The grounds had a sand beach on one side, which promised bathing, and rocks on the other, for loafing in the sun. The flat top of the low bluff was a whole village in itself: the actual theatre building, which had been a church; a one-room building as office; the house of the old-time pastor-farmer, where splendidly lived the director, Mr. Valentine, and most of the seven permanent members of the stock company--all professional actors--and such lordly 'guest stars' as might adorn the casts from week to week; a shop for painting and carpentry; the School of the Theatre--the old pastor's barn, with a small stage and rows of doubtful chairs inserted; and at last, on the sea edge, with tennis courts beside it, Bethel's new home, the dormitory and dining quarters for the apprentices. She was too excited to be critical; otherwise she might have noticed that the dormitory was shakily knocked together of second-hand boards and painted with pigment guaranteed to peel immediately. The windows were narrow and low, their mosquito netting of cotton. But to Bethel it was the Temple of the Muses, all cool marble and bright gold.
'Good luck, miss! Hope you drag the crowds in!' said the driver.
'Oh, thank you. It's wonderful to be here,' she crowed, and her friend drove off, leaving her alone in the Temple.
Uncomfortably alone.
She ventured into the hallway, which was also the living-room, of the apprentices' dormitory. With a scratched upright piano, a long, bare table, a cushionless window seat and a litter of third-hand chairs, rockers and wicker and canvas deck-chairs, the room was a charity home. But Bethel was pleased. She was a worker in the theatre and an insider, not one of the luxurious 'carriage trade' who came in limousines and demanded upholstered seats but were never (she innocently believed) welcomed in the holy places backstage.
The room was still, there was no one on the uncarpeted stairs; the only stir was from an outboard motor on the Sound.
'Oo-hoo!' she cried, timidly.
Through a door at the back resentfully emerged a lean man, in overalls, with a stained white moustache.
'What d'you want? You one of the students?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'You think so? Don't y' know? My name is Johnny Meddock. I run this place.'
'You do!'
'Yes, I do! I'm the caretaker. And janitor. I'm responsible for keeping the floors clean and the windows washed and chasing the small boys off. Folks also think I'm a Quaint Local Character. I let 'em think so. It's worth money to me. I even let 'em think I used to be a fisherman here, when this place was a decent churchyard and a fish wharf and not no theayter, with a lot of you young women chasing around and flirting and not enough clothes to dress a pussycat in. I never was. I hate fish. I used to be a janitor in the State Capitol, in Hartford. Well, what d' you want?'
'I suppose I ought to see Mr. Roscoe Valentine, first. Do you know if he's anywheres around?'
'He's in the office--that one-hen coop by the front of the theatre. Yes, I guess you might's well see Roscoe, as Andy Deacon ain't come yet.'
'Andy Deacon?' It was the first time that Bethel had ever heard the name.
'Yuh, he's the real boss here. Andrew Deacon. He makes out he's just one of the actors, but it's him puts up most of the money for Roscoe to blow in. He went to college and everything. Long about twenty-eight, Andy is. Acts on the stage regular--God knows why, rich fellow like him--his dad was J. Goddard Deacon; run the big gun factory up in Worcester. Nice-spoken fellow, Andy is, too--like a Hartford man. But you better see Roscoe. So long.'
Johnny Meddock vanished. He who often remarked that he 'hated theayters and hated their guts' was the most theatrical object in the place. He was Punch and Judy and Policeman and Devil all in one.
Bethel, having decided that he was either very hateful or lovable, went searching for the high priest, Roscoe Valentine.
Mr. Valentine, in sandals, lilac trousers, a dark blue shirt, a voluminous white tie and English eyeglasses, was at his desk in his small cabinlike office, simultaneously writing an advertisement for The Petrified Forest which, on June 27th, would open the season, dictating a letter to an agent in New York complaining because he had not received another script, scratching his left calf with his right foot and planning a lecture on 'Relaxation, the Secret of Acting'. He looked up at Bethel blankly.
'Yes? What do you want?'
'I just came to say I'm here, Mr. Valentine.'
'I'm so bright that I might have deduced you were here, but I still don't know why you are here or who you are.' He looked for applause from his secretary, a sensible, agreeable-looking young woman, and didn't get it. He was irritated, and demanded, 'Are you one of the apprentices?'
'Why yes, don't you remember? I'm Bethel Merriday. Point Royal College?'
'Oh yes. Nora in Doll's House. You overacted it atrociously.'
'That's what Mr. O'Toole said.'
'Oh, he did, eh? But even Mr. Jerry O'Toole can sometimes be right. Well, you go and report to Cynthia Aleshire, my scene designer. She'll put you to work. And begin to learn right now, my pigeon, that if you're serious about your stage career, you've got to do everything you can around here--learn everything about the theatre--everything.'
'Oh, yes sir.'
'Very well then. Marian, skip out and show this baby the shop, and hustle back here.'
The girl secretary, outside, patted the dismayed Bethel amiably. 'Don't worry about him. His bite is worse than his bark. But he does know something about acting and producing . . . I hope he does! . . . My name is Marian Croy.'
Miss Croy was twenty-six or -seven, and placid.
'You're his secretary?'
'No, I'm an apprentice, like yourself. I've been teaching school for six years, out in Nebraska--I organized a town dramatic club. I've saved up enough money to take one year off, for a shot at this place and then Broadway. God knows why I want to act! I always say it's because I like to read Maeterlinck aloud (I hope you don't think he's too sentimental, too!), but maybe it's to try and escape from the prairie winters. If I don't make a go of it, I'll go back and marry Oscar Heyden--he's a nice man, but he looks just the way his name sounds . . . Am I babbling, Bethel?'
She loved this kind woman, as Marian went on:
'I am, but you know, I'm just as lonely and scared here as you are. But busy! Roscoe found out I knew shorthand, so he put me to work. That's how you learn to act here--doing everything that Roscoe would have to pay to have done--scrubbing floors or addressing envelopes to theatre subscribers or driving up town to buy cigarettes. I do hope you don't know pedicuring, or Roscoe'll probably have you doing his sweet, pink, plump toes. Good luck, dear. Miss Cynthia Aleshire, scenery boss--Miss Bethel Merriday, freshman.'
Cynthia was a trim, tall, Greek-coin lady of thirty-five. Bethel did not believe that she would ever know Cynthia, but she instantly felt herself one with the apprentices, sprawled inside the work shed and in front of it, repainting last year's scenery a flat grey. They were a joyful crew: two girls in shorts and jerseys; three young men in overalls, or sweaters and grey flannels.
There was the plump, jolly, hither-eyed Toni Titmus, who had just finished freshman year in the University of Wisconsin, but who at the moment thought that she preferred playing English duchesses to playing basketball.