Tempest-Tost

by Robertson Davies

  HE DID NOT RETURN to the Ball, but neither had he the power of will to go home. Instead he paced a long avenue of trees, flanked on one side by the lake and on the other by the gardens of the college, until dawn. His head was bursting; he had, he was certain, seen the first horrible move in the seduction of the girl he loved, and what had he done? He had run away. Was this because he too, long ago, had boasted that he would smirch a girl’s honour at another, humbler Ball? His agony was incoherent and fearsome. But when the sun was already high he realized that he must get his coat and go home, so he returned to the square in the centre of the college.

  There was a crowd there, and his appearance was greeted with a shout. This was the undefeated army of merry-makers who had remained until the very end of the Ball, while poorer spirits had driven home along the very avenue where Hector had walked away the weary night. Nothing would satisfy them except that Hector, now known as the hero of the greatest near-miss in the history of book-buying in Canada, should pose with them in a group photograph. And that was why, in the newspaper which appeared later that day, Hector was to be seen in the centre of the merry throng, between two girls with their arms around his neck, and a third saucily perched upon his knee. It was a splendid likeness, and the fact that he was described in the caption as Professor MacElroy did nothing to diminish the prestige which his pupils accorded him as a result of this publicity.

  7

  The dress rehearsal was over, and Valentine was near the end of her director’s harangue to the cast. The actors sat around her in their costumes, some upon the lawn and some on the properties of the play. Larry Pye had given them the light from a single large flood, and far above the moon rode proudly.

  “I think that’s everything,” said Valentine. “Oh, no; I have a few personal notes on this page. Mr. Leakey, you must not wear your Masonic ring on the stage. And Mr. Shortreed, I know you took off your wrist-watch before your second entrance, but be very careful about that, won’t you? Will you two men check on each other tomorrow night five minutes before curtain time? And Professor Vambrace—”

  “Mea culpa, mea culpa!” cried the Professor, with scholarly waggishness, burying his face in his hands.

  “Yes; your spectacles in the vision scene. It’s very easy to forget. Can you find someone to keep an eye on you about that?”

  “I’ll be very happy to,” cried Miss Wildfang.

  “There are one or two of you whom I should like to see privately for a moment before you go home. Mr.—hm, no; Miss Vambrace is the only one, I think. Oh, yes, here’s a note I’d overlooked: there was some awfully odd makeup, particularly on you girls in the dance of Nymphs and Reapers. What have you been doing to yourselves?”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Who put that stuff on your faces?”

  “Auntie Puss,” said a Nymph, faintly.

  “Who?”

  Valentine was conscious of someone tugging her skirt from behind. It was Mrs. Forrester. “Shut up, Val,” she whispered.

  “See me about it later,” said Valentine. “Now I want you all to feel happy and confident. It was a very good dress rehearsal. Nothing was seriously wrong and everything that was out of order can be corrected before tomorrow night. Don’t believe that old nonsense about a good dress rehearsal making a bad first night. Get some rest tomorrow if you can, and please be here by seven o’clock; if you are late you worry the Stage Manager, and that is inexcusable. Thank you all very much. Now your President wants to say something to you.”

  Nellie rose, and her face was drawn into what she believed to be an expression of whimsical concern.

  “Well,” she said; “I’m sure you’ll all agree with me that Miss Rich has done marvels, simply marvels, with the material she had. I’ve never seen you do better, in an experience of this club which goes back more years than I care to count. And I sincerely hope she’s right about a good dress rehearsal not meaning a bad first night. Some of us can remember occasions when the old saying was only too true. There’s a lot in some of these old beliefs. But we’ll hope for the best. It’s a pity that three names have been left off the programme, and that Mr. Smith’s initials are wrong; there are two thousand programmes, and if we can get enough volunteer help the corrections can be made by hand tomorrow. Will anyone offer to help with corrections? I’d do it myself, but my day will be a very full one.”

  There were no volunteers, except Mr. Smith, one of Larry Pye’s assistants, who was determined that he should appear before the world as J.K. Smith and not A.K. Smith, as had wrongly been printed. Nellie continued.

  “As you all know this is our first attempt at a Pastoral. It’s an experiment, and we are breaking new ground. Whether the public will like it remains to be seen. What the critics will say we simply won’t know until we see the papers. But whatever happens, we can say that we pioneered the Pastoral in Salterton, and when you try something new you have to take the rough with the smooth. And now I have a surprise for you; our good friend Mr. Webster, to whom we owe so much for the use of his beautiful grounds, invites you to supper before you go home.”

  This speech was greeted with great applause, for nothing appeals so strongly to the heart of the amateur actor as a thoroughly depressing estimate of his work, followed by a promise of food. As the group in the floodlight broke up, it was agreed that Miss Rich, though she undoubtedly knew her business, was too optimistic; after all, they knew enough about Theatre to be certain of one thing only, and that was that you could Never Tell. Even Professor Vambrace, so ardent a rationalist in the other affairs of life, clung to the superstition that a good dress rehearsal made a bad performance; everybody likes to be superstitious about something, and the stage provided the Professor with a holiday from the gritty skepticism which scoured the gloss off everything else he did. They moved away to take off their costumes somewhat disappointed that Valentine had not scarified them, told them that they were the worst actors in the world, regretted that she had ever consented to work with them. Nellie’s speech, though a good try, was not sufficiently gloomy to slake their masochistic thirst.

  A few remained in the area of lawn which formed the stage, waiting to catch Valentine’s eye. But Nellie was lecturing her.

  “Val, you’ll have to be terribly tactful about makeup. Dear old Auntie Puss just loves to do it, and if you criticize it you’ll break her heart.”

  At this moment they were joined by the artist in question. Miss Puss Pottinger was very small, very old, but nimble in a rickety fashion, and when she moved she jiggled all over, like a mechanical toy. For a woman considerably over eighty she was smartly dressed.

  “I believe you had some criticism of the makeup on the girls, Miss Rich,” said she, and her voice, like her walk, was brisk but quavery, as though it proceeded from a gramophone which was being dragged over rough ground. “If you will tell me what the matter is, I shall be very happy to correct it, very happy indeed.”

  “I think it was a little over-bold, Miss Pottinger,” said Valentine.

  “Aha, yes, but I don’t think you make allowance for the lights, my dear. Stage light, you see, is much brighter than ordinary light. I try to make full allowance for that, and of course the effect looks overdone when you stand near it.”

  “I quite understand that, Miss Pottinger, but I watched the girls from considerable distance away, and they looked very strange.”

  “Aha, yes, but I gave them what I call a Ballet Makeup. Don’t worry, when the lights are fully turned on, you will see the effect I intend.”

  “But my dear Miss Pottinger, we had all the lights on tonight that we are ever going to use.”

  “Aha, yes, but Shakespeare requires an exaggeration which you are probably not accustomed to. I have been doing this sort of work—as an amateur, of course—for a great many years. Indeed, when they used to have regular amateur theatricals at Rideau Hall, in the Earl of Minto’s time, I always looked after the makeup. His Excellency was once kind enough to say that I was a real arti
st at the job, and as you know, he painted china beautifully himself. Am I to understand that my ability is being called into question?”

  “Oh no, dear Auntie Puss, of course not,” said Nellie, bending over and speaking sweetly into the fierce old face. “You know that we just couldn’t get along without you. Auntie Puss has made up at least somebody in every play our group has ever done,” she said to Valentine, in a voice which warned that respect for the aged must come before every other consideration. “We’d be just brokenhearted without her.”

  “I can’t be expected to do everybody, as I used to,” said Auntie Puss, somewhat mollified. “And of course I don’t see quite as well as I did. I have to use this, now.” She hauled in the slack of a black silk ribbon which hung around her neck, and held up a large and powerful magnifying glass. “I don’t need anything for ordinary use, but for reading and makeup I find now that I need this.”

  Feeling, apparently, that she had won the day, Auntie Puss rattled nimbly away, stumbling over a root as she left the lighted area.

  “Gallant, gallant,” sighed Nellie, watching her.

  “Her makeup’s bloody, and that’s all that matters,” began Valentine, but Professor Vambrace moved forward from the group which lurked, ready to pounce upon her.

  “I don’t want to cause any extra trouble,” said he, in the voice of a man who is going to do precisely that, “but could the stage management contrive to give me a stem of grapes with exactly seven grapes on it; to have it concealed, I mean, in the basket on the banquet table, so that I can get it before my Big Speech? I mean

  The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces—

  of course. Then I could eat seven grapes, during that speech, and at the end—

  We are such stuff

  As dreams are made on, and our little life

  Is rounded with a sleep.—

  I could toss away the stem. You take me? Rather fine, eh?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t fully grasp the point, Professor,” said Valentine.

  “Oh, come, Miss Rich. Surely? Seven grapes—what does that put you in mind of? The Seven Ages of Man, eh? From As You Like It. It is pretty clearly understood that the Melancholy Jaques is an early study for the character of Prospero. Now here we have a chance to make a synthesis—to draw Jaques and Prospero together, with this piece of business with the grapes. That’s why I came on the stage with my glasses on; I had been scanning As You Like It in the wings. As a matter of fact, I have felt some big thing moving within me all day, but it wasn’t until half-past nine that I knew what it was. Will you speak to the stage management, or shall I?”

  “I do not think that we should introduce anything new into the production at this point,” said Valentine. The Professor was astonished, but as the palaver appeared to be at an end, he moved away, giving place to Geordie Shortreed, who was next in line. Geordie spoke in a low voice, as though ashamed and fearful of being overheard.

  “Miss Rich,” said he; “will it be all right if I slip a hot-water bottle under my costume for that scene where I have to lie on the ground so long? I got awful trouble with my kidneys, and if I get a chill they’ll seize right up. I got a pension for sixty per cent disability.”

  “You may have your hot-water bottle if you give me a solemn promise that you won’t play any tricks during the run of the show,” said Valentine, severely. She had received private information that Geordie had been seen in the joke shop the day before, buying a large squirt and several feet of rubber tubing.

  “Cross my heart and hope to spit myself to death,” said Geordie, and went away smiling.

  The last to approach was Pearl Vambrace.

  “Falsies for you, my girl,” said Valentine.

  “I don’t understand you, Miss Rich.”

  “Pads for the bosom. Ask Bonnie-Susan; she probably has some she would lend you. Though what she would need them for,” Valentine reflected, “is beyond me.”

  “Oh, but won’t I look terribly big? I mean, I shouldn’t be gross, should I?”

  “You’re a long way from grossness now. And you must make allowance for stage light; it’s brighter than ordinary light,” said Valentine, borrowing a leaf from Auntie Puss’s book.

  THE REFRESHMENT PROVIDED BY THE DOMESTIC STAFF of St. Agnes’ consisted chiefly of a very large supply of chicken chow mein. A June night in Salterton is chilly enough to make a hot dish grateful to tired pioneers of the Pastoral. They gathered in knots upon the lawn and champed and worried about the play with great satisfaction.

  “I’d be happy if I could just get enough light to kill those shadows,” said Larry Pye; “but do what I will, everywhere an actor goes, he casts a shadow.”

  “And why not?” said Solly. “What could be more natural? Here we are in bright moonlight, and every one of us has a shadow. Larry wants us all to be like Peter Schlemihl, who sold his shadow to the Devil. I never knew a stage manager yet who didn’t believe that people cast no shadows.”

  “It’s not one shadow I complain of,” said Larry. “It’s four or five, mostly on other people’s faces.”

  “Never mind, Larry,” said Valentine; “your light is charming. But I do wish you could tone down that intercommunication system; every time you speak backstage, we hear your voice from The Shed, roaring behind the audience. It’s confusing and often blasphemous.”

  “Got to keep it sharp,” said Larry. “Suppose you want somebody in a hurry?”

  “Do the best you can,” said Valentine.

  “Oh Miss Rich,” sighed Miss Wildfang, who was prompter, “you have the patience of a saint! Too much patience, perhaps, if such a thing is possible. Tonight we were braced for really severe criticism; we expected it, and I may almost say that we wanted it. We cannot improve if we are not told about our faults.”

  “I told you about your faults,” said Valentine. “All those, that’s to say, about which anything can be done. I really don’t believe that people thrive on harsh criticism. I’ve had a good deal of experience, and I’ve always found that you get the best out of people by being decent to them.”

  “Ah, yes—professionals,” said Professor Vambrace. “But we are spirits of another sort—if I may quote another of the Immortal’s works. Most of us are university people, or professional people. We can accept criticism of a type which would be unacceptable to the more—how shall I put it—the more—well, the more elementary intelligences of professional players.”

  Valentine was a little nettled. “Sir Henry Irving said that the best of amateurs were but children in art; one must teach children by kindness, and not expect everything from them which one might demand from adults. Irving also said that the hardest thing for an amateur to do was to get over the habit of stressing personal pronouns. I refuse to minister to the perverse desire of any amateur actor to be abused in public.”

  This was hard hitting, for the matter of personal pronouns had been mentioned before, and to the Professor himself. He turned away, and was heard to say to Miss Wildfang that the limitations of the professional stage were easily understood, in the light of his recent experience. A small matter of seven grapes, which could, nevertheless, awaken an echo of As You Like It, had been denied to him. Was a really evocative theatre possible if such lack of perception were to prevail? Yes, he agreed with Miss Wildfang that the sooner a university theatre was established, the better. Then, with long rehearsal and ripe scholarship—not all of it from the Department of English, of course—the essential oneness, the great overall unity of Shakespeare’s plays could be revealed.

  Much as they might wish to be abused by Valentine at a dress rehearsal, it was plain that the actors were distressed at the thought of being criticized in print.

  “Whatever the papers say,” said Nellie, “I shall always think that we have done the right thing. But I can’t answer for the others. A bad press may hit them very hard.”

  “What press will there be?” asked Valentine.

  “The local paper, of course, and proba
bly something in the Waverley Review, when it next appears, sometime in November,” said Solly.

  “No out-of-town papers?”

  “One or two, perhaps. Your name will draw them.”

  “Well, what have you to worry about?”

  “I’m worried about the out-of-towners; there might even be one of those radio critics, and they are so patronizing, even when they’re favourable. And if other drama groups hear that we’ve been panned, they’ll gloat so.”

  “I think you are just worrying because you think you should, Nell,” said Valentine. “Criticism can’t possibly hurt the show; you’ve sold enough tickets already to assure success. Stop fussing.”

  “Spoken like a professional,” said Cobbler, who had joined them. “I never pay any attention to criticism. Most critics of anything are frauds. Worse, most of them are bachelors or spinsters. Their opinions of what other people create are firmly hitched to their own sexual cycle. Show me a bachelor critic in whom desire burns like a furnace, and I’ll show you a fellow who will boost your show to the skies or damn it to the pit, according to the way the leading lady strikes his fancy. Show me the same critic at the bottom of his twenty-eight day round, and I’ll show you a fellow who will give you faint praise. Every critic carries a twenty-eight day clock in his gizzard, and what he says about you depends on whether he is ready to strike twelve or one. Rule out the few critics who truly love the arts, and who would be critics even if they weren’t paid for it, and the rest are needy riffraff, laughed at by all serious artists.”

  “What is a spinster director supposed to make of that?” said Valentine.

  “If you refer to yourself,” said Cobbler, “I am forced to reveal that I do not consider it possible that a lady of your charm can be a spinster in anything except the most technical sense. Furthermore, you are a true artist—a creator. Such people are not twenty-eight day clocks; they are towers in which the carillon peals whenever God chooses to stir it with his mighty breath.”