by Frank Norris
Laura herself was more serious. She had begun a course of reading; no novels, but solemn works full of allusions to “Man” and “Destiny,” which she underlined and annotated. Twice a week — on Mondays and Thursdays — she took a French lesson. Corthell managed to enlist the good services of Mrs. Wessels and escorted her to numerous piano and ‘cello recitals, to lectures, to concerts. He even succeeded in achieving the consecration of a specified afternoon once a week, spent in his studio in the Fine Arts’ Building on the Lake Front, where he read to them “Saint Agnes Eve,” “Sordello,” “The Light of Asia” — poems which, with their inversions, obscurities, and astonishing arabesques of rhetoric, left Aunt Wess’ bewildered, breathless, all but stupefied.
Laura found these readings charming. The studio was beautiful, lofty, the light dim; the sound of Corthell’s voice returned from the thick hangings of velvet and tapestry in a subdued murmur. The air was full of the odor of pastilles.
Laura could not fail to be impressed with the artist’s tact, his delicacy. In words he never referred to their conversation in the foyer of the Auditorium; only by some unexplained subtlety of attitude he managed to convey to her the distinct impression that he loved her always. That he was patient, waiting for some indefinite, unexpressed development.
Landry Court called upon her as often as she would allow. Once he had prevailed upon her and Page to accompany him to the matinee to see a comic opera. He had pronounced it “bully,” unable to see that Laura evinced only a mild interest in the performance. On each propitious occasion he had made love to her extravagantly. He continually protested his profound respect with a volubility and earnestness that was quite uncalled for.
But, meanwhile, the situation had speedily become more complicated by the entrance upon the scene of an unexpected personage. This was Curtis Jadwin. It was impossible to deny the fact that “J.” was in love with Mrs. Cressler’s protegee. The business man had none of Corthell’s talent for significant reticence, none of his tact, and older than she, a man-of-the-world, accustomed to deal with situations with unswerving directness, he, unlike Landry Court, was not in the least afraid of her. From the very first she found herself upon the defensive. Jadwin was aggressive, assertive, and his addresses had all the persistence and vehemence of veritable attack. Landry she could manage with the lifting of a finger, Corthell disturbed her only upon those rare occasions when he made love to her. But Jadwin gave her no time to so much as think of finesse. She was not even allowed to choose her own time and place for fencing, and to parry his invasion upon those intimate personal grounds which she pleased herself to keep secluded called upon her every feminine art of procrastination and strategy.
He contrived to meet her everywhere. He impressed Mrs. Cressler as auxiliary into his campaign, and a series of rencontres followed one another with astonishing rapidity. Now it was another opera party, now a box at McVicker’s, now a dinner, or more often a drive through Lincoln Park behind Jadwin’s trotters. He even had the Cresslers and Laura over to his mission Sunday-school for the Easter festival, an occasion of which Laura carried away a confused recollection of enormous canvas mottoes, that looked more like campaign banners than texts from the Scriptures, sheaves of calla lilies, imitation bells of tin-foil, revival hymns vociferated with deafening vehemence from seven hundred distended mouths, and through it all the disagreeable smell of poverty, the odor of uncleanliness that mingled strangely with the perfume of the lilies and the aromatic whiffs from the festoons of evergreen.
Thus the first month of her new life had passed Laura did not trouble herself to look very far into the future. She was too much amused with her emancipation from the narrow horizon of her New England environment. She did not concern herself about consequences. Things would go on for themselves, and consequences develop without effort on her part. She never asked herself whether or not she was in love with any of the three men who strove for her favor. She was quite sure she was not ready — yet — to be married. There was even something distasteful in the idea of marriage. She liked Landry Court immensely; she found the afternoons in Corthell’s studio delightful; she loved the rides in the park behind Jadwin’s horses. She had no desire that any one of these affairs should exclude the other two. She wished nothing to be consummated. As for love, she never let slip an occasion to shock Aunt Wess’ by declaring:
“I love — nobody. I shall never marry.”
Page, prim, with great parades of her ideas of “good form,” declared between her pursed lips that her sister was a flirt. But this was not so. Laura never manoeuvered with her lovers, nor intrigued to keep from any one of them knowledge of her companionship with the other two. So upon such occasions as this, when all three found themselves face to face, she remained unperturbed.
At last, towards half-past eight, Monsieur Gerardy arrived. All through the winter amateur plays had been in great favor, and Gerardy had become, in a sense, a fad. He was in great demand. Consequently, he gave himself airs. His method was that of severity; he posed as a task-master, relentless, never pleased, hustling the amateur actors about without ceremony, scolding and brow-beating. He was a small, excitable man who wore a frock-coat much too small for him, a flowing purple cravatte drawn through a finger ring, and enormous cuffs set off with huge buttons of Mexican onyx. In his lapel was an inevitable carnation, dried, shrunken, and lamentable. He was redolent of perfume and spoke of himself as an artist. He caused it to be understood that in the intervals of “coaching society plays” he gave his attention to the painting of landscapes. Corthell feigned to ignore his very existence.
The play-book in his hand, Monsieur Gerardy clicked his heels in the middle of the floor and punctiliously saluted everyone present, bowing only from his shoulders, his head dropping forward as if propelled by successive dislocations of the vertebrae of his neck.
He explained the cause of his delay. His English was without accent, but at times suddenly entangled itself in curious Gallic constructions.
“Then I propose we begin at once,” he announced. “The second act to-night, then, if we have time, the third act — from the book. And I expect the second act to be letter-perfect — let-ter-per-fect. There is nothing there but that.” He held up his hand, as if to refuse to consider the least dissention. “There is nothing but that — no other thing.”
All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur Gerardy’s exhortation his voice had made itself heard. “Management of light and shade” ... “color scheme” ... “effects of composition.”
Monsieur Gerardy’s eye glinted in his direction. He struck his play-book sharply into the palm of his hand.
“Come, come!” he cried. “No more nonsense. Now we leave the girls alone and get to work. Here is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange you!” He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the chairs about. “Be attentive now. Here” — he placed a chair at his right with a flourish, as though planting a banner— “is the porch of Lord Glendale’s country house.”
“Ah,” murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, “the chair is the porch of the house.”
“And here,” shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at him and slamming down another chair, “is a rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast.”
Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Gerardy, his nostrils expanded, gave her his back. The older people, who were not to take part — Jadwin, the Cresslers, and Aunt Wess’ — retired to a far corner, Mrs. Cressler declaring that they would constitute the audience.
“On stage,” vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspiring from his exertions with the furniture. “‘Marion enters, timid and hesitating, L. C.’ Come, who’s Marion? Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of God remember your crossings. Sh! sh!” he cried, waving his arms at the others. “A little silence if you please. Now, Marion.”
Isabel Gretry, holding h
er play-book at her side, one finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the words:
“‘Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering roses have—’”
But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips as if in a heroic effort to repress his emotion, flung himself into a chair, turning his back and crossing his legs violently. Miss Gretry stopped, very much disturbed, gazing perplexedly at the coach’s heaving shoulders.
There was a strained silence, then:
“Isn’t — isn’t that right?”
As if with the words she had touched a spring, Monsieur Gerardy bounded to his feet.
“Grand God! Is that left-centre where you have made the entrance? In fine, I ask you a little — is that left-centre? You have come in by the rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast. A fine sight on the night of the performance that. Marion climbs over the rustic breakfast and practicable — over the rustic bench and practicable table, ha, ha, to make the entrance.” Still holding the play-book, he clapped hands with elaborate sarcasm. “Ah, yes, good business that. That will bring down the house.”
Meanwhile the Gretry girl turned again from left-centre.
“‘Ah, the old home again. See—’”
“Stop!” thundered Monsieur Gerardy. “Is that what you call timid and hesitating? Once more, those lines.... No, no. It is not it at all. More of slowness, more of — Here, watch me.”
He made the entrance with laborious exaggeration of effect, dragging one foot after another, clutching at the palings of an imaginary fence, while pitching his voice at a feeble falsetto, he quavered:
“‘Ah! The old home — ah ... once more. See—’ like that,” he cried, straightening up. “Now then. We try that entrance again. Don’t come on too quick after the curtain. Attention. I clap my hands for the curtain, and count three.” He backed away and, tucking the play-book under his arm, struck his palms together. “Now, one — two — three.”
But this time Isabel Gretry, in remembering her “business,” confused her stage directions once more.
“‘Ah, the old home—’”
“Left-centre,” interrupted the coach, in a tone of long-suffering patience.
She paused bewildered, and believing that she had spoken her lines too abruptly, began again:
“‘See, the clambering—’”
“Left-centre.”
“‘Ah, the old home—’”
Monsieur Gerardy settled himself deliberately in his chair and resting his head upon one hand closed his eyes. His manner was that of Galileo under torture declaring “still it moves.”
“Left-centre.”
“Oh — oh, yes. I forgot.”
Monsieur Gerardy apostrophized the chandelier with mirthless humour.
“Oh, ha, ha! She forgot.”
Still another time Marion tried the entrance, and, as she came on, Monsieur Gerardy made vigorous signals to Page, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper:
“Lady Mary, ready. In a minute you come on. Remember the cue.”
Meanwhile Marion had continued:
“‘See the clambering vines—’”
“Roses.”
“‘The clambering rose vines—’”
“Roses, pure and simple.”
“‘See! The clambering roses, pure and—’”
“Mademoiselle Gretry, will you do me the extreme obligation to bound yourself by the lines of the book?”
“I thought you said—”
“Go on, go on, go on! Is it God-possible to be thus stupid? Lady Mary, ready.”
“‘See, the clambering roses have wrapped the old stones in a loving embrace. The birds build in the same old nests—’”
“Well, well, Lady Mary, where are you? You enter from the porch.”
“I’m waiting for my cue,” protested Page. “My cue is: ‘Are there none that will remember me.’”
“Say,” whispered Landry, coming up behind Page, “it would look bully if you could come out leading a greyhound.”
“Ah, so, Mademoiselle Gretry,” cried Monsieur Gerardy, “you left out the cue.” He became painfully polite. “Give the speech once more, if you please.”
“A dog would look bully on the stage,” whispered Landry. “And I know where I could get one.”
“Where?”
“A friend of mine. He’s got a beauty, blue grey—”
They become suddenly aware of a portentous silence The coach, his arms folded, was gazing at Page with tightened lips.
“‘None who will remember me,’” he burst out at last. “Three times she gave it.”
Page hurried upon the scene with the words:
“‘Ah, another glorious morning. The vines are drenched in dew.’” Then, raising her voice and turning toward the “house,” “‘Arthur.’”
“‘Arthur,’” warned the coach. “That’s you. Mr. Corthell. Ready. Well then, Mademoiselle Gretry, you have something to say there.”
“I can’t say it,” murmured the Gretry girl, her handkerchief to her face.
“What now? Continue. Your lines are ‘I must not be seen here. It would betray all,’ then conceal yourself in the arbor. Continue. Speak the line. It is the cue of Arthur.”
“I can’t,” mumbled the girl behind her handkerchief.
“Can’t? Why, then?”
“I — I have the nose-bleed.”
Upon the instant Monsieur Gerardy quite lost his temper. He turned away, one hand to his head, rolling his eyes as if in mute appeal to heaven, then, whirling about, shook his play-book at the unfortunate Marion, crying out furiously:
“Ah, it lacked but that. You ought to understand at last, that when one rehearses for a play one does not have the nose-bleed. It is not decent.”
Miss Gretry retired precipitately, and Laura came forward to say that she would read Marion’s lines.
“No, no!” cried Monsieur Gerardy. “You — ah, if they were all like you! You are obliging, but it does not suffice. I am insulted.”
The others, astonished, gathered about the “coach.” They laboured to explain. Miss Gretry had intended no slight. In fact she was often taken that way; she was excited, nervous. But Monsieur Gerardy was not to be placated. Ah, no! He knew what was due a gentleman. He closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows to his very hair, murmuring superbly that he was offended. He had but one phrase in answer to all their explanations:
“One does not permit one’s self to bleed at the nose during rehearsal.”
Laura began to feel a certain resentment. The unfortunate Gretry girl had gone away in tears. What with the embarrassment of the wrong gown, the brow-beating, and the nose-bleed, she was not far from hysterics. She had retired to the dining-room with Mrs. Cressler and from time to time the sounds of her distress made themselves heard. Laura believed it quite time to interfere. After all, who was this Gerardy person, to give himself such airs? Poor Miss Gretry was to blame for nothing. She fixed the little Frenchman with a direct glance, and Page, who caught a glimpse of her face, recognised “the grand manner,” and whispered to Landry:
“He’d better look out; he’s gone just about as far as Laura will allow.”
“It is not convenient,” vociferated the “coach.” “It is not permissible. I am offended.”
“Monsieur Gerardy,” said Laura, “we will say nothing more about it, if you please.”
There was a silence. Monsieur Gerardy had pretended not to hear. He breathed loud through his nose, and Page hastened to observe that anyhow Marion was not on in the next scenes. Then abruptly, and resuming his normal expression, Monsieur Gerardy said:
“Let us proceed. It advances nothing to lose time. Come. Lady Mary and Arthur, ready.”
The rehearsal continued. Laura, who did not come on during the act, went back to her chair in the corner of the room.
But the original group had been broken up. Mrs. Cressler was in the dining-room with the Gretry girl, while Jadwin, Aunt Wess’, and Cressler himself were deep in a discus
sion of mind-reading and spiritualism.
As Laura came up, Jadwin detached himself from the others and met her.
“Poor Miss Gretry!” he observed. “Always the square peg in the round hole. I’ve sent out for some smelling salts.”
It seemed to Laura that the capitalist was especially well-looking on this particular evening. He never dressed with the “smartness” of Sheldon Corthell or Landry Court, but in some way she did not expect that he should. His clothes were not what she was aware were called “stylish,” but she had had enough experience with her own tailor-made gowns to know that the material was the very best that money could buy. The apparent absence of any padding in the broad shoulders of the frock coat he wore, to her mind, more than compensated for the “ready-made” scarf, and if the white waistcoat was not fashionably cut, she knew that she had never been able to afford a pique skirt of just that particular grade.
“Suppose we go into the reception-room,” he observed abruptly. “Charlie bought a new clock last week that’s a marvel. You ought to see it.”
“No,” she answered. “I am quite comfortable here, and I want to see how Page does in this act.”
“I am afraid, Miss Dearborn,” he continued, as they found their places, “that you did not have a very good time Sunday afternoon.”
He referred to the Easter festival at his mission school. Laura had left rather early, alleging neuralgia and a dinner engagement.
“Why, yes I did,” she replied. “Only, to tell the truth, my head ached a little.” She was ashamed that she did not altogether delight in her remembrance of Jadwin on that afternoon. He had “addressed” the school, with earnestness it was true, but in a strain decidedly conventional. And the picture he made leading the singing, beating time with the hymn-book, and between the verses declaring that “he wanted to hear everyone’s voice in the next verse,” did not appeal very forcibly to her imagination. She fancied Sheldon Corthell doing these things, and could not forbear to smile. She had to admit, despite the protests of conscience, that she did prefer the studio to the Sunday-school.