you learn from these little adventures?” Father asked gravely . . . though not necessarily disapprovingly.
“That successful acting—acting that creates
belief
—isn’t about spectacle. It’s about plausibility and honesty. Once an actor learns to focus, in his performance, on what is
real
and eliminate that which is not, what remains will be Truth.”
“I see,” Father said. Whether my words could make sense to anyone but another actor, though, I didn’t know.
For his part, Escott had lapsed into silent reverie, nodding in such a distracted way it suggested not so much agreement with me as with some private notion of his own. If such was the case, private it was to remain, as Escott never got the chance to give it voice.
The curtain was rising on the evening’s
real
drama.
“What?” someone roared from across the room. “Are you saying we’ve been
robbed
?”
We all turned—and by “all,” I mean everyone in the house—toward the sound. Out in the foyer, I could see through the sitting room door, a red-faced, spittle-spewing Horace Turnbull was raving at the top of his lungs as his wife looked on in horror.
“A thief! A thief in my own home! I should’ve known this was how our hospitality would be repaid!”
And with that, Mr. Turnbull stomped off toward the master staircase, leaving Mrs. Turnbull behind. His wife stared after him a moment, then slowly turned a wide-eyed, open-mouthed gape on the guests all around her.
“Ummm,” she said, attempting a smile that never quite took hold. Then she hurried off after her husband.
One might’ve thought her audience was a mere assemblage of particularly well-wrought topiary, for no one moved or spoke for a full half minute. When someone finally did spring into action, it was the person in the room least suited for springing . . . or standing, for that matter.
“Help me up,” the Old Senator said.
I took one arm, Escott stepped in and took the other. When we had Father on his feet, he began shuffling toward the door. Escott and I exchanged a puzzled glance, then dutifully followed after him.
As we moved out into the foyer, headed for the stairs, the Old Senator—as was so often the case in years past—began to collect followers. Several noble men of Hartford fell in behind us as if we were marching off to take Jerusalem.
When we reached the staircase, however, Father stopped and turned to face his little makeshift regiment.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “But I suspect a dose of discretionis what’s called for now. Please wait here. I’ll send for you if help is needed.”
The men nodded and murmured their assent, some looking disappointed to be denied a role as spear-carrier, others relieved to be left out of anything so plainly smelling of scandal.
Father started to go, but a face in the crowd stopped him in half-turn.
“Mr. Sasanoff,” he said, “perhaps you should join us. I’m sure you’d like to see this matter resolved quickly.”
“Indeed, I would, Senator. Thank you.”
Sasanoff stepped forward with head high, back straight, and eyes abrim with bitter reproach for me and Escott both. Yet he wasn’t a good enough actor to hide entirely the nervousness that lurked behind the indignant mask.
Once Escott and I had helped Father totter to the top of the stairs, it was easy enough to locate our host and hostess. Mr. Turnbull had launched into a tirade about sneak thieves and backstabbers, and we had but to follow the sound of his blusterings.
The Turnbulls were in a room at the end of the hall, and stepping in after them, we found ourselves (and here forgive the unsteadiness of my hand, for a shiver of dread has overtaken me) in the couple’s boudoir. I will not describe it, lest it haunt your nightmares, except to say this: It was neat and orderly, with all things seeming to be in their proper place—except for the mahogany jewelry box atop a dresser in the corner. It was open, its every drawer pulled out,
“That successful acting—acting that creates
belief
—isn’t about spectacle. It’s about plausibility and honesty. Once an actor learns to focus, in his performance, on what is
real
and eliminate that which is not, what remains will be Truth.”
“I see,” Father said. Whether my words could make sense to anyone but another actor, though, I didn’t know.
For his part, Escott had lapsed into silent reverie, nodding in such a distracted way it suggested not so much agreement with me as with some private notion of his own. If such was the case, private it was to remain, as Escott never got the chance to give it voice.
The curtain was rising on the evening’s
real
drama.
“What?” someone roared from across the room. “Are you saying we’ve been
robbed
?”
We all turned—and by “all,” I mean everyone in the house—toward the sound. Out in the foyer, I could see through the sitting room door, a red-faced, spittle-spewing Horace Turnbull was raving at the top of his lungs as his wife looked on in horror.
“A thief! A thief in my own home! I should’ve known this was how our hospitality would be repaid!”
And with that, Mr. Turnbull stomped off toward the master staircase, leaving Mrs. Turnbull behind. His wife stared after him a moment, then slowly turned a wide-eyed, open-mouthed gape on the guests all around her.
“Ummm,” she said, attempting a smile that never quite took hold. Then she hurried off after her husband.
One might’ve thought her audience was a mere assemblage of particularly well-wrought topiary, for no one moved or spoke for a full half minute. When someone finally did spring into action, it was the person in the room least suited for springing . . . or standing, for that matter.
“Help me up,” the Old Senator said.
I took one arm, Escott stepped in and took the other. When we had Father on his feet, he began shuffling toward the door. Escott and I exchanged a puzzled glance, then dutifully followed after him.
As we moved out into the foyer, headed for the stairs, the Old Senator—as was so often the case in years past—began to collect followers. Several noble men of Hartford fell in behind us as if we were marching off to take Jerusalem.
When we reached the staircase, however, Father stopped and turned to face his little makeshift regiment.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “But I suspect a dose of discretionis what’s called for now. Please wait here. I’ll send for you if help is needed.”
The men nodded and murmured their assent, some looking disappointed to be denied a role as spear-carrier, others relieved to be left out of anything so plainly smelling of scandal.
Father started to go, but a face in the crowd stopped him in half-turn.
“Mr. Sasanoff,” he said, “perhaps you should join us. I’m sure you’d like to see this matter resolved quickly.”
“Indeed, I would, Senator. Thank you.”
Sasanoff stepped forward with head high, back straight, and eyes abrim with bitter reproach for me and Escott both. Yet he wasn’t a good enough actor to hide entirely the nervousness that lurked behind the indignant mask.
Once Escott and I had helped Father totter to the top of the stairs, it was easy enough to locate our host and hostess. Mr. Turnbull had launched into a tirade about sneak thieves and backstabbers, and we had but to follow the sound of his blusterings.
The Turnbulls were in a room at the end of the hall, and stepping in after them, we found ourselves (and here forgive the unsteadiness of my hand, for a shiver of dread has overtaken me) in the couple’s boudoir. I will not describe it, lest it haunt your nightmares, except to say this: It was neat and orderly, with all things seeming to be in their proper place—except for the mahogany jewelry box atop a dresser in the corner. It was open, its every drawer pulled out,
Similar Books
