“But—good heavens!—I fascinated two elderly girls by telling them I knew Swinburne. Swinburne was lewd. Poor Whitman was merely rather frank.”
“But Algie was a foreigner,” Gurdy laughed, “so it was all right. Margot have a good time?”
Olive asked, “What were you and Margot rowing about in the library last night? I could hear her voice getting acid.”
Gurdy commenced a waltz and said, “We weren’t rowing. Mark asked me whether Cosmo Rand was in the British army. He wasn’t and I said so. She seemed to think I was sniffing at Rand and blew me up a little. That was all. We made peace. I rather like Rand, you know, now that he’s stopped making an ass of himself at rehearsals. Russell and I had lunch with him today. He talks well. He knows a lot about painting, for instance. These actors who’ve been all over the landscape and don’t think they’re better than Richard Mansfield—pretty interesting. There’s not much to Rand but he isn’t a—a walking egotism.”
Olive laughed, “Come back to Margot. She’s pointedly offensive to you and rather assertive about it. I hope you’ll go on being patient and try to remember how young she is. You’re very mature for twenty-one. You never bray. I brayed very wildly at Margot’s age. I horribly recall telling Henry Arthur Jones how to improve his plays and one of my saddest memories is of telling a nice Monsieur Thibault what a poor novel Thaïs was. He quite agreed with me. I didn’t know he was Anatole France until he left the room. I’ve all the patience going with youth. You’re almost too mature.”
“Don’t know about being mature,” said Gurdy, “I’m not, probably. But every other book you read is all about youth—golden youth—youth always finds a way—ferment. Get pretty tired of it. Makes me want to be forty-nine. And some of the poets make me sick. Hammering their chests and saying, Yow! I’m young!... Not their fault. I’m not proud of being six foot one. Runs in the family.”
“That’s a very cool bit of conversation, old man. You’ve taken me away from Margot twice, very tactfully, so I’ll drop it. Play some Debussy. His music reminds me of a very handsome man with too much scent on his coat. Can’t approve of it. Rather like it.”
He evaded discussions of Margot until Sunday night when he went with Mark to Boston for the opening of “Captain Salvador” there. On Monday night he sat, a spy, in the middle of the large audience. A critic had come from New York to see this play before it should reach the metropolitan shoals. Gurdy saw the slender, sharp face intent. The ten scenes of the Cuban romance passed without a hitch before the placid Bostonians. Mark was directing the lights that raised peaks of gloom on the walls, sent shimmerings along the moonlit beach where the hero squatted in a purple shadow. About him Gurdy heard appropriate murmurs. A fat woman whimpered her objection to the half naked celebrants of the Voodoo scene. An old man complained that this was unlike life. Two smart matrons chatted happily about a Harvard cabal against some friend while “Captain Salvador” effected his wooing. A thin boy in spectacles wailed an argument that true art wasn’t possible in a capitalistic nation. A girl giggled every time the sailors of the story swore and almost whinnied when the word, “strumpet” rattled over the lights. But this herd redeemed itself in heavy applause. The thin boy wailed a blanket assent to the merits of the plot and the setting, “After all, Walling’s Irish and he studied under Reinhardt in Berlin. The Kelts have some feeling for values.” Still the fat woman thought, loudly, that the play didn’t prove anything and Gurdy decided that one of his future satires must be named, The Kingdom of Swine. He found Mark in high delight behind the scenes, snapping directions to his manager, his leading man and the electrician in the New Jersey singsong. “Have the tomtom some louder for the Voodoo, Ike. Bill, you send all the notices special delivery to the Willard in Washington. Mr. O’Mara’s in Hayti if the Transcript wants an interview. Beach scene blue enough, Gurdy? All right, Ed, I told you it was. Now, Leslie, take your fall at the end quieter, a little. You’re all right, the rest of it. Come along, Gurdy. Taxi’s waiting.” In the taxi, he cried, “Damn this lousy ‘Todgers’ thing, son! I want to stay here. People liked it, huh?”
“They did.—Oh, you’re Irish and you learned all your business from Reinhardt.”
“Sure! Blame, it on Europe!—My God, didn’t the tomtom business go like a breeze?—Oh, this ‘Todgers’ thing’ll be too bad. Tell you, I’ll play it in Washington and Philadelphia. Baltimore, if it don’t just roll on its belly and die. Sorry if Margot gets sore.—She and Olive went to Washington s’afternoon, didn’t they, huh?—Was the ship scene light enough, sonny?”