions of the Whitby theatre was not very different from backstage regions in other theatres—not quite so spacious as the Metropolitan Opera or the Century in New York and not quite so cramped as the Punch and Judy. The man with the mop had taken notes of the .Russian Ballet in the first, played hide and seek with tempestuous Ariel in the second, and crowded in between decks with the Parrot and the Pirates of Treasure Island in the last. He had even made sketches of Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII., while the ladies of the court looked over his shoulder and Sir Herbert Tree presided with eccesiastic pomp over the dress rehearsal of a real Shakespeare revival. Therefore, what he found there was not quite strange to him. As a matter of fact, what he found immediately inside the door was a couple of soldiers. One was standing before a mirror powdering his face, and adding a pink glow to palid cheeks. The way he did it was really very like the way a Broadway actress does it. The other soldier, dressed with peculiar splendor in uniform, told the newcomer that he himself had charge of all the musical numbers of the show which was about to delight the theatregoers of Whitby. But now another soldier came tumbling in tumultuously. To the splendid one, now earnestly engaged in tuning a fiddle he gasped,. “Say, 'boss, they got Bill and Sam locked upin the clink, they have; wot we goin’ to do about it? The tuning up of the fiddle proceeded. “Well, said the timer as he turned, “What are they in for, and can’t they get out long enough to do their duty as performers?” The other grinned. “Naw, they ain’t pinched. It’s some wise Mack locked ’em in an’ they ain’t got the keys to git out.” At that precise moment the door burst open and somebody fell in. “If is ain’t Bill himself,” said the messenger, and the boss stopped tuning and looked sharp inquiry.. “Ye see, explained Bill, “we was practicin’ in the climk ’cause it was peacful like, an’ some blankety blinked blank locked us in. An’ we just got let out.” At Whitby, you win observe, art knows no false pride. A person is as good to rehearse in as the finest salon—and easier to find. A mild appearing sergeant with a Red Cros on his sleeve appeared with a violin. They told him he could go out in front and catch the show. They didn’t need him. Also “a crowd

of these here new fellas might just as well go out and watch the show, too. They won’t be used. Clearly the theatrical ambition of the man with the mop had got to wait. He took the hint. But as he preferred to watch the show, if possible from backstage he slipped up a convenient stairway into the wings. A bouncing young man in his short-sleeves, round of face, very unmilitary, but very business-like, demanded peremptorily to be told who the intruder was and why. A quavering excuse was met flatly and firmly. Nobody was allowed behind there except for the performers —and if somebody didn’t get out somebody would call the director, who was an Officer, • and would see that the throwing out was done properly and in a military manner. Exit to find Officer. What might have happened if the Officer had been found mere private imagination refuses to face. But from somewhere on high, descending ladder, appeared a person who said everything was “Jake”—which is the British Army’s version of O. K.—and rubbed his hands. He added, perceiving the intruder, “We have in our midst some real antiques in the way of scenery. This here set was used by E. H. Sothern down in the Tulan theatre in New Orleans. And this here set came from Marie Dressier’s ‘Hillie’s Nightmare’ —remember that on Broadway, wot,?”. _■ .. After which he climbed aloft again to where he belonged with the electrical gear and the switches. Very likely he’s been a backstage hand before the war. But as likely as not he’d been something quite different. Meantime people had been drifting back and filling the narrow ravines between scenery and wall, and the intruder lost among them and was not thrown out even when two Officers and Directors appeared and called for chairs to sit upon and do the directing. Out toward the footlights every now and then some enterprising player was peeing through a hole in the curtain with an eye on the attendance.

I am not going to describe the show. Only a little of what went on back of it. Troops of people kept flowing from the wings—soldiers camouflaged. Through one door came a figure which to those who have descended into the valley of shadows or to those who dwell in. such places as Whitby, will not cease to mean something that it does not always mean to other men. A nursing sister she was, with Red Cross on cap and bib, and very rosy cheecks. Another was a lady in riding costume (who whispered confidentially that she had lived in New York before the war) and another was a lady all in black—or black as far as it went—who held a wine glass filled with joy—a temperate joy of red paper, unspillable, undesirable, absolutely non-intoxicat-ing. She said she was a vamp. It seemed these ladies belonged to the next number, touchingly entitled, “The Soldier’s Dream/’ At that moment the spotlight Was devoted to somebody who was singing like Harry Lauder —or thereabout. While he did the R.A.F. the girl tried to look military until a Piccadilly Nut who was also waiting for his turn to oblige the company asked for a foxtrot. Ptomptly the R.A.F. girl gave up being military antLdanced. Then came the call for their act—after some sawdust trenches had been arranged as a suitable place for the soldier of the dream to sleep upon and do his dreaming. The music starter softly, the stage W dark, ic started softly, the stage was drak er*s face.”