He was ushered1 at once into the presence of a broad shouldered, rather dull, but quite determined2 appearing man who sat in a swivel chair before a birch-mahogany desk. In another corner of the room sat a tall, dark, young man whose face had the appearance of having been moulded out of chilled gray steel.
99
“It’s a light opera,” said Angelo, placing his manuscript on the desk. “If you’ll let me tell you about it I am sure you will be able to decide at once whether or not it will fit the Blackmoore Theatre.”
The stout3 man nodded.
Angelo began to talk. As he continued to talk he began to glow. He was full of his subject.
“Wait!” The stout man held up a hand.
“Drysdale,” he said to the gray, steel-eyed man, “you had better sit in on this.”
Gray Steel arose, dragged a chair forward and sat down.
“All right.” The stout man nodded to Angelo.
“Shall—shall I begin over again?”
“Not necessary. Drysdale is clever. Takes a thing in the middle, and works both ways.”
Angelo talked and glowed once more. For fully4 half an hour, like a small car on a country road at night, he rattled5 and glowed.
“What do you think of it?” the stout man demanded, when the recital6 was finished. “Drysdale, what do you think? Find a chorus, right enough. Know one right now. House is dark. What do you think?”
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“Paris.” Gray Steel Face cupped his chin. “Americans go wild over Paris.”
“Sure they do, just wild. They—” Angelo’s flow of enthusiasm was cut short by a glower7 from Gray Steel Face.
“Mr. Drysdale is our director,” the stout man explained. “Directed many plays. Very successful. Makes ’em march. You’re right he does!”
“Gypsy stuff goes well,” Drysdale continued. “But who ever heard of taking a gypsy for a star? She’d need training. No end of it.”
“Oh, no! She—”
“We’d have to read the script. Have to see them perform.” Drysdale gave no heed8 to Angelo. “Say you bring ’em here to-morrow night, say eight o’clock.”
“No stage,” said the stout manager.
“We—we have a small one,” Angelo explained eagerly. “Come to my studio, won’t you? There you’ll see them at their best.”
“What say, Drysdale?”
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“We’ll be there. Mind! Eight sharp. None of your artistic9 foolishness!”
Next night, the two men did see Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker10 at their best.
Was their best good enough? The face of the director was still a steel mask. He conferred with his manager in the corner of the room for half an hour.
In the meantime Angelo perspired11 profusely12. Petite Jeanne felt hot and cold spasms13 chase one another up her back, but Dan Baker sat placidly14 smoking by the fire. He was an old trouper. The road lay always before him.
But for Angelo and Jeanne hopes had run high. Their ambitions were on the altar. They were waiting for the fire.
“We’ll have a contract for you by eleven o’clock to-morrow,” said the stout man, in a tone as unemotional as he might have used to call a waiter. “Drysdale here says it’s a bit crude; but emotional stuff—got some pull, he believes. Office at eleven.”
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Petite Jeanne could scarcely await their departure. Hardly had the door closed when, in true French fashion, she threw her arms about the old trouper and kissed him on both cheeks. Nor was Angelo neglected.
“We’re made!” she cried joyously15. “The footlights, oh, the blessed footlights!” She walked the young composer about the room until she was dizzy. Then, springing like a top, she landed in a corner by the fire and demanded a demi-tasse of coffee.
As they drank their coffee Angelo was strangely silent. “I don’t like what they said about the opera,” he explained, when Jeanne teased him. “They’ll want to tear it all to pieces, like as not, and put in a lot of half-indecent stuff.
“And that theatre,” he sighed. “It’s a frightful16 old barn of a place. Going to be torn down to make way for a skyscraper17 next year, I’m told. I hope you may not hate it too much.” As he looked at Petite Jeanne two wrinkles appeared on his high forehead.
“Oh, the Paris Opera,” she laughed. “That was but a small bit. I am sure I shall be quite deliriously18 happy!”
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It was thus that she left Angelo’s studio. But the morrow, a gray day, was to find them all in quite another mood.
When Angelo returned to the studio next day at noon, he was in a sober mood.
His eyes lighted as he found a small table standing19 before the fire, spread with spotless linen20 and piled with good things to eat.
“This,” he said, taking Petite Jeanne’s hands in his own, “is your doing.”
“Not entirely21, and not hardly at all,” laughed the little French girl. “I’m a poor cook, and a very bad manager. You may credit it all to Florence.”
Florence, at that, stepped from the shadows. For once her ready smile was not forthcoming.
“Florence!” he exclaimed in surprise. “How is it you are here? I thought you were at your work at the gym.”
“There is no more gym,” said the girl soberly. “It has been turned into a lodging22 house for those poor unfortunates who in these sad times have no place to sleep.
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“Of course,” she added quickly, as a mellow23 tone crept into her voice, “I am glad for them! But this leaves me exactly flat; no job, and no prospect24 of one for months.”
“No job? Of course you have one!” Jeanne placed an inadequate25 arm about Florence’s ample waist. “You will be my stage ‘mother’ once more.”
At this they turned an inquiring glance upon Angelo. For once it seemed he had nothing to say.
The meal was half finished before he spoke26 about the matter nearest all their hearts. When he did speak, it was in a very indirect manner. “In this world,” he began quite soberly, “there’s very little real generosity27. People who have money cling to it as if it had power to carry them to the very gates of Heaven. Those who have nothing often feel very generous, but have nothing with which to prove the genuineness of their feeling.
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“Generosity!” He almost growled28. “You read a lot about it in the papers. Capital agrees to do this. Big money is ready to do that. Wages shall be kept up. Those who are in tight places shall be dealt with in a generous fashion. That’s what they give out for publication.
“What they’re really doing, many of them, is undermining the uncertain foothold of those who have very little. They’re cutting wages here, putting on screws there, in secret, wherever they dare. And our friendly enemy, the manager, who wants our light opera, old Mr. Rockledge,” he declared with a flourish, as if to conclude the whole matter, “is no exception.”
“Didn’t he give us a contract?” asked Petite Jeanne, as her eyes opened wide.
“Yes. A contract. But such a contract! He said we could take it or leave it. And old Gray Steel Face nodded his head and snapped his steel jaw29 shut, so I took it away; but we needn’t sign if we don’t care to.”
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The remainder of the meal was eaten for the most part in silence. Just as they finished, Swen and Dan Baker entered. They had been for a long stroll along the lake front, and had dined at a place which Swen had found where they could get genuine black bread and spiced fillet of sole.
“What luck?” Swen demanded.
“Rotten!” Angelo threw the contract on the table. “Read it and weep!” The others crowded around to do so.
A silence, broken only by the rustle30 of turned pages, ensued.
As the perusal31 was concluded Jeanne’s face was a brown study. Florence, who had read over her shoulder, was plainly angry. Baker neither smiled nor frowned. Swen smiled.
“Well,” Swen drawled, “since this is to be our first production, and success will keep the wolf from the door for six months to come, I don’t see that it’s so worse. One success calls for another. And it’s on the second that you have a chance to tell ’em where they get off.”
“I think,” said Petite Jeanne quietly, “that Swen is right. It means renewed hope for all of us. Winter is at our door. There are no turnips32 in our cellar, nor hams in our smoke-house.” She thought of the old days in France.
“That’s me,” agreed Dan Baker.
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Since Florence had no contract to sign, she said nothing.
“Then,” said Angelo with a sigh, half of relief and half of disappointment, “we sign on the dotted line. To-day we visit the theatre. To-morrow rehearsals33 begin. The thing is to be put on as soon as it can be whipped into shape. Every day a theatre is dark means a loss to its owners.”
They signed in silence. Then, drawing chairs before the fire, they sat down for half an hour of quiet meditation34. Many and varied35 were the thoughts that, like thin smoke, passed off into space as they lingered there.
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1
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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glower
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| v.怒目而视 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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9
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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10
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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13
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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14
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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skyscraper
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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19
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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20
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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24
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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28
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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30
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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31
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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32
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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33
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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