find? Still, I must say I feel a sort of sadness for the poor beast, myself.”
“But the face. Was it a mask?”
“Just greasepaint. I pooled ideas with the chap they sent down from town, and did it myself.” He added, with modest satisfaction, “The gills were mine. He was rather against them, but he admitted in the end they were a help. I always think there ought to be something a bit fishy about Caliban, don’t you? After all, he smelled like a fish.”
“What else have you done?”
“I was the First Madman in Malfi. That was great fun. A sort of cheese-colored face; paralyzed down one, side. Like this.” He illustrated, with unpleasant realism. “Oh, and Oberon the year after.”
“But I remember reading about that. Was that you?”
“I was after Bottom, really, but they weren’t having any. Still, Toller was very good, and I’d had a lot of fun, so I couldn’t grouse. There’s something in Oberon, too, if he isn’t prettified; great mistake, that. I believe I’ve got a couple of snaps somewhere, if all this doesn’t bore you stiff. But are you feeling tired?”
“Not at all. Let me look.”
He fished a thick, rubbed leather wallet out of his pocket. “I expect they’re here. Yes, here we are.” He handed them over; the work, she saw, of a competent amateur, no doubt one of the cast. “It looks a strong make-up,” he said, “for the open air. But the audience wasn’t very close; and of course the lighting came on halfway through.”
“It’s very striking,” she said, covering an inward disappointment. “But I still wouldn’t have known you. I should have thought your own face would have done, with a few quirks here and there.”
“I tried it. But I didn’t fancy it.”
“Did you keep any of the clippings about it? The one from the Observer, for instance? I’d like to see it again.”
“Very likely.” He produced a strip of newsprint, and handed it over. When she had taken it, he looked for the first time embarrassed. She ran her eye down the cutting, confirming the impressions she had retained.
… No such allowances, however, had to be made for Julian Fleming’s Oberon. Here was a fresh, strong, and consistent interpretation. A few technical faults, which experience will remedy, were offset by imaginative coherence, a fine presence, and a delivery which wasted nothing of the great incantations. It seemed a pity to handicap a flexible and subtle performance with a make-up so heavily stylized that it approximated to a mask; enough came through, however, to set up a standard inimical to indulgence elsewhere, and …
She looked up. “I know less than nothing about the theater from inside. But I should have thought that after a notice like this in a London paper, you wouldn’t have much difficulty in breaking into the professional stage.”
He said, with what seemed complete indifference, “Oh, not by now, I should think. They have short memories, you know.”
She said quickly, “You had an offer, then?”
“Vaguely. But there were—various difficulties. I hadn’t had my viva, or the result of my finals or anything. And, oh, well, there were any amount of things.” He took the cutting from her, and put it back. He would have taken the photographs too, but she withdrew them, and sliding away the top ones, took out the one below.
“This isn’t Oberon,” she said. “What is it?”
A second glance made obvious what it was: a flash, taken during performance, of one of the Boar’s Head Tavern scenes from Henry IV. Beside an unconvincing lath fireplace, Falstaff, crudely whiskered and padded, with bloat lines penciled on a youthful face, was standing with a tankard. Near him on a long settle Prince Hal was lounging, long-legged in silk hose, one hanging scalloped sleeve brushing the floor, smiling up with lazy impudence into his face. He looked slight and graceful and immensely young; it must have been taken before he was fully grown.
“Well,” she said,
“But the face. Was it a mask?”
“Just greasepaint. I pooled ideas with the chap they sent down from town, and did it myself.” He added, with modest satisfaction, “The gills were mine. He was rather against them, but he admitted in the end they were a help. I always think there ought to be something a bit fishy about Caliban, don’t you? After all, he smelled like a fish.”
“What else have you done?”
“I was the First Madman in Malfi. That was great fun. A sort of cheese-colored face; paralyzed down one, side. Like this.” He illustrated, with unpleasant realism. “Oh, and Oberon the year after.”
“But I remember reading about that. Was that you?”
“I was after Bottom, really, but they weren’t having any. Still, Toller was very good, and I’d had a lot of fun, so I couldn’t grouse. There’s something in Oberon, too, if he isn’t prettified; great mistake, that. I believe I’ve got a couple of snaps somewhere, if all this doesn’t bore you stiff. But are you feeling tired?”
“Not at all. Let me look.”
He fished a thick, rubbed leather wallet out of his pocket. “I expect they’re here. Yes, here we are.” He handed them over; the work, she saw, of a competent amateur, no doubt one of the cast. “It looks a strong make-up,” he said, “for the open air. But the audience wasn’t very close; and of course the lighting came on halfway through.”
“It’s very striking,” she said, covering an inward disappointment. “But I still wouldn’t have known you. I should have thought your own face would have done, with a few quirks here and there.”
“I tried it. But I didn’t fancy it.”
“Did you keep any of the clippings about it? The one from the Observer, for instance? I’d like to see it again.”
“Very likely.” He produced a strip of newsprint, and handed it over. When she had taken it, he looked for the first time embarrassed. She ran her eye down the cutting, confirming the impressions she had retained.
… No such allowances, however, had to be made for Julian Fleming’s Oberon. Here was a fresh, strong, and consistent interpretation. A few technical faults, which experience will remedy, were offset by imaginative coherence, a fine presence, and a delivery which wasted nothing of the great incantations. It seemed a pity to handicap a flexible and subtle performance with a make-up so heavily stylized that it approximated to a mask; enough came through, however, to set up a standard inimical to indulgence elsewhere, and …
She looked up. “I know less than nothing about the theater from inside. But I should have thought that after a notice like this in a London paper, you wouldn’t have much difficulty in breaking into the professional stage.”
He said, with what seemed complete indifference, “Oh, not by now, I should think. They have short memories, you know.”
She said quickly, “You had an offer, then?”
“Vaguely. But there were—various difficulties. I hadn’t had my viva, or the result of my finals or anything. And, oh, well, there were any amount of things.” He took the cutting from her, and put it back. He would have taken the photographs too, but she withdrew them, and sliding away the top ones, took out the one below.
“This isn’t Oberon,” she said. “What is it?”
A second glance made obvious what it was: a flash, taken during performance, of one of the Boar’s Head Tavern scenes from Henry IV. Beside an unconvincing lath fireplace, Falstaff, crudely whiskered and padded, with bloat lines penciled on a youthful face, was standing with a tankard. Near him on a long settle Prince Hal was lounging, long-legged in silk hose, one hanging scalloped sleeve brushing the floor, smiling up with lazy impudence into his face. He looked slight and graceful and immensely young; it must have been taken before he was fully grown.
“Well,” she said,
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