Never had any of her difficulties been adjusted in a manner more
satisfactory to Joan. She rose at once from an abyss of discouragement
to sunlit peaks of happiness. Installing a rented type-writing machine
in the room adjoining her own (temporarily without a tenant and
willingly loaned by Madame Duprat) she tapped away industriously from
early morning till late at night, sedulously transcribing into clean
type-script the mangled manuscripts given her by Matthias. By no means a
rapid worker, after renewing acquaintance with the machine she made up
for slowness by diligence and long hours. And the work interested her:
she thought the plays magnificent; and a novel which Matthias gave her
when his stock of old plays ran low she considered superb. It was his
first and only book, and had not as yet been submitted to the mercies of
a publisher. But to Joan it was something more than a book; it was a
revelation, her primal introduction to the world of the intellect. From
poring over its pages, she grew hungry for more, thrilled by the
discovery that she could find interest and pleasure in reading.
She began to borrow extensively from the circulation branch of the
Public Library in Forty-second Street, and to read late into the night,
defying the prejudices of Madame Duprat on the question of gas
consumption....
Refusing an offer of public stenographer rates, she had asked for ten
dollars a week. This Matthias paid her, under protest that the work was
worth more to him. The arrangement was, however, a fortunate one; for
though at first Joan earned more than she received, after rehearsals of
"The Jade God" had started she was seldom able to give more than two or
three hours a day to the copying.
These rehearsals furnished her with impressions vastly different from
those garnered through her experience with "The Convict's Return."
The company assembled for the first time on a mid-August morning, in the
author's study. There were present eight men, aside from Matthias and
the manager, his producing director and his press agent, and four women,
including Joan. After brief introductions, the gathering disposed itself
to attention, and Matthias, rocking nervously in his revolving
desk-chair, read the play aloud. To most of those present the work was
new and unfamiliar; they listened with intense interest, keenly alive to
the possibilities of the various parts for which they had been cast.
But Joan was not of these; she had typed all the parts and knew not only
the story but her own slight though significant rôle (as she would have
said) "backwards." Sitting in a shadowed corner, she devoted herself to
studying those with whom her lines were to be cast.
The leading lady was an actress who, after several attempts to star at
the head of her own company, was reduced to playing second to the young
and handsome matinée hero of several seasons ago, planning to return in
triumph to the stage after an unsuccessful effort to retire from it into
the contented estate of well-financed matrimony. Through their widely
published photographs Joan was familiar with the features of both.
She thought the star charming; good-humoured, good-looking,
well-mannered, slight and graceful, he had all the assurance of a
Charlie Quard and none of his vain swagger.
But Joan decided on sight to detest the leading woman. She was a pale,
ashen blonde, with a skin as colourless as snow, level dark brows,
sharp blue eyes set close to the bridge of her pointed nose, and a
thin-lipped, violent mouth. The first impression she conveyed was one of
dangerous temper; the second, that she had been happy in her choice of
photographers. Throughout the reading, she sat negligently on the arm of
a chair, swinging a foot and staring out of the window with an air of
immitigable disdain.
Of the other women, one was a grey-haired, sweet-faced lady of perhaps
fifty years, whose eyes softened winningly whenever they encountered
Joan's, the other an unlovely creature of middle-age and long stage
experience, who seemed to have no interest in life aside from her
unfolding part. The remainder of the company, of a caste hall-marked by
the theatre, offered nothing novel to Joan's eyes--aside from a fat,
red-faced lump of a youth who was to act a thick-witted, sentimental
office-boy, in love with the stenographer (Joan). This one she decided
to tolerate on suspicion; he resembled a type which she had found
difficult, apt to impertinence and annoying attentions.
Rideout, the man financially responsible for the production, was an
English actor of reputation and considerable ability. Carrying his
stoutish body with an ease that almost suggested slenderness: with his
plump, blowsy face, twinkling eyes and fat nose of a comedian: the
insuppressible staginess of his gesture would have betrayed his calling
anywhere. Now and again Joan surprised an anxious expression lurking
beneath his humorous smile; she had inferred from some casual remark
made by Matthias that Rideout was staking all he possessed on the
success of this play.
The producing manager, Wilbrow, was a short, lean-bodied American, with
lantern jaws, large intent eyes, and a nervous frown. Joan was impressed
with the aloof pleasantness of his manner: she was to know him better.
The reading over, the company was dismissed with instructions to report
at ten the next morning at an obscure dance-hall masquerading under the
name of an opera house, situate in the immediate neighbourhood, between
Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Several lingered to affix signatures to
contracts--Joan of their number; and when these were gone, there
remained in conference the star, the leading woman, Matthias, Rideout,
and Wilbrow.
Going out to dinner that night, Joan passed Matthias bidding good-bye to
the leading woman in the hallway. He seemed tired and wore a harassed
look; and later, when the girl delivered the outcome of her day's
copying, he had a manner new to her, of weary brusqueness.
The first rehearsal proper was held in a stuffy and ill-ventilated room,
so dark that it was necessary to use the electric lights even at high
noon. The day was fortunately cool, otherwise the place had been
insufferable. There was little attempt at acting; the company devoted
itself, under Wilbrow's patient direction, to blocking in the action.
They had no stage--simply that bare, four-square room. Half a dozen
chairs and a few long benches were dragged about to indicate entrances
and properties. Nobody pretended to know his part--not even Joan, who
knew hers perfectly. The example of the others, who merely mumbled from
the manuscripts in their hands, made the girl fear to betray
amateurishness by discovering too great an initial familiarity with her
lines. So she, too, carried her "'script," and read from it. When not
thus engaged, she sat watching and noting down what was going on with
eager attention.
But she took away with her a depressing sense of having engaged in
something formless and incoherent.
But succeeding rehearsals--beginning with the second--corrected this
misapprehension. That afternoon developed Wilbrow suddenly into a
mild-mannered, semi-apologetic, and humorous tyrant. He discovered an
individual comprehension of what was required for the right development
of the play, and an invincible determination to get it. He never lost
either temper or patience, neither swore nor lifted his voice; but
having indicated his desire, wrought patiently with its subject,
sometimes for as long as an hour, until he had succeeded in satisfying
it. He worked coatless, with his long black hair straggling down over
his forehead and across his glasses: an incredibly thin, energetic, and
efficient figure, dominated by a penetrating and masterful intelligence.
Not infrequently, taking the typed part from the hands of one of his
puppets, he would himself give a vivid sketch of its requirements
through the medium of intonation, gesture, and action. And to Joan,
at least, the effects he created by these means were as striking
in the feminine rôles as in the masculine. Utterly devoid of
self-consciousness, he had the faculty of seeming for the moment
actually to be what he sought to suggest: one forgot the man, saw only
what he had in mind.
Another thing that surprised the girl more than a little was the
docility with which her associates submitted to his dictation and even
invited it. She had heard of actors "creating" rôles; but in this
company no one but the producer seemed to be creating anything. The
others came to rehearsals with minds so open that they seemed vacuous;
not one, whether the star, his leading woman, or any of their supporting
players, indicated the least comprehension of what they were required to
portray or the slightest symptom of original conception. What Wilbrow
told them and then showed them how to do, they performed with varying
degrees of success. So that Joan at last came to believe the best actors
those most susceptible to domination, least capable of independent
thought. As he gradually became acquainted with his lines and the
business Wilbrow mapped out for him, the star began to give more
compelling impersonations at each rehearsal; but to the girl he never
seemed more than a carbon filament of a man, burning bright with
incandescence only when impregnated with the fluid genius of a superior
mentality. So, likewise, with the leading woman....
As for herself, Joan was hardly happy in her endeavour to please. Having
unwisely formed her own premature conception of her part, and lacking
totally the technical ability to express it, she ran constantly afoul of
Wilbrow's notions. She was called upon first to erase her own
personality, next to forget the personality which she had meant to
delineate, and finally to substitute for both these one which Wilbrow
alone seemed able to see and understand. She strove patiently and
without complaint, but in a stupefying welter of confusion. While on the
pretended stage she was constantly terrified by Wilbrow's mild but
predominant regard, which rendered her only awkward, witless, and
ill-at-ease. Then, too, her attempts to imitate his brilliant and
colourful acting were received with amusement, not always wholly silent,
by the rest of the company. She seemed quite unable to follow his lead;
and toward the end of the first week, throughout the whole of which (she
was aware from the calm resignation of Wilbrow's attitude) she had
improved not one whit, she began to despair.
Inasmuch as she appeared only in the first act, she was customarily
excused from attendance at the rest of each rehearsal, and spent this
extra time at home, over her typewriter; thus maintaining the fiction of
earning her weekly stipend.
On Saturday afternoon, however, as soon as her "bit" had been rehearsed,
there occurred one of those quiet, aloof conferences between Wilbrow,
Rideout, and Matthias, which she had learned to recognize as presaging a
change in the cast. Twice before, such consultations had resulted in the
release of subordinate actors who had proved unequal to their parts. Now
from the author's uneasy and distressed eye, which alternately sought
and avoided her, Joan divined that her own fate was being weighed in the
balance. And her heart grew heavy with misgivings. None the less, she
was permitted to leave with no other advice than that the rehearsals
would resume on the following Monday, at nine in the morning, on the
stage of a Broadway theatre.
She hurried home in a mood of wretched anxiety and creeping despair.
Wilbrow had indisputable excuse for dissatisfaction with her; Rideout
was quite humanly bent on getting the best material his money could
purchase--and she was far from that; while Matthias couldn't reasonably
protest against her dismissal for manifest incompetency. And dismissal
now meant more to Joan than the loss of her coveted chance to appear in
a first-class production; it meant not only the loss of the living she
earned as typist--and she had been engaged with the understanding,
implicit if not explicit, that Matthias had only enough extra work to
occupy her until the opening of his play; dismissal from the cast of
"The Jade God," in short, meant the loss to her of Matthias.
There was no longer in her heart any doubt that she loved him. The
admiration conceived in her that first night, when he had turned himself
out to afford her shelter, had needed only this brief period of
propinquity to ripen into something infinitely more deep and strong. And
from the first she had been ready and willing to adore his very shadow
upon an excuse far less encouraging than his kindly though detached
interest in her welfare. In her cosmos Matthias was a being as exotic as
a Martian, his intelligence of an order that passed understanding. His
thoughts and ways of speech, his interests and amusements (as far as she
could divine them) the delicacy of his perceptions, and the very
refinements of his mode of life, all new and strange to her, invested
him with a mystery as compelling to her imagination as the reticences of
a strange and beautiful woman have for the mind of a young man. She
worshipped him with a hopeless and inarticulate longing, and was content
with this for the present; but hourly she dreamed of a day when through
his aid she should have lifted herself to a position in which she would
seem something more to him than a mere, forlorn shop-girl out of work
and scratching for a living. If only she might hope to become an actress
of recognized ability!...
It was a truism in her conception of life that the estate of actress was
a loadstone for the hearts of men.
If success were to be denied her!...
In her bedroom, behind a locked door, she hurried to her pillow and to
tears. She had known many an hour darkened by the fugitive despairs of
youth; but never until this day had she been so despondently sorry for
herself.
Later, the banal ticking of her tin alarm-clock penetrated her
consciousness, and she remembered that she had work to do--to be
finished before evening, if her promise to Matthias were to be kept. She
rose, splashed face and eyes with cold water, and went to her typewriter
in the adjoining room.
She had really very little to do in order to complete her task--only a
few pages of scored and interlined manuscript to reduce to clean copy;
but her mind was not with her work. Time and again she found herself
sitting with idle hands, thoughts far errant; and now and then she had
to dry her eyes before she could proceed: so stubbornly did she cling to
the sorry indulgence of self-pity! Once, even, she was so overcome by
contemplation of her sufferings that she bowed her head upon the table
where the manuscript lay, and wept without restraint for several
minutes--without restraint and, toward the last, with kindling interest
in the discovery that her tears were bedewing a freshly typed page.
If Matthias were to notice, would he understand? And, understanding,
what would he think?...
With shame-faced reluctance she destroyed the blotched page and typed it
anew.
It was dark before she finished; and she was glad of this when she
gathered up the manuscript to take to her employer. With no light in his
room other than that of the reading-lamp with the green shade, her
stained and flushed cheeks and swollen eyes would escape detection. It
was not that she wouldn't have welcomed sympathetic interest, but a
glance in the mirror showed her she had wept too unrestrainedly not to
have depreciated the chiefest asset of her charm--her prettiness.
However, she could not well avoid the meeting: the work must be
delivered; but if she were lucky she would find him in one of his
frequent moods of abstraction, and their interview need only be of the
briefest. Nevertheless, she would have sent the work to him by the
chambermaid if her week's wage had not been due that night.
She waited a moment, listening at the door to the back-parlour; but
there was no sound of voices within; and reassured, she knocked.
His response--"Come in!"--followed with unexpected promptness. She
obeyed, though with misgivings amply justified as soon as she found
herself in the room, which was for once well-lighted, two gas-jets on
the chandelier supplementing the green-shaded lamp.
Matthias was bending over a kit-bag on the couch, hastily packing enough
clothing to tide him over Sunday. He threw her an indifferent glance and
greeting over his shoulder.
"Hello, Miss Thursday! I was beginning to wonder whether you'd forgotten
me. I'm going to run down to Port Madison until Monday morning--last
chance I'll have for a day in the country for some time, probably.
Chances are, Wilbrow will keep us at work next Sunday. Got that 'script
all ready?"
Joan, depositing it on the table, murmured an affirmative in a voice
uncontrollably unsteady. Before entering she had been quite sure of her
ability to carry off the short interview without betraying her harrowed
emotions. But to find the man about whom they centred packing to leave
town--to leave her!--added the final touch of misery to her mood. And
the inflection of her response could not have failed to strike oddly on
his hearing.
Uttering a wondering "_Hello!_" he straightened up and swung round to
look at her. And a glance sufficed: his smile faded, was replaced by a
pucker of sympathy between his brows.
"Why, what's the trouble?"
Joan averted her face. "N-nothing," she faltered. Her lip trembled, her
eyes filled anew. She dabbed at them with a wadded handkerchief.
Matthias hesitated. He drew down the corners of his mouth, elevated his
brows, and scratched a temple slowly with a meditative forefinger. Then
he nodded sharply and, crossing to the door, closed it.
"Tell me about it," he said, coming back to the girl. "Things not going
to suit you, eh?"
She shook her head, looking away. "I--I--!" she stammered--"_I_ can't
act!"
"O nonsense!" he interrupted with kindly impatience. "You mustn't get
discouraged so easily. Naturally it comes hard at first, but you'll
catch on. Everything of this sort takes time. I was saying the same
thing to Wilbrow today."
"Yes," she mumbled, gulping--"I--I know. I was watching you. H-he and
Mr. Rideout wanted to fire me, didn't they?"
"What? Oh, no, no!" Matthias lied unconvincingly. "They--they were just
wondering.... I assured them--"
"But you hadn't any right to!" the girl broke in passionately. "I can't
act and--and I know it, and you know it, as well as they do. I can't--I
just can't! It's no use.... I'm no good...."
Of a sudden she flopped into a chair, rested her head on arms folded on
the table, and sobbed aloud.
Matthias shook his head and (since she could not see him) permitted
himself a gesture of impotent exasperation. This was really the devil of
a note! Women were incomprehensible: you couldn't bank on 'em, ever.
Here was he preparing to catch a train, and not too much time at
that....
But a glance at the clock reassured him slightly; he had still a little
leeway. All the same, he didn't much relish the prospect of being
compelled to invest his spare minutes in attempting to comfort a silly,
emotional girl. And, besides, somebody in the hallway might hear her
sobbing....
This last consideration took him somewhat reluctantly to her side.
"There, there!" he pleaded, intensely irritated by that feeling of
helplessness which always afflicts man in the presence of a weeping
woman, whether or not he has the right to comfort her. "There--don't
cry, please, Miss--ah--Thursday. You're all right--really, you are.
You--you're--ah--doing all this quite needlessly, I give you my word."
He might as well have attempted to stem a mountain torrent.
"I wish I could make you understand this is all quite unnecessary," he
groaned.
"I--I'm so mis'able!" came a wail from the huddled figure.
"I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably--"awfully sorry, truly. But you--I'm
not afraid you won't make good, and I don't intend to let you go until
you've had every chance in the world. That's a promise."
He ventured to give her quaking shoulder a light, encouraging pat or
two, and rested his hand upon the corner of the table.
"Come, now--brace up--please. I--"
With a strangled sob Joan sat up, caught his hand and carried it to her
lips. Before he could recover from his astonishment it was damp with her
tears and kisses.
Instantly he snatched it away.
"You--you're so good to me!" she cried.
Matthias, horrified, stepped back a pace or two, as if to insure himself
against a repetition of her offence, and quite mechanically dried his
hand with a handkerchief. And then, in a flash, he lost his temper.
"What the devil do you mean by doing that to me?" he demanded harshly.
"Look here--you stop this nonsense. I won't have it. I--why--it's
outrageous! What right have you got to--to do anything like that?"
The shock of his anger brought the girl to her senses. Her tears ceased
in an instant, as if automatically. She rose, mopping her face with her
handkerchief, swallowed one last sob, and moved sullenly toward the
door.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I--you've been very kind to me--I forgot
myself. I'm sorry."
"Well ..." he said grudgingly, in his irritation. "But don't let it
happen again."
"There's no chance of that," the girl retorted with a brief-lived flash
of spirit. "Good night."
"Good night," he returned.
She was gone before he recovered; and then compunction smote him, and he
followed her as far as the hallway.
In the half-light of the flickering gas-jet, he saw her only as a shadow
slowly mounting the staircase. And a glance toward the front door
discovered indistinct shapes of lodgers on the stoop.
"Miss Thursday!" he called in a guarded voice.
She heard, hesitated a single instant, then with quickened steps resumed
the ascent.
He called once again, but she refused to listen, and he returned to his
study in a state of insensate rage; which, however, had this time
himself for its sole object--Joan's transgression quite lost sight of in
remorse for his brutality. He could not remember ever having spoken to
any woman in such wise: no man had any right to speak to any woman in
such a manner, for any cause, however exasperating.
Tremendously disgusted with himself, and ashamed, he tramped the floor
so long, trying to quiet his conscience, and made so many futile
attempts to apologize to the girl by word of hand--one and all either
too abject or too constrained--that he had lost his train before he
produced the lame and halting effort with which he was at length fain to
be content.
A later train was bearing him under the East River to Long Island when
Joan read his message.
A servant had taken it to the girl's room and, knocking without
receiving an answer, concluded that Joan was out and slipped it under
the door.
When the descending footsteps were no longer audible, Joan rose from the
bed, lighted the gas, and with blurred vision deciphered the lines:
"DEAR MISS THURSDAY:--Please forgive me for my unmannerly
exhibition of temper. I regret exceedingly my inability to make
you understand how sorry I am to have hurt your feelings.
"And do please understand that there is no grave
dissatisfaction with your work at rehearsals. Remember that you
have two weeks more in which to show what you can do.
"I shall hope that you are not too deeply offended to overlook
my loss of temper and to continue typing my book; if possible
I'd like to have another chapter by Monday night.
"Sincerely yours,
"JOHN MATTHIAS."
"P. S.--I enclose--what I'd completely forgotten--the regular
weekly amount--$10."
She fell asleep, at length, with this note crushed between her pillow
and her cheek.