World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  Of course such a group would be interested in a handsome youth who had lived abroad, and spoke French fluently, and could talk about Cannes and Paris and London, Henley and Ascot and Longchamps. He played the piano, he danced well, and if he did not smoke or drink, that made him all the more an object of curiosity; the bored ladies imagined that he must be virginal, and they made themselves agreeable, and worried because he insisted upon staying in a dull office and couldn’t be lured away for a tête-à-tête.

  It was the practice of the club to give dramatic performances during the summer, in an open-air theater built in a woodland glade. There was a “dramatics committee,” and hot arguments as to what sort of plays should be given. The smart crowd wanted modern things, full of talk about sex; the conservatives demanded and got something sentimental and sweet, suitable for the young people. In view of the conditions prevailing, they had given a war play called Lilac Time, which had been the success of the previous season in New York.

  This summer everybody was supposed to be absorbed in war work. The businessmen went to their offices early and stayed late. The women spent their spare time rolling bandages, knitting socks and sweaters, or attending committee meetings where such activities were planned. But there were a few whom these efforts did not satisfy; perhaps their hearts were not in the killing of their fellow human beings, or in arousing the killing impulse in others. One could not say this, in the midst of all the patriotic fervors; what one said was that the cultural life of the community must not be allowed to lapse altogether, and that overworked executives who were forgoing their customary month of vacation ought to have some gracious form of entertainment.

  So it was that the dramatics committee had summoned its courage and undertaken a production of A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, which provides a variety of outdoor diversions and has charming music. The committee cast about for players suited to the various roles, and invited Lanny to become one of two lovelorn gentlemen who wander through a forest in the neighborhood of Athens. No one on the committee knew that Lanny himself had been a lovelorn gentleman for a couple of years. He still was—for only a few days ago he had received a letter from his erstwhile sweetheart, mentioning casually in the course of other news that she was about to be married to the grandson of the Earl of Sandhaven, who had been recalled from the “Mespot” front and was now attached to the War Office in London.

  Lanny said he didn’t think he’d have time to rehearse a play; but the committee assured him that the work would be done in the evening—of necessity, since the part of the Duke of Athens was to be played by a stately vice-president of the First National Bank, and the part of Bottom was entrusted to a member of the town’s busiest law firm. Lanny’s family gave their approval, and thereafter he dined at the club with other members of the cast, and on the stage of the open-air theater he alternately pursued and repulsed a beautiful damsel whose father managed the waterworks of the city of Newcastle. To his rival for her favor he recited:

  “Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:

  If e’er I loved her, all that love is gone.”

  Lanny could say this well, because he had only to imagine that Lysander was the heir to an English earldom, and that Hermia’s last name was Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver.

  III

  America is the land of mass production and standardization; whatever it is that you want done, you will find somebody ready to do it according to the latest improved methods—if you have the price. If you want to raise funds for charity by means of amateur theatricals, you will discover that there are firms which specialize in showing you exactly how to do it. They will send you a director to take charge; they will rent you scenery and costumes, or provide experts to make them; they will advise you what play to give, and if you choose a modern one they will arrange about the copyright; they will have tickets and programs printed—in short they will do everything to smooth the development of whatever histrionic talent may be latent in Osawatomie, Kansas, or Deadwood Gulch, South Dakota.

  The director of the Newcastle Country Club production of A Midsummer-Night’s Dream came from New York; a tall young man of aesthetic appearance, wearing spectacles, and hair a bit longer than was usual in the town. He had an absentminded manner and a habit of making oddly humorous remarks. He took a liking to Lanny, and told him about a part of New York called Greenwich Village, where young people interested in the arts forgathered, writing plays on a little oatmeal and producing them on a shoestring. Walter Hayden was a discreet person, who valued his job, and never exercised his sense of humor upon anything in Newcastle; but he made general remarks to Lanny about the odd position of a stage director whose actors were all rich people accustomed to doing what they pleased, so that only by the exercise of patience and tact could things be got a little less than terrible.

  After the first two or three rehearsals, there began to spread in the polite assemblage an uneasy sense that something was lacking in the Newcastle Country Club version of A Midsummer-Night’s Dream. One of the “swank” young matrons found an opportunity to draw Lanny aside and ask whether he did not think it barely possible that Adelaide Hitchcock was less than completely adapted to the role of Puck? Adelaide was a lovely young girl with a wealth of wavy brown hair and large soulful brown eyes which turned quite often in the direction of Lanny Budd. She had a shapely figure, and everything that was needed to make a fairy, so long as she stood silent and motionless; but when she spoke her lines there was no life in them, and when she came onto the stage it was as a young lady entering a drawing room, and not in the least as a dancing sprite, the incarnation of mischief.

  Now if Lanny had been more at home in Connecticut, he would have stopped to reflect that the Hitchcock family was prominent in his father’s city, and that Adelaide’s mother was first cousin to Lanny’s stepmother. But he was thinking about art, and he said that in his opinion Adelaide with wings on her shoulders would make a great addition to the train of Queen Titania; but for the part of Puck they needed a boy or girl who could act; and if it was a girl, it ought to be one with a boyish figure, without hips.

  They talked about various members of the younger set and couldn’t think of anybody. Lanny asked if there wasn’t some teacher of dancing in the town who could make a suggestion; then suddenly Mrs. Jessup recalled that she had seen a play given by the students at the high school, and in it was a girl who had “stolen the show” by the extraordinary verve of her acting. Lanny said: “Why don’t you bring her here and let the members meet her?” Again he showed that he was not at home in Connecticut; for in this old-fashioned city the daughters of the aristocracy did not attend the free high schools, and girls who attended these schools were rarely invited to country clubs.

  Mrs. Jessup went off to find this girl, whose name was Gracyn Phillipson and whose mother was an interior decorator, having a little shop and her living rooms above it. Before Mrs. Jessup went, she told her friends that Lanny had made the suggestion, thus giving him full credit for what happened. Later on it would be said that she was an “intriguer,” and had manipulated matters to this end; but how could Lanny know about that?

  IV

  Gracyn Phillipson came to the club late the next afternoon, and Lanny was there as he had promised. One glance, and you could see that she was made for the role of Puck; a tiny, slender figure, with no hips that you would notice; a quick, eager manner, a voice full of laughter, and feet that danced of themselves. To be sure she was a brunette, and Lanny had somehow thought of fairies as blond; but when you came to consult the authorities, you couldn’t find anything definite on the point.

  Several of Mrs. Jessup’s smart friends, having been told that Lanny Budd was interested in this young lady, had assembled to meet her. As the quickest way to bring out her “points,” someone asked her to dance. A record was put on the phonograph, and of course it was up to a gallant youth to escort her onto the floor. If he had been discreet, he would have found some other partner for her and would have sat and
studied her with a cold professional eye. But Lanny had a weakness for dancing, and it may be that the intriguers were taking advantage of that.

  Anyhow, there were the two young persons on the floor, and an extraordinary thing happened. Lanny hadn’t had a real dance since coming to the land of the pilgrims’ pride, and he had missed it. The dancing that was done at the club was so subdued that it amounted to little more than taking a lady in your arms and walking about the room with her, backing her for a while and then reversing and letting her back you. People did this to the pounding of ragtime music which exercised a hypnotic effect, so that you might have been watching a roomful of automatons, electrically controlled so that they didn’t bump into one another as they wove here and there.

  But if you are young and full of fire you can dance fast and freely to any music. You can take three steps while others are taking one; you can bend and turn and leap—in short you can express the joy that is in you. And if you have in front of you a girl who is the very soul of motion, who watches you with excitement in her eyes, and reads in your face what you are going to do-that is something to wake you up and get you going. A few tentative steps, a few quick words, and the two bodies were swaying together, they were bringing grace and charm into being—they were creating a dance.

  The watching ladies of course had seen dancing on the stage; there was a thing known as “society dancing,” all the rage just then. But that dancing was carefully rehearsed; whereas these two young creatures had never seen each other before, and you could see that they were inventing something to express their pleasure in the meeting. It was stimulating, indeed it was almost improper—and that is what it became when the story started on its thousand-legged way through the city of Newcastle.

  Was Gracyn Phillipson really what she seemed to Lanny that afternoon? Did joy really bubble up in her like water in a mountain spring? Lanny gave no thought to the question, and would have had no means of getting the answer. If Gracyn was acting—well, it meant that she was an actress. And surely nobody was expecting her to write A Midsummer-Night’s Dream.

  After the dancing there was tea, and this alert young creature revealed that it was the hope of her life to get on the stage. Mrs. Jessup had told her about the play that the club was producing, and she said that she would be tremendously honored by a chance to appear in it. Yes, she knew a little about the part of Puck; she had loved Shakespeare since childhood. Miss Phillipson didn’t exactly say that she carried an assortment of Shakespearean roles about in her head; and of course there was the possibility that she had sat up most of the night learning Puck.

  Anyhow, when Mrs. Jessup said: “Could you give us an idea of how you would do it?” the answer came promptly: “I’d be glad to, if it wouldn’t bore you.” No shyness, no inhibition; she was an actress. Right there in the main room of the clubhouse, with other ladies sipping tea or playing bridge, and gentlemen passing through with their golf bags, Gracyn Phillipson enacted the scene in which Puck replies to the orders of King Oberon to torment the lovers: “My fairy lord, this must be done with haste.”

  Presently came the place where Demetrius enters, wandering in the forest. Lanny being Demetrius, Gracyn gave him a sign, and he recited his challenge to his rival. Puck answered in the rival’s voice, taunting him:

  “Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,

  Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars,

  And wilt not come?”

  Gracyn managed to produce the voice of an angry man from somewhere in her throat. She put such energy and conviction into the playful scene that ladies at the tables put down their tea cups or cards, and gentlemen rested their golf bags against the wall and stood and listened. Everybody could see at once that this was an actress; but why on earth was she exhibiting herself at the Newcastle Country Club?

  V

  Rumor with its thousand tongues took up the tidings that Robbie Budd’s son had interested himself in a high-school girl, and was trying to oust Adelaide Hitchcock from the role of Puck and to put his protégée in her place. He had had this protégée at the club and had danced with her and played a scene with her, and now the dramatics committee was requested to give her a chance to show what she could do. Lanny was calling it a matter of “art”; the thousand tongues each said that word with a different accent, indicative of subtle shadings of incredulity and amusement. “Art, indeed! Art, no less! Art, if you please! Art, art—to be sure, oh, yes, naturally, I don’t think!”

  The rumor came to Adelaide Hitchcock in the first half-hour. She rushed to her mother in tears. Oh, the insult, the humiliation—making her ridiculous before the whole town, ruining her for life! “I told them I was no actress; but they said I could do it, they made me go and learn all those silly verses and take all that trouble getting fitted with a dress!”

  Of course the mother hastened to the telephone and called her cousin. “What on earth is this, Esther? Has your stepson gone out of his mind? What a scandal—bringing this creature to the club and making a spectacle of himself before the world?”

  Esther had made a strict resolve that if ever there was anything serious to be said to Lanny, it would be said by his father; so now she told Robbie what she had heard. She took the precaution of adding: “Better not mention me. Just say that you’ve heard it.”

  Robbie led his son to his study after dinner and said: “What’s this about you and an actress, kid?”

  Lanny was astonished by the speed with which rumor could operate, with the help of a universal telephone system. “Gosh!” said he. “I never met the girl till this afternoon, and I never heard of her till yesterday.”

  “Who told you about her?”

  “Mrs. Chris Jessup.”

  “Oh, I see!” said the father. “Tell me what happened.”

  Lanny told, and it was interesting to compare notes and discover how a tale could grow in two or three hours. Robbie couldn’t keep from laughing; then he said: “It would be better if you didn’t have anything to do with this fight. You see, Molly Jessup and Esther have been in each other’s hair of late; it had to do with the chairmanship of some committee or other.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Robbie! I had no idea of that.”

  “It’s the kind of thing you get in for the moment you have anything to do with women’s affairs. Just sort of lay off this Miss Pillwiggle, or whatever her name is, and let the women fight it out.”

  “It’ll be rather awkward,” said the young man. “I’ve expressed the opinion that she can act; and now people will be asking me about it, and what shall I say?”

  “Well, of course, I wouldn’t want you to violate your artistic conscience,” replied the father, gravely. “But it seems to me that when you find you’ve spilled some fat into a hot fire, you’re justified in stepping back a bit.”

  It was Lanny’s turn to laugh. Then he said: “Strictly between you and me, Robbie, Adelaide is a stick.”

  “Yes, son; but there are many kinds of sticks, and she’s an important one.”

  “A gold stick?”

  “More than that—a mace of office, or perhaps a totem.”

  VI

  The dramatics committee assembled, and Miss Gracyn Phillipson, alias Pillwiggle, showed how she would propose to enact the role of Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow. After the demonstration had been completed, the committee asked the advice of Mr. Walter Hayden, and this experienced director of the rich replied that it was his practice to leave such decisions to the members; he would give his professional opinion only upon formal request. This having been solemnly voted, Mr. Hayden said that Miss Adelaide Hitchcock was endowed with gifts to make a very lovely fairy with wings on her shoulders; whereas Miss Phillipson was an actress and something of a find, who might some day reflect credit upon her native city.

  Adelaide declined to put wings on her shoulders, and went away in a huff, declaring that she would never darken the doors of the country club again. The rehearsals went forward, and every evening for the next
ten Lanny watched Gracyn Phillipson manifest enraptured gaiety upon the dimly lighted stage of a woodland theater. Every evening he staggered about in mock confusion, seeking to capture her, and crying:

  “Nay, then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,

  If ever I thy face by daylight see.”

  He hardly knew her as a human being; he was under the spell of the play, a victim of enchantment, and she the fairy creature who poured into his eyes the magic juice which transformed the world. “But, my good lord, I wot not by what power!—”

  The long-awaited evening came, and Gracyn was trembling so that she was pitiful. But the moment she danced onto the stage something took hold of her—“I am that merry wanderer of the night!” She swept through the part in triumph, and lifted an amateur performance into something unique. The audience gave her a polite ovation.

  Then next day—and the spell was broken. Lanny was an apprentice salesman of armaments, and Gracyn was a poor girl whose mother kept a shop and lived over it. The members of the club had had an evening’s diversion, the Red Cross had got a thousand dollars, Lanny had made some enemies and Gracyn some friends; at least so she thought, but she waited in vain for another invitation to the club, and the painful realization dawned upon her that it took more than talent to crash those golden gates.

  It was too bad that Lanny had to justify the gossips. Now that it was no longer a question of “art,” he had no excuse for seeing this young female. But he was interested enough to come and take her driving in his car, and investigate her as a human being. He discovered a quivering creature devoured by ambition, a prey alternately to hopes and fears. She wanted to get on the stage; how was it to be done? Go to New York, of course. Mr. Hayden had promised her introductions; but wasn’t that just politeness? Didn’t he do that to young actresses in every town he visited? Already he was on another job—and doubtless telling a stage-struck amateur that she had talent.