table. Despière ordered spaghetti alle vongole for them all, because it was a specialty of the house, and the waiter put an open wide-lipped carafe of wine on the table and Despière said, “According to Jack, there are hidden beauties in Maurice Delaney’s character, and now he’s going to reveal them to us, so I can give a rounded picture of the great man to the world.”
Jack began slowly, trying to remember the night more than twenty years ago, when he had met Delaney for the first time in the dressing room where Lawrence Myers and his girl, who was later to become his wife, were sitting in the harsh make-up light. It was after a performance during the tryout week in Philadelphia, and Myers and his girl were sitting side by side on a broken, mud-colored sofa while Jack wiped his face with cold cream and a stained towel at the mirror.
“It was Myers’ first play,” Jack said, “and he was all excited, because the reviews’d been good and the audiences seemed to like it all right, and everybody kept saying that Harry Davies—he was playing the leading part—was going to be a star. He’s dead now, Davies,” Jack said. “Myers, too.” He stopped, wondering why he had felt he had to say that, what stones he was piling on the forlorn graves of those lost Americans by announcing their death on another continent. Myers seemed very alive to Jack that moment, as he spoke of him, the sallow, nervous boy in the shabby suit, sitting there next to the uneasy girl who looked like a governess on her day off and who loved Myers so ferociously that she made his life a cascade of hideous scenes of jealousy right up until the day he left the oxygen tent to die.
“Myers had gotten friendly somewhere with Delaney and everybody knew Delaney was in the audience to see the show,” Jack went on. “Delaney had just made his first big, successful picture as a director, and he was back East on a holiday and he took the trouble to come down to Philadelphia to see the show and give Myers his opinion.”
The waiter came with the food and while the fuss of service was being made at the table, Jack half closed his eyes and remembered what Delaney had looked like, gusting into the dressing room, twenty years younger, rough and confident, hoarse-voiced, carelessly dressed, but with an expensive camel’s-hair overcoat, and a floating cashmere scarf, like a banner, his face flushed and furious, his movements jerky with excessive vitality, as though nothing he could find to do in his life could tire him enough so that he could move at the rhythm of the people around him.
“What he said was this,” Jack said, when the waiter had gone and they had begun to eat, “‘Forget the reviews, Myers, you’re a dead man. What do they know in Philadelphia? You’re going to get murdered in New York. Murdered!’”
“That sounds like him.” Despière chuckled drily, his fork poised over his plate. “That sounds like my boy.”
“He was being merciful,” Jack said, remembering how pale Myers had gone in the flat light of the dressing room and how the tears had started in his girl’s eyes. “Better know right off, better be prepared, than to go into New York hoping and have the hopes crash.”
Jack saw Veronica nodding, understanding about false hopes, lying dreams.
Miss Henken ate swiftly, secretly, as though she rarely got enough to eat, as though she were afraid that at any moment people would discover that there had been some mistake, that she had been invited by accident and she would be asked to leave.
“What other charming things did he say?” Despière asked.
“Well, the producer and the director came in,” Jack went on, “because they wanted to hear what Delaney had to say, too, and Delaney turned on them and yelled, ‘You bringing this show to New York? What’s happening to the theatre? Haven’t the people in the theatre any honor any more? Haven’t they any respect, taste, decency, love for their bread and
Jack began slowly, trying to remember the night more than twenty years ago, when he had met Delaney for the first time in the dressing room where Lawrence Myers and his girl, who was later to become his wife, were sitting in the harsh make-up light. It was after a performance during the tryout week in Philadelphia, and Myers and his girl were sitting side by side on a broken, mud-colored sofa while Jack wiped his face with cold cream and a stained towel at the mirror.
“It was Myers’ first play,” Jack said, “and he was all excited, because the reviews’d been good and the audiences seemed to like it all right, and everybody kept saying that Harry Davies—he was playing the leading part—was going to be a star. He’s dead now, Davies,” Jack said. “Myers, too.” He stopped, wondering why he had felt he had to say that, what stones he was piling on the forlorn graves of those lost Americans by announcing their death on another continent. Myers seemed very alive to Jack that moment, as he spoke of him, the sallow, nervous boy in the shabby suit, sitting there next to the uneasy girl who looked like a governess on her day off and who loved Myers so ferociously that she made his life a cascade of hideous scenes of jealousy right up until the day he left the oxygen tent to die.
“Myers had gotten friendly somewhere with Delaney and everybody knew Delaney was in the audience to see the show,” Jack went on. “Delaney had just made his first big, successful picture as a director, and he was back East on a holiday and he took the trouble to come down to Philadelphia to see the show and give Myers his opinion.”
The waiter came with the food and while the fuss of service was being made at the table, Jack half closed his eyes and remembered what Delaney had looked like, gusting into the dressing room, twenty years younger, rough and confident, hoarse-voiced, carelessly dressed, but with an expensive camel’s-hair overcoat, and a floating cashmere scarf, like a banner, his face flushed and furious, his movements jerky with excessive vitality, as though nothing he could find to do in his life could tire him enough so that he could move at the rhythm of the people around him.
“What he said was this,” Jack said, when the waiter had gone and they had begun to eat, “‘Forget the reviews, Myers, you’re a dead man. What do they know in Philadelphia? You’re going to get murdered in New York. Murdered!’”
“That sounds like him.” Despière chuckled drily, his fork poised over his plate. “That sounds like my boy.”
“He was being merciful,” Jack said, remembering how pale Myers had gone in the flat light of the dressing room and how the tears had started in his girl’s eyes. “Better know right off, better be prepared, than to go into New York hoping and have the hopes crash.”
Jack saw Veronica nodding, understanding about false hopes, lying dreams.
Miss Henken ate swiftly, secretly, as though she rarely got enough to eat, as though she were afraid that at any moment people would discover that there had been some mistake, that she had been invited by accident and she would be asked to leave.
“What other charming things did he say?” Despière asked.
“Well, the producer and the director came in,” Jack went on, “because they wanted to hear what Delaney had to say, too, and Delaney turned on them and yelled, ‘You bringing this show to New York? What’s happening to the theatre? Haven’t the people in the theatre any honor any more? Haven’t they any respect, taste, decency, love for their bread and
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