He found The Tempest somewhat baffling. He had supported the suggestion that the Little Theatre present a Shakespearean play, for he was strongly in favour of plays which were “worth while”; it was widely admitted that Shakespeare was worth while. But in what precise union of qualities this worthwhileness lay was unknown to him. His first encounter with The Tempest was like that of the man who bites a peach and breaks a tooth upon the stone.
In the very first scene, for instance, there was a coarse reference to the Female Functions. He read it again and again; he consulted the notes, but they were unhelpful; in spite of a conviction held over from school days that poets were people who hid their meaning, such as it was, in word puzzles it seemed clear enough that in this case Shakespeare meant to be Smutty. Obviously this was a play to be approached with the utmost caution. He might even have to change his mind about acting.
He read on. It was toilsome work, but by mid-afternoon he had finished The Tempest, he understood it, he had assessed the value of every part in it, and although he would not have gone so far as to say that he liked it, he admitted to himself that there was probably “something in it”. He had decided, also, that the part for him was Gonzalo. This person was described as “an honest old counsellor”, and he had no offensive lines to speak; he had fifty-two speeches, some of them quite long but none which would place an undue strain upon his memory; he was not required to do anything silly, and he would require a fairly impressive costume and almost certainly the desired false whiskers. This was the part for him. He would speak to Mrs Forrester about it on Monday night.
He began memorizing the part of Gonzalo that evening, and was word perfect in his first scene before he went to bed.
At twenty-five minutes past eight on Monday evening Hector was on the pavement outside the apartment building where the Forresters lived. He was a little early, for he intended to make his call at half-past eight exactly. It would not do to surprise the Forresters at their evening meal, or too soon after it. He had calculated that people in the Forresters’ position ate at seven o’clock. He himself ate at the Snak Shak from six to six twenty-five precisely, every evening of his life. This evening he had returned to the YMCA, re-washed his already clean face and hands, and put on the clean shirt which he would not normally have worn until Tuesday morning. He put on a new blue tie, especially purchased, and felt as he looked in the mirror that it produced a rather rich effect under his ruddy face and somewhat heavy bluish jowl. He then waited patiently, running over Gonzalo’s first scene in his head, until it was time to make his call. And, as always, he reached his destination ahead of time. So he walked to a point two blocks away, walked back again, and at eight-thirty precisely he pressed the bell of the Forresters’ apartment.
Nellie opened the door. “Good-evening, Mrs Forrester,” said Hector; “I just happened to be passing, and I remembered something I wanted to mention to you.”
A surprise awaited him in the tasteful living-room. Vambrace, Valentine Rich, young Bridgetower and a person whom he still thought of as “the Webster girl” were seated there. It was not until this moment that he realized how sensitive and secretive he was about his desire to act; he could not possibly blurt out his request before these people. His dismay showed in his face.
“We were just chewing over a few problems,” said Mrs Forrester. “You sit down over there.” She pointed to an empty armchair. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Now listen: the first scene of the play is a storm at sea; the garden at St Agnes’ runs right down to the lake; why can’t we have the first scene on a real ship in the lake, and then get everybody to move their chairs to the upper lawn for the rest of the play?”
“I don’t think they’d like to walk all that way, carrying chairs,” said Professor Vambrace. “Many members of our audience are advanced in years. As a matter of fact, they may stay away from a pastoral; the damp, you know, after sundown.”
“It seems to me that Mrs Pauldron brought that up when it was suggested that we use her lawn,” said Griselda, innocently.
“It’s quite a different quality of damp at her place,” said Mrs Forrester; “and the garden at St Agnes’ is on a much higher ground. The warmth of the day lingers there much longer.”
This remarkable piece of sophistry was allowed to pass without further comment.
“Larry won’t like it,” said Solly; “in fact I don’t suppose he’d even talk about it. Your scheme would mean two sets of lights.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Mrs Forrester; “the ship scene would be played before sundown. There would be a lovely natural light.”
“It isn’t really practical, Nell,” said Valentine Rich. “Audiences hate hopping up and down. And anyhow, where would your storm be on a perfectly calm bay?”
“If we are going to act outdoors, why don’t we make the utmost use of Nature?” said Nellie. “Surely that’s the whole point of pastorals; to get away from all the artificiality of the theatre, and co-operate with the beauty of Nature?”
“No, Nell; I’ve done several outdoor plays, and my experience has been that Nature has to be kept firmly in check. Nature, you see, is very difficult to rehearse, and Nature has a bad trick of missing its cues. If I am to direct the play, I really must veto the ship on the lake.”
“All right,” said Nellie, “but if you wish later on that you had done it, don’t expect any sympathy from me.”
“I promise you that I won’t,” said Valentine.
It was at this point that Roscoe Forrester came in from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. He was a man who liked to make a commotion about refreshments. When Valentine asked for a whisky and soda he was loud in his approval; that, he said, was what he liked to hear. When Griselda asked for some soda water with a slice of lemon in it he became coy and strove to persuade her to let him put “just a little stick” in it.
“No, really,” said she; “my father has promised me a bicycle if I don’t drink until I’m fifty.”
“But you’ve already got a car—,” said Roscoe, and then perceiving that a mild jest was toward, he roared, and slapped his thigh, and called upon the others to enjoy it. He was the sort of man who does not expect women to make jokes.
“I don’t permit Pearl to touch a drop,” said Professor Vambrace, solemnly. “A matter of principle. And also, she is obliged to favour her stomach.”
Roscoe hastened to agree that a girl’s stomach deserved every consideration. “What about you, hon?” he asked, beaming at his wife.
“Well, just a weeny wee drinkie,” said Nellie, and as he poured it she gave little gasps and smothered shrieks as evidence of her fear that it might turn into a big drinkie.
Professor Vambrace’s principle was solely for his daughter’s benefit; when asked to pour for himself he was generous, though sparing with the soda which, he explained unnecessarily, was likely to cause acidity if taken in too great quantity. Hector and Solly were allowed to receive their drinks without comment.
It was then discovered that Hector had taken Roscoe’s chair, and there was a polite uproar, Roscoe asserting loudly that he preferred the floor to any chair ever made, Hector saying that he could not hear of such a thing, and Professor Vambrace pointing out very sensibly that the dining-room was full of chairs, which he would be happy to move in any quantity. At last order was restored, with Roscoe on the floor smiling too happily, as people do when they seek to spread an atmosphere of ease and calm.
“There’s a point which we mustn’t overlook,” said Nellie, turning her wee drinkie round and round in her hands and looking solemnly. “We’ll have a lot of resistance to break down, doing a pastoral. People here haven’t been educated to them, yet. Actually, you might say that we are pioneering the pastoral in this part of the world. So we’ll need strong backing.”
“I don’t favour advertisement,” said Professor Vambrace; “I’ve never found that it paid.” This was true; in the quantities approved by Professor Vambrace, advertisement might just as well not have be
en attempted; he was a homeopath in the matter of public announcement.
“It isn’t advertisement in the ordinary sense that I’m thinking about,” said Nellie; “I mean, we want to get the right people behind us. I wonder if we wouldn’t be wise to have a list of patrons, and put them in the programme.”
“Aha, I see what you mean,” said Professor Vambrace, glowering intelligently over his glass; “friends, as it were, of the production. In that case, the leading name would be that of Mr G. A. Webster, the father of our charming young friend, here; he has lent his garden, and that is very real support—solid support, I may say.” He laughed, deeply and inwardly; it was as though barrels were being rolled in the cellars of the apartment house.
“It goes without saying that Mr Webster is a very important patron,” said Nellie, in what she conceived to be a tactful tone, “and his name must be on the list along with the District Officer Commanding and both Bishops, and the Provost of Waverley and the Mayor and the president of the Chamber of Commerce. But to head the list I feel that we want a name which will mean something to everybody—the name of someone whose position is absolutely unassailable; I was rather thinking—what would you say to Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood?”
In such roundabout terms as these are the secret passions of the heart brought before the world. Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood was the god of Nellie’s idolatry. This lady, whom she had rarely seen, was her social ideal; the late Conquergood had been associated in some highly honourable capacity with the Army, and he and his wife had been moderately intimate at Rideau Hall during the Governor-Generalship of the Duke of Devonshire; the widow Conquergood was reputed to be very wealthy, and doubtless the report was correct, for she enjoyed that most costly of all luxuries in the modern world, privacy; she was very rarely seen in Salterton society, and when she appeared, she might have been said to hold court. Nellie had met her but once. She did not seek to thrust herself upon her goddess; she wished only to love and serve Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood, to support and if such a thing were possible, increase her grandeur. If Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood’s name might appear, alone, at the top of an otherwise double column of patrons of the Salterton Little Theatre then, in Nellie’s judgement, the drama had justified its existence, Thespis had not rolled his car in vain, and Shakespeare was accorded a posthumous honour which he barely deserved.
There is a dash of pinchbeck nobility about snobbery. The true snob acknowledges the existence of something greater than himself, and it may, at some time in his life, lead him to commit a selfless act. Nellie would, under circumstances of sufficient excitement, have thrown herself in the path of runaway horses to save the life of Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood, and would have asked no reward—no, not even an invitation to tea—if she survived the ordeal. Such a passion is not wholly ignoble. She had schemed for four months for this moment when she would put her adored one’s name at the head of a list of patrons for The Tempest, and nothing must go wrong now.
“I don’t know that I am in complete agreement with you,” she heard tiresome Professor Vambrace saying; “if we are to have patrons, surely they should be people who have helped our Little Theatre in some way. I cannot recall that Mrs Conquergood has attended a single performance.”
“Ah, but you see,” said Nellie, “if we interest her, she will become a regular supporter.”
“It seems a very ostentatious method of gaining her attention,” said Vambrace, “and if we have to print her name in the programme to get her to come, we might perhaps be better off without her. After all, her dollar is no better than anybody else’s.”
Nellie’s neck flushed; sometimes she thought that Vambrace was no better than a Red. “As though it were her dollar we were after,” she said, reprovingly; and then, with an affectation of serpent-like wisdom, “her name would draw in a good many people of the very type who ought to be interested in the Little Theatre.”
“In that case, perhaps we ought to offer her a part,” said Solly. “Now here, in Act Three, is my favourite stage direction in the whole play: Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet; she could be a Strange Shape; typecasting. I’ll put it in the form of a motion if you like.”
“Solly, that isn’t the least bit funny,” cried Nellie.
“I didn’t mean it to be,” said Solly, “it’s cold fact.”
“If you can’t do anything but sneer, the sooner you go back to England the better.”
“If you mean that you want me to retire from my job as assistant director of this play, Nellie, I’ll do so gladly. You pushed me into directing, and then you pushed me into assisting, and if you want to push me out altogether you have only to say so.”
“Aw, now Solly, don’t let’s get sore,” said Roscoe; “you know how Nell gets stewed up about things.”
“Roscoe, I don’t,” cried Nellie, near to tears.
“There is no need for anybody to retire from anything, or to go back anywhere,” said Professor Vambrace. “Nor, I think, is there any need for us to head our list of patrons with the name of a person who, whatever her social eminence may be—I am not qualified to speak upon such a point—has never done anything for the Little Theatre.”
“If I may offer my opinion, Professor,” said Hector, “I think there is a good deal in what Mrs Forrester has said. There is powerful rivalry in Salterton society between town and gown, military and civil service, as everybody knows. We are not supposed to have these divisions in a democracy but somehow we have them. As an outsider—a teacher who is neither town nor precisely gown—I can see this perhaps better than you. I have heard it suggested that our Little Theatre is recruited a little more heavily from the Waverley faculty than is acceptable to some quite large groups of people. Of course we know why that is so; the faculty members are perhaps more active in their support of the arts than the military or the business people. But if we hope to offset an impression which I, as treasurer, consider an unfortunate one, we must be very careful about our list of patrons. I believe that we should have such a list, and I believe that it should be headed by some name not associated too closely with any of the principal groups which comprise the city. Mr Webster’s name must come very high. But I agree with Mrs Forrester that the name of Mrs Caesar Augustus Conquergood should come first. I do not know her, but I have heard of her, and I have always heard her spoken of in the highest terms. I don’t mind saying that I think it would have a marked effect at the box-office.”
His hearers were impressed. Hector had all the advantage of the man who speaks infrequently, and whose words carry special weight for that reason. Furthermore, his introduction of the word “box-office” was masterly. Professional theatrical groups occasionally take a fling and perform some work, for sheer love, which they know will not make money; amateur groups never forget the insistency of the till. The notion that Mrs Conquergood’s name might raise the takings was too much for Professor Vambrace, who gave in with an ill grace. The redness departed from Nellie’s neck; she was jubilant, though she tried to conceal it. And she looked upon Hector as an oracle of wisdom.
Nellie’s mind, though busy, was not complex. She had never mastered the simple principle of quid pro quo which was, to Hector’s orderly intelligence, axiomatic. But she received a lesson in it half an hour later when Hector, with well-feigned casualness, said:
“When is the casting for the play to be completed?”
“Oh,” said Nellie, “we are going to have auditions for all the parts later this week.”
“Surely not for all the parts? I understood some time ago that Professor Vambrace was to play Prospero, and Miss Vambrace Miranda, and that Miss Webster was to be Ariel. And I think you told me that young Tasset was to be Ferdinand. I believe that Caliban and the two funny men are also cast?”
“Well, tentatively, but of course we are going to hold a public reading before anything is decided finally.”
“But I think it unlikely that any of those parts will be allotted otherwise?”<
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“You know how it is,” said Professor Vambrace; “the Little Theatre must give everyone a chance. Still, it is pretty plain that certain people will do certain parts better than anyone else who is likely to turn up. And, frankly, there are some debts to be paid; those who have borne the burden deserve a measure of reward.”
This was an opening which Hector had not foreseen, but he took it with the skill of an experienced politician. The shyness which he felt when he first arrived had quite departed.
“I had thought of that myself,” said he. “I have been treasurer of the Little Theatre for the past six years. When I took it over its books were in a mess; now they are in perfect order and we have a substantial sum in the bank. During the years when I have worked in the box office I have often wondered what it would be like to be with those of you who were enjoying the fun behind the footlights. And if there is a part which I could play in The Tempest, I should like to have it.”
“Why not wait until next year?” said Nellie. “We’re sure to be doing something which would have a part in it for you. You know, something good. A detective, or a policeman, or something.”
“I may not be here next autumn,” said Hector.
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