It was not until midnight that he finally sat on the leather couch in his library and stretched out his legs. He had taken two telephone calls from Kent, a call from Marilyn Marks and one from Monte, he had taken Tri-cia to the dress rehearsal of his friend's play and then to dinner with the playwright, director and crew, and then had told Tricia, with some truth, that he still had work to do and in any event was exhausted and so could not go upstairs with her when he took her home. But what he really had wanted was just what he finally had: silence, the seclusion of his library, and a tray provided by Martin with a sandwich in case he was hungry, cognac, coffee and a bowl of pistachios placed conveniently at his right hand.
He sat for a time, enjoying the silence. He watched a newscast on television, then enjoyed the silence again, letting the day unwind in his thoughts like a movie reel, speeding up, slowing down, reversing.
They had a cast for The Magician, or they would have one by tomorrow when they filled the minor parts. Marilyn was working on sets; Fritz was agonizing, as he always did; the theater was booked, the rehearsal space rented, the first run-through set for Thursday. Everything was on schedule.
He finished his cognac and reached out to put the glass on the tray, and
60 ~ Judith Michael
his glance fell on the box of Jessica's letters. No time tonight. I'm too tired. But he continued to gaze at the box. Well, maybe just one.
Dearest Constance, I'm sorry I naven't written in so long; I've missed writing to you even tnougn we talk on tne telepnone now. It really is wonaerrul to near your voice (even better to ne witn you, on, so long ago now . . . wasn't tnat a splenaid day we nad togetner at my graduation?) but tnere's something special about letters so I decided to write tbis time instead oi calling. I was sorry to leave Steppenwolr—tbose were tbe most wonderrul two years or my lire and I've never learned so mucb so fast—but you were rigbt: Anna Christie on Broadway is mucb more important. Did I teli you wbat Pbil Ballan said wben be called? Tbis was bow it went:
Deep, deep voice: "Miss Fontaine, I was in Cbicago last week and caugbt tbe latest play at Steppenwolt." Tben be stopped and it took me a minute to understand tbat be was waiting tor me to say something. "Really? " said I, just a trine breathlessly. His voice got deeper. "I must tell you tbat I have never been as impressed with a perior-mance at Steppenwolr as I was with yours. " He stopped again, waiting, and I said, "Ob, thank you"—so unutterably aM//—why couldn't I think or something clever? But I couldn't quite get myselr together because except ror you nobody rrom Broadway has ever told me I'm really good. "And," he said, dragging it out like Santa with his presents, "we want you to come to New York and read tor Anna Christie. I think you'll be an absolutely splendid Anna. And I'm never wrong about my judgement." Another time I might have laughed, but not tbis time: he could have whinnied like a horse and I would have thought it was a beautiful sound. And then be said, "Are you still there? You're coming to New York?" and "Yes!" burst out of me, and tben I apologized because I thought I'd blown tbat poor man's ear off through the telephone.
So now here 1 am, back in New York—so enormous and hectic after Chicago and my "family" at Steppenwolf, but in another way a lot of fun: like walking into a huge party where I don't know anyone but they all look familiar. I found a tiny apartment in SoHo; it barely has room to turn around but it has a window and for about forty minutes a day it gets sunshine. Of course I'm almost never
Acts of L
o V E ~ 61
nome ror tnose rorty minutes, but it's nice to know it's tnere anyway. Isn't it amazing now little sunsnine we see wnen we're working on a play? It's like we rorget wnat aaylignt looks like. I've naa two long talks witn tne director about now to play Anna; ne nas some ideas I never tnougnt or tnat mignt work. Tne best part is, ne cares about wnat I tnink and I've tnougnt about notbing else but playing Anna since tbat pbone call so I bave some very derinite ideas or my own. Do you believe we snould do just wbat tne director tells us, or do you tbink we sbould insist tbat we play a part tbe way we reel inside? We've never talked about tbat as mucb as I'd like to. Would you tell me wnat you tbink?
Tnere is a problem witb being in Anna: one or tbe producers seems to nave taken a rancy to me—wbat an old-rasnioned pnrase!— and now be naunts tne tbeater, wandering around backstage like a little boy set down in a strange neigbborbood, pretending to "run into' me, tben saying, "Well, now tnat we've run into eacb otber, wby don't we bave dinner?" And ne comes across too bearty, too anxious, wnen wnat ne's obviously trying ror is a bon vivant —casual, debonair, irresistible. Tnere's notbing really wrong witb nim, in ract I tnink ne's probably very nice, but I'm in Anna Christie! In New York! How can I tbink about anytbing else? I'm so nervous I just want to be lert alone. He says I'd be better orr witb a companion to relax witb. I suppose be could be rigbt, but ne seems so absolutely sure tbat it makes me suspicious. A lot or people around nere are like tbat, always saying tbings like "You've ^o^ to do tbis " or "I will not read tbat line " or "I bave tne perrect person ror tbat " or "I will absolutely not tolerate tbis ligbting " or . . . ob, you know; you've neard it all. Wouldn t it be novel ir someone, just once, said, "Well now, tbat seems like a prodigiously stupid idea but we're nere to experiment and learn, so wby don't we give it a try?" Everyone would probably be stunned into a very uncbaracteristic silence, but it certainly would lignten tbe atmospbere.
Luke chuckled. He read the last line again, smiling, and then it occurred to him that it was as if Jessica had been with him all day, her lively young voice cutting through sham and histrionics, sweeping away melodrama, sharing her observations with him when they were alone. He
62 ~ Judith Michael
looked up from her letter and gazed across the room at a Picasso print of a dancing woman. He remembered Jessica Fontaine's voice from the times when he had seen her on stage: a magical voice, musical and rich, with a lilt that was like the faintest trace of a foreign accent. He imagined hearing her now, her freshness and honesty, the rill of laughter that ran beneath her words, the unexpected phrases that sparked her sentences. He liked her companionship; he liked hearing her comments at the end of his day. His fatigue had vanished. It was late, but he felt fine. Plenty of time for a few more, he thought, and, reaching into the box he pulled out a handful of letters and settled back to read.
Jessica Fontaine in Anna Christie mesmerized an opening night audience at the Helen Hayes Theatre last night as has no one else since Constance Bernhardt played Anna almost forty years ago.
The newspaper clipping had fallen out of the letter and Luke read it first.
It is rare that an actor totally inhabits l\t space of a character: a past history, hints of a future, quirks and eccentricities, mannerisms, a way of moving across the stage as if it is the whole world. Great actors do this without intellectualizing it; they get "out of their head," if you will, and into that mysterious well of the instinct that draws on some kind of inner magic and on a lifetime of experience. Jessica Fontaine is too young to have a lot of experience—she turned twenty-five a week before Anna Christie opened—and she is still untried in many roles, but she has that inner magic and she is wondrous to watch. I predict we'll be watching her a lot, from now on.
Dearest Constance, now wonaerrul you were to call last nignt— opening nignt! I relt you besiae me wnile I waited to go on; I was so
~ 63 ~
64 ~ Judith Michael
scared I was snaking and my legs relt neavy and ruDoery nut I started saying over and over wnat you'd said on tne pnone-—tnat you're so nervous you reel sick every time nerore making your rirst entrance— and I repeated it witnout stopping—Constance gets nervous, too; Constance gets nervous, too—until I almost hypnotized myselr witn it and actually began to reel tetter. I could really near you talking to me and reel your nand on my arm and you stayed witn me all tnrougn tne play, even at tne curtain calls . . . tnere were fourteen, can you believe it? I nave so mucn to tell you, but I can't write a long letter today because we nave to
work on tbe second act to tignten it up, but I promise I'll write as soon as tbings settle down. I just wanted you to know tbat I'm graterul ror you, always, and I love you. Jessica.
Why didn't I see her in that play.^^ Luke wondered. He thought back. She was twenty-five, so I was thirty—and that was the year Claudia and I spent in San Francisco while I was directing at the Berkeley Rep. We saw Constance out there when she was playing in The Visit in Los Angeles, and the three of us took some weekend trips until Claudia got bored and then Constance and I went by ourselves, as far north as the Olympic Peninsula, as far south as Baja. We were away from New York for almost two years; I went to Los Angeles to direct another play and then Claudia and I went to London to see Constance open in Oedipus, and then Paris. So Jessica had her triumph without Constance. But Constance called. A loving friend.
Dearest Constance, tbank you so raucb ror your telephone call last nigbt and I do apologize; bow could I let rour months go by without writing to you? Maybe it's because I think or you all tbe time, and talk to you inside my bead, so perhaps I think I've written when in tact I haven't. But now here I am on my way to London—and you! Do you know how I've dreamed or this—to be in another play with you, to work with you, to learn trom you ... I am so incredibly excited I can't begin to describe it. I'll just call it paradise. My paradise: playing Vivie Warren to your Kitty Warren. Playing your daughter, even though there's not much daughterly reeling in tbe whole play. What a wonderful time we'll have! Oh, one thing, you'll meet Terence in London. I wrote to you about him; he's the producer
A
CTS of Love ~ 65
who kept wandering around nackstage. We've been going out since Anna closed and ne's really quite nice. His name is Terence Alnan (and woe to tne person wno calls nim Terry!) and ne's rrom Dublin and London and Cape Town, but even arter all tnat moving around and some pretty sopbisticated living be's still unbelievably timid about a lot or tbings, including me. I bave to urge bim on now and tben, even (especially!) in intimate moments. It's not tbat be doesn t know wliat to do or bow to do it, it's just tbat be can t believe anyone would truly be attracted to bim and be really believes it's better not to try tban to rind out someone doesn't want bim. So alter a wbile / kissed him and undid bis tie (wbat a curious reversal or roles; it made me reel quite dirrerent about everytbing), and tben I made a rew casual suggestions and eventually we progressed to bis bedroom (we were in bis living room at tbe time, overlooking all or Central Park under a rull moon ... so very beautirul, but I tbougbt ir I commented on it Terence would tbink be was a railure because my attention was wandering, so I didn't mention it) . . . well, please rorgive tbis peculiar sentence; it seems to be wandering all over tbe place ... so we got to bis bedroom—
Luke looked up from the letter. He felt uncomfortable: a voyeur pawing through letters meant only for his grandmother's eyes. But he was angry, too. Why couldn't she see through Terence Alban.? Luke had known Alban for a long time; they'd met through Monte Gerhart and Alban had put money into two of Luke's productions. He'd been hanging around the theater for years: too much money, too much time, nothing to do but get his kicks by attaching himself to famous people. He wasn't good enough for Jessica; all he had was a fake, cloying insecurity that made women want to stroke him and build him up. Bringing out the mother in all of them, Luke thought contemptuously; you'd think she'd be too smart to be taken in by that.
Time for bed, he thought, and stuffed the letters back in the box. But their crushed mass made him feel guilty, thinking of the care his grandmother had taken with them, folding each one and lining it up perfectly with all the others, so he pulled them out again and smoothed them on his knee. A few fell to the floor and he picked them up and spread them out on the coffee table and, in so doing, once again began to read.
66 ~ Judith Michael
Tne only tning wrong witn tne past year, dearest Constance, was tnat you and I didn't write to eacn otner. But in every otner way it was aDsolutely tne most perrect year or my lire. First or all, being on stage witn you, watcning tne miracle or your transrormation into Mrs. Warren, and reeling my own strengtn increase because or yours. I tnink daugnters in real lire must reel like tnat wnen tneir motners are people tney truly long to grow into. I wonder now orten tnat nap-pens. I loved my motner but I never wanted to be ner, wbile I ve wanted to be you ever since tbe day we met. Wben you and I work togetner, I nave a reeling or great power . . . well, actually I bave it all tne time I'm on stage, but it's even greater wnen I'm witb you. We've talked about tnis but now I'm truly beginning to understand it: tbe reeling tbat we can do anytning wnen we slip into one cbar-acter and tben anotber—young girl to middle-aged woman to old woman, prostitute to suburban matron, scnoolgirl to royalty—and tnen, wben we take our curtain calls and near the applause and see all tbose smiles and brigbt races in tbe audience, we know we've brougnt tbem witb us, we've made them believe in us. I can't imagine more power tban tnat, and nothing in the world gives me so much joy, such a reeling or rreedom, as ir I'd learned to rly and now I soar over everything and there's nowhere I can't go, nothing I can't do.
But you're part or that, and the most perrect moment or this perfect year was the last curtain call or our rinal perrormance when you took my hand and the two or us stood alone on stage, and the whole audience was standing, and their applause wrapped around us in a huge roaring embrace, and when the curtain rinally came down and stayed down you said, "You and I, dearest Jessica, are much more together than either or us is alone; we enhance each other. I am very grateful for that." But I'm the one who is grateful and I thank you with all my heart for saying that. I will never forget it.
Of course part of what made me happy in London was Larry, as long as it lasted. It was very strange to be in a play opposite someone I was having an affair with, and I was very mournful when it ended—I liked him a lot and we had fun together and I couldn't understand why he kept insisting that we get married. Why couldn't he just have a good time and be happy, the way I was? Oh, dear, what a lot of quarrels we had when we could have been making love and laughing. Such a shame.
A
C T S O
f 1 o V E ~ 67
W^nen Terence came back rrom New York I put nim orr as long as I could, but alter a montb I ran out ol reasons ror not going out witn nim, so we started up again, only I couldn't go to bed witb nim because I was still, in a way, mourning Larry and missing nim, and tbat drove Terence crazy; be slid back to tbinking be wasn't wortb anytbing and alter a wbile I got awlully tired or all tbe stroking be needed, tbe bucking-up, tbe mothering, so I broke tbat orr, too.
Tbis all bappened a week ago, alter you d lert ror Sydney and I was wisbing tbat I could bave stowed away in your luggage. Instead, I'm going to Hollywood, to make a movie, and tbe next time you bear rrom me I'll be sitting in some bouse in Malibu (never been tbere, but tbe studio rented it ror me), missing you, missing tbe stage. I cannot imagine working witbout tbe driving energy oi an audience. You said you got used to playing to tbe camera and to tbe otber actors. Did you really, or were you saying tbat to encourage me to try it? More soon; I love you; Jessica.
Luke leafed through the next letters.
Dearest Constance, I know you re rigbt and I sbould be graterul tbat my reviews were all good, but you know as well as I do tbat tbe worst tbing in tbe world is to be part or sometbing tbat everyone bates. You know bow mucb / bated it; you probably got sick or bearing me tell you. Ob, I am so angry! I ve never been part or a railure berore and it doesn't matter tnat tne reviews said I was good; I reel tainted by tbat rilm.
It's an bour later now. How wonderlul everytbing is! All it took was one telepbone call to cbange everytbing. Edward Courier just called! Tne Edward Courier, asking me ir I'd be interested in reading ror Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf opposite Constance Bern-bardt! Would I be interested! Good beavens, wbat a question! So ir tbey like tbe way I read, we'll be togetber again, in New York, in about six montbs—ob, I could sing a Hallelujab ror tbat! In tbe meantime
I ve been asked to work witb a repertory company in Los Angeles and tbat's wonderrul experience, so I'll stay in tbe Malibu bouse, wbicb is very beautirul and I love living on tbe ocean.
By tbe way, Larry sbowed up tbe otber day and we bad a very romantic reunion. I was surprised at bow glad I was to see bim, and
68 ~ Judith Michael
ne says ne won't talk about marriage, so mayne we'll nave as good a time nere as we nad in London. Mayne ne rinally understands what I've teen trying to tell nim: tnat I can't separate me—wno I am and wnat I am and wnat I want to he ten, twenty, tnirty years in tne future—from tne tneater. I want to ne tne ansolute best, but I want more tnan tnat: I want to do good in tne tneater. Ir I nave tnis girt— tnis power you and I reel on stage—then I can help people by bringing plays to lire so that maybe they can understand things they couldn't understand before. I read the other day that theater exposes our internal feelings so we can see them instead of having them just flutter around inside us. If I can help people understand their feelings, that's better than anything, isn't it: to do good while you're doing the thing you love best?
Well, that's what I've been trying to explain to Larry. I thinh he finally understands it, though now and then he pretends we've never talked about it. He's staying with me in the Malibu house, which is strange, because I'm used to living alone, but he wanted to be here and I said we'd see how it worked out. So far it's okay; in fact, a lot of the time it's rather pleasant.
Larry, Luke thought. Who the hell is he? On the bookshelves at the other end of the library he found a thick volume and opened it to the index. They were together in Mrs. Warren's Profession, he mused, so he would 'have been Frank Gardner, Vivie Warren's suitor. He turned to the page listing the play's history. In the New York production fifteen years ago, Mrs. Kitty Warren had been played by Constance Bernhardt, Vivie Warren by Jessica Fontaine and Frank Gardner by Lawrence Swain.
Acts of Love Page 8