The Pit [46]
she never let slip an occasion to shock Aunt Wess' by declaring:
"I love--nobody. I shall never marry."
Page, prim, with great parades of her ideas of "good form," declared between her pursed lips that her sister was a flirt. But this was not so. Laura never manoeuvered with her lovers, nor intrigued to keep from any one of them knowledge of her companionship with the other two. So upon such occasions as this, when all three found themselves face to face, she remained unperturbed.
At last, towards half-past eight, Monsieur Gerardy arrived. All through the winter amateur plays had been in great favor, and Gerardy had become, in a sense, a fad. He was in great demand. Consequently, he gave himself airs. His method was that of severity; he posed as a task-master, relentless, never pleased, hustling the amateur actors about without ceremony, scolding and brow-beating. He was a small, excitable man who wore a frock-coat much too small for him, a flowing purple cravatte drawn through a finger ring, and enormous cuffs set off with huge buttons of Mexican onyx. In his lapel was an inevitable carnation, dried, shrunken, and lamentable. He was redolent of perfume and spoke of himself as an artist. He caused it to be understood that in the intervals of "coaching society plays" he gave his attention to the painting of landscapes. Corthell feigned to ignore his very existence.
The play-book in his hand, Monsieur Gerardy clicked his heels in the middle of the floor and punctiliously saluted everyone present, bowing only from his shoulders, his head dropping forward as if propelled by successive dislocations of the vertebrae of his neck.
He explained the cause of his delay. His English was without accent, but at times suddenly entangled itself in curious Gallic constructions.
"Then I propose we begin at once," he announced. "The second act to-night, then, if we have time, the third act--from the book. And I expect the second act to be letter-perfect--let-ter-per-fect. There is nothing
there but that." He held up his hand, as if to refuse to consider the least dissention. "There is nothing but that--no other thing."
All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur Gerardy's exhortation his voice had made itself heard. "Management of light and shade" ... "color scheme" ... "effects of composition."
Monsieur Gerardy's eye glinted in his direction. He struck his play-book sharply into the palm of his hand.
"Come, come!" he cried. "No more nonsense. Now we leave the girls alone and get to work. Here is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange you!" He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the chairs about. "Be attentive now. Here"--he placed a chair at his right with a flourish, as though planting a banner--"is the porch of Lord Glendale's country house."
"Ah," murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, "the chair is the porch of the house."
"And here," shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at him and slamming down another chair, "is a rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast."
Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Gerardy, his nostrils expanded, gave her his back. The older people, who were not to take part--Jadwin, the Cresslers, and Aunt Wess'--retired to a far corner, Mrs. Cressler declaring that they would constitute the audience.
"On stage," vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspiring from his exertions with the furniture. "'Marion enters, timid and hesitating, L. C.' Come, who's Marion? Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of God remember your crossings. Sh! sh!" he cried, waving his arms at the others. "A little silence if you please. Now, Marion."
Isabel Gretry, holding her play-book at her side, one finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the words:
"'Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering roses have----'"
But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips as if in a heroic
"I love--nobody. I shall never marry."
Page, prim, with great parades of her ideas of "good form," declared between her pursed lips that her sister was a flirt. But this was not so. Laura never manoeuvered with her lovers, nor intrigued to keep from any one of them knowledge of her companionship with the other two. So upon such occasions as this, when all three found themselves face to face, she remained unperturbed.
At last, towards half-past eight, Monsieur Gerardy arrived. All through the winter amateur plays had been in great favor, and Gerardy had become, in a sense, a fad. He was in great demand. Consequently, he gave himself airs. His method was that of severity; he posed as a task-master, relentless, never pleased, hustling the amateur actors about without ceremony, scolding and brow-beating. He was a small, excitable man who wore a frock-coat much too small for him, a flowing purple cravatte drawn through a finger ring, and enormous cuffs set off with huge buttons of Mexican onyx. In his lapel was an inevitable carnation, dried, shrunken, and lamentable. He was redolent of perfume and spoke of himself as an artist. He caused it to be understood that in the intervals of "coaching society plays" he gave his attention to the painting of landscapes. Corthell feigned to ignore his very existence.
The play-book in his hand, Monsieur Gerardy clicked his heels in the middle of the floor and punctiliously saluted everyone present, bowing only from his shoulders, his head dropping forward as if propelled by successive dislocations of the vertebrae of his neck.
He explained the cause of his delay. His English was without accent, but at times suddenly entangled itself in curious Gallic constructions.
"Then I propose we begin at once," he announced. "The second act to-night, then, if we have time, the third act--from the book. And I expect the second act to be letter-perfect--let-ter-per-fect. There is nothing
there but that." He held up his hand, as if to refuse to consider the least dissention. "There is nothing but that--no other thing."
All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur Gerardy's exhortation his voice had made itself heard. "Management of light and shade" ... "color scheme" ... "effects of composition."
Monsieur Gerardy's eye glinted in his direction. He struck his play-book sharply into the palm of his hand.
"Come, come!" he cried. "No more nonsense. Now we leave the girls alone and get to work. Here is the scene. Mademoiselle Gretry, if I derange you!" He cleared a space at the end of the parlor, pulling the chairs about. "Be attentive now. Here"--he placed a chair at his right with a flourish, as though planting a banner--"is the porch of Lord Glendale's country house."
"Ah," murmured Landry, winking solemnly at Page, "the chair is the porch of the house."
"And here," shouted Monsieur Gerardy, glaring at him and slamming down another chair, "is a rustic bench and practicable table set for breakfast."
Page began to giggle behind her play-book. Gerardy, his nostrils expanded, gave her his back. The older people, who were not to take part--Jadwin, the Cresslers, and Aunt Wess'--retired to a far corner, Mrs. Cressler declaring that they would constitute the audience.
"On stage," vociferated Monsieur Gerardy, perspiring from his exertions with the furniture. "'Marion enters, timid and hesitating, L. C.' Come, who's Marion? Mademoiselle Gretry, if you please, and for the love of God remember your crossings. Sh! sh!" he cried, waving his arms at the others. "A little silence if you please. Now, Marion."
Isabel Gretry, holding her play-book at her side, one finger marking the place, essayed an entrance with the words:
"'Ah, the old home once more. See the clambering roses have----'"
But Monsieur Gerardy, suddenly compressing his lips as if in a heroic