by Dodie Smith
I had been looking forward to this. But nothing was what I had expected or – more importantly – what the company had expected. They complained that distances seemed different (though they had been clearly marked out on the stage floor). Stairs now had to be climbed instead of floated up mentally; doors had to be used – and so on. As for me, the whole play seemed unreal because my imagination was no longer giving it an extra dimension.
The worst set-back of all came near the end of rehearsals, when Mr Crossway told the company to take a whole day off to study lines and cope with final fittings of clothes, while he worked on lighting the play. I thought it insane to waste so much time when rehearsals were desperately needed, but Miss Lester said the lighting could barely be done in one day.
She did not think Mr Crossway would need me, and hoped he wouldn’t as she felt sure I should be bored. He decided I might as well be around, and I certainly was bored. It took hours to set the most ordinary lighting effects, and anything out of the ordinary led to arguments between Mr Crossway and Brice Marton, arguments between Brice Marton and the electrician, dreary hold-ups – and a result I barely noticed.
I was given no notes and sent on no errands and Mr Crossway talked to me very little. Sometimes he asked my opinion but rarely took any notice of it; effects I hankered for were usually said to be impossible because they would ‘upset the balance’, or some such – to me – meaningless phrase. So I did wonder why he wanted me there. The nearest I got to understanding was at the end of the very long day, when he thanked the understudies for so patiently standing-in for the principals, to be carefully lit. He then gave me a smile and said, ‘And thank you for your comfortable presence.’
The next day rehearsals were resumed and everything was chaotic as Mr Crossway was now without both his script and most of his lines. After the rehearsal he came up to the office and told Miss Lester to get him out of a party he’d said he would go to. ‘I must get these lines into my head if I have to sit up all night.’
Miss Lester asked if he would like either of us to work with him, giving him his cues, but he said he’d rather fight it out alone, just staring at the script, as what memory he still had was photographic.
‘Do you think you really can be word-perfect by the first night?’ I asked, dubiously and not exactly tactfully.
He laughed. ‘I’d better be – otherwise you will prompt me in ringing tones from whatever part of the house you’re in.’
‘Do I come to the first night?’
‘Of course. Miss Lester will arrange it.’
But after he had gone, she advised against it. ‘I never go myself – I mean, I never have a seat. One gets claustrophobia, especially if anything goes wrong. I always roam about, to get the feeling of the house. There’s usually something one can perch on or lean on. You could be with me, if you like.’
I said I would. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t go in a grand seat as I haven’t a really grown-up evening dress.’
‘We must find you something in our wardrobe, and have it altered when the wardrobe mistress isn’t so busy. By the way, Mr Crossway wondered if you’d like to go to the first-night party at his house. But I don’t think you’d enjoy it; there’ll be so many people you don’t know. And the atmosphere will be ghastly if the first night hasn’t gone well. Nothing would get me there. I always sit up here until the small hours and then go out and get the early editions of the papers. Keep me company if you fancy it – though do go to the party if you want to.’
I should have been glad to see inside that Regent’s Park house but I couldn’t go without a real evening dress. So I said waiting up for the notices would be more exciting.
Mr Crossway knew more about his lines the next morning and the rehearsal went well. But in the afternoon there was a dress parade which upset most of the actresses; the leading lady actually wept. The famous dressmaker who had designed the clothes was calm; I gathered such scenes were usual. The wigmaker was disappointed that Mr Crossway wouldn’t wear a number three toupee, with a beautiful deep wave. ‘Makes you look ten years younger,’ said the wigmaker. ‘I don’t want to look ten years younger,’ said Mr Crossway. ‘I just want to look better-looking. My God, man, you’ve given me a kiss-curl.’
After the dress parade we rehearsed until late in the evening. Mr Crossway’s lines again forsook him – but came back on duty next morning when we had an almost uninterrupted run-through. Then the company were dismissed until the dress rehearsal, due to start at six-thirty. The minute they were off the stage Mr Crossway decided to make some changes in the lighting. So the dress rehearsal didn’t start till eight.
It ended at two in the morning, by which time I didn’t see how the play could open the next night. Everything conceivable went wrong and not one person gave a good performance. Miss Lester, who sat with me, said she had seen worse dress rehearsals – ‘But not much worse, I admit. Still, if things had gone well one would be just as worried, because that’s unlucky. A good dress rehearsal’s supposed to mean a bad first night.’
‘Well, if that works in reverse we should have a marvellous night tomorrow.’
There was no rehearsal the next day but Mr Crossway never left the theatre. He was still changing lighting and even having bits of scenery altered. I was on duty, running messages and bringing him cups of tea. Late in the afternoon I asked if it would help if I sat on the opposite side of the stage from Tom, ready to prompt. He considered this, then said he must leave it to Tom. ‘I did have an extra prompter once, who spoke through the fireplace. But it was confusing – and I kept looking up the chimney. Don’t worry too much. I have weathered other first nights.’
But I did worry. By the time the audience was coming in I felt quite sick with nervousness. I told Miss Lester, adding, ‘I suppose it’s silly of me.’
‘Silly or not, I’m just the same – after all the first nights I’ve been at. It’s so awful being afraid there’ll be catastrophes and knowing one can’t possibly help.’
She suggested I should go down to the street to see some of the fashionable first nighters – I could not stand in the foyer as I was not in evening dress. ‘But come back when the bells begin ringing to get people to their seats. Then you’ll be in time to see the curtain go up.’
Outside I found quite a crowd of onlookers but I managed to get a good view. It was a fine June evening, not yet dark. Most of the women arriving were luxuriously dressed in short, shapeless frocks of pastel shades. Almost every head was shingled. There were choker pearls round almost every neck and flowers on almost every shoulder, with fur wraps dropped low enough to show them. I did not particularly admire any of the clothes but I did feel wistful for a really beautiful evening dress.
Bells rang. I hurried up to Miss Lester and we slipped into the back of the dress circle just as the house lights went out. The curtain rose.
It still staggers me to remember how smoothly that performance went and how swiftly I stopped feeling nervous; my heart ceased pounding soon after Mr Crossway came on. He gave the impression of being completely at ease, and before long I felt sure he would go on giving it – which he did, even when inventing lines instead of remembering them. Act I went unbelievably fast, as did the whole play, really, now there were no interruptions. The leading lady had to be prompted once in Act II, but otherwise I cannot remember any hitches throughout the evening. The third act went best of all and when the curtain finally fell the applause was terrific. I asked Miss Lester if all Crossway first-night receptions were warm. She said they were apt to sound warm – ‘But don’t worry. This is genuine warmth.’
Mr Crossway made a speech, finishing by telling the audience he was its humble and obedient servant. To me, that speech was the high moment of the evening. I fully realised he had played most skilfully but I still thought he under-acted and lacked some quality of magnetism he’d once had. And there, suddenly, it was, in his speech of thanks. Miss Lester told me it was one of his few gestures of respect for the past to make the same kind o
f speech his father had always made.
Back in the office, I said: ‘What do we do now?’
‘We just wait. I’ll make some coffee.’
Soon the audience was out of the theatre and the last car door was slammed. Then Mr Fortescue came up and said the Press seemed pleased – ‘Though that doesn’t mean they won’t go back to Fleet Street and write a stinker of a notice.’ Not long after that, Mr Crossway dashed in, dropped a sheaf of first-night telegrams on Miss Lester’s desk and asked us how we thought things had gone. We both said wonderfully well and I said he hadn’t dried up once.
‘Some of my inventions were a bit startling, though. Thank God the author wasn’t there. You girls ought to be drinking champagne, not coffee. I shall bring you some tomorrow as you won’t come to my party. Bless you both. Good night.’
We heard voices, and cars driving away as the company left for the party. Then everything became as quiet as it always was at the Crossway very late at night. I was quite startled when I heard footsteps.
‘That’ll be Brice Marton,’ said Miss Lester. ‘He always waits with me until we go out for the papers.’
‘Does he know I’ll be here?’
‘I didn’t mention it but he probably takes it for granted. Why? Have you two had any more rows?’
‘We haven’t had anything. He’s rarely said a word to me beyond “hello” and when he managed that he didn’t manage a smile.’
‘I doubt if he deliberately didn’t smile. He probably had something on his mind.’
He came in then and did not smile at either of us but I hardly blamed him; he looked absolutely exhausted.
‘Give me some of that horrible black brew of yours,’ he said to Miss Lester.
‘Wouldn’t you rather have whisky?’
‘If I drink whisky now, I shall go to sleep. Just let me have some coffee.’
While he was drinking it she asked him how much sleep he’d had the previous night. He said two hours – ‘And three, the night before. And there won’t be much of tonight left after I’ve taken the papers to Mr C. Oh, well, one survives.’
‘But surely things aren’t always as bad as they’ve been this time?’ I spoke to Miss Lester, rather than to him. ‘I mean, the scenery having to be altered and the lighting reset or whatever they call it. And – oh, everything.’
‘Things are often much worse,’ said Miss Lester.
‘And you can’t really blame Mr C.,’ said Brice Marton. ‘He has the sets up earlier than most managements. But something always goes wrong. If the scenery’s perfect there’s a last-minute cast change or trouble with the stage hands. I only remember one play when everything went smoothly and that came off in a week.’
He and Miss Lester began chatting about past productions, and I just listened. I noticed that he always referred to Mr Crossway as ‘Mr C.’ and with a satirical edge to his voice. I began to think he didn’t like Mr Crossway; and once I got the idea, it fitted with his behaviour at rehearsals. His manner had always been civil but he had never responded to the warmth and humour in Mr Crossway’s. Sometimes Mr Crossway had lost his temper but never for long. Brice Marton had never lost his, but he had often stone-walled Mr Crossway in the most uncom promising way. And when Brice Marton had said something was impossible, Mr Crossway had accepted this. I wondered if it was usual for an important manager to be on such terms with his quite young stage manager.
Now, as I sat drinking cup after cup of black coffee, I took a good look at Brice Marton – something I had never troubled to do before. I had thought of him as dark, slight, not very tall and not in the least striking. I now realised he had unusually fine eyes, dark brown and very sombre, seeming almost too large for his small, neat features. His skin, like his eyes, was brown; his hair black and smooth. Molly, Lilian and I had recently amused ourselves deciding what animals girls at the Club resembled, and I suddenly saw Brice Marton as a Manchester Terrier. My aunt had bought one, a slim black and brown dog, when I was five and it had nipped me quite painfully; and though we came to love each other, I remained a trifle wary. It died, of natural causes, when it was ten – to my sorrow but to the considerable relief of visiting tradesmen.
Well, Brice had certainly started by biting me but I couldn’t see us coming to love each other. I couldn’t even like him, though I did feel respect for the authority he had shown at rehearsals. As for his liking me, at the moment, as so often, he simply wasn’t seeing me.
I think it was around two o’clock when we went out for the papers. The small streets round the theatre were utterly deserted. As we passed some shuttered shops I said, ‘We might be back in the eighteenth century.’
‘It’s time some of these houses came down,’ said Brice Marton. ‘They’re little better than slums.’
I said I’d hate to see them go. ‘They’re a real link with the past.’
‘The one I have rooms in certainly is,’ said Brice Marton. ‘Not that slums are a novelty to me. I was brought up in one.’
‘You should grow out of boasting about that, Brice,’ said Miss Lester.
We went to some office where stacks of morning papers had already arrived. It astonished me that notices could be written, printed and distributed so quickly. We read them, standing under a lamp post. They were all good, though one critic said: ‘Mr Crossway, having recently had a success with a pleasant play, has had it written again, by a different author.’ However, the notice went on to say that, as the new play was rather better than its predecessor, all should be well. Mr Crossway’s acting was praised by every critic, though one of them wrote: ‘Of course, he no longer acts; he merely behaves. And in spite of all the ease and charm, and the skill that disguises skill, there are some of us who miss the dashing juvenile of his father’s company.’ I was glad to think it wasn’t only the old ladies at matinées who felt as I did.
When we had finished reading, Miss Lester asked Brice Marton if he thought the new play was better than the last one. He said he found them equally bad. ‘But I’m beginning to think I don’t like any plays or any players.’ She laughed and said he’d feel different after a good sleep; then added, ‘Though you haven’t too much talent for liking things or people.’
‘None whatever,’ said Brice Marton. ‘I only like them in spite of myself.’
They were half joking; but only half.
After that, we managed to get two taxis. Miss Lester took one and asked Brice Marton to drop me at the Club on his way to Regent’s Park. As we drove off I said, to make conversation, that the notices wouldn’t spoil Mr Crossway’s party. Brice Marton gave a grunt of agreement. Then we remained silent until, after a good five minutes, he said abruptly:
‘I owe you an apology.’
‘Goodness, what for?’ I was utterly astonished.
‘For losing my temper with you, that night you fell over the brace.’
‘Heavens, that’s ages ago. I’d forgotten it.’ I hadn’t, but it seemed the civil thing to say.
‘Nonsense. Neither you nor I could possibly have forgotten it. You had Miss Lester’s permission to come back-stage. You merely had an accident, for which you instantly apologised. It was unforgivable of me (a) not to accept your apology and (b) to lose my temper with you.’
‘Well, I forgive it, anyway.’
‘I don’t. I never forgive myself for losing my temper – except when I lose it deliberately, as I have to sometimes in my job, and then it isn’t really lost. When I lose control I chalk it up against myself – forever, really. But one can’t go on brooding about it. Sooner or later I straighten the account as well as I can and try not to let it happen again.’
He seemed so seriously worried that I asked why he hadn’t got it off his mind before. He said the opportunity hadn’t arisen – ‘Besides, I should have found it difficult to apologise to anyone these last weeks, when I needed all the authority I could muster.’ I was surprised he should talk so freely, until I guessed it must be part of ‘straightening the account’ – and strai
ghtening it less with me than with himself.
‘Well, you mustered plenty for rehearsals,’ I told him. ‘And you never lost your temper once.’
He said, ‘Thank you for noticing that,’ then relapsed into silence.
After a few minutes I felt him leaning on me heavily. I instantly remembered hearing, on my first night at the Club, ‘My God, Frobisher, how that man kissed me in the taxi!’ and it flashed into my mind that Brice Marton might have been attracted to me on sight and been fighting not me but himself. I found this idea exciting. I also found that Brice Marton had merely gone to sleep.
When we got to the Club I woke him and warned him he would soon be at Mr Crossway’s. He thanked me and said good night, but without the nicker of a smile. In spite of the conversation we’d had I did not feel we were on fully friendly terms; just civil terms.
The elderly night porter let me in and said: ‘What hours you young ladies do keep,’ then reminded me to write my name in the breakfast-in-bed book. I thankfully remembered Miss Lester had said I need not come into the theatre in the morning. When I tiptoed into the sleeping village the dawn was breaking. I undressed without putting the light on.
6
When I got to the Crossway the next afternoon the whole theatre radiated success. Bill-posters were pasting up extracts from the favourable notices, there were rows of camp stools outside the pit and gallery doors, and a queue in the foyer waiting to book seats. Up in the office Miss Lester was typing ‘thank you’ letters for Mr Crossway’s first-night telegrams. She used a formula for most of these (though he often added a personal postscript) so I was able to help with the typing.
‘It’s such bliss to feel we’ve a real hit,’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine how the atmosphere would be today if we’d had a flop or even a very tentative success. Everyone would be so hypo critically cheerful. Now we’re all genuinely glowing – except, of course, the men in the box-office.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’
