“Oh, thank you so much,” said the very pretty young girl, as she moved away.
“Only,” said Jackie, “you must see that it has Wimbledon written on the front, because they sometimes run trains to Ealing on that line now.”
She then smiled, and went bustlingly downstairs to her own train. She was surprised (and not a little proud) at the almost maternal fluency and calm with which she had carried off this little episode. And she remembered how, on her own first day in London, she had tremblingly sought direction on precisely the same spot.
And she felt maternal. She thought of a few of the things that had happened to her since then.
II
It was the fifth day of rehearsal. The actors and actresses had reached that phase wherein they made pleasant jokes at each other’s expense, and were very friendly in public, but very malicious in the innumerable private lunch and tea combinations which had already formed.
Jackie herself, lonely as she was, was not unpopular — the anger which had arisen in the breasts of her fellows on slowly comprehending that such a pretty and insignificant figure had an important part, having been partially alleviated by her treatment at the hands of Mr. Claye.
Of the first four days of rehearsal nothing need be said. Jackie was too hardened now to feel the blows in running the emotional gauntlet of production. At least she told herself she was too hardened. She had been telling herself this, with great conscientiousness and keenness, for the last four days.
Mr. Lionel Claye had certainly been unusually difficult. Mr. Claye would have been a great deal nicer, Jackie thought, if he had not been so Infinitely Patient. Endless-Painstaking-with-Actresses was also a thing which she put as a black mark against his character. They were doubtless very valuable things in their way (thought Jackie), but the betrayal of the fact that they were, at the expenditure of enormous self-control, being exercised at all times upon herself, revived in her an old frame of mind, which she was loath to revive, but in which the broken edges of bottles figured largely. Also the combination of Infinite Patience with white flowing hair (brushed back), pince-nez, a thin, emaciated face, a soft collar one inch larger than its neck, an old blue suit, a thick voice, and a reproachful (but infinitely patient) smile — was not a pleasing combination to Jackie.
She left the sunny London day outside, and entered the dark, board-banging mumble of the theatre at eleven o’clock precisely. The curtain was up, the stage was half lit, and the various actors and actresses were standing in groups about the stage. She was only just in time.
The stage-manager was seated at a table, and Mr. Claye was in deep converse with Mr. John Sheridan (the heavy man) who was seeking instruction on some subtlety in his part.
For the purpose of attending to this gentleman’s queries, Mr. Claye’s arm was placed affectionately around his interlocutor’s shoulder, and he was looking thoughtfully at the floor. And as Mr. Sheridan spoke, Mr. Claye accompanied his speech, as though beating the time, with a slow (and infinitely patient) nodding process, and the enunciation of “Ye-e-es … Ye-e-es … Ye-e-es …” in a manner that implied that so far from being about to punish this actor for upping and speaking his mind, he quite encouraged this sort of thing.
Then, “Well, you play it just how you feel it, will you, Sheridan, old man?” said Mr. Claye, in his slow voice. “And then we’ll see how it comes out, shall we?”
And it was the smile, conciliatory and all-embracing which Mr. Claye at this moment switched upon Mr. Sheridan, that subtly warned Jackie to prepare herself for an even larger dose of infinite patience than she had yet had to swallow.
“Miss Mortimer here?” asked Mr. Claye, looking around.
“Ah! …” he said.
And he smiled at her too…. She smiled back, and set her teeth.
III
Her scene began in half an hour’s time. This opened with her entrance, and was played alone with Mr. Maddox. Mr. Maddox was an altogether brilliant and also very courteous little actor, with a reputation worth having but the habit of spending many months (about nine in every year, for instance) Out. During which periods his appearance, which was that of a hungry but very well-dressed wolf — underwent emphasis. His natural skill, however, made it a joy to play with him, and Jackie thought she could be very happy in this scene.
It began three minutes after her entrance.
“Now, shall we have that again, Miss Mortimer?” asked Mr. Claye.
An impression was given, from the complacent manner in which Mr. Claye asked this, that it was merely a casual suggestion which she might veto at will.
“Where from?” asked Jackie. “The entrance?”
“The Entrance,” affirmed Mr. Claye, nodding. The first impression was subtly nullified.
Mr. Maddox changed his position. Jackie returned to the doorway.
“Hullo, Ronald,” said Jackie. “Where have you been?”
“Been?” said Mr. Maddox. “Only just round to Rector’s — why? You’re not ——”
“Yes, Miss Mortimer,” said Mr. Claye. “But we’re not just dropping in to tea, are we?”
There was a silence.
“I thought,” added Mr. Claye, “that we were just getting our first suspicion of our husband’s misconduct.”
There was another silence in which Mr. Claye and Jackie looked at each other.
“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, and he now, with some conscientiousness, looked into the script to verify what he had said. There was obviously a sturdy argument for those of the conviction that at this moment of the drama we were just dropping in to tea, but he personally, when he had read the play, had had an intimation to the contrary.
“You mean you want it more tense?” asked Jackie.
“Oh, yes. A great deal more tense, Miss Mortimer.”
Jackie returned to the doorway.
“We want to let ourselves right out in this, don’t we?” said Mr. Claye.
“Oh,” said Jackie.
Being of the strong personal belief (after a close study of her part) that this was the exact moment at which she held herself In, so as to give whatever value there was to her later stormings, Jackie was thrown back forcibly upon “Oh.” This is a nasty monosyllable to employ during production — and one which creates bad feeling —but she had no alternative.
“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, in an off-hand and agreeable way, and looking up at the proscenium arch. Mr. Claye knew how to quell his “Oh” insurrections at once and without mercy.
“Yes. Perhaps so,” said Jackie, coming to heel, and the production was allowed to proceed.
She now played with Mr. Maddox for seven minutes without interruption. This concluded with a two minutes’, speech on her part, into which she put every ounce of knowledge, skill, and energy that she had at her command. She then looked, with some optimism, at Mr. Claye.
This producer, however, appeared to have become suddenly rather blasé about his production, and was merely gazing upwards, in a spirit of friendly contemplation, at the second border. There was a long pause.
“Ye-e-es,” said Mr. Claye, at last — and there was another long pause….
“Well,” said Mr. Claye. “You’ll have to come farther down for that, Maddox. And we’ll have to find some business for you while all this is going on.” (This was a reference to Jackie’s speech.) “We’ll have some drinks there, of course, when the time comes. Otherwise that’s very good, old man.” Mr. Claye made pencil marks in his script. “Now you, Miss Mortimer….”
Mr. Claye came forward to Jackie, and she came forward to him. They faced each other.
“Now,” said Mr. Claye. “We’ve got two hands, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” said Jackie.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Claye, looking into her face. “Shall we try to make use of them?”
“How do you mean, exactly, Mr. Claye?”
Mr. Claye now adopted a slightly sterner tone.
“Well, they’re simply expressing nothing at the moment, are
they?”
Jackie blushed. “What should I do?” asked Jackie.
“Well, to begin with — as you’re supposed to be in a very nervous state all through this scene, don’t you think you might try to express that a little? You’re just wriggling them about in the air at the moment.”
“Oh,” said Jackie.
“What about a little Clenching?” suggested Mr. Claye. “And standing up a little stiffer — so.”
Mr. Claye stood at attention, and Jackie followed his example. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, expansively, as much as to say that that was better.
Jackie found it quite easy, while facing Mr. Claye, to stand up stiffly and clench her hands. She was also clenching her teeth and her toes. But Mr. Claye did not know that. Mr. Claye was more hazardously situated than he guessed.
IV
These little passages in Jackie’s day are being related without extraneous comment. Each of them was to have some bearing on the general result of her day, but she had no idea of this at the time.
She had lunch in a slightly fœtid atmosphere at the “Jerry” Lunch and Tea Rooms in Rupert Street. These rooms were owned and run by Miss Stella Gladdon, the sister of the well-known Miss Billie Gladdon, and existed almost exclusively for the profession. But Jackie would have known she was surrounded by professionals without knowledge of this fact. About the women she could sometimes remain in doubt, but the men she could now detect at sight. That infinitely minute tendency to Waist, that slightly shabby swagger, that distant air of dissipation and emaciation, that too perfect simulation of gentlemen who were anything in the world but actors, that elusive effeminacy — could never, nowadays, escape her.
In the noise and knife-clatter of the ill-ventilated place, and the roar of London around her, she sat over her coffee — nonchalantly reading her paper, and having imaginary conversations with Mr. Drew (Mr. Claye’s partner in this venture, who had actually given her the part), to whom she intended to appeal concerning her treatment at the hands of Mr. Claye. If he did not look in at the theatre this afternoon, she would go to the “Barnstormer” Theatre at Hampstead, where she knew she could find him, in the evening.
“You see, I know how terribly good he is,” she would say. “But he’s started so early he’s getting me all worried….”
Mr. Drew, of course, was Hand-holding, wasn’t he? … “No — honestly, Mr. Drew. Honestly….” She would meet his eyes….
It was a day like any other day to Jackie.
V
Only Mr. Claye, Mr. Maddox, the stage-manager, and Jackie were present at rehearsal that afternoon. It was a rehearsal exclusively for Jackie. The others had been sent away on the explicit, widely credited, but entirely false assumption that they were going to attack their words.
Mr. Claye was in the best of tempers on arrival, and all went fairly well until about 4.30. At this period his patience assumed the infinite proportions to which Jackie took such exception.
“Now, once again, once again,” said Mr. Claye, in a sing song voice. “We’ll go ver-ry slowly, shall we, till we get it right? Now, watch me closely.” Mr. Claye came forward to demonstrate.
Mr. Claye faced Mr. Maddox, at the distance of three paces, and lifted his hand as though he were going to paint a picture of him.
(“What’s the line?” asked Mr. Claye.
“Ronald-I’m-tired-of-all-this-acting,” muttered the stage-manager.)
There was a pause.
“Ronald!” said Mr. Claye, in a stern voice, and stiffened his body. There was another pause.
Mr. Claye took three serious-minded paces over to Mr. Maddox.
“I’m tired of all this ——” said Mr. Claye, and paused again.
“Acting,” said Mr. Claye, bitterly, and having looked deeply into Mr. Maddox’s eyes with what he had a little while before described as a Frank, Challenging look, turned with a modest flourish to Jackie. “There.”
Jackie faced Mr. Maddox at a distance of three paces.
“Ronald,” said Jackie.
“Ronald,” said Mr. Claye.
“Ronald,” said Jackie.
“Ronald,” said Mr. Claye.
“Ronald,” said Jackie.
“Better, better,” whispered Mr. Claye.
“Ronald,” said Jackie. Mr. Claye made no comment. She started again.
“Ronald,” said Jackie. “I’m tired of all this acting.” And she tried to walk on the line, in a weak endeavour to circumvent her instructor, whose style of acting was neither her style at all, nor (she believed) the style of any intelligent human being.
“NOnononononononoNO!” cried Mr. Claye. “Wait till you get there before you start ‘I’m tired’!”
“Ronald,” said Jackie, and took three paces over to Mr. Maddox. “I’m tired of all this acting.”
“But pause before ‘acting’! Pause before ‘acting’!” cried Mr. Claye.
“I’m tired of all this acting,” said Jackie.
There was a heavy silence. Mr. Claye came over, and looked at her as though he would at last have to punish her.
“Miss Mortimer,” said Mr. Claye. “Is it that you can’t do this, or that you have some objection to it?”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Jackie, who was nearly in tears, “I don’t really feel it. I don’t think it’s quite natural, somehow.”
“You don’t think it’s quite natural?”
“No,” said Jackie, who had detected her own tears, and wanted to cry at the thought that she might cry in a moment. “I think it’s rather mechanical.”
“You think it’s rather mechanical?”
“Yes,” said Jackie.
“Yes, Miss Mortimer, but I’m looking at this show from the front, aren’t I? … Now, let’s try that again, shall we? We’ll get this if we go on long enough…. Ronald!”
“Ronald,” said Jackie.
*
At 5.30 the rehearsal concluded. By this time the blandness of temperament habitual to Mr. Claye had returned to him. He assumed a suave and sing-song voice for his summing-up.
“Yes, that’s very, very much better, Miss Mortimer. We’ve still got a long way to go, but I can see you’re trying your best, and if we work together we’ll manage to hammer something out. So will you go home and think over all those things I’ve been telling you?”
“Yes,” said Jackie. “I will.”
“You see, all these things are a question of technique, Miss Mortimer, aren’t they? We can all take ourselves as seriously as we like, but it’s a slightly different thing when we’re faced by the problem of putting it across. I have no doubt that you’ve got the Music in your head, but now it’s a question — well ——” Mr. Claye here switched on his most winning smile, “— of learning to Play the Piano. Do you follow?”
“Yes,” said Jackie. “I see.”
“So you go home and Slog like anything at that to-night, and when you come again in the morning we’ll start afresh, shall we?”
“Yes,” said Jackie. “I will.”
“Good.” Mr. Claye smiled again, and turned away. “You coming my way, Lockyer?”
The stage-manager and Mr. Claye commenced to pack their attaché-cases.
“Well, I’m off,” said Mr. Maddox. “Good-bye all.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
The pass-door slammed behind Mr. Maddox as he left. The time was twenty to six. Rehearsal was done. A great silence and awe seemed to creep up from the untenanted but still vigilant stalls. Something prompted Jackie to come forward to the floats, and look out and around in the darkness of the auditorium…. Mysterious hour, she thought…. Mysterious way of spending your afternoon….
*
“Well — ten-thirty, to-morrow, then,” said Jackie.
“Ten-thirty to-morrow,” repeated the stage-manager.
“Sharp,” added Mr. Claye, agreeably, and sharply snapping his attaché-case.
&nb
sp; She left.
She wished he had not said “Sharp” like that. It had leapt so neatly from his suavity, and yet was like the crack of the whip of his ascendancy over her. And what an inexplicable ascendancy it was! Truly, human nature would submit to all things, to achieve its own purposes.
When she reached the stage-door, she found that she had lost a glove. She turned back to seek it on the stage. Approaching this, by a dark passage, she heard Mr. Claye’s upraised voice.
“Will Not Learn!” Mr. Claye was saying. “Will Not Learn. A lot of infantile notions of their own, and Will not take the Trouble to do Conscientious Work.”
She could not hear what the stage-manager replied.
“Well, if she doesn’t do what I tell her to-morrow, I shall have to get rid of her, that’s all. That’s all there is to it….”
It seemed as though Jackie’s whole theatrical career collapsed about her, as she heard these words. She had laboured for ten years, and she had reached this.
She went back without her glove.
VI
“‘Will Not Learn’…” reflected Jackie, as she had tea. She was having this at a little table by a little window overlooking the Haymarket in the Thistle Tea Rooms. And on one side of her, down below, was the swirl and grind of the spacious one-way street, and on the other was the china clatter and eager feminine loquaciousness of an inflowing matinée crowd, full of the sights it had seen and the sounds it had heard. She observed the latter with a certain inimical and professional interest. In a vain and struggling endeavour to be one of those who catered for such, she had given ten years of her life. They were all too unaware of the sacrifice.
“Will not learn,” reflected Jackie. “Ronald”— pause — three paces — “I’m tired of all this” — pause — “Acting! …” And then she was to meet his eyes with a Frank, Challenging Look….
Mr. Claye was right. She was not good at this at present. Perhaps, in another ten years, she would have become so.
Twopence Coloured Page 33
