by A. J. Cronin
It was meant to be the climax of the play. But now it was not the climax. Nancy entered once again. Bertram had seen to it, of course, had changed the ending of the act with masterly and diabolic cunning. Nancy had heard the shot. She came on slowly, still in her bathrobe, found Renton lying there. She paused, discovered that he was dead. Then followed a moment of acting which capped the first climax and passed it coldly to oblivion.
It was all dumb show on Nancy’s part, a slow and piteous pantomime, which touched the topmost pinnacle of art. At the sight of the dead man her cheap effrontery broke. She fell on her knees beside him. Her expression changed; her face, made up and vulgar, was convulsed by an agony of grief. She had loved him. He was dead. Reality struck like an arrow through the brassy sham of her illusions. Blindly she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, an action so tragic, so restrained, it rent the heart of the beholder. Not a word did she speak until, with a gesture of surrender, she dropped the dead man’s hand, took up the telephone, and brokenly declared:
“You’d better come on here. A man’s just shot himself.”
It was terrific. The curtain fell in absolute silence, and for thirty seconds the involuntary tribute of that silence was maintained. The climax of real and unforgettable emotion emerging so unexpectedly from the hard shell of the drama caught the audience by the throat. Many sat speechless. Then the storm of clapping broke, a wild crescendo intermingled with calls for Nancy. It was a riot. And several gentlemen of the press, who gathered up their hats and slid inconspicuously from their seats, knew that it was a riot, or, more fittingly, a wow! There were headlines in this, if they knew anything.
Nancy was taking her curtains now, hand in hand with a palish and rather shadowy Paula Brent, and then alone, bowing with composure to the applause, her arms filled with bouquets. The curtain dropped for the last time. People in the lighted auditorium were talking, gesticulating. There was no question of the sensation. Katharine, lifted out of herself by Nancy’s triumph, her heart still torn by that last tragic moment, turned to Upton and the others.
“What do you think of that?” she asked in a throbbing tone. “Wasn’t she superb?”
“My Lord!” Charley said, blowing his nose hard. “ That had to be seen to be believed. I’ve never seen Nancy act like that before.”
“She’s wonderful,” cried Mrs Ogden, her eyes moist with tears, “simply wonderful!”
As the audience pressed down the centre aisle Nancy’s name was on everyone’s lips. And then Katharine became aware of a famous dramatic critic in front of her, wedged in the crowd, conversing in his morose fashion with the critic from a rival paper.
“She’s good,” Grey was saying. “ What d’you think, yourself, Saul?”
“Maybe,” Izzard admitted from the corner of his mouth. “Anyhow she’s a darned naughty little puss.”
“Takin’ Brent that way?”
“Sure!”
“Ah! Brent’s been askin’ for it a long time now, Saul.”
“Maybe.”
“And this kid’s good.”
“Yes, Walter,” Izzard grunted after due deliberation. “I got a hunch this kid is good. Mind you, we’ve lots of ’ em start with a bang and finish up in smoke. But this one won’t end in smoke. No, sir. She’s got real emotion and sensibility, this one. An’ at her age, nowadays, that’s corn in Egypt.”
The press moved forward, and the two men with it. Yet those thrilling words of Izzard’s remained with Katharine. As they turned into the corridor leading towards the stage door they came upon Madden, Bertram, and a crowd of others all going backstage.
As they went through the doorway she glanced at Madden and, in a tone of genuine enthusiasm, exclaimed:
“It was a wonderful performance, wasn’t it!”
“Yes, it was marvellous,” he answered steadily in a manner which matched her own. “ Even Bertram is knocked cold. He says he expected plenty, but nothing like this.”
From the undercurrent on his voice and look she drew a sense of definite purpose. A wave of mingled relief and sadness swept over her. She knew he would not go back on his word given her earlier in the day, that his acceptance of the situation, his recognition of his obligations and hers, was irrevocable. Outside the door of Nancy’s dressing room they paused, barred momentarily from entering with the rest by the portly figure of Bertram. The benign expression upon Bertram’s face indicated that it was quite usual, a mere matter of reaction and a highly strung artistic temperament. For, from within the dressing room, at this, her hour of triumph, there came plainly the passionate sound of Nancy’s sobbing.
Chapter Twenty
Next morning Nancy awoke to the unmistakable knowledge of her success. She lay for a few minutes in a dreamy state, breathing the perfume of the flowers which had been brought from the theatre the night before and which now stood in exotic masses about the bedroom. With a strange expression on her little face she mentally reviewed the swift procession of images which memory presented to her.
It bewildered her, almost, to realize that at last the triumph for which she had hoped and fought was hers. Yet she made no attempt at self-deception. She knew instinctively that her performance of the previous night had been better, infinitely better, then anything she had ever done. Perhaps it might even have been great. But she took no credit for her achievement. Before, her vanity would have fed upon this marvellous success, but now she was different. She understood perfectly that everything she had done was the result of her own suffering, of the shock which had torn her adolescent egoism from her and revealed the latent fibre of her soul. Last night she had not acted her part. For the first time in her life she had lived it. And now with a new humility she prayed that she might continue as she had begun.
These thoughts raced swiftly through her mind, then, betraying her inward sensations by no more than a slight constriction of her brow, she sat up slowly, extracted a cigarette from the box on the table beside her bed, and lit it. She smoked it reflectively. Then she rang for breakfast.
The swiftness and obsequiousness of the service, which, though hitherto good, was now a matter of genuflections, gave Nancy, if she had required it, full evidence of her new importance. Two waiters and a chambermaid invaded the room with silent speed as though they had for hours awaited upon a hair trigger her lightest summons. In four minutes the curtains were drawn, the bouquets readjusted, the teacart with its silver, snowy damask, iced fruit juice, steaming coffee, and exquisite brioches was wheeled into position, and Nancy, supported by her pillows, was running through the morning papers.
They were superlative in their notices. Most greeted the play as the best of the season, and all went wild in their acclamation of Nancy.
Almost immediately the telephone began to ring. The first was Bertram—at nine-thirty in the morning, actually Sam Bertram’s own fully awake and important voice.
“‘Morning, Nancy! Slept well, I hope.” The solicitude was paternal, honeyed. There was the suggestion, had it been possible, that Bertie would have cooed. “That’s right, that’s good, my child. You’ve seen the morning papers, of course?”
“Yes, Mr Bertram.”
“D’you like them, eh?”
“Pretty well, thank you, Mr Bertram,” Nancy answered quickly, her eyes fixed upon an imaginary point in space.
“What! Ha! ha! That’s a good one! Pull my other leg, will you? Pretty well, thank you! Oh, Lord!” Bertram’s laughter boomed richly over the wire. But soon he was serious again. “Now look here, Nancy. You’ve arrived, and you know it. You’ve arrived with quite a noticeable bang. Now listen. I’m handling everything. Your part’s going to be written up, expanded. I’ve got to go down to the theatre this morning, but I’ll be round to take you out to lunch. But remember one thing. Very special and important. Are you listening with both your little shell-like ears? Good! In case they start bothering you with offers and that sort of thing, don’t sign any contracts till you see me. Got that? Sign nothing without consult
ing me. Good-bye for the present. See you at one o’clock.”
That look of queer detachment played around Nancy’s lips as she hung up the receiver, but at a sound outside her door it vanished. By the time Katharine entered she was as bright and collected as ever she had been. She gave back Katharine’s good-morning kiss and vivaciously answered her inquiry.
“Yes, of course I slept well, Katharine, darling. What did you expect? Restless agony? Oh, do answer that telephone for me, there’s a sweet. It’ll keep on all morning—offers of free perfume, face powder, and photographs, all the way down Fifth Avenue.”
Katharine lifted the receiver, listened, then covered it with her hand. “It’s Madame Lilian of Fifty-Seventh Street,” she told Nancy. “You know.…”
“I’ll say I do,” interrupted Nancy briskly. “Give her an appointment, honey—say four this afternoon. Tell her modom, that’s me, will be pleased to demonstrate any of her latest confections.”
When she had given the message, Katharine sat down upon the edge of the bed and considered Nancy, a spark of amusement showing in her sombre eyes.
“You’re a cool customer,” she declared at length. “ Don’t you feel frantically excited?”
Nancy, finishing the last of her fruit juice, shook her head, involving the glass and her own wide eyes fixed on Katharine from above the rim in a rhythmic negation. Her pose of bright sophistication was perfect.
“What’s the use? I’ve had this coming to me for a while, Katharine. It was just the chance I needed. Well, now I’ve got it. I’m on my way. And believe me, Katharine, I’m not stopping half-way.”
“Don’t get too confident,” Katharine said slowly.
“Darling! Do you want me all shy and bashful? Now don’t say any more, but help me push this tray off my bosom, there’s a dear. Aren’t I nice to own up to a buzzum? And could you possibly make a long arm and shove over my manicure things?”
Obediently Katharine rose and did as she was bid. Though she could not say why, Nancy’s attitude perplexed her, with its almost active brilliance. Covertly almost she studied her niece, the small, spare, lovely face with its high cheekbones and sharply cut brows, the thin straight figure stretched in a posture which made her half a boy and half a slim indifferent Amazon.
Again the telephone rang. Unasked, Katharine picked up the instrument. “It’s Mr Carl Morris,” she said after a moment, “of the Vestris Corporation. He wants an appointment.”
Nancy leaned forward. “ Morris!” she exclaimed. “ Carl Morris of Vestris Films.” She bit her lip, always her sign of rapid thought. “When does he want to come?”
“As soon as possible. Now if you like.”
“Make it eleven o’clock,” said Nancy in an undertone.
The appointment was made. And Nancy, partly relaxed again, began to use her orange stick once more.
“He’s terribly important, isn’t he?” asked Katharine after a moment.
“Morris!” said Nancy with a little nod of acquiescence. “ Yes, he’s the biggest man in Hollywood, I suppose. Owns half of Vestris and a dozen other companies besides. He plays about with millions. He is a kind of Hollywood Almighty, Katharine. He’s got a little heaven of his own, filled with his own stars, high up for everybody to see, and every now and then he makes a new one and sticks it up among the rest.”
Katharine gave her an almost startled scrutiny. There was something new in Nancy’s tone, something of satire mingled with good sense, which drew Katharine up abruptly. It was not like Nancy to mock the Hollywood Olympus.
There was a pause. “Well,” said Katharine at length, “ I’ve got some shopping to do.” She smiled faintly. “I’ll leave you to Morris.”
A moment later she rose. And in a quarter of an hour she went out of the apartment.
Nancy, however, did not immediately bestir herself and when at half-past ten she rang for the maid, there was no sign of fluster in her preparations. Everything now seemed to go as if pre-arranged and inevitable. She drew a loose dressing gown over her smart pyjama suit, carefully attended to her face and hair, and then, ordering all her flowers to be transferred to the sitting room, she curled herself upon the couch to wait.
She had not long to wait, for Morris arrived exactly on time. He was, in defiance of all those canons which demand that Hollywood directors shall be large, forceful, and loud voiced, a dapper, insignificant man with tiny hands and feet, thin, unruly hair that stood up in moments of excitement like an exiguous coxcomb, and great dark eyes, whose restless timidity immediately betrayed his race.
He came in rapidly, like a man who has a train to catch. Clicking his heels together, continental style, he bowed over Nancy’s hand, drew a chair close up to the couch, seated himself, and let his restless gaze go hunting in silence upon her. For quite a time he said nothing, absolutely nothing. Yet what he saw apparently restored him. His nostrils widened to the scent of the roses. He unlimbered himself of an enormous gold case and lit a Turkish cigarette. Then he sat back in his chair with the air of a great artist about to commence the portrait of a lifetime.
“Sharming, sharming,” he remarked with a gracious wave of his hand. “ I vould like to make a shot of that. Perhaps I vill, eh, Miss Shervoot, for the Vestris Newsreel. Publicity, publicity, mein Gott, there’s nothing like it.” Before she could answer he leaned forward again, re-energized, dynamic. “Now listen to me, Miss Shervoot. I’m a man who comes qvick to the point. Everyvon who knows Carl Morris knows that. You know vy I’m here?”
“I can guess,” Nancy answered steadily, her eyes on his.
Morris nodded. “That’s goot. Ve begin to understand each other. You’ve had a great success, eh?”
“Nothing like what I mean to have.”
Morris nodded more emphatically. “ That’s better! Much better! I like to haf ambition mit me ven I get to vork. Now listen, my dear. Ve’ll put all the cards on the table. I vos at your show las’ night. I like it. I think I am sure, yet I am not qvite sure. I come here this morning. I see for myself. Now I am sure.” Impressive pause. “I vont you.”
Nancy remained silent, her eyes, impenetrable, fixed on little Morris, who with an air of immense and intimate significance, bent forward and tapped her with one tiny forefinger upon the knee.
“You know vot I can do, my dear. I can make you a star like Hepburn or like Garbo. I can put you right on the top of the vorld. I chust do it. You understand who I am—Carl Morris. I don’t talk no stupit nonsense. Ven I make my decision, it is already done. Money makes no difference. I spent von million straight on Anna Herman before got von dime. Now she makes ten millions for me. And plenty more for herself. You seen her last picture? Mein Gott, it vas vonderful. Art, drama, passion, every single thing; in the bridal scene alone it cost me thirty thousand dollars for the bed of Emperor Napoleon and no fake about it neither.”
He took a quick puff at his cigarette and cast it enthusiastically from him. “Now listen, my dear Miss Shervoot, we are going to come qvickly to be friends. I vont you to come especially to my apartment to-night. Yes, yes, it is all right. I’m too beeg a man not to be on the level. You vill meet my vife and my little Sophie, too. Though I am great artist, I am great family man besides. You otta see my little Sophie. Vell, vell, there’s another Shirley Temple if I vont it. You come mit us to-night, my dear. After ve talk and understand each other maybe you’ll feel all right about a long-term contract?”
A contract with Morris! Nancy knew exactly what it meant. Morris was right. It, in its own particular sphere, meant the top, the roof, the sky, and nothing less. He would take care of everything, fulfill the most exacting demands: money, publicity, and decisive featuring. Well, she would accept his contract. Hollywood need not interfere with her stage work; that she would most strenuously insist upon. Her eyes wandered distantly, the pupils concentrated, focused to vanishing point. Now indeed she had really done it. At one bound she had soared from obscurity to fame.
They talked for twenty minutes longer, Mo
rris and Nancy, and at the end of it, with a definite understanding established between them, the little man rose, clicked his heels again, and gracefully took his departure.
Only then did Nancy’s nonchalance leave her. She sat down giddily, aware that the comic little man, with his power and his millions, really believed in her and would place her with skilful guidance upon the highest peak of popularity. Suddenly, contained as she was she felt that she was going mad. She pressed her hand against her forehead, tightly, tightly, conquering an ungovernable impulse which she had towards tears.
In the midst of this mood of strange complexity, mingling sorrow and exaltation both, the irrepressible telephone sounded again. Nancy took a step towards it as though she would have cast it into the corner of the room. But this time it was the desk with the information which caused her instantly to pale, that Madden was below.
She stood for a moment, indecisive, her lips quivering. She had not seen him alone since she had overheard him speak to Katharine. And now he was here. She took a deep breath. Determination came back to her.
“Send him up,” she said firmly. “And wait!” she added hurriedly. “In a few minutes send up two champagne cocktails.”
Her fingers were clenched tightly in her palms. In the short time at her disposal she strove with all her will to capture the right note of inconsequence demanded of her. “If I can act,” she thought a little wildly, “please God let me act now.”
When Madden appeared, she advanced to meet him, both hands extended gaily towards him.
“I needed just this,” she declared, her head thrown back brightly. “You’ve arrived at the psychological moment. I’ve had a grand morning, Chris. Congratulate me!”
“On what? A new success?”
She nodded. “ Film contract with Morris.”
He looked down at her, his face, which now wore an expression of habitual restraint, silently interrogating.
