secretaries and vied with them for bargains at sales counters.
Embarrassed men sidled past lingerie departments in search of gifts for
their wives and sweethearts; short, stout women admired dresses designed
for tall, slim models; elderly ladies tried on hat after hat, each one
looking less suitable than the last; girls sprayed themselves with
perfume at the cosmetic counters, or stood and watched demonstrators at
work. One demonstrator who especially fascinated Peggy was a beautiful
girl with long blond hair, who was showing a new hairstyling spray. She
would spray it on, and with a few expert flips of a comb, create a
hairdo; then, combing it out again, she would quickly arrange it in a
different style. Each one took her only a minute or so to make perfect,
then, out it would come, more spray would be applied, and another
coiffure would be combed in. Peggy wondered how she wore it when it was
time to go home at night. Probably pulled back in a bun, she thought.
These shopping tours represented diversion as much as necessity, though
in the course of visiting all the stores, the girls did buy what they
needed. Peggy got several dresses, some skirts and sweaters, a new coat,
shoes, bag, and a hat. Also, on Amy’s advice, she bought some school
things that would be suitable for stage work, plus a leotard, tights and
ballet shoes that Mr. Macaulay’s secretary had told her she would need.
When neither girl could think of anything else that she needed to buy,
the temptation to revisit the stores just to see things was still great.
“We’d better not, though,” Peggy said sensibly. “I don’t think I’m
strong enough to resist temptation, and I’ve just about used up all my
clothing allowance. Let’s visit some museums next.”
“Oh dear,” Amy sighed. “I suppose it’s a good idea, all right, but I
just wish school would hurry up and start. I’m afraid I’m going to get
indigestion from swallowing all of New York in one big gulp!”
So did Peggy, but museums were on her “little list,” and museums it
would be. Besides, she knew that once school began, she would have
little time for anything else.
So the guidebook came out once more, together with the flat walking
shoes. But, though their time was spent in museums, their minds were in
the future, and their talk was of nothing but the Academy, which was due
to open in a few short days.
VIII
_First Act_
Peggy and Amy thought they had arrived early for opening day at the New
York Dramatic Academy, but when they entered the old building, they
found the long hallway filled to capacity with students waiting their
turn on the ancient elevators.
Some obviously new students milled around aimlessly, looking somewhat
lost and more than a little frightened. Peggy wondered if she and Amy
looked the same, and made a determined effort to appear at ease and
knowing. But her pose couldn’t have been very convincing, for a small,
thin boy with huge glasses and a shock of black hair came over to them
with a grin and said, “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes,” Peggy answered. “Do we show it?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” he assured them earnestly. “You look just fine.
It’s just that I’ve been here two years, and I know everyone. I’m Pete
Piper, but everyone calls me Pip. I just thought I’d help lead you
through the maze, if you’d like.”
Peggy and Amy introduced themselves, and thanked Pip for his help.
“Oh, don’t thank me,” he said. “Everybody does it. Whenever we see new
students on the first day, the old-timers introduce themselves and offer
to help. It’s kind of a custom.”
Looking around, Peggy noticed that the “lost lambs” she had first seen
were by now in conversation with other, older students, and all of them
looked a good deal more relaxed.
“I think it’s a lovely custom,” Amy said. “It makes our Southern
Hospitality look right cold by comparison!”
By this time, it was their turn at the elevator doors, which suddenly
flew open with their usual wail of protest. Peggy, Amy, and Pip were
almost carried in, with no need to walk at all, by the mass of students
around them, and soon were packed as tight as berries in a basket.
Protesting loudly, the elevator slowly ascended.
Upstairs, the halls which had been nearly empty when Peggy had last seen
them were now swarming with students. The ones who seemed to know where
they were going swirled and eddied around others who looked around
doubtfully and hesitated to go anywhere.
Pip shook his head and said, “More waifs and strays up here, I see. I’ll
set you on your way, and then gather up a new crop. You just go right
into the little theater—ahead of you, through those doors—and take
seats. From there on, you’ll be told what to do and where to go. I’ll
see you around.”
He started off to gather a new group of first-term students, but before
he had taken more than three steps, he was back again. “Let’s have lunch
together with some of the others,” he said. “That okay with you?”
“We’d love to,” the girls chorused.
“Good. Meet you downstairs in front of the building at twelve. S’long!”
Feeling no longer lost, but already a part of their new school
community, Peggy and Amy proceeded into the little theater, found seats
near the front, and started to introduce themselves to the other new
students nearest them. The exchange of names, home towns, impressions,
and ambitions occupied the next fifteen minutes or more until the
dimming of the house lights and the illumination of the stage brought a
hush to the small auditorium.
The last few whispers died when Mr. Macaulay walked to stage center,
bowed formally to the right, the left and the center, and then
unexpectedly sat down on the apron of the stage with his legs dangling.
“The bows were your formal welcome to the Academy, and I hope they take
the place of a speech,” Mr. Macaulay began. “I hate speeches. From now
on, we’re going to be informal and friendly, because that’s the only
atmosphere in which people can get any work done. And you have a lot of
work to do. You will have physical work in which you will learn to walk,
to move, to dance a little, to stand up and to sit down. You may think
you already know how to do these things, but you probably don’t.
“You will have mental work,” he went on, “in which you will learn how to
read a play, how to understand the motivation of a character and his
relationship to the other characters. You will learn elocution, voice
projection, and a dozen other things that have to do with speaking
lines. You will learn the history of the theater, become familiar with
the classic plays, and learn something about stage design and
construction. In this last area, you will pick up the practical craft of
making flats, painting scenery, and wiring lighting—a type of pedestrian
work that has occupied the time of nearly every actor before he was
allowed to appear even in a walk-on role.
“And last, and perhaps most important,” Mr. Macaulay concluded, “you
will learn that the informality and friendliness of the theater must not
be mistaken for lack of discipline; in short, you will learn how to take
direction!”
Still seated on the edge of the stage, Mr. Macaulay called out his staff
of instructors one by one, introduced each to the students, and gave a
short history of each one’s background and qualifications for his or her
work. All were seasoned professionals, and were very impressive to the
students.
Mr. Macaulay also explained that leading performers from the Broadway
stage, movies, and television would make regular guest appearances at
the Academy, as would outstanding directors, choreographers, designers,
and playwrights. The size of the staff, in effect, was unlimited.
After this, the individual instructors spoke, each saying a few words
about his specialty and what he hoped to achieve in his course. Each
one, it seemed to Peggy, opened up whole new areas of knowledge for her,
until at the end she felt that she knew absolutely nothing at all, and
wondered how she could ever have thought of herself as an actress. This
was going to take a lot of work!
After the meeting, the rest of the morning was spent in the routine of
registration, getting class cards, finding out where the rooms were,
getting locker assignments and book lists and, bit by bit, eliminating
the first sense of confusion.
Peggy and Amy, happily, were registered in the same class, and went
together through the busy morning. Before they knew it, it was time for
lunch with Pip Piper and “some of the others.”
The others proved to be Connie Barnes, a cheerful comedienne who managed
to be wonderfully attractive without being in the least pretty, and a
dark, muscular, tough-looking young man with a face like either a
private detective or a gangster in a grade-B movie, who was introduced
by Pip as Mallory Seton.
Much to Peggy’s surprise, when he spoke it was not at all the tough, New
York sound she had expected, but a quiet, cultured English accent. “Call
me Mal,” he said. “Mallory’s rather a mouthful, isn’t it? At least, it
seems so here. At home, they used to call me ‘Mallory John’ all the
time, so as not to confuse me with my father, who is named ‘Mallory
Peter,’ but I can’t imagine anyone in America doing that. If I’d been
brought up here, I’d probably have been called ‘Bud.’”
Following Pip, the students walked around the corner to stop in front of
a narrow delicatessen store. The sign on the window said, “Tables in the
rear,” but Peggy could see from the crowd that clustered at the counter
that there would be no chance of getting one. And besides, the place
didn’t look wide enough to hold a table that would seat the five of
them.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to eat here,
there are so many of us. Perhaps if Amy and I went somewhere else, you
three would have a chance? We don’t want to make it difficult for you—”
“Don’t be silly,” Pip cut in. “We didn’t expect to get a table here.
You’re lucky if you can get a seat at the counter for one, much less a
table for more than one. We’re going to buy sandwiches here and take
them to the park.”
Whipping out a notebook, Pip started to take orders and money, with
frequent reference to the menu pasted to the delicatessen window. Then
he plunged into the place and, in less time than Peggy thought possible,
was back with a giant bag full of sandwiches and cold, bottled drinks.
It was only two blocks to the southern boundary of Central Park, and
once they had crossed Fifty-ninth Street and stepped into the
tree-shaded, winding footpath, the city seemed to disappear behind them
as if it had never been. At the foot of the first gentle hill, there was
a small lake bordered by a bench-lined path. There were some empty
benches, but Pip ignored them.
“If you don’t mind walking a little farther,” he said, “we have a
favorite spot on the opposite shore, where hardly anyone ever comes.”
The path brought them across a small arched footbridge, through a thick
copse, and out alongside a broad lawn which ran down to the lake’s
shore. It was here that they chose to eat, sitting on the grass.
“Now that we’re comfortably settled,” Mal said, “I have some great news
for you, but first I think we ought to tell Peggy and Amy what we’re
talking about, so they won’t feel left out of the conversation. Connie,
you tell them about the play.”
“Just a minute, Connie,” Pip interrupted. Then he turned to the
newcomers. “Do you know what the term ‘Off-Broadway’ means?”
“Why, yes, I think so,” Peggy replied. “It means you’re not using one of
the regular, big theaters, and you charge less admission, and—”
“More than that,” Pip broke in. “It’s generally an experimental
group—though that doesn’t mean necessarily that it’s amateur, and one
thing you can be sure of—it never has enough money. Everybody has to do
a little of everything. Now go on, Connie.”
“Well, the three of us are in that kind of group,” Connie started, “and
we’re trying to produce a play off-Broadway. We’ve been working at it
for about six months now, trying to raise the money and get a theater
and do all the rest of the work that goes into these things. The play is
called _Lullaby_, and it’s terrific, or it will be if it ever gets
produced. Mal’s going to direct it, and I’m already cast as the
comedienne, and Pip plays opposite me. There are a few more of us in it
too, of course, and there’s Randy Brewster, who wrote it and is
producing it. But I want to hear the great news before I talk any more.
What is it, Mal?”
“I don’t want it to be a shock,” Mal said, “so I’ll say it very slowly.
Randy has raised almost all the money we need, and he’ll have the rest
in a few days. It looks as if we’re actually going to get this on the
boards this season—if we can find a theater for it!”
“Wonderful!” Connie breathed.
“Wow!” Pip exploded.
“But where did he get the money? What happened? Do you know?” Connie
asked.
“You remember the reading we did at that Park Avenue penthouse a couple
of months ago?” Mal asked. “The one where all the people seemed so cold
and hostile, and we felt that we had made a miserable botch of it?”
“Don’t tell me!” Connie said.
“All right,” Mal said, his tough features composing themselves into a
broad grin, “I won’t.”
“It’s only an Americanism, Mal,” Pip said eagerly, “and it means ‘tell
me.’”
“Oh, I would never have guessed,” Mal said innocently. “Well, that was
the reading that did it. Actually, those penthouse people weren’t
hostile at all. It’s just what they consider good manners or something.
Anyway, several of them came through, and we have almost all we need to
put the play on. And Randy says that once you have most of the money, it
gives other investors confidence, and they come along, too.”
“How much do you need?” Peggy asked. “I shouldn’t think it would take so
very much to do an off-Broadway play.”
“Those were the good old days,” Pip said mournfully. “Nowadays you need
at least ten thousand dollars, which is still practically nothing
compared to what it costs to put a show on Broadway. You have to pay
high rent for theaters now, if you can find one at all, and you have to
spend money on costumes and sets, because the public expects more from
off-Broadway than they used to. And you have to pay your actors, or else
Equity, which is the actors’ union, won’t let you open. And you have to
advertise, and print tickets, and pay for lighting equipment and a
hundred other things. It all adds up to a lot of cash.”
“Will the backers have a chance of making money?” Amy asked.
“Well, it all depends on the type of theater we can find, and on the
critical reviews of the play,” Mal explained. “If the reviews are good,
and if the theater holds enough people, and if they keep coming for long
enough, there’s a chance. If any one of those factors is lacking, then
there isn’t a chance.”
“What’s the play about?” Peggy asked.
Connie frowned and said, “That’s kind of hard to answer. It’s a comedy,
but at the same time it’s a serious play. I mean it’s serious in what it
talks about, but funny in the way it says it. It’s mostly about a boy
genius—”
“That’s me!” Pip interrupted.
“—who feels that the only way to get along in the world is not to let
people know how smart he is, because people are jealous and suspicious
of people who are too smart. He meets a girl genius—that’s me—who has
come to the same conclusion. Both of them try to act like ordinary
people, and to adjust to the world, because everybody says it’s best to
conform and be just like everybody else—”
“And one of the main problems is that neither one of them wants to let
the other one know that he or she is any different,” Pip interrupted,
“and that leads to a lot of misunderstanding and—”
“And a lot of serious discussion under the comedy,” Mal said, “about
whether or not conformity is any good, and what to do with outstanding
people, and how they can be educated, and how to use them properly in
the world. It’s a really first-rate play.”
“It sounds wonderful!” Peggy said. “Has this Randy Brewster written any
other plays? Who is he?”
“Randy has written lots of others,” Mal answered, “but this is the first
one that looks as if it’s going to be produced. He’s a good playwright,
and I think he’s going to be a success. At least I hope so, because if
the play is well received, we all have a chance of success too.”
“What does he do besides write plays?” asked Amy.
“He’s a dancer and a singer,” Connie said. “He’s been working in night
clubs and on television, and he’s good, but he has a real talent as a
writer, and we all agree that he’s wasted as just another song-and-dance
man. If you want to see him, you can tune in to your television set on
Saturday night. He’s got a spot on the Road Show hour.”
“I haven’t got a television set,” Peggy answered, “though I guess I
could find one to watch, but I’d like to do more than look in on this
via TV. Is there anything I could do to help with the show?”
“Well....” Mal began doubtfully, “we’re almost all cast for it now, and
the few parts that are open aren’t exactly your type—”
“Oh, no!” Peggy said. “I didn’t mean to ask for a part! Why, I’m just
beginning here, and I don’t think I’d be good enough at all! No, I meant
that if you need an extra pair of hands to make costumes, or to paint
flats or to sell space in the theater program, I’m volunteering. I’ll
run errands, or—”
“Me, too!” Amy put in. “Can you use a pair of maids-of-all-work?”
“We sure can!” Connie said eagerly. “That’s the hardest kind of people
to find. I’m certainly glad that Pip thought to ask you two to lunch!”
Mal looked quite relieved to find that he was not to be put in the
position of having to refuse more actresses. Since word about the
project had first gotten out around the Academy, he had been besieged
with students who wanted to be in it, and the work of casting and at the
same time not hurting the feelings of friends had been pretty difficult.
As they strolled back to the Academy, Mal told the girls that there was
to be a meeting of the theater group that evening at Connie’s apartment,
and invited them to attend. “I know that everybody will be glad to meet
you, and you’ll get a chance to read the play and to find out what we’re
up against in trying to produce it.”
After leaving their new friends in the school corridor, Amy and Peggy
went off to their first elocution class, feeling as if they were really
a part of the Academy and the new life around them, and looking forward
eagerly to the meeting at Connie’s that night.
IX
_Theater Party_
Connie’s apartment was not the easiest place to find, but she had given
detailed instructions, even to drawing a little map on a paper napkin,
and after only a few wrong turnings, Peggy and Amy found themselves that
night at a low pink door set in a high brick wall on a winding street in
Greenwich Village. They pushed the button marked “Barnes-Lewis,” and
soon an answering buzz let them know that the door was unlocked.
Pushing it open, they entered, not a house, but a narrow alley between
two buildings. Along one wall was a bed of flowers and green borders,
and hidden among them were small floodlights which gave a gentle,
guiding glow. At its end, the alley opened into a little courtyard with
a small fountain and a statue of a nymph surrounded by canvas lawn
chairs. Fronting on it was an old, low, white-brick house, its door
opened wide. Connie came out to greet them.
“I see you didn’t have any trouble finding our hideaway,” she said. “I
must be a good map-maker.”
Tactfully refraining from telling her about the wrong turns, Peggy and
Amy agreed with her.
“What a wonderful place you have here!” Peggy said. “However did you
find it?”
“I didn’t find it,” Connie said. “I found Linda Lewis, my roommate,
which was a good deal easier. She was already living here, and when her
roommate got married, she asked me if I’d move in.”
“And how did she find it?” Amy asked.
“Same way,” Connie laughed. “These places get passed along from friend
to friend. You could hunt for apartments every day for a year and never
even see a place like this. You just have to know somebody, or be lucky.
I’d hate to show you the miserable place I lived in before I moved in
here.”
“Here” proved to be a spacious room with an extraordinarily high ceiling
and a fireplace with a tremendous copper hood. An open stairway mounted
up one wall to a landing, then turned a corner and went up again. The
only other room downstairs was a kitchen. Upstairs were two bedrooms and
a bath.
“That’s the whole house,” Connie explained. “It used to be a carriage
house for one of the big places on the street, before all the big places
were turned into apartments. Now come on in and meet everybody.”
Linda Lewis, Connie’s roommate, rose from the piano bench to greet the
girls. She had apparently been playing until the bell had announced
their arrival. Linda was a tall, slim, rather plain girl with a sweet
smile who was a music student at Juilliard, considered by most people to
be the best music school in the country. She greeted them shyly, and
returned to her place at the keyboard, where she began playing quietly,
as if to herself.
Pip rose from his seat on the raised hearth of the fireplace to greet
them and to introduce them to his companion, a striking woman in her
mid-thirties. “This is Mona Downs. She’s in the play, too.”
Before they had a chance to do more than say hello, Connie was
introducing them to the last person in the room, a handsome middle-aged
man with curly dark hair that had turned completely white at the
temples. His name was Thomas Galen, and he, too, was a member of the
cast.
“I suppose it’s terribly tactless of me,” Peggy said, “but I don’t mean
it that way at all. It’s just that I always thought that these
off-Broadway plays were done entirely by students or—or—very young
actors and actresses. I mean....”
Mona Downs laughed. “Don’t feel embarrassed to talk about our advanced
ages. We aren’t supposed to look like fresh young things!”
Tom Galen smiled in agreement. “We’re here because Randy needed some
actors for the more mature parts, and we were lucky enough to be picked.
The off-Broadway plays are a good showcase for experienced actors, too,
you know. Take me, for instance—I’ve been acting for a good many years
now, but I’ve never had any really good vehicles. I’ve made a living on
supporting roles and road shows, and I’ve even played some good leads in
stock, but somehow I’ve never quite hit it. Maybe I’m not good enough,
but on the other hand, I may just not have had the breaks. These
off-Broadway shows nowadays are seen by all the top critics in New York,
and if I do a good job, and if they like the play, I have a chance to go
on to a whole new kind of career. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why
Mona is here. Besides, you can’t do a believable show with just young
actors.”
“I see,” Peggy nodded. “And I hope you didn’t mind my mentioning it....”
But before Tom Galen or Mona Downs had a chance to reassure her again,
the buzzer rang, and they broke off.
“That must be Randy and Mal,” Connie said. “I’ll go get them.”
She pushed the button to unlock the gate, and opened the front door
expectantly. A few seconds later, Mal entered with a tall, grinning,
engaging-looking young man with flaming red hair. For a moment, everyone
seemed to be talking at once. Randy and Mal were apologizing for being
late; Connie was saying that they weren’t late at all; Pip was trying to
get Randy away to introduce him to Amy and Peggy; Mona and Tom were
asking him about the financing he had managed to get for the show, and
Linda was playing “Hail the Conquering Hero” in loud, solid chords.
When the initial excitement had died down and the last resounding notes
of the piano had quieted, Randy Brewster was introduced to Peggy and Amy
by an excited Connie.
“We’re having all the luck today!” she exclaimed. “You come up with the
backing for the play, and Pip discovers these two wonderful girls who
want to be beasts of burden for the show!”
“The two prettiest beasts in New York, I’m sure,” Randy said with a
smile, and Peggy was positive that she was blushing, though she tried
her hardest not to. “I’m grateful for your interest,” Randy continued,
“and I only hope that we have a chance to use your help.”
“Why, now that you’ve raised the money, isn’t it certain that the play
will be produced?” Peggy asked.
“We have a better chance today than we had yesterday,” Randy explained,
“but it’s far from a sure thing yet. You see, we have the central
problem now of trying to find a theater we can use. And I’m afraid
that’s going to prove to be a harder job than raising the money, or even
than writing the play in the first place.”