“You know what a curtsy is, don’t you?”
“I think so. But get one of the women to show you. It’s their kind of thing.”
“I don’t want to. They hate me. They’d triumph over me.”
“Nonsense, Schnak. They don’t hate you. The younger ones are probably afraid of you, because you’re so clever.”
“Please, Simon. Be a good guy, eh?”
It was the first time she had ever called him Simon, and Darcourt, whose heart was not of stone, could not say no.
“All right. Here’s a nice quiet place. So far as I can remember from my dancing-school days, it goes like this.”
They had found a dark nook backstage, near the scene-painters’ dock.
“First of all, you must stand up straight. You tend to slump, Schnak, and it won’t do if you’re going to curtsy. Then, slowly and with dignity, you sweep your right leg behind your left, and fit the knee lightly into the left leg joint. Then you descend, gently and slowly as if you were going down in an elevator, and when you get to the bottom, bend your head forward, from the neck. Keep your back straight all the time. It’s not a cringe; it’s an acknowledgement of an obligation. Now watch me.”
Rather stiffly, and with perhaps too much of the dowager in his manner, Darcourt curtsied. Schnak had a try and fell over sideways.
“It isn’t easy. And it’s very characteristic, you know. Don’t be pert, but don’t be grandiose, either. You are a great artist, acknowledging the applause of your audience. You know you are their superior in art, but they are your patrons, and they expect the high courtesy of an artist. Try again.”
Schnak tried again. This time she did not topple.
“What the hell do I do with my hands?”
“Keep them where your lap would be if you were sitting down. Some people wave the right hand to the side in a sweeping gesture, but that’s a bit stagy and too advanced for your age. You’re getting it. Try again. And again. Keep your head straight and look at the audience; only bow when you’re all the way down. Again. Come on. You’re getting it.”
Darcourt curtsied repeatedly to Schnak, and Schnak curtsied to Darcourt. They bobbed up and down, facing one another, somewhat like a pair of heraldic animals on either side of a coat of arms; Darcourt’s knees were beginning to whimper, but Schnak was learning one of the minor accomplishments of a public performer.
From above them came a sharp burst of applause, and a cry of Bravo. They looked up; suspended well above them, on the painting-bridge, were three or four stage-hands and Dulcy Ringgold, watching with undisguised delight.
Darcourt was too old and too wily to be disconcerted. He kissed his hand to the unexpected audience. But Schnak had fled to her dressing-room, hot with shame. She had much to learn.
9
“We hear marvellous reports about you, Simon,” said Maria as she and Arthur sat with Darcourt in the favourite restaurant. “Dulcy says it was heart-lifting to see you teaching Schnak to curtsy. She says you were très grande dame.”
“Somebody had to do it,” said Simon, “and so few women these days are up to their job as females. I think of starting a small school to teach girls the arts of enchantment. They certainly won’t learn anything from their liberated sisters.”
“We live in the age of the sweat-shirt and the jeans,” said Arthur. “Charm and manners are out. But they’ll come back. They always do. Look at the French Revolution: in a generation or two the French were all hopping around like fleas, bowing and scraping to Napoleon. People love manners, really. They admit you to one or another of a dozen secret societies.”
“Schnak must look as well as possible when she takes her bow,” said Darcourt. “Did I tell you I had a phone call from Clem Hollier? He’s going to be here tomorrow night, and he wanted to know whether he should wear dinner clothes or tails. For taking his bow, you understand.”
“Is Clem taking a bow?” said Maria. “Whatever for?”
“You may well ask. But his name appears on the program as one of the concocters of the libretto, and he seems to think that a clamorous audience will demand his appearance.”
“But did he do anything?”
“Not a damned thing. Not even as much as Penny, who simply bitched and found fault and was cross because I wouldn’t tell her where the best lines came from. But Penny is coming, in full fig, and I shouldn’t be surprised if she expects to take a bow, too.”
“Are you taking a bow, Simon?”
“I haven’t been asked, and upon the whole I think not. Nobody loves a librettist. The audience wouldn’t know who I was.”
“You can lurk in the shadows with us.”
“Oh, don’t be bitter, Arthur,” said Maria. And to Darcourt, “He’s rather touchy because we’ve been cold-shouldered so much during the last few weeks.”
“During the last year,” said Arthur. “We’ve done everything we were asked, and rather more. We’ve certainly footed all the bills, and they aren’t trivial. But if we turn up at a rehearsal and cling to the walls, Geraint looks at us as if we were intruders, and the cast glare, or smile sweetly like old Twentyman, who seems to think it’s his job to spread sweetness and light even in the humblest places.”
“Don’t be hurt, darling. Or at least, don’t show it. I expect we’re on the program, somewhere.”
This was a moment Darcourt had been dreading. “There was a slip-up,” he said; “quite by accident the acknowledgement of the help of the Cornish Foundation was left off the program. Easily explained. The Festival generally arranges those things through its own administration, you see, and as this was a sort of special production, not quite of the Festival, though under its umbrella, there was an oversight. I didn’t see a proof till this afternoon. But don’t worry. Slips are being stuffed into every program at this moment, with the proper acknowledgement on it.”
“Typewritten, I suppose?”
“No, no; one of those wonderful modern multilith processes.”
“Same thing.”
“An understandable error.”
“Completely understandable, in the light of everything else that connects the Cornish Foundation with this opera. I don’t know why they bother. Who gives a damn, so long as the show goes on?”
“Oh, please, Arthur, the Festival is very much aware of its benefactors.”
“I suppose the benefactors take care, in the most unmistakable way, that it is so. We haven’t been aggressive enough, that’s the answer. Next time we must take care to push a little harder. We must learn the art of benefaction, though I must say I’m not looking forward to it.”
“You thought of yourself as a patron in the old sense, the nineteenth-century sense. Not surprising, when one thinks of the nature of this opera. But better times will come. More was lost at Mohacs Field.”
Arthur was somewhat appeased, but not entirely.
“I’m sorry you feel slighted, Arthur, but I assure you—no slight was intended.”
“Simon, let me explain. You mustn’t think Arthur is sore-headed, or pouty. That simply isn’t in his nature. But he—I should say we—thought of ourselves as impresarios, encouraging and fostering and doing all that sort of thing. Like Diaghilev, you know. Well, not really like Diaghilev. He was one of a kind. But something along those lines. You’ve seen how it was. Nary a foster or an encourage have we been permitted. Nobody wants to talk to us. So we’ve played it Geraint’s way, and everybody else’s way. But we’ve been surprised and a little bit wistful.”
“You’ve been as good as gold,” said Darcourt.
“Exactly!” said Arthur. “That’s precisely what we’ve been. As good as gold. We’ve been the gold at the bottom of the whole thing.”
“Gold isn’t really a bad part to play,” said Darcourt. “You’ve always had it, Arthur, so you don’t know how other people see it. Its no use talking about Diaghilev; he never had a red cent. Always cadging for money from people like you. You and Maria are just gold—pure gold. You are a very rich couple, and you have genius with money, but there are things about gold you don’t know. Haven’t you any notion of the jealousy and envy mixed with downright, barefaced, reluctant worship gold creates? You’ve put your soul into gold, Arthur, and you have to take the bitter with the sweet.”