Tempest-Tost

by Robertson Davies

  GRISELDA WAS NOT THE ONLY GIRL in the room with pretensions to beauty. Valentine Rich did not pay much attention to the reading; she knew that she could, if necessary, impose an appearance of intelligence upon an actor, but she could not give a good presence to someone who lacked it; she searched the room for people who might look well in costume. Her eye was taken by Pearl Vambrace. There, she thought, was a girl with possibilities. A distinguished, rather than a pretty, face; lots of nice dark hair, rather in need of a good vinegar rinse; not a bad figure and really beautiful eyes. But it was Pearl’s expression which made her face an arresting one; she had the still, expectant look of one listening to an inner voice. This was a girl, thought Valentine, who must in some way be brought upon the stage.

  There was to be no difficulty about it, seemingly. When the part of Miranda was open to contest, Pearl read the test passage very well, with intonations which suggested those of her father, though not to a farcical degree. As she read Vambrace fixed her with a steady gaze, and moved his lips in time with hers; once or twice he frowned, as though to show that she had departed in some measure from the pattern he had set for her. Valentine thought this irritating and embarrassing.

  When at last the reading was over the committee retired to make its decisions; as the club had no private room they were compelled to go out on the landing, shut the door behind them, and stand at the head of the stair. Those to whom this delicate task was given were Nellie, Professor Vambrace, Solly and Valentine. The other club members remained inside, where cakes and strong tea were being served.

  “This shouldn’t take very long,” said Nellie. “Just as I expected, no outstanding new talent showed up. Except Roger Tasset, of course. Isn’t he a dream? A wonderful Ferdinand.”

  “The casting of Ferdinand must hang, to some extent, upon the casting of Miranda,” said Professor Vambrace, weightily. “We must achieve a balance, there. Young Tasset has weight, undeniable weight. The question is, has he too much weight? We do not want him to seem—how shall I say it—too heavy for our Miranda. Whoever she may be,” he added, in a tone as though the club were alive with young women capable of playing that part.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt that Pearl is our choice for Miranda,” said Nellie.

  “Do you really think so?” said Vambrace anxiously. “It is very hard for me to be objective in such a decision. In fact, I shall not take part in it.”

  “Your daughter read charmingly,” said Valentine. “A little on the rhetorical side, perhaps, but that is a fault which is easily corrected. And she looks right for the part. In fact, I want her for Miranda.”

  “Do you really?” said the Professor. “You think that she has the—how can I describe it—the weight, the authority for Miranda?”

  “Miranda is only fifteen,” said Valentine. “Authority is not really so necessary as a good appearance and a nice voice. She has both.”

  “You feel that her voice will suffice?” said the anxious father. “I cannot conceal from myself that it lacks sonority, particularly in the higher tones. And you must realize that she was not at her best this evening. I warned her. I warned her repeatedly. But she would go on sucking coughdrops all evening and as a result, when it came her time to read, she was cloyed. I was quite vexed with her.”

  “She will be very good,” said Valentine; “and she will look very well with Tasset.”

  “Aha,” said the Professor, rubbing his chin with a rasping sound. “Yes; she will play chiefly with him and with whomever we may choose for Prospero. We must strive for balance, within our limitations.”

  “Well, if you play Prospero,” said Valentine, “the balance should be just about perfect.”

  “The decision must be made by the remainder of the committee without reference to me,” said the Professor. “Common decency forbids that I should have any part in it. But there is just one point—not, I think, an unimportant one—which I must make before I retire. It is this: if I play Prospero—mark you, I say if—the question of a convincing family resemblance between that character and Miranda is adequately dealt with.” The Professor bowed slightly, and withdrew himself to a distance of five feet from the rest of the committee, which was all the withdrawal possible on the landing. It did not occur to him to go downstairs.

  “Oh do come back, Walter,” said Nellie. “We’ve never seriously thought of anyone but you.” It was only in moments of the utmost emotional stress that anyone called Professor Vambrace by his first name.

  “I had imagined that it was settled some time ago,” said Valentine mildly. She was wearying of the Professor’s coyness.

  “We did speak of it, sometimes, as a possibility; but when it comes to casting we are determined to give everyone a fair chance,” said Vambrace, whose relief and pleasure at having secured the best part for himself were wonderful to behold.

  “In that case, what are we going to do with Mr. Leakey?” said Valentine. “He wanted to be Prospero, and he didn’t read too badly.”

  “Oh Val, he was dreadful,” said Nellie.

  “Not impossibly dreadful; he was nervous, having to brave us all, poor sweet. I’d like to cast him as one of the funnies. Stephano, for instance.”

  “Why not cast him for Gonzalo?” asked Nellie.

  “Because I want Mr. Mackilwraith for Gonzalo.”

  “But Val, he’s such a stodge.”

  “So was Gonzalo a stodge. Anyhow Mackilwraith will look very fine with some grey in his hair and a nice beard. Shakespearean stodges must be made picturesque.”

  “I’d like to be perfectly sure that Mackilwraith in that part wouldn’t upset the balance of the play,” said the Professor.

  “May I suggest, Professor Vambrace, that I shall be able to do a good deal to give the play its proper balance?” said Valentine.

  “Oh quite, quite, quite.”

  “Now for Caliban, I want that rubbery-looking boy. What’s his name—Shortreed.”

  “But Val, he hasn’t been in the club long, and he’s one of the stewards in the liquor store. Will he be acceptable to the rest of the cast? We have to think of that.”

  “You think of it,” said Valentine. “I want him for Caliban.”

  In this fashion the casting proceeded. Valentine got her way about everything. Faced by her determination, Nellie and Professor Vambrace were ineffective. This was the first time that Valentine had shown anything but an indifferent acquiescence to their proposals, and they wondered uneasily whether she might not prove a Tartar. The fact was that in matters relating to her work, Valentine was not a theorizer and a talker, but a worker, and this was the first occasion that she had been able to get her teeth into anything solid in connection with the play. When she saw a group of possible actors, she could do her casting rapidly and without reference to Little Theatre politics. In a remarkably short time all the male parts in the play were decided upon.

  “Now,” said she, “what about the women? We’ve got Miranda. Who’s to be Ariel? It’ll have to be a girl; you have no man with ballet training, I suppose? You said something about Griselda Webster, Nellie; is there any special reason why she should have it, aside from the fact that she is pretty?”

  “Yes. She sings quite well.”

  “Have you heard her?”

  “Well, no; not really. But I’ve been told.”

  “I’ll hear her tomorrow. Her figure isn’t precisely what I would choose for an airy spirit. However, we can’t have everything. Now what about these goddesses?”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” said Professor Vambrace, “I think that Miss Wildfang should be considered for the part of Juno. She has not thrust herself forward, but she has been a very faithful worker in the Little Theatre since its foundation, and the head of the refreshment committee for the past seven years. She has, unquestionably, a classic countenance. For ‘ox-eyed Juno’, as Homer describes her, I cannot think of a more fitting choice.”

  “I can,” said Solly, speaking for the first time. “What about
Torso Tompkins?”

  “Solly!” cried Nellie, in a tone of despair.

  The Professor’s face was bleak. “In Shakespeare,” said he, “a certain balance is an absolute necessity. There is a quality of modernity about Miss Tompkins which it is impossible to disguise.”

  “She’s widely admitted to have the finest figure in Salterton,” said Solly, stubbornly, “and she has a large personal following. If you want to sell tickets, put The Torso in a cheesecloth shift and chase her across the stage to slow music.”

  “Which was she?” asked Valentine.

  “One of those girls who said they’d do anything,” replied Nellie. “A bold-looking girl with black hair.”

  “She is called The Torso for the best of reasons,” said Solly. “She has a bosom like a girl on the dust-jacket of a historical novel, as well as other agreeable features. And when it comes to being ox-eyed, The Torso begins where Miss Wildfang leaves off.”

  “I’ll have a look at her,” said Valentine. “Other goddesses?”

  “I want to suggest dear little Freddy Webster for one,” said Nellie. “She isn’t here tonight, but as the play is to be done at her father’s home I think it would be a very nice thing to include her.”

  “Is she that dark, serious-looking child I met at St. Agnes’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. I’ll speak to her sister. Shall we go in now?”

  THEIR REAPPEARANCE IN THE CLUBROOM brought an immediate silence. The hopeful readers stood about in groups, drinking the copper-coloured tea and eating the economical little cakes supplied by Miss Wildfang and her assistants. Griselda had chosen to be one of these, and was moving about with a large teapot. This made it difficult for anyone to talk to her for very long, and Roger Tasset was greatly chagrined. He was with a knot of three girls, one of whom was Miss Bonnie-Susan Tompkins, known as The Torso. She had, indeed, a splendid figure, but the beholder was rarely permitted to see its beauties at rest. If she was not swinging one foot she was tossing back her hair; she arched her neck and heaved up her rich bosom most fetchingly, but too often; from time to time she waved her hands and snapped her fingers as though to some unheard, inner dance-tune; when she laughed, which was often, her posteriors gave a just-perceptible upward leap, in sympathy. Her face was as animated as the rest of her; she was a lip-biter, an eye-roller, a sucker-in and a blower-out of breath. Her energy was delightful for five minutes, and exhausting after ten. As the committee came through the door, she laughed at a remark which Roger had made. It was a carrying laugh, and through her jersey dress her gluteals could be seen to contract suddenly, and slowly relax again. When the committee passed her on their way back to the table her eyes swivelled nimbly in their sockets. Ox-eyed doesn’t begin to describe it, thought Valentine.

  “We have reached several decisions,” said Nellie to the meeting, “and I shall ask Miss Rich to announce them.”

  Valentine read a cast list. No hopes were dashed, for few of those present were so vain as to think that they were certain to get parts. They were, as a group, modestly willing to act if they were thought good enough, and content to be left out if they were not. The passionate egotism of Professor Vambrace by no means represented the temper of the club.

  If anyone had been watching Hector when his name was read as the choice for Gonzalo they would have noticed that he flushed a little, smiled a little, and swallowed. But no one was looking.

  “A few parts have not been cast,” said Valentine, “but I want to allot them as soon as possible. May I see Miss Webster and Miss Tompkins for a moment, please?”

  Roger was indignant. Wasn’t the Webster piece to be cast, after all? If so, why was he wasting his time? If the Tompkins girl was to take her place, he could reconcile himself to it, he supposed, but that was not what he wanted. He had quite forgotten about Pearl Vambrace.

  Griselda and The Torso sought out Valentine in a corner, as the hubbub of conversation rose again.

  “Hi, Griselda,” said Miss Tompkins. “Long time no see.”

  “Hello, Bonnie-Susan,” replied Griselda; “what have you been doing?”

  “Better ask what I haven’t been doing,” replied The Torso, eyes rolling, hair tossing, bosom advancing and retreating. It was her way to pretend that she lived a life of violent erotic adventure, but this was true only in a very limited sense.

  “I am told that you sing, Miss Webster,” said Valentine. “Now I want you to tell me quite frankly: how well do you sing?”

  “I’ve a fairly reliable soprano voice,” said Griselda, “and I’ve had good lessons. Not for noise, you know, but for quality.”

  “Do you sing, Miss Tompkins?”

  “I was a wow in the Campus Frolic a couple of years ago,” modestly replied The Torso, “but I don’t know how I’d be on any heynonny stuff. But I’m a worker.” Everything about her leapt, throbbed and tossed, in token of her sincerity and eagerness.

  “Suppose we say, then, that you shall play Juno,” said Valentine. “You have a fine appearance for the part, and if your voice is suitable we’ll consider it settled.”

  The Torso was transported. She rushed back to her friends, hissing, “I’ve got a part! Listen kids, I’ve got a part!”

  “Does your sister sing?” said Valentine, turning to Griselda.

  “Well—yes, she does. But I don’t know what she would say about acting. She’s an odd child.”

  “Tell her I would be greatly obliged if she would consider it, will you?” said Valentine. “We are short of singers, and the music is going to be very important.”

  When Griselda had left her, Valentine felt Nellie’s hand on her arm. “Val,” said she, in a tone of gentle reproach, “you haven’t really cast Bonnie-Susan Tompkins for Juno, have you?”

  “Yes, why not? The Torso is just what the part wants.”

  “Oh, don’t call her by that awful name. Val, darling! I don’t want to interfere, but is she suitable? She’s an awful one for the boys.”

  “What could be better? So was Juno, in her overbearing way.”

  “But in a classic, is it right?”

  “Nellie darling, a lot of classics have remained classic because they have girls in them who are awful ones for the boys.”

  ONCE IN THE STREET most of the members of the Little Theatre set off toward their homes, the lucky ones with a light step, and those who had not secured parts less blithely. And yet they were not unusually depressed; they were, most of them, people to whom defeat was an accustomed feeling. A small group remained while Nellie hunted up the janitor whose job it was to lock the door behind them.

  “May I give anyone a lift?” cried Griselda, from her car.

  “Me. I always want a lift,” said Solly, and climbed in beside her.

  “Mr. Mackilwraith, may we drop you anywhere?”

  “Thanks,” said Hector, “I’ll walk. I would like fresh air. It was very stuffy in the clubroom tonight.” As he spoke he leaned through the window.

  “I’m awfully glad you’re going to be Gonzalo,” said Griselda, and smiled.

  “It’s good of you to say so,” replied Hector, and he returned the smile somewhat shyly. Then he went down the street in the determined manner of a man who is walking for air.

  “Nice of you to say a kind word to Mackilwraith,” said Solly as they drove away. “I’ll bet he has a grim life, teaching wretched kids all day. That’s what I face, if I can’t find anything better.”

  “I was glad to see him chosen when Nellie and that odious Professor Vambrace didn’t want him. I thought it was horrid of them to make such a fuss when he wanted a part, just because he wasn’t one of their gang.”

  “Valentine Rich dealt them a few shrewd buffets in the hall when we were choosing. I like her more and more.”

  “Yes. She’s even holding it over my head that I may not be cast as Ariel, to Nellie’s horror. Nellie thinks that a good part for me is the price for using Daddy’s garden. I like Val Rich’s way much better; she makes i
t appear that my own ability has something to do with it. Solly, would you like to come home for awhile?”

  “Really, I think I’d better get back to Mother at once, Griselda.”

  “I meant it quite nicely. I wasn’t going to kiss you in the garden again or anything unmaidenly like that.”

  “You didn’t kiss me. I kissed you. But you know how Mother is.”

  “No, I can’t say that I do. I don’t think I’d know your mother if I saw her. I believe I know her voice, though.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Somebody called up a couple of days ago, and asked if you were there. I happened to answer the phone. It was a very discreet sort of voice, but something whispered to me that it was your mother.”

  “ ‘Oh great, just, good God! Miserable me!’ ” said Solly.

  “What?”

  “Browning.”

  “Solly.”

  “Yes?”

  “Doesn’t your mother want you to see me?”

  “Well—I don’t know.”

  “Is it me particularly, or is it any girl?”

  “Mother has been very ill,” said Solly. “It makes her extremely sensitive. She’s afraid that I’ll forget about her. And I don’t think she realizes that I’m not a child.”

  “A very nice, loyal speech. Well, here we are at your home, and it’s still well before midnight.”

  “It’s no good being huffy, Griselda. I have to take care of my Mother. There’s nobody else to do it.”

  “I quite understand. But I’d hoped that you cared for me, a little, as well.”

  “Of course I care for you. I think I’m in love with you.”

  “But you can’t be sure until you’ve asked your mother. Well, in the meantime, will you let her know where you are going when you are out? Because I don’t really like having people who don’t say who they are calling up to ask if you are with me.”