You’re not in the least bit offended?”
Escott smiled again. “By no means! Intrigued is what I am.”
Beyond him, on the other side of the sitting room, I could see Sasanoff huddling with his Viola and a few other cast mates, all of them scowling murderously at me—and at Escott.
I nodded ever so slightly toward Escott’s colleagues. “You probably shouldn’t be seen conversing with me so amiably.”
Escott waved a dismissive hand at the other actors, his expression turning cold, almost scornful, with chilling speed.
“I’ve learned what I can from the likes of them. Of late, my thoughts have come more into alignment with yours, if what you said a moment ago is any indication. The classical style of acting does not offer a true reflection of humanity. It is a warped mirror, broadening that which is small, twisting and distorting that which is idiosyncratic. Unlike Sasanoff,
I
could stand on any street corner and find infinite cause for fascination, innumerable insights into the workings of man. Our company’s grotesque caperings, on the other hand, are mere pantomime. Were anyone to emote and gesticulate and pop their eyes in public as we do on stage, they’d soon be sent to the madhouse!”
By the end of this soliloquy, Escott was emoting quite a bit himself, and his drawn cheeks and high forehead flushed pink with excitement. I was surprised by the passion with which he spoke—as was the Old Senator.
“Young man,” Father said, “it sounds to me as if you’re more interested in people than acting.”
Escott nodded with what seemed to be rueful amusement.
“The proper study of man is man,” he sighed. “Actually, that’s what drew me to the stage in the first place. I’ve been working on the assumption that the study of acting
is
the study of man. But now I have my doubts.”
“You were close,” I said. “It’s just that it’s the other way around. The study of man is the study of acting.”
Escott squinted and tilted his head slightly to one side, as if searching for a new angle to gaze upon something he couldn’t quite pull into focus.
“Would you mind elaborating on that?”
“Not at all. Only . . .” I looked down at Father. I had so much to say, but was this the time to say it? “ . . . I fear I’d put you both to sleep.”
“I haven’t felt so awake in weeks,” the Old Senator said firmly, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“All right, then,” I said, and it was my turn to soliloquize.
I spoke of things I’d never dared share with Father before, fearing he’d find it silly, devoting deep thought to such a trivial thing as playacting. I’d never even told him it was he who’d sparked my interest in acting in the first place, with his habit of inserting long, thoughtful, dramatic pauses into speeches I knew he knew by heart. I’d always assumed he wouldn’t take it as a compliment.
Yet as I spooled out that and more—my ideas on verisimilitude of emotion and character and the importance of making each line not a pronouncement but a new, naturally occurring revelation—our father was just as engaged an audience as Escott. So freed did I feel by the Old Senator’s attention, his actual interest in my thoughts, I even found myself revealing the researchesI’ve done in disguise, something I’d long assumed would scandalize our parents to the point of disinheritance.
“You set up practice as a doctor?” Escott marveled, looking both dismayed and deeply impressed.
“Only for a few days. While with a company in Cleveland. To see if I could pass as a medical man.”
I turned to Father, who was finally wearing the frown I’d been expecting all along. Though only a small one, tinged with curiosity.
“Don’t worry—I referred all my ‘patients’ to real physicians,” I told him. “And after that, I kept to impersonations of a more harmless stripe. I’ve been a Hoosier blacksmith, an Irish railroad worker, a blind beggar—”
“And what did
Escott smiled again. “By no means! Intrigued is what I am.”
Beyond him, on the other side of the sitting room, I could see Sasanoff huddling with his Viola and a few other cast mates, all of them scowling murderously at me—and at Escott.
I nodded ever so slightly toward Escott’s colleagues. “You probably shouldn’t be seen conversing with me so amiably.”
Escott waved a dismissive hand at the other actors, his expression turning cold, almost scornful, with chilling speed.
“I’ve learned what I can from the likes of them. Of late, my thoughts have come more into alignment with yours, if what you said a moment ago is any indication. The classical style of acting does not offer a true reflection of humanity. It is a warped mirror, broadening that which is small, twisting and distorting that which is idiosyncratic. Unlike Sasanoff,
I
could stand on any street corner and find infinite cause for fascination, innumerable insights into the workings of man. Our company’s grotesque caperings, on the other hand, are mere pantomime. Were anyone to emote and gesticulate and pop their eyes in public as we do on stage, they’d soon be sent to the madhouse!”
By the end of this soliloquy, Escott was emoting quite a bit himself, and his drawn cheeks and high forehead flushed pink with excitement. I was surprised by the passion with which he spoke—as was the Old Senator.
“Young man,” Father said, “it sounds to me as if you’re more interested in people than acting.”
Escott nodded with what seemed to be rueful amusement.
“The proper study of man is man,” he sighed. “Actually, that’s what drew me to the stage in the first place. I’ve been working on the assumption that the study of acting
is
the study of man. But now I have my doubts.”
“You were close,” I said. “It’s just that it’s the other way around. The study of man is the study of acting.”
Escott squinted and tilted his head slightly to one side, as if searching for a new angle to gaze upon something he couldn’t quite pull into focus.
“Would you mind elaborating on that?”
“Not at all. Only . . .” I looked down at Father. I had so much to say, but was this the time to say it? “ . . . I fear I’d put you both to sleep.”
“I haven’t felt so awake in weeks,” the Old Senator said firmly, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“All right, then,” I said, and it was my turn to soliloquize.
I spoke of things I’d never dared share with Father before, fearing he’d find it silly, devoting deep thought to such a trivial thing as playacting. I’d never even told him it was he who’d sparked my interest in acting in the first place, with his habit of inserting long, thoughtful, dramatic pauses into speeches I knew he knew by heart. I’d always assumed he wouldn’t take it as a compliment.
Yet as I spooled out that and more—my ideas on verisimilitude of emotion and character and the importance of making each line not a pronouncement but a new, naturally occurring revelation—our father was just as engaged an audience as Escott. So freed did I feel by the Old Senator’s attention, his actual interest in my thoughts, I even found myself revealing the researchesI’ve done in disguise, something I’d long assumed would scandalize our parents to the point of disinheritance.
“You set up practice as a doctor?” Escott marveled, looking both dismayed and deeply impressed.
“Only for a few days. While with a company in Cleveland. To see if I could pass as a medical man.”
I turned to Father, who was finally wearing the frown I’d been expecting all along. Though only a small one, tinged with curiosity.
“Don’t worry—I referred all my ‘patients’ to real physicians,” I told him. “And after that, I kept to impersonations of a more harmless stripe. I’ve been a Hoosier blacksmith, an Irish railroad worker, a blind beggar—”
“And what did
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