by Anne Nesbet
“Are you really all right with this, Darleeny?” said her father. “Seems like they keep asking more and more of you. I guess I liked it better when you were still in those frilly dresses and throwing flour around in front of the camera.”
“I couldn’t keep being little Darling Darleen forever, Papa. You know that. Maybe people will really start coming to see The Dangers of Darleen in droves — by the millions — if we get the publicity they’re talking about. Maybe we’ll have money to mend the porch stairs and fix the roof and get you cozy slippers that aren’t falling apart.”
(Her father’s slippers looked like they had been chewed on by kittens and then left in the sun to fade, but Papa didn’t mind it. He was opposed to spending money on “nonsense,” which meant anything for himself.)
“If you’re safe, I don’t care one single whit about porches or roofs or slippers,” said her Papa. “And I’m sure that’s all your Mama ever wanted too: for you to be safe. Feet on the ground, Darleen. Remember that, if they start trying to kidnap you every second Tuesday.”
Feet on the ground. Feet on the ground.
Oh, dear.
It had been such a long day, with too much surprise and guilt in it.
When Darleen lay down on her comfortably lumpy little bed tucked under the eaves upstairs, her eyes couldn’t help wandering to the window, where a bright wedge of moon glittered, rising above the glass roof of the Matchless studios, right there across the road. Maybe it was the moon’s fault, then, that Darleen found herself trapped in the dream that had haunted her for as long as she could remember:
She was always looking out a window in this dream. She was always very small. And she was looking out the window because something — an angel or a bird or a butterfly — was dancing on the roof ridge that stretched outside her window, moonlight rippling across its supple, magical, fragile wings. Oh, how her whole heart filled with longing for the magical, fragile dancing creature, and for the creature’s beautiful dance! And then the feeling in the dream would shift, every time, and her longing became fear. She would reach out her arms, but her mouth could make no sound, and the dancer spread its lovely wings and flew away.
Anyone might have expected there would be a great clan of young Darlings by the year 1914, considering that Darleen had not just a Papa (Bill Darling) but two uncles (Charlie Darling, who directed the pictures for the Matchless studios, and Dan Darling, who ran the camera) and one aunt (Shirley Darling, who managed the business side for Matchless). But that’s not how it had all worked out. As Uncle Charlie liked to say, Darleen was the only sprig on the family tree.
She tried to live up to the responsibilities of being the Only Sprig, but sometimes — like for instance now, as she bumpity-bumped down Ninth Avenue on the El, her uncles on one side of her and Aunt Shirley on the other, all talking business as if they didn’t even notice the wonder of being on a train that flew (noisily) past the upper windows of what must be eleventy thousand tall buildings in a row — sometimes, Darleen keenly felt the lack of fellow sprigs (whether cousins, brothers, or sisters) who would understand how extremely thrilled she felt right now, who might clasp her hands in their own and grin with her and maybe even squeak right out loud with delight on the curves. An elevated train! That was basically as wonderful as riding the Big Scenic roller coaster at Palisades Amusement Park, but nobody in this car on this Saturday afternoon seemed to notice. The other passengers looked bored or annoyed. Aunt Shirley was nattering on and on about how much newspaper coverage the opening of the Strand was likely to get, and her uncles (balancing camera and suchlike between their knees) were talking about lighting. Darleen tried not to be resentful, but she felt very alone in her appreciation of the rattle-bang magic of New York City.
“I hope the searchlight will do,” said Uncle Dan.
“You’ll make it do, Dan,” said Uncle Charlie. “And what an achievement it will be — a night scene actually filmed at night!”
Darleen had already heard every syllable of this discussion many times: the Strand Theatre had lights at its entrance, of course, but that wasn’t the sort of bright light you needed to capture an image on a filmstrip. Over at the Matchless studios, they pretty much never filmed anything at night. They filmed during the day and tinted the nighttime scenes blue so the audience would understand that the burglars were creeping around at midnight, not at noon.
But Uncle Dan liked a challenge. And that was why he was lugging along a big black box with a light in it. He would use what the Strand had to offer by way of lighting and add a spotlight of his own into the mix.
“It’ll depend on you, then, Darleen,” said Uncle Charlie, and Darleen jumped a little on her bench because, up to this point, they had seemed perfectly happy to talk about technical details forever, without needing to bring any reference to her into the discussion. “You’ll have to be sure to go right into the spot where the light is brightest.”
“When the evil kidnappers appear,” said Darleen.
“Goodness, child,” said Aunt Shirley. “No need to sound so gloomy about it. It’s going to be a great scene for Episode Nine, even if Jasper’s not part of it, poor fellow.”
Jasper was in another one of his moods; he was off somewhere today on “personal business,” whatever that might mean. Darleen tried not to let Aunt Shirley see how happy she was that Jasper would not be part of anything today.
“Well, anyway,” said Aunt Shirley. “At least we can all be relieved that your poor father decided to stay at home tonight. He seems to be worrying himself into a state about this whole thing. I’m sure he thinks the police will be carting us all off in their wagons, even though I’ve told him a thousand times that we’ve got all that covered. The police will stay well away! I declare, if Dan and Charlie hadn’t calmed him down with descriptions of the wonders of the new Strand Theatre and its ceiling with special holes poked all through it and its suffering lighting, I’m sure none of us would be here now —”
“Self-suffusing,” said Uncle Dan. “Not ‘suffering.’ Semi-direct, self-suffusing lighting.”
Aunt Shirley made a shrugging motion that conveyed how little concerned she was with the actual details of the Strand’s lighting system.
“Anyway, dear Darleen, you’ll be safely kidnapped and home again in Fort Lee before the rest of us even get there, so Bill will have no reason to worry a single extra moment, and you can tell him all about the lights and the ceiling and whatever all else he wants to hear about. Which we know won’t be the movies themselves, bless his dear, machine-oriented heart.”
(Bump!-bump!-bumpity!-squeak!: those were the comments of the Elevated Line.)
Darleen certainly didn’t mean to complain, but a small sigh did escape her then.
“I just wish I could see a little bit of Alaska,” she said, as the train threw her against her aunt and then back against Uncle Dan.
That was her bitterest regret: they were having her kidnapped during the first half of the program (they wanted to get some shots of the crowd entering the theater, but they didn’t want that crowd blocking the shot of the kidnapping), and that meant she would miss the Kathlyn Williams picture. It seemed a tragic waste to Darleen to be coming all the way across the Hudson to New York City only to miss seeing Kathlyn Williams in Alaska.
“Not a single snowflake,” said Aunt Shirley, who could sometimes be awfully heartless. “And don’t look sad. Think about your poor Uncle Dan, who won’t even get to peek inside! He’ll be out with his camera the whole time, waiting for you. He won’t even get to see the self-suffering lights or anything.”
“Hmm,” said Uncle Dan pointedly about the lights, but he didn’t bother to say more than that.
And then they were at their station, and it was time to get off the train.
Time passed strangely — very slowly and very fast both at once — and before Darleen knew it, Aunt Shirley and Uncle Charlie were shepherding her through the lobby, which was filled to bursting with what Aunt Shirley called “t
he very cream of New York society.” If people were milk, thought Darleen, then this was a milky flood. So many mothers and daughters in nice dresses and fancy coats, and more spilling in every second through the front doors. It did look like everyone who was anyone would be coming to the Strand tonight.
No one recognized Darleen, at least not at first. She wasn’t in her Daring Darleen get-up of simple white blouse and rugged skirt, perfect for jumping off trains; under her spring coat, she was dressed like all the other twelve-year-old girls in the theater. No one would suspect a girl in a “stylish dress of batiste and Swiss embroidery, trimmed with washable lace in tasty design” (to quote Sears, Roebuck and Company) — a girl dressed in something ordered from a catalogue for the bargain price of $1.55 — of being either a princess or a photoplay star famous for her feats of derring-do. But then again, an exiled and fictional princess with Daring Darleen as her secret identity would not have worn her crime-fighting clothes to the theater! At the end of Episode Eight, Crown Princess Dahlia Louise had received a mysterious invitation to the opening of the Strand, with hints that she might learn something about the whereabouts of her missing Royal Father. It was only now that Darleen realized she would have to do stunts in this slightly flouncy dress all week unless the episode had a change of clothing worked into its story. Botheration!
And then she saw that a young boy had stopped right in front of her and was staring at her hard. Darleen shook the worried thoughts out of her head and tried to smile like a completely ordinary person of twelve.
“Why, hello, there,” she said when the staring didn’t stop.
“You know, you look a lot like —” said the child.
“Come along now, Edward!” called a woman who seemed likely to be young Edward’s mother.
“Aren’t you —” said the child.
“Shh,” said Darleen, putting a finger to her lips. “What if there are wicked Salamanders hidden in these crowds?”
“Oh!” said the boy, and he ran off to follow his mother.
Shirley was already taking Darleen’s hand to guide her inside.
“Well, here we are. Time for us to enter the palace,” said Aunt Shirley. “And it had better be a palace! A million dollars it cost them to fit out this place, that’s what the newspapers said. I surely hope they know what they’re about.”
(Aunt Shirley, apart from her inability to see the true nature of Jasper Lukes, was a very practical sort of person.)
The Darlings joined the crowds and pushed through the lobby doors into the center of that palace.
It was really like stepping into a castle in fairyland. The seats swept all the way across the great space of the theater, and the whole place glowed gently, like the inside of the largest, pearliest oyster shell the universe ever made.
“Oh!” said Darleen, won over immediately. “Oh, Aunt Shirley! It’s magic!”
“Now, Darleen,” said Uncle Charlie, but he was smiling. “What would your father say to that? What we’ve got here is a triumph of architecture and science. And on Bill’s behalf, we mustn’t forget to admire the ceiling!”
For a respectful moment, the three of them looked up at the ceiling, which Darleen’s Papa had read all about and thought deserved some admiring.
Apparently it was dotted with secret little holes to help with the circulation of the air. Secret little holes are hard to see, of course, but the dome was as lovely as you could wish, and on the walls were many decorations in the sort of tasteful colors only the most sophisticated fairies prefer: old rose, French gray, and gold. And then there was the stage itself, which was magnificent and large.
A red velvet curtain hung from a gilded arch decorated with plaster characters, and above that arch, there was a symbolic sort of mural, of people in flowing robes waving their hands in the air gracefully. What that had to do with photoplays, Darleen had no idea. They looked dreamy and floaty, like people who had been mesmerized into thinking they were clouds on a spring day.
“And actual, real fountains!” said Aunt Shirley with a sigh of pleasure. “How beautiful it all is! I don’t believe actual, real Italy could be a smidgen nicer!”
Indeed, three little fountains sparkled there, in front of the place where the conductor would probably stand. The fountains had special lights focused only on them (Uncle Charlie pointed out) to help with that sparkle.
The Darlings were seated to one side, near the front, so that Darleen could sneak away at the proper moment. Uncle Charlie saw Aunt Shirley and Darleen settled in their seats and then slipped back out through the crowds. His place, he always felt, was at the side of Uncle Dan so that Uncle Dan wouldn’t lack Uncle Charlie’s firm opinions and suggestions. Uncle Dan was photographing the people pushing their way into the theater now.
When the audience was settled in their seats, the lights all dimmed together, as if twilight had come to the fairy-tale land.
“Isn’t that nice,” whispered Aunt Shirley.
The little real fountains in the pretend garden still twinkled away in the gloom. There was an expectant hush in the crowd. And then the curtains parted, and the audience could see a stage set up within that larger stage. And the center of that stage was what must be the screen, behind yet another curtain, with the grandest columns on either side.
The newspapers had promised that the projection and the music would all be first-rate, and they certainly were. When the second set of curtains opened and the screen lit up with an enormous waving flag, the orchestra, tucked behind fake hedges, only a short distance from where Darleen was sitting, broke right into a rousing edition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Darleen’s heart jumped around from the sheer thrill of it.
Darleen would be able to experience only about fifteen minutes’ worth of the show, so she was determined to enjoy every bit of that time just as much as she could.
Twenty-seven musicians, the papers had said. Imagine the expense of that! But the sound was glorious. The crowd applauded with so much enthusiasm that the theater seemed just simply awash in sound.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” said a man who came out onto the stage in a fancy suit. “We are so pleased that you could join us tonight for this world-historical first-ever programme at our new Strand Theatre. Tonight we celebrate the opening of the most luxurious and well-appointed dedicated picture palace in New York City! And now, to help introduce a larger audience to America’s newest junior crime-fighting princess, here’s a special behind-the-scenes glimpse at the glamorous life of DARING DARLEEN!”
To be mentioned like that on such a grand occasion! Darleen wasn’t a blushing sort of person, but she did feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She was actually a little relieved when Aunt Shirley squeezed her hand and said, “Almost time, dear.”
Past the artificial bushes and the orchestra, some titles appeared:
“AMERICA’S BABY GROWS UP IN FRONT OF THE MOVING PICTURE CAMERA.”
They showed a little bit of one of the Darling Darleen episodes now, the one where she made a whole complicated machine out of dolls and tin soldiers and blocks, just to get herself out of her crib so she could play with the kittens downstairs. Dar groaned, but at least it was funny, and the crowd was in the mood for it. (Though did they have to laugh so loud?)
“WE LOVED HER THEN!”
said the screen. Then it offered a picture of Darling Darleen in those awful frills and laces. Dar tried to cover her eyes, but her aunt had a firm hold of her hand.
“Weren’t you sweet?” murmured Aunt Shirley into Darleen’s ear. Dar groaned again.
“AND NOW THAT SHE HAS GONE FROM DARLING TO DARING
WE LOVE HER STILL!”
And there she was! Her own self, dangling from that awful cliff. She squinted critically at the screen and thought she had done a passable job of “dangling like a princess” while Uncle Dan cranked away. And then, after another shot, in which smiling Darleen, in her sensible crime-fighting costume (dark, practical skirt and white shirtwaist) was introduced, there wa
s the title card for the series:
“OUR OWN DARING DARLEEN,
SERIAL QUEEN . . .
DARING STAR OF . . .
THE DANGERS OF DARLEEN!”
“Ahhh!” said Aunt Shirley.
She meant, What a success! Aunt Shirley had her mathematical look on at that moment: the look of someone who was adding up the nearly three thousand people seated in that audience and imagining them all flowing back, week after week, to see Daring Darleen triumph over set after set of celluloid obstacles.
“AND NOW, EPISODE EIGHT:
DARLEEN ON THE EDGE.”
Aunt Shirley checked her watch and clucked her tongue.
“And that’s that. Off you go, now, Darleen,” she said. “Look for Danny, and you can’t go wrong. Oh, and here’s your prop, so make sure the camera sees you have it.”
Her prop was a note with a fancy wax blob on it that was supposed to be the secret seal of the Order of the Black Salamander. When they filmed a close-up version, the note would surely say something like “COME TO THE THEATRE ENTRANCE IF YOU WOULD LEARN SOMETHING OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF YOUR ROYAL FATHER. SIGNED, AN ANONYMOUS FRIEND,” but for now Aunt Shirley had simply scrawled on it, “Smooth as silk and nary a tangle!”— which was her all-purpose good-luck phrase.
It is tempting to blame Aunt Shirley’s good wish for somehow having gotten itself mixed up and reversed on its way up to the clouds, because two things were soon to become very clear about this little kidnapping caper:
Unsuspecting Darleen was at this very moment walking into a most treacherous tangle, and nothing — nothing at all — would end up going “smooth as silk.”
The idea was that Darleen would emerge from the theater, spot Uncle Dan behind the camera, make a show of consulting the note in her hand, and then look around for a suspicious-looking fellow and his suspicious-looking automobile.
But in fact, as soon as she stepped through the theater’s main doors, everything began to go awry.
