Tempest-Tost

by Robertson Davies

  THE CLUBROOM WAS THE TOP FLOOR of an office building. It had been a public hall in the days when people did not mind climbing three flights of stairs in order to attend a political rally or a lantern-slide lecture. It was now a rather seedy place with a low platform at one end. The walls had originally been a disagreeable brown, but the Little Theatre had sought to cheer them by painting them bright yellow to a height of twelve feet; as the hall had a twenty-foot ceiling the effect was not altogether happy. The decorations consisted of pictures of theatrical interest: a programme signed by Sir John Martin Harvey on his last visit to Salterton, a similar memento of Sir Harry Lauder, a signed photograph of Robert B. Mantell as King Lear, another of Genevieve Hamper in The Taming of the Shrew, a telegram of congratulation from Margaret Anglin to the club on its tenth birthday, a printed postcard from Bernard Shaw refusing permission to perform Candida without payment of royalty, and several sets of photographs of past productions. Cupboards for costumes were built against one wall, and behind a screen was a small kitchen, where refreshments could be made. The objects most prominently displayed in the room were two framed certificates testifying that the Little Theatre had distinguished itself in the Dominion Drama Festival.

  For the audition, chairs had been arranged in a semicircle with a table facing them. Three of these chairs were now occupied by women who had been mentally dismissed by Roger with the hard words “Total Loss”. Another woman was busy behind the screen, rattling crockery. Two men were in conversation by a window; Roger knew one of them to be Larry Pye and the other was the man whom he had met briefly on that rainy day at St. Agnes’—the man who knew about seats—McNabb or some such name.

  Roger was bored. It looked as though a dull evening lay before him. He cheered up a few minutes later, however, when a group of girls arrived. He had little time to appraise them, for Mrs. Forrester came up the stair, accompanied by Valentine Rich, and Roger gave his whole attention to them; he had always found it excellent policy to keep on good terms with older women; they always liked a fellow with a bit of dash, and their liking was worth having. The Rich woman seemed to be a silent piece; she was polite enough, but she did not glow when Roger gave her his special, intimate smile. Nellie glowed, however, most gratifyingly.

  “Roger dear,” she said: “you must meet everybody. You don’t mind me calling you dear, do you dear? I’m old enough to be your mother, or an aunt, anyhow. And in this game you get into the way of calling people dear. You see?”

  “If you’re more than five years older than I am,” said Roger, “my eyes are deceiving me, and they don’t. Not about that sort of thing. And if you pretend to be older than you are so that you can boss me, I may have to teach you a lesson, Nellie dear.”

  “Five years!” Nellie gave a playful shriek in which coquetry, indignation and regret for lost youth were prettily blended. “How old do you think I am?”

  “About twenty-eight—a year or two either way.”

  “My dear boy! Don’t they test your eyesight in the Army any more?”

  “Yes. I have perfect vision. I also have a wonderful instinct about such things.”

  “Well, your instinct is wrong this time. If you want to know, Val here and I are just the same age, aren’t we Val?”

  Nellie meant this to be a surprise to Roger, and so it was. He had taken Valentine to be many years Nellie’s junior. But he gallantly told them that he stuck to his original estimate. Valentine did not care; she thought nothing of Roger’s sort of charm. But Nellie’s heart was like a singing bird whose nest was in a water’d shoot. She seized upon the next couple to mount the stair. It was Professor Vambrace and his daughter.

  “Pearl, dear, you haven’t met Roger Tasset, have you? He’s going to play Ferdinand to your Miranda.”

  “Really, Nell, you must be discreet,” said Professor Vambrace; “no parts have been officially allotted as yet. Good evening Tasset.”

  Pearl Vambrace murmured inaudibly, extended her hand to Roger, and then took it back again when he seemed about to shake it. This caused her to blush. Roger eyed her professionally, reflecting that this was a little more the sort of thing he had been expecting.

  “I am very happy to meet you,” he said, giving the words just a little more significance than the situation required. But Vambrace took his daughter by the arm and moved her on toward the semicircle of chairs; he seemed to choose one with special care, and place her in it, before he went to the central table, and began to unload papers and books from a large, bulgy brief-case which he carried.

  “Good evening,” said a voice at Roger’s shoulder, and he turned to find the treasurer of the club smiling at him, his hand extended.

  “Oh, good evening, Mr. McNabb,” said Roger.

  “Mackilwraith,” said Hector. “So you’ve come to try your luck, have you. So have I.”

  Roger had not thought of his presence at the audition in quite this way. It had never occurred to him that he would not be cast as the leading juvenile of any play which he chose to act in; he was not vain, but it was unlikely that an amateur drama group would find anyone better qualified than himself for a part which demanded looks, charm and a handy way with women. But these are not thoughts which one confides to a stranger. Particularly not to a stranger who looked like this one.

  Years as a successful teacher had given Hector an air of quiet authority. He was almost as tall as Roger, though he was much stouter; his hair was thick, wavy and very black; black and thick were the eyebrows above his grey eyes. His face was full—almost fat—and ruddy. He was smiling, and he had excellent teeth. His voice was low and pleasant, and three generations in Canada, and a Lowland mother, had not quite flattened all the Highland lilt out of it. But it was a quality of sincerity about the man which intimidated Roger; it was not the professional sincerity of the professional good fellow; it was the integrity of a man who has every aspect of life which is important to him under his perfect control. Roger thought it wise to be a little diffident in his reply.

  “Nellie suggested that I come along and see if there was anything I could do,” said he. “I’ve done a little acting at school, you know, and a bit since. Never tried Shakespeare though.”

  “Ah,” said Hector, seriously, “Shakespeare will test all of us to the uttermost.”

  “I dare say,” said Roger, somewhat dismayed by this pious approach to the matter.

  “Nevertheless, we are fortunate in our director. A professional, you know. She will tell us our faults. It may be severe, but we can take it.” Hector smiled darkly at the thought of the artistic travail ahead. “There will be a great deal to be learned,” he continued, with sober satisfaction; he was still trying to convince himself that his desire to act was rooted in a passion for self-improvement, rather than in a simple wish to have fun.

  Roger wondered how to get away from this fellow. Every man has his own set of minor hypocrisies and Roger’s was extensive, but it did not include the trick of disguising pleasure as education. Luckily Solly was passing at the moment and he hailed him.

  “Hello there, Ridgetower,” said he; “are you going to try for a part?”

  “Hello, Brasset,” said Solly; “no, I’m not.”

  “Not Brasset; Tasset.”

  “How odd. Not Ridgetower; Bridgetower.”

  “Sorry. I’m bad at names, I’m afraid.”

  “But you never forget a face, I’ll bet.”

  “Well, no; as a matter of fact I don’t. How did you know?”

  “It is characteristic of people who forget names that they never forget faces. At least, so I have often been told. It seems a pity. Only remembering half, I mean.”

  Roger had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being got at. A frowsy lot of fellows you met in clubs like this. McNabb—no, Mac-whatever-it-was—and this fellow Bridgetower, with his messy hair and his long nose. Thought himself smart, obviously; a university smart-alec. Roger squared his shoulders and looked soldierly. There was one thing he never forgot, and that wa
s a girl’s face. Neither of these fellows looked as though they had ever seen a girl at shorter range than thirty yards. He could afford to despise them.

  “You have both acquainted yourselves with the play, I suppose?” said Hector, who sensed a strain in the conversation and sought dexterously to relieve it. He failed in his purpose, for Solly was affronted by the suggestion that any Shakespearean play was unfamiliar to him, and Roger, who had been in many plays and had never troubled to read more than his own part, felt that the schoolteacher was trying to be officious.

  “Time enough for that when we know whether we have parts or not,” said he. And Hector, who was not as self-assured in these circumstances as he pretended, took this as a suggestion that he might be passed over in the distribution of roles, and flushed.

  It was at this moment, luckily, that Nellie tapped on the table for order, and the three men parted with relief, and took chairs. Nellie told the meeting what it was for, which everybody knew, and then asked Professor Vambrace to say a few words. The Professor told the meeting, in his turn, that Shakespeare had been a playwright of genius, and that the Salterton Little Theatre, with its customary instinct for the best in everything, had chosen to present one of his finest comedies. In a rather long parenthesis he explained that a comedy need not be particularly funny. He touched upon the Comic Spirit, and quoted Meredith at some length and with remarkable accuracy. He then gave quite a full synopsis of the plot of The Tempest and quoted two or three passages which he especially admired, all of which, by coincidence, were from the role of Prospero. He moved himself visibly. In all, he spoke for twenty minutes, and when he sat down there was respectful applause.

  Nellie rose again, and told the meeting how fortunate the Little Theatre was to have Miss Valentine Rich of New York and London to direct the play for them. She assured them that it would be a rare privilege to work with Miss Rich, and that nothing short of their utmost efforts would suffice under such circumstances. Miss Rich was a person of whom Salterton might well be proud. She was also an example to the Little Theatre of what might be achieved by sheer hard work. Miss Rich would now address them.

  Valentine arose, not altogether pleased to be displayed as the result of a career of dogged persistence. She said that she was very happy to be in Salterton again, which was true, and that she looked forward to working with them, which wasn’t. She hoped that they would not find her as hard a taskmistress as Mrs. Forrester had suggested. She was confident that they could work together to give a very satisfactory and entertaining performance. She said this briefly, and with professional assurance and charm, and when she sat down the audience applauded in a markedly more hopeful manner than before.

  With a late beginning and speeches, it was now almost nine o’clock. Nellie told the meeting that they had no time to waste, and said that they would work through the cast methodically, as it appeared in books of the play. At this point there was an audible rustling, as the meeting produced its copies of The Tempest, in everything from neat little single copies to large quarto volumes in which all the plays of Shakespeare, with steel engravings, were included.

  The first part to be allotted, said Nellie, was that of the magician Prospero. Would those who sought this role please raise their hands?

  There was no immediate response, but within five seconds Miss Eva Wildfang rose to her feet, and said that after the masterly reading which Professor Vambrace had already given of some speeches from that part she felt that many of those present would agree with her that Professor Vambrace was the man to play it. She looked about her for signs of this widespread agreement, but none were apparent. Miss Wildfang’s cult for the Professor was an old story to everyone but herself and Vambrace.

  The Professor closed his eyes, and rolled his head once or twice upon the back of his chair. Then he said that if it was the desire of the club that he undertake the part of Prospero, he would do so, though he would retire instantly if there were any other aspirant to it.

  Nellie looked about the room expectantly, and said that if there were no comment, she would tentatively pencil in the Professor’s name opposite the name of Prospero.

  At this point Mr. Eric Leakey rose at the back of the group, and said that he had taken literally the President’s remark that the parts would be cast as listed in the book. In his copy the first name was that of Alonso, the King of Naples. He did not wish to set himself up as a rival to Professor Vambrace in matters of learning, but he had come to the meeting in order to read for the part of Prospero.

  Miss Wildfang threw a glance in Mr. Leakey’s direction which suggested that he had in some way affronted her. Nellie smiled and knit her brows at the same time, as though Mr. Leakey had created a great deal of confusion by his tardiness. It was Professor Vambrace who spoke.

  “By all means,” he cried; “by all means! Nothing is further from my mind than any desire to seize upon a role for which another man is better qualified. You must read at once, my dear sir. Come forward; come forward!”

  “No, no; there is no need for that,” said Nellie, when Mr. Leakey had picked his way through a maze of chairs, and was almost in front of the committee table. “It will simply cause confusion if we all begin to move around. Just read from where you are, Mr. Leakey.”

  “What shall I read?” asked Mr. Leakey, retreating.

  “What had he better read?” asked Nellie of Vambrace.

  “I suggest the greatest speech of all,” said the Professor, and in his loud bass voice he declaimed:

  You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort,

  As if you were dismay’d; be cheerful, sir.

  Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

  As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

  Are melted into air, into thin air:

  And, like the baseless fabric of this vision—

  “Exquisite; exquisite,” he murmured, as though to himself. Then, returning to a world where such improprieties as casting-readings existed, he said, “You’ll find it in Act Four, scene one, at about line 146 if you are using the New Temple edition, Mr. Leakey. Don’t rush yourself. Take your time.”

  This show of erudition finished Mr. Leakey. He found the passage, and read it in a strangulated tone, while his bald spot grew redder and redder. He sat down amid silence, which indicated very clearly that he would not do.

  “Thank you, Mr. Leakey,” said Nellie, making some marks on a piece of paper. There was a general feeling that Mr. Leakey had thrust himself forward; those who hoped for parts took warning by his shame.

  After this things moved in an orderly fashion. As each part was announced by Nellie, a few people declared themselves aspirants, and usually took care to add that it was just a notion they had, and that they would be happy to do anything they were fit for. It was a long and weary business, and there were several parts which nobody seemed to want at all. Reading progressed in much the same diffident, flat, half-choked fashion for all the parts, as though the actors had but one voice among them, and that a bad one. But when the part of Ferdinand was in question, Roger read in a warm, attractive voice which roused the meeting from its embarrassment and torpor. He did not, perhaps, reveal the fullest meaning of the passage which was allotted to him by the demon memorizer Vambrace, but he brought to it qualities of masculine charm which are rarer in Little Theatres than female beauty, than dramatic instinct, than true comic insight, than tragic power. Even Miss Wildfang, the single-hearted, cast an appreciative look toward him as he sat down. Everyone, in fact, showed a lively interest in him, save one. That one was Griselda, who appeared to be asleep.

  THERE ARE FEW PROVERBS so true as that which says that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. As Solly looked at Griselda during the slow progress of the reading he thought that he had never seen her so beautiful before. How could he have overlooked such a miracle until this time?

  Yet the beauty of girls of eighteen is rarely of a commanding sort. It is very easy to miss it unless one is in the mood for it. Griselda,
at this moment of revelation, would not have seemed beautiful to Mrs. Bridgetower. The white skin would have seemed to that lady to reflect bad health and late nights; the red lips were very lightly touched with colour, but they were startling in so white a face; her hair, thick, waving and the colour of honey, could have been dismissed by Miss Wildfang as stringy; Mrs. Mackilwraith, observing the blue shadow on the eyelids which sheltered Griselda’s cornflower-blue eyes, would have been seized with a powerful desire to give her a worm powder; and her nose, slightly more aquiline than is the present fashion, was very near to being a hook in the eyes of Nellie Forrester. If Larry Pye had been asked for his opinion of her figure he would probably have said that it would be better when she filled out. But to Solly, as he gazed, she seemed all that the world could hold of beauty and grace.

  If Griselda’s beauty showed to special advantage at this time it was because she was feeling a little unwell, and in consequence was relaxed and still. Quietness is a great beautifier, and in that room where there were so many tensions and expectations, so many warring ambitions and nervous cross-currents, her remoteness and her air of spiritual isolation were beautiful indeed.

  Beautiful and, to Roger, irritating. He had read well; he knew it. Everybody had realized it except the pale girl. He had met her, of course. He never forgot a woman’s face. But her name? Well, anyhow, her father owned that big place on the river where the play was to be done. Her indifference to his reading nettled him, and robbed him of his pleasure in the sensation he had caused. Was she asleep? Or couldn’t she be bothered to open her eyes to see who was reading? There was no doubt about it, she was the best thing in the room. Those clothes meant money. Only the rich could look so elegantly underdressed. A good figure. A kid’s figure, but good. Not skinny. He hated boyish figures. Sweet face. But he’d like to take that indifferent expression off it. He’d do it, too. He’d teach her not to sleep when he was doing his stuff. This was what he had come for. This, properly managed, would just about last the length of the course which he was taking. This would be a very nice little item for his collection.